Tate touched something on the top of the camera.
“Here he is.” Gordon tapped the screen.
“Just before he died.”
Amber had also crowded around behind the desk. She was trying to get a look at the screen, but she could barely fit her head in between Tate and Gordon, and she certainly couldn’t see over them. Finally she squirmed in between them.
“That’s her,” she squealed. “That’s Georgia.”
“All I see is a sleeve.”
“But it’s her sleeve. She was wearing black today, which I thought was odd since it isn’t exactly a spring color.”
“Many Amish women wear black,” Gordon reminded her.
“Look, you can also just barely make out the edge of her Village apron, the one she wears when she’s working in the bakery.”
Hannah noticed the federal agents exchanging pointed looks.
Gordon turned off the camera, and turned to Watkins and Snyder.
“You need to tell me why you’re here.”
Preston had listened to the agents with a growing sense of dread. He had assumed they were at the Village on some unrelated matter. Maybe, he had thought, the poison poet and the person who had shot Ryan could be the same person. Furthermore, it was distinctly possible that Ryan’s murderer was someone they knew, someone they knew fairly well.
Now he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“We’re not authorized to go into detail, but suffice it to say, there has been suspicious internet activity by this woman. Suspicious enough that we were dispatched from the regional office.”
“How can you be looking at her—at anyone’s—internet history?” Amber turned her attention from the camera to the agents. “How does someone’s internet activity make them guilty of a crime? I could look up all sorts of things—firearm details, composition of a bomb, even poison. That doesn’t mean I would ever use those things. I could be plotting a book.”
“You don’t write books,” Gordon muttered.
“That’s not the point!”
“Ma’am, we don’t read e-mails, if that’s what you’re thinking. There are sophisticated programs, algorithms, in place. If a combination of terms pops up in anyone’s history, then we are alerted. If someone attempts to purchase an illegal substance—a poison, for example, and if the person they’re attempting to purchase from happens to be an undercover federal agent, then we’re dispatched to deal with the situation.”
“You’re here to arrest Georgia?” Amber’s tone was incredulous.
However, it was starting to make sense to Preston. Who else better to create poisonous baked goods than the woman in charge of the bakery? Only to his knowledge there had never been any poison found in them. Had she lost her nerve—except for poisoning Leo? How then could she be bold enough to shoot someone in broad daylight?
“Wait a minute.” Gordon leaned forward, arms on the desk. “I understand that you’re speaking hypothetically, but let’s move this out of the theoretical. Let’s talk about what has been happening here in Middlebury. I sent each of the baked items left by the perpetrator off for analysis. They all came back clean.”
Watkins shrugged. “She changed her mind—this time. It doesn’t mean she won’t go through with it in the future.”
Preston said out loud, but more to himself than anyone in the room, “For whatever reason she chose to use a gun instead.”
“Poisons are always iffy,” Snyder said. “You have to get the dosage right or it doesn’t work at all. Plus some poisons—like cyanide—aren’t easy to purchase. The party in question, she balked before buying from our agent.”
“Georgia wasn’t that upset.” Amber shook her head as if to clear it. “Of the three women, she was the least upset when they found out about Ryan’s duplicitous behavior.”
“She didn’t seem that upset, but perhaps she was hiding her true feelings.” Hannah nervously popped her knuckles, something Preston hadn’t seen her do in six months, since they’d caught Owen Esch’s killer.
At that moment one of the Shipshe officers walked into the office, carrying a gun in a plastic evidence bag. “Someone went to drop a cup into a trash receptacle and saw it.”
“So we know she’s unarmed. The bakery is downstairs, directly beneath us.” Preston glanced at the six other people assembled in the room—two federal agents, a police officer, Tate, Amber, and Hannah. Then there was him and Mocha. Between them, surely they could stop one middle-aged woman.
Gordon checked his watch. “All right. Watkins, I want you to cover the front door of the restaurant. Snyder, cover the back. I’ll give you four minutes to get into position, and then I’ll—”
“We.” Amber was already stepping around the desk, gathering her purse and keys.
“Absolutely not.”
“She’s my employee, and I’m wearing Ryan Duvall’s blood on my shirt.” Amber’s voice had taken on an uncompromising tone. “Short of arresting me, you’re not keeping me out of that bakery.”
“I’ll go with her.” Tate stepped closer, and Preston knew that the need to protect his wife was the foremost thing on his mind. Wouldn’t he do the same for Zoey? He’d also step in to protect Amber. They were a family, albeit one made from patchwork.
“There’s another exit through the kitchen,” Preston said. “Mocha and I can cover it, then you won’t have to pull any officers off the primary scene.”
“Hannah, you stand in the hall, at the door between the bakery and the restaurant,” Amber said. “I’ll try to direct any customers out—if there are any customers, which I doubt. The last thing we need is a confrontation involving guests.”
Hannah nodded, apparently relieved that she wouldn’t need to be in the same room with Georgia.
And then they were all moving into position.
Preston prayed as he hurried toward the kitchen exit, that there would be no more violence, that God would protect all of those involved, and that they would catch Ryan’s killer before he or she had a chance to strike again.
Gordon had only allowed them to go because the weapon had been found. Somehow he no longer considered her to be a physical threat.
Preston prayed he was right.
Forty
Amber hurried down the stairs, forcing her emotions to catch up with her mind. She could imagine Georgia committing murder; after the last two homicides it wasn’t that difficult to believe anyone was capable—nearly anyone. Not Tate or Pam or Hannah or Jesse. Not Gordon. Not even Preston, though he was once a soldier.
But most people? Driven to extreme measures, yes. Most people probably were capable of lethal force.
Her mind understood this, but her heart was still insisting, No. It can’t be. She’d known Georgia for over ten years. She’d been a good employee, if a bit difficult to deal with at times—always strict, somewhat unbendable. A real rule-follower. Not always the most pleasant woman, but always a good worker.
And what was the poison scare about? Was Georgia the poison poet? It was almost easier to believe she could be a killer, someone who acted out of a broken heart, than to believe she would intentionally terrify people. Could she be that cold? That calculating?
The dining room was surprisingly busy, but it wasn’t their normal morning rush. No, people stood around in clumps, discussing the day’s events and wondering when they’d be able to leave.
At one end of the room, an officer was handing out forms—witness reports, Amber guessed. At least everyone’s attention was split between the windows and the officer. No one paid them any mind at all.
Gordon held up a hand to stop them from entering the bakery. The customer portion of the store was on the right, then a large counter ran nearly the length of the room, and behind that the workers pulled freshly baked goods from a large window. The window and the door behind the counter connected the bakery to the larger kitchen.
Gordon was counting the time off, giving everyone time to get into position. Amber closed her eyes and pictu
red it—a federal agent at the front and back doors. Preston in the kitchen. Hannah with them, directing the people she and Tate would hustle out. Gordon confronting Georgia.
If she was there—
At Gordon’s signal, they walked through the door.
The room wasn’t terribly busy. A few people stood by the windows, staring out at the scene of Ryan’s murder. Amber’s brain registered the view outside the window—a glimpse of police tape, an officer’s uniform, and the still-waiting ambulance. Its lights had been cut. In deference to the dead or because there was no emergency?
For that matter, why was the ambulance still there?
Removing the body would be handled by the coroner.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on those things. Tate was ushering folks out, toward Hannah. Amber walked to an elderly couple near the cookie display and asked them to step into the restaurant.
They didn’t argue. In fact, they looked a little stunned at all that had happened. Putting down a bag of cookies, they walked toward the door that led back into the main restaurant.
Two girls were working behind the counter, and Amber shooed them out as well.
Then Georgia walked in from the kitchen carrying a tray of pies. Despite the tension, the delicious aroma of baked apples registered in Amber’s brain.
Georgia took one look at Gordon, Amber, and Tate and set the pies down on the counter, then put her hands into the large pockets of her apron. “You ran out all of my customers.”
“Georgia, Sergeant Avery would like to ask you a few questions.”
“About the poison pies? It’s about time you came up with some results of your investigation, before someone gets hurt.”
“Georgia, I’d like to ask you about Ryan Duvall.”
Georgia had begun transferring pies from the tray into the glass cabinet, but she stopped when she heard Ryan’s name.
Amber was watching her closely, and she saw—nothing. Georgia’s face was entirely devoid of emotion.
“And please keep your hands where I can see them.”
She turned and faced Gordon directly, her hands pressed flat against the counter.
“You think I would kill Ryan? Do you think he meant that much to me?”
“I don’t know what he meant to you. What I do know is that you were standing in front of him when he died, and you have a motive for killing him. If you did it, whoever was standing next to you must have been so spooked they didn’t even realize what had happened. We’ll find them, though. We have plenty of photographs taken by those watching the race. Someone saw more than they—and you—realize.”
Doubt flickered in Georgia’s eyes. It was brief, like the sun darting into the clouds and back out again. But Amber hadn’t imagined it, and in that moment her heart broke for this woman.
How had such a thing happened?
Wanting to humiliate Amber as the poison poet was one thing, poisoning Leo was another, but murdering Ryan? Had she nurtured her pain over Ryan until it had become a giant black hole that consumed her?
Did she regret what she’d done?
Tate stepped closer to Amber, his hand going to the small of her back. She was grateful for his presence and for his steadiness.
Gordon shifted to the left slightly, to speak into his radio, probably to call a backup officer. When he did, Georgia turned and darted toward the door that led into the kitchen.
Preston had peeked into the kitchen, where he’d seen Georgia loading pies onto a tray, her back to him. He waited outside in the employee hall that ran from her kitchen to the larger one that serviced the restaurant. Once she’d walked into the bakery, he’d pushed through into the kitchen area and shooed out a lingering employee. Then he had stood watching through the small window in the door as Georgia walked into the retail section of the bakery. He could make out Gordon, Tate, and Amber.
He knew the moment Gordon confronted her by the way her shoulders bunched up, frozen and defensive. Mocha whined once, but he put a hand down to silence the dog. He wasn’t nervous, though. It looked as if everything was under control.
Amber and Tate had shooed out the customers.
Gordon was talking to Georgia, though Preston couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying.
Suddenly Georgia stopped and placed her hands on top of the counter.
It was when Gordon turned, though, ever so slightly, not exactly taking his eyes off Georgia, but splitting his attention to speak into his radio . . . it was at that moment when Georgia turned and ran toward Preston.
He doubted she even saw him.
She hit the door at full speed, but it didn’t budge. It couldn’t budge.
Preston was standing on the opposite side when Georgia ran into it, bracing it firmly so it would remain shut. Mocha began to bark, jumping onto the door with her paws.
Georgia fell back against the counter, and Gordon was there, restraining her and leading her away from the glass display.
Preston pushed through the door, Mocha at his side and calmer now.
“You have no proof.” Georgia smiled smugly.
Gordon was once again speaking into his radio, ignoring her protests.
“You have no evidence, and I never threatened him like this man and his dog have.” She nodded toward Preston.
Clicking off the radio, Gordon gave Georgia his full attention. “Every crime scene contains evidence, Georgia. I have no doubt that we’ll find plenty to link you to the murder.”
“You won’t—”
“We have Tate’s picture putting you directly in front of Ryan when he was killed.”
Georgia shot Tate a hateful look, paused as she considered Amber, and then dismissed her with a shake of her head. “You are all amateurs.”
Preston shrugged when Amber glanced his way. He couldn’t explain Georgia to her. The woman was not rational. Perhaps rejection could drive you to such a place, if you didn’t have the love and support of others. And if she was also the poison poet, somehow, in some twisted way, she had felt rejected by Amber, too, despite their having worked together for so long. There had to be some reason for her bitterness and desperation.
He remembered what Hannah had told him, about Georgia’s use of the inn’s computer the day before. Maybe what Georgia had said hadn’t been a complete lie. Maybe instead of tracking a pet, she had been tracking a person.
“You watched him. Didn’t you?” Preston didn’t move a single step closer, but he was suddenly certain of what had happened. “Somehow you managed to put a tracker on Ryan’s phone, which is why he showed up at my house, sure that someone was still after him. Only Ryan thought it was the people he owed money to. He said the police had checked his car and his person, but he didn’t say they’d checked his phone.”
“Ryan was a fool.”
“But it was you—sitting at home, tracking him on your computer—right after you poisoned Amber’s cat.”
“You probably think I don’t even know how to use a computer. They’re not so expensive now. Anyone can buy one, but you have to be careful. The government could be monitoring . . .” She looked almost smug, as if she didn’t understand that she’d practically confessed.
“So you did monitor him. You watched him show up at Martha’s and Letha’s work, watched him take them to dinner or the movies.”
“Stop it!” Georgia practically spat the words. “I don’t want to talk about Ryan Duvall.”
“And then you couldn’t understand why the phone never moved, why it stopped at the edge of the pond. You didn’t know he had thrown it into the water.”
“Which doesn’t mean I killed him.” Georgia’s face had turned beet red, and she threw repeated glances at the window, as if she could throw herself out of it and be free.
“It will go easier for you if you confess to Ryan’s murder,” Gordon reminded her.
“I will not. You have nothing. So I was standing there, along with dozens of others cheering them on—as if running a stupid 5k was worth applauding
, as if all this activity will do one bit of good for people dying from cancer.”
“There will be gunpowder residue on your hands,” Amber piped up.
“Hardly. I wash my hands—thoroughly—before I bake.” Georgia’s full measure of confidence returned when she uttered the word bake, pulled slightly away from Gordon, and stuck her hands once more in the pockets of her apron.
In that moment, Preston was sure she had done both—shot Ryan and assumed the persona of the poison poet.
Gordon shook his head, as if Georgia couldn’t possibly understand the scope of what she’d done. “I’m happy to hear you have good hygiene habits; however, I’m guessing you haven’t had time to wash your apron, and I noticed you like to put your hands in your pockets. No doubt some of the gunpowder residue will have transferred.”
Georgia’s expression froze, as if she was trying to process what Gordon had just said.
“We’ll also match your prints to the weapon—which has already been turned in.”
Georgia’s eyes narrowed. “I want a lawyer, and I won’t say another word until I have one.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be happy to comply.” Gordon handcuffed her and walked her out of the room, toward the police cruiser that had pulled up in front of the restaurant.
Preston could hear him reciting Georgia her Miranda rights.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you . . .”
Amber rushed around the counter and enfolded Preston in a hug. She must have suddenly realized how much danger they all could have been in. “Are you okay? When I saw Georgia dart your way I was so frightened. What if she’d had another gun? What if she’d shot you?”
“Unlikely she could have shot me through a metal door—”
“What if you’d had one of your flashbacks? What if she’d pushed through the door . . .”
“Amber, I’m okay. Remember? I had Mocha with me.” Preston grinned at Tate, who had joined them on the back side of the counter.
Murder Freshly Baked Page 28
