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

but a healthy woman like that, even in her seventies, usually doesn’t just keel over.”
    “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But the only thing I can think of is someone poisoned her. But why? And who? And how? What kind of poison?”
    “There are a lot of poisonous plants, like foxglove, even the poke sallet we talked about,” he nodded his head in the direction of Gram’s bed of poke sallet , “some slow-acting, some instant. I’d have to do some research.”
    I stared at him. He seemed so sincere and so willing to help, but who would poison Gram with plants? Who would know enough to do that? Gram’s only threat seemed to me to be Angela Thompson, and I doubted she knew basil from thyme, let alone poisonous plants.
    “I’d be grateful if you did,” I said. Then to change the mood and the subject, I said, “Let me make us some sandwiches. Lunch meat and bread are all I have.”
    He agreed but added that it was his turn next. I shrugged.
    I actually fixed pretty good sandwiches of roast beef, sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomato and mayo, but when it came to eating, I found I didn’t have much appetite. Steve left rather quickly after we ate. I assured him I could clean up the kitchen by myself and told him I was grateful for the company. He said it was his pleasure.
    And I went inside to a sleepless night, tossing and turning and plagued by all kinds of doubts.

Chapter Five

    I woke up foggy the next morning, not as I too often had from too much wine, trying to be the life of the party, but from worry—and lack of sleep. I’d tossed and turned, thinking indignantly about Donna’s fabricated story of Gram’s death, puzzled by Gus’ ominous warning, wondering about Steve Millican’s willingness to research poisonous plants—was he too eager? I stumbled around feeding Wynona and decided I’d go see Doc Mason this morning. Just in time I remembered the reading of the will was today, in Gram’s house, where I would be hostess. I wasn’t sure how many people to expect—lawyer Don Davidson, Tom and Donna, and me. But Don had hinted that other people might be involved. Café employees? I could only guess. But the realization galvanized me out of my funk.
    I showered, dressed in presentable slacks, a tank top, and an oversize linen shirt—turquoise, which I always thought complemented anyone’s coloring. Then I called Marj and asked her to box a dozen sticky buns for me, promising to come get them soon.
    “It’s for the reading, isn’t it?” she asked. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Gus to bring them to you.”
    “Thanks.” It was nine, and I still had to vacuum and dust and get out china, Gram’s beloved Blue Willow. I found some napkins in the buffet and thought what the heck? No paper. I’ll wash them tonight. I ran Gram’s old Hoover, for all the good that did, and vowed to bring my new Oreck with me when I emptied my condo. Dusting was easy—Gram believed in old-fashioned feather dusters, and the place really hadn’t had time to get that dusty. On inspiration, I ran across the street to see if Steve Millican had something blooming and pretty for me to put on the living room coffee table, and in no time at all he produced a bunch of daisies, arranging them artfully in the Blue Willow pitcher I’d brought.
    “Thanks,” I said as I hurried away. “Can you put it on my bill? I’ll have to settle with you soon, or I’ll be so far behind I won’t catch up.”
    “No worries.” He waved.
    Gus delivered the sticky buns, his face glum. “You don’t forget?” he asked.
    I put my hand on his arm. “No, Gus, I haven’t forgotten, and I think probably you’re right. But it’s going to take me some time to figure it out.”
    “Just as long as you don’t give up, Miss Kate. I owe Miss Johnny my life. Without her, I’d have died in a gutter in Dallas. I don’t want to go to my grave thinking I didn’t stand up for her.”
    “Oh, Gus, don’t even think about that! We’ll figure out what happened