Sweet as Pie Crimes

by Anisa Claire West

  I swallowed hard, feeling a lump rise up in the base of my throat as I forced myself to read the rest of the article. In addition to the comment from Dr. Townsend, Marcus’s parents had issued impassioned statements proclaiming his innocence and dedication to the field of pediatric medicine. My heart softened at the knowledge that Marcus was a children’s doctor.

  Glancing at the time, I widened my eyes, noting that it was already past 11. If I had felt lured to investigate Marcus’s case before, now nothing would stop me, and I knew I had to meet him at the lavender farm before he disappeared forever---or worse, before he was arrested and carted back to San Quentin.

  Slipping my iPad into its case and grabbing my car keys, I scurried out the door to find Marcus. Thankfully, I knew exactly where the farm was, and at this time of night, traffic would be light to non-existent, so I should easily be able to make it there before midnight. My exhaustion transformed into adrenaline as I accelerated past the speed limit of the back country roads. A few street lamps lit up the night, but mostly all I could see was blackness. I envisioned Marcus locked up in his cell after the lights automatically switched off each night in prison. If he really were innocent of the crime, then I couldn’t let him be sent back to captivity. Along with my baking prowess, I’ve always harbored a deep love for the underdog and an unquenchable thirst for justice. At least that’s what I told myself as I sailed through an amber light. My quest to help Marcus couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I was hopelessly attracted to him…of course not.

  What should have been a half hour ride was over in less than 20 minutes as I jerked my car to a stop in the empty gravel parking lot of the farm. The place was desolate, and I hesitated for a moment, remembering how frightening my experience in Idaho had been. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea to wander around a farm by myself in the middle of the night. You think, genius? Maybe I should get back into my car and drive home the way I had promised Lori.

  But I didn’t get back in my car. Bravely, I clicked the door shut and walked around back to sweeping lavender fields that were even more sweetly fragrant in the midnight breeze. I inhaled the scrumptious scent to infuse myself with more courage as I circled the property looking for Marcus. Maybe he had already left…or maybe he had never made it here in the first place. After all, he probably had to rely on hitchhiking for transportation now that his black Audi escape car was disabled in a highway ditch. I frowned, wondering where he had gotten that car. The puzzle pieces were scattered like willow seeds in Mount Rainier National Park, and I intended to put them together. It was a recipe challenge for me, as much as the new pies I concocted on a weekly basis. Except this recipe was far, far more consequential and could yield an innocent man’s freedom rather than a batch of fattening pies.

  I wanted to call out Marcus’s name but felt that would be inviting trouble. Just as I was contemplating whether I was the only living soul in the fields, the sound of human breathing floated along the wind. I stood still, clenching my hands together nervously as the breathing became louder and was accompanied by rapidly approaching footsteps.

  Chapter 8

  Blinded by the darkness, I felt as vulnerable as when Marcus had pointed the knife at my throat. That terrorizing memory made me question why I had come to this abandoned farm to help the man who had callously held me captive. But then I remembered the heartwarming picture of Marcus with the two little patients in one of the articles about his conviction, and my purpose in helping him was immediately reaffirmed.

  My mind became a blank slate again as the breathing and footsteps were suddenly a few feet behind me. I tightened my jaw as I turned around, trying in futility to recognize the person standing there. The shadow appeared large, male, and menacing. Was it Marcus…or someone more dangerous?

  “Becca, you came to me. Just in a nick of time too! I knew you would,” Marcus said in a caressing tone as my jaw unclenched and I exhaled in a swoosh of relief.

  “You scared the hell out of me. Again. You’re very good at that, aren’t you?” I said sarcastically.

  “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, reaching out a hand in the darkness to find my cheek and smooth his palm across it.

  “So you’re a doctor?”

  His white teeth glinted in the night in a proud smile. “Yes, I am.” The shine vanished as he corrected himself. “Well, I was. Until I was convicted of murdering my wife.”

  “Tell me the whole story. All I know is what the newspaper articles online told me. But I want to hear it from you. Who did it, Marcus? If it really wasn’t you, then who was it?”

  “I could spend hours telling you my story, but we have to get out of here, so I’m going to give you the short version. My wife and I were in the middle of a divorce because she was cheating on me. She had an affair for over a year, and I didn’t suspect a thing because I was too busy with my residency, trying to build my medical career.”

  He paused and I bit the inside of my cheeks, thinking how this revelation incriminated him even more. Now he had a motive, in addition to money and belongings, to kill his wife. But I let his story unfold without interrupting even as my pulse quickened inside the vein in my wrist.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” He read my thoughts. “Motive, right? Wrong. Caitlyn made the mistake of cheating on me with an older guy who was also married. And when she threatened to tell his wife about the affair, he decided to silence her. That’s my theory, anyway. I’ve never been able to prove it because she was murdered in our bedroom and there was no sign of a break in. So obviously I was the one they looked at first. Actually, I was the only one they ever looked at,” he finished bitterly.

  “But the articles said that the knife was never found. How could they convict you without DNA proof or something more scientific?” I argued.

  “Becca, there are men sitting on death row right now for crimes they didn’t commit. Some of them have been there since the 80’s when DNA profiling was just emerging as a science. It happens every day in our justice system. Innocent people are put away while criminals walk free.” His voice was laced with impatience and frustration.

  I nodded and simply said, “I know, it’s terrible. But I still have so many questions…”

  “And I’ll be glad to answer them. But not right now. We’ve got to get out of here. And out of Washington before I get caught. Come on, let’s go.” He offered me his hand as I grabbed on and let him lead me around the bend to the parking lot.

  “Where are we going?” I asked foolishly, acutely aware of the ramifications of aiding an escaped convict. His stride had morphed into a sprint, and I battled to keep up with him. Of course he wanted to use my car to get away. What other options were there at this point? But we needed some kind of plan before we took to the road. I couldn’t just race around the country with him until he was inevitably caught or we crashed and burned from running too recklessly.

  “Keys,” he clipped, holding out his hand expectantly.

  “You want to drive?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” he replied brusquely. “Becca, just give me the keys. You came out here tonight for a reason. You know I’m innocent. That’s why you’re here. Let me drive so I can get a little closer to finally proving that innocence.”

  Reluctantly, I placed my keys in his hand and climbed into the passenger side of the car. His teeth shone again in the moonlight as he revved up the engine and sped out of the bumpy lot.

  “Be careful!” I warned. “The lot isn’t paved, and the last thing we want is a flat tire.”

  “You’re right,” he allowed, pumping the brakes just a tad before swooping onto the paved road.

  “You at least have to tell me where we’re going,” I insisted.

  “We’re going to California,” he answered in a monotone.

  “California? Are you crazy? If we go back there, you’ll definitely be caught!”

  “Listen, even the Feds are on my ass right now. It doesn’t matter where I go. I’m a marked man.
But I have to go to California to get to Caitlyn’s killer. He still lives in San Francisco. Bastard.” Grimacing, Marcus picked up a southbound road and cut over into the left lane.

  “Speeding will only draw more attention to us,” I pointed out.

  “Right again. I’m glad I have you with me, Becca. In fact, I predict that you’re going to be the key to my liberation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to use some of that small town charm of yours to frame Caitlyn’s killer.”

  ***

  As dawn shimmered over the misty horizon, I wasn’t sure if we were in Oregon or California. And I definitely wasn’t sure of Marcus’s plan. In a way, it sounded just ludicrous enough to work, but in another way, it just sounded ludicrous. I had never thought of myself as possessing much natural charm, especially since my heinous divorce and subsequent hiatus from dating. But clearly Marcus viewed me through gentler eyes.

  “Can we pull over and get some coffee?” I asked pleadingly, already anticipating that he would reject my supplication.

  “I’d love to, Becca, but we can’t stop now. We’ll be in San Francisco later and then you can put our plan into action.”

  “Our plan? You mean your plan. And I don’t think I can put anything into action the way I feel right now,” I complained, glancing at my dreadful reflection in the side view mirror. My unwashed hair looked matted and greasy, and my eyes had developed conspicuous purple rings under the lids from my severe lack of sleep.

  “You look beautiful,” Marcus countered as I rolled my eyes, even though I could tell he was sincere.

  “So you really expect me to go into this man’s place of work and just start flirting with him. What’s his name anyway?”

  “Benson Helling,” Marcus said tightly. “And he’s a bartender, so flirting is part of his job.”

  “How do you know he still works at the same bar?”

  “I have my methods,” Marcus evaded. “He owns the bar,” he elaborated slightly as I nodded.

  “And how did you manage to get out of San Quentin? I’ve been wracking my brain about that one since the police in Idaho told me about your escape.” I glanced over at him curiously as he appeared blank-faced and inclined to continue evading my intrusive questions.

  “Like I said, I have my methods.” Yup, not gonna tell me a damn thing.

  “Was it an inside job?” I prodded. “I mean, did someone from the prison help you get out?”

  Marcus snorted in disgust. “The people in that prison wouldn’t help get me a cup of water if I were dying of thirst.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I replied wryly. “What about that doctor, your mentor? What was his name? From the article? Bill Townsend…I think.”

  Marcus fell silent and his eyes darkened like midnight blue coal. I knew I had struck a nerve. So he had received help from a respected physician, some sort of monetary assistance, I assumed. I folded my hands in my lap, more convinced than ever that Marcus was innocent and this Benson Helling bartender guy must be the culprit.

  “Is he still married to his wife?”

  “Yes, that’s what makes this plan so foolproof. He doesn’t give a damn about her, but he doesn’t want to lose his house or his business in a divorce settlement. It’s so ironic that the cops thought I didn’t want to lose my assets divorcing Caitlyn. Hell, all I wanted was to be free of a woman who cheated on me.”

  I tilted my head sympathetically, fully relating to Marcus’s pain. I wanted to commiserate and share my story of infidelity, but I didn’t feel quite ready to open up to him. My sister, mom, and small circle of girlfriends were the only ones I had confided in about my deceitful ex-husband.

  “Okay, so let me get this straight,” I changed the subject back to the plan to trap Helling as Marcus looked relieved. “I’m going to start out by flirting with him over a drink or two. And then once he’s at ease, I’m going to---somehow magically---get a confession out of him. Right?”

  “Right. Except it won’t be magic. People’s true selves come out when they drink. He won’t even realize that he’s confessing to you with a couple of gin and tonics in his system.”

  “Well I don’t know about you, Sherlock Holmes, but I don’t carry a tape recorder on me. So how are we going to get proof that he ever said anything? It will be my word against his.” And my word could get me arrested for aiding and abetting an escaped convict, I refrained from adding.

  “Benson’s Bar & Grille is one of the trendiest places in San Francisco. There will be people everywhere to witness the confession.”

  “And you’re assuming that these people will want to cooperate? Maybe they won’t want to get involved with a national manhunt and murder investigation,” I poked holes in his plan as he ran a frustrated hand through his wavy hair.

  “Well if they’re subpoenaed by a court of law, then they’ll have to cooperate,” Marcus argued.

  “But that wouldn’t happen right there in the bar. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I said more gently.

  Marcus shook his head bitterly and conceded, “You’re right. I’ve just been trying so long to clear my name. It’s like a pipe dream at this point. Maybe I didn’t think this through so well, but it could still work. I’m counting on you, Becca. You’re not only a sexy woman, but also a smart one, and I know you can carry this off.”

  “I’ll try my best,” I promised. “But don’t you think you’re putting an awful lot of faith into a stranger?”

  “Who? You?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t feel like a stranger, but I guess you are,” he chuckled, winking at me and grinning before returning his attention to the road. Now that was natural charm.

  Tension climbed between us for the rest of the morning as he mastered the California roads, and I repeatedly glanced in the mirror to check that I still looked unattractive. If I didn’t smell so recycled and feel so blah from the sleepless road trip, I would have told Marcus to pull over to the side of the highway so I could kiss those perfectly carved lips of his.

  Instead, I dove my hand into my purse, retrieving my phone so I could text Lori to open and run the shoppe. I paused, wondering what I could say to her that wouldn’t arouse suspicion or concern. Hating myself for lying, I tapped a few sentences into the phone, telling her I was spending the day apple picking for my deep dish pies. What a deep dish lie! But I sent the message anyway, cringing inwardly as I hoped she would believe me.

  “Are you ready to roll?” Marcus asked boldly.

  “Hmmm?” I murmured before sharply taking in a breath as the glowing sign came into view:

  Benson’s Bar & Grille

  Chapter 9

  “You look frozen in time,” Marcus observed as I sat up stiffly in my seat.

  “I’m so nervous,” I admitted, as though realizing for the first time the enormity of what I had agreed to undertake.

  Questions swam around in my head: what if someone recognized Marcus and called the police and implicated me as an accessory? What if I botched the meeting with Benson and we had driven all this distance for nothing? The what if’s continued to plague me as I drenched my lips in scarlet gloss and mechanically stepped out of the car, trying to catch my balance.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I asked as Marcus tailed several paces behind me.

  “We’re not a couple, remember?” He hissed impatiently.

  “I know that!”

  “No, I mean for the purposes of this trap meeting, we don’t even know each other! You’re going into that bar as a single woman ready to mingle with other people.”

  I rolled my eyes at the “single and ready to mingle” stereotype before squaring my shoulders and forcing myself to adopt a coquettish persona. What would my name be? Leilani. I had always loved the exotic sounding moniker. So what if it was a Hawaiian name and I looked every ounce my mixed German and Irish background? For tonight, I would be Leilani. At least I could live out one of my dreams while I risked my freed
om to help a gorgeous but infuriating stranger.

  Marcus dawdled outside, bowing his head and staring at the pavement as I sauntered into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar. A young bartender, no more than 25 or 26, immediately came up to me to take my drink order. There was no way this was Benson, I thought, as Marcus had described him as an older man. What if damn Benson had taken the night off? One more little detail that Marcus had neglected to consider in his haste to clear his name.

  “What’s your pleasure, ma’am?”

  Damn it! The ma’am added so much insult to injury, but I smiled brightly for the silly lad and replied, “I’ll start with a white wine spritzer. Is Benson around?” My high-pitched tone must have given away my nervousness, but the kid didn’t seem to notice.

  “Actually, yeah. I think he’s in the kitchen. Who should I say is looking for him?”

  Well now I was the one who hadn’t thought ahead. Benson didn’t know me by Becca or Leilani or any other name on earth, so I winged it. “An admirer,” I replied breezily.

  The young man smirked and nodded as he walked backwards towards the kitchen. I didn’t care for the tour his eyes took of my body as he backed away. Inwardly, I giggled as his tight rump slammed into the counter and he yelped, “Ow!”

  Moments later, a gray haired man with a wooly beard and wine glass in his hand appeared. “Your white wine spritzer,” he offered with a knowing grin before saying with rich satisfaction, “I heard that an admirer was looking for me.”

  I cleared my throat and prepared to put on an Oscar-worthy performance. How crazy Marcus’s wife was for cheating on him with this lump! The paunchy, 50-something beast was not someone I would normally flirt with. In fact, he was not someone I would ever flirt with, not even if I were shipwrecked and alone in Antarctica. He also didn’t look like a murderer, I thought. But then again, what does a murderer look like? I had asked myself that question too many times in recent days and been unable to come up with a consistent answer. A murderer could be someone with the face of a demon---or he could just be the middle aged man next door.