Wilbur looked around conspiratorially. Like most political assistants, he was at heart a gossip. His prim and proper façade melted away, and was replaced by an almost delightful look on his face as he said, "There are at least three different rumors about why. The one I've heard says that Stan was . . . in love with feet."
"Feet?" Rachel recoiled a little. Wilbur nodded enthusiastically.
"Feet," he said.
"How does that even work . . ."
"All I know is, Dorothy found him sending messages to fans online asking to see their feet, and she ended up divorcing him," Wilbur said. "I heard Stan was furious that she wouldn't put up with it. He didn't want her to get a penny of his money. Which is tough because for a lot of his books, Dorothy was like the unofficial co-author."
"Dorothy co-authored some of Stan's books?" Rachel leaned forward, eager to hear more.
"Oh, yes, she's quite a talent herself, you know. She even had some of her poetry published in the New Yorker once or twice. But she never made any money off it like Stan did. She claims that half his story ideas were stolen from her, and that she deserved half of all his royalties. Stan was fighting her tooth and nail."
"Was," Rachel pointed out.
Wilbur nodded. "Was. Well said."
"Do you know if Dorothy maybe visited him the night before he died? The night of the party?" Rachel asked.
"Me? Why would I know that?" Wilbur looked taken aback.
"It's just that I heard someone visited him that night, and he seemed shaken up about it the next morning."
"Oh," Wilbur said. "Who told you?"
"Stan's assistant. He doesn't know who the guest was but he thought he heard raised voices around eleven thirty."
"Brandon should tell the sheriff." Wilbur frowned. "I mean . . . it could be Dorothy . . ." Wilbur looked troubled.
"But it could be Calvin too, couldn't it?" Rachel asked, watching him sharply for a reaction.
Wilbur's loyalty was back in place. He gave her a stiff look. "I really doubt it. Like I said, Calvin's busy preparing for the mayoral campaign. Last thing he'd do is go fight with Stan."
"Maybe," Rachel said. "Then again, the rumor I've heard about why Stan and Dorothy broke up involves a love triangle with Calvin." She hadn't heard any such rumor, of course, but she knew by Wilbur's reaction that it was a valid theory.
"Dorothy and Calvin are just good friends, and the people in this town gossip too much," Wilbur said. "Calvin's honestly a really good man and people can get jealous of his happiness. That's why they spread rumors."
"You're very loyal," Rachel remarked.
"Of course, I am. When I moved to Swaddle twenty years ago, I had nothing. I was a nobody. It wasn't just that I didn't have opportunities, I was mentally weak and lazy. Calvin took me under his wing and really taught me how not to waste my life away. You know what I used to do back then? Smoke all day, play snooker, and hang out in bars. Now I haven't smoked or drunk in a decade. I run two miles each morning; I eat my vegetables like an adult, and I own my own home. To top it off, I have a wife, three kids in college, and a golden retriever who thinks I'm a star. I never had a proper family as a kid; my dad wasted his life drinking, and my mom wasted her life in front of the tube, ignoring me. Calvin acted like my big brother at a time when I really needed one. Heck, he even paid for it when I wanted my tattoos removed. So yes, I am very loyal to him. He changed my life, you see."
"Sounds like a good man," Rachel's voice was a little gentler.
Wilbur's passion leaked away slowly. He almost seemed embarrassed that he'd admitted so much. He gave a wry smile. "I know I sound like a bit of a hero worshipper, but the truth is, I'm worried about these rumors derailing Calvin's campaign."
What he didn't say, of course, was that if Calvin was elected mayor, it would be a big boost to Wilbur professionally, too. Rachel nodded understandingly as she handed him over some samples of the vanilla sponge cake with buttercream frosting that would form the base of the galaxy cake.
"Anyway." Wilbur looked embarrassed still. "Let me know if you hear any more gossip . . . I suppose a bakery's a great place to have your ear to the ground."
Rachel laughed. "Surprisingly, yes. Cakes go out, gossip comes in. That's my shop."
*****
Chapter 10
Tricia's Tears
As she finished up that evening, Rachel decided to visit Tricia. She closed down the shop, and stayed in the kitchen a little while longer, mixing up ingredients for a pineapple cake. She thought Tricia probably wasn't in the mood for some company unless it came with a sweet treat attached.
The wind was picking up outside, and Rachel turned on the radio to drown it out. Toto's "Africa" began playing, and she found herself humming along as she worked. Pineapple cakes were such a joy to make. They always made her think of young summer days spent gossiping with friends on the long spiral-corded plastic phone that had been mounted in her room. She laughed as she thought that four-year-old Ollie would be confused if someone showed him a phone without a screen and one that stayed fixed on the wall, at that.
This particular recipe was from her aunt's handwritten recipe book, and Rachel loved how it came out moist even though there wasn't any butter or oil in it. All she had to do was whisk the flour, sugar, and baking soda first, then add in vanilla extract, an undrained can of crushed pineapple, and two eggs. Thirty minutes later, the cake was hot, and Scooter's nose was twitching, and his eyes full of hope.
"I fed you already, pupper," she said to him. "Besides, you're a total turncoat. You were sticking to Brandon all last night. Made me quite jealous."
Scooter shook his entire bum, his tail wagging to her words. The hopeful look in his melting chocolate eyes turned into pleading. "No . . . that's not going to work on me," Rachel said as she whipped up a batch of frosting. "It's your own fault for eating everything in sight and having a sensitive tummy. No cake." Scooter gave a little yip. "Fine . . . but only a crumb or two," Rachel said as she gave in.
Tricia didn't answer her doorbell for a while. When she did, she had a bathrobe pulled around her, and her hair up in a messy topknot. Her eyes looked baggy and the lack of makeup showed the age spots and wrinkles on her face.
"Rachel," She sounded most unenthusiastic. "Is this about payment for the cake? I totally forgot what with all the—"
"Oh, no!" Rachel shook her head vigorously and held out the pineapple cake. "I just came by to drop off some cake and see how you're doing. Don't worry about the payment right now. I'm sure you'll come around whenever you're ready. It must have been such a shock to you, finding Stan that way."
"Thanks." Tricia perked up a little though she still looked miserable. "It was . . . at first. I can tell you that."
"I can sympathize," Rachel said. "Arthur Rafferty was found dead in my kitchen, remember?"
Tricia's eyes widened, and her slumping shoulders straightened. "Oh yes." She turned, letting Rachel inside. "Come on up to the apartment and have a drink with me, will you? I think you're the only person who'll really get how I feel right now."
Like Rachel, Tricia had inherited the shop and lived in an apartment above it. Unlike Rachel, Tricia's apartment was well decorated and cozy—almost artistic. Rachel sighed as she saw the small details that made a difference, like hand-embroidered cushion covers, old but well-stuffed armchairs, and colorful, color-coordinated rooms.
"I keep meaning to do up my place," Rachel said. "My aunt had a good sense for interior decoration, but it doesn't feel like me, you know?"
"Thanks." Tricia smiled. "You'll be surprised what a difference it makes to have a home that's truly yours. It's like a guardian always watching over you, or rather, it was. I don't feel the same anymore."
They both settled down on opposite ends of a three-seater, velour sofa. Tricia bustled into the kitchen and bustled out with her sippy-cups and poured Rachel a generous measure of a liquid."
"It's a margarita," Tricia said. "It's after five o clock and I really needed it. Try some. The
mix is prebottled but I love it just the same. I'm really not much of a cook. I know you'd probably hand-make it with all fresh ingredients."
Rachel laughed. "I won't judge. You're a busy lady. Store bought is just fine."
Tricia served her a slice of the pineapple cake on the side, and both of them gave appreciative smacks as they had a bite. After a few minutes of small talk, Tricia relaxed enough to reveal what she was really feeling.
"I feel absolutely horrible about what happened, you know," she said. "I've attached an extra bolt to both the front and back doors now. I still can't believe the murderer snuck in and killed Stan so easily. Isn't it a horrible thing to think about? We were all right there as he was being murdered."
"It was risky," Rachel said. "The murderer is either too unhinged to care about being caught or was desperate enough to risk it."
"Either thought terrifies me," Tricia said.
"How did he, or she, get in? Any idea?"
"The police looked all over the shop and decided there were two possibilities. One, someone knew I hid an extra key under the potted plant out back. Two, someone climbed through an open window in the back room. I don't think the window is plausible. There weren't any footprints near the sill or anything."
"So the murderer snuck in using the extra key, then snuck out after killing Stan." Rachel nodded. "You know, it isn't all that hard if he knew your schedule. Stan had made it pretty clear he wanted the shop to himself from nine to ten, right?"
"Right," Tricia said. "He didn't come until nine thirty because he overslept. Brandon was already here with me. After we let Stan in, Brandon and I went down to Emily's café to get a coffee. We were there until about ten-fifteen. After that we came and hung out in the front of the shop with the line of customers who were waiting to see Stan. When there was no word from Stan at eleven, we decided to go in." Tricia shuddered. "That's when we found him."
"Neither of you left the café from nine thirty to ten-fifteen?" Rachel asked.
Tricia shook her head. "Nope. You can ask Emily if you don't believe me."
"I believe you," Rachel said hastily, seeing tears welling up in Tricia's eyes. "I'm just confirming things. So the killer struck between nine thirty and ten. Fifteen to forty-five minutes."
"It can't have taken him more than ten minutes to kill Stan and position the body," Tricia said. "What I don't understand is . . . why? Why did he, or she, kill Stan?"
"What I don't understand is why they referenced Stan's own book," Rachel said, running a thumb along her eyebrow. "A deranged fan, do you think?"
"And yet the killer was smart enough not to leave any fingerprints or DNA behind," Tricia pointed out. "I don't know. When I saw Stan at first, I thought he was playing some horrible joke on us. It took me a while to understand what had really happened. Brandon felt the same way, I know."
"Are you and Brandon good friends?" Rachel asked.
"I guess we both bonded the way employees with a horrible boss often do," Tricia said. "I couldn't understand why Brandon was still on the job. It isn't like Stan was leaving him any time to write. But Brandon said just observing Stan's genius at work was good enough for him."
"I see," Rachel said.
"Brandon's one of those young men who have too much money and don't know what to do with it, you know?" Tricia said. "I mean, believe me, I'd love to be a multimillionaire and never work again. But sometimes, having no goals can be a very disconcerting feeling."
Rachel stiffened up, but Tricia, who was on her third margarita of the day, didn't notice.
"Brandon told me he's been wandering around trying to figure his life out after his fiancée left him," Tricia said. "She was a solid case. Apparently, he had no choice but to sell their company but she wanted to gamble his money on the risk of earning more. She broke up with him when he refused."
Rachel's voice was thin as a reed. "Is that what he said?"
"Oh, yes." Tricia nodded. "I felt bad for him. He said he'd financed ninety percent of the business right from the start, and supported his fiancée while she quit her job and worked at it. Then one day, a competitor threatened him; he could either sell the company, or get bankrupted by the bigger, badder firm. He made the sensible choice and sold, but even though he gained the money, he lost his fiancée and his purpose all at once."
Rachel felt herself shaking with rage. It was all true—in a twisted way. Brandon had financed the company almost single-handedly, and supported her while she worked on it. But she had been the one putting in eighty-hour weeks to make it succeed. She had been the one to give up years of her life into it, and he'd sold it without even bothering to inform her. Now he was making her out to be the bad guy and painting himself as the innocent victim.
"Businessmen threaten their competitors all the time," Rachel said, her voice rough. "There was no need for him to be so spineless and fold."
"Oh, I don't know . . . it was his money he risked losing, after all," Tricia said. "I would have done the same thing."
"Yes, because to him, it was just a company, not a living breathing thing that he'd sweated and bled and worked for," Rachel said. Tricia gave her a confused look, and Rachel bit her lip. Immediately, she changed the subject.
"Anyway, so Brandon decided to work for Stan Stickman after that?" Rachel asked, taking a big bite of pineapple cake to mask her feelings.
"Yeah. He said working for Stan and writing out his feelings gave him a new lease on life. He's got a novel in progress that's all about his ex-fiancée, apparently. Said it was titled Her Only Choice."
Ignoring this, Rachel pressed on. "But Brandon wasn't happy with Stan?"
"Well, he kept alternating between praising Stan's genius and complaining about Stan's tendency to overwork him for no pay," Tricia said. "He told me he wanted to quit at least half a dozen times a day. It was kind of strange. It was almost like Stan was a father figure for Brandon, yet he was too afraid to stand up and demand respect."
Rachel nodded. That made sense. Growing up, she knew that Brandon had been raised by a single mother. She was relatively affluent, but had a string of boyfriends. Even in college, Brandon had gravitated toward men who were "cooler" or "wiser" than him. She remembered that his closest friend was a boy named Todd that she had despised. Brandon's best friend would praise him one day, then mercilessly tease him the next and bring his self-esteem crashing down. She could easily imagine that dynamic being replayed with Stan.
"One time, I was sure Brandon would quit on the spot," Tricia said. "When the books were first delivered to my store, Stan was there to see them. They were apparently the wrong shade of teal. Stan spent half an hour yelling at Brandon. He started off just venting his frustration, then he got intensely personal."
"Wow. Poor Brandon."
"That's right." Tricia nodded. "It was murder by words, really. I could just see Brandon wilt and shrink every time Stan tongue-lashed him. What did he say? Ah yes, 'You're a nobody, and you'll always remain a nobody. You know who goes around looking for validation from other people? Nobodies. You can teach the craft of writing but the art? That's felt, not taught. So you can look over my shoulder and lick my boots all you want, but your novel is trash and it's going to remain trash forever. But as if that's not bad enough, you can't manage the rest of your life either. No wonder your woman left you. You can't even email a simple color shade correctly!' Tricia became Stan as she started reciting this. Her face became red, her arms cut through the air like whips, and her chest swelled up as she spoke.
Despite everything, Rachel felt pity and protectiveness for Brandon. "Poor Brandon," she whispered. "That was brutal!"
"I'll say!" Tricia exclaimed. "Yet Brandon chose to stay on. Stan must have apologized, or more likely, just bought him a beer and acted like that was apology enough."
"But Brandon must have hated Stan!" Rachel exclaimed. She remembered the rage and anger Brandon had secretly held for his best friend, Todd. A hate that had probably been perfected over the years as all the men he
considered father figures abandoned or ignored him. Had that rage finally welled up and expressed itself against the new father figure he had latched on to? Had his unhappiness at being alone twisted his mind and heart?
"Of course, but Brandon has an airtight alibi, since we were both at Emily's café," Tricia pointed out. "He didn't stab Stan."
"Right." Rachel nodded. She felt vastly relieved. She was angry at Brandon, but she didn't want to believe he was capable of murder.
Though she couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe he was very capable of it.
*****
Chapter 11
Cold Case
The next day, a Saturday, Rachel shut her shop an hour early, and with Scooter on a leash beside her, she walked down three streets to Scott's house. Tonight was the night of the meteor shower, and even though she wasn't quite sure if it was a proper date since Emily, Jay and Ollie would be there, Rachel felt pleasantly excited at the thought of it.
Scott's house was an old fashioned ranch style house, long and single-storied and very typically Californian. The residential street on which he lived had no fences, and neat patches of well mowed lawn in front of each house. The garage door was open, and when Rachel arrived, Scott was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a motorcycle that had been mounted upon a stand. On a desk behind him sat an 80s boombox, and Toto's Africa was playing.
Scooter went running up the driveway, yipping in excitement. Scott looked up in delight and opened up his arm. The pup went right into them, his entire body shaking with ecstasy. He gave Scott's face a tongue washing, then changed his mind and grasped a corner of Scott's t-shirt in his mouth, shaking it ferociously.
"Scooter! No!" Rachel pried him away as Scott laughed and wiped his face with a handkerchief. "Nice song," Rachel commented.
"Thanks. It's one of my favorites." Scott sang along with the tune for a bit. "I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become . . . dun dun dun." He wiggled his hips a little, matching Scooter, and Rachel couldn't help but laugh. "My dad used to play a lot of classic rock, and spend Saturdays in this garage tinkering around," Scott said. "Emily and I were always underfoot. I've kept up the habit even now. Yikes! Looks like Scooter bit right through my shirt." He looked down to see a golf ball-sized hole at the edge of his t-shirt.
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