Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “I heard.” I fixed my eyes on hers. “I guess you didn’t hear that after the argument you witnessed, Tavish Bentley was seen going back inside the bookstore, leaving his ex-fiancée Kristi Black very much alive and making her displeasure known. The sheriff and that ‘foreigner’”—I made air quotes around the f-word—“both informed me of that last night.” I tugged at Gracie’s leash. “Come on, girl, let’s go before I say something I’ll regret. You ladies have a nice day.”

  Barbara gave me a thumbs-up behind an openmouthed Wilma’s back.

  If there’s anything I hate more than malicious gossip, it’s ignorance and prejudice. I was still steaming by the time we reached the bakery. Maybe a cup of coffee and a Danish would cool me off. After tying Gracie’s leash to the iron railing next to the shady spot where Bea always keeps a fresh water bowl for the neighborhood dogs and cats, I ruffled my Eskie’s fur as she eagerly lapped up water.

  The bell above the door jangled, announcing my arrival.

  Fred Matson greeted me from his customary stool at the counter. “Hiya, Teddie! Kneed any more strangers in the you-know-whats lately?” He grinned, revealing his loose dentures. I keep waiting for the day they fall out in a public place. Hopefully not here and not today.

  “Not since a couple days ago, Fred, but you never know. The day is young.”

  I slid into the front booth and turned over the upside-down cup as Bea ambled over with the coffeepot.

  She gazed at me. “What’s got your panties in a wad?”

  “Wilma Sorensen.”

  “’Nuff said.” She poured the strong brew into my cup. “That woman can rattle anyone’s cage.”

  “She’s something else, all right.”

  Fred snorted. “Wilma Sorensen is a nosy old biddy with too much time on her hands, ya know? She needs to get herself a hobby or sumpin’. Like me.” He took a drink of his coffee.

  Bea winked at me. “You volunteerin’ to be Wilma’s hobby, Fred?”

  Coffee sprayed out his mouth. “Fer cripes’ sake! Whatcha tryin’ to do to me, Bea? Gimme a stroke?” He wiped his face with his napkin, then returned it to his lap. “Now see what you went and made me do,” he said, staring at his plate. “I got coffee all over my eggs.”

  “You already finished your eggs, you old fibber.”

  “Did not. I still had a couple bites left.”

  “All right.” Bea sighed. “I’ll make you some more. Teddie, you want some eggs too?”

  “No thanks. Just a cheese Danish, please, and another one to go.” Maybe if I buttered up my mother with her favorite forbidden pastry, she might cut me some slack on the Tavish front.

  “I hear tell that author feller up and left town today now that he’s no longer a suspect in the big murder,” Fred said.

  My head snapped up from my cup. “What?”

  “I said that author feller left town.”

  “When?”

  “Earlier this morning,” Bea said, delivering my Danish and the to-go bag. “That assistant of his that always wears black and is constantly typing on that pad thingamabob came in and ordered a couple Danish to go—said they were on their way to Chicago.”

  Chicago? What about our date tonight? Had he forgotten? Now that he was in the clear and didn’t need to stick around, did he just want to get the heck out of Lake Potawatomi and forget he ever heard of our small town?

  Fred shook his head. “Dunno why so many young people these days dress like they’re goin’ to a funeral. That girl is right pretty, but she would look a whole lot better if she put on somethin’ with some color. Like red or mebbe orange.”

  I pulled a twenty from my pocket and set it on the table. “Bea, I’m going to take both sweet rolls to go.” I grabbed the cheese Danish from my plate and stuck it in the paper bag as I stood to leave.

  “Okay, honey. Let me get you your change.”

  “Keep it.” I waved her off and headed to the door.

  “You sure? That’s a pretty big tip.”

  “You deserve it.”

  Bea called after me as I opened the front door. “Hey, I got some leftover brats from last night in the back—you want ’em for Gracie?”

  “No thanks. Gotta go.”

  “I’ll take those bratwursts if you’re givin’ ’em away,” I heard Fred say as the coffee shop door closed behind me.

  I couldn’t believe Tavish had just left like that. He hadn’t even said good-bye. I wondered if something had happened. It didn’t make sense—especially after that big buildup he’d given me about wanting to go out with me.

  He probably couldn’t wait to see the back of this place, my neurotic self snarked. After all, someone murdered his ex and everyone here suspected him—including you. Face it, he’s rich and big-time major league. You play in the minors. The man probably has a line of hotties back in LA just waiting to take Kristi’s place.

  He’d seemed so sincere, though, when he said he didn’t want another Kristi type.

  Focused as I was on my internal back-and-forth, I didn’t notice the two bent figures petting Gracie until I almost tripped over them.

  “Oh, excuse me, Teddie,” said Amy Lewis, the pastor’s wife over at First Baptist, as she straightened up. “We didn’t mean to block the door but couldn’t resist your sweet dog. Noah loves dogs.” She cast a look of adoration at her newly adopted son.

  “My fault entirely—I was daydreaming.” I squatted down beside the cinnamon-haired four-year-old gently stroking Gracie’s fur. “Hi, Noah. Nice to see you again. Gracie loves when people pet her.”

  “I love her,” he declared, giving my Eskie a big hug and kissing her head. Then a look of alarm crossed his delicate features and he raised concerned brown eyes to his mother. “Not as much as I love Chewie, though. Chewie’s our dog.” He puffed out his thin chest. “Mine. And my mom’s. And my dad’s. We’re a family. Right, Mom?”

  “That’s right, Noah,” Amy said, as tears filled her eyes.

  My eyes teared too as I recalled Noah’s background. The little guy had been born to a drug-addicted mother in Milwaukee and subsequently shuffled through the foster-care system until finding a forever home with Mark and Amy Lewis. The Lewises had been trying to have a baby for a while, but after Amy suffered three miscarriages in four years, they decided to become foster parents instead. Noah came to them a frail, frightened three-year-old and immediately stole their hearts. The couple then spent more than a year jumping through myriad hoops to adopt the child they knew belonged with them. Finally, three months ago, the adoption had been finalized.

  Amy knelt down and hugged her son. “Noah, it’s okay to love both Chewie and Gracie. You love me and you love Daddy too, right?”

  He nodded, wide-eyed.

  “And I love you and I also love Daddy. There’s plenty of love to go around.”

  “There is?”

  Amy nodded.

  Noah’s pale forehead puckered as he considered this. “Okay,” he said, his face clearing. He wriggled out of his mom’s arms. “Can I pet Gracie some more now?”

  “Sure.” Amy straightened and exchanged a smile with me as Noah sat down and returned his full attention to my dog.

  “So, how’s the new book coming along?” she asked.

  “Pretty well. I should be finished in a few weeks.”

  “I’m dying to read it! I loved the last one. I just wish it didn’t take so darned long for the next one to come out in bookstores.”

  “I know. That’s the publishing world. Although”—I winked at her—“I might be able to get you an advance copy so you don’t have to wait a whole year. The catch is you’d have to promise to post a review on a few online sites.”

  “You got it! Thanks.” Amy hugged me. “And I’ll spread the word at church, too. Now I’d better go in and get Mark’s morning Danish before he faints from hunger.”

  “Me too, me too,” said Noah, jumping to his feet and pushing open the bakery door. “I gonna faint from hunger too.”

 
“Don’t forget to say good-bye to Gracie and Teddie,” his mom instructed.

  “’Bye, Gracie. ’Bye, Teddie.” Noah rushed inside.

  “’Bye, Noah. ’Bye, Amy.” I waved as mother and son disappeared into Andersen’s. Then I unhooked Gracie from the railing and we resumed our walk. We had barely gone ten feet when a large pink blur rammed into me.

  “Ow!”

  “Stay away from him! He’s mine!”

  Gracie growled and lunged at Lady Muumuu, biting her on the ankle.

  Annabelle howled and kicked out at Gracie with her other foot, but I blocked it with mine. Grabbing my Gracie-girl by the harness at the same time, I lifted her up out of harm’s way and held her against my chest.

  Tavish’s crazed stalker tottered and nearly fell, hurling obscenities at me all the while. Then she righted herself and delivered a swift kick to my shin before hobbling away to a nearby vehicle and speeding away.

  Bea rushed out of the diner, followed closely by Fred Matson.

  “Teddie, are you all right?” Bea asked, relieving me of a trembling Gracie. “Who was that crazy lady?”

  I rubbed my throbbing shin. “I think she killed Kristi Black.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Did you get her license plate number?” Brady asked as he took my statement.

  “No, I was a little busy trying to save my dog from a madwoman.” I hugged Gracie to me.

  “What kind of car was she driving?”

  “I don’t know. Blue, maybe? You know cars aren’t my thing.”

  “I know.” He parroted my common refrain whenever any of my friends went into raptures over the brand-new vehicle they’d just bought. “‘As long as it runs and has heat, AC, and a player for my audiobooks, that’s all that matters.’”

  “Well, it is.”

  “Except this time it matters that we know the type of car so we can find the owner and bring her in for questioning.” Brady poised his pencil over his notepad. “Was it a sports car? Convertible? SUV?”

  “Wait, I remember now. It was one of those family minivans.”

  He scribbled in his notepad. “Okay, a minivan, possibly blue. Anything else?”

  “You mean other than the fact that I think she’s the killer?”

  “I’m talking about the vehicle. Is there anything else you can recall about it? Anything distinctive?”

  “Nope.”

  Brady sighed. “I’ll check with Bea. With any luck, she’s more of a car person than you.”

  “If not, maybe Fred or Amy noticed something.”

  “Maybe, although they probably didn’t see anything, since they were both inside during the altercation.” He set down his notepad and leaned back in his desk chair, balancing it on its back legs as he laced his fingers behind his head. “Now tell me why you think this Annabelle Cooke is the one who killed Kristi.”

  “Because she’s completely obsessed with Tavish. Just like Kathy Bates in Misery.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “You should watch it. I’ll lend you my DVD. Kathy Bates won an Oscar for her role as Annie Wilkes, the ‘number-one fan’ of a best-selling novelist played by James Caan, whom she holds hostage.” I paused. “Annie winds up shooting the local sheriff in the back when he shows up at her house to investigate the mystery of the missing author.”

  Brady’s chair slapped down on the floor. “I’ll ask Tavish for Annabelle’s details when I see him.”

  “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I hear he already left town for Chicago.”

  “Yeah, for the final signing on his book tour. He’ll be back later today.”

  Jump to conclusions much?

  “He’s promised to give me a list of Kristi’s friends when he returns, along with their contact information,” Brady said.

  “Uh-huh.” I half listened to my longtime friend as I thought about going out with Tavish tonight. It had been a while since I’d had a date—a long while. I frowned, trying to remember the last time I had gone out with someone. A couple of years, maybe? Or had it been even longer than that?

  The dating offers had never come in fast and furious, especially not lately. There are very few single men in town, and those remaining aren’t much interested in Amazons in their forties.

  Looking up, I found Brady staring at me. “What?”

  “You zoned out there for a couple minutes, Ted. Maybe you should go home and take a nap or something.”

  “Good idea.” I set Gracie down on the floor and stood up. “I guess my run-in with Lady Muumuu took more out of me than I realized.”

  “Make sure to lock your doors. And until we find this Annabelle, maybe you shouldn’t go walking around town alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone.” I ruffled Gracie’s fur. “I had my trusty bodyguard with me.”

  * * *

  My mother pounced on me the minute I walked through my kitchen door. “Theodora Renee St. John, what is going on?”

  Gracie streaked into the living room—likely to her favorite hiding place beneath my skirted slipper chair, where she often takes refuge when Mom shows up in one of her moods.

  Thanks for leaving me defenseless, woman’s best friend.

  Well, she did protect you against Lady Muumuu. Your mother is a whole other story.

  “What do you mean, Mom?” I said.

  “What do I mean?” Her sculpted brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “I heard some crazy woman in a hideous polyester muumuu attacked you in town today. Why would she do that, and how do you even know such a person?” Her nose wrinkled.

  I’m fine, Mom, really. Thanks for your concern. Leave it to my mother to focus on fashion at a time like this.

  Her eyes flickered. “Wait a minute. Was this that same angry woman from the restaurant last night?” She scrolled through her texts, then thrust her purple smartphone beneath my nose, showing me Lady Muumuu’s enraged face beneath her neon-copper dye job.

  I puffed out a sigh, lifting up my bangs. “Yes. Her name is Annabelle Cooke. She’s Tavish Bentley’s deluded stalker-fan. She warned me to stay away from him. Apparently she doesn’t like any woman getting close to him, even when it’s purely professional.”

  Who are you trying to kid? You know Tavish’s interest in you extends beyond the professional.

  Yes, but my mother does not need to know that. The longer I can keep that information from her, the better.

  Good luck with that. How exactly do you plan to keep tonight’s date a secret?

  Absolutely no idea.

  My mother stared at me, her mouth a round O. “Oh my goodness! I’ll bet she killed that Kristi, Tavish’s ex!” She began punching numbers into her phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The sheriff. Who else?”

  “No need. Brady’s already on it.” I filled her in on the basics.

  Mom began calling her girlfriends before she even exited my back door. “Cheryl? You will not believe this. Just wait until you hear.” She pulled the kitchen door shut behind her.

  Just in time, too. Seconds later Tavish Bentley’s name flashed on my phone screen.

  Walking into the living room, I settled into my chintz wingback. “Hi, Tavish.”

  “Teddie? Are you okay?” he said in that killer English accent. “I heard what happened. Did Annabelle hurt you?”

  Stretching out my legs before me, I glanced down at my purpling shin. “Not really. I’ve gotten bigger bruises playing softball.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I could hear the distress in his voice. “This is all my fault.”

  “How is it your fault?”

  “If it weren’t for me, you’d never have met my crazed stalker and become her target.”

  “But I wouldn’t have met you either, and that would be a shame.”

  The tenor of his voice changed from concerned to playful. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Oh God no!”

  Gracie’s w
hite head poked out from beneath the slipper chair opposite me.

  “No need to sound so appalled.”

  “Sorry. What I meant is I don’t flirt. I’ve never been good at those dating games, so I don’t bother playing them. I just tell it like it is.”

  Tavish laughed. “And that, Theodora St. John, is one of the many reasons I’m looking forward to tonight. Where would you like to go, by the way? I’ll have Melanie make reservations.”

  “Um …”

  “Don’t worry, she confessed—although I’d already figured out that she’d informed Annabelle of my whereabouts. Melanie was quite embarrassed and contrite—even offered her resignation. I didn’t accept it, by the way. Actually, I’m not sure how I’d manage without her—she keeps everything running efficiently so I don’t have to worry about the details and can focus solely on my writing. I did give her a stern talking-to, however, and told her if she ever did something like that again, I’d fire her.”

  “And rightly so.”

  “But enough about that,” he said. “You still haven’t told me where you’d like to go this evening.”

  “Do you like Chinese food?”

  “Love it. Peking duck is my Patronus. I didn’t realize there was a Chinese restaurant in town, however.”

  “There isn’t. We’re going to go a little farther afield.”

  “Racine?”

  “Farther. After last night’s encounter with Annabelle, I think it might be a good idea to lose ourselves in a bigger city.”

  “Chicago? I’m actually there at the moment.”

  “Nope. Milwaukee. I know a great hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that your stalker will never find, especially if you don’t mind a little subterfuge.”

  “You’re talking to a fellow mystery writer. Subterfuge is our stock-in-trade.”

  I told Tavish my plan to throw Annabelle—and my mother—off the scent. Then I enlisted my fellow Musketeers’ assistance.

  Chapter Eight