Read Online Doing It at the Dixie Dew by Ruth Moose - Free Book Online Page A

and robbery were things that happened in big cities. And murder? Murder only happened in books and on the movie screens. Or television. It wasn’t a real thing. Not until this week and Miss Lavinia, though it still felt unreal.
    I was out of the tub, wrapping a thick, white terry robe around me, when Scott tapped on the bathroom door. “I’ve made hot toddies. You’ll need something. Oh, and Mr. Lucas checked in. He was late.”
    â€œOhmygosh. I forgot him. Thank God he was late.” I scooted into furry red slippers that were scuffed from all those New England winters but warm as old friends.
    Scott had made cinnamon toast. I smelled it before I got to the kitchen, where he had laid place mats and napkins and wrapped the toast in a blue-checked tea towel.
    â€œPreserves?” he asked. “I checked in the fridge, a couple of places I thought you might be holding some, and no luck.”
    I stepped into the pantry and came out with a jar of fig preserves. “Ta-da! How’s this? Mama Alice made these last year.” As I said it my throat filled up and tightened. Last summer my grandmother had bustled about this house doing a dozen things like making fig preserves and catering a wedding reception for two hundred, making the cake, ice rings for the punch bowl, cheese straws and homemade mints. Last year Mama Alice was not only alive; she was also operating at full capacity, amazing for someone heading hard toward eighty. But age was something Mama Alice didn’t think about. She didn’t have time. Until time stopped.
    My hands shook opening the preserves and Scott took the jar, twisted it slightly, then handed it back. I took a tablespoonful and spread preserves with my knife. I tasted my childhood and summer and this kitchen and it was so good I wanted to cry.
    Scott spread preserves on his toast, took a bite and beamed a satisfied smile. “God, these are good. Your grandmother knew food.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “She believed in food. Not just party foods, but fresh vegetables. Balanced meals. When I was little I thought she had scales and balanced things in each hand, I heard the phrase so much. Catering was her business and her joy. Maybe that’s why she was so good.”
    I drank my toddy, which surprised me by being absolutely delicious. I tasted honey, lemon, whiskey, nutmeg and cream. Maybe I did need it. Though it was April and the weather was warm, I’d had a shock and a hell of a day. The toddy warmed me inside, then all over. I even felt my toes tingle, they felt so warm.
    â€œIda Plum told you about Miss Lavinia,” I said between sips of the golden brew.
    â€œShe didn’t take the time.” Scott pushed the last piece of toast toward me. “But I already knew.”
    â€œWhen?” I asked.
    â€œI saw Bruce Bechner at the service station. He told me.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t tell me?”
    â€œI didn’t think it would help,” he said. “You were upset already. And somebody who’s thinking of opening a tearoom doesn’t need a dead body in their house in the first place. Especially one who’s been poisoned.”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    He ate the toast I’d pushed back to his side of the table. “There’s an auction in Cameron tomorrow. You need more chairs out there”—he indicated the sunporch—“and a worktable in here.”
    â€œOptimist,” I said. “You’re on if this toddy doesn’t put me out until noon.” Then I embarrassed myself by yawning a yawn big enough to swallow the room.
    â€œYou’ll wake at eight feeling great.” He collected the plates for the dishwasher and kissed me on the nose. I felt myself instinctively tilt back my head in case there was more to come, but he left. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said at the door. Scott checked the lock inside, shut the door and checked