Doomed by Dessert

by CeCe Osgood

"You're so intense. "Whaddya up to?"

  "I'm looking for someone."

  Jill blew into her mother's ear. "Who?"

  "That tickles. Stop it."

  Jill obeyed and waited, trilling like an owl, "who, who" until Abby finally told her she'd gotten a name for the possible owner of the purple lipstick from Gina. She didn't go into any details.

  Jill peered at the screen. "Bell Cryton. That's who you're looking for?"

  "Yep. That's what Gina said. She spelled it for me."

  Jill finished off the sandwich. "If Google can't find it, I'll bet Gina can't spell it."

  Abby gave the kid the stink-eye.

  "All I'm saying is Gina probably spelled it out phonetically," Jill said, showing off her nerdy side as she disappeared back upstairs. "Try spelling it like the author. Michael Crichton. C-R-I-C-H-T-O-N."

  Abby typed in Bell Crichton. Still no results. She tried the last name with Belle and Bella. Again, no results.

  She remembered the lawyer, wondered if she should call him. Of course, if the blonde was a client, he would claim attorney-client privilege.

  Then, like a V-8 commercial, she smacked her forehead with her palm. "Of course. Fran." Surely she would still have access to the patient files.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shortly after dawn, Abby woke up, feeling wonderfully refreshed. She'd slept well last night, without one single nightmare torturing her. Maybe the sound of last night's rain had allowed her tired mind to skip the dream state and fall right into a deep sleep.

  She slipped a hand under the pillow next to her and felt for the phone. Yep, there it was. She'd called Fran last night and left a voicemail.

  So far, no return call.

  Hours later, still no call from Fran. Abby adjusted the skirt of her drab brown suit into place.

  "Boring, but okay," she said, grabbing the strap of the black leather handbag she'd received as a Christmas present from Charles's mother.

  She had only used it once before. On a visit to the in-laws.

  Abby fiddled with the strap, making the bag long enough to wear as a crossbody.

  She'd never been particularly fond of either one of her in-laws. Why should she be?

  They'd never hidden their disappointment when their precious Charles married her, the daughter of a lowly post office worker.

  After Jill was born, Christmas and birthday gifts came like clockwork and they'd visited on occasion, displaying, of course, the deportment of well-mannered guests. They'd kept their visits to three days or less. It had all been very civil and polite and grindingly annoying.

  When Jill turned ten, the visits stopped all together with the excuse that Charles's sister had moved back into their home with her two sons.

  Now, they spent every spare minute babysitting the boys. It was the boys this, and the boys that. They simply didn't have the time to travel to Nebraska to visit their only granddaughter.

  "Snobby nitwits," she muttered as she checked her reflection in the mirror. The black bag and the brown suit coordinated nicely and gave her appearance the right touch of corporate job interview perfection.

  The Volvo rolled up to a drive-thru window. Just as she dropped the cash in the attendant's hand, her phone jangled.

  She peered down to see the screen. "Oh, this can't be good," she groaned. It was Heartland Toy Time Inc. "Hello. Abby Little, here."

  "T.J. Moran, informing you I'm cancelling our appointment. The position has been filled. Goodbye."

  "Wait, wait. It's filled? When I talked to you earlier, you said it was still open."

  "That was then. This is now." He disconnected without even a goodbye.

  The attendant held out a paper bag and a small decaf coffee. Seething, Abby took the bag and the coffee then lifted her foot off the brake to let the car roll forward.

  Earlier that morning, she'd found the ad for the toy company job online and called the number.

  T.J. Moran had assured her she was an extremely suitable candidate for the job because she was willing to work weekends and holidays including Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and he insisted—actually demanded—that she come in for an interview this afternoon.

  "Some people," she huffed and reached into the paper bag for her glazed donut.

  It tasted blah compared to her father's. He'd made donuts twice a week at Burt's Desserts. They were light, fluffy, and delicious, although nothing could surpass his Cloud Ten, a chocolate and salted caramel tart that was truly divine.

  She'd continued making them after he passed away, but never felt hers were as good as his.

  A police car breezed past her, and her thoughts shifted to the newest suspect on her list. Bell. She still wasn't sure of the last name.

  Gina's spelling had turned up nothing. But neither had Jill's suggestion.

  Biting into the donut, she had to chew and swallow quickly when her phone rang again, and the screen identified the caller. Fran.

  Abby didn't bother with chitchat. "Alan had a client named Bell. I need her last name."

  "I can't give out that information."

  "C'mon, Fran. No one will know, and I have to talk to her."

  "Why?"

  "Alan lied to you when he said his 'straying days' were over. I believe he was not only involved with Gina, but with this Bell woman too."

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  "I wish I were."

  Fran clucked her tongue. "Alan, how could you?" There was a pause. "I guess he couldn't resist. I mean, Bell is beautiful."

  "So I've heard. Beautiful or not, I need her last name."

  Fran spelled it out. Score one for Jill who had gotten the spelling of the surname right: Crichton. "I need her address too."

  "I'll have to access the files for that." She paused. "I'm so sorry he ruined a good thing with you. Guess, he couldn't stop being a womanizing fool."

  "Gina said he liked having a harem."

  Abby cruised down Gardenia Drive. Fran had accessed the data in the files and called her back with Bell's address. 6750 Gardenia Drive.

  She was closing in on the address when a sting of panic made her second guess her decision. What if this Bell did kill Alan? She would feel threatened if I suddenly showed up asking questions. Wouldn't it be smarter to let Detective Guthrie know Alan was involved with Bell? She was his lover. Of course, I can't prove that. Not yet.

  On the other hand, what if the detectives believed she was jealous of the beautiful Bell, and that was her motive for killing Alan?

  Yeah, it would be better for me to tell them when I have the facts. Her gaze landed on the white numbers painted on the curb.

  The older stone and brick house looked well cared for, with a tidy front yard, monkey grass on the walkway and a silver maple tree by a plate-glass front window, which was framed by snow white drapes on either side. The driveway led to a one-car detached garage in the back.

  Abby still wasn't sure what she would say other than to engage Bell in a conversation and somehow try to detect if she was female number three in "Alan's harem."

  With a deep breath, she called on her "forceful and aggressive" side and scrambled out of the Volvo to stalk up the walkway.

  Her unwavering hard knock on the oak door brought no answer. When a second attempt yielded the same result, she gave up and started back to her car.

  A yapping dog halted her progress. The sound was coming from the rear of the house. The relentless bark piqued her curiosity. Was the dog hurt?

  Abby stealthily moved to the rear corner of the house and threw a wary glance at the falling down fence and backyard.

  At the base of a spindly tree stood a ginger-colored dog with dark-tipped ears. Abby surmised from the thick coat it might be part Chow.

  It must've gotten her scent because the black-tipped ears twitched rapidly then the dog's head wrenched to the side to stare at her. Its yapping stopped.

  And the snarling began.

  The fearsome maw of teeth caused the hair on Abby's arms to st
and at attention.

  Images of blood spurting out of her when the dog sank its choppers into her leg made her shudder. Running was definitely not an option. It would excite the canine and cause a lot more peril. I'll just slowly retreat.

  Another sound registered. A faint mewl. Her eyes lifted to a shivering gray and white kitten, its claws clinging to a slender tree branch.

  The dog's attention snapped from Abby to the cat, and after another growl or two, the mutt thumped its immense paws against the tree, trying to shake out the kitten.

  "Stop it!" Abby yelled.

  The dog kept thumping. The tree kept shaking. The kitten kept mewling.

  Then the gray and white furball attempted to leap to a sturdier limb, but it didn't make it and tumbled down until it caught onto a pencil-thin limb, its tiny legs flailing.

  Abby's heart jack-hammered against her ribs as the dog went wild, jumping and snapping.

  "Stop it!" she yelled. "Stop it."

  Suddenly, she felt pinpricks stabbing the palm of her right hand. She wrenched it into a fist, hoping to stop whatever was happening.

  Take deep breaths. Count to ten. Jill used to have toddler tantrums, and Abby would hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to calm her down. It worked three out of five times.

  She started to hum, and the stinging feeling started to fade enough to let her brain function.

  Just then an idea seized her.

  With two fingers she eased the cellphone out of her handbag and located the app Nature Sounds, and tapped on it then raised the volume, which was remarkably loud on this zillion dollar iPhone. Thunderclaps roared like an F-15 formation.

  Startled, the dog shot off, and became a blur of ginger fur as it dived through the broken fence in the back yard while the kitten hung onto the limb, meowing.

  Abby moved closer, her heels sinking here and there into the muddy ground from last night's rain.

  When she got to the tree, she tried to reach the kitten, but couldn't despite her five feet nine and a half inches. "Come down here," she cooed, trying to coax it to where the branch joined the trunk.

  The terrified creature wouldn't move.

  Worried the dog would return, Abby looked for something to boost her up.

  The side door to the detached garage was slightly ajar. She ran to it, swung it open and felt for a light switch on the wall. She flipped it on, spied a metal chair against a wall. Her skin crawled when the chair scraped across the concrete floor as she dragged it out to the yard.

  Last night's drizzle had created puddles near the tree, although the dog had found a dry spot to launch its assault.

  Abby positioned the chair exactly where the dog had been. With a soft voice, she coaxed the kitten to her.

  Stroking its head, she held the cat to her chest as she dropped to the ground. With her free hand, she picked up the chair and was returning it to the garage when the sound of tires on the cracked concrete driveway alerted her to a car's approach.

  Panicking, she slipped into the garage. "Quiet now," she whispered as the kitten gnawed on the fingertips.

  A car door slammed.

  Then heels clip-clopped up the concrete. Abby waited. Every sound magnified by her intense focus.

  A back door creaked opened. She waited, her stomach churning.

  Two long minutes later, she stole out of the garage and had almost made it past the car when her imagination painted a possible scenario.

  "Hm. I like it." She held the kitten close to her face and made a bargain with the feline. "You're now my partner in crime, furball. Let's go."

  At Bell's front door, Abby raised her fist and knocked hard. Then she waited.

  After a moment, the door creaked open. A woman, in a mustard yellow bathrobe with a white towel wrapped around her head, peeked through the cracked door. "Yes?"

  The woman wasn't wearing a speck of makeup. Drops of water fell from her face.

  She'd obviously just stepped out of the shower to answer the door. She looked so different with no makeup and her hair concealed by the towel, Abby wasn't totally certain this was the same woman she'd seen in the teal dress with Silas Wabash.

  She tried a grin. It wavered then steadied with the force of her steely determination. "Is this tiny little furball yours?"

  The woman, knotting the belt of her robe, frowned hard enough to let the tiniest crow's feet appear near the corners of her ocean blue eyes. It was about the only sign of age. There wasn't a wrinkle on her forehead. "I don't have any pets."

  Abby held up the kitten, revealing its furry white belly. "I found her—I think it's a girl—near your driveway, and I can't take her home since my daughter's allergic."

  The woman shrugged. "Sorry, but it's not mine." She started to close the door.

  Abby used her most plaintive weapon. "I've heard the shelters are full and you know what that means."

  Irritation gave away to a hint of compassion. "Yeah, guess that can be a death sentence."

  The woman leaned in closer to eye the cat squirming in Abby's hand. "You are a cutie."

  The gray and white kitten responded with a trill and a twitch of her white ears causing Bell to grin. "And a flirt too."

  "She is, isn't she? And look at those eyes." Would Bell soften up enough to want to cuddle the sweet thing?

  When she didn't make a move, Abby said, "Would you mind if I asked you for a glass of water?"

  The woman hesitated, then yielded and let Abby inside. "Sure, come in. You being a Good Samaritan and all."

  Abby entered. "Thank you. I'm Ab-Abilene."

  "Bell," she said, heading to the kitchen.

  Feeling a smidgen of satisfaction, Abby surveyed the living room with its parquet floors, beige walls, stark white drapes.

  A narrow console table stood in front of the drapes with an arrangement of cactus and other sun-seeking plants in blue-black ceramic pots.

  Along the back wall was a white leather couch flanked by matching chairs in the same stark white as the drapes. Nearby, a fireplace with a marble mantel displayed a large photographic collage framed in antique gold.

  Abby moved closer for a better look. "Bell's life in pictures," she mused.

  The collage consisted of photographs in various sizes depicting a blonde child at different ages. There was a pink-blanketed baby in a stroller, then a toddler gripping a baby doll pouting at the camera.

  In elementary school, she was a happy pilgrim holding ears of corn.

  In middle school, she played soccer, won an award for something, and tap-danced in an elf costume with other youngsters for a Christmas show.

  Then came high school. Again, Bell was on a stage, this time as an aristocratic something or other in an Edwardian dress with a bustle.

  In a different photograph, she stood with teammates of a tennis team, then a similar shot with her cheerleading squad, and in another one, she wore a strapless mauve prom dress and stood under a banner with sparkling letters declaring Enchantment Under the Sea.

  The centerpiece of the collage was a photograph of Bell in a blue cheerleader uniform, hands stretched high above her head clutching white pom-poms while perched on the shoulders of two football players.

  Both boys had brown hair and cute smiles. Abby peered closer. The one on the right. Was that a young Alan?

  She heard the floor creak and quickly dropped to her knees to put the kitten down. It scampered away. "No, no. Come back here," she said, raising her voice.

  "What are you doing?" Bell said returning with the water, her voice harsh with suspicion.

  Abby rose. "She started squirming and digging her claws into me, and I lost control of her."

  The woman shoved the water goblet at Abby. "Here, take this," she said, hiking up the yellow robe so she could kneel down.

  Peering under the loveseat, Bell entreated the cat to come to her. "The little devil scooted to a spot I can't reach."

  Rising, Bell arched an eyebrow. "I know what will work. Temptation." She hurried into the kitchen.
>
  Abby stepped closer to the collage, gazing at the dark-haired football player in his blue jersey and white pants.

  The mouth looked a lot like Alan's although the face was rounder and so wonderfully smooth. That's youth and collagen for you.

  She couldn't decide if the boy was Alan or not.

  The floor creaked again.

  Abby spun around to smile at the woman as she returned with a morsel of meat to lure the kitten out from its hiding place.

  Kneeling down, Bell dangled the beef to tempt the kitten. When it raced out from under the couch, she grabbed it, and let the cat lick the morsel from her fingers.

  As she rose—victorious—Bell cuddled the cat. "You're precious," she cooed. The kitty licked her fingers and gave Bell a tender look. "Aw. I wish I could keep you, but I can't."

  She turned to Abby, held out the cat. "I need to dry my hair."

  The finality in her voice told Abby it was time to leave. Hoping she could stall somehow, maybe by gabbing her way into a conversation, Abby set the goblet down on the nearby coffee table and took the kitten.

  "Thanks again for the water. You know, I'm thinking about buying in this area. Do you like this neighborhood? Is it safe?"

  Instead of a response, Bell walked to the front door, opened it and said with an edge, "Good luck with the cat."

  The harsh dismissal forced Abby to give up and leave.

  Out on the walkway, she tamped down her frustration by whispering to the cat. "You played your part well, furball."

  A wailing cry startled her; Abby spun around.

  Across the street, there was a little girl stomping her feet and pointing a finger at Abby.

  Standing next to the kid was a weary-looking older woman. The child shouted, "Grandma, she's got Elsa."

  Before the girl could verbally accuse her being a catnapper, Abby darted across the street, holding out the kitten. "I'm so glad she's yours."

  The kitten jumped into the child's outstretched hands. The grandmother said with a grateful grin, "Thanks. This street gets so busy in the afternoon. I was worried because..." her face darkened, and she mouthed, "road kill."

  Abby glanced down at the now happy little girl. "I found her in a tree and thought she belonged to that house."