Death by Pumpkin Spice

by Alex Erickson

  “Later, I saw him arguing with another man, Terry Blandino. Twice. I think Terry was accusing him of the murder.”

  “Did you hear him come out and say it?” Paul asked. “Did this man admit to killing Mrs. Fairweather?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I said. “But I’m sure that’s what I saw.”

  Paul didn’t look convinced, so I began ticking points off on my fingers.

  “This man has been seen arguing with multiple people. He seems out of place and keeps to himself. I don’t think I’ve seen him mingle once. He is antagonistic and didn’t take too well to me talking to him earlier. Currently, he is nowhere to be seen. And he is rumored to be a hitman, possibly in connection to Howard Yarborough’s death.”

  Paul frowned. “He wasn’t murdered as far as I am aware.”

  “No, and I have no proof of it. But this man was on the list Margaret gave me. She’d slept with him, which meant they’d have time to plan Howard’s murder together. Some people believe Margaret had a hand in her husband’s death. What if she didn’t do it on her own? What if this man did? They had ample opportunity and time to discuss it. And then after the deed was done, I catch them arguing here of all places. What if he killed Jessica to get at Margaret some way, to show how far he would go for her?”

  Paul was silent a long moment before he spoke. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to this man. What is his name?”

  “Philip Carlisle. He’s wearing—”

  “A fedora, long coat, and glasses,” Paul finished for me. “I talked to him a little while ago. He claims he was with Mrs. Yarborough at the time of Jessica’s death.”

  Which was the same story Margaret had given me. “He could have lied.” Which meant Mrs. Yarborough had done the same.

  “There was something peculiar about him,” Paul went on. His eyes met mine and all uncertainty seemed to have fled. “I felt he was lying to me the entire time we talked.”

  My excitement grew. “He has to be the one. I don’t know why he killed Jessica Fairweather—it’s all speculation on my part so far—but I’m positive he had a hand in it. It fits too much for him not to be involved.”

  “The boyfriend maybe,” Paul said. I could see his mind working a million miles a minute. “If he knew about Mr. Carlisle’s supposed past, he might have gone to him after his girlfriend rejected him.” He started striding forward, still talking. Isabella was apparently forgotten. I followed after him, not wanting to be left behind. “We’ll need to talk to them both again, see if we can get one of them to break and give the other up.”

  We entered the ballroom, stopping just inside. Paul scanned the crowed, face serious. I joined him, though I had to stand on my tiptoes to see over most of the heads. Being short sucked sometimes.

  “He’s not here,” I said, having already looked for him. “He might be on the run!” Igor was still standing by the door, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the only exit in the mansion.

  “Buchannan!” Paul barked, drawing nearly every eye. “Over here.”

  Buchannan flipped his notebook closed and strode across the room. He stopped in front of us. “Yes, Officer Dalton.” It was clear he didn’t appreciate being called over so rudely.

  “Have you seen a man in a hat and glasses, wearing a long coat? He goes by the name Philip Carlisle.”

  Buchannan glanced at me. I could read the question in his eye: Is this what you wanted me for? I held his gaze for a long couple of seconds before he answered.

  “I think I saw someone of that description leave a few minutes ago with Mar . . . Mrs. Yarborough.” He nodded toward the opposite exit, flushing as if embarrassed by nearly saying her name. “She didn’t seem too happy about it, but went along willingly enough.”

  Instant panic. Could Philip be plotting his next murder? Could he have accidentally killed Jessica when he’d meant to kill Margaret all along? Or could it have indeed been a warning shot, meant to make her realize he was serious about running away together and he wouldn’t take no for an answer? Perhaps she lied for him because he’d threatened her. But what if that wasn’t enough for him?

  Could he be killing her even now?

  Paul and I glanced at one another. I could see the same questions running through his mind.

  “Buchannan,” he said, all business. “Secure the room. Keep an eye out for both Margaret Yarborough and Philip Carlisle. The moment you see him, take him into custody.”

  Buchannan gave a sharp nod and strode into the room. For the first time since I’d met the man, I felt as if he was a real cop. His entire demeanor had changed, telling me that when he wasn’t blaming me for something I didn’t do, he could actually perform his job exceptionally well. Huh. Go figure.

  Paul turned to me. I straightened, ready to receive my orders. I was excited. Another killer might end up behind bars thanks to me.

  “Stay here,” he said, before turning and loping off toward the hall where Margaret was last seen.

  I gaped after him. I’d just solved the case, or at least, thought I did. Without me, he wouldn’t have gotten this lead, at least not before we’d left for the night. I looked toward where Buchannan had gone, but he was no help. Even if I begged him for something to do, he’d simply shoo me away.

  Paul vanished down the hall. I had a decision to make.

  I snorted. This was me we were talking about. There was only one decision I could make.

  I took off at a run, ignoring the stares. I had to look a sight in my borrowed clothes and wild eyes. My cheeks were flushed with excitement, and maybe with a little exhaustion. I wasn’t a fan of running anywhere, and I’d been doing a lot of rushing around lately. My legs were going to hate me in the morning.

  Paul hadn’t gotten far. He stood only a short ways down the hall, looking indecisive. I hurried up to him and then past him so he wouldn’t grab me and stop me. I knew where those stairs led. “Her bedroom,” I said, nodding toward the stairs even as I made toward them.

  I heard him follow after.

  I was panting by the time I reached Margaret’s bedroom. The door was closed, and I could hear voices inside. Paul was right behind me and he wasn’t even slightly out of breath. I really needed to start working out if I was going to keep doing this. Or maybe cut back on the cookies and ice cream.

  “No!”

  The shout came from the other side of the door. I recognized it instantly as belonging to Margaret Yarborough.

  Paul didn’t hesitate. He pushed past me and tried the door, which, of course, was locked. “Margaret!” he shouted, rattling the doorknob. When she didn’t answer right away, he lowered his shoulder and opened the door by sheer brute force. I heard something snap in the lock and found myself out of breath for another reason entirely. I mean, he hadn’t even backed up before using his shoulder to force open a locked door that had looked pretty darn sturdy to me.

  His momentum carried him inside the room. I followed quickly after, not wanting to miss the confrontation.

  Philip had Margaret by one wrist. His hat was lying on the bed, and his glasses were askew on his face as if he’d been slapped. He was red-faced, one cheek brighter than the other. Margaret’s eyes were wide with shock.

  “Let her go,” Paul demanded. “Now.”

  Philip did as he was told. Margaret jerked her hand back and took two quick steps away from him. Tears burst from her eyes as she began rubbing at her wrist.

  “I can explain,” Philip said, his ever-present sneer in place. “We were just talking.”

  “It looked like a lot more than talking to me,” I said.

  “Krissy.” Paul’s tone was a warning to stay out of it. He kept his eyes on Philip and directed his next comment toward him. “Calmly move to this side of the bed, away from Mrs. Yarborough.”

  Philip raised both of his hands, pausing long enough to fix his glasses. He glanced down at his hat, which was lying on the bed, as if he was considering picking it up and putting it on. I noted the cats were missing, and hoped th
ey’d found a safe hiding place and hadn’t been hurt when Philip had attacked their owner.

  “Okay,” he said, moving slowly around the bed, away from Margaret, who was watching him with a strange expression on her face, as if she couldn’t fathom he could be guilty of anything, even after what he’d been about to do. “There’s no problem here. We just had a little disagreement, isn’t that right, Margie?”

  Margie? Even Margaret seemed taken aback by the nickname.

  “I . . . We . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Paul told her. “Everything is under control. We can figure this out later.” He returned his focus to Philip. “Nice and slow.”

  The sneer never left his face as he moved slowly toward where Paul stood. His eyes flickered to me once, and I could see the understanding there. He knew we had him. He knew I was responsible.

  Good, I thought with some satisfaction. It felt good to be this man’s downfall.

  Philip took another step forward; then he made his move.

  The only martial arts I’d ever seen had come from movies like The Karate Kid, which pretty much meant I was clueless to what real karate looked like. Philip seemed completely at ease and willing to comply, when he suddenly burst into motion, aiming a palm strike straight for Paul’s chest. It connected solidly, knocking Paul backward, into the wall, where he hit with a grunt and groan. The motion had been so fluid, so sudden, I’d barely had time to register what had happened before Philip was looking at me.

  I might do some really dumb things sometimes, but this time, I did the wise thing. When Philip started toward me, I immediately darted to the side, out of his way. I could have tried to tackle him, but it was more likely I’d end up with a punch to the throat instead.

  Philip ran past me, surprisingly light on his feet. I made a belated grab for his arm as he flew past, hoping to at least slow him down long enough for Paul to right himself and take over, but I missed completely. He was out the door and down the hall before I could even think of trying again.

  By then, Paul had gotten back to his feet. He rushed past me, yelling “Stay here!” as he passed.

  Who was I to ever listen?

  I bolted after him, feeling only mildly guilty for ignoring his orders yet again. The real guilt came from realizing that my fear for my own safety was what might allow a killer to escape.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  Philip vanished around a corner, well ahead of both Paul and me. Just as we turned to follow, a door slammed, but neither of us saw which one. There were six doors along the corridor, ones I hadn’t explored when I’d wandered the house earlier.

  Paul gave me the briefest of annoyed looks and then started forward. He opened the first door, peeked in, and then closed it behind him. We worked our way down the hall like that, Paul in the lead, me trailing behind.

  “Mr. Carlisle!” Paul called as he opened another door. “Give yourself up.” He scanned the room and then closed the door.

  As we moved, I kept checking behind me, certain Philip would leap out of one of the previously checked rooms and take us both out from behind. The man had proven he was more than he appeared, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he was adept at hiding himself, too. It wasn’t like Paul was entering the rooms and checking under all of the furniture, so he could be anywhere.

  A sound came from one of the doors ahead. Paul glanced at me and then started toward the door. He didn’t call out this time. He grabbed the doorknob, hesitated a second, and then pulled the door open. I had to shuffle back a step to give him room as he peered inside.

  A white blur flew by as one of the Persians came tearing out of the closet as if its tail was on fire. It vanished down the hall, looking harried.

  “A closet?” I asked, turning back. How had the cat ended up in the closet?

  Before Paul could answer, the door behind us burst open and something heavy slammed into my back. I was propelled forward, unable to stop myself, and slammed into Paul, who was likewise off balance. We both staggered into the walk-in closet. Before I could so much as think to right myself, the door slammed closed behind us, followed by the unfathomable sound of the door being locked.

  22

  “Who puts a lock on a closet door?” I shouted, frustrated. We’d been beating on the door to no avail for a good five minutes now. Paul had already given up and was watching me as I pounded on the door as if I thought I could bust it down. He’d already tried forcing it open like he’d done the bedroom door, but this door seemed to be made of sturdier stuff.

  “No one can hear us,” he said. “We need to think.”

  “We don’t have time to think! He might get away.” I couldn’t believe we’d come so close to catching the killer, only to be foiled by a closet as secure as Fort Knox.

  “We know who he is,” he said. “Even if he escapes now, we’ll find him.”

  I sighed and stopped pounding on the door. He was right. Philip could run, could pack his things and try to escape, but they’d get him eventually. There was a chance he might flee to another country, sure, but how often did that really happen? It seemed like something you’d only see in the movies.

  My shoulders sagged, causing my hand to bump up against my leg. “Wait!” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “Crap.”

  “No bars,” Paul said. “I checked while you were trying to smash your way through the door.”

  “Great,” I grumbled. “Stuck in a locked closet with an impenetrable door, and no service. What does this thing double as, a bank vault?”

  “Krissy,” Paul said, his hand gently touching my shoulder. “Relax. Someone will come by soon.”

  “Then we should keep making noise,” I said. “How else is anyone going to know we’re in here?”

  “We will,” he said, calm as ever. “When we hear someone coming, we’ll call out to them.”

  “And what if the door is soundproof?”

  “We heard the cat.”

  Oh yeah.

  I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t like listening to reason, even when it made perfect sense. Maybe that was why I was always getting myself into trouble.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between us then. The closet might be a walk-in, but that didn’t mean it was gigantic. I could smell Paul’s cologne and wondered if he reapplied it after his foray into the rain. No one should smell that good after being drenched and running after a suspected killer.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The apology came so suddenly, I was struck dumb. I squinted into the gloom at Paul, who was an indistinct shape. The only light in the closet was coming from beneath the door, and it wasn’t enough to see by. My phone would provide a little illumination, but I’d feel silly holding it.

  We’re in a walk-in, silly. They almost always had lights. And since this closet was built to withstand a nuclear assault, I figured it almost had to have a light somewhere. I began fumbling around for a switch or a cord as Paul continued talking.

  “I was being stupid. I knew I was, yet I kept doing it, anyway.”

  My fingers bumped into a thin chain. Bingo! I tugged on it and a light came on, blinding both of us.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. At least I’d had the presence of mind not to look up when I’d turned on the light, though I probably should have warned Paul.

  He squinted his eyes at me a moment before answering. “You. Me.” He sighed, sounding frustrated. “Us, I suppose.”

  “Us?” Is he saying what I think he is saying? My entire body broke out in a panicky sweat. Oh God, not here!

  “It was my fault. I do really like you.” He said it like I might contradict him. “Always have, but I let other things get in the way.”

  When he didn’t continue, I prodded him. A part of me might not want to do this trapped in a closet, but a bigger part really wanted to hear what he had to say. “Like?”

  He shrugged. “Like your involvement in the cases. I was scared you were
doing it to impress me, and that you’d keep on doing it as long as you thought I’d like it.”

  I snorted. “Hardly. I did it because I like to help. Mysteries fascinate me. And I can’t stand for murderers running loose, so I do what I can to stop them.”

  “I get that,” Paul said with a smile. “I guess I sometimes wish they fascinated you a little less.” His eyes met mine for a heartbeat before he looked down at his hands. “And then there was my mom.”

  Oh boy, that was a big one. Paul’s mom, Patricia, was the Pine Hills police chief, which automatically made the situation a little more uncomfortable. I mean, it was bad enough Paul was a cop, but his mom, too? It made it look like I was in bed with the law, that I could do anything I wanted and get away with it. It was probably why Buchannan hated me so much.

  And then there was the fact she’d tried to hook us up. It was both weird and flattering at the same time. She’d said she thought we’d be perfect together, a sentiment she was near recanting thanks to my actions as of late.

  “She hound you about me too much?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

  Paul laughed. “Every day. First, it was to give you a chance, asking if we’d gone out, for how long, what we did. I felt like a kid again. I didn’t mind so much at first, but eventually, it started to wear on me, especially since we hadn’t gone out other than that one time. And then, after that last murder, when you became a suspect . . .”

  “She wasn’t so eager to push us together.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Patricia had told me as much when I’d been locked up for throwing a few harmless punches Buchannan’s way. She’d started to doubt my character, which, in turn, made me doubt myself even more than I already did. Apparently, it had affected Paul, too.

  “But you have Shannon now,” I said, surprised by how much the words stung. I’m over him, I tried to tell myself. I was with Will now, or at least hoping I was. I didn’t need to be mooning over more than one man, especially since I’d always struggled to get one to so much as look at me. This whole multi-guy thing was new to me, and I wasn’t so sure I liked it.