Custom Baked Murder

by Liz Mugavero

  Chapter 41

  Stan hurried to her car, Char’s warning about Tony sitting heavy in her chest. Being from the South, Char liked everyone until she had a real good reason not to. And she’d sounded adamant about Tony.

  As she turned the key in the ignition she caught a glimpse of her mother hurrying down the driveway toward her. She rolled the window down.

  “Where are you going?” Patricia demanded. “I thought you were going to help Tony?”

  “I am, but not right this minute,” Stan said. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes. He’s delighted. Do you want to call him directly to set up a schedule?”

  “I will,” Stan said. “Later today, okay?”

  “That’s wonderful.” Patricia turned to walk away, then looked back at Stan. “Thank you,” she said simply, leaving Stan a teeny bit speechless. Gratitude wasn’t her mother’s strong suit.

  But before Patricia could walk away, a twenty-something man with ratty jeans, a scraggly beard, and a blazer popped out from behind one of Char’s privacy shrubs. “Ms. Patricia Connor?”

  Her mother frowned. “Yes?”

  The man turned and waved toward the bushes. Another guy stepped into view, a camera trained on Patricia. “I’m Jeb Ryder from the Hartford Gazette. Can you comment on the murder at your fiancé’s house Saturday night?”

  Stan swore and scrambled out of the car. “No comment,” she said to the man before her mother even recovered from the surprise of a reporter hiding in a bush to talk to her.

  The reporter and cameraman swung toward Stan. The red light from the camera glowed, a silent target on her head. “And you are?”

  “I’m her advisor,” Stan said coolly. “And she has no comment. Please turn off the camera.”

  Neither of them moved. “You’re her daughter. I did my research,” the reporter said with a knowing wink.

  Stan moved past them and grabbed her mother’s arm, propelling her toward the house. Behind them, the reporter called out again. “Is it true Mayor Falco was missing when the woman was killed? What motive do they have for the suspect?”

  Stan pushed the front door open and shoved her mother inside, then stepped in behind her. Char appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a spatula dripping with cake batter. “What on earth?”

  “The media.” Stan moved to the window. The reporter and cameraman huddled together, plotting their next move.

  “Looking for you?” Char turned to Patricia.

  Wordlessly, Patricia nodded.

  “Not on my property, they’re not. They are barking up the wrong tree.” Spatula in hand and apron still in place, Char marched out of the house.

  “Oh no,” Stan murmured, peeking through the crack in the door.

  “What’s she doing?” Patricia joined her, trying to see over Stan’s shoulder.

  Kyle poked his head out of the kitchen, licking one of the beaters from the electric mixer. “What’s up? She need help?”

  Char’s voice rose and fell as she waved the spatula around. Cake batter rained down. The cameraman wiped at a splotch that landed on his camera. The reporter tried to write notes, but the cameraman grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the line of batter fire.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Stan said.

  Char watched until they got in a car parked in front of the next house, then turned and came back inside. “All clear,” she said cheerfully.

  Kyle high-fived her. Stan and Patricia looked at each other. Despite herself, Stan burst out laughing and hugged Char, trying to avoid wearing cake batter. “You are one in a million, lady,” she said.

  But Patricia wasn’t laughing. “Is this what it’s going to come down to?” she demanded. “This . . . mess that Tony has contributed to?”

  Startled, Stan and Char stared at her. Patricia never had outbursts, especially in front of semi-strangers.

  “Sweetie,” Char began, but Patricia turned and fled upstairs.

  They all looked at one another. “Should I go talk to her?” Char asked finally.

  Stan shook her head. “I’d let her be for now. She’s not usually very receptive to people trying to comfort her.”

  * * *

  Stan put her phone on speaker and called Jessie in her office while she drove back to town.

  “Yeah,” Jessie answered absently.

  “It’s me. I’m going to stop by.”

  “News?” Jessie asked.

  “Some.” She didn’t want to say too much about Scott over the phone. “Can I bring you coffee or anything?”

  “Yeah, actually. And some kind of high-calorie bad food that’ll improve my mood.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks. You talk to Tony?”

  “I talked to my mother. She’s delighted for me to help him. I’ll stop by his office today. Oh, and Kyle overheard people at the general store talking about who really killed Eleanor. That’s a direct quote. And they know about the ring.”

  Jessie swore. “How? What were they saying?”

  “I’m not totally sure. Kyle’s better at cooking than storytelling.”

  “Did he know who . . .” She trailed off, and Stan heard some noise on the other end. “I’ll see you when you get here,” Jessie said abruptly, and hung up.

  Stan shrugged and tossed the phone onto her passenger seat. On second thought, she picked it up and called Tony. He answered on the third ring, sounding distracted.

  “Kristan. Hello. Yes, your mother told me about your offer. How generous.” He didn’t sound as delighted as Patricia claimed.

  “I have time later today,” she said. “The media is in town, just so you’re aware.”

  Silence. Then, “I’ll be at my office until six.”

  “Great. I’ll be over shortly.”

  Chapter 42

  Stan pulled into Izzy’s parking lot and headed inside. Caitlyn waved at her from a table near the door where she and Eva were eating . . . cinnamon buns?

  “Hey, Krissie!”

  “Hey. How’s your day going?”

  “It’s great,” Caitlyn said. “We spent some time at the library, and Eva went to story time. We came back for a snack before we go to the shelter.”

  “They read the bear book,” Eva chimed in.

  “The Berenstain Bears,” Caitlyn clarified.

  “I love those books,” Stan said. “I’m glad you had fun.”

  “Izzy said we could go over and see her new bookstore later this afternoon. She’s over there now.”

  Stan paused. “You like bookstores?”

  Caitlyn sighed dramatically. “Here we go again. Yes, Krissie, I like bookstores. I don’t sit around and watch the Real Housewives all day.”

  “I know, I know,” Stan said, although she really didn’t. “Sorry. I’m grabbing a coffee and then I have to go. I’ll see you later on?”

  “Sounds good,” Caitlyn sang.

  If anyone had said her sophisticated—let’s be honest, snobby—sister would be this happy putzing around her tiny little town, Stan would’ve sent them for psychiatric help. Shaking her head, she went up to the counter, her eyes immediately falling on the pastries and chocolates in the case. Izzy’s place had the best pastry cases. The one for her chocolates, imported truffles, and other candy-coated deliciousness swooped through the middle of the store, a funky swirl design with two levels. The other, smaller case held her freshly baked pastries: danish swirled with frosting, croissants with chocolate or berries oozing out of them, muffins with cream cheese frosting, cookies of all shapes and varieties. Stan hoped her own cases would make her shop look as glamorous.

  She ordered a skinny vanilla latte and a cinnamon bun for herself, fully understanding the irony in that choice, and got Jessie a chocolate caramel latte and a mocha chip muffin. As she waited, she glanced around the café. And did a double take to be sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks. No, it was her.

  Monica Chang sat at a table in the corner, hunched over a cup of coffee. She wore all black: le
ggings, a long blouse, flats, and a scarf wrapped around her thin shoulders, the complete opposite of her pink ruffled self on Saturday night. She’d perched a black beret on top of her long, straight hair. Her body looked almost emaciated today, her already-thin frame enhanced by her color choice.

  What was she doing in Izzy’s café? Or in Frog Ledge at all?

  It would be a few minutes for the lattes, so Stan detoured over and stood in front of Monica.

  It took the girl a minute to register her presence. When she looked up, Stan was startled at her pale face and glazed eyes. No recognition. Still in shock, maybe?

  “Hi, Monica,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting without waiting for an invitation. “I’m Stan Connor. I met you Saturday night?”

  It finally dawned on her, and she squirmed in her seat. She looked toward the door, then back at Stan. “Yeah. Hello.”

  “What brings you back to Frog Ledge?” Stan asked anyway.

  Monica traced the edge of her coffee cup lid. “My purse,” she said in a barely audible voice. “It went missing at the party. My . . . father said I should file a report that it was stolen. And my phone. The policewoman still has it.”

  She sure did, and she’d asked Stan to get in touch with Monica. Instead, Monica had dropped right into their laps. Maybe while she was here she’d offer up the name of her friend from Saturday night. The friend who might be Scott.

  “Yes, Trooper Pasquale. She wanted me to see if I could track you down, since she wasn’t having any luck reaching your grandmother.”

  Monica’s eyes returned to the table. “My grandma’s in the hospital. She didn’t take the news well.”

  “Oh no,” Stan said, dismayed. “I’m so sorry. Will she be okay?”

  Monica shrugged. “I think so.”

  Definitely not a concise communicator. “Have you gone to see Trooper Pasquale yet?”

  “No. I wanted some coffee first.” She looked pitiful. And a lot younger than her age. Stan sensed that, despite the affluence and social status Eleanor held up as a badge responsible for her happiness, her daughter wasn’t cut from the same cloth. She seemed lost.

  “Tell you what,” she said to Monica. “I can take you over to talk to her.”

  Now Monica looked interested. “You can?”

  “Sure. She’ll be happy to help.” As long as it wasn’t done under the guise of an interrogation. Stan stood. “Let me grab my coffee. Did you have something to eat, too?”

  Monica looked wistfully at the pastry case. “I only had enough for coffee. My money was in my purse. The missing one.” Jeez. All the money Eleanor had, and the poor kid had nothing but a few bills stuffed in an evening bag?

  Stan took pity on her. “Come on,” she said, getting up and motioning her to follow. “Let’s grab you something to eat before we go.”

  Monica joined her, face pressed against the glass like a little kid. She chose a chocolate chip muffin. Stan paid for the food.

  “Thanks,” Monica said, avoiding her eyes. She tore into the muffin as soon as the countergirl handed it to her. By the time Stan had taken a sip of her coffee, the muffin was almost gone.

  Monica’s eyes met hers over the remains, unapologetic. “Thank you for buying me food,” she said. “If I get my purse I can pay you back.” Her face fell a bit. “I don’t think I have a job anymore, now that my mother’s gone.”

  “Please. Don’t worry about it.” Stan set Jessie’s latte and her own in a tray and placed the bag of pastries on top, then led Monica outside.

  “How are you doing otherwise? How are your sisters?” she asked as they climbed into her car.

  “We’re okay.”

  “Are you staying with your father now?” Stan asked.

  “No. Our place is paid off and I’m old enough, even when my grandmother isn’t there.” There was a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

  “But you’re in touch with your dad.”

  Monica pulled her scarf tighter around her like a wrap. “We had to tell him about Mom. He’s helping plan the funeral.” She kept her hands clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white from the pressure. Stressed about being back in the general vicinity of her mother’s death?

  Stan drove the short distance to the town hall and parked. Monica looked around, wary. “This doesn’t look like a police station,” she said.

  “It’s not, technically. The resident state trooper, the one who has your phone, has an office here. The official state police barracks are about twenty minutes away. Trooper Pasquale can take care of some things here, like police reports.” She turned off the car. “Ready?”

  Monica met her eyes. Hers were round and almost fearful. “I guess,” she said, her voice hushed. She got out of the car, and plodded along through the parking lot behind Stan.

  Chapter 43

  The gold sphere high above the town hall’s clock tower gleamed in the afternoon sun. Monica pulled open the door for Stan, who balanced the coffees and pastry. Inside, the first floor of the three-story building bustled with the usual activity. Residents lined up outside the tax assessor’s office, some waiting to pay a bill, others there to argue about an incorrect calculation. Around the corner, a small crowd waited for the elevators. Stan opted for the stairs instead. They climbed to the second floor, walked by the city clerk’s office and stopped in front of Jessie’s closed door. She could hear muted voices inside, so she knocked.

  The door opened immediately. Stan jumped back, startled, and found herself face-to-face with Captain Quigley. His gaze traveled from her to Monica, then he pulled the door wider and motioned them in. “Trooper. Looks like you have some citizens to attend to,” he said. Then, with a nod at Stan and Monica, he left.

  Jessie sat at her desk. Her face said she was either sick or mad, but when she saw Monica behind Stan she reverted to her typical blank expression. “Hey,” she said, and only Stan would’ve noticed the tremor in her voice.

  “Hey.” Stan placed the lattes and pastry bag on Jessie’s desk and handed her the cup. “Chocolate caramel latte.”

  “Thank you.” Jessie made no move to take the cup. She lifted one eyebrow to Stan, a silent question, then turned to Monica. “Hi, Monica.”

  “Hello,” Monica said softly.

  “Thanks for coming by. I have your cell phone.” Her tone was icy. Stan knew Quigley had chewed her out for Monica’s escape. It riled Jessie that the Major Crimes guy who’d actually let her waltz out the door had escaped unscathed.

  Jessie went over to a cabinet, unlocked it, and took out a plastic bag with a label on it. She removed a piece of paper and Monica’s phone in its orange case. “Can you sign this?” She handed over the paper and a pen.

  With a shaky hand, Monica scrawled something that may or may not have been a random scribble.

  “Great. Thanks for coming by.” Dismissing her, Jessie picked up her coffee and sat back down at the desk.

  Something was up. Stan was willing to bet Jessie’s captain didn’t often come to visit her here. “Jess. She needs something else,” she said softly.

  Jessie looked up expectantly. “What?”

  Stan nudged Monica. “Tell her,” she said.

  Monica took a deep breath. “I need to file a report. I think my purse was stolen.”

  “Your purse,” Jessie repeated flatly. “From the party?”

  Monica nodded, eyes downcast. She rubbed her thumb and index finger repetitively together at her side.

  Jessie clamped her lips together, reached in a drawer, and yanked out some papers. Slamming the drawer shut, she came around to the front of her desk. “I’ll have you fill these out in there,” she said, pointing to the small conference room attached to her office.

  Monica went into the room looking like she faced her own execution. Jessie pulled the door shut behind her. “What’s that about?” she asked in a low voice.

  Stan shrugged. “Her purse is missing.”

  “You don’t think she may have lost it in her drunken stupor
and no one’s found it yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Stan said. “Maybe someone can look for it, if that’s the case.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t look at me.” She looked at the conference room door, then back at Stan. “I’m screwed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The captain’s unhappy about the ‘continuing press coverage.’ I don’t get it. He knows the drill. He just wants to ding me ’cause I’m not buying into their open-and-shut case.”

  “Well, if he’s mad about Cyril, things are about to get a lot more interesting,” Stan muttered.

  “What?” Jessie asked.

  “Nothing.” She’d tell her about the other reporters later.

  “Plus, he heard people are talking about the ‘real killer.’ He’s not happy with me. Thinks I’m planting the seed out there.” She waved at the town beyond her window. “He’s not listening to anything I say. I’m glad he didn’t recognize her. He would’ve hit the roof.” She inclined her head at the door. “What’s up with her? She looks like she’s on another planet.”

  “I don’t know. But the car that she took off in the other night.” She lowered her voice. “Did you ever run the partial plate?”

  “Didn’t seem necessary, especially given . . . everything.”

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  Jessie’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Stan paced the small room. “This is going to sound crazy, but I swear it was Scott’s car. Brenna’s Scott. We went out to eat with them last night, and he has a sticker that looks like the one I saw. And this is his license plate.” She pulled out her phone and showed Jessie the letters and numbers she’d taken down as he drove away. “Jake’s worried.”

  Jessie stared at the numbers, then looked at Stan. “You told Jake?”

  “I was with him. He knew something was up.”

  “That’s worse than telling me when it comes to Brenna. He didn’t even like that she was dating someone.” She copied the number.

  “Well, I’m sure it was worse last night because Scott started talking about moving in with Bren.”

  “Oh boy.” Jessie finally picked up her coffee and sipped. “I’ll run it, but what do you think’s up?”