Red Velvet Cupcake Murder

by Joanne Fluke

  “Will do,” Hannah promised with a smile. It was good to hear praise for their cupcakes. She went off to get one for Barbara and to tell Lisa that people were beginning to say nice things about their cupcakes. By the time she came back and sat down, Norman and Mike were approaching the table.

  “Hi, Hannah,” Norman said, taking the chair next to her. “You look fantastic.”

  “Thanks, Norman.”

  “You’re wearing makeup,” Mike commented. “You look really good in makeup.”

  “Hannah looks good with or without makeup,” Norman corrected him.

  “Right,” Mike said, sitting down next to Hannah. “I’ve got news about the Clayton Wallace case.”

  Hannah leaned forward expectantly. Clayton Wallace, the band bus driver for the Cinnamon Roll Six, had been the first fatality in the multi-car pileup on the interstate two months ago. Doc Knight had determined that the cause of death was an overdose of heart medication. “It was accidental, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Murder?” Norman asked, drawing the obvious conclusion.

  Mike shook his head and Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. Since there had been two fatalities on the same night and one was clearly murder, she’d made a unilateral decision to try to solve the case they knew was murder and to leave the investigation into Clayton Wallace’s death to the authorities.

  Hannah had never believed that Clayton’s death was murder. It just didn’t add up. Everyone she’d talked to had believed it was an accident. He’d been the jazz band bus driver since the Cinnamon Roll Six had first begun to tour and everyone connected with the band had liked him.

  “If it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t murder, what was it?” Andrea asked.

  “Suicide.”

  “Suicide?” Hannah repeated, sounding every bit as shocked as she felt.

  “This was his last trip with the band,” Mike told them. “Mr. Wallace told the band manager, Lee Campbell, that he was retiring right after they got back to Minneapolis.”

  “How old was Clayton?” Andrea asked.

  “Sixty-two.”

  “It’s not unusual for a person to retire at sixty-two,” Hannah pointed out. “Perhaps Clayton was tired of being on the road with the band. I could understand that. Or maybe . . .” She stopped speaking abruptly as another possibility occurred to her. “Did you check with his doctor? Was Clayton ill?”

  “The M.P.D. interviewed his doctor. The report’s in the case file. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health based on a recent checkup. He was on heart, blood pressure, and cholesterol medications, but everything was under control.”

  “Did Clayton give a reason why he wanted to quit working?” Andrea asked.

  “All he said was that he had some things that he wanted to do. Mr. Campbell told me he mentioned some improvements he wanted to make to his house and a cruise to Alaska he’d booked with a friend.”

  “That doesn’t sound like someone who was contemplating suicide,” Norman remarked.

  “True,” Mike said.

  “Then what made the M.P.D. think that it was a suicide?” Hannah asked the important question.

  “They said he couldn’t have made a mistake like that with his pills, that it must have been deliberate. The three pills he was supposed to take were different shapes and different colors. And he took one of each type every night. The pill box you found in the bus was the type that had one compartment for each day of the week. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “I remember. When I handed it to you, I noticed that only one compartment was empty. All the rest were full.”

  “That’s right. Clayton had no pill bottles with him, just the pills in the compartments. The M.P.D. concluded that he filled the compartments before he left and they found the bottles in his bathroom medicine cabinet. All three bottles were for a thirty-day supply.”

  “Let me guess,” Hannah said with a sigh. “The bottle with the heart medication was two pills short. And the other two bottles had one pill too many. And that’s why the M.P.D. decided that Clayton’s death was a suicide.”

  “That’s right.”

  Andrea began to frown. “I can see their point, but it still doesn’t make any sense. Clayton enjoyed driving the band and he liked every one of the boys as much as they liked him. Even if he had decided to commit suicide, he never would have done it while he was driving. He would have waited until he got to the Lake Eden Inn and then he would have taken the pills.”

  “Did he leave a suicide note?” Hannah asked.

  “No. Or at least the M.P.D. didn’t find it when they searched his house. And even if he’d mailed it to someone, it would have surfaced by now.”

  “Did they find anything unusual?” Hannah asked.

  “Not really, unless you want to count a gift-wrapped box of Fanny Farmer truffles and an expensive bottle of premium Chianti. The wine was in one of those fancy wine bags.”

  “He must have been planning to take them to someone when he got home,” Norman speculated. “And that means he was planning ahead.”

  “Right,” Hannah picked up on his thought. “And if he was planning ahead, why would he suddenly decide to commit suicide?”

  “Maybe he had a date all planned and the woman called him on his cell phone to cancel,” Mike suggested.

  “And he got so depressed over the cancelled date that he decided to commit suicide right then and there and take all his friends on the band bus with him?” Hannah knew she sounded incredulous, but that’s exactly how she felt.

  “It was just a suggestion,” Mike defended his scenario. “It could have happened that way.”

  Hannah gave a short laugh. “And cows could fly if they just had wings. But you don’t really think it happened that way . . . do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But that’s my personal opinion. The official conclusion is that Clayton Wallace committed suicide. It’s over, Hannah. I can’t reopen another police department’s case without good cause. And suspicion without proof isn’t good enough. Believe me, we’re all just as upset as you are. Bill’s just sick about the whole thing, and so are Lonnie and Rick. The worst part is the insurance policy.” When Hannah, Norman, and Andrea looked puzzled, Mike went on to explain. “If the official investigation doesn’t conclude with natural, accidental, or homicide, the insurance company doesn’t pay death benefits. And that means Clayton’s son loses out.”

  “Clayton had a son?” Andrea asked.

  “Twenty-two years old, and paralyzed from the waist down. He’s living in a group home and doing really well, but there are some medical treatments that might improve his condition. They’re expensive. The state of Minnesota pays for part. We’re good that way. We take care of our own. But new treatments take time to get approved by the system. Clayton was counting on that insurance money to make his son’s life easier.”

  All four of them were silent for a long moment. Then Hannah spoke up. “I’m sorry I found that pill matrix! And I’m doubly sorry I gave it to you.”

  Mike reached out to take her hand. “You did the right thing, Hannah. It was evidence and you had an obligation to turn it over to me. That’s one of the reasons I’m telling you all this. You played by the rules.”

  Hannah locked eyes with Mike. He was trying to tell her something, something that he couldn’t say. “What do you need to reopen the M.P.D. investigation?” she asked.

  “In order to reopen the investigation we need some proof that it wasn’t suicide, something concrete. It could be proof that it was murder, or it could be proof that it was an accident. Either one would cause us to reopen the case and conduct our own investigation.”

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that you can’t get that proof officially, but I can?”

  “I didn’t say that. You surmised that. And I can’t control what you surmise.”

  Hannah smiled. “Enough said, Mike. And nobody except Andrea and Norman know that we had this conversation?”

  “Rig
ht.” Mike turned to Andrea. “Would you like to dance? Bill could be with the mayor for a while. When I left they were talking about crime rates in Winnetka County, and whether or not they should think about shutting down the Blue Moon Motel.”

  Hannah exchanged a quick look with Andrea. They’d seen a clandestine photo of Mayor Bascomb and a lady better left unnamed coming out of a room at the Blue Moon Motel. For someone who’d used it as a rendezvous, Mayor Bascomb didn’t have much loyalty.

  “I’d love to dance with you, Mike,” Andrea said, standing up to take Mike’s arm.

  “How about you, Hannah?” Norman asked when Andrea and Mike had left the table.

  “Love to,” Hannah said and stood up to follow Andrea and Mike to the dance floor in the lobby. A jazz band had started to play and the music was mellow and perfect for dancing.

  “You know about Bev?” Norman asked, taking Hannah into his arms to the strain of an old standard.

  “Andrea told me.” And then she paused, wondering if she should ask. Did curiosity win out over politeness? Her heart said yes, but her mind said no. Mercifully, she was saved the agony of deciding because Norman went on speaking.

  “She hasn’t contacted me yet, but there were a couple of messages on the answering machine in my office. I didn’t bother to play them. I think Bev and I said all there was to say to each other.”

  Hannah was glad she hadn’t asked, because Norman had volunteered the information. That meant something . . . didn’t it? Instead of pondering the question, she moved a little closer to Norman and tried to put Doctor Bev out of her mind. But Norman’s two-time fiancée wouldn’t go away. Hannah’s eyes widened as she saw Roger Dalworth and Doctor Bev coming out on the dance floor.

  “She’s here,” Norman said, noticing them at almost the same time as Hannah had.

  “I saw.” Hannah took a deep breath. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “Just be here for me.” Norman pulled her even closer. “I’m not upset. That’s not it. I’m just . . . puzzled. I can’t figure out why she’s back here. And until I know, I’m not going to do anything.”

  “That’s my plan, too. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to talk to her at all. She’s with Roger and it must be serious because she’s got a huge diamond ring on her finger. If she’s engaged to him now, she might leave us alone.”

  “Maybe,” Norman said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t know Roger that well, but he seems like a decent guy. I hope he finds out what a barracuda she is before it’s too late.”

  Hannah, who had a better view of Roger and Doctor Bev, gave a little groan of dismay. “They’re coming over this way. I hope she’s not going to cause a scene.”

  “She won’t do anything ugly in front of her newest . . .” Norman stopped, obviously at a loss for the right word.

  “Conquest,” Hannah supplied it.

  “Exactly. Would you like to go back to the table?”

  Hannah thought about that for a moment. “No. I don’t think we should let them drive us away.”

  “Right.” Norman took a quick glance over his shoulder. “Uh-oh. They’re coming closer.”

  “What can they do? Trip us?” Hannah tried for a little humor.

  “They can cut in.”

  Hannah glanced over Norman’s shoulder again. “You’re right. What should we do?”

  “We should let them cut in as if nothing’s wrong. It’s only one dance. And after that dance, we should both think of some polite way to go back to our table.”

  “Done,” Hannah said as Roger Dalworth tapped Norman on the shoulder. And then she was in Roger’s arms, dancing a dance she didn’t want to dance, and trying her best not to crane her neck to keep an eye on Doctor Bev and Norman.

  It had been an uncomfortable ten minutes, but it was over. Hannah checked her hair in the antique oval mirror that stood on a mahogany stand in the corner of the ladies’ room and decided that there wasn’t much she could do to it without a curry comb and wire brush. There was nothing she could do except play with the genetic cards she’d been dealt. Delores, at well past fifty, was still beautiful with shining black hair, a svelte figure, and perfectly applied makeup. Andrea had inherited their mother’s good looks with the exception of her hair color. She was a natural blonde and she always looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Hannah’s youngest sister, Michelle, was equally beautiful with lovely brown hair. And then there was Hannah, who looked nothing like her beautiful, petite mother and sisters. She was her father’s daughter with his shock of unruly red hair, tall, gangly frame, and the same unfortunate tendency to put on extra pounds.

  After excusing herself to Roger in order to go to the ladies’ room, even asking him where it was to lend credibility to her excuse, she spent five or six minutes sitting on the brocade sofa in the anteroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, before she ventured out to return to her table.

  “Well?” Delores asked before she’d even pulled out her chair.

  “She’s engaged to him, but that’s all I know. At least he called her his fiancée. I didn’t want to ask questions.”

  Delores turned to Doc. “Sorry. We’re doing that mother-to-daughter telepathy thing again. I wanted to know if Hannah found out why she was back in town and how long she plans to be here.”

  “That’s what I thought. Maybe Norman will know. He’s dancing with her right now.”

  Delores turned to look. “Norman doesn’t look happy.”

  “Just the opposite,” Hannah agreed.

  “Shall I rescue him?” Delores asked. “Doc and I can go out there and cut in, just like they did to you. And then maybe Doc can get some information out of her.”

  Doc gave a little laugh. “Sorry, Lori. I forgot to pack truth serum in my little black bag.”

  “That’s okay,” Hannah said, noticing that Norman and Doctor Bev had stopped dancing. “I stopped dancing with Roger to go to the ladies’ room and I think she just did the same thing. At least she’s heading that way. And Norman’s heading this way.”

  Delores nodded. “I’m going to ask him what’s going on. I’m just dying to know if . . .” She stopped speaking as Doc gripped her arm. “What?”

  “I heard something.”

  “What?” Hannah asked.

  “It sounded like something crashed above us. I think it came from several stories up, perhaps on the roof of the hotel.”

  Delores shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything. Of course, I was talking.”

  “You’re usually talking,” Doc told her and then he turned to Hannah. “Did you hear it?”

  “No. I was listening to Mother, just like I always do.”

  “Right,” Delores said, giving a little laugh.

  “Wait!” Doc held up his hand. “I think I heard something again.”

  All three of them were silent for several moments, listening for the sounds that Doc had heard. Other than the noises of the party, the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware, and the faint strains of music coming from the band in the lobby, they heard nothing amiss. Hannah was about to say that she still hadn’t heard any thumps from above when all three of them reacted to what sounded like a faint scream. No more than a heartbeat or two later, something hurtled past the windows.

  “What is it?” Delores gasped.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Before she had even finished her sentence, Hannah was on her feet racing to the windows to look. The sight that greeted her was strange to say the least.

  Butterflies flitted between two bushes in the rose garden. It took a moment of disbelief before Hannah realized that they weren’t real butterflies. They were embroidered butterflies on a black background and Hannah swallowed hard.

  “What is it?” Delores asked again, coming up to the window behind her.

  “I’m not sure, but . . .” Hannah stopped speaking, more certain than she wanted to admit. The butterflies were on a piece of material from a ski
rt she’d admired only minutes ago. And the broken string of amber beads glittering in the lights from the baby spots trained on the rose garden was equally familiar. The owner of the skirt and the beads was face-down on the ground at the base of one of the rose bushes.

  “What is it?” Delores asked for the third time. “I can’t see past you. Tell me what’s going on!”

  Hannah moved slightly to the side. Then she drew a deep, steadying breath. “It’s Barbara Donnelly. I think she fell off the roof from the edge of the penthouse garden.”

  “Oh, no!” Delores moved closer to peer past Hannah’s shoulder. “Barbara said she wanted to try to spot her house from up there. Can you see her? Is she . . . alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Hannah replied with a heavy heart. “All I know is Barbara is face down right next to a rose bush. And she’s not moving at all.”

  Chapter Four

  They all stood by anxiously as Doc Knight bent over Barbara’s still form. They couldn’t see exactly what he was doing because Herb had marshaled the six employees of Cupcake Security and they’d formed a circle around Barbara’s body. The boys were facing out, holding hands to form a protective barrier, and they looked every bit as anxious as Hannah felt. Herb was standing guard at the entrance to the rose garden to make sure that no one who wasn’t a medic or a police officer gained access to the scene.

  Delores, who was standing next to Hannah, gave a little shiver. “Do you think Barbara went too close to the edge and fell?”

  “I don’t know,” Andrea answered her. “It seems really unlikely that Barbara would be that foolish. I told her about the barricades and why they were there. I can’t believe she’d actually move them.”

  Delores didn’t look convinced. “Maybe somebody else did. And when Barbara went up there, she simply walked into that area, thinking that it was okay. Maybe she didn’t even go all the way to the edge, but the height made her so dizzy, she stumbled and . . .”