by Avery Aames
“I’m telling you, sugar, the chief stares at me with those piercing eyes of his, and I feel like the stupidest woman in the world.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to. He likes women. He values their opinions.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know it.”
I rested a hand on Tyanne’s arm. “Tim’s murder has hit Urso very hard. He and Tim were good friends. I would bet that he’s doing everything he can to maintain his composure while he investigates.”
“Even so, you’d think he would hanker to have new ideas. Why, if I were him, I would confront Belinda Bell, and—”
“Don’t.” I never thought I would be the one to utter the next few words, but out of my mouth came: “Don’t. Do. Anything. No going off half-cocked and possibly putting yourself in harm’s way. Urso has it handled.”
“All right, sugar. No need to yell.”
Had I yelled? Perhaps I had because I was trying to convince not only Tyanne, but also myself, that doing nothing was the best course of action.
“How about some tea?” I said.
“I’d love some.”
I steered her into the kitchen and switched on a light. The dog and cat lifted their heads from their resting places. “Go back to sleep,” I ordered. Neither pet needed a second reminder.
Tyanne perched on a stool by the counter while I put on a pot of water to boil. In the glaring light, she looked pale and drawn. Her mouth was turned down. She pulled the sugar bowl toward her and repeatedly lifted and dumped sugar off the serving spoon. “So, how are you, Charlotte?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s nearly Sunday. By this time tomorrow, you were supposed to be, you know . . .”
“Mrs. Jordan Pace. I know. And I will be. We’re setting a new date. In May.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer it to be sooner?”
“Of course, but in good conscience, seeing as Tim was murdered at the farm—”
“Like I said before, let’s change the venue. There are all sorts of places that would be happy to host a wedding tomorrow. We can keep it simple. I know I promised all your goodies to another couple, but I’m sure I can whip up a fresh set of flowers. Dottie would be thrilled to make another cake. And who needs a sit-down dinner, right? Cheese and crackers will do. Let’s see . . . I don’t have anything scheduled at Harvest Moon Ranch or The Ice Castle.” She ticked off the sites on her fingertips. “Or that darling chapel in the ravine. You know the one, with the stained glass behind the altar.” She steepled her fingers. “If you want that one, you’ve got to snatch it up right now, though. My eager out-of-towners have mentioned that’s one of their top three. They were enamored with it. They’re even talking about having the pastor’s wife do her celebratory modern dance.”
I gaped. Nobody ever wanted the pastor’s wife to do her dance. She was a darling, but the dance was sort of, um, out there. It involved a garment made of scarves and lots of harem-style dance moves.
“C’mon, sugar, what do you say? I’d be glad to—”
I held up a hand. “No. We’ve made our decision. Jordan and I will not get married until the pall of Tim’s murder is behind us.”
Which, of course, made my indecision of a few minutes ago vanish. I wouldn’t rest until his murderer was captured and brought to justice.
CHAPTER
Meredith and Matthew arrived early Sunday morning to pick up the girls. Add a fresh snowfall to the mix and the hubbub in the house was cacophonous. Girls screaming: “Did you bring our mittens, our hats, our boots?” “Where are we going?” “When will we get there?” Surprises could be chaotic. Rags and Rocket weren’t nearly as happy as the girls. They knew something was going down. When the house emptied, and it was the three of us—two pets and me—I donned a parka, hood up, and we headed outside for a quick playtime before our walk to work.
The moment I pushed open the back door, a piece of paper—no, an envelope with Jordan’s handwriting—flapped in the breeze. He had taped it to the jamb. When had he left it? At midnight, after I’d gone to sleep? The sneaky devil. I peeled it off and opened it.
Good morning, my love. I know this is the day we had planned to become man and wife. It was with a heavy heart that I asked you to postpone the celebration. But, rest assured, we will be together. Forever. I adore you.
Love, Jordan
Feeling lighter than air, I raced inside, tucked the envelope into my purse, and returned outside to play with the pets. I tossed a ball across the backyard. “Fetch!”
Rocket tore off, leaving skid streaks in the inch of snow. Rags glowered at me as if demanding to know what his treat was to be.
I scooped him up and nuzzled him. “Relax, you big baby. He doesn’t get to be picked up. He’s not a lap cat.”
Rocket returned, eager for another go. We played throw and fetch for ten minutes, Rocket making tracks across the snow. When he slid at the far end of the yard and nearly took out a boxwood bush, he barked loudly enough to wake the neighbors—it was the bush’s fault, of course.
At the same time, the first round of church bells pealed in the air. Services all over town would soon begin.
A few minutes later, I settled in for a quick morning coffee, apple wedges, and a slice of Aged Leicestershire Red, a flaky orange cheese with a caramel flavor. Soon after, I dressed and headed for the shop.
As the pets and I neared the Village Green, I caught sight of a number of women convening around the kiosk beside the historic clock. Paige and Violet were among them. Unlike Councilwoman Bell and her cohorts at the precinct the other day, these women looked rapturous to be together. All were bundled up; each wore a smile. Violet split from the group to peer around the kiosk, as if expecting someone else. Paige thumped her arm, gestured that Violet should forget about whoever was late, and handed her a fistful of flyers. Paige caught sight of me and hurried over. She shoved a flyer into my hand, which read: Sugar kills. I had to give her credit. The flyer was direct and to the point. No one would mistake her message.
“Join us,” she begged.
I started to respond, but Rocket had other plans. He yanked me to the left.
“No,” I said to him. “Stop. We’re not going to the pet shop now. It’s not open yet. Later.” But Rocket didn’t like my later idea; he wouldn’t be dissuaded. He knew Tailwaggers encouraged owners to bring in their pets and let them browse. He tugged again. I thought my arm socket would give way. “Sorry, Paige,” I yelled over my shoulder. “Another time.” To the dog, I snarled, “Heel.” He didn’t. “When did you become so willful?” I had been diligent about training him. Come. Sit. Stay. He played when I wanted him to play; he did his business when I said. He obeyed the word: Heel. Had a few months without hearing my voice commands stripped me of power?
“Matthew,” I muttered. He hated to discipline the dog. “Fine.” I gave in. “We’ll walk your direction, but we’re not going into the store. I repeat, it’s too early. It’s not open. We can window-shop. We’ll go inside when I take you for your bath later in the week.” Rocket peeked at me with soulful eyes. “That’s right. Bath. B-a-t-h. Water. Soap. You’ll smell so good.”
Rocket licked the Tailwaggers window trying to get to the display, which was made up of bones, pillows, leashes, and, of all things, a cardboard statue of a full-sized French Briard wearing a heart-shaped necklace around her neck and bows beside each ear. Had Rocket known this image of a girl dog was there? Maybe Meredith and the twins had roamed this way in the past few days.
“Keep moving, pal,” I said. “True love will have to wait.”
Rags yowled his agreement and pulled ahead as if demanding he be the leader. He was one of the few cats I knew that had taken to the leash. Reluctantly, Rocket did as commanded.
We rounded the corner and easily bypassed the theater and Memory Lane Collectibles, which was Belinda Bell’s shop. Rocket made no sudden
stops. However, outside Providence Pâtisserie, I drew up short. My stomach rumbled. Cheese paired with apples wasn’t enough of a meal. Under the pretense of picking up sweets for my afternoon coffee with Jordan—how much would I hate myself if I ate two sweet rolls in one day?—I secured the animals on the hitching post outside the front door, and headed inside. I wasn’t surprised that the shop was open for business; Dottie once told me, while giggling, that Sunday garnered huge sales. Churchgoers, she claimed, no matter how devoted to their faith, needed sustenance to endure the occasional boring sermon.
The buzzer above the door pinged as I entered. No one was standing behind the counter.
“Hello?” I called.
Dottie didn’t appear. Per usual, music was blasting somewhere in the rear of the shop. The Rolling Stones song “Brown Sugar” was playing. Dottie claimed music inspired her hands to make a better, fluffier pastry.
I dinged the counter call bell and waited. Still no one emerged from the back of the shop. “Dottie!” I yelled.
No answer.
I listened for the sound of running water or oven doors slamming. Nothing. Maybe Dottie was outside emptying garbage. Maybe she was in the restroom. I knew from personal experience that without an assistant to take up the slack, finding time to attend to personal matters while on the job could be challenging.
Daring to move past the counter, I pushed open the door with the porthole window and peered into the kitchen. “Dottie?”
I drew up short. Dottie was lying on the floor. Faceup. Her legs were askew, her pant legs scrunched up. Her arms were extended. The collar of her cowl-neck sweater lay loose and unruly.
Heart thrumming my ribcage, I pushed back the kitchen door and darted to her. I knelt down, but there was no need to check her pulse. She was dead. Her eyes were wide open and blank. Her skin was a faint blue. A pastry jutted from her mouth.
I gagged. My breakfast tried to make its way north. I forced myself to swallow. What had happened? Had she fallen backward and, with the pastry in her mouth, choked? I rose to my feet and surveyed the area. Other than the way her body was sprawled, there didn’t appear to have been a fight. In fact, the kitchen looked prepped to make lots of pastries. Kitchen tools, measuring cups, and sifters as well as ingredients like flour, butter, vanilla, cheese, and eggs rested on the huge marble-topped island. Three trays of unbaked pastries appeared ready to be popped into the oven. Unwashed mixing bowls and some trash had been set in the industrial-sized sink.
And yet, something didn’t feel right about the scene. I gazed at Dottie again. The pastry. It wasn’t simply jutting from her mouth. It looked jammed in tight. Had someone done that on purpose? Was she murdered? Why?
“Oh, Dottie, I’m so sorry.” Grief coursed through me. Two lives snuffed out in the same week. Both people I knew and cared about.
I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed 911.
I was explaining the situation to the respondent when a man shouted from the front of the store, “Dottie!”
Ray Pfeiffer burst into the kitchen. The mere sight of him in black shorts and black T-shirt, though not his typical outfit, gave me the shivers. “Dot. What’s going on? Why isn’t there—” He spotted me and halted. He glanced from me to Dottie and back to me. “What have you done?” Ray dashed to his wife and knelt beside her.
“What? No. N-n-not me,” I sputtered. “I came in and found her lying there.” I waggled my phone. “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. We should probably—”
Ray wasn’t listening to me. Without pulling off his woolen gloves, he dug his fingers into Dottie’s mouth. He scooped out whatever had been stuffed inside. It looked like a cheese Danish. “Breathe, hon,” Ray commanded. He caressed her face, her hair, her shoulders. “Breathe.”
I knew there was no possibility he could revive her, but what could I say? Step away from the body. Like I had the right. He was her husband. “Ray,” I said softly. “She’s dead.”
“Breathe, hon,” he repeated, not hearing me or not wishing to hear me. Following a long silence, Ray whispered, “All I did was leave you to go to sunrise service at the chapel.”
Dressed like that? Were black shorts the formal version of his jean shorts?
“One hour.” He petted Dottie again. “I was gone one hour. Darn it, hon, how did this happen?”
“Ray, maybe you ought to leave the crime scene alone. The police will be here any minute.”
Tears dripped from his eyes onto Dottie’s face. He gathered her hands in his, yet again disturbing the scene by moving her outstretched arms. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he tried to will life into her. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Come back. I told her not to work alone. I told her it was dangerous. I told her to hire a new assistant. But when did she ever listen to me?”
Seeing him so emotionally undone yanked me back to Tyanne’s grief-stricken visit to my house last night.
Ray’s head jerked up. He must have heard the refrigerator and heater kick on, as I had. Like an animal on high alert, he glanced right and left. Silently he tucked Dottie’s hands against her chest and bolted to his feet. Then he crept to the door leading to the front of the shop. He pushed it open a crack and peeked out. Seconds later, he let the door swing shut. He stared at me. I expected him to say something like “All clear,” but he didn’t. He strode to the far side of the room and flattened himself against the wall. He poked his head around the corner and returned to his pressed-against-the-wall position. Did he think someone other than us was in the building? Was he thinking what I was thinking, that Dottie had been murdered? She never would have eaten an entire pastry like that. She wasn’t a gorger; she didn’t scarf down food. She may have been plump, but I’d seen her eat on many occasions—a nibble here, a bite there, what some might call a sneaky eater.
Ray put his finger to his lips, signaling me that he heard something. He slinked around the corner and disappeared from sight.
I whispered, “Wait,” but he didn’t. Had he gone in search of an intruder? Had he fled? A chill cut through me. I was alone. With the body. I eyed the kitchen door. When would the police arrive? I moved toward the door but paused when I spied a wooden spoon and a crumpled towel on the floor just beyond the marble island. Beyond them was a smear of flour, as if someone had tried to hastily wipe up a mess. Had there been a scuffle? Was a murderer close at hand?
My chest tightened with fear. I heard footsteps. I crouched behind the island, ready to leap out if Dottie’s killer returned.
“Charlotte?” Ray called. “You still here?”
I bolted upright.
“I knew it!” he cried. For a fit man, he was certainly breathing heavily. Fear could kick up all sorts of adrenaline. “He did it.”
“He who?”
“Zach Mueller.”
“Dottie’s assistant?”
“Ex-assistant.”
Right. Ex. He quit. I thought of my conversation with Violet at her inn. She’d said she didn’t trust Zach as far as she could throw him. I sort of liked Zach, even though he was a speed-demon in that souped-up car of his. He knew his pastry and he liked every kind of cheese.
“Zach robbed Dottie and killed her,” Ray said.
“Are you sure? I didn’t see the cash register open, and the children’s fund donation box seemed intact.”
“He didn’t take money. He broke into the safe in the office.” Ray jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The door is hanging wide open. He took Dottie’s ruby brooch.”
“Why would he take a piece of jewelry?”
“It was a family heirloom. All diamonds and rubies. A cluster is what Dottie called it. Shaped like a flower. About yea big.” He formed a mini-donut-sized O with his fingers. “Ugly as sin, but it was worth over twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Wow! That’s a lot of money. Why would Dottie keep something that preciou
s at the store?”
“We didn’t have a safe at home. She felt it was more secure here. She never wore it. She said it was gauche. But she couldn’t part with it. She must have caught him—”
“Caught Zach?”
“Yes.” Ray sounded exasperated with me. “Dottie must have caught him in the act. He knocked her down and shoved that”—he pointed at the wad of pastry—“into her mouth to keep her from screaming. She ran out of air.”
“Zach would’ve had to hold it there and pinch her nose closed to suffocate her. Was he strong enough to do that? He’s so slim.”
“He wrestled in high school.”
I thought of my lanky college-aged Internet guru. Wrestling had developed his muscles, too. Now he could lug seventy-five-pound wheels of cheese with ease. Zach Mueller had the same physique. I glanced back at Dottie. The collar of her cowl-neck sweater lay loose. Her neck was exposed. I couldn’t see any ligature marks or bruises. Suffocation had to be the method.
Stop, Charlotte! Listen to you. You sound like Rebecca, theorizing à la a television detective.
Ray headed for the wall telephone. “I’m going to call the police.”
“I already did.” Hadn’t he heard me before? Was his hearing impaired by grief? “They’re on their way.”
He looked at me as if he were surprised by my presence. “Charlotte?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“My dog steered me in this direction on our morning walk.” Had Rocket sensed Dottie’s death? Had he heard something going down? No. He wasn’t an Asta or Lassie. He had wanted to stroll past the pet shop and get a gander of his ladylove cutout. And yet, here I was. Inside the pastry shop, faced with yet another death—murder. “I decided to come in and buy some pastries. Dottie’s Sunday morning specials are”—ugh, she was dead; I had to use the past tense—“were always her best.”
“That’s because she spent all Saturday night preparing them,” Ray acknowledged. He started to pace by Dottie’s feet. I caught him glancing at her. His face torqued into a mask of pain. He swung his gaze away. He wore a path in the linoleum until he finally stopped and looked at his watch. “Why aren’t the police here yet? They’re just around the corner.”
