Twice Baked Murder: A Cozy Mystery (The Rita Reincarnated Cozies Book 1)

by Daphne DeWitt

  I half expected to see Charlie appear out of nowhere, wearing some face I didn’t recognize. It certainly seemed like the right time for him to show up.

  Instead, I saw Angela standing in front of a white car, arguing with a burly dark haired man.

  She didn’t see me, at least not yet. She was throwing her hands, obviously shouting. For his part, the man was shouting back. She shook her head decisively and shut him up.

  The man stomped the ground, got into the white car, slammed the door and sped off, leaving skid marks the new delivery guy would almost certainly approve of.

  She turned to walk back inside, and I ducked back into the house before she could see me.

  As soon as I closed the door behind me, I saw the back of my father’s head.

  For all the intensity of my internal monologue, it was still too soon.

  I slid away, careful not to meet Dad’s eyes, and made my way into the first place I could find that was empty.

  I realized, as I closed the door of the empty room, I had inadvertently made my way into Patrick and Angela’s bedroom.

  I should have left. What widow would want people shuffling around in her bedroom during her husband’s wake?

  Walking back out there would mean dealing with my father or facing the smug horrors of Sheriff Darrin Dash. Unfortunately, neither one of those things was above my pay-grade at the moment.

  Besides, there could be clues as to what happened to Patrick here, clues the police might have missed.

  And yes, it made me feel like a world class jerk, but I was already in the room. Wouldn’t Angela want me to do all I could to bring her husband’s killer to justice?

  I turned the lock and then started searching the room. First, I checked the closet, coming up empty. Then, the counters on either side of the bed. Then, under the bed. Then, I checked the counters and dressers for false bottoms.

  With the exception of a huge value-sized bottle of acetaminophen and a smaller bottle of over the counter metoclopramide for gastroesophageal reflux, all of it came up empty.

  I sat on the foot of the bed and felt a crease. Feeling around, I realized that their king size bed actually consisted of two smaller mattresses pushed together.

  Scooting down, I lifted the blanket and sheets, and felt between the mattresses, hoping to find something.

  Again, I came up empty.

  I was beginning to think there was nothing in this room, when I remembered something I saw on an old Murder, She Wrote.

  Jessica Fletcher was on a book tour and, because she was absolutely the most perfect creature in all of creation, solved the murder of her agent’s niece without so much as wrinkling her brow.

  The turning point in the case came when she found the murder weapon stuffed into an air vent.

  Moving over to the vent on the wall, I pulled open the vent. I didn’t find the murder weapon. The police already had that, in any regard.

  What I found was better.

  A cell phone lay in the air shaft.

  I snatched it up, placing the vent back and standing.

  It was a flip phone, definitely one of those burners you see at gas stations and pharmacies. What was it doing hidden away?

  I went to flip it open when I heard a scream.

  Darting toward the door, I flipped the lock and ran toward the source of the noise.

  It was chaos as people moved back and forth, some of them forming a tight circle in the center.

  Angela was flanked with people, Sheriff Dash chief among them.

  Thankfully, Dad didn’t seem to be among them.

  The sheriff led her toward the couch as she mumbled something over and over again.

  “I just wanted some air,” she said.

  “What happened?” I asked, making my way to Peggy.

  “She went into the garage where she was storing the extra plates. Someone was waiting for her there.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “A man in a black mask jumped her. Thank goodness people were here and heard her scream or else he’d have bashed her head in with that thing.”

  I didn’t need to ask what “that thing” was. It sat there in Sheriff Dash’s hand.

  He made eye contact with me as I saw it: a large silver wrench with a blood stain on it.

  10

  I paced around the hospital waiting room nervously. Angela had been back there for almost forty-five minutes now, and there hadn’t even been a peep from the doctor.

  “You should have seen her,” I said, glancing over at Aiden. “You’d have had her out here thirty minutes ago.”

  And he would have. Aiden had always been a quick study. He could look at a patient and just know what was wrong with them, like some sort of medical detective. It was one of my favorite things about him.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked, his hand in Peggy’s.

  “I don’t know,” I blustered. “You just look quick is all.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” he answered, looking back at the double doors that led to the patient rooms.

  The closest hospital to Second Springs was fifteen miles away, all the way in Clear Lake. But we did have a clinic. Dr. Thompkins had been a Second Springs stalwart for forty-seven years. He delivered me. Well, the first time anyway. He also delivered Aiden, Peggy, and ninety percent of the people in town.

  Oh, and he was eighty-seven years old, which probably accounted for the slowness.

  “She’ll be fine, Rita,” Peggy said, looking up at me. “She said the wrench didn’t even touch her. She’s probably more scared than anything else.”

  “She should be,” I said, shaking my head. “Can you imagine? Somebody was just lurking there in her garage, waiting to get her alone. She could have died.”

  “It’s horrible,” Peggy said. “But she didn’t die. We were there. What’s more, the police were there. Now they know someone is after her too.” Peggy shook her head. “They’ll take care of it.”

  I blustered. “I’m glad someone has faith in this town’s police department.”

  “Peggy’s always been a smart one, Ms. Redoux. It’s something you should look into.”

  I turned, sighing even more than I already was.

  Sheriff Dash strode toward us. He had his phone in hand and a golden star pressed against his chest.

  Instinctively, my hand traveled to my pocket and wrapped around the phone I found back in Angela’s bedroom.

  Maybe I should give it to him, just hand it over, and tell him where I got it. It might hold clues that could lead to what was going on. But could I really trust Sheriff Dash, or anyone for that matter?

  They didn’t know what I was going through. They didn’t know that my “unfinished business” was pushing me towards finding answers to these questions. And, they certainly didn’t know why I had “unfinished business” in the first place.

  Besides, giving the phone to Sheriff Dash would mean that I’d have to explain how I got it. Something told me that telling him I was snooping around a dead man’s room at the same moment his wife was nearly killed wouldn’t do anything to quell his suspicions of me.

  No, I’d hold onto it for now. Once I got a chance to look into its contents, I’d revisit my options. Until then, the dance with Darrin Dash had to continue.

  “I’ll put it on my list,” I said, still pacing.

  “Be nice, Darrin. Can’t you see she’s nervous?” Peggy asked, motioning to me.

  “Too nervous, if you ask me. Almost like she has some sort of personal investment in the whole thing. And it’s Sheriff Dash,” he smirked.

  “It’ll be more than that if you don’t stop acting like this!” Peggy stood up, her face red, her eyes watery. “Of course, she has a personal investment in this! We all do. Angela was part of this town, of this family, so was Patrick!” She pointed to me. “This woman has been in this town for two days, and she’s managed more compassion and kindness than you have in two years!”

  “Peggy,” Aiden stood, touching her a
rm.

  “No, Aiden! I’m right.” She pulled away. “Rita watched him be killed. We all did. And then she stood there while the same was almost done to Angela. All our good sheriff here can do is point the finger.” She shook her head. “Maybe that’s because you don’t have any legitimate leads. Maybe it’s because in the two years you’ve been here, you haven’t been able to solve anything!”

  “Peggy, that’s not fair,” Aiden said.

  “It’s all right, Aiden. She’s upset,” Sheriff Dash said.

  “Of course I’m upset!” she screamed. “People are dying. It’s been two years, and people are still dying! Do something!” She stomped the ground and marched past us. “Just do something!”

  “I’m sorry,” Aiden looked at us, nodded, and then followed Peggy as she charged out of the room.

  “Well, that was something else,” Sheriff Dash said, looking at the space where Peggy pretty much just had a nervous breakdown.

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “She’s always been a dramatic one.” I winced. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  He glanced over at me. “You do that on purpose, don’t you? Say things that make it sound like you know more than you should.” He shook his head. “I can’t decide whether that’s because you actually do, or because you just want me to think you’re more interesting than you are.”

  “And, why would I want that?” I asked, folding my arms and glaring at him.

  “You tell me.” He grinned devilishly at me.

  I stared at him, my eyebrows furrowing. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  “Oh, I think you might.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Nothing at all, Ms. Redoux.” He winked at me. “Not one thing.” He turned and started out of the room.

  For some reason, the entire exchange made me really angry. Watching him walk away, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. “If I were you, I’d develop a distaste for pie!”

  “Now, Ms. Redoux,” he said from over his shoulder. “If I did that, where would we ‘accidentally’ run into each other?” He turned back and nodded at me. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “What on earth was that?” I muttered to myself as he pushed his way through the door.

  “It looked like flirting. Painful flirting, but flirting, nonetheless.”

  I turned. Angela was standing behind me, holding an ice pack to her forehead.

  “Hey,” I said, giving her a hug, even though we’d just met yesterday. “Are you okay?”

  “You mean other than being shaken up, scared to death, and heartbroken? I’m just peachy,” she groaned.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling away from her. “I want you to know we’re going to find out who did this to you, who did this to Patrick.”

  “We?” she asked, wincing as she moved the ice pack away.

  “You know, the communal ‘we.' Like, all of us,” I answered, shuffling my stance uncomfortably.

  “I think all of us should leave this to the police,” she said. “This town is much more dangerous than either Patrick or I imagined. I can’t believe I have to stay here for a minute longer, let alone a month.”

  “You’re not leaving immediately anymore?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not,” she answered. “My sister’s house is being remodeled, and she’s not going to have room for me until it’s completed.”

  “I’m sorry again,” I muttered. “Is she in New York?”

  “New York?” she asked. “Oh right! Yes. She’s in New York.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I must be more shaken up than I thought.”

  “Understood,” I answered, wondering if that was enough of a reason to get her to flub like that. Taking her hand, I led her out the door. “Let me help you home.”

  “No!” She answered, pulling away from me. “I’m not- I’m not going back there. The Inn will be just fine. And, I can make it there myself. I wanted to stop by the graveyard for a little while first. I’m sure you understand.”

  Better than you know,” I thought.

  “I do,” I answered, and stayed step by step with her out into the parking lot. “It’ll get better.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “For you, too.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “That flirting,” she scrunched her nose. “It was practically painful. I almost felt sorry for you, and I’m a brand new widow.”

  Ouch. That was painful, but was it even true? Was I flirting back there? If so, I hadn’t really realized. What did it mean, if anything?

  Later that night, once Peggy and I had washed out the last of the pie tins, safely locked up shop, and talked about how much the town sheriff was getting on our last nerves, I finally had time to do a little digging.

  Locking the door to my place in the back building, but keeping more than a few lights on (thanks, Mayor McConnell), I pulled Patrick’s phone out of my pocket and went to work.

  Amazing, the lock screen didn’t have a password. I guess he figured hiding it in the air duct was security enough. So, I flicked the keypad and started snooping around.

  The wallpaper was a yellow smiley face, pretty nondescript but also creepy, given that I was looking through a dead man’s phone. It was almost like Patrick was glaring back at me, grinning as I riffled through his secrets.

  Only, there were no secrets there.

  No contacts, no call history, no pictures. It was like the entire phone had been wiped clean. It was empty of everything. Why would Patrick go through all the trouble of hiding a barren phone? What good would that do?

  I scrolled through the apps, where at least there was something to look at.

  The phone was quick and much lighter than I remembered burner phones being. Two years must have really seen a tech upheaval for drug dealers and low-level crime bosses.

  Tapping the Facebook app proved fruitless. It wasn’t logged into any account, but just as I was about to power down the phone and call it a loss, I saw a familiar app.

  Dancing Dragon.

  It looked like a game; a cartoon dragon flying over a pit filled with multicolored balls, but, I knew better.

  When I was sick last month (or I guess that was two years ago last month), I found myself sniffling through daytime TV. One of the seemingly endless parade of talk shows’ cheaters had used this app.

  It looked like a game from the outside, but it was really a masking app. It threw a layer over your phone making it look empty when it really wasn’t. You know, in case your girlfriend went through your phone because she correctly thought you were a two-timing piece of garbage.

  I tapped on the cartoon dragon to find that this app did, in fact, have a lock code.

  Luckily, the talk show host hadn’t stopped at exposing the cheater. He exposed the entire app, giving away the universal unlock code. And, because I’m the type of person who remembers useless information, I remembered it.

  Now, so long as the app makers hadn’t updated in the last two years, I was golden.

  Six zeros, two star keys, and a pound sign later, and I was in Patrick’s phone.

  Mayor McConnell gave me a disapproving stare from his tin of leftover sweet potatoes, but I shook my head.

  “Oh, don’t start. It’s not like I go around invading people’s privacy, especially dead people. You, of all people, know that this is an extreme situation.” I shrugged. “Though, I guess it would be ‘you of all dogs,' wouldn’t it? “

  He just licked his snout and went back to the sweet potatoes.

  I flipped through the home screen, noticing that now an unread text message sat in the alerts bar.

  I clicked it. The number had a different area code but wasn’t labeled with any name.

  I bit my lip in anticipation as I read them.

  -This isn’t worth it. We need to stop this now.

  - Hey. Call me. I don’t know what’s going on, and this is all too much.

  And finally:

  -Where are you? I haven’
t heard from you in days. I’m starting to worry. I knew we shouldn’t have done this.

  Beyond that, going through the now unlocked phone, I saw it didn’t have much more on it than before.

  There were still no pictures, still no contacts. The only difference, in fact, was within the call history.

  There was one number called several times stretching back months, the same number the texts originated from.

  I rushed over to the laptop and typed the number in.

  Mt. Gregor Auto Repair.

  It was thirty-seven miles from here.

  Bet I could find a wrench or two there.

  “I know where the two of us are headed tomorrow, Mayor McConnell,” I said, looking down at the Irish setter.

  He groaned up at me, though that may have been because he’d finished about a pound and a half of sweet potatoes in record time.

  His eyes darted to the door, and he barked seconds before a knock sounded.

  I slammed the laptop shut and looked down at the dog. He seemed to share my concern. Peggy had been in no shape to talk and said that she and Aiden were calling it an early night. So, who could be at my door now?

  The knock came again, and I stood.

  Grabbing the first thing I could find, a metal lamp from my computer desk, I slowly made my way to the door. The good mayor stayed behind, giving me an “I’m just here got the food” look.

  “Some guard dog,” I muttered, settling in front of the door.

  With lamp in hand, I flung the door open

  I dropped both my jaw and my lamp when I saw him. Like the end of a song that came too soon, leaving you breathless and still singing, he stood there. My dad.

  “Hello, Rita,” he said, his gray eyes burning right through me. “I think you and I need to talk.”

  11

  I stood there with my mouth open. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I probably couldn’t have breathed, if not for the fact that it was involuntary.

  My dad was standing in front of me, looking right at me. After so much effort not to come face to face with him, here he was.