Custom Baked Murder

by Liz Mugavero

  Jessie pointed to the hidden stairway door. “Upstairs, take a left. In the bathroom.”

  Rivers sighed. “Always in the bathroom.”

  “Hey,” Menoso said. “From the looks of the house, at least it’s probably a nice bathroom.” The two snapped on gloves and disappeared through the door.

  “I have water for Monica,” Stan said, turning back to Jessie. “I can sit with her for a bit.”

  “Good. Yes. Perfect. Can you ask her for the passcode? And find out if there’s anyone to call for her?”

  Stan nodded and went into the room, closing the door behind her. She approached the bed, setting the water on the nightstand. Monica lay on her side in a boneless heap, her arm flung over her eyes. Stan sat on the edge of the bed. “Monica?”

  Monica moved her arm an inch, revealing red-rimmed eyes, and peered at Stan.

  “How are you doing?”

  Monica didn’t answer.

  “I can call someone for you,” Stan offered, feeling woefully inadequate. “Your dad?”

  That got Monica’s attention. She sat up, feeling around for her phone. Her nose dripped and her bloodshot eyes were still unfocused, but she tried to pull herself together. “No. I can call someone else. Have you seen my phone?”

  “Actually,” Stan said, “Trooper Pasquale picked it up. You dropped it when you fainted. She wants to hold on to it for a bit and wondered if you could give her the passcode.”

  Monica looked confused. And scared. “Why?”

  How was she supposed to answer that? Jessie hadn’t actually told Monica what happened to her mother, just that she’d passed away.

  But Monica didn’t need her to answer. She spoke so softly Stan almost missed it. “Someone killed my mom, didn’t they? That’s why that officer asked me if people were mad at her.”

  Stan swallowed, resisting the urge to run from the room. She met Monica’s eyes, unflinching. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  Monica sank back against the pillow, closing her eyes. Then, in a monotone, she recited four numbers. The passcode, Stan realized.

  She repeated them back to her as she tapped them into a note on her phone, then cleared her throat. “So who do you want me to call? Your dad really should know what’s going on.”

  “Only if you want to make his day,” she said, but there was no humor in her words. She opened her eyes and looked at Stan. “My parents are divorced,” she said, sounding more lucid than she had so far that night. “They don’t talk.”

  “Still,” Stan said gently. “He has a right to know. And you don’t want to be alone right now. Who else can we call? Do you have siblings?”

  She nodded. “Shannon is back at college in New York. Presley is at boarding school up in Massachusetts. She’s the youngest,” Monica added. “She’s . . . only sixteen.” She looked away and wiped her nose with her ruffled sleeve. “God. My grandma. My . . . mom’s mom. She lives with us. Someone has to tell her.” Her eyes filled up again and she looked at Stan. “I can’t.”

  Stan wanted to hug her, this poor kid who’d probably had a tough life with a demanding, ambitious, perfectionist mother, who now had to live without that mother. She thought of Patricia. Despite their ongoing struggles, she’d feel pretty terrible if someone killed her. “I’ll have Trooper Pasquale call her. Can you give me her number?”

  Monica recited the number. Stan added it into the note on her phone, then stood up. “Be right back.” She was almost out the door when Monica called to her.

  “Can I use your phone to call my friend?”

  Stan hesitated. “Sure, but you’ll have to get cleared from Trooper Pasquale before you leave.”

  Monica nodded. “It would take a while to get here anyway. I just need to. . . .” Her sentence trailed off into nothing.

  Stan handed the phone over, then stood outside the door to give her some privacy.

  Less than a minute later, Monica opened the door and handed the phone back to Stan.

  “Thank you.”

  Stan nodded and turned to go, but Monica spoke again.

  “Do they know who did it?”

  Still holding on to the doorknob, Stan looked back at her. “They’re working on it.”

  Monica studied her shoe. “Do you think you can find my purse for me?” she asked, her voice completely flat. “It’s black with a rhinestone flower on the front. It has a broken snap. Guess,” she said, and it took Stan a minute to realize she was stating the brand name, not telling her to guess where it was. “I . . . don’t remember where I left it.”

  “I’ll look,” Stan said. She slipped out the door, closing it behind her. As she did, it struck her that even though Monica had been understandably upset by the news, she hadn’t seemed all that shocked.

  Chapter 12

  With Jessie once again behind a closed door, the passcode and Monica’s grandmother would have to wait. Stan went in search of Monica’s missing purse.

  She started on the patio where she’d found Monica. As luck would have it, a small group of her former colleagues were clustered, surrounding a teary-eyed Michelle Mansfield.

  “How could they think Richard was involved in this?” Stan heard Michelle wail while a couple of her entourage attempted to comfort her. “He would never! Did you see them roughhousing him?”

  Stan tried to block out their voices as she moved around the patio willing the purse to appear so she could get away from this crew.

  “Honey, I’m sure they’ll figure it out quickly. Once they find out who he is,” another one said. “Besides, they haven’t even said what happened!”

  “Someone killed Eleanor, obviously,” a third voice scoffed. “Upstairs, right in the bathroom. And since Richard took off in a snit, he looks guilty. Where did he run off to, anyway?”

  Michelle sniffled even louder and ignored the question. “They have nerve, making us stay here,” she continued. “I mean, there’s a murderer on the loose! He could be out here right now, watching us. Plotting. And they’re wasting their time with Richard?”

  Her entourage tittered their similar concerns.

  Stan rolled her eyes as she searched in vain for the aptly brand-named purse, hoping not to make eye contact with Michelle. But of course, since this night was destined to go completely off the rails, Michelle noticed her and made a beeline.

  “Stan. What on earth is going on?” Michelle glared at her like she’d been the one to haul Richard away in cuffs. “What are those police officers thinking?”

  Stan straightened from searching under a table, trying to keep her face blank. “Someone got murdered and there’s a whole pool of suspects to eliminate,” she said. “Don’t worry, Michelle. They’ll get it sorted out.”

  Michelle huffed out a breath, then lowered her voice. “What did your boyfriend do to Richard, anyway? Why’d he take off like that?”

  Stan felt the heat rising up her neck, reddening her cheeks with anger. “Jake didn’t do anything to Richard except ask him to take his hand off me,” Stan said.

  Michelle scoffed. “I don’t think you have to worry about his hand on you. He’s not interested, believe me.”

  Stan laughed. “Is that the best you can do?” She hated engaging with her, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Why are you here, Michelle? I wasn’t aware you and Tony Falco were tight.”

  By now Michelle’s posse surrounded them, listening unabashedly to the exchange. Some of them looked expectantly at Michelle, but her bravado faltered. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she tried a different tactic. “Look. I don’t want to argue with you, Stan. You seem to know these”—she waved her hand around, looking for the word—“people. Can’t you tell them they have the wrong guy?”

  She’d already told them that. It had to be a big misunderstanding. Richard had many faults, but he was far from a killer. But Jessie couldn’t talk about it, and Stan had no idea what to say to Michelle now.

  Trooper Lou saved her from answering. He strode onto the patio and locked eyes wi
th Stan. “Scuse me,” he said, breaking the formation gathered around her and motioning for her to follow him.

  She tried to hide her gratitude until she was away from Michelle and gang. “What’s up?” she asked when they were out of earshot.

  “The victim’s daughter’s gone.”

  “Gone? What are you talking about? She’s down the hall from your interrogation room. The guest bedroom.”

  Trooper Lou shook his head slowly. “She’s not.”

  Stan’s heart plummeted, remembering the phone call. She’d promised she wouldn’t leave, though. “What? Are you sure? Maybe she went to the bathroom.” Hopefully not the one her mother was killed in.

  “That’s what I said, too.” Lou looked grim. “But no one can find her anywhere.” He hesitated. “I went back in to talk to her but she was gone.”

  Stan shook her head. “You guys have people at every door. How would she get out? Jessie would never let that happen.”

  Something crossed Trooper Lou’s face, but he didn’t respond.

  Stan followed him inside, guilt clenching her shoulder blades together. She should never have given Monica the phone. But she didn’t seem to be in any shape to go anywhere.

  “Maybe she just went to look for her purse,” Stan said as she followed him into the back hall. “She asked me about it. That’s what I was doing out on the porch. But I couldn’t find it.”

  Trooper Lou shook his head. “Hate to tell you, but she’s gone.” He pointed toward the open guest room door.

  Stan headed in, needing to see for herself. Maybe Monica would materialize out of the blue. Maybe she’d hid from him because she was afraid of cops. Or because she’d been drinking. But she was over twenty-one, so why would she bother?

  But she wasn’t in the room. Stan checked the other doors nearby, but it was a futile exercise. Monica wasn’t hiding in the laundry room, or the linen closet. So where could she be? She couldn’t have just left. Cops were at every exit.

  Weren’t they?

  She looked for Trooper Lou, but he was no longer in the hall. She threaded her way back down the hall and slipped into the foyer. No cop, inside at least. She pushed the back door open and stuck her head out, expecting to see a gun pointed in her face. Nothing.

  What was up with that? Unless . . . she swallowed against the dread welling up in her chest. Had they pulled everyone off high alert now that they had Richard in custody?

  She stepped out onto the porch. And nearly jumped when a cop stepped out of the shadows. “Ma’am? Can I help you?”

  “No. I mean, maybe,” Stan said, flustered. “Did you see a young woman come out this door?”

  “Only the caterers are permitted to leave by this door,” he said.

  As if on cue, a man brushed by her carrying a tray piled with appetizers. The cop nodded at him. Stan watched the exchange and sighed. So Monica hadn’t been in as bad shape as she’d appeared. She’d been astute enough to grab a tray and pretend to be part of the catering staff to get out of the house.

  “Trooper Pasquale asked me to come out here and grab one of the catering folks,” Stan said, the lie slipping off her tongue.

  The cop frowned. “Who?”

  “Jessie Pasquale. Frog Ledge Resident State Trooper.”

  The cop pulled out his radio and summoned Pasquale. Stan groaned inwardly. She didn’t want Jessie to know about this until she was certain Monica was gone.

  Too late. Jessie appeared seconds later. “What?” She looked at Stan. “What’s going on?”

  “Did you send this woman out here?” the cop asked.

  Stan sent her a pleading look with her eyes.

  “I did,” Jessie said. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Just checking.”

  Jessie grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled her outside. They followed the path down to the driveway. “What are you doing?” she muttered once they were out of the cop’s earshot.

  “Monica slipped out. Pretending to be part of the catering staff, who your boy back there is keeping an eye on.”

  Jessie muttered a curse. “Let’s see if she’s out here.”

  They approached the caterer’s van. Tony’s baseball-stadium strength flood lights blazed their way in the rapidly darkening evening. The van doors stood wide open. Stan peeked in and saw no one. She stopped and looked around. Only woods behind the house. Woods where Richard ventured, for some reason. Would Monica wander in there? Stan went to the street where people’s cars stretched along the winding road leading to Tony’s house. She looked in both directions. Nothing.

  “Here.” Jessie’s voice was low but strong, and Stan followed it around the van. A tray of food lay in the grass, overturned. Jessie cursed again. “Stupid. I let her out of my sight.”

  “She could still be out here,” Stan said, then whirled around when she saw lights bouncing up the road. Running back to the end of the driveway, she crouched in the shadow of a large SUV and watched as a car pulled up, deftly maneuvering a three-point turn so it faced down the street again. A red sedan idled, illuminated in the glow from the streetlight. Stan saw some sort of black sticker on the back window. She made out only one of three words—something something rock. Then she saw a flash of pink racing across the lawn. Seconds later Monica passed under the same streetlight, giving Stan a side view of her face.

  “Monica!” she yelled. She heard Jessie racing up behind her and knew she’d be cursing her outfit, her shoes, her lack of any kind of equipment.

  Monica didn’t even register that she’d heard. She yanked the door open and jumped in the car. The door slammed and the car coasted away. She strained to see the license plate but could only make out the last three letters—BDR—before the car disappeared around a bend in the road, and then they were out of sight.

  Chapter 13

  Stan slunk back inside behind Jessie, but let her storm off down the back hall. She slipped into the kitchen, catching a whiff of the remaining food before the caterers whisked it away. A veritable mountain of goodies. Glazed shrimp and bacon, tiny plates of brie with crackers, cherry tomatoes stuffed with something that normally would’ve looked delightful, but now made Stan feel sick. And those were only the appetizers. Uneaten prime rib, maple-glazed salmon, baby red potatoes, and rich desserts lined the tables. Stan hoped they’d at least bring what they didn’t use to a homeless shelter so it wouldn’t go to waste. She’d long since lost her appetite, and now it was exacerbated by Monica’s exit. Jessie’d looked like her head was about to blow off.

  She stepped back into the party and scanned the living room. The state troopers in charge of gathering contact info had the crowd sorted into more manageable groups from which they pulled people aside individually. Other officers canvassed the floor, making sure they’d accounted for everyone. Stan wondered if anyone besides Monica—like the murderer—had slipped out despite their efforts. She saw a small group of her mother’s charity friends from Rhode Island and ducked back through the kitchen to the hallway of doom.

  Jessie conferred with Trooper Lou and Colby. Stan caught the words freakin’ incompetence, but the man who emerged from the stairwell at that moment drew her attention from the conversation. He caught the troopers’ attention, too.

  “Is there an issue, Troopers?” he asked. His voice, buttery smooth, held a hint of steel in it despite the matter-of-fact tone.

  Stan hadn’t seen him before. He had a different presence. A tall, commanding African-American man with no nonsense practically tattooed on his forehead. Even Jessie stood a little straighter. Stan slipped back into the kitchen, but peered around the corner so she could still hear the conversation.

  “Captain Quigley,” she said. “I wasn’t aware you’d been called in.”

  He nodded, then cocked his head at her outfit. “I appreciate your willingness to jump in on your night off.”

  “It’s my job, sir.”

  “You’re correct. Now, is there a problem I should be aware of?”

  Stan cringed and du
cked out of view, not wanting to witness what came next. But Jessie stood up to the problem like a champ.

  “The victim’s daughter, sir,” Stan heard her say. “She slipped out the back with the caterers and the man on the door didn’t notice.”

  Quigley’s voice went lower. “Has she been questioned?”

  “We started to question her, then she became ill. We let her lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Unguarded?”

  Stan held her breath and risked a quick peek. Colby and Trooper Lou were frozen.

  “We were in the hall most of the time,” Jessie said.

  “Most of the time,” Quigley repeated. “Well, that clearly wasn’t enough. I trust we at least have her contact information?”

  “I have her cell phone, actually.”

  That appeased him somewhat. “Noted. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Stan remained pressed against the wall until she heard his footsteps fade, then peered around the corner again. Troopers Lou and Colby still looked shell-shocked. Jessie looked angry. Stan walked over to them. Jessie opened her mouth, but Lou shushed her.

  “Not now,” he warned. “You know he can hear through walls.”

  Jessie ignored him and turned to Stan. “Did you get the license plate of that car?”

  Stan shook her head. “Just the last three letters. BDR. I didn’t see the driver.”

  “So they may have been from the party, too. Great.” Jessie bared her teeth. “What do we know about this girl? She hate her mother?”

  “I have no idea if she—the passcode.” Suddenly remembering, she pulled her phone out of her dress, ignoring Trooper Lou’s raised eyebrow, and scrolled through her notes to find the number. “Four-eight-three-nine.”

  Jessie jabbed the numbers into the phone a lot harder than necessary, then held it up to Stan. “Wrong code.”

  Stan read them again, then took the phone from Jessie and tried it herself. The iPhone refused to allow access.

  “She duped you,” Jessie said. “Which really makes me wonder.” She stalked around the small space, then paused, hands on hips. “I’ll send your sister down,” she told Stan. “I’m done with her. I have to call the victim’s mother. Sturgis, come on.”