Murder Freshly Baked

by Vannetta Chapman

  In that moment, Preston saw the soldier his father had been—confident, astute, and unerringly polite. They were qualities that had been bred into every commander. Preston saw in his father the man he would have liked to become. He saw in his father what he would have been if he hadn’t failed so miserably.

  The ache passed when his dad caught sight of him waiting in the doorway. “Preston, it’s good to see you, son.” The smile and warm eyes assured him that everything would be fine.

  His dad’s greeting was followed by a fairly rousing chorus of “Preston’s here” and “Look who’s come to visit,” as if him stopping by for lunch was a surprise. As if he didn’t do the same thing every other day.

  Preston glanced at Zoey, and they shared a knowing smile. They often laughed about how his visits took the entire group by surprise. It was one of the few silver linings in working with the elderly in general and specifically those with dementia—it took very little to brighten their day.

  Lunch passed with news of grandchildren, recent doctor appointments, and baseball predictions. They’d learned to steer clear of politics. Even the oldest in their group seemed to still harbor strong political opinions.

  Preston waited until he had helped his dad to his room to pull out the whoopie pies from Georgia. Some of the residents had specific dietary restrictions, but his dad was still free to enjoy a daily sweet. Preston cut the individual-size pastry in half with a knife Zoey had provided and handed half to his dad. Gerald accepted the freshly baked treat with a smile as he sank into his recliner. They didn’t speak as they each enjoyed the pleasures of sugar, molasses, and chocolate.

  Preston collected the napkins and refilled his father’s water cup. “How ya doin’, Pops?”

  “Good, real good. Wish I had the crossword puzzle, though.”

  It was another of their little traditions. Preston pulled the newspaper out of the paper bag he’d brought with him and turned it to the puzzle.

  His father’s slow smile was all the reward he needed. Gerald immediately picked up his pen and became engrossed in the puzzle. Preston hadn’t seen his father work a crossword puzzle with a pencil since he’d come home from overseas. It was another measure of the sort of confidence in the man Preston envied.

  They sat that way for a few minutes, Gerald working the puzzle and then slipping into his afternoon nap, Preston enjoying the moments of quiet. Finally he sighed, stood, and placed the lap blanket over his dad, where he rested in his recliner.

  Then he picked up their trash, the bag holding the extra whoopie pie, and the other newspaper before stepping out into the hall. Zoey was helping the resident in the room next door into bed, but she popped her head out and asked him to wait for her.

  When she joined him on the front porch, he handed her the newspaper.

  “Could you give it to him tomorrow, in case I don’t make it over?”

  “Of course.” She snagged his hand and pulled him over to the porch swing. “Are things busy at the Village?”

  “They are. Springtime tourists are arriving, and we want everything in tip-top shape.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “This is for you.” He handed her the bag with the extra whoopie pie.

  Zoey shook her head in mock disgust when she pulled out the pastry. “You’re trying to fatten me up, Preston Johnstone.”

  The playfulness left her face as quickly as it had arrived.

  Preston waited. He could tell when Zoey had something to say. He’d learned her little nuances. When her eyes crinkled it meant she had something to share that would make him smile. When she worried her fingers through her curls, as she was doing now, it meant she had something to say that he might not like.

  He decided to make it easy for her. “Whatever it is, best be out with it.”

  Zoey nodded.

  “I know you still aren’t convinced that this is the best course, but I followed up on your application for a service dog.” She held up a hand to stop his protest. “Remember, you indicated on the form that it was okay for them to talk with me on your behalf? Today I received a call from Tomas Hernandez at ICAN. They have a service dog ready. One that has been trained specifically to deal with PTSD—”

  “I appreciate your concern, honey. I really do.” Preston laced his fingers together and stared at the ground. When he finally glanced up, Zoey was watching him closely. He knew how much she cared. There was no doubt in his mind that she was doing what she thought was best, but sometimes her optimism clouded her judgment. “Even if I thought it was a good idea—and I still don’t know how you talked me into applying—I don’t have the money. Service dogs cost upwards of ten thousand dollars.”

  “Tomas says he’s willing to cut that price dramatically. He has a real heart for wounded warriors.”

  Preston tried not to flinch.

  “I’m no warrior.” The words came out like a growl, and he reached for her hand to soften them. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Zoey.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  He gazed off into the distance and reminded himself how important she was to him—a fact that rubbed right up against the revelations he’d had after his destructive flashback the night before.

  “Tomas says there are funds within the VA to help pay for the dog.”

  “And the rest?”

  “There is no rest. He’s cutting the price, and the VA will pay the remaining amount with a grant. You can have the dog, Preston. You can go see it—today if you have time. Tomas is in Fort Wayne this week.”

  Preston wanted to tell her no. He wanted to explain to her that he couldn’t be trusted to care for an animal. He wanted to remind her that the data was still too new on service dogs with people who suffered from PTSD. He wanted to tell her that surely someone needed that dog more than he did.

  He wanted to say all those things, but he looked into her eyes and he couldn’t.

  This might be their only chance, because he could not—he would not—subject her to what he had been through the night before.

  So he said yes.

  He didn’t actually believe it would help, but since he didn’t have a better idea, he agreed.

  Amber hurried straight over to the Village bakery, Tate close to her side. Now they stood in the kitchen, staring down at the peach pie Georgia had set in the middle of the large baking counter. A skull and crossbones had been etched into the piecrust, apparently before it was baked since some of the peach filling had dried on the inside of the drawing, making it look even more sinister. Sitting beside the pie, tented as if it were announcing peach pies for sale, was a note.

  Thoughts were tumbling through Amber’s mind, bumping into each other and creating havoc.

  Was this the same person who wrote the e-mails?

  It had to be. Didn’t it?

  “Are you even listening?” Georgia crossed her arms, still clutching the rolling pin she normally used to roll out fresh piecrust. “I asked if you called the police.”

  “Yes, Gordon should be here any minute.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when the Middlebury police sergeant walked into the room. He was dressed in his jeans and flannel shirt, indicating he was giving up time on his day off to answer her call. She’d once again called him directly rather than calling through the police switchboard. He didn’t seem overly aggravated about that intrusion. Apparently he’d decided to take her direct calls as a compliment, or perhaps their friendship had progressed that far.

  But she couldn’t have called the police switchboard, could she? That would be widening the number of people who knew what was happening, and she’d been specifically warned against that.

  Would the person doing this know?

  Would they hurt Hannah or Pam or Tate?

  Gordon’s hair remained black without a speck of gray, and his six-foot frame was as muscular as that of a much younger man. They had once dated, but that was before Tate, before her life had changed. Fortunately the
y’d remained friends even after her marriage.

  “Anyone touch it?”

  “Not since I found it.” Georgia sounded slightly offended.

  “And when was that?”

  “Thirty minutes ago. I’ve been guarding it since.”

  She raised the rolling pin in explanation, and Amber had no doubt she would have used it should anyone try to swipe the evidence off her countertop.

  “All right. We’ll call in Cherry to fingerprint the area.”

  “We had the entire crew working this morning.” Georgia grimaced and glanced around the large industrial kitchen. “I refuse to watch any of those crime shows, but I do read. It doesn’t take Agatha Christie to figure out you’re going to have too many fingerprints in this room to be of any use.”

  “True, but we want to do all we can to catch the perp. There’s always a chance we’ll get lucky and the material this counter is made of will allow us to easily lift the prints.”

  Amber cleared her throat. “All the counters were cleaned with bleach before Georgia walked out of the room. She checked the supplies in the pantry, and when she walked back in, the pie was sitting in the middle of the counter.”

  “All right.” Gordon had taken out the small notepad he used, or had used for the two previous incidents. “And where were you when this happened?”

  “At lunch, with Tate. We were picking out flowers for—” The words caught in her throat and she felt as if she were going to be sick.

  Could this really be happening?

  Who was doing this, and why?

  “Are you okay, Amber?” Tate asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You looked a little green there for a minute.”

  “No, I’m fine. I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

  “All right.” Gordon glanced back down at his pad. “So you were with Tate when the call came in from—”

  “I called her.” Georgia gave him an exasperated look. “And if we could hurry this along, I have baking to tend to.”

  “This is a crime scene now. I’m afraid we’re going to have to bring in the forensic team.”

  “Oh . . .” Amber tried to think of a way to stop him. “It’s probably just a harmless prank. Don’t you think?”

  When Gordon only stared at her, she added, “Maybe Cherry could do her thing and then we could just throw that pie away.”

  “We’re not throwing it away. We’re sending it off to the lab.”

  At least no one had been hurt by this lunatic so far, and Amber prayed they wouldn’t be. If lightning rarely struck twice in the same place, what were the odds that they would encounter three murderers in one collection of Amish shops? None! She refused to even think that might happen.

  But she was considering it and going over the two e-mails in her mind. Why would anyone go to such lengths to frighten people? To frighten her?

  “The poison design in the crust seems obvious enough.” Gordon made another note on his pad.

  Georgia tapped the rolling pin against her palm. “Amber, I heard you received an anonymous e-mail last night.”

  “How—”

  “Few things stay a secret in small towns,” Georgia muttered. When Amber offered no explanation, she asked permission to leave and return to her work. “At least I can get the supplies reordered.”

  She left the room in a huff, obviously exasperated by the entire situation.

  Amber opened her tablet and showed Gordon the e-mail she’d received the night before. “Do you think it’s the same person?”

  “The odds of having two angry folks who are both bad poets are slim to none.”

  They both stared down at the note left beside the pie.

  Don’t taste it

  Don’t share it

  Just throw it away

  If you try my bakery pie

  You won’t live to see another day

  Amber shook her head. “Why would they even leave this note? If you’ve gone to the trouble of creating a poisonous pie, and you’ve risked being caught by bringing it to the Village kitchen, why leave a note warning us not to eat it?”

  Tate was taking a picture of the pie with his phone’s camera. “Whoever the person is doesn’t seem to want to hurt anyone.”

  “You think so?” Hope filled Amber’s voice.

  Gordon cleared his throat. “At the same time, the threat is escalating. First the e-mail, now the pie and note. Obviously they’re trying to get your attention.”

  “Oh.” Despair crept back into Amber’s heart. It was spring and her life was going well. She did not want to be dealing with another creepy, crazy person.

  “We’ll send the pie and the note to the lab. Perhaps it’s a hoax. Maybe there’s nothing in the pie, and the note we’ll keep as evidence even if there are no fingerprints.”

  “And if there is poison in the pie?”

  “Then we’ll find out who did this and arrest them.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. “Stop worrying. This looks like the work of an amateur to me. If they’d wanted to hurt someone, they would have baked it like a normal pie and slipped it into the bakery case.”

  Georgia had walked back in with a clipboard and pen, intent on noting her supply of baking goods. Overhearing Gordon’s comment, she adamantly protested the idea that anyone could slip something into her kitchen.

  Gordon stopped her in the midst of her protest. “This could be a person who works here, Georgia. It’s not your fault that you didn’t see them, and no one’s accusing you of negligence. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “I still don’t get it.” Amber rubbed her forehead where her headache beat with increasing pressure. “They couldn’t know who would receive this pie—and no one would serve or buy a pie with a skull and crossbones on it anyway. And certainly not if they read the note. If they’re angry enough to poison someone, then it seems like they’d find a way to be sure it went to that person.”

  “If they work here, they could do that,” Tate said. “They’d know which pie it was and could slip it onto the plate of the customer it was designed for.”

  “That’s diabolical.”

  Gordon nodded in agreement. “It would serve two functions—sickening or killing the target, and dramatically hurting your business.”

  “The bakery?” Georgia asked.

  “The Village?” Amber blinked in disbelief.

  “Guests who have been poisoned tend to sue the establishment, if they live long enough to contact a lawyer. If they don’t, their family will sue. Either way, the Village could be found guilty of negligence. I read about a poisoning case in California where the restaurant was successfully sued even though the perpetrator was caught and not an employee of the establishment.”

  “Should we close the restaurant?” Amber’s stomach once again turned, joining her throbbing head in increasing her misery. She hadn’t even considered such drastic actions.

  “Not yet. Let me have this analyzed first. In the meantime, you both need to keep your eyes open.”

  “Should I alert the other employees?” Georgia was now twisting her apron in both of her hands.

  Gordon glanced around. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. We want to let whoever this is know that we’re taking their threat seriously, and that we’re on the offensive.”

  Oh, Amber was taking it seriously—if Gordon only knew. But she couldn’t tell him. If she did, the person would get wind of it, somehow.

  Both Amber and Georgia nodded.

  “And call me if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  “Sure . . .” Amber’s voice faded as she considered the second e-mail on her tablet. Should she show him? Or should she keep it to herself?

  “Are you okay, Amber?” Gordon stepped closer. “You’re acting a bit strange, even for you.”

  Amber wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the energy. “I’m not feeling too well,” she answered truthfully.

  “You need to go home.”

  She nod
ded, then added, “We’ll call if there’s another incident. And Gordon, thank you for coming in on your day off.” Amber touched his arm as Georgia moved toward her office.

  “Life in a small town can grow boring at times,” Tate admitted.

  “Boring is good from a public safety standpoint.” Gordon shook his head. “I wouldn’t want more crime in Middlebury. But your cases have a way of keeping me on my toes.”

  “My cases—”

  “There’s hardly ever a dull moment at the Village.”

  “It’s not like—”

  “I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

  Gordon’s smile assured her he was teasing, and that—more than anything else—helped her to relax. They’d catch the poison poet. When they did, she was going to schedule a vacation. This sort of thing had a way of making her feel older and exceedingly tired.

  Take care of the spring rush of tourists.

  Find out who is sending the e-mails.

  Apprehend the poison poet.

  Schedule a three-day weekend away with Tate.

  Maybe she’d stretch it to five days and reserve them a berth on a cruise ship.

  The thought of the ocean calmed her. She could see herself sitting by the ship’s pool with a novel and a waitress bringing her fruit-flavored tea. Yeah. That was the ticket. She nearly added it to her to-do list, but then her phone rang.

  She glanced at the display and some deep instinct told her the news wouldn’t be good. “I need to take this.” She pushed the Talk button and stepped out of the restaurant.

  Eleven

  For reasons she didn’t quite understand, Hannah felt as twitchy as a cat. It was past two in the afternoon when she closed up the coffee shop. She had twisted the key in the lock of the door and checked to make sure it had clicked into place. Turning away from the shop, she practically jumped out of her kapp when she realized someone was standing directly behind her.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Pam Coleman smiled as she tucked her hand inside Hannah’s arm. “My grammy would say you look like a kitten caught in the milk pail.”