Killer Shortbread

by Tom Soule

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  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 by Tom Soule & Ricardo Taylor - All rights reserved.

  All rights Reserved. No part of this publication or the information in it may be quoted from or reproduced in any form by means such as printing, scanning, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Disclaimer and Terms of Use: Effort has been made to ensure that the information in this book is accurate and complete, however, the author and the publisher do not warrant the accuracy of the information, text and graphics contained within the book due to the rapidly changing nature of science, research, known and unknown facts and internet. The Author and the publisher do not hold any responsibility for errors, omissions or contrary interpretation of the subject matter herein. This book is presented solely for motivational and informational purposes only.

  Table of Content

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  Table of Content

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  A quick note from the author

  Chapter One

  It was as if time had stopped. There wasn’t any wind going through the trees; the crowd behind the caution tape was paused with their jaws hanging open. The police moved around me as if in slow motion, their voices far away and muffled and their sirens unable to pierce the fog. I was briefly aware of someone trying to get my attention, but I couldn’t break out of the growing mantra in my head that had closed in on me. I couldn’t get the world moving again. I tried to breathe, only to find that the air was far too thick, and I collapsed onto the floor, heaving. Panic flashed across my vision in reds and blues and blacks, and I rolled into the fetal position, clutching my head in hands that felt far too fragile. And all the while, the mantra grew, until it was the only thing I could hear or feel or see. My entire world became five, pulsing words: My little boy is gone my little boy is gone my little boy is gone my little boy is gone…

  “Maisie? Maisie, breathe, okay?”

  I squirmed away from the hands that had grabbed hold of my arms, my breathing escalating.

  “Listen to me, honey. You have to breathe. Can you do that for me?”

  I nodded, my eyes squeezed shut, and my entire body shuddered as I took in a shaky breath. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…

  Slowly, I opened my eyes, and my best friend, Charlotte, smiled down at me. She stroked my head as the mantra began to slow down, and I eventually uncurled myself and sat up. I could feel tears gathering at the edges of my eyes, and I looked at Charlotte desperately.

  “He’s gone, Charlie,” I whispered, covering my mouth with my hand. “Someone took him. I was gone only ten minutes. Who would take him?”

  “Shhh, sweetie…” I sank into her arms, and she wiped the tears off my cheeks. “We’re going to find Derek, but crying over it isn’t going to help, okay? The police already have an Amber alert out for him. Whoever took him can’t have gone far.”

  I nodded and pulled myself up, wiping away my tears and snot with the back of my hand. She was right. I wasn’t helping anyone by lying here, least of all Derek.

  Wobbling a bit, I stood up and looked around. There were police cars all over the street in front of my little bakery, and a crowd had already started to gather behind the caution tape. A sudden flash of anger whipped through me, and I clenched my fists to stop the tears. Little kids stood on their fathers' shoulders as if this were an attraction. As if my little Derek’s kidnapping were a great movie. They looked like they were going to break out the popcorn.

  I stepped forward, fully intent on screaming at them for their complete lack of sympathy, for their ungraciousness, when a police officer stepped in front of me so I couldn’t go any further. I scowled, and he smiled apologetically.

  “I know how awful they’re being. But they’re just curious. They don’t mean any harm.” He took me by the arm and gently led me away and into my shop.

  “Damn right, they’re being awful,” I muttered, but I let him bring me next to the big bay window on the left-hand side.

  He pulled out a chair for me and I slowly lowered myself into it, looking around as if I didn’t even recognize the place. And I almost didn’t. I mean, I knew the wooden tables and chairs with the plaid tablecloths, I knew the display cases with all my breads and cakes and pastries, I knew the deep brown cupboards and the pictures of cupcakes that Charlotte had helped me paint on them, but it all looked wrong. Emptier, somehow. Physically nothing had changed, but it felt so different.

  “Maisie?”

  I snapped back to reality, and the detective look at me expectantly. Turning red, I looked down at my fingers and began to pick at my nails.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Your name is Maisie Jones?” he repeated patiently.

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty eight years old, divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a three-year-old son?”

  “Obviously,” I snapped impatiently. “Look, I don’t matter. None of this matters! What matters is that you find Derek; this is a waste of time!”

  He stared at me with sympathetic brown eyes, waiting until I calmed down a bit, and then he put his hand on top of mine.

  “I understand your worry, Ms. Jones, but this is important. We have officers searching the area as we speak, but right now we need to know anything you can tell us.”

  I pursed my lips, but didn’t say anything. He ran his hand through his thick, blond hair.

  “My name is Detective Benjamin Jordan,” he said finally, resting both hands on the table. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to tell me anything you can think of, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “This is your bakery?”

  “Yes, it’s called ‘Sugar Sweet.’”

  “Do you own it with anyone else?”

  “No, it’s just mine.”

  “Why did you leave today?”

  I looked up at the ceiling, trying to suppress the tears, trying to remember what had seemed important enough that I would leave my baby in the care of an employee.

  “We were out of sugar and it was a busy day. I- I just ran out to the supermarket down the block. Jenna was here; I didn’t think anything would happen. I would never have left if I thought anything-”

  “I know, Ms. Jones. No one thinks you’re a bad mother,” Detective Jordan assured me.

  I do, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.

  “You said you went out to buy sugar, but you had no sugar on you when you came back,” he continued, raising an eyebrow.

  “Jenna called me right after she called the police; I just ran here.”

  “You walked around for ten minutes and didn’t find the sugar?”

  “No, I- what are you saying?” I stammered, looking at him incredulously.

  “I’m saying that you’re the only one who was anywhere near the bakery at that time who doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “I told you, I was at the groc-”

  “We’ve talked to the clerk there, Maisie. He didn’t see you.”


  “Well, of course not, I never made it to the checkout!” I nearly screamed, rising out of my chair.

  He couldn’t think that I could have done anything, could he? Why would I hurt my little boy? He’s been my entire world since my husband left me. He’s everything I have. I sank bank into my chair, groaning. My entire world had flipped upside down over a bag of sugar, of all things.

  “Look, we know you’re going through a lot, and everyone says you would never hurt your child,” he said gently, “but I’m afraid we can’t rule you out. I’m so sorry. We’re going to do our best to find your son.”

  He stood up, reached into his jacket and put a card on the table.

  “Call me if you think of anything that might help, okay?”

  I nodded numbly and didn’t look around even after I heard the door close behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Two days, six hours, and 23 minutes. That’s how long my baby boy had been missing.

  I was curled up on the couch, staring at the recipe books on my shelf. Derek had helped me decorate them; they were covered in glitter and stickers of “Bob the Builder” and “Barney.” My bottom lip trembled, and I breathed in slowly. Better not to think of it. He’s going to come back to me. He has to.

  The phone rang and I lifted myself up and just stared at it. I didn’t want to answer it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Besides, it was probably the police, checking to make sure I hadn’t skipped town. As if blaming me for my son’s disappearance and forcing me to close my bakery weren’t enough, they were following me everywhere. There was a police car camped outside of my house 24/7 for my “safety,” but I knew the truth. And it hurt like hell.

  Sighing, I picked it up, expecting to hear Detective Jordan’s gruff voice on the other send. You can imagine my relief when it was Charlotte who spoke.

  “Hi, darling, how are you holding up?” Her voice practically dripped with sympathy.

  “I’m okay,” I lied, looking down at my carpet.

  There was no use lying to her, though. Charlotte and I had been best friends since we were six years old, and if no one else could tell when I was in a dark place, she could. It had been her idea to start “Sugar Sweet” in order to get through my divorce, and, though I would never admit it, I knew that that and Derek were the only reasons I got through that time.

  “Of course you’re not, sweetie. I’d be more worried if you were. Tell you what, why don’t you come out with me and Ella now? We’re just going to a bar, no dancing or anything. What do you think…”

  “I don’t know…” I mumbled, but I already knew it was a lost cause.

  There was no saying “no” to Charlotte.

  “I’ll pick you up at in twenty minutes, okay? It’ll help you get your mind off of everything.”

  “I don’t want to get my mind off of Derek. I want to be out there looking.” My teeth were clenched, and frustrated tears threatened to start a waterfall on my cheeks.

  “But look where, Maisie?” Charlotte sighed. “Darling, I’m so sorry, I know this is awful, but there’s nothing you can do. Leave that to the police, love. They’re going to find him. And while they do that, you’re going to come with us and order the strongest drink they have.”

  I have to admit I wasn’t completely against that idea.

  The bar was called “Geyser,” and even just walking in there was a little depressing. It was full of people just under middle age, drinking to their regrets before they even reached their midlife crisis. What made it even more depressing was the realization that I was one of them. Charlotte and Ella, both only a year older than me, hadn’t seem to come to that realization yet.

  Ella dragged me the bar and grudgingly, I draped my jacket over the back of a stool and slid onto it. My friends appeared on either side of me, and the barkeeper walked over, polishing a glass.

  “What can I get you ladies?” He smiled at me and I couldn’t help but blush.

  “I think I’ll have a shot of absinthe, please.” I smiled back shyly, ignoring Charlotte giggling behind me.

  The bartender winked at me and then turned around. I won’t pretend that I didn’t gaze at him as he was getting my drink. Tightly muscled with sky-high cheekbones and a collection of freckles - it would have been strange if I hadn’t looked. He turned around and slid my drink over to me, and I smiled thankfully, pretending I hadn’t noticed the exact way that his red hair shadowed playful green eyes.

  Charlotte ordered a martini and Ella asked for a glass of red wine, and they both turned toward me, waiting for me to drink. I looked at the glass, wondered how something so translucent and small could make you so drunk, and I felt a little guilty. When you get near your thirties, you drink only for two reasons: socially, or to forget. And even though my friends were with me, we all knew it was the latter. I quietly asked Derek to forgive me, and downed the shot.

  Charlotte and Ella cheered.

  I couldn’t think straight at all. Everything was so heavy, my limbs, the world… The ground was weighing me down; why was the ground weighing me down?

  If I squinted, I could see Ella and Charlotte giggling and falling on top of each other. I could see Mr. Bartender discreetly slipping their keys out of their bags, and suddenly I was angry. How dare he? How dare he take something that didn’t belong to him?

  I tried to get to my feet, but the ground pulled me to the floor, so I grabbed the countertop and dragged myself back up. Staggering and gasping with the effort, I slowly walked to where they were. The bartender looked at me with surprise as he put my friends’ keys on a rack in the back, and I climbed onto a stool.

  “Ellaaa,” I slurred, “Charlieee he-he’s taking them. He’s taking them.”

  I nudged them both with my foot but they just looked at me, giggled, and then Ella fell on top of me.

  I struggled to maintain my seat while turning to face the bartender, who looked slightly alarmed at this point. I clenched my fists and leaned towards him, nearly tipping myself and Ella off the chair.

  “You give them back!” I demanded, pushing Charlotte away as she tried to grab my hair.

  “Look, lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back into my seat, “I cut you guys off thirty minutes ago and you’re still far too drunk to drive. I’ll give your keys back when you come back here sober, promise.”

  “No-oo.” I lunged forward on top of the bar, desperately grasping at the cork board where they were hanging. “No, you’re not gonna give them back, you’re gonna take them like you took Derek! You’re just gonna take-”

  Charlotte and Ella erupted into laughter, but I was close to tears. This man was taking our keys and he wasn’t going to give them back. How are we ever going to find them again, what will happen if we never find them again, I can’t let them go, I promised I’d always be there, I can’t-

  Two strong hands suddenly lifted me off the bar table and pressed me firmly into my seat. I squirmed, crying, but I was exhausted and fairly weak. The bartender stared at me in shock, but then the owner of the hands must have said something, because he passed our keys over, and one of my friends put them into the pocket of a pair of deep blue jeans.

  I began to relax almost immediately, then turned to see a man’s face apologizing to the bartender for my behavior. When matters had been settled, he looked back down at me and smiled a bit.

  “I’m Detective Jeremy Kutchner.” His voice was deep and soft. “I’m going to drive you ladies home and I’ll check up on you in the morning, okay?”

  I nodded slowly, and he gently got us all out of our seats and into the police cruiser next to my car. We piled into the backseat, and within five minutes all three of us were snoring.

  Chapter Three

  When I woke up, I was lying in my bed. Yawning, I pushed myself up, gasping when a massive wave of dizziness hit me. Moaning, I squeezed my eyes shut and collapsed onto the bed, rubbing between my eyes where a headache was rapidly growing. I heard the door squeak open; I opened one eye and saw a man leaning agains
t my doorway.

  “I thought you would never wake up,” Detective Kutchner smirked, crossing his arms.

  He walked over to the window next to my bed and opened my blinds. I groaned, my head exploding, and I rolled to the other side and stuffed my face into my pillow.

  “Your friends went home hours ago,” he continued, moving on to the next window as if he had a personal vendetta against me. “I guess they didn’t drink quite as much as you did.”

  The sun came through the other side of the room and I dove under my covers, feeling like I was going to throw up. What was this man’s problem, coming into my room and torturing me like this? Who the hell did he think he was?

  Suddenly the covers lifted off me and fell to the floor, and I hissed angrily, groping blindly for my cozy duvet. The detective chuckled.

  “C’mon, Maisie. It’s time to get up. You’ve already slept through most of the day.”

  “If you’re going to talk, could you at least do it a little quieter?” I mumbled, pinching my brow with my fingers, as if that could stop the growing pain behind my eyelids.

  He leaned forward until I could feel the fuzz on his chin on my ear and whispered,

  “I already am.”

  When I came downstairs, dressed (if not washed up), he already had scrambled eggs on the kitchen island and was dumping the pan and spatula into the sink, humming “The Giving Tree.” I slid onto one of the bar stools and he pushed a plate toward me, getting the orange juice out of the fridge. I picked up the fork and shoveled the eggs around my plate.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like scrambled eggs.”

  He laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling at the corners, and leaned with his arms on the counter.

  “Then you, mademoiselle, are everything that is wrong with this world.”

  I scowled, but he pulled the plate in front of himself and popped some bread into the toaster.