“Doran?” Takako flicked a glance at me in the rearview mirror. “What does your brother have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “But he’s a little worried about you since your arrest.”
“I wasn’t arrested. I was questioned. And Doran left me to start a graphic design business at the other end of the state,” she said tartly. “I’m old enough to decide what I want to do.”
I hunched lower in my chair, pumpkins bumping against my knees.
“Then I’ll take Denise’s alibi,” Charlene said, “and you, Val, can tackle Elon’s.”
“It’s lunchtime on a Sunday,” I squawked. “I’ve got to get back to Pie Town.”
“Isn’t Petronella working today?” Charlene asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but Sunday lunch is our busiest time.”
“Fine.” Charlene swatted the air. “I’ll take the cemetery too. They’ll think it’s strange someone young like me is asking about buying a plot, but I’ll make it work. We’ll report back at Pie Town.”
They returned me to Pie Town. I left our teenage busboy, Hunter, to unload the pumpkins from the car, and I hurried into the warm kitchen. It smelled heavenly—of baking fruit and pumpkin and sugar. But the delicious scent didn’t have its usual, uplifting effect. Charlene and I could have been killed this morning by that stupid truck.
But I tied an apron around my waist and took orders, bussed tables. The dining area was a laughing, clattering madhouse. Charlene and Gordon were just wrong. Sure, my staff were amazing, but it wasn’t right for me to ditch them when we had so many customers.
Three hours later, the feeding frenzy had died. A sedate line of customers queued at the register for pies to take away. Charlene and Takako had returned from their expedition and sipped coffee at the counter.
Exhausted, I handed the last customer in line her pie. I ambled to the pink counter. “Learn anything?”
Takako unzipped her hoodie and slung it over the back of the barstool. “Laurelynn’s alibi is no good. Thursday afternoon, she was in and out of the barn, and sometimes for long periods of time. The staff assumed she was somewhere on the grounds, but you know how big that pumpkin patch is. No one can actually place her at the patch during the hour Dr. Cannon died. And the dog park is only a ten-minute drive from her patch. Laurelynn could have snuck away, killed Tristan, and returned with no one being the wiser.”
“Same problem with Elon and Denise.” Charlene blew on her coffee. “The woman at the cemetery said he arrived early for their two o’clock appointment. She doesn’t remember when he left.”
“And she just told you that?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, we go way back. She buried—” Charlene coughed into her hand and looked quickly away. I guessed what she’d been about to say: the woman had helped bury Charlene’s husband. “She’s a friend,” Charlene finished. Her face fell. “I didn’t have to pretend to be a potential customer after all.”
“And Kara’s cousin, Denise?” I asked.
“Now, that’s interesting.” Charlene crossed her legs and smoothed one hand over her brown leggings. “Denise’s receptionist verifies that she went into her office at two o’ clock and didn’t come out until five. Denise told her she didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“So, she’s got an alibi,” I said.
“Not quite. Denise’s private office has a rear door to the outside. Denise could have left, and the receptionist never would have known.”
I pressed one hand to the cool countertop. “But I don’t see how Laurelynn could have been the driver of that truck today. She would have to be a track star to have gotten back to her barn that quickly. And she didn’t look like she’d broken a sweat when I found her there.”
“We’re assuming whoever drove the truck was involved in the murder,” Takako said. “But it’s possible they were separate incidents.”
I hesitated. “It’s possible. But it’s a huge coincidence, don’t you think? We’re there, asking about alibis, and then someone takes a truck for a joyride and runs us off the road?”
Charlene rubbed her chin. “We’ve irritated someone. There’s no doubt about that.”
Marla swaggered to the counter and sat, adjusting the folds of her elegant trench coat. “You’ve irritated someone, Charlene? Imagine.” She angled her diamond rings for the brightest sparkles beneath the pendant lamps.
Grabbing a knife and fork off the counter, Charlene squared them into a cross. “Back off, creature of darkness!”
Marla turned to my stepmother. “Hello, Takako.”
“Marla,” Takako said, “you were right about there being more trouble.”
I coughed. “Uh, Takako—”
Takako leaned closer. “A truck from Laurelynn’s pumpkin patch ran Val and Charlene off the road. And several suspects—Elon, Denise, and Laurelynn—were nearby at the time. I don’t think Mrs. Thistleblossom could have done it. She couldn’t have reached the pedals. At any rate, we checked their alibis for Tristan’s murder, and none of them have one.”
Marla’s mouth pinched into a straight line, her nostrils whitening. “My viewers will be thrilled to hear it. Takako, it’s almost as if you’re a full-fledged Baker Street Baker.”
“It was a matter of expedience,” Charlene said, gruff. She rose. “I need to get Frederick. He’s been alone at home for too long.”
“Expedience?” Marla arched a brow. “When someone who lives in San Nicholas and knows all the people involved is right here, with a car, and an indoor movie theater, and a full video studio for filmed interrogations—”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.” Charlene shifted on the barstool.
“It was thoughtless,” she said, her voice rising in pitch.
“Have some coffee.” I poured a cup and set it on the counter in front of Marla.
“Your crummy coffee is a poor apology.” Marla rose and stormed, trench coat flapping, from the restaurant.
“I’m getting my cat.” Charlene followed her out the door.
“Did I say something wrong?” Takako asked.
“No,” I said. But we’d hurt Marla’s feelings by letting a noob join. Marla wanted to be a Baker Street Baker, even if she wasn’t willing to admit it. It was long past time Charlene and Marla let bygones be bygones. True, Marla had a tendency to blab about our investigations on her video channel. But Charlene wasn’t exactly innocent on that score either.
The phone rang in my apron. Pulling it out, I frowned at the unfamiliar number. “Hello, this is Val.”
“Val? It’s Alfreda Kuulik.”
I moved away from the counter. “Oh, hi! What can I do for you?”
“Do you still have that job opening?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “We have several applicants.”
“I’d like to apply.”
I smiled. “Are you available for an interview tonight?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wrung out the mop and glanced at the smiling, neon-rimmed clock. Charlene and Takako had broken three alibis for Tristan Cannon’s murder in one day. Tonight was my chance to pull my own weight.
“Marla can’t seriously want to join the Baker Street Bakers,” Charlene grumped from the counter.
Coiled around the collar of her green, knit jacket, Frederick yawned. The cat burrowed deeper beneath her white curls.
“You know how she is,” Charlene continued.
“Do we?” I leaned on my mop and arched my aching back. “She’s made things difficult for us in the past, but nothing too disastrous.” And unlike a certain piecrust maker, Marla hadn’t waged a raid on San Adrian.
“Marla wants to make us look bad. Mark my words. She’ll run to a reporter, or post a video on the Internet.”
Frederick raised his head, his blue eyes widening with alarm.
“Maybe. But Marla really seemed hurt.”
Charlene glowered. “She’d need a beating heart to get hurt, and vampires haven’t got one.”
“Charlene—”
“She’ll ruin everything.”
“Takako, Ray and Henrietta, my brother and Abril . . . All sorts of people have joined the Baker Street Bakers—”
“As associate members.”
“And we’ve kept things under control.” Back muscles protesting, I lugged the bucket into the kitchen.
“Do you really think you can control Marla?” she shouted after me.
“I think you can.”
There was a long silence. I dumped the dirty water into the sink and gave the sink another scrubbing.
Charlene lounged in the open kitchen door. Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t do it. There’s too much at stake. Shaw thinks Petronella is a suspect. Her father and your detective are in the crosshairs. We’re at a delicate stage.”
“Agreed, but maybe—”
Someone rattled the front door in the dining area.
“That must be Alfreda.” I hurried past Charlene and into the restaurant.
Alfreda peered through the glass, her broad face drawn in an anxious expression.
I crossed the black-and-white tiles and unlocked the door. “Hi. Come on in.” The bell jangled above our heads.
She tucked strands of maple hair behind one ear. “Thanks.” She shifted a leather portfolio beneath one arm of her long, brown coat.
“Have a seat.” Motioning to a booth, I shut the door and hoped I hadn’t just locked us in with a killer.
Stiffly, Dr. Levant’s ex-office manager unbuttoned her blocky coat. She tossed it over the back of the booth, smoothed her neat white blouse, and slid into the booth.
I sat across from her. “I think you know Charlene. She’s our piecrust specialist. We’ll be interviewing you together.”
“Plus Frederick.” Charlene dropped beside me, jouncing our seat.
Alfreda flashed a warm smile. “Hi, Frederick.”
The white cat purred.
“So, tell us about yourself,” I said brightly. “Why do you want to work in a pie shop?”
“Well, I like pie.”
“Good start,” Charlene said.
“I have lots of experience dealing with customers, from my work as an office manager for Dr. Levant and Dr. Cannon. And I don’t know if you have a bookkeeper, but I did that work for the doctors as well. Actually, the bookkeeping took up most of my time.”
I hated accounting. Briefly, I indulged in the fantasy of foisting that job onto someone else. I scanned her résumé.
“And I did more than just the office finances.” Alfreda checked her oversized watch. “I helped Dr. Levant with her personal income taxes too. I know all about how small businesses work. I’m experienced managing accounts for everything from sole proprietorships to close corporations.”
I shifted, reaching behind me to grind my knuckles into the knot in my lower back. “I see you worked for a construction company,” I said. “Did you get to drive the heavy equipment?”
“No. I worked as the accountant. Why?”
“We have a delivery van.” Or at least we would once I got it back from the garage tonight. “I was only curious.”
She pressed her large hands to the table and leaned forward, her forehead creasing. “Would you expect me to drive a van? I thought this was a cashier position.”
“We all pitch in where we can,” I said.
“What about hobbies?” Charlene asked, stroking the white cat’s fur like a James Bond villain.
“Hobbies?” She rubbed the face of her silver watch with her thumb.
“Have you got any?” Charlene asked.
“I like to ski.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I write short stories, science fiction.”
“Anything else?” Charlene leaned across the table. “Any . . . collections?”
Alfreda’s face brightened. “I do collect glass paperweights.”
Charlene leaned back. “You live in the right place then. Did you hit the post-pumpkin festival sale at the glass shop on Main?”
Alfreda’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I did. Why?”
“I love those Halloween paperweights,” Charlene said. “I wanted to get one with the bats, but they were all out.”
“Those went fast.”
“Did you buy one?” Charlene asked. “I’d love to see it.”
“I did, but . . .” She shook her head and blinked rapidly. “I lost it somehow. I’m so angry at myself. I’d swear I brought it home from the shop, but I must have kept it in my purse and then it fell out at the White Lady.”
“The White Lady?” I asked. Could Alfreda’s paperweight have been stolen?
“On the restaurant’s patio,” she said. “I went back to the White Lady to look for the paperweight that night, but no one turned it in. I’m sure someone found it and kept it. People can be such jerks.”
Frederick yawned and shook his head, his collar jingling.
“What do you mean, you’d swear you brought it home?” I asked.
“They’re heavy, you know. So, after I bought it, I went home to drop it off before I went to the White Lady for lunch. But it was cold, so I changed into a heavier coat while I was at my apartment. I must have gotten so distracted picking out a coat, I forgot to take the paperweight from my purse.”
“But wouldn’t you have noticed it was still in your purse?” I asked. “Like you said, those paperweights are heavy.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“When did you realize the paperweight was missing?” I asked.
“When I got home from the White Lady.” She crossed her arms, rumpling her white blouse, and frowned. “What does my lost paperweight have to do with the job?”
“Oh,” I said. “Nothing. Sorry, I got distracted. You know how it is, Charlene and I love a good mystery.”
Twin lines appeared between Alfreda’s brows. “Why?”
“Because we’re the Baker Street . . .” I trailed off. “Never mind. Tell us more about your job at the optometry office.”
And she did, in excruciating detail. But when she’d finished, I still didn’t know why someone might have wanted to kill its two owners.
“What happens to the office now that Dr. Levant and Dr. Cannon are, um, gone?” I asked.
“It’s closed.” Alfreda fidgeted, her slacks squeaking against the vinyl seat. “Didn’t you know? I guess I got out just in time. Elon might try to sell his wife’s share of the practice to another optometrist, but who knows what Tristan’s heirs will do? If you ask me, by the time they get it sorted out, the clients will have found other doctors. The practice will be worthless.”
“Tristan mentioned there was some sort of insurance?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
We ended the interview with promises to get back to her. I gave Alfreda a blackberry pie to-go. It was my guilt offering for dragging Alfreda here under false pretenses. Charlene and I ushered her out the door.
“What do you think?” Charlene asked.
I bolted the lock. “She didn’t seem crazy. But her social media posts about Kara and Tristan were definitely threatening. I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think I need to sleep on it.”
And I needed to talk this over with Gordon.
Charlene left, grumbling, and I called the detective.
“Gordon, how would you feel about an evening on the White Lady’s patio?”
“It’s a little cold tonight, isn’t it?”
“They have fire pits and warm blankets.”
“And I’ve got a fireplace at my condo,” he said, his voice husky. “How would you feel about coming here? I could warm you up.”
“Why, Detective Carmichael,” I joked, “this is so sudden. I’ll bring the wine.”
“Forget wine. Bring pie.”
I boxed a leftover cherry pie and speed walked toward Fred’s garage. The fog dampened my cheeks. Muffled footsteps echoed through the mist. I stopped. The footsteps behind me stopp
ed. An echo off the brick buildings?
I hurried onward.
The garage was off the Main Road, in a tiny industrial section near Highway One. I waited impatiently in the dingy office plastered with photos of WWII planes. After Fred was satisfied my payment was correct, I darted into the safety of my van and locked the doors.
Hey, you’re not paranoid if someone really is out to get you.
At Gordon’s, I hurried up the steps to his condo, glancing over my shoulder.
I knocked on his door and shifted the boxed pie in my arms.
He opened it and smiled. “Val.”
My heart caught. His forest-green sweater deepened the color of his eyes. In that moment, I’d have gladly drowned in those emerald pools.
“At last.” He pulled me against his muscular chest and kissed me, slowly, meticulously.
Pulse pounding, I passed him the pie. “Cherry.”
He sniffed the box and closed his eyes. “Mmm.”
I walked inside and shrugged out of my short, gray coat.
He hung it on a peg near the door. Setting the pink box on the counter of the open kitchen, he cut slices for us both and wandered to his murder board. “Did you hear anything new?”
“I interviewed Alfreda Kuulik for a job.”
Gordon raised a brow.
I told him what we’d learned, about the alibis Charlene and Takako had broken, about the truck that had run us off the road.
“You should have led with the hit-and-run.” One-handed, he stuck a sticky note on the whiteboard and turned to me. His gaze raked me from head to toes. “You and Charlene are okay?”
“We’re fine. Even though it happened at Laurelynn’s pumpkin farm, I don’t see how she could have managed it. Elon, Denise . . . even Mrs. Thistleblossom could have stolen the key to that truck. Though she’d have had trouble reaching the pedals.”
Gordon forked a bite of pie into his mouth. “Mrs. Thistleblossom? What’s she have to do with this?”
“Nothing, probably.” But she had been on the scene when Takako had found Tristan’s body.
I glanced at his plate. It was empty. “Wow. You must have been hungry.”
“What?” He looked at the plate. “I guess I was.” He ambled to the kitchen for another slice. It vanished as quickly as the first, and I frowned.
Gourd to Death Page 20
