Killer Chocolate Pie (Pies and Pages Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  The detective took a note, and Bert could see it said son and daughter.

  “When did you realize he was dead?”

  “Well, I went to shake him awake, and he fell out of the chair onto the concrete. I saw the gunshot wound, and I knew he was dead.”

  “How did you know it was a gunshot wound?” he asked, tapping his pen on the top of his pad.

  “When my husband was alive, he used to take me on his hunting trips in the Rocky Mountains. I’ve seen what it looks like when you snipe a rabbit or a deer. The wound looked like that.”

  “You know a lot about guns?”

  “Not really. I usually just used a twenty-two rifle. It’s my favorite gun. I don’t know much about other guns.”

  The detective wrote down the number twenty-two. “Anything else stick out to you about the moment you found the body?”

  “Yes, actually. He was still carrying the pie he bought from me earlier. A chocolate-almond tart. The box was in his lap. When he fell, the pie went everywhere. It was a real waste, honestly.”

  The detective was nodding, silently adding his agreement and licking his lips again.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a piece of pie?”

  “And where were you before that point?” he asked, ignoring her question and sipping his coffee.

  “I had locked up for just a minute so I could run over to the Christmas in July shop and see my friend’s sidewalk display.”

  “And that friend is?”

  “Carla Young is her name.”

  He scribbled it down.

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Just after two in the afternoon.”

  “And about what time did you head back?”

  “Three to five minutes later. I wasn’t gone that long.”

  “Enough time for the victim to take a seat and get shot.”

  “Seems like a very close call, you know?”

  “Well, considering Ms. Stallion didn’t see the murder occur, it’s a very limited amount of time.” He picked up the coffee again and drank from it. “Did you notice anything strange on your way back to the shop? Anyone walking away from the shop, or anyone dressed suspiciously?” He was grasping for anything at this point that might point to a description of the killer.

  “I didn’t see anyone, but I heard a pop that I thought was a gunshot at first. It turned out just to be a balloon.”

  “A balloon?”

  “The toy store had a clown giving out free balloons.”

  He made a note to talk to the toy shop owner. “And you didn’t see anyone?” he reiterated.

  “Not that I can remember. I only remember being surprised that the man was in my chair.”

  The detective pursed his lips, let out a long breath, and closed his notepad. “Okay. I think that will be all for the moment. I already have your information on file if I need to talk to you again.”

  “I’ll be available.”

  “I assume you have mine.”

  “Right. From the last case.”

  “If you think of anything else. Give me a call.”

  “I will,” she smiled, standing up and shaking his hand.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  “I still can’t believe it happened,” Carla admitted, setting a mug of hot chocolate in front of Bert.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. The dim glow of Christmas lights illuminated the break room at Carla’s shop. After finishing her interview with Detective Mannor, Bert had headed over to see her friend.

  Carla took a seat opposite Bert, cradling her own cup of steaming hot chocolate in her hands. “Two, Bert.”

  “Two what?”

  “You’ve seen two dead bodies now, murder victims.” With shaky hands, she drank from her mug. “I just can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”

  Bert had to admit, as shocking as finding the dead man on her own shop front had been, she didn’t feel the least bit shaken up about it now. In fact, Carla seemed more upset by the events than she was. Bert shrugged. “I’ve always been a fairly tough lady.”

  “I think I would have fainted either time,” Carla whispered. “First a stabbing in your own shop, and now a shooting.”

  “I was shocked when I first found him. I mean, you don’t just go about your day expecting to see a body with a bullet hole in its chest.”

  “I’d think not.”

  “But, I think about the Detective, or even the EMTs who arrived on the scene. They all deal with serious accidents and death on a daily basis. I suppose after a while you learn better coping mechanisms.” She lifted her cup, drinking in the richness of the cream and chocolate together. “I guess I’m just learning quickly to push those things from my mind. If I didn’t, I might end up an emotional wreck.”

  “I guess so.” Carla reached over and grabbed her friend by the hand. “I’ve always admired your go-get-em attitude. Nothing seems to faze you.”

  “Believe me, it does. I’m just doing a good job keeping things under wraps.”

  Both women went silent for a moment as they sipped their drinks.

  “At least, this time, it wasn’t someone we both knew and were friends with,” Carla admitted, referring to the death of the previous bookshop’s owner.

  “It’s still shocking. His name was Daniel Blinkerton, according to the police, and he has two kids.”

  “Those twenty-somethings?”

  “Yep. A son and daughter. I’m not sure if the detective managed to track them down yet and give them the bad news.”

  Carla chewed her lower lip. “Do you think it was one of them? You mentioned that they were the angry sort.”

  “Who knows? The son seemed miffed with his father. They had an argument about money and he stormed off. The daughter, too, seemed irritable. She was sort of full of herself, you know.”

  “They always are, aren’t they?”

  “Well, with the way her father was treating her, buying her things left and right, it was no surprise. Still, the way she flipped from one mood to another.”

  “So, you think it was the father’s fault?”

  “I’d say so. Anyway, when the father refused to buy his daughter a book on guns, she stomped off.”

  Carla’s mouth dropped open. “A book on guns? You don’t think?”

  Bert waved her hand dismissively. “Naw. The girl seemed to be a few crayons short of a full box, sort of a ditz. I’m not so sure she’d know how to even hold a gun properly. It sounded like shooting guns was something her father refused to let her do. He said it was a man’s sport.”

  “Wow. I guess it’s no surprise he and Reba got into a fight.” Carla stood up and deposited her empty mug in the sink.

  “The detective seemed awfully interested in hearing about Reba’s fight with him.”

  Turning around, Carla leaned on the sink. “You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you?”

  Bert finished off her own drink and stood up. “I doubt it. Reba might be hot tempered and high strung, but can you really imagine her killing someone?”

  “I guess not.”

  Bert headed over and put her cup in the sink as well. “Thanks for the drink, Carla. It really hit the spot after everything that happened today.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to open up tomorrow?”

  “Most likely. I doubt that Detective Mannor will keep the building sealed off for too long.”

  Carla was shaking her head, her eyes wide and staring off into space. “It happened right in the middle of the Autumn Walk, and no one noticed. How did no one notice?”

  Bert tilted her head to one side and sighed, leaning against the counter with her friend. “I didn’t see anyone near the body when I was walking up, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. They had to have been. Especially, since Reba saw the victim sit down in the chair.”

  “Do you think Reba was telling the truth about seeing him?”

  “I don’t see why not. What possible reason would she
have for lying?”

  “You’re probably right. Do you think it was premeditated? I mean, how else could someone have committed a murder in the short amount of time you were at my shop?”

  Bert thought this over, realizing she was right. “It does seem like the only possible way, doesn’t it?”

  “I still don’t understand how no one saw the killer.”

  “Or heard a gunshot?” Bert added, still confused about this little detail herself.

  “Maybe they used a silencer?” Carla offered.

  Bert shook her head. “No, silencers don’t work the same way as the movies. There is still a pop noise.”

  “Like that balloon,” Carla said.

  Suddenly, a lightbulb turned on in Bert’s mind. “Popped. That’s exactly it! I have an idea.”

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  “What? What is it?” Carla begged for an answer as Bert was pulling on her jacket.

  “It’s already getting dark out, so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to find anything.” Zipping up, she threw the scarf around her neck.

  “Find what?”

  “I have to have a look.”

  “A look for what?” Carla asked again, grabbing her own jacket off the rack and following Bert as she headed down the steps from the breakroom and into the shop. “Jamie, watch the shop, please.”

  “Got it,” the young shop-keep gave a thumbs up as the two older women bustled out the door.

  The early evening chill was already setting in, creating goose pimples on the back of Bert’s neck. Pulling her scarf tighter, she led the way down the sidewalk and around the corner—the same path she always took to get back to her shop. In the distance, the blinking lights of the two police cars remained on the site.

  Bert guessed the body had officially been taken to the city morgue, probably for an autopsy.

  Walking about halfway down the block, she stopped in her tracks.

  “Oof,” Carla exclaimed, nearly running into her friend.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly.”

  “Bert, what in heaven’s name are we doing? What are we looking for?”

  She motioned with a nod of her head toward the dark toy shop across the street. It appeared that they had closed early after the murder had occurred.

  Only the yellow illumination from the old gas street lamp—updated to use electric bulbs—granted any light to the scene.

  Festive pumpkin, witch, and black bat paper cutouts adorned the windows. A selection of stuffed animals, dolls, and action figures stared out from behind the darkened glass, the outside lamps catching the plastic of their eyes. The large oak tree growing out of the sidewalk grate in front of the store let down a rain of leaves, shrouding the place in a frame of moving shadows.

  A sinister aura hung in the air, sending chills up and down Bert’s spine. Brushing off the uncomfortable sensation, she stepped out into the cobblestone street.

  “Come on,” she whispered, waving for Carla to follow.

  “Seriously? What are we doing?”

  “Do you want to come or not?”

  There was a beat of hesitation on Carla’s part, but she eventually groaned. Stepping off the sidewalk, she couldn’t help but shiver. “It’s spooky.”

  “The toy shop?”

  “Yeah. Look at all those eyes watching us.” She pointed at the unblinking dolls.

  “They’re just toys, Carla.”

  “I know that, but it’s still creepy,” she admitted as they reached the sidewalk on the other side.

  Bert began scanning the ground.

  “What the heck are you looking for?” Carla insisted on knowing.

  “I heard a balloon pop earlier.”

  “Yeah, the clown was handing them out and popped one. You told me that because it scared you.”

  “And it sounded like a muffled gunshot.”

  Suddenly, Carla’s eyes widened. “You mean, you think the killer shot him from way over here?”

  “Of course, don’t you see? How else would they go undiscovered? They probably had the gun concealed, maybe in a jacket or something to quiet the sound, and used the sound of a balloon popping to hide any residual noise. Even with a silencer and a jacket or blanket or something, the gun would still be heard.”

  Carla’s jaw dropped. “That’s horrible. They shot the balloon right out of the clown’s hand?”

  “They’d have to be a phenomenal shot, someone who’s been practicing for years, but I think it’s possible.”

  “You think the balloon is still out here?”

  “I saw it fall out of the trash, so I’m hoping it is.” Bert crouched down near the sidewalk to have a look.

  “They probably swept up after the Autumn Walk ended.”

  “Maybe, but if I can find the remnants of that balloon, Detective Mannor can run some tests on it. Maybe there is gunpowder residue or something.”

  Carla folded her arms. “You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”

  “Got it!” Bert exclaimed loudly. Standing up, she presented the pink remains of what had once been a balloon.

  “Detective Mannor isn’t going to be able to do anything with that,” Carla said. “This whole theory about a balloon is pretty farfetched, don’t you think? I mean, this is coming from me.”

  “How about we ask him?” Bert said, walking toward the crime scene again.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  Much to Bert’s frustration, Detective Mannor wasn’t buying her newest theory, but to humor her, he took the balloon into evidence anyway. He informed her that the possibility of the killer shooting from the street, hitting a balloon, and managing to hit the victim—all without someone noticing—was a long shot. Carla had worn an I told you so kind of smirk as they walked back to Christmas in July.

  Soon after, Bert headed home for the night, exhausted from the day’s events—and not too thrilled about her idea being shot down.

  * * *

  Upon waking up the next morning, she realized just how silly her little theory was and felt ridiculous for bringing the detective a useless balloon fragment.

  Trying to shrug it off, she decided to treat herself to something nice on the way into work that day. Thinking of the delightful smell of the detective’s pumpkin spice coffee from the night before, she located a convenient Koffee Hous in the downtown area.

  The coffee shop was on the main level of a high-rise office building on one of the corners. The familiar logo of a smiling woman, cup of coffee in hand, against a black background jumped out from the window.

  Parking on the street (and being thankful that the paid meters didn’t start until after nine) she headed inside. Instantly, the warming sensation of the shop overwhelmed her. A mixture of cinnamon, pumpkin, and coffee grounds permeated the air.

  An elegant, yet modern design included black tables and counter, stools, and soft light fixtures.

  Unfortunately, the atmosphere was immediately broken up by the angry demands of some young woman at the front of the line. “You’re going to do as I say, or I’ll make sure you get fired.”

  “I-I’m sorry, ma’am, but any extra shots of cream or flavoring cost more,” the timid young woman behind the counter muttered.

  “I’m sure you don’t want me to get your manager, do you?” she demanded.

  In the next instant, Bert recognized the woman. It was Abigail, Charles Blinkerton’s daughter. She wore a well fitted black pencil skirt, a crushed velvet blouse, and a pair of expensive sunglasses. Her hair was pinned up with what looked like a crystal hair stick.

  Her overall appearance was completely different, more grown up, than the day before.

  What was she doing here? Getting a casual cup of coffee, the day after her own father was murdered?

  “I don’t have any control over this. It’s our store policy.”

  “Then maybe it’s time we changed that policy, hmm?” she said in as condescending a tone as possible, looking over the tops of
her sunglasses with scathing eyes.

  Bert couldn’t believe the woman’s behavior toward the poor barista. She often found issue with anyone who thought they were better than the everyday workers who strived to give the public what they needed. She was sure working a barista job wasn’t the girl’s favorite thing, and having a rude customer come in always just made things worse.

  Abigail was also acting differently. Yes, the rudeness, and greediness were still there, but any semblance of the ditzy innocence or childish youth had vanished.

  “Should I get the manager then?” the barista asked, clearly unaware of what to do next in the situation.

  “You’d better. And pray that they are far more lenient than I would be,” she shouted as the girl headed off.

  She wondered if the poor woman was just upset about her father’s murder and was taking it out on other people. It was a strong likelihood. Bert remembered losing her husband, Howie, and how she’d been so snappy and rude for the few weeks following. She’d had to make a lot of apologies after that.

  She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and stepped forward. “Abigail?”

  The woman did a double take, surprised to hear her own name spoken. “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “And who are you?” she demanded, lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose and sending daggers at Bert. She clearly didn’t remember the incident outside the pie shop the day before—or at least didn’t recognize Bert.

  “I’m the owner of the pie shop, where you and your father stopped yesterday,” she reminded her.

  Her jaw dropped open. “Then it’s your place where my father was murdered!” she exclaimed, her voice bouncing off the ceiling.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She shoved her glasses back up on her nose. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police right now.”

  Bert’s breath caught in her throat. “Excuse me?”

  “I could have you arrested for harassment, you know.”

  Bert took a step back. “I have no idea what you mean.”