Murder & Marble Cake

by Nancy McGovern

  “That you were an accomplice to a murder?”

  “Whoa now, I’m not an accomplice to anything,” he said. “I’m as much a victim as you are.”

  “Tell that to the sheriff. Only I guess you don’t want to.”

  The man shifted in his seat, and rubbed the side of his cheek with a grizzled hand. “Yeah, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I’ve got a bit of a record for troublemaking, and the chief’s going to be asking all sorts of awkward questions.”

  “So what did you ask me to come here for?”

  “Figured we could talk while nobody was listening. I got a proposition for ya,” the man said. “Might as well introduce myself. I’m Bobby Lee.”

  Awkward as the situation was, the manners that had been drilled into her as a child made Rachel take his hand and shake it. He seemed pleased that she did.

  “Well, Bobby Lee, what’s this proposition?”

  “Well, I figure you’d be real interested to know who put me up to this prank call, is that right?”

  “You bet I would be.”

  “I also figure that it’s time for me to head south, maybe all the way down to LA. Who knows, I might become a Hollywood star. It’s always been my dream to act in movies.”

  “O-kay?” Rachel was unsure where he was going with this.

  “I’ve got a van all fitted out, but LA is an expensive city. I figure I need a year’s worth of income to sort me out while I look for the right role.” He smiled, and she saw that his front tooth was broken. “So what do you say, Rachel? Fifty thousand dollars, and I spill the beans.”

  Rachel blinked at him, then threw back her head and let out a hooting laugh. “Fifty thousand dollars? Sure, and would you like a ticket to see Elvis and Lennon perform as well? Or maybe a golden mansion to live in? What do you think I am?”

  Bobby Lee scowled. “They told me you’re a rich, city girl. I figured you have that much saved up.”

  “I can manage to scrape up a thousand dollars,” Rachel said. “Maybe. Or, I can just go to the sheriff and have him arrest you.”

  Bobby Lee smiled again, smug and sure of himself. “Sheriff? Sure, go right to him. I’d love to see you do that. I’ll tell you one thing, though. He’s not going to arrest me. No way.”

  “I’m not playing your games,” Rachel said, “I’m serious. I’m going to the sheriff right now.”

  “Go ahead then.” Bobby Lee spat on the ground next to him. “See what good it’ll do ya.”

  His confidence shook her. Bobby Lee didn’t seem to care a hoot about the sheriff.

  “Come on, Bobby Lee, be reasonable, won’t you?” Rachel protested. “I can’t come up with fifty thousand dollars. It’s a huge sum.”

  “Sure you can, if you sell your aunt's bakery. I know there’s people interested,” Bobby Lee said. “It’s worth it to you because without me, you might end up in prison yourself.”

  Rachel clenched her fists and took a step toward him. “You listen to—”

  “Uh-uh.” Bobby Lee pulled out a gun from behind him. “Stay your distance, lady. No threats. I might not be able to walk, but I can take care of myself just fine.”

  Rachel stopped, and stared daggers at him. “You’re a disgrace. There’s a killer roaming around town and you’re willing to just sit by!”

  “Sure.” Bobby smiled. “I’ve met plenty of killers that go unpunished, and plenty of innocent men who go to jail. When you’ve been around the block as much as I have, you learn to accept the world as it is and just try and make your way through it. I’m not a bad guy, Rachel. I’m just trying to look out for myself. If you do right by me, I’ll do right by you.”

  “You’ll regret this,” Rachel said. “Believe me, you’ll regret this very much.”

  There was a crash from inside the warehouse, and the sound of a bottle breaking. Rachel jumped, and Bobby Lee looked suddenly afraid.

  “Get out of here,” he said. “I’ll call you again tomorrow. You better have my money!”

  Rachel had already turned her back to him, and was running to her car. She looked back one last time, but Bobby Lee had already vanished, and she heard an engine rev up in the back of the warehouse.

  *****

  Chapter 13

  The Price Of A Mocha

  She was still breathing heavily as she parked outside Aunt Rose’s bakery. There was no way she was going to be able to gather fifty thousand dollars in a day. She rested her head against the steering wheel and tried to think. She had to talk to someone. She had to go to the sheriff.

  Only Bobby Lee had been so confident that the sheriff wouldn’t arrest him. Why? There were two possibilities. One: Bobby Lee thought that there was no proof—all he had to do was deny making the crank call, and the sheriff couldn’t do anything. Two: Bobby Lee knew the sheriff wouldn’t arrest him because the sheriff was the one who’d put him up to it in the first place. Rachel didn’t want to believe that thought. Much as she disliked Sheriff Tanner, she could never imagine him as the murderer. There was a third possibility too. Maybe Sheriff Tanner wasn’t the murderer. Maybe Bobby Lee simply thought that he’d help cover up for the murderer.

  Which meant that maybe Emily had done it.

  Once the thought was in her head, it wouldn’t go out. Of course it was a possibility. Emily had broken into her home and gotten away with it. Maybe she thought she could get away with murder too. Maybe she actually could. But why? Was Emily the one Arthur was having an affair with? It would make a lot of sense. Maybe in the months that the house was empty, Emily had used it for her trysts, maybe she’d left something behind. Perhaps that’s what she’d been looking for when Rachel had caught her.

  As for Arthur, maybe he’d been pressuring Emily to confess to Jay, and she didn’t want to. So she had killed him and tried to frame Rachel instead.

  The more Rachel thought about it, the more it made sense. Emily’s café was right across the street, and she was always up early to open it. Emily had already broken in once, she knew how to do it again. Emily had known Arthur for years, enough time to develop an attraction. Then there was Jay. Jay who suspected but didn’t want to admit his suspicions. Jay whose every shifting mood could be explained by this theory.

  Someone knocked on the window, and Rachel sprang back so hard, her head hit the backrest. Sheriff Tanner’s face peered down at her. He looked concerned.

  “You alright?” he asked as she rolled down the window.

  “Just peachy,” Rachel said. “Figure out a way to arrest me yet?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you your sarcasm is a deadly weapon?” he asked.

  “Maybe that’s how I killed Arthur then, the power of sarcasm. Explains why you never found a weapon.”

  “We’ll find it soon enough,” the sheriff said. “All I know is, it’s not in your aunt's house. Forensics searched up and down, but came up with nothing. We’ve collected all the evidence we were going to find. You’re free to move back home if you like.”

  “Oh . . .” Rachel let out a deep breath. “Thanks. I guess.”

  “No need, Rachel, I guess if the weapon isn’t in your aunt's house, that leaves me with two possibilities. One: You killed Arthur and handed the weapon to someone else who hid it for you—highly unlikely. I know for sure that you didn’t leave the house once Arthur died. So if you killed him, the weapon would be in the house. That leaves me with possibility two: you’re telling the truth.”

  Rachel stared at him, her eyes wide. “Are you saying you think I’m innocent?”

  “I’m saying you can move back home,” Sheriff Tanner said. “And I’m saying that I’ll have a patrol by your house to keep you safe. I checked the call records on your aunt's house. You weren’t lying about the crank call, at least. We have the exact times of the call on record. It was from a public phone, so no idea who did it yet.”

  Rachel felt relief wash over her. She stepped out of the car, and the sheriff accompanied her inside. The harshness and barely contained anger that he’d projected at h
er had vanished completely. The sheriff looked relaxed, even if his eyes were sharp as they scanned the bakery.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” he asked her.

  She laughed. “There you go, offering me coffee in my own house.”

  “Oh, I actually meant from across the street,” he said, pointing his thumb behind his back. “Emily makes a mean mocha.”

  “Heard she makes a mean marble cake too,” Rachel said.

  “Oh yeah! That marble cake will give you tough competition. I’m not one to brag on behalf of my sister, but it’s really good. Best cake in town.”

  “Hmm. Too bad she discontinued it.”

  “She was pretty upset when Aunt Rose died.” Sheriff Tanner nodded. “Look, Rachel, about that night when you thought she broke in—”

  “When she did break in,” Rachel said.

  “Well, I want you to know—she didn’t have anything on her. Not a scrap of paper. So she’s no thief. I’m sure she really did see someone inside.”

  “I’m sure you want to believe that,” Rachel said. “How far would you go to defend your sister, Sheriff? You protected her when she broke into my aunt's study. Would you protect her if she killed someone?”

  The sheriff's nostrils flared. His eyes, which had warmth in them just seconds ago, were now cold and harsh again. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “I’m a professional, Rachel. If my sister were at all involved in this mess, I’d hand the case over to the state police as the guidelines state I must. So far, there’s not a shred of evidence connecting her.”

  “What about your sister’s husband?” Rachel asked. “Jay was Arthur’s partner, and Jay was angry at Arthur.”

  “Jay? Angry at Arthur?”

  “Paul withdrew his account from the firm after he fought with Arthur last Friday. Surely you know this?”

  “Oh, that.” Sheriff Tanner shook his head. “Sure, we looked into it. In any case, Jay has an airtight alibi. From six a.m. to nine a.m. yesterday he was locked in his office and on a conference call with two other lawyers. It’s a weekly thing and this was his turn. He was giving them a lecture about some case or another. His secretary confirmed the call and so did the other lawyers.”

  “Oh.” Rachel sighed. “OK then.”

  “Rachel.” He took her shoulders gently and looked her in the eyes. His professional tone fell away, and an authentic earnestness showed on his face. “I know Arthur’s death must have been quite the shock. You’re new to town, so I can understand you’re having trouble knowing whom to trust. Please trust me. I mean it when I say that I want the truth no matter how painful it might be. Whoever killed Arthur, I’m going to find them and put them behind bars. So if there’s anything you can tell me that might help, now’s the time.”

  She was tempted. His hypnotic eyes, the openness of his face, even the heat of his hands on her—all of them tempted her to trust him. It would be so freeing, so comforting to tell him everything. Only she couldn’t. How could she trust this stranger when even Brandon had betrayed her? No matter how sincere he seemed, she couldn’t confide in him.

  He must have sensed this, because he leaned away from her, and his voice became a little formal again. “So, how about that mocha? Interested?”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I need a break from—all of this. A mocha sounds perfect.” Her stomach grumbled in agreement, and the sheriff bit back a laugh.

  “Maybe a sandwich too?” he asked. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Does marble cake count?” Rachel smiled. “Thanks Sheriff. I could use some food.”

  “Sheriff? Didn’t you used to call me buddy?” he teased. “Last I remember, you said I wasn’t fit to be called sheriff.”

  Rachel bit her lip, and color flooded her cheek at his gentle tone. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that night,” she said.

  “Sure, but I don’t like being called buddy, you know. How about Scott? Suits me better than sheriff, or buddy.”

  “Is that the price of a mocha? Calling you Scott?” Rachel gave him a crooked smile.

  He gave her his signature rakish grin, and winked. “I don’t know. Do you want it to be?”

  “OK, Scott. Let’s go grab some coffee.”

  *****

  Chapter 14

  A Wall Of Photos

  Bull’s Café was empty when they stepped in. The place was cozier than Rachel had expected. Wide windows let in ample sunlight, and bean bags were scattered around round tables. On one wall was the signature painting of the café, a large painting of a matador dodging a bull. The painting was blurry, giving a feel of motion as the bull charged toward the dodging matador. The opposing wall was covered from floor to ceiling with pictures of the café's patrons. Rachel observed the pictures and felt a little twinge as she saw Emily and Scott’s father grow older over the course of them. In the seventies, he had a ponytail and a cheeky grin. In the eighties, he wore a mullet and a crucifix earring. In the nineties, he was almost bald, but a skateboard was propped up behind him as he shook hands with Tony Hawk himself. A young Scott was in the background, looking up with wide eyes.

  “Dad had more energy than a fully charged battery.” Scott grinned as he saw Rachel take in the photos. “He had more tales in him than the Arabian Nights do. I wish you could have met him—he’d have liked you.”

  “I’m sorry. Did he pass away recently?”

  “Seven years now. My mom passed away when we were really young.” Scott had a brief shadow of pain across his face. “Emily and I are all that’s left of the family.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel repeated, feeling as though she should say more, but not knowing what.

  Scott shrugged. “Your Aunt Rose really helped us, you know. She was dating my dad before he passed. Afterward, she took us under her wing. I mean, Emily and I were already grown up by then, but she must have sensed we needed her. She was always there for both of us—her, and her cakes.”

  “Maybe she needed you as much as you needed her,” Rachel said. “We didn’t have much family left either, and I was . . . selfishly busy in my own pursuits. I’m glad you and Emily were there for Aunt Rose.”

  Scott smiled down at her as though the thought that he’d been good for Aunt Rose had never occurred to him. “Well, she thought the world of you,” he said. “Rachel this, and Rachel that. It’s all she’d talk about. She always said you made her proud.”

  It should have made Rachel happy to hear, but instead, she just felt sad. Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t think I lived up to her expectations,” she said.

  Scott was about to say something when Emily, from behind the counter, called out, “You two going to order something or just stand and gab?”

  Scott had a wide grin as he hopped onto a stool at the counter. “I was just telling Rachel to be careful, that mocha you make is as addictive as crack cocaine.”

  “I add a bit of cocaine into it. That’s my secret ingredient.” Emily winked at him. “Want me to make you one?”

  “Minus the cocaine, yes.” Scott winked back at her. “How’s the little tyke? He going to school yet?”

  “Ollie? Just a playgroup right now. His teacher told me he’s in trouble for eating crayons. I told her he gets it from his uncle.”

  “Oh yeah, crayons—yum.” Scott rubbed his stomach. “I could go for some Crayola right now.”

  “Sorry, we’re all out. How about a grilled cheese?”

  “Ah, I’ll make do.” Scott sighed. “So grilled cheese and double mocha for me. Rachel? What’ll you have?”

  Rachel hesitated. “Uh . . . well, the same I guess.”

  “Hold on, you said you haven’t eaten all day. You need something more substantial,” Scott said. “Try the roast chicken sandwich, it’s pretty good.”

  “OK, sure.” Rachel hopped up on a stool next to him, and let her feet dangle under her. “Maybe instead of the double mocha, I can get a salted, caramel frappé.”


  “Cool. Consider it done.” Emily shouted out the orders into the kitchen behind her, then got busy making the coffee.

  Scott put his hat on the counter next to him, and ran a hand through his thick, black hair, fluffing it up. Now that they were standing next to each other, Rachel could clearly see the resemblance in the brother and sister. Scott was like a bigger, thick-jawed version of Emily in some ways. They had the same perfect smile, and even their mannerisms were sometimes alike.

  Rachel watched as they bantered. Each seemed determined to insult the other, yet their words had an undercurrent of absolute affection.

  “Heard you’re moving out of the condo,” Emily said as she placed the grilled cheese in front of him. “What happened? They kick you out for making too much noise when you snore?”

  “Na, they kicked me out once they figured I’m related to you,” Scott said easily. “Can’t have riffraff around, they said.”

  Emily stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Jokes aside, I’m buying a place closer to the station,” Scott said. “Mrs. Miller is moving to Florida with her new boyfriend, and I’m taking the cottage.”

  “Mrs. Miller? Really? She’s practically ninety. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  “She’s eighty-three, and could probably outrun me still.” Scott smiled. “Amazing woman.”

  “Outrunning you doesn’t take much, to be fair.” Emily laughed. “We used to call this guy Slowpoke Scott back in the day,” she said to Rachel.

  “Yeah, and I used to call Emily, Owl-ily.” Scott smiled. “She had these huge glasses and went around everywhere with her nose stuck inside a book.”

  “Oh, I was adorable and you were just jealous,” Emily said.

  “Can’t argue that.” Scott smiled. “Can’t believe you went and got contacts. I think you looked better with the thick frames and bob-cut hair. Hang on, I can show you.” He grabbed Rachel by the elbow and led her to the wall of photos. Rachel gave a little giggle as he trailed his finger along the wall and finally settled on a faded picture of two kids in front of Bull’s Café.