Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery)

by Nancy J. Parra

  “Yeah.”

  “My family has a long history in this town.”

  “Lots of people’s families have long histories in Oiltop,” she said as she washed up the utensils from the pudding. “And they got out.”

  I shrugged. “Grandma Ruth isn’t as young as she thinks she is.”

  “Okay?” She shook her head to emphasize that she didn’t follow my train of thought.

  “I wasn’t here for my mom’s last couple of years on this earth. I want to at least be here for Grandma’s. I might have lost my mom, but she lost a daughter.” I stood and checked on the timer.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Meghan said. “So, it’s like your mom can’t be here for her mom, so you are.”

  “Something like that.”

  The buzzer chimed and I turned it off. “Stir it really well.”

  Meghan attacked the pudding with a whisk until it was smooth and even. Then she poured it into the prepared gluten-free crusts. The recipe made five pies. When you had twenty pies to create filling for, only five pies at a time felt like it took forever, but I was proud of the small batches and home-cooked taste of the bakery.

  Gluten-free food can be hit or miss. In fact, the best advice I ever got after my celiac diagnosis was to eat only whole or fresh foods. That way you knew for certain what was in them. Sometimes even naturally gluten-free items held enough gluten to really make a super sensitive person sick.

  Which was precisely why I prepared small batches with only certified gluten-free ingredients. When you only got baked goods once in a while, it was really important to ensure that they didn’t make you sick . . . ever.

  “Done.” She rinsed the pudding out and dumped the pan in the hot water.

  “So, now that you know how to do that, I’m going to leave the next batch for you,” I said. My cell phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I pulled it out and stepped through the door from the kitchen to the front of the bakery. “Hi, Grandma.”

  “Toni, did you get a chance to get out to the courthouse and see if you can’t figure out what you saw in the mulch?”

  “Not yet.” I bit my tongue to stop myself from trying to explain that I had a business to run. With my luck, Grandma would use that as an excuse to go out and look for herself. “I had to show Meghan how to make pudding.”

  “Do you need me to—”

  “No, I’m headed out that way right now.” I tried my best to sound firm. “You stay away from the courthouse. People already suspect that I’m the one who tripped that alarm last night.”

  “Who suspects that?” Grandma demanded.

  “Meghan said that Mrs. Thacker told Chief Blaylock that she saw a VW van speeding away from the scene last night. And Mrs. Spader remembers seeing a VW van around town yesterday. It won’t take them long to put two and two together.”

  “Those two old hens,” Grandma muttered. “I’ll tell Phyllis to stash her van in your carriage house for a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll handle the rumor control. You get yourself out to the courthouse and see if you can’t find that clue.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Have you ever noticed how things look completely different in daylight than they do at night?

  I tried walking casually through the town square, passing the crime scene as I went so that people wouldn’t notice me looking into the bushes. On my third pass I gave up the ruse and stood in front of the tape and studied the scene. My shoe imprints were right there bold as life in the mud next to the incriminating scooter marks. I shrugged deeper into my black trench, raising the collar up to protect my neck from the chilled November wind.

  “Looking for something?” Chief Blaylock stopped beside me.

  “I wanted a good view of the crime scene,” I said. “I had to see for myself what it was that made you bring Grandma Ruth in for questioning.”

  “Those scooter marks are pretty damning.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Seriously?”

  “That and Ruth was the last person to see Lois alive.”

  “Neither one of those things points to murder.” I turned back to studying the ground at the bottom of the bushes. What was it that had caught my spotlight the night before?

  “Perhaps I should bring her in for breaking and entering,” he said.

  “She’s in her nineties!”

  “So we aren’t going to argue that she was the one who broke into the courthouse last night.”

  I didn’t answer him. I knew better. I was tired from only an hour’s sleep and spending all morning making pies for next week’s holiday weekend. “Don’t you have family things to do? Or a parade float to work on?”

  “We don’t have a float. We’re marching in dress blues. Less work that way,” he said. “Which, it turns out, is a good thing, especially when there’s a killer on the loose.”

  “How do you know Lois didn’t simply trip and fall?”

  “She had evidence in her hand.”

  That made me turn and look into his flat gaze. “Evidence? What evidence?”

  “That’s for me to know.” His eye twitched.

  “And me to find out, right?”

  He answered with a silently raised eyebrow. “Go back to your bakery, Toni. There’s nothing here for you to see. Don’t make me have to charge you with interfering with an investigation.”

  “Did Grandma Ruth tell you her theory?”

  “That Lois was killed to protect some sixty-year-old mystery? Yes. Do I believe her? No.”

  I crossed my arms. “Why not?”

  He lifted his hat, scratched his head, and plopped his hat back on his head. The action gave him enough time to think about his answer. “A good suspect has motive, means, and opportunity. What the hell was the motive? Lois was a talker. There wasn’t anything in her head that hadn’t already come out.”

  “Grandma thinks Lois knew where the bodies were buried.” I touched the Chief’s khaki jacket–covered arm. “Metaphorically, of course.”

  Chief Blaylock snorted in derision.

  “I know, it sounds crazy, but Grandma thinks she discovered a hiding place for the murder weapon that was used to kill—”

  “Champ Rogers? That’s a myth. Trust me, Chief McMillan searched his entire life for that thing. If there was a murder weapon to be found, that man would have found it.”

  “Did he read Homer Everett’s papers?”

  Chief Blaylock shoved his hands into his pockets. “I believe that he did. I know he spent hours at the historical society.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t looking in the right place.” I bounced on my toes as a chill wind blew up out of the north and rustled brown leaves across the sidewalk.

  “Like the courthouse?”

  I shrugged. “Grandma claims she found a hidden cache in the wall of the judge’s chambers.”

  “Oh . . . kay.” Chief rocked back on his heels.

  “What can it hurt to look? I mean, there was a reason for the renovation in the fifties that we can only speculate about, but it may have created a hidden compartment, right? Maybe that reason is holed up in the wall.”

  “I would need a warrant to bust a hole in the wall, and for that I need just cause. Does Ruth have just cause?”

  “Could you use a metal detector?” I asked. “Grandma claims she verified her find with a metal detector.”

  He shook his head. “A metal detector is useless with the amount of wiring in the wall.”

  “Well, what about—”

  “Those sonogram things cost hundreds of thousands of dollars and aren’t built for a vertical wall.”

  I grimaced. “I’d been hoping to not mention this, but what if there was a hole in the wall that needed to be patched? I mean, if there’s a hole, then there’s nothing to keep you from looking inside before they patch it, right?”

  “Now, I’m not sayin
g I would look in such a hole should there be one, but I’m pretty certain any evidence in the wall would be compromised by a hole. I mean, what would prevent someone from planting evidence in a hole and trying to convince me or one of my deputies that they found the evidence in the wall?”

  “What if there isn’t already a hole?”

  “You would need probable cause.”

  “What would you or a judge consider as probable cause? I mean to get a warrant to open up a wall?”

  “Now, if I were to tell you that and then such a cause should suddenly appear, it would be questioned.” His eyes narrowed. “And questionable evidence is evidence thrown out of court. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded and paused. “Can I offer you some coffee?” I tucked my arm through his and pointed him toward my bakery, two blocks down on Main Street.

  “Are you bribing me?”

  “Gosh, no.” I batted my lashes at him. “I’m giving you an excuse to ensure I stay out of your crime scene.”

  He sniffed.

  “And I’m hoping you’ll buy a dozen or so pastries. I know your wife’s a fan.”

  We walked along the sidewalk away from the courthouse and Homer Everett’s statue. Across the street from the square was a squat brick building with several law offices. Beside that on the corner was the men’s apparel shop. The shops were all open, and I waved at Todd Woles, manager of the men’s shop and one of my new friends in Oiltop. Todd waved back, then raised his eyebrow at the police chief walking beside me. I silently let him know I’d tell him later.

  “How come you’re out and about, anyway? Didn’t I hear you were swamped with dessert orders for next week?” he asked me as we crossed Main and passed the office supply shop, the quilt store, and the movie theater.

  “I was taking a few minutes to clear my head. Sometimes walking a bit outside helps clear the mind and bring on more creativity. Besides, we’re not horribly busy this time of day.”

  In the afternoon, Oiltop was a Western ghost town populated by the bronze sculptures that had been placed along Main to draw tourists. There was a bronze horse trough and tie post in front of my bakery. It had been the scene of an extremely unfortunate incident—a murder—earlier in the fall. Watching while the police fished a body out of the trough had been my worst memory to date.

  And now there had been another murder in Oiltop. I opened the front door to the bakery. Inside it was warm and smelled of chocolate, coconut, and piecrusts.

  “I’ve got fresh coffee in the pot.” I pulled off my gloves and poured two paper cups full of coffee. “You like yours black, right?”

  “Hmm, cream and two sugars,” he corrected me. Chief Blaylock was a believer in a man taking his hat off inside. It was a reflex, I supposed, that his police hat was now in his hands. I stirred the condiments in the coffee.

  “Why don’t you come on back?” I offered. “You can sit at the table in the kitchen and warm your hands.”

  “No, thanks. Just the coffee, then I best be going.” He took the cup from me. I’d finished it with a sipper top and a paper sleeve to insulate the heat from his hand. “I really wanted to ask you to keep an eye on your grandma. Murder isn’t anything to play at.” He eyed my face. “You should know that after last time.”

  “I’m as concerned as you are, Chief,” I reassured him. “But you know how stubborn Grandma is. She thinks she’s still an award-winning journalist on a story.”

  “Right.” He blew into his cup and took a sip. “Coffee’s good. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Seriously, keep Ruth off this case, and if you get any threats or any concrete evidence, I expect you to bring it to my attention. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Have a nice day.” He stepped to the door and paused long enough to put on his hat before he opened it. He stopped in the doorjamb. “Oh, and whatever you were looking for under the bushes is most likely gone. I had the crime scene guy comb over the area after the alarm was sounded. If there was anything there, they would have found it.”

  “Wait, how did you—Sam?”

  “He caught you looking under that bush. Just like I did. What are you looking for?” He tilted his head and studied me.

  “I saw something shiny.” I shrugged. “I was reaching for it and got caught—er—interrupted.

  “Greenbaum is a good guy. You’re lucky he’s looking out for you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I know.”

  “Have a good afternoon. Be safe.”

  “I will.” I watched as he swung through the door and stepped out. He walked across the street, patted the bronze cowboy in front of the pharmacy, and headed down the street.

  I dug my ringing cell phone out of my pocket. “This is Toni.”

  “Toni?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get home as soon as you can. Kip is missing.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “What happened?” My heart raced as I hurried into the house.

  Officer Bright stood in the foyer taking notes in his book. At six feet tall and two hundred or so pounds, he was one of the more substantial members of the Oiltop police force. There was something about him that reassured you things were going to be all right. He had his hat tucked neatly under his arm. His shoulder walkie squawked and he reached up and turned down the dispatcher.

  Grandma Ruth and Phyllis flanked Tasha. The older ladies wore sober expressions as Tasha sat in one of the two foyer chairs with dark cherry wood backs and pink-and-white striped cushions. Tears ran down Tasha’s cheeks as she twisted a damp handkerchief in her hands.

  “Oh, Toni, thank goodness you’re here.” Tasha jumped up and reached for me. I hugged her close and noted by the way she trembled that she was working very hard to keep herself together.

  “Tasha, what happened?” I asked.

  “We were at the park on Third Street. Kip likes to go for walks, so we walked down. He played on the playground equipment and I sat on that bench nearby.” She paused and took huge gulps of air.

  “Okay, so you were at the park. . . .”

  “I was texting.” She shuddered. “It’s not like Kip’s a toddler. He and I have gone to the park lots of times. He knows the rules. He would not wander off.”

  Tasha was right. Kip was a stickler for rules. It made it easy to watch him, in a way. He was more likely to catch you not following the rules then he was to disobey them himself.

  “Were there any other kids at the park?” Officer Bright asked, his tone reassuring.

  “No.” Tasha shook her head as I led her back to the chair. The girl needed to sit before she crumpled to the floor.

  “What is all the noise about?” Tim tumbled down the stairs wearing jeans and a black tee shirt, his hair standing on end.

  “Kip’s missing,” I said.

  “I’ve looked all over,” Tasha said. “Please, help.”

  “Well, crap,” Tim said and ran his hand through his hair, making it even wilder. He turned to Officer Bright. “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan is to get more details before we send out a search team. Proper action is better than simple action.”

  “Right.” Tim shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, his bare feet evidence that he had been sleeping. Since Tim worked nights, he often crashed at the house during the day.

  “Here, sip this.” Phyllis walked back into the foyer with a brandy snifter in her hand. There was an amber liquid in the bottom.

  “No.” Tasha held up her hand. “I want to stay sober.”

  “A sip will help with the shock,” Grandma said flatly and nodded as Phyllis offered it again.

  This time Tasha took it and took a small sip. You could tell she decided that she needed help calming down, because she took a second, longer drink.

  “You were in the park with Kip. Wha
t time was it?” Officer Bright pressed.

  “It was three P.M. I know because my phone recorded my last text.”

  “Who were you texting?”

  “My coworker Emily Porter. She was having an issue with a maid and asking for my advice.” Tasha’s blue eyes filled with tears and her nose turned red. Her mouth was a thin line, her distress clear in her features.

  “Would you say Kip’s father was in the area or not?”

  “No.” Tasha shook her head vehemently. “Definitely not.”

  Tim and Officer Bright exchanged glances.

  I patted Tasha’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Officer Bright has to ask the question, right?”

  “Right.” He gave a short nod. “Many of our cases of missing children can be traced to an estranged parent.”

  “Not this one,” Tasha said. Her blue eyes turned dark and glittered. “Andrew hasn’t been in the picture since Kip was diagnosed with Asperger’s five years ago.”

  “I see. Do you know if he lives in the area?”

  “No, last I heard he went out to Las Vegas.”

  “Have you had any recent tiffs with his family or friends?”

  “Whose? Andrew’s?” She let out an inelegant snort. “As far as they’re concerned, Kip is mine and mine alone. No one in their family has ever had Asperger’s, so he can’t be Andrew’s.”

  “Would there be any reason for them to take Kip from the park?”

  “No, no reason.” Tasha twirled the cup in her fingers. The remaining sip of brandy sloshed perilously close to the surface. Tasha wore a gray sweaterdress over black leggings. Ankle boots finished her chic outfit. Her fingernails were painted a soft shell-pink. Her fingers were bereft of rings.

  I was the ring person, not Tasha. She loved nail art and usually wore some outlandish pattern on her fingers. She once told me that after Andrew left, she vowed never to wear a ring again. It was then she learned how much she liked nail art. It was unusual for her nails to be bare of pattern.

  “Why are we sitting here? Shouldn’t we be out there looking for Kip? I feel like we’re wasting time. The sun is going down soon, and it will get cold fast.”