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

by Nancy J. Parra

  “What do I do if I want research materials?”

  She reached down and slid me a chunk of scratch paper and a tiny pencil. “Put your request in writing and I’ll get to it when I can.” With that she turned on her heel and walked into her tiny windowed office and slammed the door.

  I scowled, not at her ridiculous behavior so much as at myself for letting her draw me into it. When I came into the room I’d had the upper hand, but then I’d let my temper get in the way. Blowing out a long breath, I looked at the blank sheet of paper with words printed on the back. It was clear they were recycling by taking old printed pieces and cutting them up for scrap.

  I picked up the paper and the pencil and sat down at the small desk in the center of the room. The setup reminded me of the reference desk at the library. There were two desks sitting face-to-face where people could thumb through index cards with descriptions but no materials, and all the materials were kept behind the locked gate and in the hands of the watchful historian.

  Glancing up, I could see her watching me through the glass. I wondered if she thought I’d give up and walk out. She would be wrong. There was a computer screen in front of me and I wiggled the attached mouse to unlock it from its screensaver. It took a while for me to figure out the system. I was stubborn, and I’d be darned if I was going to let her get me to ask for help.

  Once I figured out that I had access to a listing of all the files in the public domain, I went back to the 1950s and skimmed for anything that might have Lois’s handwriting on it. Unfortunately, a lot of the information was scanned in and not all that legible. I stuck the pencil between my teeth and used both hands to type into the search box.

  First I tried looking for documents involving Homer Everett. There were too many to count. So I tried looking for documents that were assigned by Lois. That’s when I hit the mother lode. It seems that from 1955 until 1959, Lois signed most of the county’s documents. Wherever Homer was at that time, it wasn’t in the office.

  Curiously, it was Lois who signed for the courthouse remodel. Lois met with the architect on the wiring and wall placement. Why would Lois want to add a phony wall to the courthouse? What was her connection to the judge whose office was remodeled?

  I pulled up the document. Judge Elmer Radcliff had held those offices during the remodel. I scribbled down his name and those of the papers authorizing the work. Interestingly enough the contractor doing the plaster work was Lois’s brother, Edward Striker. There was a paper with both signatures on it. I wrote down the document number and went over to the partition and rang the bell.

  Sharon didn’t budge, so I rang it again and waved at her. She pretended not to notice. It was clear she did notice, as the corners of her mouth turned up in a sly smirk.

  Fine. I hopped over the three-foot partition and headed toward the files.

  She was out of her office faster than a bee on sugar water. “You can’t be back here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, was there a sign?”

  “A sign?”

  “You know, one that says I can’t be back here. Because I didn’t see it.”

  “Everyone knows you can’t be back here. Why, the lock on the gate should be the first clue.”

  “There’s a lock on the gate?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Huh, so there is. My bad. Since you’re here and all, would you mind getting me a photocopy of this document?”

  I showed her the number I’d scrawled on the paper.

  “In a minute,” she huffed. “I’m in the middle of something.” She turned on her heel and stormed back to her office.

  “No biggie,” I said to her retreating back. “I’ll help myself.” I turned to the wall of filing cabinets. “Now, if I were document 00-9876, where would I be? How about file cabinet 00-9700 through 00-9900?” I went over and pulled out the file drawer, only to have Sharon hightail it over and wham the door closed.

  “I said you can’t be back here, and if you can’t be back here, you certainly can’t be in the file drawers. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” I gave her a little salute. “Since you’re here and all, why don’t you make me a photocopy of file number 00-9876? . . . Or I can do it. . . .”

  “I’ll do it. It’s my job.” I saw her eyes flash a funny green color.

  “And so it is.” I stepped aside, waving toward the cabinet. “Please, feel free to do your job.”

  “Fine.” She opened the cabinet and thumbed through the files. She licked her finger and pulled out the file marked 00-9876. “What do you want a copy of the courthouse remodel project for? This was done in the 1950s. We weren’t even born yet.”

  “I’m making a chocolate model of the courthouse for a customer,” I lied through my teeth, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I’d gotten to be quite the liar and thief in the last few days. I promised myself I’d turn over a new leaf as soon as I left the courthouse.

  “Oh, really? Interesting. Are you going to display it in the window of your bakery? It would be a nice draw . . . maybe for Homer Everett day. You could even do a chocolate copy of the statue.” She made a photocopy of the document and handed it to me. “Oh, I’ll get you a copy of the specs for the statue. It will help with your recreation.”

  She scurried off, looking so pleased with herself. I felt terribly guilty. I could feel my mother looking down on me with a deep frown.

  “Here you go,” Sharon said, any mean thoughts she might have had about me lost in her excitement over a chocolate display. “I love those cooking shows. Especially the ones where the cookie bakers recreate scenes from their hometowns. This is going to be an awesome window display. I can’t wait to see it. Why, I’ll call Helen right now and tell her.” She touched my forearm. “You have no idea how tickled she’ll be. I’m sure half the parade will want to check out the replica.”

  She bustled off to her office and I slunk back across the tiny gated area and out the door. I studied the paper she had given me with Homer’s dimensions. A small shudder went through me. I’d better get back and get started on that replica. Knowing Sharon and Helen, everyone in town would be by to see it. And no one would forgive me if it wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER 19

  “That’s it. Lois’s signature on this old document looks a lot like the handwriting in Homer’s journals,” Grandma said with glee. She sat in my office. The journal photocopies were spread out across my desk, where she was comparing Lois’s signature from the original property map to the handwriting in the journals with her giant magnifying glass.

  “I knew that handwriting analysis class would come in handy someday,” Phyllis said. She stood behind Grandma and looked over her shoulder.

  I would have done the same thing, but there wasn’t enough room in the closet office. “You know,” I said, “it’s too bad Lois didn’t keep her own journal. I would have loved to read it and see if she did have a child and then give it up to Homer for adoption.”

  “That is a brilliant idea!” Phyllis’s eyes lit up.

  “What is?” I could feel my eyes grow wide as I thought over the words I’d just uttered.

  “Going over to Lois’s house to find her journals.” Grandma slapped her hand on the desktop. “I knew you were a genius. You had to be—you’re my granddaughter.”

  “Wait!” I held out my hand like a stop sign. “Isn’t Lois’s house off-limits?”

  “I don’t see why.” Grandma hauled her girth up out of my chair. She wore a pink skirt with bedazzled butterflies on it, athletic socks, and blue athletic shoes. Her tee shirt was white with a giant silver glitter butterfly across the chest. “Lois wasn’t murdered there. If anything, the police checked it and then let her family know they could go in to clean out her things.”

  “Which reminds me,” I piped up. “What did the police say when you showed them the pictures?”

  Grandma shrugged. “They thanked m
e and moved on. They’re not likely to use them. It’s not like they are official photographs.”

  “They just thanked you and let you leave?”

  “Well, we did get a lecture from the chief about tampering with a crime scene,” Aunt Phyllis said.

  “You should have gotten more than a lecture,” I groused. “I have a feeling I will.”

  “Why?” Grandma asked. “You’re not the boss of us.”

  “Fine.” No sense in arguing with Grandma. “When is the funeral? Did you at least send flowers?”

  “No one needs flowers when they’re dead,” Grandma said as she held her back in an attempt to try to stand straight. She made a loud grumbling noise and gave up, grabbing her walker and leaning into it. “You should give a person flowers while they’re still alive to enjoy them.”

  “It’s true,” Aunt Phyllis said. “It’s why I sent your grandma flowers when I heard of Lois’s passing. It’s kind of a thing with me now. I hear of someone dying and I send flowers to someone I know who’s still alive. I don’t know whose idea it was to send flowers to a funeral. Seriously, have you ever noticed how alike funerals and weddings are? There are flowers, seats up front for the family, someone cries, and afterward we all eat cake.”

  I tried to follow her train of thought, but then gave up. I stepped out of Grandma’s way before I got run over. Grandma was as wicked with her walker as she was with her scooter. “Where are you going?”

  “To Lois’s house to find her journals,” Grandma said as she rolled her walker toward the door.

  “How are you going to get there? The police have your scooter and Aunt Phyllis’s van.” I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to gauge which door she was headed toward so I could cut her off at the pass.

  “We can walk.” Aunt Phyllis put a dark green beret on top of her golden bob. It sat jauntily to the side. If it were on my head it would have slid off after five seconds.

  “I’m calling Bill; he’ll pick us up.”

  “It’s six o’clock in the evening,” I pointed out, waving my hand toward the clock. “And completely dark out.”

  “And we’ll be out of your hair.” Grandma beamed at me. “Unless you want us to wait until nine P.M. when you close so you can go with us.”

  “I’m not breaking into another building in the dead of night,” I stated firmly. “And neither are you.”

  “Is that your door bell?” Grandma asked and moved out to look through the door toward the counter. “You have a customer.”

  “How convenient for you.” I squeezed between her and the counter to get out of my office. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

  “Hi, Jack.” Grandma waved. “You’re here late.”

  “Hey, Ruth. I’m picking up some dessert.” Jack peered around me and waved at Grandma. Jack Rickman was one of my faithful customers. He stopped by rain or shine every morning to purchase two danishes and two coffees so he could have breakfast with Sarah Hogginboom, the Oiltop police dispatcher. He was fast becoming a friend and had been asking me what I thought Sarah would want for a proposal.

  It was dark outside. The end of November brought shorter days. “Hi, Jack,” I said. “What can I get you?”

  He looked over the dwindling selection in the cabinet. “Anything except pie,” he said. “Sarah’s working the late shift tonight to make up for the holiday. I thought I’d take her something nice for her break.”

  “Aren’t you the sweetest,” I said. “How about chocolate-dipped cream puffs? They’re filled with vanilla bean cream.”

  “Perfect,” he said as I boxed two up in tiny individual boxes and tied them with string. There was something nice about a pink-and-white bakery box wrapped in string.

  “How are the proposal ideas coming?” I asked as I rang up his order.

  “I’ve got a date set. I told Sarah it was a charity event to raise money for the animal shelter.”

  “Oh, what are you going to do if anyone else wants to know more about it?” I frowned, worried that his plan would be discovered.

  “I have her family in on my plan,” he said. “It took a while. First I had to ask her father for her hand. Then her mother helped me come up with the idea. They’re going to hide while I ask and then surprise her with a big party. We want you to cater, of course.”

  “Wonderful.” I gave him his change. “When is the date of this elaborate affair?”

  “December fifteenth,” he said. “Sara’s mom is supposed to e-mail you all the details.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” I waved him good-bye and hurried back to the silent kitchen. “Grandma?”

  How come those two old women could move so fast and so quiet when they were doing something they shouldn’t? I rushed through the kitchen to the back door, but the back parking lot was empty. “Great.”

  I decided then and there that if they got arrested again I was not going to rush to their defense. Mystery aside, I needed my sleep.

  • • •

  Six thirty A.M. until nine A.M. was the busiest time of the morning for the bakery. Saturday was no different. I’d had a rocky night of sleep wondering about Grandma and Aunt Phyllis. I kept checking my phone, but neither had called, and this morning neither had barged in for coffee. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  I tried not to dwell on it as I poured coffee and boxed pastries. Meghan came in at seven to help out. Today she wore a flirty pink tulle skirt with a black top. Her regular black combat boots and torn tights had grown on me until I thought they looked cute on her when she had on the shop’s pink-and-white striped apron.

  Today her usual fifties-style makeup was a bit darker. Her brown gaze was a bit pensive and thoughtful.

  “What is going on in your head?” I asked. “You haven’t heard anything about Grandma Ruth being arrested, have you?”

  “What? No.”

  When she didn’t take the hint and bare her soul, I pushed. “You aren’t leaving me, are you?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, no,” Meghan said, then went over to the coffee carafes and lifted them to check how full they were. “I’m good.” She left one and brought another back to refill from the perked coffee in the back.

  “Are you sure?” I wiped down the countertops and did a quick check of the customers still in the bakery. “Let’s go in the back.” I pushed her inside the kitchen and stood near the door. “You look odd—are you okay?”

  “I was wondering. . . .” Her fingers had black nail polish with pink tips. She played with the coffee carafe while I waited. Part of being a good boss was listening. “I was thinking about what Uncle Sam said yesterday about going to CI. . . .”

  My heartbeat picked up a bit. “Are you wanting to start sooner than next year? Because I understand if that’s what you want.” Meghan was a dream come true for an employer, but she was also very good at what she did. Standing in the way of a young girl’s dream was not on my to-do list. If that meant that Meghan would leave me sooner, then that’s what it meant. No harm, no foul. Baker’s Treat was my dream, not hers.

  “No.” She looked up at me through mascaraed lashes. “Sort of. I mean, CI is in like Chicago and that’s a long way from Oiltop and Baker’s Treat.”

  “But it’s your dream, right? I mean, if you’re getting nervous, don’t. You’ll meet a lot of great people there, and Chicago is a city with so much life and so much for a person your age to do—”

  She made a face. “I was wondering, and it’s not because I’m scared of leaving or anything like that, but I think I want to start school part-time next semester. Haysville has a decent program in creative food arts. I could get my associate’s while I work here, if that’s okay with you, I mean. I think that having a few years of experience here plus an associate’s degree would give me a better foundation for CI . . . and I could start in January, you know?�
� She looked at me, so uncertain and yet filled with hope. “I guess I want to feel like I’m getting somewhere instead of all the waiting.”

  “I didn’t know Haysville had a cooking arts associate’s. It sounds like a good deal if that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah, they won the state battle of the chef’s contest last year.” Her eyes lit up. “It’s, like, a really good program and I feel like I’d do better in Chicago if I could, like, work while I went to CI. An AA would mean I could be hired as a sous chef and keep developing my skills. You know?”

  “Yes, I know. It sounds great. Why were you afraid to tell me about it?” I played with the damp rag in my hands.

  “I was afraid you’d be disappointed in me or something. When I told my mom, she said that if I settled for Haysville, I’d never go to CI. But, like, I know I’m going to go.”

  “Of course you’re going to go.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Your mom was probably thinking about the experiences she had in her life. Perhaps she wanted to go to someplace like Chicago, but then got sidetracked. Maybe she wasn’t saying you couldn’t follow your dream; maybe she was simply worried that you would repeat what happened to her.”

  “I’m not my mom.”

  “I know you’re not, honey, and she knows it. What you’re thinking is smart. It will be a few years before you can declare yourself independent and get more financial aid. Going to Haysville while you work here will help you get a two-year degree and years of experience. As far as I can tell it’s win-win.”

  Her face lit up and her energy picked up. “That’s what I thought. I’m so glad you agree. So, it’s okay with you if I keep my job for a few years?”

  “Okay with me? I’d be blessed.” I hugged her. “Remember, if you change your mind at any time, let me know. Don’t ever feel trapped because of me or Baker’s Treat. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good. Now, let’s pack up more of these pies.”