Death by Committee

by Alexis Morgan

  “Hey, Zeke, what do you say we bake some bread to go with the soup I put in the slow cooker this morning? I’m also getting low on cookies in the freezer.”

  When he didn’t immediately abandon his comfortable position on the bed, she went for the big guns, calling back over her shoulder as she headed downstairs. “And I thought I’d make another batch of those Zeke’s Treats that you like so much. But if you’re too busy sleeping to keep me company while I work, well, maybe those treats can wait until another day.”

  The big dog could move fast when he was motivated. He rushed past her before she reached the first landing. He waited at the bottom of the steps, his tail wagging furiously. She patted him on the head when he fell into step beside her. Once in the kitchen, he stopped in front of the counter where his treat jar sat just out of his reach.

  “All right, two treats and that’s all. I don’t want to spoil your dinner.”

  He accepted them with great dignity and carried them over to his bed in the corner. It felt good to lose herself in the familiar routine of baking. Maybe if she kept busy, she’d be tired enough to forget about the yellow crime scene tape festooning her backyard and be able to sleep. One could only hope.

  * * *

  It was three batches of doggy treats, a double batch of peanut butter cookies, and two loaves of bread later before she finally crawled into bed. Even then, sleep hadn’t come easily. Most of the time she found the sound of Zeke’s snoring soothing, but not this time. It was hard not to resent the rumbling reminder that only one of them was asleep. She’d quit looking at the clock after midnight when exhaustion had eventually won out over worry, and she’d finally drifted off.

  One good thing about being unemployed was that she could sleep in until noon, and no one would ever know or care. She didn’t have to live by anyone’s schedule but her own. Well, except for Zeke’s. After venturing out of her room long enough to let him outside, she filled his water bowl and served up his morning ration of kibble.

  As soon as he completed his rounds, she locked the back door and prepared to dive right back into bed, even though it was already after nine o’clock. She’d barely made it to her bedroom when someone rang the doorbell three times in rapid succession. A few seconds later, a heavy fist started pounding on her front door. It was so, so tempting to ignore the determined summons. Despite her current state of exhaustion, her conscience was still working well enough to point out that it could be Gage Logan needing to talk to her. Or maybe it was Tripp. He never bothered her without good reason.

  Deciding sleep could wait a few minutes longer, she trudged back down the steps. At least she was decently covered in her oversized T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Her hair was probably a mess, but if her uninvited guest wanted fancy, he or she should’ve called first. She peeked through the narrow window to the right of the door to see who it was.

  A man she’d never seen before immediately spotted her and held up an ID badge to the glass. “Miss McCree, I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I’d really like to talk to you about what happened here yesterday.”

  She squinted at the writing, her mind slowly making sense of the words, which read, REILLY MOLITOR, SNOWBERRY CREEK CLARION.

  Good grief, he was a reporter. That was the last thing she needed. She ducked back out of sight, wishing like crazy she’d ignored her conscience like any intelligent person would have and gone back to bed. Before she could decide what to do next, the knocking started again. The man obviously wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. Well, she’d open the door just far enough to say she had no desire to talk to him.

  But not before she called Zeke to her side, knowing he’d give even the most stubborn of people second thoughts about sticking around where they weren’t wanted. With the dog’s reassuring presence right next to her, she cracked the door open.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Molitor, but you’ll need to talk to Chief Logan if you have questions.”

  The reporter started to crowd closer to the door but backed up just as quickly when Abby opened the door far enough for Zeke to stick his head out.

  Molitor immediately gave the dog a wary look. “Boy, I’m not sure if that’s a pony or a dog. More importantly, is he friendly?”

  “Not always,” Abby lied. “Now, as I said, take your questions to the police chief. He’s better qualified to answer them.”

  “Oh, I’ve already spoken to him, Miss McCree, but I have a couple of simple questions just for you.”

  The reporter offered her what he obviously thought was a charming smile, but she knew a shark when she saw one. She also knew she wasn’t going to like the questions, not one bit. Before she could slam the door closed, he blocked it with the palm of his hand. The deep rumble in Zeke’s chest would’ve made a lesser man retreat, but evidently Reilly Molitor was made of stronger stuff.

  “Fine, ask your questions. I won’t promise to answer them. Either way, you’ll leave then, or I’ll be calling the police myself.”

  He held up a small device and pushed a button, making it likely whatever she said next would be recorded for posterity. She stared at it with growing dread.

  “Miss McCree, am I correct that you’re the niece of the late Sybil Rollins?”

  She nodded. When he held up the recorder, she gave in and answered, “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s great.” His eyes glittered with growing excitement. “So, tell me, Miss McCree, do you have any idea how your aunt’s archrival, Dolly Cayhill, came to be buried in your backyard, wrapped in one of Sybil’s quilts?”

  Chapter Four

  Abby blinked and shook her head. Had she heard him right? Had the murder victim really been Dolly Cayhill? If so, that would certainly explain why none of the woman’s friends had heard from her for months. She shuddered at the thought. Glenda and the others would be distraught over the loss of their friend. And what did he mean about Dolly being Aunt Sybil’s archrival? Did ladies in their eighties even have such a thing?

  She suddenly realized the reporter was still waiting for her to answer, his stupid recorder still shoved in her face. What did he expect her to say? Especially considering she hadn’t even heard who the victim was until he announced it, not to mention that she’d never met Dolly Cayhill and knew next to nothing about the woman.

  Finally, she did the only thing she could think of—she stepped back and shoved the door shut in his face. He immediately started knocking again. It was hard to ignore him, but she wasn’t ready to face a barrage of questions she couldn’t answer. It was a relief when the pounding stopped. There was no use in trying to go back to sleep again. Maybe a jolt of strong coffee would clear her head and help her face what was bound to be another stressful day.

  No sooner had she padded back toward the kitchen than the knocking started up again, this time at the back door. Great. Even if she ignored him, he would still be able to look through the window in the door to see her standing in the kitchen. She really wanted that coffee, but she didn’t need an audience while she waited for it to brew.

  She was about to give up and head upstairs to shower when her cell phone started vibrating on the counter where she’d left it to charge. Feeling ridiculous, she did a mad dash into the kitchen to grab the phone and immediately retreated back out of sight into the hallway. When she saw who was calling, she debated whether or not to answer. Finally, she gave up and swiped her finger across the screen.

  “Hey, Tripp. What’s up?”

  His voice came across the airwaves all loud and grumpy. “You do know someone has been pounding on your door. In fact, he still is.”

  Well, yeah. She was just hoping the guy would simply disappear. “Yes, I do.”

  He sighed. “Any reason you’re not opening the door? I’ve got a test tomorrow, and all that racket is making it hard to study.”

  “I did answer when he was around front. He’s a reporter from the local newspaper and wants to ask me a bunch of questions I have no answers for.”

  “Like what?”<
br />
  “Like how my aunt’s ‘archrival’ ended up buried in my backyard. What am I supposed to say to that?”

  The knocking stopped briefly, so she risked a quick peek into the kitchen. When she realized Reilly Molitor had pressed his nose up against the window to get a better look around her kitchen, she jumped back into the hall. Darn him, he was keeping her from reaching the coffeemaker, and she really, really needed caffeine.

  Tripp was still talking. “I didn’t know her all that well, but I’ve got to say that your aunt didn’t seem the type to have an archrival.”

  She hated that hint of a chuckle in Tripp’s deep voice, but she agreed with his opinion. “My aunt was a real sweetheart. Ask anybody who knew her. I can’t imagine what he’s talking about. Regardless, I’m not going to open the door again. I’m not even dressed.”

  There was a strange silence coming from the other end of the conversation.

  “Tripp? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, but let me get this straight. You answered the door without getting dressed? No wonder the guy wants to get in. You’re lucky he isn’t trying to crawl through an open window.”

  What was he talking about now? She replayed their conversation in her head and groaned. “I’m not naked, you big jerk. I’m wearing ratty pajamas. I also have a bad case of bed head and haven’t brushed my teeth yet. What’s more, I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now.”

  “If that’s the case, the man must really be determined to get that interview.” Tripp’s laughter rang out bright and clear. “Tell you what. I’ll see what I can do to run him off. I’ll even bring over a thermos of coffee, provided you have some of those cinnamon-covered cookies to go with it.”

  “You really think you can make him leave?”

  “He might be determined, but I’m a lot bigger. Believe it or not, I can be pretty darn intimidating when I want to be.”

  She believed it, but she didn’t think the reporter would be easily deterred, even by Tripp in total badass mode. Crossing her fingers she was wrong, she said, “Give me fifteen minutes to make myself presentable, and you can have all the cookies you can eat.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  * * *

  It was closer to twenty minutes before she made it back downstairs, but at least the pounding had stopped. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the air. Bless the man, Tripp had evidently made good on his promise. It didn’t surprise her to find him sitting at her kitchen table. She’d given him his own key so he could let himself in whenever he had chores to do inside the house. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. Chief Logan was standing at the kitchen window, once again staring out into the backyard.

  Both men turned to face her as soon as she appeared in the doorway. At least Tripp looked apologetic. “Gage pulled in just about the time I was about to physically toss your reporter friend out in the street just to see how high he’d bounce. As it turns out, he’s pretty gutsy for such a scrawny guy.”

  Gage couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Yeah, Reilly can be a real pain at times. He likes to act like he works for one of the big city papers rather than a small town weekly. Big stories like the death of Dolly Cayhill don’t come around very often, not that I’m complaining.”

  Abby put her shaky hands to work pouring herself a cup of coffee. After taking that heavenly first sip, she filled a plate with cookies and set it down in front of Tripp. “So Reilly was right about it being Mrs. Cayhill who was . . . back there.”

  Gage sat down at the table and reached for a cookie to go with his coffee. “Yeah, he was. We were pretty sure that was the case from the beginning. It was her purse that we found with the body, but we didn’t want to say anything until the coroner verified her identity and the cause of death. That was blunt force trauma to the back of her head, by the way. Her next of kin was notified late last night, a niece who lives over in eastern Washington. They weren’t particularly close, but Dolly named her as the executrix of her will.”

  Zeke strolled into the room, most likely in response to her opening the cookie jar. Since it was identical to the one that held his treats, he was probably hoping she’d share some of the doggy cookies she’d made in the dark hours of the night. She dug out a handful and carried them over to the table to dole them out to him one at a time.

  “I don’t know the etiquette of a situation like this. Should I send the niece flowers or a condolence card or something?”

  Tripp only shrugged, but Gage looked grim as he shook his head. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t.”

  The bite of cookie she’d just eaten stuck in her throat. She washed it down with a big gulp of coffee before asking, “Exactly what circumstances would those be?”

  Not that she really wanted to know. Not with the reporter throwing around words like “archrival” and her aunt’s name in the same sentence.

  Gage leaned back in his chair. “Did your aunt ever talk about Mrs. Cayhill to you?”

  “Not that I remember. I have heard her name before, most recently when Glenda Unger and two other ladies were here several days ago. We were working on plans for the quilting guild’s garage sale, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have it here. Jean Benson, or maybe it was Louise Allan, wondered if they couldn’t hold it at Mrs. Cayhill’s house. They both were surprised to realize that they hadn’t heard from her recently. Evidently, she was a snowbird who normally came back to Snowberry Creek about this time every year.”

  He pulled out his notebook and made a few notes. “Did they say when they’d last talked to her?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  “I’ll have a talk with all three of them. I’m trying to narrow down the time frame when Dolly was last seen in town.” He reached for another cookie. “You might as well hear the rest of what I’ve found out so far. With Reilly poking around, it’s all bound to come out sooner rather than later.”

  Clearly the news wasn’t going to be good. Tripp started to stand up. “Maybe I should get going since you two have important stuff to talk about.”

  She started to protest, wanting him there when Gage unloaded the rest of the bad news, but that wasn’t fair to Tripp. It was bad enough that he’d been the one to find the body. He didn’t need to hear all the sordid details or get even more tangled up in her problems. “If you want more cookies, grab the red container out of the freezer on your way out. Zeke and I stayed up baking last night, and I made way more than I can use.”

  Gage had a different opinion on the subject of Tripp leaving. “You should listen to this, too. The small town gossip hotline is probably already in full swing, and you’re both sure to hear all kinds of crazy rumors floating around. I’d rather you hear the facts from me.”

  Tripp had already gotten his cookie supply out of the freezer. He sat back down clutching it in a tight grip as if he was afraid Gage was going to try to take it from him. “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve been talking to Dolly’s closest friends. Ladies from her church and a few neighbors.” He paused to give Abby a sympathetic look before continuing. “They all said pretty much the same thing you did. Dolly leaves town after Christmas and doesn’t come back until spring. She never learned to use a computer or how to text, so she doesn’t stay in touch like most folks would these days. They also said she was having trouble with arthritis in her hands, so she didn’t write letters or even Christmas cards much anymore. When no one heard from her, they all figured that was why.”

  Then he flipped through a few pages in his notebook. Abby wondered where he was headed with all of this. Nothing he’d said so far would account for his grim demeanor or why he thought Tripp should stick around. Finally, he looked up again. “I knew your aunt slightly, mainly from some of the committees she served on, and I’d met Mrs. Cayhill a time or two along the way. I can’t say that I really knew either of them very well. What I do know is that both of them were born and raised right here in Snowberry Creek. They went all the way through school together. Sometimes that
kind of proximity ends up meaning people become lifelong friends.”

  He twirled his pen through his fingers like a baton, the only sign that he was finding this discussion difficult. “The other option is that they become rivals, which is evidently what happened in this case. The two of them competed in everything imaginable—academics, spelling bees, and even for things like Miss Snowberry Creek in the Fourth of July parade. A few people mentioned them vying for the same handsome beau.”

  His stern mouth softened just a bit when he added, “The ladies’ description of the guy, by the way, not mine. Evidently Sybil won that particular contest, because she ended up married to him.”

  Abby smiled for the first time all day. “My aunt always talked about Uncle Isaac as if he were Paul Newman and Cary Grant all rolled into one.”

  Not that Gage probably cared about any of that. He started tapping his pen on the table. “Then I spoke to a couple of women from the quilting guild, and that’s when things got interesting.”

  One look at the renewed grim expression Gage was now sporting made it clear that something being “interesting” was a bad, bad thing in his world. “Several of the ladies said that late last year both Sybil and Dolly were lobbying to head up the guild for this year. They’d each been president the same number of times in the past, and this would’ve put one of them ahead again.”

  He shook his head. “Hard to believe the politics involved in a group like a quilting guild, but evidently that’s the way it was between them. Your aunt hosted something called a high tea at her house, hoping to garner votes. In turn, Dolly had everyone in the group over to her house for a buffet luncheon.”

  When he paused to sip his coffee, she asked, “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, everyone had a wonderful time at your aunt’s tea, but the ladies who ate Dolly’s famous crab dip at her luncheon got food poisoning. Your aunt was one of the few who didn’t eat any and so didn’t get sick. When Dolly recovered, she accused your aunt of sabotaging the dip in order to get elected. She even stated full out that Sybil had been trying to kill her and her supporters because she was afraid of what losing the election would do to her status here in town. Their argument, which took place on December twenty-third, was very loud and very public in the narthex of their church. One of my deputies attended the same service and thought he might have to intervene. Eventually, the two of them finally separated and walked off in a huff.”