Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  “The dress is very similar but there are little differences.” She brought up the photos again. “The overskirt, for one thing. The first picture has one—see the flounces that reveal a purple skirt underneath? The second one has the same blue everywhere. The gloves are blue fabric in the first one. They’re gray lace in the second. She’s carrying a little purse. I think she brought spare gloves in case she got blood on them.”

  Beau picked up her enthusiasm as she talked.

  “She was in the front row and could easily get to Darlene. I’m guessing she got past Keith Trawl while he was in the bathroom, and she must have run out the back door. Then, out in the alley she could just rip off the damaged skirt and roll it up with the dirty side in, exchange the gloves, then rejoin the party.”

  “During the search, we didn’t find any bloody clothing, remember?”

  “She must have stashed it somewhere nearby. Risky, I know, but people do chancy things. She had to have done all this near the store so she could reappear pretending she’d been out for a smoke or to take a phone call or something.”

  “Well, there are some gaps,” he said, “but the theory brings up some good questions for when she gets here. We’ll pick her up. Meanwhile, maybe her husband can help us put a few more nails in her coffin, so to speak.”

  “I’ll wait in the observation room,” Sam said. “He might speak more freely if it’s just you in there.”

  Beau left their guest alone for a few extra minutes while he visited the evidence locker. When he came back he dropped a plastic bag containing the murder weapon on the table in front of Alan Pritchard with a clunk.

  “Recognize this?” he asked.

  Pritchard blanched. To Sam, that seemed as if his reaction answered the question but Beau pressed and made him say it.

  “It belongs with a collection of mine,” the man admitted quietly. “I didn’t even realize it was missing.”

  NINETEEN

  SAM’S CELL PHONE rang down in her pocket, startling her. She glanced at the men in the interrogation room but apparently they hadn’t heard it. The screen showed the call came from the bakery.

  “Hey, Becky. Everything okay?”

  “Fine at this end, but did you remember you were supposed to deliver this wedding cake today? I could do it, but you’ve got the van and it’s a little too big for my car. They need it by noon.”

  Yikes. She’d forgotten all about it. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Becky had braced the cake within a tall cardboard box and the two of them carried it to Sam’s van.

  “Here’s the order form with the delivery address,” Becky told her. “It’s residential, a home reception.”

  Sam gave the page a glance. Something about the address resonated with her. She stared upward for a moment, thinking. The memory didn’t arise from the customer’s placing the order—she had seen this one only this morning. It was the address on the costumer shop’s receipt.

  A wedding at the Pritchard’s home? That made no sense at all. The name on the order was Sanchez. She tapped the map feature on her phone and brought up the address. There was one quick way to find out. She hopped up to her driver’s seat and started the van.

  “Oh, Becky? Can you give Kelly’s phone to her?” She handed the borrowed phone out the window. “I’m sure she’s itching for it back—there are several texts from Scott.”

  Following the map directions, Sam found herself on Lilac Road within twelve minutes. It was a pleasant neighborhood, a mixture of adobe bungalows and territorial-style stucco homes. The few lawns had gone winter brown—most were landscaped with natural xeriscape plants and rock anyway—and there was a pleasant tang of woodsmoke in the air. The residence for the wedding party caught her attention. Golden globes and pink streamers decorated two tall spruce trees in the front yard, and a teenage girl with dark hair was in the process of tying a large bunch of pink balloons onto the mailbox at the curb. She looked up when she heard the vehicle and smiled at the sight of Sam’s vividly decorated bakery van.

  “Mom’s going to be happy to see you!” she announced as Sam opened the back of the van.

  The residence had concrete sidewalks, so Sam unfolded her wheeled cart and set the cake on it. Within minutes, she had the sweet confection safely inside and transferred to the prepared serving table. The mother of the bride beamed as she showed Sam to the door.

  “I have to admit, I was a little confused when I saw your address,” Sam said. “I know some people named Pritchard and thought they lived here.”

  “Right across the street,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “It’s the only adobe house with a red front door.”

  Sam stared toward the house, with its canopy of cottonwood trees and landscape of natural chamisa and river rock, as she stowed her cart in the back of the van. Alan Pritchard was at this moment talking to Beau. Where was Amy? Had she moved out already? Something Alan had said made Sam think not.

  In one of those “think about it and it will appear” moments, a blonde woman emerged from a side door of the garage. She wore jeans and a sweater with an expensive-looking down jacket over it. Sam recognized Amy Pritchard and realized she was carrying a blue cloth bundle.

  Sam’s breath caught.

  Amy moved furtively, cradling the bundle close to her body as she walked quickly toward a tall gate that must lead to the backyard. She hadn’t yet looked in Sam’s direction.

  Sam closed the van’s rear doors softly and watched as Amy lifted the latch on the wooden gate and slipped through. She pulled out her phone, ready to call Beau, but paused. What if the bundle was not the missing evidence? It could be anything at all, and Sam didn’t want to disrupt the interrogation back at the office.

  On the other hand, if the bundle did contain the blood-stained costume, Amy might be taking this opportunity while her husband was away to destroy it. If someone didn’t intervene quickly, the evidence would be gone forever.

  The scent of wood smoke sharpened.

  TWENTY

  SAM FELT THE hair on her neck rise. She raced across the street, tackling the latch on the tall wooden gate. A concrete pathway led down the side of the house toward a flagstone patio and garden area. Two Adirondack chairs flanked a low fire pit where flames crackled in the chill autumn air. Sam took in the scene at the same time she hit her speed-dial number for Beau.

  Amy stood beside the fire, a length of pine cordwood in her right hand, the blue bundle clutched in her left. She tossed the stick onto the fire, sending a rush of sparks skyward. The flames flared higher. When she began to unfurl her cloth packet, Sam knew exactly what was about to happen.

  She sprinted toward Amy, an angry shout escaping as she ran. Amy turned, her mouth an O of pure shock, her eyes wide. She flipped the cloth and it billowed over the fire.

  Sam reached out and shoved hard, sending Amy sprawling across the flagstones. Her phone fell into a nearby flowerpot as she grabbed desperately at the edge of the blue item. With a yank, she brought the cloth out of the fire. Flames licked at the garment in several places, trying mightily to take hold, to consume the fabric.

  “What are you doing!” Amy shouted, ignoring her scraped hands.

  Sam stomped madly at the slow-burning patches on the skirt, catching one spot, then another, putting them out before they fully took hold.

  Amy let out a scream of rage, charging Sam, her claw-like fingers reaching toward Sam’s face.

  “How dare you!” she screamed. “This is private property!”

  She hit with more force than Sam would have believed possible for such a skinny woman; they both went to the ground. Amy’s nails grazed Sam’s left ear before she could jerk her head aside. She responded with a knee toward the woman’s gut, but the effort fell short and Amy skittered to the side, panting.

  Sam rose, feeling slightly short of breath herself. She backed up, taking a wide stance, sizing up her opponent. Amy’s eyes kept darting toward the blood-stained skirt on the ground, gauging whether she could get to i
t first. Sam side-stepped closer to the evidence, giving the other woman no chance to reach down for it.

  “Give it up, Amy,” Sam said, wishing her voice would come out a little more forcefully. “The sheriff has all the evidence he needs to arrest you.”

  Amy’s glance toward the costume told Sam the woman still believed if she could get rid of this one item the law wouldn’t be able to touch her.

  “Your husband is there now, down at the sheriff’s office. He’s identified the knife used to kill Darlene. He says the knife belongs to a collection of his. It’s been missing from your home since the day of the party.”

  “So?” Amy stood a little straighter, working to appear calm. “I’m surprised Alan would take one of his own knives and kill Darlene. The little skank wasn’t worth the time.”

  “Alan didn’t kill her. Amy, you and I both know it.” Sam softened her expression. “It must have really hurt, the fact that your husband became interested in someone like Darlene Trawl. That must have left you devastated.”

  A twitch started near the corner of Amy’s mouth.

  “I mean, Alan’s a good-looking guy. What would he see in someone who was content to come to a party as a witch? She just didn’t strike me as really…um, worthy…of him.”

  Amy reacted to the snobby remark just the way Sam wanted her to.

  “Exactly,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Alan and I were the perfect couple. Heads turned when we entered a room. I don’t want to sound conceited but face it, we are a good-looking team. Who did Darlene Trawl think she was? The sneaking, conniving little bitch! Pretending to be my friend at the book club and then going behind my back to seduce my husband—she deserved exactly what she got. No one on this earth would blame me for striking out at her.”

  “This was a little more than a slap, Amy. You carried a deadly weapon with you. How did you get the knife there, in your purse?”

  Her chin went up. “So what? I didn’t plan to actually kill her. I knew if I used Alan’s phone to send a text and ask her to meet outside she would do it in a heartbeat. Then I figured I could threaten her with just how easily a scar or two across her face could ruin her looks. If she was ugly, Alan would never go ahead with his dumb idea of leaving me and living with her. She would value herself over him. She would break it off.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” Sam said. “Did you and Keith make a plan together? He would turn out the lights and you could rush up to the stage in the dark?”

  A cruel smile played across Amy’s lips. “The lights going out was pure luck. I saw my chance and took it. Everyone in the room would be equally suspect. I’d already checked the layout of the shop because I planned to slip out the back door before sending Darlene the text message. I never saw Keith back there.”

  Sam changed tracks. “And the book? Why did you take it?”

  She shrugged. “Who says I did?”

  “Come on. It vanished at the same moment Darlene died—you want me to think someone else rushed up there and snatched it?”

  “They were saying it was worth some money. There was that big guy, the one who brought the book in the first place. He could have easily taken it.”

  Sam swallowed. Rupert? Amy was implicating Rupert?

  She caught movement behind Amy. When she realized it was Rico, she forced herself to keep her eyes on Amy as he made his way quietly toward them, a hand on his service pistol.

  “Darlene really wanted the book, didn’t she?” Sam asked. “I’m betting you watched her from the moment you arrived at the party, and I’ll bet you saw how interested she became when the book showed up. First Darlene wants your husband, then she wants a valuable book? You couldn’t let her have either one, could you?”

  Amy’s lower lip quivered, but only for a fraction of a second. Rico stepped into her field of vision.

  “Amy Pritchard, you are under arrest for the murder of Darlene Trawl.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  RICO SHOWED AMY Pritchard to a chair in interrogation room two but she wouldn’t sit. “Sheriff Cardwell will be right with you,” he said, leaving the room. Sam knew when the door clicked shut it could only be opened from the outside.

  From the observation room between the two interrogation rooms, she watched Amy pace the length of the small room twice, glance toward the mirrored wall. Guessing someone could watch from the other side, Amy gathered her composure and ran her fingers through her hair. Her down jacket had a rip in one sleeve and her slim-fit jeans were coated with dust. She removed the jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, brushed off most of the dirt, then sat and crossed her legs. One foot swung casually. Everything about her said, I’m not worried about you people.

  Beau entered the room, carrying the file folder with the photos from the party and a yellow legal pad. The top sheet was blank but Sam knew he had pages of notes concealed beneath it.

  “Look, I can play twenty questions with you, I can feed you a little information at a time, but you might as well go ahead and tell me what happened,” he said to Amy. “I’ve had several hours with your husband and we know most of it anyway.”

  She glowered at him.

  “We caught most of your conversation awhile ago with my deputy, Samantha. The minute I heard the scuffle over the phone, we began recording. Quite a confession you made there, ma’am. About the only thing you didn’t fully answer for us was where you stashed the book.”

  Amy’s cool deportment lasted until Beau left the room. Sam watched through the mirror, saw Amy couldn’t conceal how much her hands shook as she lifted the top of the folder with the pictures. Beau came back in, carrying the blue dress and the bagged knife.

  Amy tried the “those aren’t mine” ploy for about a minute, but when Beau showed the rental contract for the dress and began to lay out the photos printed from Kelly’s camera, a flicker of uncertainty played across her face.

  “I want a lawyer,” she finally said.

  “Fine.” Beau stood up and walked out of the room.

  Sam heard his footsteps as he passed the room where she sat monitoring the recording equipment. He entered the other interrogation room where Alan Pritchard sat, exhausted by the long day.

  Beau asked only one question: “If your wife had a very important item to hide, where would she put it?”

  Alan blinked a couple of times. “How large an item?”

  “A book.”

  He thought for a long minute. “Our house is adobe and there’s an authentic horno, a bread oven in the back yard. We discovered a hollow space in the bottom. She once joked it would make a great jewelry safe. If you remove the bricks from the floor of the oven, you can get to the space below.”

  Beau left Pritchard alone and came into the observation room with Sam. “Looks like he’s ready to hand his wife over to us. Did we get both interviews?”

  She pointed to the ticking numbers on counters which indicated each camera was running. He smiled and pulled out his phone. He made a call to the judge’s office, requesting a warrant, then told Rico to take another deputy and search the Pritchard place.

  Sam’s earlobe itched like crazy and when she reached up to touch it she remembered the wound Amy had inflicted. A glance in the restroom mirror showed her face and hair coated with dirt, her white bakery jacket beyond help. All at once she just wanted to go home.

  TWENTY-TWO

  IT FELT LIKE Christmas in the sheriff’s department when Sam returned the next morning. Packets of bagged evidence covered one whole table in the squad room. Rico’s search efforts had paid off hugely once they knew about the secret hiding place beneath the horno and the atmosphere was jubilant.

  The search at the Pritchard residence had netted a pair of blue gloves with a substantial amount of blood on them under the backseat of Amy’s car. The blue dress Amy had nearly burned up lay safely in an evidence bag now. The pieces had been constructed, exactly as Sam guessed, using Velcro closures and other methods for quick removal. The horno compartment held Ru
pert’s book, Spells and Incantations for the Proficient Witch.

  “He will be so happy to see this,” Sam said, examining the book through the plastic bag which contained it now. She pointed out a small torn place near the spine. “I hope the damage doesn’t affect its value too much.”

  Rico pointed to another bag. “In the house there were remnants of the same material as the dress Mrs. Pritchard made. We brought all of it.”

  Beau had disappeared into his office for a few minutes. Now he announced the court was about to arraign their suspect for the murder. “I’ve also ordered the car she drove that night impounded. I feel sure it will give up enough evidence to tie all of this to the night of the party, just in case she tries some fancy semantics once she has an attorney.”

  Privately, Sam thought Amy had already cooked her own goose. She had talked way too freely yesterday, with the fire of indignation burning strong.

  “I wonder why she tossed the knife into the dumpster, since she went to the trouble to hide all this other stuff,” Sam said.

  “It belonged to Alan,” Beau reminded her. “In spite of everything she said about the two of them staying together with Darlene out of the picture, maybe she secretly hoped the weapon would lead us to her husband.”

  “Teach him a lesson?”

  “Something like that,” said Beau. “I imagine a psychologist could have a field day trying to figure out the logic of Amy Pritchard.”

  * * *

  MIDWEEK, AND SAM felt a lull in her energy as she stared out the front windows of her shop and sipped her second cup of coffee for the morning. Low clouds had begun to build overnight and wispy snowflakes now floated through the air. Normally she would be baking an all-chocolate confection of some sort for the book club today but Ivan called yesterday to say they were not meeting again until further notice. Losing two couples from their close little band might end up being the death of the Chocoholics Unanimous group.