Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) by Judy Alter

all the things we’d had at Donna’s house days earlier. There were sticky buns and cornbread from the café, and pies of several varieties, plus an endless supply of sweetened ice tea. I longed for some non-sweetened but had to remind myself where I was. The café, I resolved, would offer non-sweetened tea. A corner of me was no longer that southern.
    Donna and I shook hands and acknowledged condolences until we were blue in the face. So many people wanted to tell us their special memories of Gram that it was heartwarming—and made me miss her all the more. Some of the stories were far-fetched, like the man who said, “I never knew a woman could cuss like that.” Gram never cussed in her life and would have blistered our bottoms if we had. Others were sadly self-pitying: “I can’t believe I won’t have her fried catfish again.” I assured this man that the café would stay open, and he could have catfish. Steve Millican came by, all cleaned up from his nursery clothes, held my hand just a second too long, and asked, “You doing okay?” I nodded.
    But as the crowd thinned, and the line to greet us was almost done, Mayor Angela Thompson bustled up—there’s no other word for her approach, except maybe businesslike. “I want to talk to you girls as soon as possible,” she said. “I’m going to buy the café.”
    Before I could answer, Donna piped up, “Sorry, Ms. Thompson, but it’s not for sale. Kate’s going to run it.”
    Surely Gram wasn’t channeling Donna! My head spun, first toward my sister in disbelief, then back to the mayor, who ungraciously said, “Hmmm. We’ll see how long that lasts. Then I’ll get a better price on it.” And she moved away, without a word of condolence.
    Donna whispered, “Have you ever heard of anything so rude at a funeral? I can’t believe her. I hope she gets caught with her hand in the city till or something.”
    The thought made me giggle, but I was sure the giggle would have come from nervousness and exhaustion. When the last of the crowd disappeared and we had thanked all the ladies who were collecting their dishes, Tom and Donna invited me to come home with them, but I desperately wanted a nap.
    When I got home, Gram appeared—or her voice. “Thanks, Kate. The service was just what I wanted—simple and brief. I’m so glad you talked Donna out of ‘The Church’s One Foundation’—what a dull hymn.”
    I giggled this time and then slept soundly until almost five o’clock, when I woke up and wandered around in a fog.
    After a few minutes, a knock on the front door brought me more to life. I opened it to find Steve Millican .
    He took one look at me and asked solicitously, “Did I wake you up?”
    “Not quite,” I said. “I took a long nap but was just wandering around, thinking about supper, and trying to get my bearings.”
    “You got a beer? Want some company?”
    “Yes to both,” I said. “Come on in. We can take our drinks out on the back porch, where Gram has really comfortable rockers.”
    And so we did, enjoying an East Texas evening, when it was too early in the season for mosquitoes but not for birds who chirped their evensong. For a long time, we rocked in companionable silence, and I thought how rare that was. Rob would have been talking his head off. But finally Steve asked, “How was the reception? I couldn’t stay long.”
    I murmured that it was fine, but then I found myself telling him about Mayor Thompson’s outrageous behavior.
    He listened, almost amused, and said, “She thinks she can have anything in this town she wants. I think she’s due for a comeuppance soon.”
    What did that mean? Was he talking in general terms or did he have anything specific in mind?
    “Kate, I sort of hinted at this before, but do you think there might be something funny about your grandmother’s death?”
    I rocked some more and finally answered with a question of my own. “What exactly do you mean?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t know,