“Oh, come on, when are you going to forgive me for last month?” she asked and put on her best sad puppy dog look. I wasn’t buying it.
“I forgave you last month.”
“Oh.” She straightened. “Then why the disconnect?” She pointed her fingers back and forth between herself and me.
“I didn’t say I’d forgotten that you all but hung me out to dry in your exposé.”
“Come on now, it was business, not personal.”
“That’s the trouble, Candy,” I said. “I can’t tell with you when business stops and personal begins and vice versa.”
“I’m no different than your grandmother Ruth.” She sipped her tea. “We are very much alike, she and I. I’m sure she had a very good reason for murdering Lois.”
“Now, there, see, that was ridiculous. You just took a personal conversation and twisted it to see if I would reveal something about my grandma.”
“Oh, come on.” She flung her arms wide. “I’m a reporter.”
“I suppose that means you have to try.”
“Yes,” she said most sincerely, “I have to try.”
“Look, Grandma Ruth didn’t kill Lois. She wasn’t even there until later.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“I’m certain,” I said and crossed my heart. “You need to go looking for new leads . . . ones not found in my bakery.”
Candy pouted prettily. “I don’t have any other leads.”
“Then why not write a story on the parade floats?”
“Can’t,” she said and finished her tea. “Rocky Rhode has that covered. He’s doing a photo story. He met with Hutch Everett last night to get some candid shots around the floats. Rocky was in the office when I left this morning. I swear it isn’t right when a silly parade makes the front page, especially with a murder in town.”
I leaned on the counter, dishrag in hand. “I hate to break it to you, Candy, but no one reads newspapers anymore. They’re slower than the Internet, and people don’t want to wait. Even blogs have been abandoned for short things like Tumblr and Twitter.”
“How do you know so much about the Internet?” she asked. “I thought you spent every waking hour in your bakery.”
“I do. Grandma Ruth keeps me up to date. It’s amazing what the senior set is up to these days.”
She opened her mouth and I raised my hand in a “stop” sign. “Don’t say murder.”
“I won’t say it,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t suspect it.”
• • •
Early the next morning, I sat in my office and studied the computer screen. The bakery office used to be a utility closet. It still held the faint scent of pine cleaner and damp mop. I had all the lights on in the back of the bakery. In the background, The Wizard of Oz played on my small television. The movie was a Thanksgiving classic. I’d learned long ago to stop questioning why they showed it on this particular holiday and simply enjoyed the familiar sound of Judy Garland trying to figure out how to go home.
“Stay in Oz!” I advised the television. No one listened. Couldn’t they see the appeal of colorful munchkins and glittery ball gown–wearing witches? Seriously, why would you leave all that to come back to Kansas?
I sat down at my tiny desk, which held my computer monitor, keyboard, and stacks of receipts . The computer tower sat on the floor. A small printer perched on the thick window casing above my desk. Why the builder had thought to put a window, even a window as small as this one, in a closet had always perplexed me. But for now the sill made a nice place to put my printer.
I entered a handful of receipts into my accounting software before checking on the list of supplies and orders for the week. The sharp scent of dark roasted coffee mixed with pine. Besides the holiday dessert orders, I still had the daily pastries, cookies, cupcakes, breads, and other goods that were sold in the shop itself. Not to mention the sub rolls that I had convinced the deli owner to purchase. His gluten-free customers increased his profits by ten percent that first month. He repaid me by ordering more rolls, along with the occasional dessert.
When it came to the holiday season, I’d planned a careful, yet diverse, menu for the bakery. People needed to be able to run in and order take-home boxes to please last-minute guests. So I concentrated on donuts, muffins, and pastries in the morning. Yeast breads, quick breads, and desserts came out in the afternoon. Then there was the notice that had gone up last week letting people know that limited varieties would be offered between Thanksgiving and New Year’s to accommodate all the holidays. And, hopefully, start traditions that included my gluten-free bakery.
A pounding at the back door startled me, sending a pile of receipts flying. “Darn it.” I jumped up and grabbed the baseball bat I kept in the corner of my office. After last month’s vandalisms and attacks, I’d thought it wise to have something on hand that I’d actually think to use.
My brother Rich had painted KILLER on the handle of the bat in red, while Tim had painted a bull’s-eye around the new peephole in the back door, along with the words LOOK HERE FIRST!
Whoever was out there pounded again. I bit my lower lip to keep from yelping at the startling sound.
“I know you’re in there!”
The voice was definitely female. I looked through the peephole to see Aunt Phyllis glaring back at me.
“Toni, open the door!”
I unlocked the two deadbolts and opened the door. “Aunt Phyllis, what time is it?”
“It’s four A.M.,” she said as she strode in and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “It’s also cold outside. The cops took my van and the tent is freezing this time of year.”
“The tent? What tent?” I closed and double-locked the door.
“My tent, of course. Where else was I going to sleep with the van in lockup?”
“Good Lord, Aunt Phyllis, I have four empty bedrooms, plus the apartment over the carriage house. There is no need for anyone I know to ever sleep in a tent, let alone in a tent in the winter.” I ran my hands up and down the length of the bat and wondered if I needed to knock some sense into her.
She grabbed a white mug from the mug tree next to the coffeepot, poured thick black coffee into it, and added creamer and sugar. Her blue eyes sparkled as she blew on the steaming liquid. “How could I sleep in a comfy bedroom knowing Ruth was spending the night on a cot in a chilly jail cell?”
“Aunt Phyllis . . . you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. When they told me I was free to go but Ruth was going to remain in jail overnight, I pitched my tent on the front lawn of the police station.”
“Aunt Phyllis!”
“I also informed that Sergeant What’s-his-face that I was a taxpayer and the police station is funded by taxpayer dollars, therefore I own the land it’s sitting on and pitching my tent is not trespassing.”
“Sergeant What’s-his-face?” I collapsed on the stool next to the counter.
“You know . . . the one who looks like Barney Fife.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh. The man is a nincompoop.”
Officer Joe Emry was one of five police officers who worked the city of Oiltop beat. He was a thin, nervous sort and reminded me of the character from the old Andy Griffith television show that I watched on the classic TV channel.
It didn’t help that Officer Emry was not my favorite member of the Oiltop police force. But I wasn’t going to tell Aunt Phyllis that. She got to leave Oiltop when this was over. I, on the other hand, was trying to fit in here.
“Aunt Phyllis, you can’t camp out outside the police station.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you had bailed your grandmother out like I expected.”
I winced at the accusing look in her eyes. “Hey, I warned y
ou both to lay low. I told you that they had witnesses who could identify your van as driving from the scene last night.”
“Technically it was the night before last.” Phyllis sipped her coffee and climbed up on the other stool in the work area.
“Not to mention that you both snuck out on me while I was busy helping Tasha figure out where Kip was.”
“The boy was home safe and sound. We made sure before we left.” She wrapped her small, thin hands around the mug.
“How would I know? You didn’t tell me you were leaving or where you were going.” It was my turn to practice my accusing glare.
She shrugged and grabbed a donut off the cooling rack. She bit off a hunk of cinnamon apple and chewed thoughtfully before she washed it down with more coffee. “We didn’t tell you because you were busy.”
“Not that busy.”
“You would have kept us from going.”
I wanted to say, Duh, but I refrained. She knew it as much as I did. Maybe when Grandma finally got home I’d sing the “I Was Right” song.
“I know, I know,” she said without my having to answer. Phyllis took another sip of coffee and settled into her suede jacket. The fringe swayed with her movement as she nibbled on the donut. “Ruth thought she remembered another question from her investigation and thought Homer Everett’s papers might hold the answer.” She sipped again. “If it helps any, we were simply going to go and dig through the collection one time.”
“The courthouse is closed after five P.M. on weekdays.” I hated to point out the obvious, but someone had to do it. Besides, she needed to know I was smart enough to shoot holes in whatever tall tale she and Grandma had come up with on their way to being arrested.
She waved my objection off like a silly gnat. “We made a key impression the other night. The key we had cut should have worked.”
“Aunt Phyllis!”
“How were we to know they had rekeyed the thing? I mean, the government is supposed to be slow. We broke in over the weekend and by Monday evening they had it rekeyed? First of all, how did they know we made a key? Second, where’d they find anyone to fix it anyway?”
I got up and put the bat back in its corner behind the office door. “I’m sure with it being the county courthouse and next to a crime scene, they called someone to rekey the entire building.”
She followed me into my office when I sat down in my chair and wiggled my computer mouse to bring up what I was working on earlier.
“Speaking of new locks, did you know that they don’t have to cut a new key when they replace a lock? All they did was put a new center in the lock and then used a master key to rotate the pins to match.”
“Oh, no . . .”
“Yes.” Phyllis grinned and held up a key. “I have a friend on the inside with a master key. Of course, if that doesn’t work then there’s always my ability to pick a lock.”
“No!”
“‘No’ as in ‘Yes, let’s go make copies of all the files’?”
I put my elbow on the table and dropped my forehead in my hand. “No. ‘No’ as in ‘No, I’m not going anywhere near the courthouse at this hour of the night..’”
“Technically, 4:30 A.M is morning.”
I shot her a dirty look.
“No problem.” She raised her hands in surrender, went out and came back into my office pulling one of the stools. “I can wait.”
I turned back to my paperwork. “You’ll be waiting a long time.”
“Will I? Ruth will be out by three P.M.”
I sat back in my seat.
Phyllis had both eyebrows raised and her arms crossed over her chest.
“Really?” I said. “You’re going to blackmail me now?”
“Oh, it’s not blackmail when it’s the truth.”
CHAPTER 13
“Brad is going to be so mad when he has to bail me out of jail,” I muttered. “We could have waited until the courthouse opens at nine A.M.”
“Shush and hold the light up a little higher.” Phyllis had a hairpin and a lock pick in her hands and was doing an impressive job of unlocking doors in the courthouse. There was a double click sound and the door opened.
“How did you learn to do that?” I asked as we stepped into the darkened records room. A chilled breeze snaked around my legs. I refused to think of all the ghosts that ran the halls of this old building. Even worse was the thought that Lois might be one of them. “Why not use the copy of the key you made?”
“I dated an escape artist in my twenties.” Phyllis grabbed a flashlight from me and walked by the shadowed research table, around the librarian’s desk and straight back to the glass-covered shelves in the back. “I like to keep up on the skill. If you don’t use it, you lose it.”
“You dated an escape artist?” I shook my head. “Is there such a thing? I mean, didn’t Houdini die in the nineteen thirties or something?”
“Houdini died in 1926 and that’s beside the point. Ferdinand worked the carnival circuit.” Phyllis counted three shelves over and found the display with Homer Everett’s pro uniform and Purple Heart medal. “He was quite handsome. I remember paying a quarter to see his act and falling in love on the spot.”
“You fell in love with a carny?”
“It was one of the best summers of my life. We traveled with a little circus to all the county fairs and church festivals from Illinois to California.”
“What year was that?”
“The year before I met your grandma.” She deftly unlocked the case and stuck her flashlight under her chin so she had both hands free. “I was . . .”
“Sixteen,” we both said at the same time.
“You ran away and joined the circus when you were sixteen?” I asked.
“Of course not.” She pushed aside the presentation boxes and yanked out the archive boxes at the back of the shelf. “I had an affair with an escape artist when I was sixteen. Just because he was with the circus doesn’t mean I was. The fact that I wasn’t a true carny was a bone of contention that finally split us apart. The circus stopped in Oiltop. When it left, Ferdinand went with it and I stayed here.”
“The traveling circus must have been pretty bad for you to ask to be left in Oiltop.” I took the box she handed me. It was heavier than I imagined.
She took hold of her flashlight and replaced the presentations. When she was done I doubted anyone would know the things had been moved. Locking the glass case behind her, she waved me forward. I took the box and placed it on the research table.
“Not here,” she said and grabbed the box off the table. “This is coming home with us.”
“Oh, no.” I stood firm. “It is one thing to break and enter, and another thing completely to be a thief. I draw the line when it comes to taking something.”
“We’re not taking it,” she said and scooted out the door. “We’re borrowing it. I promise to bring it right back.”
I hurried after her. The door slammed shut with a dreadful echo. I froze at the sound, but Phyllis kept going. She might be small and as old as my mother, but that woman could book it when she wanted to.
I heard a soft voice whisper, “Don’t stand there. Run!”
So I did. The chilled breeze wrapped itself around my shoulders as I pounded down the stairs and out the side door. I learned a few things on this adventure. One: Aunt Phyllis had an affair with a carny when she was only sixteen. Two: the courthouse is definitely haunted. And three: borrowing was not stealing if you intended to give it right back.
• • •
“You stole a box from the courthouse archives and brought it back here? Way to be a rebel.” Meghan raised her thumb in a sign of approval. Her fauxhawk had pink tips today. She still had on torn fishnet stockings and combat boots with heavy heels. This time she also wore a pencil skirt, a blue-and-white striped boatneck tee, and a leather jacket w
ith metal spikes. Her lips were painted with a blue tint and the corner of her right eye was decorated with thin, black, stylish whirls and loops.
“It’s not stealing. It’s borrowing,” I said as I packed pies in a large box for her to put in the delivery van. “Besides, I couldn’t take it home. Not with Tasha and Kip staying with me. I wouldn’t put them in that kind of danger.”
“Oh, so there’s danger attached to that box? Cool, what’s in it?” She took the pies from me. Her hands were covered in black gloves with the fingers cut out to display navy blue painted fingernails with white swirls drawn on them.
“I’m not sure. Phyllis left to go see to Grandma Ruth as soon as we got back.” I put three apple pies and two mincemeat pies in a second box. Each big box was marked with an invoice number and a copy of the order. I then numbered each pie according to its invoice order. It was the only way I could keep things clear and simple when I had two hundred orders a day going out for the next week.
“You went through all that, broke the law, and still haven’t even looked in the box yet? You stink at being a bad guy.”
“I have a business to run.” I couldn’t tell if that sounded whiney or full of disdain.
“Face it—you can’t stand to break the law, can you?”
I straightened and put my hands on my apron-covered hips. “I’ve been known to bend the rules in my day.”
“Really? And here I thought you were a good girl,” a male voice said behind me.
I gave a little startled sound and whirled to see Sam Greenbaum standing in the kitchen door. “Sam! You scared me.” My heart pounded in my ears. Why did I feel so guilty? Had I admitted to a crime within earshot of him? “What did you hear?”
He lifted one corner of his lovely mouth and gave me a sideways smile. “Enough to know that dating you will be an interesting adventure.”
“She’s not dating anyone, Uncle Sam.” Meghan took the box and went out the back door.
“Yet,” he answered and came over to buzz a kiss on my cheek. “Hey, lovely lady, I’m here for my mom’s pie order.”
Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) Page 11
