Saving Scott (Kobo)

by Terry Odell

  “Stress?” Ashley asked Maggie. She’d been dealing with enough of her own. What else had she missed?

  “The police.” Kathleen toyed with the pearls around her neck. “Came into The Tool Shed, asked all kinds of questions. Willie’s most upset. He thinks he’s going to be arrested for murdering Felicity.”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Kath,” Penny said around a mouthful of chocolate cookie. “Nobody would believe Willie could figure out how to murder anybody. The police questioned everyone. Even me.”

  “You?” Ashley said. “Why?”

  “I used to give Felicity some of my students’ artwork to hang in her shop. Then she went all high-hat and said it was tacky and unprofessional. Had to find a nice way to tell the kids we weren’t going to do that anymore. But if the cops think that’s a motive for me to kill her—dagnabit, they’re grasping at straws.”

  “The cops have to question everybody,” Ashley said. “Then they can eliminate people and zero in on who’s left.”

  All eyes shot to her. “You have the inside scoop on something?” Penny asked.

  “My next-door neighbor works at the police station. He used to be a detective. They questioned me, too.” She paused, then added, “Made me go to the station.”

  “Are they really questioning everyone?” Lorna’s voice piped up from the rear of the room. “I shopped at Felicitea, but nobody’s asked me anything.”

  Wasn’t Lorna supposed to be gone? Ashley hadn’t even noticed her when she’d come in.

  “I think they’re looking for closer connections than being a customer,” Maggie said.

  Kathleen twisted her pearls some more. “Have they asked you anything, Maggie?”

  “An officer came to the shop, yes, right after they discovered Felicity. I expected as much, given that we’re right next door. They talked to everyone on the block.” Maggie stepped to the front of the room. “And now, as Kathleen pointed out, our time is valuable. Let’s talk about the bakeoff and leave the gossip for another time.”

  Ashley hid a smirk behind her hand. At least Maggie hadn’t tried to pretend they weren’t going to gossip at all. And maybe she could pump the group for more about Belinda Nesbitt. For now, it was about the bakeoff. She joined Maggie at the front of the room. “May I say something before you start?”

  Maggie smiled and took a seat.

  “First,” Ashley began, “thanks so much for all your help. You can’t possibly know how much it means to me. We’ve filled all twenty slots for the bakeoff, and I have fantastic donations for the door prizes. And Penny—I’d love to display your students’ artwork in my bakery.” She shifted her gaze to Kathleen. “If I buy a bulletin board, can Willie mount it on the wall for me?”

  “Of course.” Kathleen practically beamed. “I know he’d love to.”

  “Great. I hope one or two of you can arrive early and help with setting up, and I’ll need a few brave, dedicated souls to help with cleanup, too.”

  Kathleen raised her hand. “I’m happy to do both. And I’ll make sure Kevin and Willie show up, too.”

  “Put me down for cleanup,” Lorna said.

  Ashley blinked away the heat prickling her eyes at the show of support.

  Maggie consulted a spiral notebook. “Moving along. Judges. I think we shouldn’t let them into the bakery until it’s time for them to taste.”

  “I thought all the entries would be anonymous, and finished before we opened,” Penny said.

  “That’s what’s supposed to happen,” Maggie said. “It was a suggestion, one more way to ensure we’re being as fair as possible.”

  “Make sure we don’t announce the judges,” Ashley said. “If nobody knows who they are, then they can’t try to sway them. I’ll remind them to keep it a secret.”

  The door opened, and Sarah strolled in. Heads turned. “Can I help with anything? I know I’ve been out of the loop, but I’m a quick study.” She grinned at Ashley. “I sampled Ashley’s goodies over at Randy’s welcome back party. I’m all for doing whatever it takes to make her business a roaring success.”

  It was clear from the whispers as Sarah took a seat that everyone was more interested in hearing about her honeymoon than working on the bakeoff. But Maggie, bless her days as a schoolteacher, stepped forward and made short work of the remaining tasks on her list.

  Ashley checked the time. “Sorry, ladies. I have to run. I’m expecting my furnishings, and you know how it is with these delivery people. They say between twelve and five, which means they’ll show up at four-fifty-seven. But I have to be there by noon, just in case.” She left the cookies, knowing they wouldn’t go to waste.

  Lorna intercepted her at the door. “If you’d like, I can wait with you. I’ll help put things away when they arrive.”

  Ashley assumed she was still hiding from her husband. “I can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour, okay?”

  Which would give Ashley plenty of time to do a little snooping. The police pictures had shown a lot, but there was no substitute for first-hand exploration.

  Chapter 18

  Scott carried two lattes down the hall and shouldered open the door to the detectives’ office. Detweiler and Kovak barely looked up when he entered.

  Scott stepped across the room and set the cups on the desk. “Figured it was my turn.”

  They’d moved the white board in here last night to make room for the party. Scott paused in front of it, noticing the additions. The column under Belinda’s name had filled. And, apparently last night’s paper duty had panned out, because there were several names—if you could call “Viper” and “Stinger” names—under the victim’s picture. “Boyfriends?”

  Detweiler grunted.

  “I thought you’d be at your party,” Scott said.

  “Crime waits for no celebrations.”

  “He’s glad to have an excuse to avoid the ragging,” Kovak said. “He lasted about ten minutes. Besides, he’s grumpy because we had a case a while back where a coffee mug was the definitive clue. This one doesn’t seem that straightforward.”

  Scott broke in before Kovak could recap the old case. “Need anything? I’m on my official lunch break, but Chief said I should put myself at your disposal.”

  “Do I detect a desire to get away from phones and filing?” Kovak said.

  “I go where I’m needed most.”

  Detweiler rubbed his eyes. “You come up with anything beside the coffee mug?”

  “I called it a night at midnight,” Scott said. No reason to tell them what he’d been doing until then. After all, he had provided a new piece of evidence. “You get anything on it?”

  Randy stared at his notes before speaking. “Good news. Small manufacturer. Less good news. They’re sold all over the country. Slightly better news. They’ve got a fairly exclusive clientele. Belinda Nesbitt placed one order with them, for two cases—that’s a total of twenty-four mugs. Not so good news. It was three months ago. The other good news is that they’ve only got three other customers who ordered that same mug in Oregon. One in Bend, one in Eugene, and one in Newport.” He handed Scott a sheet of paper. “Feel like making some calls?”

  Scott accepted the paper, but said, “Have you asked Belinda to share her records? Odds are it came from her shop, not one of the others. Better to start checking out the horses before we go looking for zebras.”

  Detweiler looked at him as if he were a green rookie. “She said she doesn’t keep those sorts of records.”

  A red flag waved in Scott’s mind. He frowned. “How can she track inventory if she doesn’t track sales?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Detweiler said. “Sarah’s got a fancy computer system and spreadsheets up the wazoo. She knows who bought what, when, and probably why. Maybe what they had for breakfast. But before she got the computer program, she had to do it all by hand, and it was tedious. No telling how Belinda Nesbitt does her bookkeeping.”

  “So, are you going to d
emand to examine whatever records she does keep?” Scott asked.

  “If Belinda Nesbitt is our killer, I’d rather not alert her. Not until we have enough to consider her a viable suspect,” Kovak said.

  Scott had to agree. A smile tickled his lips as he thought of Ashley. “Wouldn’t want her to rabbit.” He shifted gears, serious now. “Do we have anything to indicate whether she’s feeding us misinformation?”

  “As in lying to a cop?” Kovak opened his mouth in pretend shock. “You mean some people don’t tell us the truth?”

  Detweiler lifted his hand, “On task, please. I don’t think poor bookkeeping or selling blue flowered mugs is enough to get the paper we need so she’ll turn over her records. And there’s no law saying she has to keep detailed records. Stupid on her part if she doesn’t, but she’s in charge of her inventory control.”

  “What about seeing how many mugs she has left?” Kovak said. “We know she ordered two dozen, so we might get at least a ball park of how many people we’re looking for.”

  “I could wander into Belinda’s shop and browse around,” Scott said. And pop in to see how Ashley’s doing.

  “Yeah, like you’d blend right in,” Detweiler said. “Hang on.” He unclipped his cell and punched in a number. “Sarah?”

  After a pause, red-faced, he stepped into the hall.

  “Newlyweds,” Kovak said. Scott shoved those images out of his mind.

  Detweiler came back a few minutes later. “Sarah’s going to check out Belinda’s store. She brought souvenirs back from Hawaii and has one for Belinda, so it’s a perfect cover.”

  Scott kept his mouth shut. Sarah was a civilian, same as he was. But at least he actually worked for the department. And had the blessings of Chief Laughlin. Since Kovak didn’t object, Scott figured they must know what they were doing. He moved on. “So, what’s up with the boyfriends?”

  Kovak tapped the white board. “It’s taken us this long to find two possible boyfriends. More accurately, names of possible boyfriends. We still have to track them down. If they even exist.”

  Did Scott detect a hint of irritation in Kovak’s tone? Did he resent Scott’s leaving last night? Or was it exhaustion? Hell, Scott had stayed at Ashley’s until midnight, then managed a few hours of frustrated sleep before his alarm jolted him out of bed barely five hours later. Four hours of desk duty hadn’t improved his mood, especially when his chance to see Ashley had evaporated with those old biddies whining about a loose dog in the neighborhood.

  Get a grip. You’re as grouchy as Kovak.

  “Okay, so if I’m not needed on mug detail, what about the boyfriends?”

  Kovak tilted his chin toward a computer. “If you can locate either one of them, we can follow up.”

  He’d definitely been demoted to grunt. But it was still a job.

  “Guess I’m on the boyfriends.” He crossed to an empty desk and booted up the computer. “I don’t have access to this case.”

  Kovak supplied him with the necessary information, but before Scott plunged into the depths of the law enforcement databases, he started with the obvious. Sometimes Google worked better than LexisNexis or the DMV.

  After half an hour, Scott didn’t know what was worse—staring at paper or staring at a monitor. He’d always preferred being in the field, talking to people. People had body language. Computer screens didn’t. He’d found what looked like boyfriend lead number one’s Facebook page, which led him to a blog, which led him to an address in Salem, where the guy was a musician, appearing in countless bars and dives.

  “My turn for good news, bad news.” He got up, hissing out a breath between clenched teeth when his leg protested. He leaned against the desk, waited out the spasm, and limped to the white board.

  Kovak swiveled in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Good news first.”

  “Viper is the stage name for one Isaac Garfield. He fits the description and hangs out in bars.”

  “The bad news?”

  “He’s an aspiring rock star. While it’s possible he and Felicity had some kind of relationship, my gut tells me it’s more likely it was the star-groupie thing.”

  “Which means Belinda could have seen them together, but hardly as a couple.”

  “Thereby strengthening the likelihood that Belinda is attempting misdirection,” Scott said. “I trust my gut, but would never eliminate—or accuse—someone without a personal encounter.”

  Kovak stood and stretched. “You have an address?”

  ***

  Ashley maneuvered the ladder she’d borrowed from Sarah’s shop under the trap door. She placed her flashlight on the platform and moved up the ladder, taking slow, deep breaths. It wasn’t that she had anything against heights. But she didn’t have anything for them, either. Especially when they led into an unknown place. What if she got stuck up there?

  That’s why you have your cell phone. And what’s going to happen? You saw the pictures. It’s not booby-trapped. Detective Kovak and Connor would have found that.

  Not trusting the logical part of her brain, she pressed her fingers gingerly against the trap door. When nothing exploded, she pushed harder, and the door slammed open. Startled, she jerked back, clutching the ladder rails to keep from falling. The flashlight clattered to the floor.

  You are such a wuss.

  She retrieved the light, ascended again, and wriggled her way into the bedroom.

  She brushed herself off, wishing she’d taken the time to change out of the dress slacks she’d worn to present a professional appearance when she delivered her desserts to the police station.

  The pictures she’d seen last night had clearly been taken before the police had collected their fingerprints. Black residue coated most of the furniture. One thing she did remember from the pictures was a can of furniture polish in one of the armoires. She retrieved it, and a rag that sat next to it. Spraying and rubbing, she worked her way around the rooms.

  After she’d removed the evidence of the police visit and replaced the polish and rag where she’d found them, she contemplated one of the end tables, envisioning it and its mate as accent pieces in her shop. She’d already decided on an eclectic look rather than having everything all matchy-matchy, and a couple of antiques would add to the effect.

  But they’d be subject to the abuse of rings from the cups, not to mention spills. Glass tops would solve that, and shouldn’t be too expensive.

  Speaking of expensive—she had no clue what the owner would charge for them. Maybe she should offer to take them off his hands—he might not know they were up here, or what they were worth.

  Her conscience immediately kicked in. No. She’d have to negotiate a fair and reasonable price.

  The armoires would be gorgeous, too, but realistically, there was no place to put even one of them, and nothing to fill them with—yet.

  Seeing this space made her itch to be able to expand and include it. Maybe add a spiral staircase. She could see private parties, or special tasting sessions, or more places to sit and relax. She could have a book-sharing shelf. That, she thought, would be a perfect use for the armoires. Her heart beat a little faster. She chided herself for getting so far ahead of things. First, she had to make a go of the bakery.

  She needed to keep her mind on the grand opening and the bakeoff.

  But, as long as she was up here, she might as well see the rest of the space. She crossed the smaller room, wondering again what it might have been used for. Was the bedroom a guest room? The proportions didn’t seem majestic enough to be the master bedroom, or whatever they called them back then. A guest room, perhaps, and the guest’s servant might use the small room.

  And what difference did it make? They were potential bakery spaces, no matter who’d lived in them before.

  She touched a cut-glass knob on the far door. This must be where Belinda’s space began. Would it hurt to peek? Her hand had twisted the knob before her brain gave her an answer.

  Although she hadn’t see
n any pictures of this side of the building, Ashley discovered it was exactly what Scott had described. Storage. Boxes on the floor. Boxes on shelves. She sniffed, then stifled a sneeze. Nobody had come through here with lemon-scented furniture polish lately. Or a feather duster, from the looks of it.

  A twinge of sadness filled her. Clearly, there wasn’t much turnover in Belinda’s stock. What did that bode for Confections by Ashley? Unlike Belinda, Ashley would have to throw away unsold merchandise. She might be able to donate some of it, but even if it didn’t go to waste, it was a loss as far as her bottom line was concerned.

  Did she hear footsteps coming up the stairs from Belinda’s store? Without waiting to confirm the sound, Ashley dashed back to her side, easing the door shut as quietly as possible.

  She managed to get the trap door shut behind her and climb down the ladder without making too much noise.

  You have every right to be upstairs on your own side.

  Well, maybe not, since she had leased only the downstairs. Better not to be discovered up there.

  Refocused on her bakery tasks, she went straight to her office. Her to-do list for the bakery seemed endless, and there wasn’t much she could do about it until the delivery people showed up with everything she had in storage. She tried to deal with the spreadsheets she’d created for the bakeoff. But her mind refused to stick to the task. Instead, it wandered back to the murder.

  What of Belinda’s involvement? Or was there any? A mug didn’t mean anything. Until the murderer was found, no matter how upbeat the bakeoff committee had been, there was an ugly black storm cloud hanging over her bakery.

  Lorna’s arrival provided a welcome break from all the questions swirling through her mind. And brought new ones. Why was Lorna still here? Hadn’t the Women’s Center found a place for her?

  “Thanks for offering to help.” Ashley motioned Lorna inside.

  Lorna stepped into the bakery, her gaze scanning the empty space. She wore a pink short-sleeved blouse and a pair of beige Capri-length pants. Her bruises had faded, and a light touch of makeup gave her an entirely different appearance from the first time Ashley had seen her. She’d even had a manicure.