Twice Baked Murder

by Daphne DeWitt

  If there was a connection to what happened and this place, it obviously had to do with the guy working on the white car.

  I hit redial and, a few seconds later, a phone on the wall started ringing.

  The man working on the white car’s head shot up. He turned, facing the phone with a look on his face that told me this particular line didn’t ring very often and, the fact that it now was, meant something very significant.

  This was the guy who was connected to what was going on. Of course, it turned out I didn’t need to ring the phone to figure that out.

  As he moved toward the phone, I caught sight of his face.

  He was big. He was burly. He was the man I saw arguing with Peggy the day of Patrick’s funeral, the guy screaming at her minutes before she was attacked in her garage.

  He turned toward me, catching sight of the phone in my hand. His eyes narrowed as he recognized it.

  He slammed the hood of the car down and hopped in, turning on the ignition.

  He was going to run.

  “Wait!” I yelled, throwing my hands out in front of me.

  The car roared to life, and it lunged forward, but as he took a hard right, I realized he wasn’t heading toward the garage door. He revved up as fast as he could go.

  Aimed right at me.

  13

  I froze as it neared me. The long white car bore down on me, engine revving and wheels spinning as it bridged the gap between me and the man who met Angela during the wake.

  My mind spun with a thousand different questions and a million different possibilities. Who was this man? Why had Patrick called him so many times during the days leading up to his death? What was he doing fighting with Angela yesterday? Why would someone who so blatantly and obviously worked as an auto mechanic leave wrenches at the sights of his murders? And how did he recognize the burner phone?

  I was missing something. There was a thread that tied all this together and made it make sense. Why couldn't I see it?

  Of course, none of those questions would ever matter or get answered if I ended up like a bug splattered against this guy’s windshield.

  Still, I couldn’t force myself to move. Like a deer staring down headlights that would soon turn it into road-kill, I was so mesmerized by the sheer speed and craziness of what was happening that I couldn’t make my legs work.

  The car was nearly on top of me now. I managed to shut my eyes, the first reaction I could squeeze out of my body and prepare for the worst.

  But a force hit me from the side, knocking me out of the way and throwing me flat on my back.

  Wind knocked out of me. I opened my eyes as I heard the car speed by me, driving over where I stood just a second ago and found Sheriff Dash over top of me. Evidently, he'd pushed me out of the path of that car, saving my life.

  I was never going to hear the end of this.

  “Are you alright?” he asked breathlessly, his arms wrapped around my back. His eyes were very close to mine. I felt his breath against my cheek as he spoke.

  “I…I think so,” I answered.

  Sheriff Dash remained unmoving for a second, laying over me and trying to gather himself. Blinking hard, he seemed to realize our current positions and hopped back up.

  “Good,” he answered, clearing his throat and forcing his voice to take on an “official business” tone. “That could have turned out very poorly.”

  I sat up, breathless myself, and turned my head. The white car sped off into the distance, taking the mystery man and the only real lead I’ve had since starting this whole thing with it.

  Sighing, I answered, “I think it still might.”

  Sheriff Dash paced around me, staring at me with a clenched jaw and enough rage in his eyes to lead me to believe he was seriously second guessing his decision to save my life.

  We sat in the waiting area of Mt. Gregor Auto. In the hour and a half since I’d almost been run down, the game had given way to an infomercial about a knife that was sharp enough to cut through pennies.

  Good thing the sheriff didn’t have that on him right now.

  He called in an APB on the car our mystery man drove off in and was preparing to question the owner of the auto shop. So all that was left to do, it seemed, was chew me out.

  “I don’t know how much plainer I can be,” he said, looking straight ahead and shaking his head. “It’s like you want me to throw you in jail. Is that what you want, Rita?”

  “What happened to ‘Ms. Redoux’?” I asked, slumping in my chair.

  Astonishingly enough, his eyes got even harder. “I’m starting to think you have a personal vendetta against me,” he said. “That’s the only way I can explain your unwavering refusal to let me do my job.”

  “Sheriff Dash, it’s not--”

  “Stop,” he said, his lips pursed, his finger popping up into the air to silence me. “In the time that you have been here, you’ve been present at a murder, an attack, and now at the scene of the first lead I’ve gotten since all of this happened. You’ve also perpetrated in an obvious lie involving my former deputy, and you seem to know things about this town and the people in it no newcomer should.” He shook his head. “And it’s only been four days. So you’ll forgive me if I’m lax with the formalities, but I’m busy trying to figure out just what is going on here.”

  A jolt of indignation, so strong it was like a bolt of lightning, ran through me. Did he think I was after anything different?

  “See, that’s all I want, too,” I said, standing.

  “Why!” he asked. “What business do you have here? How did you convince my former deputy to cover for you?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called Harvey your ‘former deputy’,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Well, when someone is fired, that’s the proper title for them.”

  “You fired Harvey!” I yelled, moving toward him.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I fired the person you met two days ago; a person you have absolutely no reason to feel so tied to.”

  He got me there.

  “I-I don’t want the guy to lose his job because of me,” I answered, which was the truth … if not all of it. Still, the idea of taking food out of his mouth only added to the mountain of guilt I was quickly piling up.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but it wasn’t only because of you. Harvey’s been less than effective at his position for quite some time now. His eagerness to hide the truth from me was just the last straw.”

  That didn’t make any sense. Harvey had always been a hard worker. Even with Dad gone, there was no way he’d do less than his best without a very good reason.

  “That’s neither here nor there, though,” Sheriff Dash answered. “The wrenches found at the crime scene and then Angela’s house were traced back to this garage. Since I know for a fact you haven’t hacked any of our computers, I want to know what you’re doing here. How did you make the connection?”

  Grimacing, I pulled Patrick’s hidden phone out of my pocket and handed it over.

  “It was hidden in the bedroom air duct,” I admitted. “This was the only number on it.”

  Sheriff Dash stared down at it and then back up at me. “And you were just going to withhold evidence?”

  “Until I figured out what it meant,” I answered.

  Sheriff Dash closed his eyes and slid the phone into his pocket. “What am I supposed to do with you? This is a punishable offense, Rita. Are you expecting me to just forget it?”

  “I was kind of hoping you might,” I muttered, feeling unexpectedly connected to this guy. He might have replaced my father, and he might have been as cocky as anyone I’d ever met, but he was also more like me than I cared to admit. He was bright. He was motivated. He was onto me.

  “Then, give me a reason,” he answered. “I don’t want to arrest you, and I don’t believe that you’re responsible for this. But you’re here for a reason, and you know more than you’re saying. If you can’t be honest with me, then I�
��m afraid you’re not leaving me with any other choice but to assume the worst.” He moved toward me. “So tell me, Rita. Tell me the truth.”

  And suddenly, I wanted to. I looked at Sheriff Dash with his knowing eyes and cocky smile, and I didn’t see the annoyingly smug officer who had replaced my father or the troublesome policeman who got in my way at every turn.

  I just saw the man. And, like it or not, a good one to boot. He was just trying to do his job, trying to bring justice and peace back to the town I loved.

  Could I really fault him for that?

  But, at the same time, could I really tell him the truth?

  No. He’d never believe me, especially since I had no proof other than my knowledge to back me up.

  Other than my knowledge…

  “I’m a psychic,” I said, nodding my head.

  He stared at me for a moment. “Put your hands behind your back,” he said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his jacket.

  “Okay, I’m a private eye,” I said, throwing my hands in front of me. Yeah, that made more sense. “Mrs. Hoover has a daughter named Amelia. She hired me to dig into her mother’s murder, and the whole thing led me here.”

  “A private investigator?” he said, looking me up and down. His eyes narrowed as he took me in, and the cuffs weighed back and forth in his hands. Was he actually buying this?

  “You don’t particularly look like any private eye I’ve ever seen, but that would explain a lot. Do you have any credentials?”

  “No. What I mean is, not on me. I have them back in Second Springs, but you have to believe me. That’s why I’m so involved in this because I have a huge payday coming. There’s absolutely no other reason for it.”

  “I assume this Amelia person fed you information as well,” Sheriff Dash asked.

  “Through Harvey,” I answered. “That’s why I was invested in whether or not he was still employed. He was my liaison.”

  Wow. All of this really did make sense. Note to self: I deserve a pat on the back for that one.

  “And you took a job at the pie shop to preserve your cover?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I had no idea how long any of this was going to take. Plus, I make a mean apple crumble.”

  “I need you to pack your things and leave,” Sheriff Dash told me flippantly.

  “What?” Shock rose in me and crested like a wave. “But I told you the truth.”

  Well, not really. But still…

  “That’s why I’m not arresting you right now. But I can’t have some private eye running around my crime scenes, even if she was hired by one of the victim’s family members.”

  “But you have no idea what you’re doing!” I blustered out before I could stop myself.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, readying his cuffs again.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “I’m sure you’re great at your job. You were, after all, the best detective in Washington D.C., or whatever. But I’m good at what I do, too. Good enough we ended up at the same place, even though I don’t have access to all that fancy police equipment and jurisdiction perks.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered. “However, it doesn’t change the fact I have a job to do.”

  “I can help you with that job,” I answered. “We can work together. You just need to trust me.”

  “If you want to be a police officer, I’ll get you a brochure to the academy. Otherwise, I’m gonna need you to stay out of my way. And, for you at least, that means getting out of town.”

  “Hey,” the old man who owned the place came walking out of the back room. His face was wrinkled and squinty, and his mouth was twisted impatiently. “Can we get on with this?”

  “I’ll be with you in a second, sir.” Sheriff Dash glared at me. “The lady and I are just finishing up here.”

  “Well hurry up, will ya? I gotta pick up the little lady in a few. If we don’t get to Chuck’s Chicken Palace by four, we miss the early bird special. Do I look like I’ve got ‘full price chicken’ money?”

  “In a second, sir,” Sheriff Dash answered.

  “It’s always the same,” he answered. “I knew I shouldn’t have hired a Phillies fan.” He started toward the back room.

  “What did you say?” I asked, sidestepping Sheriff Dash and walking toward the old man. “A Phillies fan?”

  “Yeah,” he shook his head. “The National League. Ya can’t trust it.”

  “No, not the team. The fan,” I said, starting to piece things together.

  “Ralph, the guy who almost turned ya into an oil spot? Yeah, he liked ‘em. What do ya expect from a Philadelphia boy? I honestly shouldn’t have been surprised he ended up being a criminal. Serves me right for paying him under the table.” He looked past me to Sheriff Dash. “I’d appreciate you forgetting you heard that.”

  “Focus!” I said, turning from the old man back to Sheriff Dash. “He’s from Philadelphia.”

  “So?” he asked, walking closer.

  “That’s where Patrick claimed to be from,” I answered, remembering that Angela said they had actually come from New York. “It’s all connected.”

  “What’s all connected?” he asked.

  My eyes got wide as the pieces snapped into place.

  “Sheriff Dash, get a hold of your people. We have to find Ralph!”

  “They’re looking,” he answered. “The make, model, and tag number of the car he left in have been sent out to three states.”

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s in danger,” I shook my head. “I was wrong. He isn’t the murderer. He’s going to be one of the victims.”

  14

  “You’re not making any sense,” Sheriff Dash said, walking toward me and staring like I had just slipped salt into his sugar bag. “Ralph, which I suppose is what we’re calling him, almost killed you earlier today. Why would he do that unless he had something to hide?”

  I shook my head, the gears practically spinning so furiously in my head, I was afraid Darrin might hear them. “Maybe the killer isn’t the only one with secrets.”

  “Rita, you’re-–”

  “Just hear me out,” I answered. “Peggy told me Patrick was from Philadelphia, just like Ralph. But his wife said he was from New York, that he had grown up there.”

  “So you think he lied about being from Philadelphia?” Sheriff Dash asked, folding his arms in front of him.

  “No, I think he lied about being from New York.”

  “He lied to his wife, but told his boss the truth?” The sheriff looked justifiably suspicious.

  “Maybe he told everyone in town the truth and kept it from his wife. It is easier to keep a secret from one person than from a town full. And she told me herself that she never interacted with people here. Maybe Patrick figured she’d never find out.”

  “But why lie about something like that at all? “ Sheriff Dash asked. “It seems unnecessary. It certainly doesn’t prove Ralph is in danger.”

  “Not by itself, it doesn’t. However, when you take into consideration the fact Patrick was in town the night Mrs. Hoover was killed, and that the wrenches used in both murders are exactly like those found in Ralph workplace--”

  “Then it points to him being a suspect, not a potential victim.”

  “Except he can’t be the killer. I watched him drive away from Patrick’s house minutes before Angela was attacked. Even if he doubled back, he still wouldn’t have had time enough. And why then? If he wanted to kill her, he could have done it when they were alone together outside.” I shook my head. “No, I think he was trying to warn her. He and Patrick are connected to what happened to Mrs. Hoover, somehow. Now that he saw Patrick had been killed because of it, he wanted to stop Patrick's wife from suffering the same fate.”

  “Then why would Ralph try to run you over?” Sheriff Dash asked sternly.

  “For the same reason you didn’t trust me. I showed up when all of this started happening again. Ralph must have figured I was connected and that, when I saw him, I had foun
d him out. He wasn’t trying to kill me. Ralph was trying to protect his cover.”

  Sheriff Dash’s phone rang, and he shot me a finger, turned, and answered it.

  That was fine by me. I had other things on my mind, like proving my theory.

  “Sir,” I said, moving toward the owner of the shop. “Can I get some information on Ralph?”

  “I already gave everything I had to the cop,” he snarled. “Ain’t much, though. I told ya, Ralph was under the table. The tax man’s hard on folks like me.”

  “But what about fingerprints? He worked here, he must have left some behind.”

  The old man scoffed. “Sweetie, look for whatever will get ya out of here. That’s all I care about.”

  “That won’t be necessary, “Sheriff Dash said from behind me.

  He was off the phone when I turned to him. “But we could use the Intel to find out his connection to all this.”

  “You can ask him yourself.”

  My eyes lit up. “You found him?”

  “More or less. He wrapped the car around a telephone pole two hours outside of town,” Sheriff Dash answered. “He’s being airlifted to Dalton. I’m going there now to question him. I’d tell you to stay put, but something tells me you’d just show up there, anyway. Plus, I’m interested to see if your little story pans out. So you can ride along, if you’d like.”

  “Ride?” I asked, grinning. “I’m driving.”

  The two-hour ride from Mt. Gregor to Dalton felt much less like a deposition than I expected. When I agreed to come along with Sheriff Dash, I expected he’d spend the time asking me probing questions, and I’d spend the time making up answers and hoping they’d stick.

  Didn't happen.

  We took my truck because it turned out the car Ralph nearly flattened me in belonged to Sheriff Dash himself. Much like me, he had gone to the auto shop to do some digging around (even though he insisted I refer to it as “investigating” and knew that showing up in a squad car would blow his cover quicker than … Well, quicker than I did.

  Mayor McConnell was in the back, sitting up with his tongue wagging in the air. I guess he was getting the hang of this whole “dog” thing. For his part, Sheriff Dash stared out the window when he wasn’t busy taking calls from his underlings and from the police force in Dalton, who were tending to this matter until we got there.