Saving Scott (Kobo)

by Terry Odell

  Scott’s stomach clenched when there was no doubt she recognized the man.

  ***

  Ashley’s head spun. Was this what Porky the Reporter meant when he said the cops would be here soon? But how would he know?

  Still staring at the picture, she half-stumbled to a seat. A hand supported her elbow, helping her sit. She gazed into Randy’s concerned face.

  “Is this the man you found?” she asked when she felt she could speak without her voice quavering. “The one they were talking about on the news?”

  “You know who he is?” Randy asked. “He had this address in his pocket.”

  “Sort of. I don’t know his name, but I’m almost positive he’s one of the Klutz Brigade—I mean, one of the construction workers.”

  “Address in his pocket could have been there some time,” Scott said. “Charlotte said it was faded.”

  Scott stood, leaning against the far wall. When she glanced his way, he gave her a noncommittal nod. Was he here as a cop, or making sure she was being treated fairly? He’d said he’d have removed himself from the case if he were really a cop. Yet here he was, acting like a cop.

  She concentrated on Randy instead. “I’m sure Carl would know who this is. Or any of the other workers. Willie Duncan, or someone at The Tool Shed, if you can’t reach Carl.”

  “We’ll do that,” Randy said. “We appreciate your help.”

  “Whatever will make this go away,” she said. “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

  Randy nodded.

  “A few minutes ago, a reporter from the Bee was here. He said the two deaths were connected. Are they? I got the feeling he was fishing.”

  Randy scowled. “Vossler again. Damn the man.” Randy and Detective Kovak exchanged one of their cop looks. “He did? Did he say how, or where he got his information?”

  “No. He said he had it on good authority, but didn’t name names. That’s why I didn’t think he really knew. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Very good,” Detective Kovak said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “Does this mean I’m free to go ahead with my bakeoff? No yellow tape? I don’t have to go to the station again?”

  “No need,” Kovak said. “Good luck with your bakeoff.”

  She stood and managed a smile. “I hope you’ll stop by. All of you.”

  Scott left with the others, not sparing a farewell glance in her direction. She gave up trying to figure him out.

  She went to her car for the poster boards she’d bought. Carrying them across the parking lot, she realized they’d look a lot better if she used a paper cutter to trim them to size. Maybe Sarah had one. She was always creating gorgeous window displays and signs.

  After dropping the boards of in her shop, Ashley went next door to That Special Something. She stopped inside the door. Porky the Reporter was at the counter talking to Sarah, and she didn’t look the least bit happy about it.

  Ashley almost retreated, but Porky had turned at the sound of the door chimes. He smirked in her direction. Jennifer appeared from the back room and approached her. “Hi, Ashley. Need something?”

  Ashley kept her voice low when she asked her question, more to try to eavesdrop than because she didn’t want Porky to know she was borrowing a paper cutter—as if he’d care.

  Jennifer grinned. “Sure. I’ll get it for you.”

  When Jennifer returned with the cutter, Ashley asked her what was going on with Porky.

  “He showed up about five minutes ago. He’s trying to get Sarah to tell him what she knows about the dead guy they found last night.” Jennifer shot a look in Sarah’s direction. “She’s a pro at the ‘no comment’ thing. Everyone seems to think she’s got the inside track because of Randy.”

  Porky turned and almost stormed into Ashley and Jennifer, who had to dodge to get out of his way.

  “Yep,” Jennifer said. “Sarah’s a pro.”

  Ashley was going to say something about the identity of the dead man, but she decided keeping her mouth shut was a wiser option. She had a brief inkling of what it might be like for Scott. Knowing things, but not being allowed to talk about them. Probably smarter to say nothing at all than worry about what you should or shouldn’t say.

  But he could have explained that, couldn’t he?

  Sarah joined them. “Reporters. If they’re not calling at all hours, they’re showing up at your door. That guy is the worst. He’s always saying he’s got all this insider information. He was going on and on about cause and manner of death. He loves spouting cop terminology, thinking I’ll be fooled into believing he already knows what he’s asking me. Like I’m supposed to be ‘confirming’ his facts.”

  “Yeah, he’s a fisherman all right,” Ashley said. “I’d better get back. I’ve got tons of stuff to do.”

  “Maggie’s due in at noon,” Sarah said. “There’s not really enough work for three people here, but I hate to tell her I don’t need her. How about I ask if she’ll help you instead?”

  “That would be great.” Promising to return the paper cutter as soon as she was finished, Ashley got busy cutting and mounting the artwork. She smiled as she worked, imagining the kids working on their creations. She would definitely talk to Penny about a regular feature.

  While the glue dried, she made her phone calls. With each item checked off her list, her excitement grew. She should probably feel some guilt about being so elated when people had died, but she promised herself she’d mourn them after her bakery was open.

  She tried to recall the dead man. The picture wasn’t exactly … flattering. She wondered what he had worked on. Plumbing? Electrical? Had he installed her appliances? She knew Willie Duncan, and Carl, but otherwise, she’d barely spoken to the crew. Most were in for a day, maybe two, then gone. They’d all been polite to her. She had a sudden recollection of one man’s friendly flirting, which she’d ignored. She tried to put his face with the picture. It might have been him. She’d hardly paid attention to any of the Klutz Brigade. They were Carl’s responsibility.

  Should she feel guilty about that? Would it have mattered? She refused to believe there was any connection between that man and her bakery other than the fact that he’d been one of many who’d worked the job.

  Wait. Had Felicity really tried to sabotage the job? Hadn’t Detective Kovak thrown that in her face when he’d interrogated her? Were the two connected? But Felicity died first. Or had she? The man’s body wasn’t discovered until last night, but that wasn’t when he’d died. When Randy showed her the pictures, he’d warned her that it would be on the gross side, because the body had been around for a few days.

  Too many questions, too many possibilities. That’s why she was a baker, not a cop.

  And speaking of baking, she needed to get some more inventory ready for Monday. She set to work on the ganache for her Grand Marnier truffles. While the chocolate melted, she zested and juiced two oranges, then added the zest to some heavy cream, and brought it to a boil. Once she’d assembled everything, she poured the ganache into a pan, covered it with plastic wrap and put it in the walk-in fridge, where it would keep until she was ready to roll and coat the truffles.

  She smiled as she remembered learning to assemble them at culinary school. It was a two-person job, and she and her partner had joked about the classic I Love Lucy episode as they rolled and coated the confections. She looked forward to working with her new assistants. Heck, she looked forward to working, period.

  Cookie dough was something else she could prepare in advance. And with her special discount coupons, she’d better have plenty.

  She’d barely finished assembling her ingredients when there was a knock at the back door. So help her, if it was Porky the Reporter again, she’d—

  “Ashley? It’s Maggie. Sarah said you could use some help.”

  Ashley unlocked the door, and Maggie swooped in. “Put me to work.”

  “Penny’s artwork contributions should be ready to go up. Can you make
things look festive?” She gave Maggie the adhesive and brought the stepladder from the storage closet where she’d left it after they’d discovered the upstairs.

  Maggie hummed as she worked, and Ashley mixed three kinds of cookie dough, adding each to the walk-in. Each trip into the refrigerator sent chills through her—and not because of the cold. She stepped into the front of the house where Maggie had finished hanging the artwork. She’d also arranged the door prizes throughout the room. Nice way to keep people moving.

  “Shall I start setting up for the judging?” Maggie asked.

  Ashley couldn’t see making Maggie drag more furniture around by herself. “I’ll help.”

  “You heard the news,” Maggie said as they worked. “About the other body?”

  “Yes. The police were here asking if I recognized him.”

  Maggie’s eyes glinted with curiosity. “Did you?”

  Since she hadn’t known who the man was, Ashley decided it wouldn’t really be lying when she told Maggie no, the same way she had with Sarah and Jennifer. Didn’t the news always say they wouldn’t reveal someone’s identity pending notification of next of kin? She certainly didn’t want to say anything she shouldn’t, and perhaps mess up the police investigation.

  “But there was something else I wanted to ask you,” Ashley said. She told Maggie about what they’ve found upstairs. “It looked like a … love nest. And it’s connected to Belinda Nesbitt’s shop.” She chose her next words carefully, skirting the real question. “Do you think she was bringing guys up there?” Ashley didn’t want to say anything that might reveal Belinda’s secret, which wasn’t her concern. “I mean, what she does is her business, but now that I’m opening, I’m going to have to make sure nobody can get from there to here. The landlord seemed pretty blasé about the whole thing, but I’m sure it could be an insurance nightmare.”

  Maggie smoothed the tablecloth before meeting Ashley’s eyes, calmly pinning her gaze. “I wouldn’t expect Belinda to have men up there, no.”

  The teeniest inflection on the word “men.” So maybe Belinda’s secret wasn’t quite as deep and dark as she’d thought.

  Chapter 28

  Scott was working through another stack of printouts as Detweiler entered the war room, rubbing his neck. Scott looked up, rubbing his eyes. “How was the cut?”

  Detweiler collapsed into a chair. “Nothing remarkable. Cause of death was the overdose. Manner of death to be determined. Nothing conclusive as to whether it’s homicide, suicide, or accidental. Nothing other than post-mortem damage. We’ll get the full report, but I don’t think it’ll be much help.”

  It was clear enough that attending autopsies wasn’t something Detweiler enjoyed. Then again, in a place as small as Pine Hills, he probably hadn’t had to cover many.

  “Time of death?” Scott asked.

  “Doc said the entomology report puts it around the same time as the other victim.”

  “Definitely adds ammunition to the single case theory.”

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel good about that. We still have two bodies.”

  “Yeah, but we’re looking for one killer. Or maybe it’ll turn out to be a double suicide. But my gut still says homicide.”

  “Anything to connect them?” Detweiler said. “Because if this is a serial killer, there ought to be some commonality. You’re the big city homicide expert. What would you be doing?”

  “Serial killers tend to target the same type of victim. We’ve got two victims, approximately the same age, both white. But the fact that one’s male, one’s female doesn’t fit the profile of a serial killer.”

  “Just our luck to be the exception.”

  Scott frowned. “I don’t think we have a classic serial killer. What we need is to know who our second victim is, and from there, we start linking the two of them. I’ve been trying to call the contractor, but no luck. He’s a one man operation, and he’s apparently still dealing with his family crisis.”

  “And nobody’s reported the victim missing?”

  “No. At least not in this county. Haven’t expanded the search. Waiting for Kovak.”

  “And where is he? Wasn’t he following up at The Tool Shed?”

  “That, and an interview with Crystal Gosselin,” Scott said. “He’s on his way in.”

  As if on cue, Kovak entered, sans lattes this time. Must be a morning thing. He shrugged out of his sport coat and hung it on the back of one of the chairs.

  “Report,” Detweiler said.

  Kovak paced as he spoke. “I interviewed Crystal Gosselin. She makes no bones about her sexual preferences, but confirmed that Belinda is totally freaked that her parents would find out—that it would ruin their standing in the community. Crystal is committed enough to Belinda to go along with her need for secrecy. And get this.” He dragged a hand across his buzz cut. “The love nest above the bakery was theirs. She swears they never used the trap door. Never went down that way.

  “Belinda was upset that they’d have to find another spot now that the bakery was opening. She liked the hideaway because nobody needed to see her coming or going to a motel, or even Crystal’s place. No sneaking around, just going upstairs. The night of their last tryst jibes with the night Willie Duncan saw the light. They didn’t realize he’d be working right underneath them when they scheduled their liaison.”

  “Did you confirm with Belinda?” Scott asked.

  Kovak stopped pacing and perched on the edge of a desk. “Yeah, I did.”

  “I’m thinking she didn’t take it too well,” Scott said.

  “Understatement of the month. Yeah, she was upset. Embarrassed. Scared. I promised that there was no reason to reveal her secret.”

  “Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Detweiler said. “If this goes to court, everything could come out.”

  “I didn’t get any guilt vibes from her, though. And we still haven’t hooked her to the first victim, have we?” Kovak looked at Scott and the stacks of paper.

  “Not yet.”

  Kovak continued. “Crystal Gosselin didn’t recognize the victim, either. And we need that connection to the victims if we’re going to find our killer.”

  “What did you get from Willie Duncan?” Detweiler asked. “According to Ashley, he should have been able to ID the guy.”

  Kovak’s mouth curved up at the corners. “He took one look at the photo and passed out cold. At least he didn’t puke. Apparently, he doesn’t do violence well.”

  “But if he worked the job, he must have known the victim. Ashley said Willie Duncan was there almost every day. He’s a handyman, not a specialist,” Scott said.

  “Yeah, he knew him. Sparky the Electrician. That’s how Willie Duncan—and everyone else, for that matter— knew him. Willie never had a reason to care what Sparky’s real name was.”

  Kovak strolled to the window. After staring outside for a moment, he turned, a tiny grin teasing the corner of his mouth.

  “All right, partner,” Detweiler said. “I know that look. You’ve got more. Spill.”

  Kovak’s grin widened. “I did some first rate detecting. Kathleen Duncan at The Tool Shed gave me a list of the electricians that patronize her shop. No luck with them. But I expanded the search and found the company Sparky works for.” He puffed out his chest. “It’s in Salem, but distance is no obstacle for a crack detective such as myself. I have the real name of our victim.”

  ***

  Gold light speared through the window as sunset approached. Ashley gave one last, lingering gaze around her shop. Maggie had done a fantastic job with the artwork. Combined with the informal seating groups around the room, the space had a wonderfully homey feel. The front of the house was set for the bakeoff guests; the back was ready for the contestants. She’d done all she could, and with her first contestants due to start baking at seven the next morning, she needed to get home and get some rest. As if. Her adrenaline was already hitting a major high. She could hardly imagine what it would be li
ke tomorrow night.

  What if nobody showed up?

  She refused to consider that a possibility. At the very least, family and friends of the contestants would be here.

  Knowing she needed to eat something, Ashley stopped at Sadie’s. When eyes turned to her as she walked in, and all conversation stopped, she changed her mind about eating in. Even if it was all in her imagination, she couldn’t bear to think that everyone wanted to talk to her about the two deaths. Instead, she ordered chicken-and-dumpling soup to go. The comforting aroma filled her car on the drive home, and by the time she got to her apartment, her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled.

  The bakery and the police investigation vied for her attention. She tried to find something else to think about. Scott came to mind, and with it the memory of what he’d whispered in her ear that morning.

  She pulled her laptop to the kitchen island and booted it while she ate her soup. Macquarie, he’d said. She Googled it. Some mega-financial group. A university in Australia. A hotel. What did any of these have to do with Scott?

  Ashley knew her Google skills were no match for Scott’s, but she’d picked up a few rudimentary search techniques. She added Scott’s name to the search and found totally different results. She clicked the first one and started reading.

  Oh. My. God.

  Eyes fixed on the screen, she shoved her soup aside. Scott, what happened to you?

  She skimmed the article, then clicked to several more. Different versions, but the same story. Somehow, Scott had managed to end up in the middle of a robbery at a bank in the Macquarie Building in Salem. Finding out he was a cop had pissed off the bad guys.

  Stomach twisting, she read through the rest of the article. Hostages. Negotiations failed. People dead. Severe injuries sustained.

  The cold, dry facts were horrific enough. No wonder Scott was reluctant to talk about it.

  Reluctant? She snorted. Reluctant didn’t come close. Getting that man to say anything about himself was like trying to unbake a cookie.

  But he’d tried. When he’d said that one word, he’d taken the first step toward sharing. Something loosened inside her. She grabbed the Hennessey and went next door.