Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery)

by Linda O. Johnston

  At least I didn’t have to tell her. And I wasn’t really surprised that the media down the mountain had picked up on the story and were reporting it. But I worried why Brenda had called me about it. I had an awful suspicion I knew the answer.

  “Unfortunately, that’s true,” I said. “What else are the media saying about it?”

  “Mostly that the police aren’t giving any details but are looking into reports that Ms. Ethman was arguing publicly with someone the night she was killed. Is it you they’re talking about? Are the police going to arrest you?”

  “They visited me and asked some questions,” I said, stumbling as Biscuit pulled sideways to sniff a bush near the curb. I quickly stabilized myself, realizing I was stumbling also because of the emotions welling up inside me yet again. Fear, anger, determination, whatever. I had to beat this.

  Yet even the media might be against me. Even though they hadn’t identified who I was. Maybe.

  My mind stumbled around the possibilities. Brenda had been at my party, had heard me argue with Myra. Had left town in a hurry. For a good reason? Yes.

  But what if she’d had something against Myra too? She had a perfect excuse for fleeing.

  Could she have killed Myra?

  Surely not. And yet … Why had she called me?

  Because she’s your friend, my mind shot back at me. She’s worried about you.

  Even so …

  “I’m very sorry about what happened to Myra,” I said, still standing in the same spot while Biscuit squatted to add her own odor to whatever she’d been sniffing. “In many ways, she wasn’t a very nice person. I didn’t like her attitude. I admit that to you, my friend, and I admitted it to the cops too. But I’m sorry she died. And I didn’t kill her.” I paused. “Did you know her very well? Did you know anyone who didn’t like her?”

  I waited many long seconds for Brenda’s answer. “I’d met her before. She sometimes came into Icing and ordered huge cakes for events at the resort. She … you’re right. She wasn’t a nice person. She always tried to get me to cut my price, usually after the cake was finished. She’d always find something wrong with the color of the icing or the decorations or whatever. But in case anyone asks you about me—well, for one thing, I was already at my mom’s at the time they said she was probably killed. For another, I didn’t hate her enough to kill her.”

  “Same goes for me, Brenda,” I said. “If nothing else, you can believe that.”

  “I do, Carrie. Really. When I heard, though … well, I was worried about you.”

  “Thanks, but really, you don’t need to be.” I was worried enough about myself.

  “I can’t help it.” Brenda paused. “Are you going to Myra’s memorial? The media said the whole town was invited by her family.”

  “What memorial?”

  “Oh … then maybe some people in town weren’t invited.” Brenda sounded contrite. “Although it sounded, from what I heard on the news, that the event was intended to be a huge celebration of her life. The Ethmans are going to pull out all the stops and show how they felt about her, as if she’d been a blood relative. That kind of thing.”

  “How did they invite people?” And why hadn’t I heard about it—even if I wasn’t on their guest list?

  “I don’t know—word of mouth, maybe.”

  I hadn’t talked to anyone whose ears had been near those mouths, I supposed.

  “Do you know when and where it’ll be?” I asked.

  “Why? Do you think you’ll go?”

  “I’ll have to decide, but I at least want to know enough about it to make a rational decision.”

  At this point, depending on where, when, and whether I could find out who else would be there, I had an immediate suspicion that I would attend—and listen to any and all discussions about Myra and how much she’d be missed.

  Maybe, just maybe, someone would let something slip about how much she wouldn’t be missed, and why.

  And who might have done something about it.

  THIRTEEN

  IT WAS SATURDAY—THE DAY of Myra Ethman’s memorial.

  I’d first spoken with Brenda about it on Monday. Had it really been five days ago? Time had gone quickly since then, and a lot had happened—including a couple more conversations with my dear friend.

  She was clearly worried about me, and also sounded sorry that (a) she’d inquired indirectly about whether I actually had been the one who’d killed Myra, and (b) she’d told me about the memorial. She mostly regretted the latter since I’d informed her that, yes, I was attending. And, no, she couldn’t talk me out of it.

  Right now I was in the kitchen of my shops decorating a large tray of people-cupcakes. I’d considered bringing some treats like these to the memorial but decided against it. I didn’t know how the service would go nor if a reception with refreshments was planned.

  Most of all, I had no idea how a gift from me would be regarded—let alone whether I’d be thrown out the moment I appeared.

  I’d fight to be allowed to stay, though. To leave would encourage people to talk about me—and assume my guilt.

  “How are you doing?” Judy had just entered the kitchen from the Barkery side. I’d rested my last batch of decorated people-cupcakes on top of the elongated set of shelves in the center of the kitchen. Judy stopped near them and eyed them assessingly. “Cute,” she said. “I especially like the ones with the two Bs, where you play around with the shape and color of the letters.”

  “Thanks.” I’d stopped using the B&B symbol that was on the biscuit found near Myra’s body. No one had asked about this, but I was prepared to say that I thought it looked too much like a logo for a bed and breakfast.

  “You’re welcome.” Judy hesitated as if she had something else on her mind, and although her gaze met mine for an instant, she looked away quickly. She rubbed her hands along the sides of the plain, white-bibbed apron that was quickly becoming our uniform over our regular clothes.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Well … are you aware of the memorial this afternoon for Myra Ethman?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Are you planning on going?” I hadn’t discussed it with my employees but had been pondering what to do about it. Should I close the store so we all could attend?

  “Yes, and I talked to Dinah about it too. We’d both like to go. But we hate to leave you here without either of us to help.”

  “No problem.” I made a quick executive decision. “I’m going too, so we’ll just close the store for an hour or so. I’ll prepare a couple of signs, one for each door, telling people why we’re not open and when we’ll be back.”

  Judy’s eyes widened. “Really? You’re going to go?”

  “Are you?” Dinah had entered from the Icing side. I suspected she’d heard our voices and discerned what we were talking about. “But Carrie—well, we know you didn’t hurt Myra, but her family … ”

  “All the more reason for me to attend,” I said firmly. “I’ll take Biscuit to my vet clinic’s doggy daycare before we go, but my mind is made up. I’ll be there.”

  Since I was the shops’ proprietor and sometimes wanted to impress customers with more than Barkery and/or Icing T-shirts, I kept a change of clothes in my small office at the rear of the kitchen. My office was on the Icing side, and a similar enclosed area behind the Barkery was our restroom, where I now went with my outfit to change.

  I was ready to go.

  I sent Dinah and Judy on their way to the memorial. Biscuit and I were going in a different direction.

  But I would be joining them. Soon.

  By design, Knobcone Heights didn’t have an actual church or other facility established by members of a single religion. There were many of these in towns within easy driving distance, at least when we weren’t in the thick of a winter snowfall. For years, our City Council had supported the idea that there be just one large, lovely, multi-denominational chapel.

  The Knobcone House of Celebration was along the lake, a h
alf mile or so from the Knobcone Heights Resort. I wasn’t sure what its style was—modern, maybe, even though it had been there for twenty years or so. It was a couple stories high, but actually only contained one floor. The outside was long and slanted and windowed and streamlined. The inside was pretty much only one huge room that could be segregated into several if the event inside required it. There was an office off to one side, and a large stage area that could be used as a worship center or whatever. The walls were of silvery, matte metal peppered by all those windows. The floors were all of gleaming wood. And one whole wall of windows looked out over the lake.

  I’d been there only once before, when the owner of an elderly English Sheepdog who’d needed to be euthanized because of a bad heart condition had rented the place to hold a memorial for her lost pet. I thought it sweet, if a bit over the top. A contingent had been sent from the veterinary clinic, including Arvie and me. It was before Reed had started working there. A local choir had been brought in to sing some sorrowful chants for the poor dog, and my eyes had teared up more than once.

  Of course my eyes always teared up if we had to put a patient down, even though it was only done to prevent further suffering. But it also meant the beginning of further suffering for most of the owners—those with hearts, who’d actually considered their animals more than pieces of property.

  After dropping Biscuit off, I hurried back to my shops and then drove to the House of Celebration. The parking lot there was nearly full. I figured the facility would be crowded too—possibly more because of who the Ethmans were in this area than because of how much Myra had been loved or even admired.

  As I got out of the car, I steeled myself as much as possible for what would follow. This wasn’t about me. I had to remind myself of that. But I would hopefully be able to use the event as a research vehicle of sorts—not that I expected people who’d disliked Myra to even hint at it here.

  I certainly wouldn’t. In fact, I truly did feel bad that she had died, especially given how it had happened, and no matter that I wished I wasn’t a suspect. Death was so sad. So final.

  There was a bit of a line at the tall front door, which was as angular as the rest of the place. I recognized some of the people who were also waiting to get in—primarily members of the town’s most elite families whom I knew only if they happened to have pets they brought to our clinic. I felt the stares of a few of them as they noticed me, but I didn’t respond.

  Also in line was kitten owner Cece Young, with some other men and women I assumed were friends or associates of hers, perhaps other teachers. I wondered if she’d told any of them about being at my grand opening celebration and receiving some Icing treat samples for herself.

  As I neared the entry, I glanced beyond some of the group to scan the inside. Among those occupying the nearby rows of seats I saw both Arvie and Reed. Great! I just hoped they had a chair near them that I could plant myself on. They’d probably come just to be nice and pay their respects; they’d need to get back to the clinic soon.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have a shift there today. But I did want to get back to my shops.

  I also saw two other vets from the clinic: Dr. Paul Jensin and Dr. Angela Regles. They sat a few rows away. Neither were quite as senior as Arvie, but they’d also helped to found the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic.

  I wondered where Dinah and Judy were sitting. I might not get them to come back to the stores with me after the memorial, but I’d just have to see how things went.

  Finally, I reached the door. A row of people I didn’t know—probably Ethmans—extended in a greeting line inside. I felt a faint tinge of relief that the first person was someone I was actually friends with: Les Ethman.

  “Thank you for coming, Carrie,” the sweet City Councilman said as I reached him. “I’m sure it wasn’t especially … easy.” Though the edges of his eyes always turned down, the rest of his expression today added to his morose look. I felt for him. I didn’t know what he’d thought of Myra, but he was definitely grieving now.

  “No,” I admitted. “But I wanted to pay my respects. And in case you’re wondering—”

  “I trust you, Carrie.” He clasped my hand in both of his and pulled me close enough to give me a hug.

  When he released me, he gave me a sad smile, then turned to the person behind me in the line.

  I didn’t know the next few greeters but assumed they were family members. They were not Harris, Elise, or their parents, thank heavens, nor even the less-antagonistic Walt Hainner. Once I’d gotten through the line, I was able to breathe again.

  Although I now saw Dinah and Judy sitting in the middle of a row near the front, I approached Arvie and Reed. Fortunately, they had an empty seat near them.

  As I sat down, people began walking onto the stage. I saw Les Ethman move down the side aisle and take a seat near other City Council members, including Billi Matlock. Some of Billi’s upper-echelon family members sat in front of them.

  I assumed that anyone who was anybody from this town was here, no matter what they’d actually thought about Myra. Too bad I couldn’t take a poll as to who really cared that she wasn’t around any longer and who was there just to score points with other elite Knobcone Heights residents.

  “Hello, everyone.” The female voice was raspy over the loudspeaker system. Elise Hainner, dressed in a slinky black dress, held a microphone in her black-gloved hand. Her husband Walt was right beside her, also dressed in black—a button-down shirt and trousers. On the stage now were Harris and his parents, all in black too and staring sad-faced toward their audience.

  “Thank you for coming,” Elise announced. “In case you’re wondering what we’re planning, it will be a celebration of the life of Myra Landrum Ethman, my dear sister-in-law.”

  I wondered if any of Myra’s blood relatives were here—and, in any event, what they’d thought of her. But if none had been in town at the time of the murder, I couldn’t consider them as possible suspects.

  “We’re going to make this fairly informal,” Elise continued. “I’ve already got a list of people who will come up here and talk, but feel free to join us—though we’ll have to cut it off if the service gets too long.”

  Elise seemed right at home up there in front of everyone. I wondered what she’d done for a living before taking over at the resort. Her husband was a contractor. Had she designed homes? Sold them?

  Presented memorial services?

  Or had she done nothing, the way her brother Harris had until his wife had bought him a pet store to manage?

  Elise next launched into her sister-in-law’s life history, as if she’d seen it all.

  Had they really been that close? Maybe so.

  My mind, and eyes, wandered as she spoke. I wasn’t surprised to see that my newest best friends, those detectives, were among the people seated in the audience. Like me, they must have been there to observe the show—and see if they could glean any antagonism against Myra among the mourners. I certainly didn’t object to that. Maybe they’d be convinced to aim their suspicions in a different direction.

  Unless they’d spotted me, too, and were waiting for me to say or do something to provide irrefutable evidence of my guilt.

  For the next half hour, I watched and listened as person after person walked out on the stage area, took the microphone, and described his or her relationship with Myra, all in the most eloquent and sorrowful language. Music was piped in from somewhere, kept low but possibly representing some of Myra’s favorites songs, everything from current pop to music from Broadway shows.

  It was an amazing presentation, all the more astounding because it had been put together so quickly.

  Plus, there were so many folks who had nothing but nice things to say about Myra.

  Apparently Myra had gotten a degree in tourism management and had held jobs in L.A. and San Diego at various hotels before winding up here in the San Bernardino Mountains. She’d started at the reception desk at the Knobcone Heights Resort and worked h
er way up to manager.

  Neal wasn’t here. I’d called him on my way over, in case he had some interest in coming. He’d called me back and said he’d requested the time off but was told that although his caring was appreciated, he could do more in support of Myra’s memory if he just stayed at the resort and did his job.

  Too bad. I’d have liked to have had his company. Plus, it might have been a good thing for Neal to hear this part, at least. His main goal these days was to head as many outdoor escapades as possible, since he considered boating, hiking, and skiing to be his bliss. But lately that hadn’t been working out. Maybe hearing Myra’s story would ignite some other interest in him.

  Or not.

  I was listening to it, though. And I admitted to myself, although I wouldn’t to anyone else, that Myra’s story got to me. She might have been nasty to me, but there were obviously a lot of people she’d gotten along with just fine. More than fine. She’d been cared for by some, both family members and friends. She’d inspired others as she had worked her way up at the resort and caught the Ethman family’s attention, especially Harris’s. From the descriptions of those who had reported to her, she had been an inspirational leader, even though she hadn’t put up with any mistakes. Maybe that was because she never made any.

  Or at least, no one who was given time off work to attend the service had ever noted any on her part.

  Sitting among all the other mourners, I heard whispers and sighs and even a wail now and then. When I looked around, people tended to be staring raptly at whoever was speaking or down into their own laps, perhaps hiding tears—or disbelief.

  I sometimes looked out the large side windows toward the lake, just to escape momentarily from the room’s emotions.

  I glanced often toward Arvie, whose expression was solemn but didn’t seem to convey great sorrow. And every time I looked toward Reed, he looked back at me, his dark brown eyes questioning and caring. I had the sense that he’d come here more for me than to mourn Myra, and I appreciated it.