by Deany Ray
I stood up. “But Roger, Lynn was lying. Because the truth is that Marilyn wanted her cake to be the one that the paper chose to photograph. So, don’t you understand? What possible reason could there be for Lynn to make up a thing like that? Unless she wanted to make Marilyn look more guilty. So that nobody would ever find out that Lynn’s the one who did it.”
Roger shook his head. “That’s hardly enough to bring her in for questioning. I don’t suppose you’ve managed to gather any evidence for this theory you’ve concocted? It’s a pretty serious thing to accuse someone of murder.”
“What if you seized Lynn’s camera? If there are pictures of Marilyn’s cake, that would prove she’s lying.”
Roger gave me the same kind of withering look I used to hate when I spent a lot of time with him. “I can hardly arrest a woman because she won’t admit to – or remember – taking a picture of a cake. I’m sure she just forgot. Think of how many people she must have talked to at the fair. It was a busy day for the Gazette, even before somebody fell down dead right there in the middle of the balloons and cotton candy.”
He never would listen to reason before, and it seemed he hadn’t changed. It was up to me, I guessed, to make sure that Marilyn’s life wasn’t ruined forever.
“So you won’t investigate?” I asked. “You won’t even have an officer just nose around a little?”
“Not with evidence that directly links the death to the cake that Marilyn made. The only thing that would help the suspect now is if somebody else came forward and admitted to the crime.”
I had to make that happen. But I wondered how.
Back at the café, Dwight was putting on his coat while Rosalie cleared his plates. I needed her to help me. Should I talk to Dwight as well? Considering that Roger was his boss, Dwight could get in so much trouble.
But then I thought of Marilyn. She could spend most of her remaining years locked away and put to shame for something she didn’t do. All because she wanted to make a cake that tasted fabulous and that just might be pretty enough to make the front page of the paper.
I looked around at all the tables. No coffee mugs or water glasses seemed to need refilling. The customers looked content for now.
“Come with me a minute,” I said to Dwight and Rosalie. I tilted my head just slightly to indicate the back corner of the room.
Rosalie linked her arm through Dwight’s and wiped a dab of buttercream frosting off the edge of his lip. “Dwight needs to get back to the station, hon.” She looked up adoringly at his ruddy face. “Dwight has crimes to solve.”
I headed to the back. “And that’s exactly why I want to talk. I think I know how to solve one.”
Chapter Twelve
Rosalie jumped at the chance to follow a brand new clue.
When I told her what I was thinking, she took off in a run, heading toward the kitchen. “Let me get my phone,” she called. “And then I’m on it. Stat!” Her high heels made a clicking sound as I wondered who in the world it was that she planned to call.
She soon came back, dejected. “Well, that was a big fail. She’s not coming over.”
“Who?”
“Well, Lynn Fowler, of course. Who else?” she said, as if I were a moron. “I said we needed to talk to her and that she should get here quick. I said we had important news. News. Isn’t that something that’s supposed to make reporters run right over?”
“Not always,” I said. “I suspect that this particular bit of news won’t be real exciting to the reporter that’s in question.”
Rosalie kicked off one heel and sat down at an empty table near the back. “So you think she knows what you’ve found out?”
“I can’t imagine that she has. And with Marilyn in jail, Lynn most likely thinks the police have this one all wrapped, that she’s pulled off the perfect murder.” I paused to think. “But we can’t let that happen. We have to talk to her today.”
And so when the last customers had left, we locked up and headed to the Ouna Bay Gazette.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Rosalie asked from the front seat as I pulled in front of the building. “If the bad guy won’t come to us, then we’ll come right to her.” This time it was dark and Lynn’s red Volkswagen was the only other car in sight.
I took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be an easy job to get Lynn to confess. I had to beat the reporter at her own game. Reporters were good at asking the tough questions, so they were probably excellent at avoiding them as well. Reporters were trained to force people to admit their darkest secrets. Now it was Lynn’s turn to confess.
I didn’t feel confident at all about my chances. But, if she did fess up, we’d have it all on tape. Dwight had managed to “borrow” some equipment from the station for us to record our little talk with Lynn. He was all for helping Marilyn. “She kind of reminds me of my mama,” he’d said mournfully.
I tried not to think about what Roger might say if he ever got wind of this very unofficial bit of detective work to solve a murder the cops considered closed.
Speaking of my ex, he may have locked up the wrong woman, but he had taught me a few things back when we were dating. Like how to hide a recorder and a mic so that a suspect’s none the wiser. I made sure that everything was in order before I headed in. Recorder attached firmly to my belt? Check. Small microphone hidden in the inside hem of my shirt? A-okay. Thank goodness for loose t-shirts.
Rosalie would wait in the car with her laptop, which we’d connected to the recorder. If Lynn confessed (fingers crossed!), Rosalie would be among the first in town to hear the news. Dwight had also connected a tiny earpiece to his girlfriend’s phone so that Rosalie could talk to me if needed.
Thank goodness I found the door unlocked. The building was eerily quiet, which made sense, given the hour. A little snooping at the reception desk told me who worked where and that I would most likely find Lynn at her desk on the second floor.
I took the steps and headed to the single circle of light in a sea of otherwise darkened cubicles. True to her word, Lynn was huddled over her computer hard at work, her long blonde hair partially obstructing the screen.
“Hey,” I said.
Clearly, she was startled. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a tone that let me know she didn’t welcome the intrusion.
“I know you’re hiding something. I know that you lied.” Why not get straight to business? “Marilyn was hoping you’d take a photo of her cake. But you made up a story about what happened between you and her that day.”
“Hey look, I’m really busy. And you’re not making sense.” Lynn tried to brush it off, but all the color had drained out of her face.
“Lynn, why did you lie? Did you want them to hurry up and find a suspect?” I took a deep breath and then I said it: “So they wouldn’t find out that it was you who poisoned Ada?”
The color returned to her face, which was now an intense angry red. She stood up and yelled. “You’re crazy. And you’re trespassing. Don’t you know we’re closed? Get out of here! Right now.”
And part of me really wanted to do exactly that. I didn’t like the rage that was building in her eyes. Or the knowledge of what had happened to the last person to make her mad.
But this might be my last chance to get her to say something, anything, on tape to prove what had really happened on the day of the town fair. It was my last chance to let Roger know that I was, in fact, not crazy to think that Ada died at the hands of a camera-wielding blonde in an oversized khaki jacket.
“Why did you do it, Lynn?” I moved closer to her desk so the mic would pick up clearly anything she said. I hoped the rapid thud of my heartbeat wouldn’t knock the recording equipment right off onto the floor.
Suddenly, I heard a whisper in my ear. It was Rosalie. “Tell her you hated Ada too. Act like you’re her friend.”
“Her friend?” I asked out loud, before I remembered that Rosalie waiting in the car was my little secret.
Lynn assumed the remark was meant for h
er. “What do you mean, her friend?” she yelled. “That evil woman never had a friend in her entire life!”
“That’s good,” coached Rosalie. “Get her real riled up.”
And Lynn was indeed getting angrier by the minute. “Why are people even worried about who it was that killed her? Why can’t we just be glad she’s gone?” She looked down at the notebook in her hand and threw it on the ground.
Well. This was promising. If Lynn got mad enough, maybe she’d let her guard down and say something I could use. I moved closer and closer to her and leaned in so the mic would pick up anything she said.
Rosalie sang into my ear. “We’re gonna solve a murder. We’re gonna solve a murder.”
Her constant interruptions made it hard to think.
“Quiet!” I whispered under my breath. “Now is not the time to sing.”
Lynn stood still and stared. “Why in the hell would I want to sing? What I want to do is write a story so I can get out of here.” She looked me in the eye. “If the crazy woman would only leave and let me do my work.”
“You know that I’m not crazy. Because you know that what I say is right. You know that Marilyn is not the one who should be sitting in that jail.” Here comes the confession. I moved even closer.
She backed away. “Could you give me a little space?”
“Why did you do it, Lynn?” Still mindful of the mic, I leaned in very close.
She leaned back. “Are you gonna leave like I asked you to, or do I need to call the cops?”
I forced myself to sound much braver than I felt. “Oh, okay. Tell them to bring their handcuffs too. So they can make an arrest for murder.” I leaned forward so that my nose was almost touching hers.
She leaned back so that her head banged against the wall. “Did you hurt your back or what? Do you need a chiropractor?”
This wasn’t working, I thought. I needed to go at it a different way. So I tried a softer voice.
“You’re right that Ada had no friends. We all hated Ada. But we never had the courage to do the thing you did. So tell me, Lynn. What did Ada do that finally made you snap?” I moved closer and closer to my suspect and leaned into her face.
“I said to get away! Why do you have to stand so close? It’s like a crazy woman broke in, and now she wants to dance with me while she accuses me of murder.”
“What did she do to you, Lynn? It must have been something really bad.” I leaned in even closer.
She leaned back so far that I thought she might topple over. Her face grew even redder. “You’d better believe that it was bad. That woman had it coming. The woman had to go, and it was up to me. And it just so happened that I knew how to do it. I could get my hands on cyanide. And I decided then and there that the next time she took a bite of cake, it would be her very last.”
Score. I did a happy dance inside my head.
I headed toward the exit with my evidence in tow.
“But you can’t prove I said that,” she called after me. “People will think that you’re a crazy woman.”
And that’s when I heard a scuffle in my ear.
“What the hell is going on?” It was a familiar voice, too forceful and way too deep to be Rosalie’s. It was Houston. How had he found us? And what was he doing here?
Next I heard Rosalie, struggling to explain. “Oh...I...well, we...”
But why was I just standing there? It might be very wise to run. A murder suspect was staring me down, and I had some explaining to do...to my current boyfriend and my ex.
Chapter Thirteen
“She was awful!” Lynn screamed as she ran behind me toward the stairs. “My mother lost her business. All because of Ada.”
Ah, yes. Now I remembered. Five years ago Lynn’s mother had entered a vanilla layer cake into the contest at the fair. And Ada, true to form, had been cruel in her assessment. Tasteless. Like the thinnest piece of cardboard with little dabs of icing.
“She had to close her bakery!” Lynn said, just steps behind me now. “The one her father started! She just had to lock the doors and shut it down. It had been our family business for more than thirty years.”
I remembered Lynn’s grandfather. He’d let my friends and I have tiny bites of cake for every A we earned. I used to stop there after class for giant oatmeal cookies, even though Fowler’s Sweet Creations was my family’s competition.
I turned toward the reporter as I neared the stairs. “But Lynn, you killed a woman. And you let Marilyn sit locked up in jail and take the blame for what you did.”
Lynn stopped, out of breath. “But Ada had it coming.” She smiled. “And with just a little taste of cyanide, I did my civic duty. I single handedly made Ouna Bay a much sweeter place to live.”
“I can’t say that I’ll miss Ada,” I said over my shoulders as I took off at a run. “But you can’t just go and off someone because they don’t appreciate your mother’s baking skills.”
“Well, actually you can. And, if you’re smart like me, no one can ever prove it.”
It was at that point that my shirt got caught on the sharp corner of a desk, knocking loose some of my now oh so valuable crime fighting paraphernalia.
Lynn reached out to grab a dangling cord. “You think that you’re so smart,” she said. “But that belongs to me.”
I tried to move away, but she was suddenly on top of me and I fell hard onto the floor, landing on my back. She held me down as she grabbed the recorder and the tiny little mic, smashing them both into the carpet.
I cringed at my aching back and at all the valuable evidence being crushed to pieces by the angry woman. While she destroyed my electronics with her right hand, she held me down with her left. The woman had some muscles, I will give her that.
When I thought it couldn’t get much worse, Lynn proved that it could.
I winced in pain and when I opened my eyes, I saw a pencil, sharpened to the finest tip, aimed straight at my eye.
Lynn was looking down at me with an evil grin. “A reporter’s favorite tool,” she said. “In more ways than one.”
Then, thank goodness, I heard footsteps and the sweet familiar sound of a voice I knew and loved. “Too bad that pencil has taken its last set of notes.” Houston’s voice was stern. “Because I think a certain reporter has written her last story. Assault’s against the law.”
At the very last second, he pulled Lynn away.
I didn’t want to think about how very close my pretty blue eyes had come to meeting that sharpened pencil tip. I might never be able to look at a yellow pencil ever again. From now on, I would be a pen girl. Pen and ink, all the way.
“Houston! Thank goodness! Thank goodness you were here.” I sat up and looked at him.
He gave me a questioning look as he held Lynn down to the ground. “What in the world is going on? Rosalie was just about to tell me when I heard you scream.”
I stood up and grabbed the nearest phone. “Lynn did it! She killed Ada. We need the police.”
Lynn flailed beneath his strong arm, but she was no match for Houston. “Go ahead and call them,” she said from the floor. “No way will they believe you. They’ll throw you both in jail. You’ll be tomorrow’s headline. I’ll write my best story ever. Cause I was right here on the scene.”
Houston shook his head. “No need to call,” he told me. “The police are on their way.”
And, as if to answer him, loud sirens wailed from down the street, growing closer as we spoke.
“She confessed,” I said to Houston. “And Rosalie heard it too.” I looked sadly at the equipment that lay smashed to pieces on the floor. “And I think Rosalie's got it all recorded on her laptop before everything got destroyed.”
Houston leaned back against a desk, keeping one strong arm on Lynn’s waist to keep her pinned down to the floor. He stretched out one foot to hold down her ankles. He gave me an exasperated look. “I thought you and your high-heeled partner were gonna stick to baking and leave the police work to the experts.”
I sunk down into a desk chair. “Believe me, I’d much rather be mixing batter than staring down a lunatic who’s trying to stab me in the eye.” I gave Lynn an angry look.
“Then you should stay in the kitchen and mind your own damn business,” she shouted from the floor.
“How did you find us?” I asked Houston.
He closed his eyes, exhausted. “Let’s just say I’m glad I did. Keeping you safe is starting to feel like a full time job. What were you thinking, you and Rosalie? If you’re suddenly Sherlock Holmes with the magic answer to a crime, why not just do things the old fashioned way and tell your story to police?
“Well, I tried to do that first,” I said. “That was my Plan A.”
He looked down at the smashed equipment that lay between me and Lynn. “I’m almost scared to ask what was up with your Plan B,” he said.
“Well, I made a mess of things for sure,” I said. “But I couldn’t let Marilyn sit in jail when I knew she didn’t do it.”
Just then I heard the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. Thank goodness, I thought, relieved that the cops were finally there.
But it was only Rosalie, trying hard to catch her breath.
“I can’t run as fast as Houston.” She sunk down against a wall then gave me a thumbs up. “You handled that real well, hon.” She looked down at Lynn. “She tried to play it cool, but you hung real tough and squeezed that confession right out of the guilty party.”
Then she noticed the broken equipment. “Well darn. And up until that smashing sound, things were going swell.” She kicked off one shoe.
Then she looked at Lynn again. “I was at the fair that year. I tasted your Mom’s cake. It could have used a bit more sugar but that vanilla icing, hon? Was absolute perfection.”
Chapter Fourteen
The customers were lined up out the door. I slid two pans of cupcakes into the oven. We were selling out of sweets. Then I grabbed the coffee pot to make my rounds. I saw lots of mugs that were half empty.
Everyone wanted a seat at the Blue Bay Café. They wanted to tell the story of where they were and what they were doing when they heard the shocking news. They wanted to hear every scintillating detail, every rumor about the arrest of the longtime ace reporter for the Ouna Bay Gazette.
