The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer

by Livia J. Washburn

  “What are you thinking, Mrs. Newsom?” Whitmire asked.

  “I’m thinking maybe you’re more suspicious than you’re letting on, Chief,” she said. “Not of me, but of Sam.”

  “Why would I be suspicious of Mr. Fletcher?” Whitmire asked blandly.

  Instead of answering that question directly, Phyllis said, “It doesn’t work. I took the cupcake out of the container and handed it to Mr. McCrory. Even if Sam wanted to hurt him—and it’s absolutely insane to even think that—he couldn’t have known which cupcake I’d give him. He’d have had to tamper with all of them, which means that innocent people would have been hurt, maybe even killed. That’s just not possible, Chief. It’s not.”

  Whitmire surprised her by laughing.

  “I agree with you a hundred percent,” he said. “I’ve been telling you the truth all along, Mrs. Newsom. I don’t suspect you or Mr. Fletcher of anything. I’m grateful to you for what you did. I just want to know what you saw before the incident took place.”

  “Oh.”

  “I have to admit, though,” Whitmire went on, “that’s pretty impressive—the way you put together that chain of evidence and reasoning on the fly. I can see why you’ve been able to figure out some of those other crimes.” He chuckled again. “You’ve got a diabolical mind.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Phyllis didn’t know what to say to that. And before she could figure out an appropriate reply, the door of the interrogation room opened and Jimmy D’Angelo came in again, followed this time by Sam, who carried the plastic container filled with cupcakes.

  “You didn’t try anything underhanded with my client while I was out of the room, did you?” D’Angelo asked.

  “Not at all,” Whitmire said. Phyllis didn’t contradict him. The chief stood up. “Mr. Fletcher, sit down here. Mr. D’Angelo and I can stand.”

  “I’m fine,” Sam said. “I’ll just perch a hip here on the table, if it’s all right with you, Chief.”

  “Sure. Are those the famous cupcakes?”

  Sam grinned and set the container on the table in front of Phyllis.

  “You can do the honors,” he told her.

  She took the lid off, revealing twenty-three cupcakes. Two dozen—minus the one Barney McCrory had eaten. They were quite pretty, with the bits of red and white crushed candy cane sprinkled on the white icing. She was pleased with the way they had turned out.

  She slid the open container onto the center of the table and said, “Help yourselves, gentlemen.”

  The three men reached into the container and took out cupcakes. They peeled away the paper baking cups and threw them in a wastebasket at the end of the table.

  After taking a bite, Whitmire made a pleased sound and said, “Those are really are good.”

  “Yes, they are,” D’Angelo added.

  “This is my third one today,” Sam put in. “You know I like ’em.”

  Phyllis didn’t really have much of an appetite at the moment, so she didn’t take one of the cupcakes. Instead she said, “You wanted to ask us about what happened before the parade started, Chief?”

  Whitmire had to swallow before he could say, “That’s right. Start from where you saw McCrory on that sleigh . . . carriage . . . whatever you want to call it.”

  “I was the one who spotted him first,” Sam said. “Phyllis had never met him before, so she wouldn’t have known him.”

  Whitmire looked at Phyllis and asked, “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Tonight was the first time I ever met Mr. McCrory.”

  Sam resumed the story, and for the next few minutes he and Phyllis took turns talking, telling the chief as much as they could recall about everything that was said and done in the few minutes before the parade began.

  At one point Whitmire interrupted their recounting to ask, “What did McCrory say about his daughter and son-in-law?”

  “Well, he said they were fine, I think,” Sam replied with a slight frown. “He mentioned that they hadn’t made him a grandpa yet. Nothin’ unusual about that.”

  Hoping that she wasn’t doing the wrong thing, Phyllis said, “When Sam first mentioned them, I thought that Mr. McCrory looked upset for a second. But it was just a momentary reaction.”

  “Uh-huh,” Whitmire said, not seeming to think any more about it. “Go on with your statements, please.”

  Phyllis wasn’t sure the chief’s reaction was as casual as he tried to make it seem. She recalled what Allyson Hollingsworth had said about having a fight with her father before the parade began, how she didn’t want the last words she ever spoke to him to be angry ones.

  Unfortunately, in most cases, people didn’t get to determine what their last words to a loved one would be.

  Death wasn’t that considerate.

  When Sam reached the point in the story where the parade had begun and he and Phyllis had started up the street toward the square, Whitmire turned to Phyllis and said, “You weren’t watching the carriage just then, is that right?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention to it, no,” she said. “In that crowd, I was watching where I was going.”

  “How about you?” Whitmire said to Sam.

  “I was lookin’ all around, I guess,” Sam replied with a shrug. “I remember thinkin’ how pretty the lights were on the courthouse and around the square. I saw one of ’em pop—burned out, I guess—and then I saw Barney start to stand up, and I knew something was wrong. A second later, he dropped the reins and collapsed, and those horses took off. I did the only thing I could think of to stop ’em.”

  “And risked your life doing it,” Phyllis said. Something Sam had just said stuck in her mind. She was about to ask him when Chief Whitmire beat her to it.

  “You said you saw one of the Christmas lights pop, Mr. Fletcher?” the chief asked.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s what it was. It was a little flash, anyway.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Somewhere up on the square. Hard to say for sure. There were a lot of lights. Why’s that important?”

  “Because it might not have been a lightbulb exploding that you saw,” Whitmire said heavily. “It might have been the muzzle flash from a gun. You may have seen Barney McCrory’s murderer fire the fatal shot.”

  Chapter 5

  That same sobering thought had occurred to Phyllis. And after Whitmire put it into words, none of them had an appetite for more cupcakes. Phyllis asked the three men, to be sure, and when they shook their heads, she replaced the lid on the plastic container.

  “Is there anything else you need from my clients, Chief?” D’Angelo asked.

  Whitmire shook his head as he turned off the little recorder.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have these statements typed up tonight, and, if you don’t mind, you both can come by here tomorrow and sign them.”

  “Why don’t you send them over to my office?” D’Angelo suggested. “I’d like to review them. I’ll see to it that they’re signed and promptly returned to you.”

  Whitmire looked a little annoyed at that, but he nodded and said, “All right, if that’s the way you want to do it. Surely by now, though, you can see that I don’t suspect Mrs. Newsom and Mr. Fletcher of anything.”

  “It’s just procedure,” D’Angelo said.

  Since Whitmire had used that same argument earlier in the evening, he couldn’t very well dispute it now. He told Phyllis and Sam, “You’re free to go. You’ll keep yourself available if we need to talk to you again?”

  “Within reason,” D’Angelo said before either of them could answer.

  He picked up his briefcase and ushered them out of the interrogation room. Whitmire followed and pointed to a door.

  “You can go out there, so you won’t have to go back through the lobby,” he said.

  Phyllis suspected that was the way Clay
Loomis and Allyson and Nate Hollingsworth had left the police station when Whitmire finished questioning them, since she hadn’t seen them come through the lobby while she and Sam were waiting there.

  “Good night, Chief,” she said to him.

  Whitmire grunted and said, “I think the chances of that went away about an hour ago.”

  They stepped out into the chilly night air and followed the walk along the side of the building back to the parking lot. D’Angelo stopped at his car, which, appropriately enough, Phyllis thought, was an expensive luxury sedan.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to look over those statements,” he said. “I don’t think Chief Whitmire would try to slip anything underhanded into them, but it never hurts to be suspicious of the cops.” He grinned. “Spoken like a true defense attorney, right?”

  “You and my friend Carolyn would get along splendidly,” Phyllis said.

  “I know. I got that feeling when she called me tonight.”

  “So you admit that she’s the one who got you here.”

  “Attorney-client privilege works both ways, you know.”

  Phyllis smiled, shook her head, and said, “I don’t think it does.”

  Sam said, “You keep callin’ us your clients, but we haven’t actually hired you.”

  “Nonsense. After that business earlier this year, you each paid me a retainer to serve as your attorney if the need ever arose. I have the paperwork to prove it.”

  Phyllis and Sam exchanged a glance in the yellow glow of the sodium lights that illuminated the parking lot. They both knew that wasn’t the case. It seemed like a little harmless fudging of the facts to Phyllis, though.

  “All right,” she told D’Angelo. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” the lawyer said as he got into his car.

  Phyllis and Sam walked on toward the pickup. Sam was carrying the cupcakes. He said, “We’ll be eatin’ on these for a while, I guess. That part of it’s fine, but I sure wish the rest of it hadn’t worked out like it did.”

  “I know,” Phyllis said. “Who in the world would have wanted to shoot Mr. McCrory?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Sam said as he shook his head. “As far as I know, he didn’t have any real enemies. But like I told you, Barney could be a mite rough around the edges, especially when he didn’t get his way. I found that out when I didn’t take some of his suggestions about how I ought to coach the team. Somebody could’ve been holdin’ a grudge against him that I didn’t know about. It’s not like we’ve seen each other a lot since I moved down here from Poolville.”

  Sam unlocked the pickup and opened the passenger’s door for Phyllis. Before she could get into the vehicle, however, two doors slammed on a nearby car and a woman’s voice called, “Coach.”

  Phyllis turned to see Allyson and Nate Hollingsworth walking quickly toward them. Allyson’s tears were dry now, but her face was pale and drawn in the lights. Nate’s expression was equally grim.

  “I’m sorry, kids,” Sam said as they came up to him.

  “We’re not kids anymore, Coach,” Allyson said.

  “Yeah, I . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off. Clearly, he didn’t know what to say that would do any good at a moment like this.

  Nate said, “Coach, we waited out here to see if we could talk to you.” He looked at Phyllis. “To both of you.”

  “Well, sure,” Sam said. “I guess.” He looked puzzled by the request, but he wasn’t going to refuse, Phyllis knew. He was too fond of his former students to deny them anything, especially at a time like this.

  Before they could start peppering them with questions, Phyllis said, “We don’t have to stand out here in the cold wind to talk. Why don’t you come over to my house? I’ll put on some coffee, and”—she looked at the container in Sam’s hands—“we have cupcakes.”

  Nate looked at Allyson, who nodded her agreement. He said, “All right. But I don’t know where we’re going.”

  Phyllis told him the address, then added, “You can follow us over there.”

  “Sounds good,” Nate agreed, and the Hollingsworths went back to their car.

  “Do you have any idea what this is about?” Phyllis asked Sam as they got into the pickup.

  “Not really. I reckon they’re upset about Barney and just want to talk. I’m not sure why they’re not doin’ it with friends or family, though. It’s not like I’m that close to ’em.”

  Phyllis had an idea, but all she said was, “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  It didn’t take them long to get to her home. Nate pulled up at the curb as Sam turned the pickup into the driveway.

  As the four of them walked up to the porch, Phyllis couldn’t help but think about how murder had struck close to home the past few holiday seasons. Violent death had taken place next door and then right on Phyllis’s front porch.

  Though murder had reared its ugly head again, Phyllis supposed she should be grateful it hadn’t occurred in her own living room. The way things had been going, such a tragedy wouldn’t have surprised her all that much.

  Carolyn must have been watching for them, because she opened the door before they reached it. She said, “Oh. I didn’t know there would be company.”

  “Allyson and Nate wanted to talk to us,” Sam said.

  “Have the police arrested anyone?” Carolyn asked.

  Phyllis said, “Not yet. The investigation has just barely gotten started.”

  “Hmph. That’s never stopped them from jumping the gun before.” Carolyn suddenly looked sorry for her choice of words. “I mean . . .”

  “That’s all right,” Phyllis said, as they all moved into the foyer and started taking off their coats. “Would you mind making some coffee?”

  “Not at all.” Carolyn looked relieved to have some excuse to bustle off toward the kitchen.

  Phyllis led the way into the living room and motioned for Sam to set the cupcakes on the coffee table.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” she told Allyson and Nate.

  Now that she could get a better look at them, she saw they weren’t quite as young as she originally had taken them for. They were in their late twenties, she estimated, which meant it had been about ten years since Sam had been their basketball coach at Poolville.

  Allyson and Nate sat on the sofa. Phyllis and Sam settled into the two adjacent armchairs. Phyllis began, “I really am sorry about Mr. McCrory. Both of you have my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thank you,” Allyson said with a sigh. “It’s going to take a lot of getting used to. Him being gone, I mean. He was such a . . . a big part of our lives.”

  “We owed him a lot,” Nate said. “Literally.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Sam asked.

  “Well, I worked for him. I managed all his business affairs.”

  “I didn’t know what you’d wound up doin’,” Sam said. “Reckon I sort of lost track over the years.”

  Allyson smiled faintly and said, “You can’t be expected to keep up with what all your former students are doing, Coach. There must be thousands of them. That would be impossible.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. You two were pretty memorable, though. You were all-district forward your senior year, weren’t you, Nate?”

  Nate nodded as a look of nostalgia came over him. He said, “Yeah, I was.”

  “And I was never more than a second-string point guard,” Allyson said.

  “Yeah, but you were a valuable part of our bench,” Sam said. “You were a gutty little ball hawk. I knew I could count on you for some defense anytime I put you in. You never minded givin’ a hard foul or two, either.”

  “Only way to play,” Allyson said. “Full speed.”

  “Barney taught you that, I expect. That’s one thing he and I agreed on when it came to coachin’.”


  Phyllis wasn’t sure if there was a point to this reminiscing. She had a hunch that wasn’t why Allyson and Nate had come here. But if it made them feel better at this terrible time, she supposed it was worth it.

  Sam turned to Nate and said, “So, you went to work for Barney after you got out of college, did you?”

  “That’s right. He helped me get my MBA. You remember, my folks never had much money . . .”

  “I remember,” Sam said. “I know Barney never begrudged helpin’ you out, Nate. Even before you and Ally got married, he looked on you like the son he never had. I know that for a fact.”

  “Thank you,” Nate said softly. With a visible effort, he struggled to control the emotions he was feeling and continued. “He asked me to work for him, to put that degree to good use, and I couldn’t say no. Not after all the help he’d given me.”

  “And the job wasn’t charity,” Allyson said. “My father . . . well, you know, Coach. He didn’t exactly have a real head for business.”

  Sam said, “I wouldn’t really know one way or the other about that.”

  “Take it from me,” Allyson said, “Dad always struggled with that part of running the ranch. No one was better at raising cattle, but making good business decisions . . . That just didn’t come natural for him. He got better rates for feed, handled the taxes and the insurance and the employees better . . . The ranch was a lot more successful once Nate took over that part of the operation, and I know Dad appreciated that.”

  “I just did the best I could,” Nate said.

  Allyson clasped his right hand in both of hers and told him, “You’re good at what you do, you know that. And so did Dad. He always appreciated your advice.”

  “Well . . . maybe not always.”

  Now they were getting closer to the reason for this visit, Phyllis sensed. Something was on Nate’s mind, and on Allyson’s, too, and it had to do with Barney McCrory’s murder.

  Before they could get into that subject, though, Carolyn reappeared carrying a tray with cups of coffee on it. She set it on the table, along with a crystal bowl that held packets of sugar, artificial sweetener, and creamer. For the next few minutes, everyone was busy fixing their coffee the way they liked it. Carolyn took a cup for herself and sat down at the desk in the corner, where Phyllis’s computer was.