by Carol Durand
The detective sighed and kissed her forehead. “The home invasion that I went to check out earlier…was at your house, Missy,” he said quietly, holding onto her upper arms.
“What?” she exclaimed. “Someone broke into my house? Why would anyone do that?” she asked fearfully.
“Well, Donna Chesman still hasn’t been located as yet. There were a few items missing, and a rather cryptic message written on your wall in bright red crayon.”
“A message? What sort of message? And what was missing?” Missy clutched the two halves of her robe together at the neck.
“The message said, Your next,” he explained reluctantly, knowing that it might scare her. “And it was written where your grandmother’s painting had hung, the painting itself was gone. It looked as though some of your clothes were missing from your closet as well, as was the basket of dog toys that you keep in the kitchen, unless you brought that with you.”
Missy shook her head numbly. “No, I know that you always have a good supply of toys over here, so I didn’t bring them, but why would Donna steal dog toys?”
Chas shrugged. “Maybe she has a dog, who knows? We’re bringing in a handwriting analyst from New Orleans to take a look at the message and compare it with samples of Donna’s handwriting. When we do find her, it looks more and more like she’ll be heading to jail. I want you to stay here until she’s found – I don’t think that you’ll be safe at home, okay?”
She nodded miserably. “This is so awful, Chas,” her voice shook. “I never would’ve suspected that young girl of any of this.”
“Sometimes the people that we suspect the least are the ones who end up being the culprit, it’s just a sad reality. But don’t worry, sweetie, okay? I think we’re close to getting this whole case resolved, and as soon as we find Donna, you’ll be able to go back home,” he took her in his arms again, just holding her without words.
Chapter 14
Carlton Dobbs leaned casually across the counter of Missy’s Muffins and More, clearly flirting. Cheryl, the manager was in the back, boxing up orders to be delivered, Grayson was on his lunch break, and Missy was manning the front counter by herself.
“I just had to stop by and partake of a little bit more of your sweetness,” he grinned.
“I get that a lot. Which flavor strikes your fancy?” she asked, looking pointedly at the cupcake selection in the cases.
Carlton chuckled. “I’m sure they’re all delightful. Tell me, Missy, how is it that a lovely woman like you doesn’t have a ring on that delicate finger?”
“It’s a long story, but suffice to say, I’ve had other goals that don’t leave much room for that sort of thing,” she replied dismissively. “The Cupcake of the Day is quite good, it’s called Margarita Madness – I created the recipe while on vacation in the Caribbean,” she deftly changed the subject.
“Sounds delicious, I’ll take two. So, are you and Dudley Do-Right, whom I met on your porch the other day, dating?” he persisted, while Missy pulled two of the cupcakes out of the case.
Missy was beginning to get a bit uncomfortable. She didn’t like talking about her personal life with strangers, even charming, handsome ones, and didn’t particularly appreciate Carlton’s mocking reference to the detective. “I don’t see why that matters,” she said breezily, handing him a plate with his cupcakes. “How’s your ankle by the way?” She’d noticed when he came in that he didn’t have even so much as a trace of a limp, and thought that he must heal very quickly, despite the chronic nature of his injury.
“It’s much better, thanks. So, are you two exclusive, or would you agree to go out to dinner with me sometime? We could take a trip down to New Orleans, take in some jazz…” he offered.
“I’m flattered, really, but I can’t,” Missy replied, busily rearranging cupcakes in the case to indicate that, as far as she was concerned, their conversation had ended with the completion of his transaction.
“Well, can’t blame a man for trying,” he gave her a tight smile. “Listen, sugar, why don’t you go ahead and put these in a bag for me?” he glanced at his watch, handing the plate of cupcakes back to her. “I just remembered that there’s someplace that I need to be.”
Missy’s encounter with the suave Mr. Dobbs left her feeling a bit unsettled, not because he tried so desperately to flirt with her, she’d been politely rebuffing male attention as long as she could remember, but because there was a certain something that seemed to be lurking beneath his impeccable manners that just didn’t sit well with her. Realizing that it was silly to dwell on the encounter, and knowing that she had far more disturbing things to think about, she shook it off and went on with her day.
Missy knew that the LaChance PD hadn’t cleared her to return home, but she had only brought enough things to Chas’s house to last her a couple of days and needed to pick up more clothing. She felt that she was imposing on the detective as it was, and was more than reluctant to ask him to gather her clothing and bring it to his house, so she tried to think of ways to slip in and out without notice, now that the police were patrolling the area in hopes of spotting Donna if she came back to do more damage. She felt ridiculous being just a tiny bit scared of encountering the teenager, but, if the girl was capable of murder, her fear was more than justified.
Grayson came back in from his lunch break, and Missy pulled off her apron, hanging it on a peg in the kitchen on her way out. She grimaced as she grabbed her purse, dreading the meeting that she was about to attend with Priscilla Chadwick. Apparently, the mayor had been just as persuasive with his daughter as he had been with Missy, and had railroaded them both into agreeing to a meeting. Missy refused to meet at a fancy restaurant this time, figuring that if dear Prissy threw another tantrum, it would at least be less embarrassing in a less ostentatious venue.
Pulling up in front of the Perfect Pig BBQ, Missy saw a very expensive imported convertible in the parking lot, and correctly assumed that Priscilla had arrived before she did, giving her a small glimmer of hope that this meeting would go better than the last. She had to suppress a giggle when she walked into the smoky-scented eatery and saw Priscilla Chadwick peeling paper towels off of a roll on a red and white checkered tablecloth and putting them down on a rough hewn bench before sitting. Missy was wearing the same jeans and short-sleeved polo that she had worn to work, poor Prissy was dressed in white designer capris and a second-skin white camisole, not exactly the best choice for a barbeque joint that was known for its “sloppy satisfaction.”
“Hello Priscilla,” Missy grinned, approaching the clearly uncomfortable socialite.
“What were you thinking, having a meeting here?” she asked, taking in her surroundings with disdain. “I don’t think Daddy would approve,” she sniffed.
“On the contrary,” Missy replied smugly. “Your father has his meetings here pretty regularly from what I understand. It allows him to relate to his constituents, and the barbeque here is out of this world.”
“I bet it is,” Prissy grimaced. “I feel like I’ve landed on another planet. My fiancé will be joining us shortly, he had some work thing,” she waved her hand, unable to relate to having the responsibility of an actual job.
“Great,” Missy was pleased, thinking that dealing with Priscilla might actually be easier with the presence of another adult, assuming that her fiancé wasn’t just as spoiled and entitled as she was. “Let’s go ahead and order, then we can get started with a few basics before he arrives,” she suggested, taking a seat on the bench across from the bride-to-be.
“Order? Are you serious? I’m sure there’s nothing here that I’d be interested in putting in my mouth,” she made a face.
“Suit yourself,” Missy replied, looking at the menu. She placed her order when the server came over, for an unashamed southern lunch of pulled pork, Cajun coleslaw, collard greens and jalapeno cheddar cornbread. Priscilla ordered an iced tea, cattily remarking that it must be difficult to maintain one’s figure with such a voracious appetite. �
�And yet, I manage,” was Missy’s oh-so-sweet response. She was determined not to let the mayor’s daughter get under her skin. Knowing full well that she was the responsible adult, and that the mayor was confident that she could reign in his headstrong offspring, she had vowed to take control of the situation and keep it.
Missy thoroughly enjoyed her down-home lunch, savoring each bite while young Miss Chadwick sipped delicately at her iced tea, complaining that it wasn’t freshly brewed.
“So let’s start off with something easy,” she suggested, sopping up a puddle of sweet and smoky barbeque sauce with the corner of her cornbread. “What colors were you thinking for the bridesmaids?” she asked, thinking that this was the safest possible question. Most girls had their wedding color scheme dreamed up from about age 10.
“I’m sorry, but is this how it’s going to go? Am I going to have to think of everything?” Priscilla huffed, offended. “I thought that was your job.”
Missy’s forkful of greens stopped halfway to her mouth. She was utterly astounded that this difficult creature who proclaimed to know exactly what she wanted, hadn’t thought far enough ahead to even know what her color scheme was going to be. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know, or care, what colors are used in your wedding? That’s something that most brides are very passionate about,” she replied, not letting her astonishment color her tone.
“Okay, I don’t want to have to remind you of this again, but I am not most brides, and my wedding is supposed to be special and perfect. That’s why you’re here, right? If you’re not capable of handling it, you should just say so,” she snipped, examining her perfect manicure.
Missy refused to take the bait, and ignored the socialite’s pathetic jibe. “Do you have a favorite color?” she persisted.
“Mmmm…no. I refuse to limit myself by choosing one favorite color.”
“Okay, let’s table that subject for now,” Missy said, jotting down a note on her pad that said, “rainbow.”
“Do you know who you’d like to have as your bridesmaids?” she asked, wondering if the difficult creature actually had any friends.
“You’ll have to ask Daddy about that, I think he has some hags from good families that we’re supposed to include,” she leaned her head on her hand, poking her straw up and down among the ice cubes in her tea. “How long is this going to take? I have a wax at 2:00,” she said, clearly bored.
Missy was relieved to know that there was a constraint on their time together, preferring to deal with Prickly Prissy in small doses. “We’ll be done in plenty of time for you to get to your…wax. How many guests are you planning on inviting?”
“Don’t know, don’t care, ask Daddy,” she muttered, then suddenly sat up, brightening, and smiling the first smile that Missy had ever seen from her. “There he is,” she cooed, looking past Missy and waving at someone behind her. Missy turned and nearly choked on her sweet tea when she saw Carlton Dobbs making his way toward them.
The art broker never broke stride when he saw Missy sitting with his 15-years-younger fiancé, but instead, came up to the table, kissing Priscilla lovingly on the cheek and extended his hand to Missy in greeting.
“Missy Gladstone, what a pleasant surprise,” he said smoothly, sliding onto the bench next to his fiancée.
“A surprise indeed,” Missy nodded, stunned.
Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. “You two know each other?” she addressed Carlton exclusively, the demand in her eyes not the least bit softened by her plastic smile.
“Why yes, poppet,” he oozed, touching Prissy’s chin with a fingertip. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth, you see, and Missy’s delightful little cupcake shop is located conveniently between here and New Orleans, so I occasionally pop in for a morning treat on my way to the city,” he explained, drawing her hand to his lips and kissing it.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” her tone was faintly accusatory, but she seemed to be pacified for the moment. Carlton’s presence had significantly changed her demeanor for the better. “Ewww…baby, what is that icky stuff on your suit?” she scooted away as though not wanting to be contaminated.
“Hmmm…I must’ve sat in something,” he said, running his hand over the red, waxy substance, and taking off the offending suit coat so that his beloved would sit closer to him.
Missy was at a loss for words, wondering if her day and this nightmare of a wedding could get any stranger. She put another bite of cornbread in her mouth, just so she’d have something to do, feeling entirely awkward in the presence of the engaged man who had just asked her out this morning.
“So, Missy, I’m assuming that you’re going to be baking our cake?” he asked pleasantly, as though nothing had ever happened between them.
“Umm…no, I’m planning the entire wedding,” she replied, needing a swig of tea to wash down the cornbread that seemed stuck in her throat.
“Well, splendid!” he exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased.
“She’s only done this once before, and for some reason, Daddy hired her,” Priscilla complained, snuggling closer to Carlton with a pouty look on her face.
“Well, princess, I’m sure that we’re in good hands. Your father is very intuitive about most things,” he soothed.
Missy did her best not to gag at the sickly sweetness with which he treated his impossible fiancée. With Carlton present, they were able to at least get through some of the basics, however, so no matter how awkward Missy felt, she was glad that he had attended the meeting. Thankfully, because of Prissy’s waxing appointment, the meeting was mercifully brief, and Missy came away from it with more of a plan than she had believed was possible, so she counted the time together as a success.
She called the mayor to report that things had actually gone much better than she had anticipated, leaving out her feelings about having been hit on earlier in the day by the prospective groom. The magnanimous official told her that whatever she had been planning on charging him, she should double it.
Chapter 15
Because she had handled the difficult situation with aplomb, Missy felt that she was certainly brave enough to handle slipping into her own home to gather some personal items for her stay at Chas’s, and headed for her neighborhood, despite repeated warnings from Chas and the police that she should stay away.
Rather than pulling into her driveway and parking in the garage, she parked on the next block and took a path between houses to approach her stately Victorian from the rear. Her heart rate sped up as she slipped stealthily onto the back porch and unlocked the door, hoping that the police had retrieved all the evidence that they needed, so that she wouldn’t be impeding the investigation by disturbing the scene.
Missy walked quietly through the kitchen, tiptoeing as though she was the intruder, then, realizing how silly she was being, she made an effort to breathe and move normally. Sure enough, the basket of dog toys was missing, which made her unreasonably sad, and when she crossed into the living room to look at the space where her grandmother’s painting had hung, she gasped in horror, fumbling in her purse for her phone.
Chas Beckett sped to Missy’s house frustrated that she had gone in when he’d strongly advised her not to, and concerned because of her reaction to what she had found. He saw her sitting on the front porch, head in her hands when he pulled up, and when she raised her head, hearing his car in the drive, her expression was a strange mix of fear and relief.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” the detective asked after mounting the porch steps two at a time. His eyes darted about, looking for anything amiss.
“Donna didn’t do this, Chas,” Missy stated, wide-eyed.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, frowning. All evidence seemed to indicate that the teenager was the murderer and burglar. He was still waiting for results from the autopsy and handwriting specialist, but had assumed that they would merely confirm what was already assumed.
Missy took him by the hand and led him to the living room, coming to a halt in front of t
he spot where her grandmother’s painting had hung, and where the burglar had scrawled a threatening message. “See this?” she pointed at the message, “Your next,” that was scrawled in red crayon on the wall in place of the missing painting. “Donna couldn’t have done this. She was a straight A student, and even though she wasn’t awarded the scholarship for cooking school, she was the editor of the school paper and was nominated for several other partial scholarships.”
Chas looked at the wall, then back at Missy, figuring out what she was saying. “So, if Donna had written this, it would’ve been spelled correctly,” he nodded, frowning.
“Exactly! She would never have confused your and you’re, but that’s not all…” Missy said excitedly.
“Okay, what else?” the detective asked, his admiration for her growing by the second.
“I had lunch today with Priscilla Chadwick, and found out that her fiancé was Carlton Dobbs.”
The detective grimace upon hearing Carlton’s name. “And?”
“And, when Carlton sat down, Priscilla remarked that he had something on his suit, and I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but from where I sat, it certainly looked like exactly this shade of red crayon,” she pointed at the message again.
“I’m certainly not averse to the idea of putting Dobbs behind bars for a very long time,” Chas admitted wryly. “But why would he do something like this? He seemed to be quite fond of you,” the detective observed, gritting his teeth.
“He probably did it to make it look like Donna was guilty, and, not knowing that the girl who worked at the ice cream shop just happened to be an honor student, he wrote a misspelled message in red crayon on the wall to point the investigation in her direction so that he’d have the freedom to steal artwork for his business without scrutiny from the police,” she explained.
“When the Home Ec teacher’s house was robbed after her murder, it was art that was taken,” Chas nodded.
