"Tricia says it made life tough for her, too."
Brandon nodded. "I believe it. Tricia's a good woman, and Stan gave her a lot of grief."
"A good woman." Rachel thought back to Emily's comments about Stan's death being good for business, and wondered.
"Well, Stan insisted on meeting at nine a.m. today to inspect the premises one final time. Then he told Tricia to clear off—he said he had to write his speech. The plan was that he'd open the back door for us at about ten thirty a.m., and at eleven we'd let customers in through the front door. After that he'd give his speech and so on." Brandon hesitated. "Around eleven, when he'd still not let us in; Tricia and I decided we couldn't wait any longer. There was a long line of people waiting at the front door, and I half thought maybe Stan had fallen asleep or something. So she and I snuck in through the back with her extra key. We walked into the front hall and Stan was—" Brandon shuddered. "Stan was slumped over, face-first in the cake. There was a knife sticking out his back."
Rachel paled. "Exactly like in Nebula Next."
"Yes." Brandon nodded. "Exactly like that."
"My goodness, poor you. Poor Tricia too. It couldn't have been pleasant finding him like that."
"Tricia just went weirdly silent," Brandon said. "I was freaking out, and ran to the back room to call the cops."
"Did you notice anything funny about the body? I mean- anything that stood out to you?"
Brandon hesitated, scrunching his brows together as he thought. "My first thought was that it was a joke, actually. It looked so fake. Your cake was kept away from the podium and chairs. It was on a little table by the picture window. The blinds were down, obviously. Stan had drawn them himself to get some privacy while he wrote the speech. Stan almost looked like he was posed. It just wasn't very natural."
"That's horrible." Rachel shuddered. "I guess there's no doubt that he was killed, then?
"Well . . . Stan looked a little funny. I mean, I don't know what I mean, really. He came at nine thirty instead of nine, and he's usually a stickler for time. He said he'd overslept, and he looked sort of . . . rumpled. I mean, he was wearing a t-shirt and baseball cap instead of a proper jacket and tie like you'd expect. The t-shirt wasn't even ironed!"
"Strange," Rachel said. "Was he up late last night?"
"He was, now that you mention it. Which is unusual. Stan was big on rituals, and one of his rituals was sleeping from eleven to five a.m. each night. He'd get up at five and write three solid hours before breakfast. But last night, around eleven thirty, I thought I heard raised voices."
"Raised voices?"
Stan nodded. "I think someone had come over. I can't say who, though. I don't even know what they were talking about."
"Didn't you go down to investigate?"
"Well you know me, lights out by midnight and sleep like a rock till seven," Brandon said. "Plus, Stan has a pretty big mansion, and my room was in the attic. I was simply too lazy to go downstairs."
"Are you sure someone was even there? Maybe he was just up thinking about the fight with Calvin Donaldson. Maybe he talked to himself," Rachel said. "Also, why did Stan act like that? Just straight up punch Calvin?"
Brandon shrugged. "I wish I knew. I have suspicions, but then Stan was weird. You know he once filled a pool with jello and jumped in just to see what would happen?
"What happened?"
"I'll show you the video sometime," Brandon said. "Another time, he decided to go off to Afghanistan with a backpack and a travel guide. This was before the war, a long time ago, before he was a famous writer even. So he just quits his job, goes off to Afghanistan and becomes friends with the Pashtuns there. Can you believe it? I heard the FBI surveilled him for a while after he came back. They even thought he might have been the Oklahoma bomber, for a while."
"Wow." Rachel whistled. "That is . . . strange."
"Oh, I've got tons of stories about him. He's like a modern day Hunter Thompson. That's why I wanted to be his assistant, actually. There was just something so old school and adventurous about his life."
"Do you think . . ." Rachel hesitated. "I mean . . . do you think he actually had some dubious connections? Like he was an ex-spy or something? Maybe that's why he hated Calvin Donaldson? Calvin's a senator. Stan could have known something about him . . ."
Brandon sneered. "A spy? What is this a pulp fiction novel?"
"It's a possibility, but really, Stan was not a spy. He was just an adventurous man in a world that glorifies the nine to five. He had the guts to live the life he really wanted without worrying about society or money. It's a rare and splendid thing, what he did. I don't know, maybe, in a way, he'd be happy about dying the way he did. At least it wasn't boring. Stan hated boring. Wherever he is now, I hope he's happy."
*****
Chapter 8
Drop-Ins
Brandon slept in the guest bedroom that night, and when he came down at seven a.m. the next morning, the air was already heavy with the smell of yeast and spices. He paused to scratch Scooter behind the ears, and wandered into the kitchen.
"That smells amazing," Brandon said. "What's for breakfast?"
"Spinach and sausage rolls." Rachel popped a tray out of the oven, and handed him one. "Go eat out at the counter, please. I don't want crumbs in my kitchen."
"As obsessive about cleaning as ever, eh?" Brandon held the plate and took a sniff. "Listen, about last night, I wanted to thank you for letting me stay over. It really helped. I feel chills just thinking about going back to Stan's house."
"Not a problem," Rachel said.
There was a knock at the back door, and she opened it to find Scott, with two cups of coffee in hand.
"How about coffee in exchange for a bit of Scooter's love?" Scott's voice was cheerful, and his eyes sharp. He paused, and looked past Rachel. The smile on his face slipped slightly as he saw Brandon, who had messy hair and wore rumpled flannel pajamas.
"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Scott asked.
"Rachel made some sausage rolls. Want one, Sheriff?" Brandon smirked as he thrust the plate at Scott.
"No thanks," Scott said.
"Brandon didn't want to sleep over at Stan's house, so I hosted him for the night," Rachel said, her words coming out in a tumble.
"Sure." Scott gave her a pleasant smile, though his voice was slightly strained. "I was actually sent here by Emily. There's going to be a meteor shower the day after tomorrow, and we were thinking of going to the beach to check it out. Would you be interested?"
"I love meteor showers," Brandon piped up, clearly angling for an invitation.
"Good for you," Scott said, turning back to Rachel. "What do you say? Is it a date?"
"Won't you be busy solving Stan's murder?" Brandon asked.
"No reason I can't do both," Scott said.
Rachel popped a few sausage rolls into a paper bag and handed it to Scott. She ignored Brandon. "Thanks Scott. I'd love to come, and make sure you share these with your deputies, alright? Last time, Matt was complaining he didn't get a single bite."
Scott's smile widened and he made a show of licking his lips. "Tell Matt to bake his own rolls."
There was a hiss of static as the radio on Scott's hip burst to life. Scott listened to the message and nodded. "Right," he said to Rachel. "Forensics report is in. I have to run. I guess Brandon can have this coffee. I'll take the rolls though." He grabbed the bag from her. "Thank you."
"Don't overwork yourself now," Brandon said casually. "Bye Sheriff."
Scott looked over his shoulder at Brandon. "Stay in town. We'll be questioning you later today."
"Do I need a lawyer?" Brandon asked.
"Depends on what you've done," Scott said. He shut the door gently, and Rachel swung around to confront Brandon.
"Did you have to be so rude?"
"I was being perfectly civil," Brandon said, sipping the coffee Scott had handed him. "You've really settled in if Swaddle's sheriff is coming round to give you your morning
coffee every day. Are you two dating?"
"It's not your business if we are," Rachel retorted. "But no, we aren't."
"I don't like the looks of that guy," Brandon said. "Nobody who's that cheerful at seven in the morning can be trusted. It's only human to be grumpy until you've had your breakfast."
"Leave him alone, and if I were you, I'd be worried about the questioning later today."
Brandon shrugged. "What? Is your darling sheriff going to try and pin it on me? I've done nothing to be worried about."
"Brandon—" Rachel's voice had a warning in it.
Brandon ate a sausage roll in two huge bites, and spoke with his mouth half-full. "I'm telling ya. Don't trust him."
"Ok, I've got a full day ahead of me. You need to leave," Rachel said. "I showed you the shower last night, right?"
"I'm not leaving till we talk," Brandon said. "I mean, I let it go last night, but you owe me one more conversation, Rachel. Don't you think it was a little cowardly, the way you left?"
"Cowardly?" Rachel felt a red mist form before her eyes. "You're the one who sold my company without telling me!"
"That's not what happened and you know it. You're only saying that to make yourself feel better about breaking up with me!"
The bell above the door jangled, as someone walked in. "I can't do this right now." Rachel told Brandon, her voice tight. A pointy stone seemed to have gotten stuck in her throat, and it hurt when she swallowed. Still, putting on a smile, Rachel pushed past Brandon and went to the counter.
The woman who entered was dressed in a black turtleneck and long, black skirt, with oversized sunglasses on her head. Her silver hair was cut in a neat bob, and her skin looked like crumpled parchment as she placed a hand on the counter.
"Rachel Rowan?" her voice was unexpectedly masculine coming from someone who looked as frail as she did.
"That's me." Rachel smiled. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
"Call me Dorothy, please," the woman replied. "I'm here to order a cake for a funeral. My ex-husband's funeral."
"Oh-I—" Rachel nodded, feeling a twinge of pity for her. "I'm very sorry to hear he passed. My condolences."
"No need. The world's better off without him." The woman looked at her nails, her eyes misting over. "I suppose I shouldn't say that, though. Stan wrote some good books. He made the world a better place in his own way. I guess my world is better off without him."
Stan's ex-wife? Rachel gave the woman another searching look. "I'm sorry anyway," she managed to say, nonplussed.
The woman laughed, and shook her head. "Look at me, going off on rants to strangers. Forgive me, dear. Grief does strange things to people. The truth is, I feel both relieved and unhappy that he's gone."
Rachel nodded, not knowing what to say and hoping that silent sympathy was what Dorothy wanted. "The entire town is shocked," she finally managed.
"Swaddle? Of course. Shocked and excited," Dorothy's voice was like the crack of a whip. "People here have nothing better to do than to gossip about a death like this. I hate this place. I never wanted to move down here."
"Well, then why did you?" Rachel asked.
"Stan. Stan chose this town for some reason and, of course, he expected me to follow him. He said he was being nostalgic and wanted to connect with old friends, which makes no sense, since he never even lived here before nor does he have friends here. He grew up in Wyoming."
"Here—" Rachel placed a slice of marble cake on a plate, and handed it over. "I've found that chocolate helps clear the head when you're in situations like this."
"Oh. Thank you. But I'm really not hungry. I just came in to order the cake."
"Sure, Dorothy. Can I interest you in some samples or do you have something in mind?"
"A tiered galaxy cake." Dorothy's chin quivered a little. "That's what it's called, right? The one that looks like outer space?"
Rachel's jaw dropped open a little, and she shut it firmly. "Uh- ma'am, Dorothy, are you sure that's what you want? I mean- um- isn't that the cake he was found face-first on?"
"Right." Dorothy nodded. "But Stan loved outer space. Plus, if the murderer comes to the funeral, I'll be watching, and I've got no doubt they'll react badly to the cake."
"That's . . ." Rachel nodded. "That's not a bad idea, actually. But do you think whoever killed him was close to him? I mean—couldn't it be a crazed fan or something?"
Dorothy shook her head. "I don't know." She sighed. "I was talking to Calvin about it, and he says its best if I don't bother with the details but—"
"Calvin? Calvin Donaldson?" Rachel's eyes narrowed. "The ex-senator?"
"A friend of mine," Dorothy said. "Do you know him?"
"Well, I've met him once, at a party the other day." Rachel bit her lip. She was beginning to get an inkling about why Stan had punched Calvin.
"You mean the party where Stan gave Calvin a black eye?"
Dorothy groaned. "This really is a small town, isn't it?"
"It really is." Brandon walked up behind Rachel. He'd shaved and showered now, and the smell of peppermint and eucalyptus lingered in the air beside him. "Hello, Dorothy."
"Brandon." Dorothy gave him a surprised nod. "What are you doing here?"
"Running away from my duties," Brandon said. "I suppose as his personal assistant, I should be helping plan Stan's funeral."
"Ex-personal assistant," Dorothy said. "We're both Stan's exes now in our own way."
Brandon shrugged. "I'd love to help in any way possible. I know this must be hard for you."
"It was a shock when his lawyer called" Dorothy said. "Apparently, Stan never changed his will. Imagine that? He was fighting me tooth and nail in the divorce, and now, wham, I'm the sole executor. Life is just hilarious sometimes."
Brandon shrugged. "I'm sorry, about everything. If it's any consolation at all, I was telling Rachel that Stan would probably be happy he didn't die a boring death."
Dorothy threw her head back and gave out a big belly laugh. "Fantastic. Oh Brandon, you really did know him! Everyone else is tiptoeing around me and saying how horrible it is, but you knew Stan. Yes. In his own twisted way, Stan would be much happier to go like this than due to a heart attack or some undignified illness. I just don't think he planned to go so soon, though."
"We'll catch whoever did it," Brandon said. "It's just a thought, but maybe you could use some of that money to hire a private investigator. I don't quite trust the sheriff here."
"Scott's excellent at his job," Rachel piped up, outraged. "If anyone has a chance of figuring out who killed Stan, it's him."
"I'm not so sure. I heard that you solved the last murder in this town," Brandon pointed out. "You—a start-up founder turned baker with no credentials."
"That was a fluke," Rachel said.
"Oh, I remember that." Dorothy nodded. "I wouldn't call it a fluke." She tapped a finger on her chin. "No," she muttered, her thoughts far off. "I wouldn't call it a fluke at all. Give me your card, Rachel. I'll call back about the cake soon. I need to go lie down a bit now. Planning a funeral is very draining, even if it is your ex-husband's. Actually, especially if it's your ex-husband's."
*****
Chapter 9
Gossip & Galaxy Cake
It took Brandon fifteen minutes more to clear out, and Rachel found the tightness in her chest easing a little as he finally closed the door behind him. It was a slow day, and apart from a customer picking up a Spiderman-shaped cake for her little boy's birthday, and a few others wandering in for cupcakes, the bakery was relatively deserted. Around eleven a.m., a familiar face walked in. Tall, bald, and thin, the man wore a white shirt that was slowly turning gray. He looked at his phone thrice before lifting his head to speak to Rachel.
"I'm helping Dorothy plan the funeral. I'm told you talked to her earlier today?" he asked.
"Sure." Rachel smiled at him. "Wilbur Kuhn, right? You're Calvin's assistant. We met at the party the other day."
"We did? Oh—that party." Wilbur s
hook his head. "Atrocious. I told Calvin we should fire Jay immediately. It was a terrible idea to have the party in the first place."
"I don't think Jay knew about Stan and Calvin's differences," Rachel said.
"Well, as their lawyer, he should have known," Wilbur said. "Calvin was furious. Absolutely furious. Jay told him it was a book release party, but never mentioned it was Stan Stickman's party."
"Well, shouldn't Calvin have pieced that together?"
"Calvin's too busy planning his campaign for mayor to keep up with who releases what book," Wilbur said. "Jay should have known. If gossip like this goes around town . . . it could be really bad."
"Calvin's married, isn't he?" Rachel asked.
Wilbur stiffened a little. "Yes. He has two beautiful daughters, and a wonderful wife."
That line sounded so rehearsed, Rachel had to hold back the urge to roll her eyes. "I see. His wife is Melina Schaefer, right? Heiress to the Schaefer engineering firm? I've met her once or twice around town. She is a lovely woman." She was, in fact, one of the rudest women Rachel had ever had the bad luck to meet. The last time she'd seen her was in a restaurant where Melina had spent half an hour berating a waiter, and then a manager because there was no salmon on the menu. The poor manager had probably sent someone out back to buy and make the salmon in the end.
"Right," Wilbur said, his voice stiff. "Melina is just as shocked as Calvin about Stan's untimely death. They'll both be at the funeral. Now about the cake. Dorothy insists it's to be an exact replica of the one you made that day." Wilbur shook his head as if he couldn't believe the bad taste she was displaying.
"I did tell her it wasn't such a good idea," Rachel said. "Dorothy seemed quite set though."
"She's lost it," Wilbur said in a tone that was downright rude. "I can't tell whether she's delighted or devastated that Stan's dead."
"Were they married long?" Rachel asked. "I can kind of sympathize."
"Twenty-five years, last year," Wilbur said. "They broke up only recently. It wasn't a very friendly divorce."
"Why did they break up?" Rachel asked.
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