by Terry Odell
Ashley took pride in seeing her bakery being used, and the chocolate aroma that permeated the space had her stomach growling. She’d skipped breakfast to get here on time.
She wandered toward Holly. “Keep an eye on things for a minute. I need some coffee.”
In her office, she poured another cup of the Irish Cream coffee Lorna had given her and inhaled the rich aroma. After stirring in a hearty dose of cream and sugar, she found a Power Bar tucked away in her desk drawer and ripped open the wrapper. As she enjoyed the rich coffee and snack, she allowed herself a few seconds to hope Lorna had found refuge somewhere.
From the doorway, she could see the redhead—Gemma—frowning and dabbing at her forehead with a side towel. In between dabs, she and Natalie were exchanging dagger-like glances.
Ashley worried that her contestants were taking things too seriously—this wasn’t the Pillsbury Bakeoff, after all. A spot on her menu wasn’t that big a deal, no matter how much Ashley wished otherwise. She was one tiny shop in one tiny town.
She stepped back into the kitchen and clapped her hands. “Twenty minutes, everyone. And remember, this is supposed to be fun. After all, we’re working with chocolate. One of life’s most glorious creations. How about some smiles! Let’s not forget the real winner here. The Pine Hills Women’s Center.”
Almost immediately, there was a noticeable lift of spirits, and Ashley’s smile followed right behind. Three more sessions to go. She’d have to give that pep talk first thing for the rest of the day.
At four-thirty, the next-to-last group was cleaning their stations. The committee trickled in. Maggie, bless her heart, took charge of confirming everyone knew what she was supposed to be doing. Ashley worked with Penny’s husband and the math club students, making sure they understood the ticket system.
“We know what to do,” one solemn-faced boy said. He pointed to tally sheets. “We mark down every time we sell a ticket. And we give a red ticket for tasting, and everyone who comes in gets a blue ticket for a door prize. We’ve practiced and everything.”
“Don’t forget.” Another boy pointed to a decorated basket. “We keep half the blue tickets in here.”
“For the drawing,” a girl said. “Mr. Foxworth said one of us might get to pick tickets.”
Ashley smiled. “We have lots of prizes, so I’m sure you’ll all get a chance to draw winners.”
Another youngster peered at her through shaggy bangs. “Mr. Foxworth said we might get to taste some of the brownies, too.”
Ashley laughed. She reached for the roll of red tickets and tore off one for each child. “You sure can.”
Penny’s husband extended his hand. “Vaughn Foxworth, at your service.” The man had a twinkle in his eye and a delightful British accent. “Leave it to the Math Club.” He turned to the group and lifted his hand like a conductor waving a baton.
“There are no problems we can’t solve,” the kids recited in unison, beaming.
Still smiling, Ashley left Vaughn to his charges and surveyed the room. As expected, Maggie was bustling about, checking things off in her notebook. Ashley joined her. “Looks fantastic. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you coming up with this plan.”
“Don’t thank me,” Maggie said. “I was the catalyst, that’s all.”
Ashley gave her a quick squeeze. “Next group is coming in.” The last group. Thank goodness. “I need to get back to the kitchen.”
Ashley herded the final four contestants to their stations. By now, she had her spiel down, and the energy vibes she got from the group as they took their places and started cooking gave her a welcome boost.
When most of the contestants’ entries were baking, Maggie tiptoed in. “We’re all set. Thought you might want to take a look,” she whispered, as if she was afraid speaking aloud might cause a cooking disaster.
“Of course.” Ashley signaled Holly that she’d be gone for a minute and followed Maggie toward the front of the house. “I’ll be right there. First, I need to brew some coffee for everyone. Make sure you let all the volunteers know they can help themselves.” She set off toward the commercial machine behind the counter. No Irish Cream, though. That was her special treat. For the bakeoff, she chose a Guatemalan. After starting the brewing process, she took a deep breath and looked over the front of the house. A picture to document the moment, she thought. She regretted not having her real camera. At least she had her cell phone.
As she fished through her purse for the device, she wondered where Elaine was. Her photo job was yesterday, she’d said. Ashley tried to remember if she’d asked her to arrive early, or just shoot the event itself. Maggie would know. Ashley snapped a few pictures, wishing she’d thought to do it all day. The pictures wouldn’t be great, but they’d work for a website.
Next time, she’d remember.
Next time? Slow down.
She found Maggie, who consulted her notebook. “Elaine’s scheduled to arrive at six-thirty.” Ashley automatically checked her watch. Six-fifteen.
“I’m going to give her a call,” Ashley said. “Make sure everything’s okay.” She got the studio’s voicemail. Of course. She’d be closed. Probably on her way. But butterflies fluttered in her belly.
“Do you have a home number for Elaine?” Ashley asked Maggie. “Or her cell?”
Maggie consulted her notebook. “Try this.” She showed Ashley the number.
Voicemail there, too. Even though Elaine wasn’t late, the butterflies threatened to break the sound barrier. Everything else was in place. “Do we know anyone else who has a camera? In case Elaine got delayed?”
When Porky the Reporter showed up at the door, a camera around his neck, Ashley didn’t know whether she should be relieved or worried.
***
Scott’s name came at him from a distance. He blinked the world into focus. “Sorry. What?”
Kovak shook his head. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Bad night is all.” Although he’d slept round the clock, he still felt groggy. His own fault, having that cognac on top of the meds.
This morning, he’d insisted on being in on the investigation, even though he wasn’t supposed to be working on a Saturday. He wasn’t going to report any hours, and he’d managed to convince Detweiler and Kovak that he wasn’t really here, in case the Chief took exception to his presence on a case.
“I said, you think we’ve covered everything?” Kovak said.
Scott took another look around the bungalow. Connor and his camera had come and gone. Scott tried to concentrate. And even as he stood in the middle of a scene supposedly looking for clues, his mind insisted on going back to that day at the bank. To last night. To Ashley’s sympathy. To the heartless way he’d sent her away. To blubbering like a three-year-old as he thought of Rina. To wondering if he had the balls to face Ashley again. “Fuck.”
Detweiler spun around. “Find something?”
“No, just a random expletive,” Scott said.
Get your ass in the game.
As he thought, he spoke aloud. Hearing his own words kept him from drifting. “No female accoutrements in the bathroom. No women’s clothes in the closet. Or the hamper. Or the dresser drawers. No pictures of a happy couple on the mantle. You sure the landlord said this guy was married?”
Both detectives looked at him. Small wonder, since Scott had been standing right beside them when the landlord told them. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I meant still married,” he said, by way of covering his brain lapse.
“I’m not getting bachelor vibes,” Detweiler said.
“Plenty of pizza and beer in the fridge,” Kovak said.
Scott picked up the television remote and turned on the set. He thumbed through the channels.
“Are we boring you?” Kovak asked.
Scott ignored them, moving through the programmed channels. “I’m thinking she left, probably not that long ago.”
Detweiler stood beside him, watching the channels fli
p by. “I get it. Makes sense. Lots of chick channels. Sarah reprogrammed my remote within a week of moving in. If this guy watches much television—”
“Hey,” Kovak said. “He’s a guy. That’s a reasonable assumption, especially if he’s living alone.”
“He’d probably get rid of all her channels rather than have to flip through them to get to his.” Detweiler bobbed his head in Scott’s direction. “Good catch. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Check the kitchen again, too,” Scott said.
“Looks like a normal kitchen,” Kovak said.
“Because you’re used to seeing all this stuff.” Scott opened several cabinets. “Why does a guy who seems to live on pizza and beer need all these pots and pans? Slow cooker. Waffle iron. Three sets of mixing bowls.”
“Okay, so he’s recently divorced.” Kovak said.
“She left him,” Scott said. “Too soon for a divorce, or the landlord would know about it. She took her clothes. Pictures. But didn’t have time to deal with her kitchen paraphernalia.”
“So, where is she? If she’s still married to him, we need to notify her of his death. Odds are, she’s going to inherit all this magnificence.” Kovak swept his arm around the room.
Both Scott and Detweiler stared at Kovak. He blinked, recognition showing in his eyes. He slapped himself on the forehead. “She’s on our suspect list now, isn’t she?”
“Position number one,” Detweiler said.
“But that would mean—” Kovak said.
Scott finished Kovak’s sentence. “That we have to connect the wife to our first victim.” A burst of adrenaline cleared most of the fuzz from his brain.
“Would help if we knew why she left,” Detweiler said. “Or who her friends are.”
“Sounds like it’s time for my all time favorite cop task. Knocking on doors,” Kovak said, his sarcastic tone making his feelings clear.
“I’ll go east, you go west,” Detweiler said to Kovak. “Whelan—”
“I know. Back to the station,” Scott said. “Paper and computers.”
Detweiler looked at his watch. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get some answers and join you in an hour or so.”
“With lunch?” Scott asked, not really kidding.
When he got back to the station, he went straight to the war room. He pulled the white board to the center of the room so he could walk around it, absorbing vibes from both victims. Not very scientific, but it seemed to work for him.
Felicity Anne Markham. Theodore “Sparky” Young. Both early thirties. Both white. Both dead from an overdose, administered in cocoa. Felicity was found in an unfinished bakery. Sparky worked there. He could have had a key. But his body was found miles away.
Suicide pact? They hadn’t totally ruled out suicide as manner of death. Both victims could have drunk the cocoa. It hits her first. He leaves her, drives off.
Didn’t make sense. His vehicle wasn’t anywhere near there. They’d found it in a shopping center parking lot in Salem, and it matched the descriptions given by the witnesses who’d seen a truck where his body had been found.
What if Sparky walked from the bakery to the vacant lot? He could have been alive that long. But why not die together? That’s what double suicides did. No, suicide wasn’t working for him.
His gut said that someone drove the truck and dropped off the body. Which brought a third player into the mix. The wife? Or would they find her body somewhere else? Which would add yet another player.
Find her, find some answers. He wondered if Ashley knew her. He was tempted to call, but knew she’d be flooded with her bakeoff.
And you’re not ready to face her.
Kovak and Detweiler were on the wife. Scott needed to connect the two victims. He went back to studying paper. Once they’d identified their victim, with a little string pulling thanks to yours truly, they had the basics. Phone records, credit card and bank statements.
Because he hated staring at numbers, he decided to get the phone records out of the way before his eyes crossed. And there it was. Dozens of calls in both directions. Theodore Young’s cell to Felicity Markham’s home line, her line to his cell.
All right, you two. You knew each other. Tell me more.
He walked round and round the board, staring at the pictures, the notes. Hoping the answer would appear.
Kovak and Detweiler returned an hour later. The three of them munched on a late lunch of subs while they discussed the search for the elusive wife. Knocking on doors had yielded very little. Scott’s mind wandered, repeatedly sneaking into Ashley territory.
Kovak crumpled his sandwich wrapper and two-pointed it into the wastebasket. “Neighbors said she was quiet. No job. Housewife, always kept her place spotless. Avoided socialization. A recluse.”
Scott snapped to attention. “Under her husband’s thumb. Probably abused.”
“Nobody would substantiate it, but under his fist is the rumor.”
Scott reached for the phone. “We need to check with the local hospitals.”
“HIPAA makes that a bitch,” Detweiler said. “His records would be easy. He’s dead, so I’m sure a judge would sign off on it. Hers are going to be more troublesome.”
“What if she’s dead, too?” Kovak said. “You think we could convince a judge to give us the paper we need to start asking the hospitals and clinics if they’ve ever treated her?”
“That’s a stretch,” Detweiler said.
“But if she’s not the killer, finding her might save her life,” Scott said. “We can use that angle, see if a judge will sign off on a warrant.” He doubted it would fly, but it might be worth a shot, especially if someone had the right connections with a judge. A little social engineering often went a long way.
“Have we checked her credit card usage and cell phone records?” Detweiler asked, cutting his eyes to Scott.
“We are working on it.” Scott pointed to a stack of printouts. “The accounts are in his name, but she has a credit card and cell phone.” He fished through the stack for the papers he needed. “She hasn’t used the cell phone on their family plan in over a week. No charges on her credit card other than groceries and gas. And she doesn’t use the card often—once or twice a month. My hunch is that he had her on a cash allowance and there had to be extenuating circumstances before she’d use the card.”
“Shit,” Kovak said. “Hard to believe there are still men like that. Or women who tolerate it.”
“More than you’d think,” Scott said. “And it’s beginning to look like she quit tolerating it.”
“Two likely possibilities,” Detweiler said, “assuming she’s not another victim. One, she’s running from him. Two, she’s running because she killed him. Either way, she’s not going to want to be found.”
“Then that’s what we do,” Kovak said. “We’re detectives. We find her.” His words were directed at Scott.
“Hey, I’m just a civilian consultant who’s breaking the rules by being here today. However, I doubt she could have affected an identity change this fast. If she’s smart, she’s got cash and a disposable cell phone. If it were me, I’d hop the first bus out of town and regroup from there.”
Kovak sighed. “I’ll take her picture to the bus station.” He took the blowup of her driver’s license photo off the white board.
“Cheer up,” Detweiler said. “We don’t have a train station or an airport.”
After Kovak left, Detweiler turned to Scott. “And I’ve got a dinner date with the best search engine around.”
Scott lifted his brows. He pushed back from the computer, gesturing that Detweiler could use it. God knows, he was sick enough of it.
Detweiler shook his head. “No, when you need to find out about a woman in this town, the best place to start is with another woman. Sarah probably knows her, and if there’s any real gossip that Sarah’s not aware of, her sometime assistant, full-time mother-hen undoubtedly is. Between Sarah and Maggie Cooper, if there’s any skinny on Lorna Young
, I’ll have it before dessert.”
Chapter 31
Ashley rubbed her throbbing temples. But throbbing in a good way. She poured the last cup of Lorna’s Irish Cream coffee from her pot. Had she really drunk it all? If so, she should be having the ultimate caffeine buzz, but all she could think of was going home and crawling into bed. Maybe Holly had helped herself to a cup or two.
Adrenaline overload, Scott had said. She must be having the crash now that everything was over. And speaking of Scott …. No, she was not speaking of Scott. Or to him, either. She understood Detective Kovak and Randy had good reasons for not showing up. They were real cops, and busy investigating two dead bodies. But Scott wasn’t a cop. If he cared about her—and the success of her business—he’d have been here, damn him. Elaine had texted her apologies when her car had broken down on the way back from a last-minute photo shoot. Couldn’t Scott have taken ten seconds to do that?
Even Porky, bless him, had been willing to cover the event, which was probably better than what Elaine could have done, since Porky had promised an article in the Bee along with his picture-taking. She smiled as she recalled the faces on the kids in the Math Club when Porky—she really should stop thinking of him that way now—had pulled out his notebook and interviewed them.
Natalie had been thrilled with her second-place finish. Probably more so because Gemma the redhead had come in third. Ashley had promised to feature all three of the finalists’ recipes on her menu, although she’d have to modify Gemma’s caramel brownies. The contest rules hadn’t stipulated “from scratch,” but Ashley wasn’t going to be using a boxed mix in her bakery. The grand prize had gone to a great-grandmother for her Double Chocolate Cream Cheese Brownie recipe, to the rousing cheers of at least a dozen family members.
But best of all, Confections by Ashley had over a thousand dollars to donate to the Women’s Center.
She rubbed her temples again. Time enough to replay everything tomorrow. She’d shooed the cleanup committee members out the door early, wanting to savor the success in private. Which she could do at home. In bed. Scrubbing the floors could wait.
