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

whether Gram had been murdered. She, or her voice, didn’t follow me to Dallas. I went to my office first thing Monday morning to turn in my resignation, offering to work the usual two weeks. David Clinkscales , my boss, was understanding but thought I was making a huge career mistake. He declined the two weeks’ notice and freed me on the spot. He also offered a reference if I ever needed it down the road—or another job with his firm. I told him to come to the café some day for lunch, and he said he just might. Then I cleared my belongings out of my office, packing up pictures of Donna’s kids, of Gram, of the café, a special letter opener that someone had given me, a couple of prints that I prized and were mine. With all that jammed into a box, I rode down the elevator for the last time and wondered what in the world I was doing with my life.
    Next call: a friend who was in real estate, who advised me this wasn’t a good time to sell, and I should consider leasing for a year. She’d manage the property—for a fee of course. I told her I’d get back to her after I consulted my accountant. She thought she could charge an astounding, “Between $1250 and 1400 a month.” I thought she should be impressed by my casual reference to an accountant.
    So with Wynona screeching and howling, I went about the business of packing up what I wanted from the condo—clothes, of course, and dishes that had belonged to my mom, pictures from walls and table tops, a couple of antique rugs. When I surveyed it all, I realized it wasn’t much. It didn’t speak well for the permanence of my life. And, the decision having been made—or made for me—I was anxious to be gone. Rob had called twice, saying he saw my car and knew I was back in town and hoped I’d come to my senses. I ignored his calls and prayed he wouldn’t knock on my door. A man like Rob usually moved on to a more willing chick rather quickly.
    Donna called a couple of times, but I saw it was her on caller ID and ignored the calls. Nasty of me, I know, but if anything was up—or wrong—at the café, Marj would have called. I figured Donna was calling about how to get Gram’s money more quickly.
    I called Cindy and a few other friends to arrange a last-night pizza party at my condo—I was pretty sure Rob wouldn’t show up with all their cars outside. We talked of old times, made promises to get together, they all swore they were coming to Wheeler, and I knew some but not all of them would. They left around midnight on Tuesday, and I prepared to return to Wheeler the next morning. Thus ended my twelve years of being a professional single in Dallas. I was ready to be just plain single.
    ****
    I drove out of Dallas that morning with feelings more mixed than a week and a half earlier, when Donna phoned to say Gram had died. That time I was overcome with shock and grief and disbelief. Now I was much more rational, and I knew I was leaving behind a life that, while it certainly hadn’t been the way I wanted to live forever, had served to keep me from having to look at myself as I passed that milestone birthday and marched into my thirties. I had enjoyed the parties, the evenings in the bar, the attention of men. I had a few good friends but not many, just Cindy and one or two others. And there were men I’d really liked, one I had thought I loved. Now I was going into—what? A life that Gram wanted me to live? A job that she wanted me to do? I loved Gram enough to do whatever she wanted, but I wasn’t at all sure of what the future held. As I passed through the suburbs east of Dallas, though I felt a sense of ease, I could have sworn Gram whispered, “Kate, it was right of me to get you out of Dallas.” She was back, but surely she didn’t die just to get me out of the bar scene in Dallas. That was too much for my mind.
    I wanted to shout, “For what? Find out if someone killed you? Run the Café? What exactly do I need to do? Make Donna happy?” The latter