Wedding Cake Killer: A Fresh-Baked Mystery

by Livia J. Washburn

  She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she was looking at the fake Roy Porter.

  That made sense, Phyllis thought as her pulse beat a little faster. Working as a real estate agent would be a good way for a con artist to meet wealthy women. That way “Roy” would have been acquainted with Julie Porter and probably with her husband, as well, so when Julie had passed away and then the real Roy had followed her, the fake Roy was presented with a ready-made opportunity to assume a new identity. Maybe the real estate scam wasn’t working out. Maybe he was just restless and ready to move on. He’d found a new target in Eve, established himself with her as “Roy,” and come to Weatherford to marry her and get his hands on as much of her money as he could manage. It was a reasonable theory.

  It didn’t put Phyllis any closer to finding a previously unknown motive for the fake Roy’s murder, though.

  With a sigh, she backtracked to the searches she had done earlier and started going through the results again. As she did, an idea occurred to her. The Pitts and the Mitchums were newlyweds, Jan had said, so Phyllis ran a search for Frank Pitt, Ingrid, and the word bride.

  A link to their wedding announcement popped right up.

  Not everyone ran wedding announcements in the newspaper these days, of course. That was one more sign of the general decline in the newspaper business. But Frank and Ingrid were an older couple, so Phyllis thought they might be old-fashioned enough to have done so, and sure enough, there they were, an attractive older couple, Ingrid with quite a bit of her Scandanavian beauty intact, and Frank looking distinguished. More important, Ingrid’s name was given as Ingrid Olsen Callahan, and that gave Phyllis something else to search for.

  A few moments later, Phyllis leaned back in her chair, staring wide-eyed at the monitor.

  She had a ten-year-old newspaper story from Minneapolis on the screen. It told how the police were looking for a man named Monte Callahan so they could question him about a sizable amount of money missing from the accounts of his wife, local businesswoman Ingrid Olsen Callahan. There were no photographs accompanying the story, but Phyllis didn’t need them to know what she was looking at.

  She had found another of the fake Roy’s victims.

  And that victim had been staying at the same bed-and-breakfast where Roy was killed.

  How was that possible? Had Ingrid tracked him down after all these years and taken her revenge on him? It was an appealing theory, but that’s all it was. Even though the possibility of a coincidence seemed too far-fetched for Phyllis to believe, she knew she couldn’t eliminate that idea entirely. They were called coincidences for a reason, after all, and some of them were pretty wild.

  She suppressed the urge to go out to the garage and drag Sam into the living room to look at her findings. Now that she’d had the wedding idea, she wanted to delve deeper. She tried the same search technique with Henry and Rhonda Mitchum, even though she didn’t expect to find anything, since the Mitchums hadn’t even shown up at the bed-and-breakfast until after “Roy” was dead.

  A few minutes of searching uncovered Rhonda’s maiden name—Gilbert—but she had never been married before and Phyllis couldn’t find even a glimmer of anything that would connect either her or Henry to the fake Roy.

  She moved on to Jan and Pete Delaney and found their wedding announcement from seventeen years earlier in the Fort Worth paper. Jan had been Janice Cresston then. More searching turned up a Janice Baker who had married a David Cresston a few years before Janice Cresston had married Peter Delaney. So Pete was her second husband, more than likely. Phyllis didn’t find an obituary for David Cresston, so in all probability he and Janice had divorced.

  And so what? Phyllis asked herself. This trail, like the one involving the Mitchums, was a dead end. If Jan or Pete had killed Roy, it was because he’d made a pass at Jan, not because of anything in the past. So it was still feasible . . . but the really exciting possibility was that vengeance had caught up to Roy at last in the person of Ingrid Pitt.

  She didn’t have to go out to the garage to get Sam. He came into the room behind her, paused, and said, “From the way you’re starin’ at that computer, you either found somethin’ interestin’ or you’ve been taken over by some evil artificial intelligence that’s come out from the screen.”

  Phyllis turned to him and said, “Come take a look at this.”

  “I don’t know if I want to. It’s liable to turn me into some sort of zombie robot.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or be exasperated with him. So she said, “There are no zombie robots in this computer . . . but there just might be a murderer.”

  Chapter 23

  Sam stopped joking and pulled up a chair so he could look at the computer alongside Phyllis. She clicked through the various screens, pointing out the things she had discovered. When she was finished, Sam sat there silently for several seconds before he pointed out, “We don’t know that this Monte Callahan fella who fleeced Ingrid Olsen is the same person as the Roy Porter who married Eve.”

  “Oh, come on,” Phyllis said. “Who else could it be?”

  Sam shrugged. “Lots of grifters and con men in the world. You didn’t find a picture of Callahan, did you?”

  Phyllis shook her head and said, “No, but it’s got to be him.”

  “That was years ago, and clear across the country from here. How in the world would she know that Roy Porter in Weatherford, Texas, was the same fella who conned her in Minneapolis? For that matter, how do we know that Ingrid Pitt is even the same lady?”

  “She has to be! The name is exactly the same.”

  “A few years ago the cops arrested Samuel J. Fletcher of Poolville for havin’ a meth lab in his house. You know what my middle name is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s John. But you never had a meth lab.”

  “No, but Samuel James Fletcher who lived four miles from me did. I never heard of the fella, never knew there was another Sam Fletcher in Poolville until I came to work one day and noticed that folks were givin’ me funny looks. I didn’t know what was goin’ on. The principal called me into his office and asked me if I’d started cookin’ crystal meth because teachers were underpaid. He showed me the newspaper story. I’d missed it completely.” Sam shook his head. “Took me a long time to convince everybody I wasn’t some sort of drug kingpin.”

  “Well, that’s just crazy,” Phyllis said. “Everyone should have known right away that it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “My point is, there could be two Ingrid Olsen Callahans. Where did the one who tied the knot with Frank Pitt live?”

  “They got married in Dallas,” Phyllis admitted. “But she could have moved down here from Minneapolis. A lot of people have moved to Texas in the past forty years.”

  “That they have,” Sam agreed. “And you sure might be right about this one. I just don’t think you ought to go jumpin’ the gun.”

  Phyllis sighed. “You’re right. I was about to call Mike and ask him to come over so I could show all of this to him, but that would be a mistake, wouldn’t it? I’d need more proof first.”

  “And you’d sort of put him between a rock and a hard place, too,” Sam pointed out. “You’re not supposed to be investigatin’ this case. The DA told the sheriff, and the sheriff told Mike—”

  “To tell me to keep my hands off. I know. But if you think I’m going to just sit back and let Eve go to prison for something she didn’t do—”

  “I never said I expected you to do that,” Sam broke in. “I know you’re gonna find the killer. We just got to be smart about it, though.”

  “You’re right. I need to do some more digging before I go to the authorities. I’ve got to be absolutely sure.” She turned back to the computer. “Here’s something else.”

  A couple of mouse clicks brought up the photograph of Julie Porter accepting her award with her fellow agents applauding in the background. Without pointing out anything, so she wouldn’t influence his reaction, she told Sam, “Take a look at
this picture and tell me if you see anything interesting in it.”

  Sam squinted at the screen, then muttered, “Hold on.” He took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. He studied the photograph for a few more seconds, then said, “Holy cow! Is that—”

  His finger pointed at the same man Phyllis had spotted in the photograph earlier.

  “I think it is,” she said. “I think that’s the man we knew as Roy Porter.”

  “He knew the two of ’em in Houston. Shoot, from the looks of this, he even worked with Julie Porter! When both of ’em died, that was a whole ready-made life he could just step into, especially if he was plannin’ on leavin’ town and just needed the background.”

  “That’s what I think, too. It’s interesting, but it doesn’t really tell us anything else about who might have killed him, only about how he worked out his scheme to bilk Eve.”

  “I hate to say it, but I’m almost glad somebody stuck that letter opener in him. That fella was smart, and it doesn’t look like he had any conscience at all. He would have stolen from Eve, and he would’ve just gone on stealin’ from ladies and breakin’ their hearts if somebody hadn’t stopped him.”

  “Yes, he’s no great loss,” Phyllis agreed. “Other than the fact that Eve’s being blamed for what happened to him.”

  Sam smiled. “Yeah, but you’ll take care of that.”

  “I don’t know,” Phyllis said.

  “You’ve already found out quite a bit already. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Something had occurred to Phyllis. She called up another search and entered Alice, Jessup, Louisiana, and marriage.

  “I looked up the Pitts and the Mitchums earlier,” she explained to Sam, “but I didn’t think to try the same thing with Alice Jessup.”

  Sam nodded. “Good idea.”

  A few minutes of searching turned up an Alice Nichols who had married Benjamin Jessup in Monroe, Louisiana, in 1982.

  “That could be her,” Phyllis said. She continued searching. “No obituary for Benjamin Jessup, though.” She checked the Social Security death index. “Several Benjamin Jessups in the right time frame, but none in Louisiana.”

  “Maybe they got divorced,” Sam suggested.

  “Jan said that the Alice Jessup staying there was a widow.” Phyllis frowned in thought. “But I’ll bet that’s what the woman told her. We can’t assume that’s the truth.”

  “If this Ben Jessup is the same as our Roy Porter, then this scam goes back earlier than any Tess Coburn talked about,” Sam said. “Maybe it was his first.”

  “And all these years later, not one of his current victims but two of them happen to show up at the same bed-and-breakfast where he’s staying with his current victim?” Phyllis shook her head. “I can’t buy that, Sam. I just can’t.”

  “Well, we’re just brainstormin’ here. We may be way off about all of it.”

  “Maybe,” Phyllis said, “but I have an idea who might be able to tell us.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Tess Coburn. She was working for some of Roy’s previous victims.”

  “And she’s not gonna tell you who they are, either,” Sam said. “You’ve already been through that with her.”

  “She might look at things differently if she knew I’d already found out about Ingrid Pitt. She might confirm things she wasn’t willing to reveal outright.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said.

  “The problem is that I don’t know how to get in touch with her,” Phyllis said. She swung around toward the computer. “Maybe she has a website . . .”

  “Or you could just call her,” Sam suggested.

  “No, I can’t. I don’t have her number.”

  Sam grinned and took out his wallet. “The other night when she was leavin’ and I was helpin’ her with her coat, she gave me her card. Said if we had any more questions or if we ever needed a private investigator, we should call her.”

  He slipped a business card out of his wallet and held it out toward Phyllis.

  She smiled and shook her head before she took the card from him. “The fact that women all seem to like you does come in handy sometimes,” she said.

  “I can’t help it that I’m charmin’.”

  “Her office is in New Orleans,” Phyllis said. “She’s probably gone back there already. Louisiana . . . That’s another connection with Alice Jessup.”

  “Lots of people live in Louisiana,” Sam said. “I’ll bet some of ’em don’t even know each other.”

  Phyllis sighed. “I know. I’m reaching for straws here, aren’t I? She’ll probably refuse to talk to me, and all of these half-baked theories are probably wrong, anyway.”

  “Only one way to find out. Give her a call.”

  “I’m going to.” Phyllis picked up the phone and punched in Tess Coburn’s cell phone number, which was printed on the card.

  She was expecting the call to go to voice mail, but to her surprise, a woman’s voice answered. “Coburn Investigations.”

  “Ms. Coburn?” Phyllis said.

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Phyllis Newsom.”

  There was a second of silence on the line, as if Tess were trying to place the name. Then she said, “Mrs. Newsom, how are you? How’s Mrs. Porter?”

  “I’m fine, and Eve is holding up as well as can be expected.” People always said that, Phyllis thought, and it was almost meaningless. She went on, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the case.”

  “Are you sleuthing?” Tess asked. Phyllis could almost see the smile on her face.

  She swallowed the annoyance she felt at that and said, “I’m just curious about something.”

  “Well, I doubt if I can help you, but go ahead.”

  Phyllis took a breath and said, “I was just wondering how it is that two women who were swindled by Roy Porter in the past wound up staying at the same bed-and-breakfast where he and Eve were staying.”

  Once again there was silence on the other end of the line, but it lasted longer this time. Phyllis was starting to wonder if the connection had gotten broken somehow when Tess finally said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Alice Jessup and Ingrid Pitt. They were victims of Roy’s schemes, and they were there at the house.”

  “I don’t know . . . That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Phyllis had heard the surprise in Tess’s voice, though. She knew her shot in the dark had found its target.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” she pressed.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam start shaking his head. She wondered what had occurred to him, but she couldn’t ask him right now.

  Tess said, “Look, Mrs. Newsom, I think we need to talk.”

  “That’s what we’re doing.”

  “No, I mean face-to-face.”

  “You’re coming back here from New Orleans?”

  “I’m not in New Orleans,” Tess said. “I’m still here in Weatherford. I can come to your house—”

  “No,” Phyllis said. She didn’t want Eve walking in on another conversation with the woman who had destroyed all her illusions about the man she had married. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  “There’s a restaurant right up the street from my hotel. We could have dinner.”

  “All right.” Phyllis glanced at Sam. “My friend Sam Fletcher will be coming with me.”

  “Mr. Fletcher? That’s fine. I’ll be glad to see him again. Make it seven o’clock.” Tess named the restaurant.

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll see you then.” Tess paused but didn’t hang up. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

  “So do I,” Phyllis said.

  Chapter 24

  “You were shaking your head like something was bothering you,” Phyllis said to Sam after she’d broken the connection with Tess Coburn. “What is it?”

  “If Roy swindled Ingrid Pitt and Alice Jessup
in the past, how come he didn’t recognize ’em there at the bed-and-breakfast?”

  Phyllis frowned. That was a good point, and she hadn’t even thought of it.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It was ten years ago that Monte Callahan stole that money from Ingrid Olsen, and even longer ago that Benjamin Jessup married Alice Nichols. It’s possible the women could have changed enough that he wouldn’t know them anymore.”

  “Yeah, but Alice Jessup is still goin’ by that name,” Sam said. “Don’t you think Roy would have remembered his own aliases?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I mean, there’s no telling how many times he changed his identity over the years. He could have gone by so many different names that he doesn’t remember them all, or the names of the women he married.”

  Even as she spoke, that sounded unlikely to Phyllis. And yet she couldn’t rule it out. They couldn’t ask Roy about it, either, since he was dead.

  She went on, “Maybe Ms. Coburn can shed some light on all this, if she will. I hope it’s all right that I said you were coming with me to meet her.”

  “Sure. I’m not gonna turn down a chance to eat out.”

  “It’s Friday evening. The restaurant is liable to be busy, and I know you don’t care much for crowds. I don’t, either.”

  Sam shrugged. “When you’re a detective, you’ve got to go where the answers are.”

  “But we’re not professional detectives,” Phyllis pointed out.

  “Wouldn’t want to be. It’s a hobby, like woodworkin’. Only with more murders.”

  Phyllis laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she said.

  Since she and Sam weren’t going to be home for supper, she wanted to let Carolyn and Eve know. She went upstairs and knocked lightly on Carolyn’s door.

  “Come in,” Carolyn called.