Flourless to Stop Him (11 page)

V
ery early the next morning Grandma Ruth stopped by and sat down at the tiny table in the kitchen of Baker’s Treat.

“Tim’s been renting rooms in local motels at least once a week for the last six to eight months.” Grandma drank the coffee I put in front of her along with a small plate of my latest cookies.

“No, he hasn’t,” I said. “I know for a fact he’s been living with me since Mom died. Except for the last thirty days, when he moved into his own apartment.”

“My sources say he usually used the room for a few hours then vacated it.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who are your sources?” I rolled out more dough. This time it was all sugar cookies, which would be cut into fun animal shapes then carefully frosted to a high-gloss sheen. Each sugar cookie would have a small hole punched in the top before baking so that they could be used as Christmas tree ornaments.

“A good reporter never exposes her sources,” Grandma Ruth said with her mouth full of cookie. “Besides, I have access to printouts of some of the smaller hotels’ registrations. Tim’s name shows up quite often.”

“Is that legal?” I shook my head and started cutting out giraffes and elephants. “Forget I said that. Just because someone used Tim’s name doesn’t mean it was actually him. Knowing Tim, he could easily have had his identity stolen. He never uses any precautions. He tells me that he’s too much of a nobody. No one would want his identity.”

“Not true,” Grandma said and slurped coffee. “Small-town nobodies are the best targets to steal. No one knows them well enough out of their own town to even question if they are who they say they are.”

“That’s what I told Tim.” I carefully transferred the cutout cookies from the slab to the cookie sheets. Any cookies that changed shape or broke apart were tossed back into the bowl to be rerolled.

“Besides, I already checked into Tim’s credit record. There isn’t any proof of identity theft. That said, no one seems to remember if it was Tim who rented the room. They see the name and Tim’s face pops up in their mind’s eyes.”

“Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.”

“You know what I think?” Grandma crammed another cookie in her mouth.

“What?” I put the full cookie sheets into the oven and set the timer.

“If Tim didn’t rent all these rooms, then someone else local did.”

I drew my brows together. “What makes you think they’re local?”

“People would remember a stranger. Even better, they would remember if a stranger used Tim’s name.” Grandma slurped more coffee.

“But if someone like Todd used Tim’s name, they would know that, too. Wouldn’t they?”

“Oh, they might or they might not. Think about it. If Todd stopped in and registered, would you verify he wrote his name and address? What if he says he has family coming in and he’s paying? No one would turn down his money. They know where he lives.”

“You are devious,” I said.

“Thank you,” Grandma said and grinned.

“What does Tim have to say about this?”

“Tim says he has no reason to rent rooms. He has his apartment and the house.”

“That’s certainly true.” I rolled out more dough. “Didn’t the police consider that?”

“It was one of the first things they considered.” Grandma nodded. “According to my sources, there was drug paraphernalia left at each room site. Word around town is that Tim’s been drug dealing out of these rooms.”

“That’s crazy!” I washed my hands, dried them on a towel and checked the cookies in the oven. It was time to switch them from middle rack to high and high to middle. “Tim never took drugs, let alone sold them.”

“My sources tell me Tim’s been making some big dents in his credit card debt lately.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” I cut out more cookies as the scent of vanilla and butter filled the air. “He deliberately stayed with me at the homestead to pay off his bills.”

“The entire case is circumstantial.” Grandma nodded. “But Tim is the best suspect so far. We need to find another suspect if we want to get the police away from Tim. Once they identify a person of interest, they can be like a dog with a bone. They’ll stick with Tim until the bitter end.”

“Poor Tim,” I said and transferred cookies. “I wish I had more time to help.”

“So you’ve decided not to help your brother.”

“Wow, when you put it that way I sound like a horrible person.”

“Don’t worry, we all know how busy you are.” Grandma kept up with the guilt.

I rolled my eyes. “I called Brad, didn’t I? I’m letting Tim stay at the house, aren’t I? What more should I do?”

“You could help me figure out who really did this.”

“I love you, Grandma, but I’m up to my eyeballs in cookie orders.”

“I can see that,” she said and licked her finger to pick up the crumbs left on her plate and shove them in her mouth. “Cookies are good.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there any reason Meghan can’t bake some?”

“Meghan has school finals this week. Her school has to come first.”

“Is that why you’ve been sleeping in your office? Or is it because you think Tim is guilty and can’t bring yourself to sleep under the same roof as a killer?”

“Grandma!”

“What? Isn’t that a question the police might have for you? Have they interviewed you in depth yet?”

“No and no,” I said, pulling baked cookies from the oven and putting in the new trays. I used parchment paper to cover the bottoms of the cookie sheets. It helps with slippage and cleaning the cookie sheets.

“Well, my guess is that Officer Bright will be contacting you to talk about Tim,” Grandma said. “You are your brother’s alibi.”

“Grandma, I’m not his alibi. I didn’t see him at all that night. He was at work and his apartment.”

“Well, you certainly can tell them if Tim was home when any of these rooms were rented.” Grandma lifted a stack of papers.

Curious, I went over and took the papers. She told the truth. She actually had printouts from several of the local hotels. “How did you get these?”

“You know anyone with a computer and skills can get online and discover everything about you, from what color underwear you wear to when the last time you tithed to church was.” Grandma gave me the hairy eyeball.

“I go to church,” I said. “Really, and if your sources are good enough they’ll know that I do give ten percent.”

“They did.” Grandma sat up straight and sent me her oversized grin. “All my grands are good kids.”

“Except Tim.” I pointed to the papers in my hand.

“That’s not Tim,” Grandma said. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not Tim. I’m hoping you can help me figure out who this impersonator is.”

I looked through the records. You could tell which hotels were favorite places for Oiltop’s relatives to stay. Some were filled with local names, while others—closer to the turnpike—had almost all strangers’ names.

“It doesn’t make any sense. If you were trying to impersonate someone, why wouldn’t you make up a wide variety of names and stay at the trucker motels?”

“What do you mean, ‘trucker motels’?”

“The ones closest to the turnpike, where people generally don’t have reservations.”

“Maybe because people would get suspicious if they recognized you coming in and writing different names down.”

“I see. The smartest thing to do to hide in plain sight is to put down the name of a local.”

“I’m going to find out who was on duty when this stranger rented the room. Maybe they can help me out.”

“I’ve already been over this with Tasha,” I said and handed Grandma her papers back. “She wasn’t working the desk at the time the killer rented the room. And the Red Tile does not video its reception area.”

“What about the outside areas?” Grandma asked.

“There’s a camera on the corner of the outside. It basically covers the cars coming and going, not the people or which room they are staying in.”

“But there is video. . . .”

“Yes, Tasha gave it to Officer Strickland the day of the murder.” I tilted my head. “Wait, if they’ve looked at the video, then they know that Tim was never at the hotel.”

“Rumor is that it’s still being processed.” Grandma waddled over to the coffeepot and poured herself another cup.

“Please ask me and I’ll get it for you,” I said and plopped three more cookies on her plate as she clutched chairs until she was back to the table. The kitchen was not that large. I had asked her not to drive her scooter around inside. Grandma groused but did as I asked, all the while making a big production over how hard it was for her to get around without her scooter. Still, what worked for her endangered anyone else who could not get out of the way of the scooter fast enough. So you see why I waited on her hand and foot. It was purely to save myself from injury.

“I will tell Brad about the video. He’ll ensure he gets to see it,” I said. “He gets to see all the evidence—right?”

“Only if they arrest Tim.” Grandma bit into another cookie. She drew her eyebrows together and creased her forehead. “What’s in these?”

“Why? Don’t you like them?” I asked. For Grandma to not like a cookie, there had to be something very wrong.

“No, they’re good,” she said and studied the remaining part of the cookie. “Are they lemon bars?”

“They’re lemon with a gluten-free sugar cookie crust.”

“I wasn’t expecting lemon at all,” Grandma said. “Lemon bars are usually spring cookies.”

“Really?” I tilted my head. “Mom made them every Christmas. She said they helped lighten the dessert tray filled with heavy cookie flavors.”

“Talking about dessert trays”—Grandma popped the remainder of the cookie into her mouth then took a slurp of coffee—“I promised you’d cater the senior center’s Christmas lunch. There are a lot of older people who have special diets. Can you make any of these diabetic-friendly?”

“I’ve been known to make cookies for people with diabetes as long as they watch the carbs in the rest of their meal. I won’t be responsible for sugar comas.”

Grandma waved her big flat hand in the air. “We’re all grown-ups at the center,” she insisted. “If we eat ourselves into a coma, it’s because we choose to do so. You are free from all responsibility.”

I put my hands on my hips and studied her. “I’ll call Grace Ledbetter and ask her how many cookies you’ll need. When’s the Christmas luncheon?”

I grabbed a marker and went over to my working board, where I listed cookie orders and dates.

“Next Thursday,” Grandma said. “We’ll need at least four dozen assorted on a couple of big trays.”

“That’s a lot of cookies.” I raised both eyebrows.

“Everyone comes out of the woodwork for the senior center party. Think of the exposure you’ll get.”

“Right.” I bit my bottom lip and drew an arrow between two full days of baking and pointed it at the sideways words—
Grandma senior center, diabetic cookies, 4 dozen assorted
.

I could do it if I made the Thursday cookies two days early and stored them in the freezer to have a baking marathon on Wednesday. I studied the overflowing schedule. What I really needed was an employee who was good with sugar work. It would be awesome to give the decorating work to someone else.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved to be creative in design, but at busy times like now, it would be nice to have help.

“Grandma, do you know anyone with experience working with confection?”

Grandma pursed her lips and moved them sideways in thought. “No, I don’t, but I can ask around. Are you wanting to hire someone?”

There it was again: the problem of little to no cash flow. “I wish I could pay, but not yet. Instead I could offer them an internship and experience on their résumé.”

“Then I’d go see Leslie Writ at the community college. She’s the head of the cooking school. I’m not so sure they have anyone who can do more than flip burgers or make a mean milk shake, but it’s worth a try.” Grandma brushed the crumbs off her hands, hobbled over to her scooter, climbed aboard with a sigh, and backed around with a
beep
,
beep
,
beep
. “She might know someone from the culinary institute in KC.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said as I made a note on my scratch paper to make an appointment with Leslie.

“My pleasure.” Grandma grabbed her overstuffed down coat from the coat tree near the door and put it on. “See ya, kiddo.” She stuffed her orange-red hair into her favorite fedora, pulled down the ear flaps she’d sewn into it, and tied them neatly under her chin.

I walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It’s cold out there; do you want me to have Meghan get you a ride?”

“No thanks,” Grandma said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m looking forward to doing donuts in the bank parking lot.”

Grandma scootered out into the cold darkness of a winter morning. I watched as she hollered, “Yahoooo!” and did a couple donuts in the parking lot, barely missing the back of the van.

I was this close to calling the cops on her, but her excitement for the season was fun to see. I closed the door, locked it, and went back to baking cookies.

I rolled out gluten-free gingerbread to quarter-inch depth and cut out reindeer. Christmas carols played over the radio. As I slid another baking sheet into the top oven, the radio
announcer came on. “Fourteen days until Christmas,” his deep voice said. “If you don’t have your gifts ready and wrapped, you’re going to be left with empty stores. So be sure and come to downtown Oiltop this week and shop Gray’s Hardware or Millie Green’s Antique Store. The big day is rapidly approaching. Don’t be left ordering things online. Trust me, a good wrench set the morning of Christmas far outweighs the best gift card under the tree.”