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

to Gram.” I guess I’d never know how or why Gram found him in the gutter and brought him here, but it sounded just like her. She could spot fakes, but she could also see potential in people.
    “Yes, ma’am.” He turned and shuffled back to the café.
    By ten-fifteen I had the sticky buns on one of Gram’s platters, with a doily on it of course, the coffee cups, cream and sugar, plus napkins (sticky buns really required wipes but that would have horrified Donna, though I thought it was a pretty funny idea). All I needed was to pour the coffee when everyone arrived.
    Donna and Tom were ten minutes early, not a bit to my surprise. Donna walked in saying, “We really should have done this at my house. It’s so much…well, newer…than Gram’s.”
    Tom kept quiet, with that long-suffering look on his face, while I replied that I thought it was really appropriate to read Gram’s will in her own living room.
    Don Davidson arrived five minutes later, briefcase in hand, cordially greeting all of us.
    I poured coffee, passed the platter of buns, asked Don how his day was, Tom how his mom was, making polite chatter, until Donna interrupted impatiently, “Well, shouldn’t we get on with it?”
    Hesitantly, Don said, “There are two more persons to arrive: Mayor Angela Thompson, on behalf of the city of Wheeler, and William Overton, your grandmother’s accountant.”
    “Mayor Thompson?” Donna exploded. “And what does the city of Wheeler have to do with anything?”
    “I think you’ll be surprised,” Don said mildly.
    Mr. Overton knocked on the door almost as Don spoke. He nodded politely and took a seat in a corner, refusing all offers of coffee and sticky buns. “I’m fine, thank you,” was all he said, as he folded his hands over his briefcase and prepared to wait.
    Mayor Thompson was twenty minutes late—and I must admit it was a long twenty minutes while Don and I tried to make casual conversation, Donna fumed, and Tom sat silently withdrawn. Don asked about my running the café, and I said yes I intended to, and he asked about the abrupt switch from the fast lane in Dallas, and I replied the fast lane had grown old. Donna harrumphed at that.
    Angela Thompson finally barged in without apologizing for being late. “I hope you have coffee,” she said, just as I rose to pour her a cup and pass the buns.
    Once Don got down to the actual reading of the will, with all its legalese language, I almost tuned out, although it was language I knew well from my career in Dallas. The “I bequeaths” seemed endless—$500 each to Marj and Gus, $100 to some of the other café employees, a bit to the church—Donna snorted as each tiny bit of money dribbled away from her.
    But then Don read, “To the city of Wheeler, I bequeath $1 million to be used for civic improvement, with the accounting to be overseen by my accountant William Overton and my granddaughters Kate Chambers and Donna Bryson.”
    Donna leaped from her chair. “She can’t do that. A million dollars? That’s ridiculous. Gram didn’t have that kind of money.”
    I was embarrassed by Donna’s reaction, and I saw Tom put his face in his hands. Don raised a quieting hand. “Donna, I think if you’ll sit down, you’ll find she did. Your grandmother inherited some money, and she was a very wise investor. She also had a large insurance policy, double indemnity in case of accidental death. She was the unknown benefactor who made the revitalization of Wheeler possible.”
    “You mean she’d already given the city money?” Donna screeched.
    Don replied mildly, “A considerable amount.”
    “How much?” Donna demanded, while I sat on my hands to squelch the urge to flat out punch her in the face.
    “That’s not a discussion for right now,” Don said dismissively. He went on to read that Donna and I each inherited $1 million, with the caveat that out of my share came half the value of the house and café because she wanted me to have them. Donna this