Dying for a Cupcake (18 page)

“Just before the big contest kickoff in the town square?” I confirmed.

“Right.” Annalee brought her plate back to where she was sitting, then returned to the refreshment table and selected a can of Dr Pepper. “That’s why the
opening ceremony started a little late. It took me longer to drive here than I was expecting. My GPS said an hour, but it was closer to ninety minutes with traffic and everything.”

“I used to commute, and even under ideal conditions the trip was never under an hour and a quarter.” I glanced at the door. Thomasina and Vance would be coming back anytime now. “I bet the desserts you made for the ball were gorgeous. Did you take pictures?” Hey, pretending interest had worked with the kids’ recital; why not give it another try?

“Just a few.” Annalee dug her cell from her purse and handed me the device. “But the newspaper covered the event, so there should be more on their Web site.”

A dozen or so photos of Annalee with elaborate chocolate and sugar confections later, I was convinced that the TV chef had an alibi. I would check the newspaper’s Web site to confirm the date and time, but it looked as if another suspect could be scratched from my list.

If Q and her brother were in the clear, I was going back to my original theory that the murderer was from Kizzy’s past, rather than her present.

B
y the time I finished admiring Annalee’s dessert pictures and excused myself, Vance and Thomasina had returned and the three judges settled down to enjoy their lunch break before the cupcake tasting began. After checking the store and assuring myself that Hannah and Dad didn’t need my help, I slipped into the back room to pull up the
Kansas City Star
’s Web site on my laptop. I could have done it on my phone, but Boone had informed me that squinting at the small screen to read a lengthy article would give me wrinkles. Since the idea of injecting the bubonic plague or botulism or whatever the heck disease Botox contained into my forehead made me queasy, I vowed to follow his advice.

The
Star
’s site confirmed Annalee’s alibi. There was a feature about the Pink Ribbon Fireworks Ball and several photos of celebrities. A shot of the television chef dressed to the nines with her arm around the guest of honor in front of an elaborate chocolate and sugar tower confirmed her Thursday evening whereabouts.

The article said that the ball had begun at seven p.m., so even if the picture of Annalee was taken right
after the event started, the absolute soonest she could have arrived in Shadow Bend would’ve been eight thirty. According to my calculations, Fallon had accepted the delivery about seven fifteen.

Satisfied that Annalee was in the clear, I returned to the sales floor. Although people were streaming through the dime store’s entrance, few were stopping to browse. They all hurried to the stairs and headed for the second floor. Vouchers were being given to the first seventy-five folks to arrive, and once the viewing was over and the judges had done their tasting, all the ticket holders would be allowed to choose one cupcake to eat.

The entire event was being filmed by the Dessert Channel’s crew with commentary and interviews provided by the host, Merry Woodworth. Dirk Harvey, along with a second cameraman, was already upstairs working the event. He and the rest of the television crew had shown up with the first wave of attendees, but there had been no sign of Q.

As I stood behind the candy counter and filled a gold-foil box with our special of the day, blueberries and cream truffles, I watched the door. I could only hope that Dirk’s sister would be on hand, since I had no idea how else to find her. Surely, Merry would want her makeup and hair freshened during such a long event. If Q didn’t show, I wasn’t sure how I‘d locate her, and I needed to figure out if she had an alibi for Fallon’s murder.

I also kept an eye out for Boone. His latest text had informed me his client’s meltdown had been handled and he promised that he’d be over with the yearbook right after Tsar’s psychoanalysis session. Surprising as it was that kitty counseling was available at all, that the therapist worked on Sundays was astounding.

It was close to two thirty, and I had about given up
on Q when she, the ten contestants, and their significant others walked through the entrance. Following that group were Lee, Kizzy, and a man who by the look of his bulging muscles, military-style buzz cut, and the gun strapped to his hip had to be the bodyguard that Coop had mentioned. Evidently, Rambo wasn’t available, so Kizzy had had to settle for this guy.

I smiled. Jake would be so happy to see that the Cupcake Weekend now had security. My smile faded. I hadn’t had a call from him since we were interrupted by the Doll Maker summoning him to the latest rendezvous. What if Jake had been shot? Or what if that monster had kidnapped him, too?

My chest tightened; then I forced myself to breathe. Surely, I would have heard if anything had happened to Jake. If only because his uncle Tony would be notified.

With the cupcake exhibition in full swing, the dime store was down to fewer than a dozen customers, so I told Hannah to text me if a horde of shoppers descended; then I ran up the stairs. I waved at the three judges who were sitting at a bistro table near the door; then as I mingled with the crowd, I kept my eye on Q and Dirk. My plan, such as it was, included following one or both of them if they ever left the room.

When I finally made it to the platform where the cupcakes were displayed, I gasped. If anything, these creations were even more stunning than the first round. I recognized GB O’Rourke’s Bananas Foster entries from the slice of caramelized banana inserted into the thick cream cheese frosting, and my mouth watered.

Next, I spotted Lauren Neumann’s Caramel Espresso submissions. They were iced with Swiss meringue buttercream that was drizzled with caramel syrup and topped with chocolate-covered coffee beans. My
stomach growled, and I was suddenly sorry I hadn’t nabbed one of the golden tickets that would allow me to taste the amazing confections beckoning to me from the display stands.

The sight of all the sugary goodness had distracted me, but I looked away just in time to see Q slip from the room. With one last longing glance at the gooey treats, I hurried after the young woman. I needed to find out how Q had tried to stop Kizzy from getting her fired and what her brother’s plan B had been. I was also interested in how Dirk’s previous scheme had landed Q in a mental health facility. The fact that that info wasn’t really any of my business unless it was relevant to the murder attempts didn’t make me any less curious.

Q’s minnowlike build allowed her to glide effortlessly through the throng of people going in the opposite direction. I, on the other hand, felt like a fat salmon trying to swim upstream. It was a good thing that she was again dressed as if she were trying out for the sequel to
The
Rocky Horror Picture Show
. Although her Cyberdog T-shirt, Living Dead Souls jacket, and tutu skirt were mostly black, her horned headband was bright pink, which made her easy to spot as she slithered toward the exit.

When one of her Noctex skeleton garters popped and she stumbled, I nearly caught up to her. Evidently, keeping your balance on the seven-inch Demonia platform boots was as hard as it looked. Once she was outside the exhibition space, she paused and I hung back just out of sight to see where she was headed. The short hallway only had two options—the judges’ lounge or the stairs. She glanced behind her, peered into the lounge, then darted inside. I was just about to follow her when Kizzy and her bodyguard walked past me and joined Q. I scratched my head. In none of the
scenarios that had run through my fevered imagination did Q and Kizzy have a meeting.

Now the question was, how was I going to hear their discussion? Sadly, I didn’t have wings, so hovering outside the office’s second-story window was out. Did pressing a glass to the wall really work? Probably not, and besides, how would I explain my actions to the tourists going in and out of the cupcake exhibit?

Wait!
The heating vent. The lounge was directly above the stockroom. During the remodeling, the builder had told me that the office’s ductwork ran down the wall of the storeroom. He’d informed me of this when he was explaining that the construction had to be done a certain way. At the time, I hadn’t been too interested since I wasn’t footing the bill, but now I hoped this was the solution for my eavesdropping dilemma. Fingers crossed, I ran down the steps, into the back room, and over to the vent.

Pressing my ear to the opening, I heard Kizzy’s voice. “If your brother isn’t going to redo the interview, we have nothing to talk about.”

Apparently, I had missed the part of the conversation where Q had delivered the bad news.

“And if that’s the case,” Kizzy continued, “why did you insist on meeting up? You could have just texted me Dirk’s refusal.”

“I don’t think blackmailing me is something you want a permanent record of.” Q’s tone was smug. “In fact, if I were you, I’d ask Muscle Guy here to wait in the hall unless you want me to call him as a witness to your extortion attempt.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Kizzy snapped. “You only want him gone so you can have another try at killing me.”

“That wasn’t me!” Q squealed. “I’m a vegan. I’d never harm a living soul.”

Q was a vegan? I could have sworn she ate the chicken at the St. Saggy dinner. Had she thought it was tofu? And I distinctly remembered her chowing down on a piece of chocolate pie. Did she not realize that there was butter in the crust and milk in the filling?

“How about your fiancé?” Kizzy’s voice interrupted my musings. “You certainly harmed him.”

“How do you know about that?” Q shrieked. “That was an accident. I just wanted to punk him. He was always playing practical jokes on me and I could never get him back, so Dirk came up with the idea for me to mess with Abe’s beloved Harley.”

“Loosening the front wheel of his motorcycle is hardly a prank,” Kizzy said.

“He shouldn’t have been going so fast,” Q cried. “And it was supposed to just wobble—not come off.”

“And now he’s a paraplegic.” Kizzy’s voice was growing faint and I figured she was walking toward the door. “But that’s beside the point. Someone with your history of psychiatric hospital stays should not be working on a television show. There’s too much stress. Then you make mistakes like you did with my hair.”

“Dirk can’t redo the interview because Merry refuses,” Q sobbed. “You should be mad at her, not us. He’d do it if she would.”

“That’s not my problem,” Kizzy said. “Since you are unable to meet my terms, I’m sending a formal letter of complaint to the producer and stating that I expect you to be fired.” She paused, then in a falsely sympathetic tone added, “You’re just too unstable to be trusted with something important like a star’s appearance, my dear.”

“I’m not.” Q’s voice was desperate. “When you were so upset Thursday afternoon, I immediately made an emergency appointment with my therapist for seven
p.m. and Dirk drove me to Kansas City that evening. I talked to my shrink for three hours and she said that I was fine.”

“So you were in KC from seven to ten?” Kizzy’s voice grew stronger. Plainly, she had decided not to leave the lounge quite yet. “Can you prove that?”

“Yes,” Q answered. There was a pause, and then she said, “Here’s the parking ticket from the garage. Since Dirk was nice enough to drive me, I paid for it and kept the receipt for my tax guy. And here’s my psychologist’s card. She can tell you I’m fine. I’ll give her permission to talk to you about me.”

I grinned. Who would have guessed that Q would employ an accountant, worry about her taxes, or be so meticulous with her records?

“It looks like you aren’t the one trying to kill me after all,” Kizzy mused. “Unless you somehow figure out how to alter the time stamp—and frankly, my dear, I don’t think you’re smart enough to do that—you were in Kansas City from six forty-five to a little past nine fifty-eight on July second. I guess this lets your brother off the hook as well. Since this is his parking ticket, he couldn’t get his car out of the garage without it registering. Which means he’d have to deliver you to your shrink, rent another vehicle, drive to Shadow Bend, deliver the package to Fallon, and be back in KC to pick you up before ten. That would be quite a trick.” The cupcake tycoon hesitated, then said, “Okay. Provided your therapist can assure me you aren’t dangerous, I’ll let the hair incident slide, if—”

“Thank you! I—”

“Let me finish,” Kizzy interrupted. “If you learn how to do a proper French twist and agree to do my hair and makeup for free for all my public appearances for the next year, then I won’t write the letter of complaint.”

“As long as I know enough ahead of time to trade gigs with another network stylist, I can do that,” Q vowed. “But how will I get to your events?”

“I’ll provide transportation to anything that’s more than a three-hour drive.”

“Thank you so much for the opportunity.” Q sounded subdued. “I appreciate it.”

“You have a good sense of style,” Kizzy drawled. “Except, of course, in your own wardrobe choices. But I have to admit, your makeup techniques are amazing. You took at least ten years off my face.”

“It’s the under-eye concealer,” Q gushed. “I mix it myself.”

The conversation turned to makeup techniques, and after a few minutes of listening to which sponge or brush was best for what effect, I lost interest. Having ascertained that Q and Kizzy had come to a detente, and that both Q and her brother had an alibi, I felt free to leave my eavesdropping post in the storeroom.

I had run out of suspects from Kizzy’s current life, and I was more convinced than ever that her would-be murderer was someone from her past. Now I just needed Boone to show up with that damn yearbook.

T
here was a break between the end of the exhibition at four, and the award dinner, which started at five thirty. Hoping that as people left the display room upstairs they would stop to do some eleventh-hour souvenir shopping, I planned to keep the dime store open until the last minute, then head over to the Methodist church for the supper.

Happily, I had guessed correctly. After the judges did their final tasting and withdrew to vote for the winner, the shop was inundated with customers. As I scooped ice cream, boxed candy, and kept the shelves of cupcake-themed items fully stocked, I thought about Kizzy’s sudden change of heart toward Q.

I would have sworn she’d never allow the French twist incident to slide. She seemed like the type to hold a grudge so tightly it would have to bite her before she’d let it go. Although, if Q really could perform anti-aging miracles with her makeup applications, Kizzy was no doubt getting the better end of that bargain.

When the deluge of shoppers thinned to a trickle, I glanced at my watch and frowned. I was starting to get worried about Boone. There was still no sign of him,
and his last text had sworn that he had one more errand. Then he was on his way.

Several more minutes ticked by and I was thinking of texting Boone again to check on him when he finally arrived. I had already let my father and Hannah leave, so I waved Boone to the soda fountain stools and turned my attention back to the trio of silver-haired ladies debating the purchase of matching cupcake earrings.

The women were the last customers in the store but seemed in no hurry to finish their shopping. My patience was about worn out by the time they settled on the earrings with the blue cupcake liners versus the pink ones. Gritting my teeth in a lockjaw smile, I herded them over to the register and rang up their purchases. When the last octogenarian handed over her twelve dollars and fifty-three cents, I escorted the threesome to the exit, thanked them for their patronage, and restrained myself from pushing them out the door.

As soon as they cleared the threshold, I turned the lock, flipped on the closed sign, and joined Boone. “Where in the hell have you been and where’s your cat?”

“Hello to you, too,” Boone said, not at all disturbed by my impatience. “Tsar’s therapist decided he was ready for a playdate with my folks, so he’s staying with them for a couple of hours.”

“I’m glad Tsar is doing so much better,” I said sincerely, then eagerly reached for the yearbook that Boone held protectively cradled to his chest. As we played tug-of-war with the annual, I demanded, “What did your friend say about Kizzy?”

“Jeffrey was gone by the time I got there, but he left a note with the yearbook saying that Kizzy and her
clique reigned over the school like Marie Antoinette and her court.” Boone continued to resist my efforts to pry the volume away from him and added, “He wrote that even the teachers were intimidated by her and her friends.”

“Aha!” I finally managed to wrestle the book out of his fingers. “So Kizzy’s claim to Chief Kincaid that she was loved by all was a lie.”

“Shocker.” Boone waved his hand in front of his face. “A popular girl who was mean. Could you get any more cliché than that?”

“Fine.” I started paging through the yearbook. “Have you looked at this?”

“I haven’t had time.” Boone crossed his legs. “And I wasn’t sure exactly what to search for. I mean, we can’t talk to the entire senior class. We need to figure out how the yearbook can help us narrow down who hated Kizzy.”

“Yeah. And the killer might not even be someone who was in her grade. It could be anyone in school with her at the time,” I mused.
Shoot!
What
were
we looking for? I thought about it and said, “Maybe the activities pictures or the seniors’ last will and testament or the section where the seniors’ futures are predicted will give us a clue.”

“Those are as good places to start as any.” Boone reached over and flipped pages until he came to the group photos. “Wow. Kizzy was in almost everything. She was the captain of the cheerleading squad, and here she is singing the lead in the all-school musical, and here she is again on the debate team. Hell, she was even a member of the FHA.”

“There was a Federal Housing Administration club?” I raised a brow. Now I’d heard everything. “What did they do, loan out lunch money?”

“Once a financial consultant, always a financial consultant,” Boone snickered. “FHA is Future Homemakers of America,” he clarified. “According to their banner in the photo, they are the family, career, and community leaders of America.” He tilted his head. “That’s probably where Kizzy got interested in baking.”

“Or her interest in baking was why she joined the organization,” I said. “Although Harlee did say she and Kizzy had planned to marry their high school boyfriends and live next door to each other, so maybe Kizzy just wanted to learn to be a good homemaker.”

“Could be,” Boone murmured. “How ironic. I see Kizzy only came in second place in the FHA cooking contest. Odd it doesn’t say who came in first. I bet Kizzy was ticked off at the winner.”

“No doubt.” Having been around Kizzy for the past four days, I felt it safe to assume that she would regard second place as first loser. “The cupcake queen would not take being defeated well.”

“It looks as if Harlee was in all the clubs and activities, too.” Boone pursed his lips. “But she was always in Kizzy’s shadow. She was the lead’s sister in the play and the assistant captain for the cheerleaders and a floater for the debate team.”

“We definitely need to have another talk with Harlee,” I decided. “She avoided my question about why she and Kizzy left town so abruptly and why, after being best friends, they didn’t keep in touch.”

“That is suspicious.” Boone nodded, then said, “Oh, here’re the senior prophecies.”

“And?” I was curious to see what Kizzy’s classmates had predicted for her future.

“According to this, Kizzy and Harlee will marry their high school sweethearts and live next door to each
other in matching mansions.” Boone made a face. “They will each have two adorable children—a boy and a girl—and become president and vice president of the CDM.”

“I’m sure Noah’s mother would have had something to say about that.” Nadine had been the supreme ruler of the Confederacy Daughters of Missouri for as long as anyone could remember.

“If Kizzy Cutler had gotten married and stuck around Shadow Bend, I have a feeling Nadine might have had a run for her money.” Boone smirked.

“Any mention of who the girls’ sweethearts were?” I realized we hadn’t figured out any of the other members of Kizzy’s posse.

“There are a lot of pictures of Kizzy, but it seems that anyone with her in those photos is in the shadow and their faces are hard to see.”

“Crap!” I bit my lip. “We have to get Harlee to identify the rest of the crew.”

“Put that question on the list,” Boone ordered, then added, “Here’s the seniors’ last will and testament. Kizzy leaves her overwhelming popularity to no one.”

“Wow.” I marveled at the sheer audacity that it took to put something like that in writing. That was quite an ego, even for a teenager. “How about Harlee?”

“I don’t see anything for her.” Boone ran his finger down the page, then shook his head. “Nope. Either Harlee didn’t write her will or the yearbook editor left her entry out.”

“Who was the editor?” I asked, fairly sure I knew the answer.

Boone turned to the listing in front of the book. “Kizzy, of course.”

Having come to a dead end, we examined the yearbook again, this time going page by page. At the very
back, stuck between the end pages and the cover, was a yellowed newspaper article. I placed it gently on the marble countertop and read the faded print.

A white Cadillac DeVille driven by 16-year-old Marla Parrett was struck Saturday night by a train on the outskirts of Shadow Bend. Police report that the accident happened on the railroad tracks near First Avenue. Investigators said the girl was killed instantly. Police continue to investigate. The victim’s family refused to be interviewed, saying they are too grief-stricken to comment.

“I wonder why your friend Jeffrey kept this clipping,” I mused.

“Let’s go over to his house and ask him,” Boone suggested. “I texted him that I’d return his yearbook this afternoon, and he responded saying that he’d be home all day.”

“Perfect.” I got up and started shutting off the lights. “I need to put in an appearance at the dinner, but even if we spend an hour talking to your friend, we should be able to get there in time to grab a bite to eat before the award announcement.”

I locked up and we headed over to Jeffrey’s place. A few minutes later as I pulled into the driveway of the nineteen twenties brick bungalow, I was glad that Shadow Bend was so small and that most of the cupcakers were probably already over at the Methodist church, staking out the best tables. A couple of miles between most destinations and no traffic to speak of made me thankful to live in my little hometown.

We walked up a short ramp to the front porch and I admired the four redbrick pillars supporting the sloping roof. The exterior was in pristine condition, but the
vintage feeling of the house had been retained. Jeffrey greeted us at the door, and after Boone introduced me, his friend invited us inside. We followed Jeffrey’s motorized wheelchair as he led us into the living room and waved us to a seat on the brown leather sofa.

“You have a lovely home.” I gestured around me. “The earth tones and walnut floor really complement the brick. And I love your wrought-iron chandelier and candleholders. It feels so cozy in here.”

“Thank you. I’ve tried to restore it to what I imagined the original owners might have had.” Jeffrey positioned his chair facing us. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on.”

“No, thanks,” I answered for us both. “We need to get over to the cupcake dinner before the awards, so we’re in a little bit of a hurry.”

“We won’t keep you, but we have a question about an article we found in your yearbook.” Boone handed the clipping over to his friend. “We wondered why you had saved this particular piece.”

“Ah.” Jeffrey examined the yellow paper carefully. “My first love.”

“Marla Parrett was your girlfriend?” I asked, then said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Not my girlfriend.” Jeffrey smoothed the clipping. “We were in occupational therapy together. She had a visual-motor learning disability and I was there because of my cerebral palsy.” He shook his head. “But she was a sophomore and I was only a freshman, so I never asked her out.” He gestured to his wheelchair. “Plus, I wasn’t sure how any girl would feel about this.”

“So you admired her from afar,” Boone said. “Her accident must have been a horrible shock for you and everyone else in the school.”

“It wasn’t an accident.” Jeffrey’s lips thinned. “And
for most people in our school, Marla’s death wasn’t even a blip on their radar.”

“Oh?” I asked, not quite sure how a train hitting a car could be anything but an accident. “Are you saying Marla was murdered?”

“You could say that.” Jeffrey sighed. “Marla was bullied to death by Kizzy Cutler and the Cutthroats, which is what we called her clique. They didn’t physically abuse her, just tore her to shreds with their words.”

“You mean Marla committed suicide?” I asked, wanting to make sure I understood his meaning. “But that wasn’t what the article said.”

“Her family and the school worked together to hush it up, but witnesses said that Marla drove her car onto the tracks, shut off the motor, and just sat there as the train crashed into her.” He closed his eyes. “And no one cared enough to make sure the truth came out.”

“Why is that?” I asked, then answered myself. “Because no one wanted to admit that some poor girl had been tormented so badly by the popular kids that she’d decided that death was the only answer.”

“Precisely. The adults couldn’t acknowledge that a girl was persecuted to the point that she was afraid to walk down the hallway.” Jeffrey scowled. “Marla’s parents were already ashamed of their less-than-perfect daughter. She had a learning disability, she wasn’t socially adept, and she had no interest in makeup or hairstyles or the latest fashions.” Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “She was quiet, sweet, and loved to cook. Not exactly what most teenagers, or even grown-ups, admire.”

“What I don’t understand is why Kizzy would target a mousy sophomore.” I tried to recall what I knew about bullies’ motives but drew a blank. Making a
metal note to call one of my sorority sisters who was a school psychologist, I refocused on Jeffrey.

“It all started that fall when Marla won the FHA baking contest with her vanilla-rosewater cupcakes,” Jeffrey explained. “She had come up with this amazing honey lavender icing, and her entry beat Kizzy’s by a mile. Besting Kizzy in that competition invoked the wrath of the Cutthroats.”

Something about Jeffrey’s answer rang a bell in my head, but before I could figure out why, Boone said to his friend, “You didn’t mention this in the note you left me in the yearbook.”

“I hadn’t thought of Marla or what happened to her in nearly twenty years.” Jeffrey looked at Boone. “Last night when you texted me about Kizzy, I was in such a hurry all I could recall was how popular she was.” Jeffrey stared at his lap, then buried his head in his hands. “No. That’s not true. I just didn’t want to relive it. I felt guilty. I had been so afraid that if I spoke up and tried to stop them from bullying Marla, they would turn on me.”

“I very much doubt that you could have done anything to change what happened.” Boone got up and hugged his friend. “If anyone should feel ashamed for not intervening, it should be the teachers.”

“No,” I said sharply, and both men looked at me strangely. “If anyone should feel guilty about Marla’s death, it should be Kizzy and her friends.”