Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) (19 page)

“Will Grandma Ruth be able to ride on your float?” Brad asked as he sat down at the small table in the back room and sipped his black coffee.

I put the bear claws down in front of him and poured my own coffee. I added plenty of cream to mine. I love the taste of coffee, but I like it to have more body to it. Cream adds that. “The doctor said she could, if she felt up to it. I’m going to add a seat belt to her chair. I don’t want her falling out and hurting herself even worse.”

“Smart.” He nodded and bit into a pastry. “How much sleep did you get? I heard through the grapevine you were at the hospital until after midnight.”

“I’m running on about two hours.” I raised my coffee cup and gave him a wry smile. “I think I’ve had three pots of coffee so far this morning.”

“Tell me you won’t be working all night tonight.” His concern was touching, really.

“I won’t be working,” I reassured him. “The bakery closes at seven and we’re closed for Thanksgiving.”

“And the deliveries?” He pointed at the stack of boxes Meghan had made.

“I’m doing those, Mr. Ridgeway.” She turned to us. “I won’t let her drive on two hours of sleep. It’s bad enough she’s baking.”

“Good girl,” he said.

I, being exhausted and decidedly not in control of my emotions, stuck my tongue out at her. Meghan laughed.

“I hope you’ll let me drive you home tonight,” he said. “The last thing I need is a phone call telling me you’ve been in an accident.”

“I’m fine, really. I don’t live that far. This is Oiltop. Nothing is very far.”

“As your lawyer, I have to take you. If anything happened I might be liable because I knew you were impaired.” He said it with a straight face and sipped his coffee.

“What a bunch of hokum,” I muttered.

“I heard you went to Lois Striker’s memorial service.” He smoothly changed the subject.

“Yes. I was surprised by how few people came.”

“Lois might have been an influential pillar of the community, but she wasn’t well-liked.”

“I’m learning that.” I lifted my mug and a thought occurred to me. “Did you know that Hutch Everett’s middle name is Champ?”

“I might have seen it somewhere. Why?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a man would name his son after another man he’s suspected of murdering?”

Brad frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I think it puts a great big monkey wrench in Grandma’s theory that Homer killed Champ.”

“True.” Brad finished off his pastry. “So if Homer didn’t kill Champ, who did?”

“Maybe Lois did,” I said, thinking out loud. “I mean, maybe Champ was going to tell everyone about her affair with Homer.” I shrugged. “It’s motive.”

“And what, Homer hid the gun for his lover? I don’t think so. Wasn’t it Lois who signed off on the permit?”

“They say good friends hide the body,” I stated.

“That only works if you think lovers can be good friends.” Brad’s eyes twinkled.

“Or that good friends can be lovers,” I said. “Doesn’t usually work that way.”

“Hmm, sex messes everything up,” he said. “Maybe that’s why Lois gave Homer her son. Maybe Homer blackmailed her into it.”

“Now that is an interesting thought,” I said. “There’s one way to find out.”

“How?”

“If I tell you, you’ll try to talk me out of it.”

“Then it’s my duty as your lawyer to inform you that if you are thinking of doing something unlawful, I have to advise against it. I may in fact have to tell the police that you did it.”

“I’m not thinking of doing anything unlawful,” I said. “Just . . . wait. What happened to lawyer/client confidentiality?”

“You mean doctor/patient privilege?”

“No, the one with your lawyer.” I stood. “There has to be some sort of rule that you can’t tell on me or crooks would never tell their lawyers anything.”

“You got me there.” He stood and put his coffee cup in the sink. “Thanks for the snack. I’ll be here at seven to pick you up. Don’t do anything today. You’re tired and you may do something you’ll regret later.”

Darn it. He was right. I watched his Armani-covered backside walk away and tried not to sigh. I knew then what I needed to do. I needed to speak to Hutch Everett and ask him if he knew who killed Champ. It was a long shot, but if Lois had shared her deed with anyone, it would have been her son—not my grandmother.

I looked at the ingredients I’d gotten out for the cupcakes. Maybe I needed to make a delivery to the Everett household. When someone died you brought the family food. Right?

I
didn’t drive to the big square limestone home of Hutch Everett. I walked. It was only about a mile, and I needed the brisk walk to help keep me awake. Okay, that was a stretch, but almost everyone would believe me.

I carried a box of fresh-baked gluten-free cupcakes. I’d picked apple cinnamon with maple frosting and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. If nothing else, Harold would eat them. From what I heard, that boy would eat about anything, especially if it had frosting.

The Everett house was an imposing foursquare with thick columns in the front and a wide porch. I remember as a kid being fascinated with the old-fashioned carport attached to the side of the house. The drive swept elegantly up to the house, where the sturdy limestone columns held a thick roof that shielded the driver from the weather. I could imagine a butler jumping out of the side to open the car door for the ladies, then taking the car back to the garage while the man and woman of the house went inside.

Today the house windows were dark. The porch steps were painted light gray. I straightened my dress and rang the doorbell. The porch held dark rattan furnishings with blue-and-white striped cushions. I counted to twenty and pushed the doorbell a second time.

This time the front door opened. An older woman in a gray dress wearing an apron answered. I assumed she was the Everetts’ housekeeper. I didn’t think people had household help anymore, but if anyone did, it would be the Everetts. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Toni Holmes. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Everett at Lois Striker’s memorial service this morning. I wanted to bring them some food and express my condolences for the loss of their friend.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the woman said with a sour look on her face. “The Everetts didn’t have anything to do with that Striker woman. I would know. I’ve worked here for over forty years.”

“Oh.”

She started to close the door, but I stopped her before she could finish by putting my hand in the doorjamb. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I brought cupcakes. The least you could do is take them. I’m sure Mr. Everett wouldn’t mind. They’re apple and carrot cake.” I held up the pink-and-white striped bakery box.

“Who is it, Carla?” Hutch Everett’s voice sounded behind her.

“It’s a Ms. Holmes,” the older woman stated, not taking her eyes off me, as if I might steal something from the front porch. “She’s under the mistaken impression you are grieving over Lois Striker’s death.”

“I brought cupcakes.” I raised the box when he came up behind her.

“Thank you,” he said. “Carla, let the woman in.”

I pushed the box into Carla’s hands and stepped into the cool, rich foyer of the house. She took the cupcakes and muttered as she moved through the formal dining area toward what I assumed was the kitchen.

“Why don’t we talk in the living room.” He waved toward the formal parlor across from the dining area. The house was built with four classic rooms and stairs to the side. There were a formal living room, a dining room, a family room, and a kitchen. Each room had thick walls, wood floors, and sumptuous rugs. The walls were painted in soft pastels to show off the thick dark woodwork that ran through each room.

“Thank you so much for seeing me.” I sat down on the edge of a pale cream couch with soft floral pillows. “I wanted to express my condolences for the loss of your friend.”

“Lois was more than a friend, but I suppose you already figured that out.” He went to a small bar and picked up a short, squat crystal glass. He opened a silver ice bucket and used tongs to put ice cubes in his glass. “Drink?” He held up the glass as he asked.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m working on too little sleep to indulge.”

“Ah, yes, I heard about your grandmother Ruth’s accident. Is she okay?”

“She has a concussion and a couple of broken bones, but she’ll get to come home today.”

He took a sip of the amber liquid in his glass and studied me. “That is regrettable.”

“She should have known better.” I paused. “There’s a rumor you all coat the bronze in silicone to keep it clean. Is that true?”

“Hmmm, as far as I know, no. We don’t overly concern ourselves with the cleanliness of the statue—except to spiff it up for Homer Everett Day.” He walked over and sat down in the striped, winged-back chair in front of me. “How about we talk about why you’re really here?”

I tried hard to keep my expression neutral and waited for him to tell me what he meant. It was hard. I hate awkward silences. I really wanted to jump in and ask him about his birth parents. But instead I simply waited for him to expound.

He took another sip of his drink, drawing out the silence. “You want to know about my birth parents.”

“Yes.” I kept my answer simple.

“Lois Striker was my birth mother. I always knew. It was—how to say this—delicate. But my father believed in absolute honesty in the family. Lois wanted for nothing. It was the agreement . . . and no, I don’t feel as if I’ve been sold. You see, single motherhood was unthinkable when I was born. Lois and my father were in love, but he died before they could marry. So Homer stepped in. You see, he felt responsible. He’d introduced them.”

“Wait—Homer wasn’t you birth father?”

“Oh, god, no, I thought you knew. Champ Rogers was my father, and Homer’s best friend.”

I sat back and tried to digest this new piece of information. It did make sense. Why else would Homer’s wife allow him to adopt Hutch?

“Can I ask you another impertinent question?”

His lids half lowered and held a glimmer of danger. “I suppose you will whether I let you or not.”

“I’m sorry; it’s important. Do you know who killed Champ? Er . . . your father?”

“No,” he said. “Proof that money doesn’t buy everything. I’ve had a reward out for years on any information that would lead to Champ’s killer.”

“Did you know that my grandmother thinks the gun is hidden in a false wall in the judge’s chambers?”

“No.” He swirled his drink and tossed back a swallow. “I’ll have to look into that. Is that all, Ms. Holmes?”

“One last thing—Lois?”

“When my mother, Susan, died five years ago, I let Lois fill the void. She needed a nurse companion, she got one. She was allowed run of the Chamber of Commerce. Even when her, shall we say, lack of education showed, it was overlooked because of my family. You see, Ms. Holmes, we Everetts understand the meaning of family.”

“Of course,” I said, my mind roiling with ideas. “It’s why I came . . . to express my condolences for your loss. If it had been a member of my family, I would be grieving, too.”

He sent me a wry smile. “I understand our families grieve in different ways.”

I let out a small laugh. “Indeed we do.” His family grieved with quiet dignity. Mine grieved with big, sloppy, emotional noise.

He stood. “Thank you for coming by and for the baked goods.”

I knew I was being dismissed. I rose and headed out. “You’re welcome. I hope that you understand how much your adoptive father meant to Oiltop.”

“Oh, I do. It’s why we have the parade. It’s why we host the carnival on the fairgrounds.” He stopped at his front door. “There’s something to be said for knowing one’s ancestors. I’m sure you agree. Wasn’t it your great-grandparents who founded Haysville College?”

“Yes, it was.” I left it at that. Academics were never paid enough to live in houses big enough to need a staff. The homestead might be large, but that was purely out of necessity. On any given day, my house was overrun with boisterous family members. Which reminded me—my family was coming for dinner tomorrow, and the two twenty-pound turkeys thawing in my kitchen needed to be prepped. Not to mention the house needed to be dusted and the linens ironed.

I glanced back at the Everett family home. Maybe having a household staff wasn’t a bad idea.

“Y
ou look dead on your feet, no pun intended.” Tasha sat on the rolling stool in the bakery kitchen.

“I’ll be fine.” I stuffed the second turkey with a gluten-free apple/cornbread stuffing and basted it with herb butter. I had gotten Meghan to bring the turkeys from the house to the bakery. The ovens here were big enough to bake both turkeys at the same time. It was family tradition to bake them the night before.

“I dusted and vacuumed the house. I swear that puppy sheds three times its body weight every day.”

“What did the vet say? Do we know what kind of dog it is?” I lifted the heavy pan and Tasha popped up and opened the second oven door for me.

“Yes. There’s good news and bad,” she said.

“Okay . . .”

“The puppy is a happy and healthy twenty-six pounds.”

“Good.” I nodded.

“And about five weeks old.” Tasha waited for my reaction.

“You mean five months, right?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “Five weeks. He still has puppy teeth.”

“But he’s twenty-six pounds. . . . If he’s only five weeks, that means . . .” I had a hard time wrapping my mind around how big he would get.

“He’s a Great Pyrenees. Fully grown, Aubrey will run about one hundred and twenty pounds.”

“Holy crap, he’ll be as big as you.” I had to sit down.

“I know. It means I won’t be able to rent an apartment. The vet said they are a great family breed, but they need a house and a yard.”

“Isn’t Kansas too hot for the breed? I mean, think of how much hair they have. He’ll die when the temps hit one hundred or better.”

She shrugged. “I’ll need a good air conditioner.” She leaned against the wall and looked at me. “It’s not like I can send him to anther home now. The minute Kip found him I was stuck.”

Kip could not adjust to change well, and once he decided on something, there was little Tasha could do.

“I don’t suppose you could tell Kip that Aubrey would be happier on a farm . . . a big farm, say in Colorado, where it’s cooler.”

“Not unless I move them both to a farm, a big farm, say in Colorado.” She mimicked me because we both knew how hopeless the situation was.

“Then Aubrey will simply have to stay at my house. I have good air conditioning and a yard.”

“And when we move out?” She sent me a look that showed she was unsure if she was crossing some boundary of friendship.

“He’ll stay with me,” I said. “I live close to school. Kip can come before and after to see him. I trust him to lock up. The kid follows directions to a tee.”

“Yes. That can be a good thing and a bad thing.” She hugged me. “Thank you. I can’t tell you what your friendship means to me.”

“How’d your date go with Calvin?”

Tasha blushed and poured herself some coffee. “I think I’m in love.” She turned to me, spoon in hand. “What is wrong with me? How can I be in love so quickly? I mean, just last month I was in a really bad relationship. We know how that crush ended.”

I touched her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s not like you’re marrying him this week. Right?” I raised an eyebrow.

“No.” She laughed. “I’m not marrying him this week. Next month.”

“What?”

“Just kidding.” She laughed. “You are so easy.”

I pushed her out of the way. “Go, sit down. Stop messing with me when I’m so tired.”

“But it’s so much fun.” She sat down at the table. I went over my to-do list to make sure that I had all my orders filled and things ready for dinner the next day and for the parade. “Have you heard from your grandma?” Tasha asked.

“She’s recovering. Complaining about how uncomfortable the casts are and how she hates having to rely on others to get around.”

“Did you tell her that’s what happens when she does foolish things?” Tasha waggled her eyebrows over the top of her coffee mug.

“Boy, would I love to,” I said. “But I think she’s smart enough to already know that.”

“Is she going to be able to ride on the float?”

“Yes. I had Brad add a seat belt to her chair. There’s no keeping Grandma Ruth down.”

Tasha smiled. “I bet she told you she expected to ride on the float even if she were dead.”

“Yes.” My eyes grew wide at the ridiculousness of it all. “She said if she died I was to put sunglasses on her and have a machine hoist her hand in a pageant wave.”

Tasha spat her coffee. “Oh, my, now that was an image I didn’t need in my head.”

We had a good laugh, I think because I was so tired that I laughed a bit more than was called for. My stomach hurt and my eyes watered.

“I guess I’m late to the party,” Brad said as he walked in from the front of the bakery.

“Oh, I didn’t hear the door bells.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to catch my breath.

“I locked the door and turned the sign for you,” he volunteered as I passed him. “Why don’t you tell me what’s so funny.”

“Toni was telling me about her Grandma Ruth’s last wishes.” Tasha giggled.

“Yes, nothing is keeping her from the parade,” I added and took a deep breath.

“I think that’s an image I don’t want to know about.” Brad was dressed in a cashmere navy sweater, white shirt, dark blue dockers, and boat shoes. Why men wore boat shoes when they didn’t have a boat was beyond me, but it was a look that Todd would like. “You’re still dressed for the memorial service.”

I glanced down at the black dress, covered in one of my giant pink-and-white striped aprons. The apron was covered in baking splash back. There was evidence of pie filling, muffin batter, cupcake frosting, and turkey basting. I know it sounds nasty, but it made me happy to know how much work I’d gotten done. I pulled the apron over my head and threw it in the basket I kept for laundry. “I put the turkeys in the ovens. I think that’s all I have to do tonight.”

“I’m off. Kip is spending the night with his grandmother, and I’ve got a puppy to take care of.” Tasha poured her coffee in the sink and rinsed out her cup. “Nice to see you, Brad.”

“You, too, Tasha.”

She tugged on her jacket and grabbed her purse. “See you in the morning, Toni.”

“Right, Thanksgiving,” I said. “Be at the float by eight
A.M.
Tell Kip he can bring Aubrey.”

“Oh, he’s planning on it. ’Night, all.” She left out the back. The silence in the bakery made me very aware of being alone with Brad. I told myself I shouldn’t feel this kind of tension. The man was my lawyer and a good friend.

I tried to act casually and checked on the turkeys, which didn’t need checking on, since I had just put them in.

“How long will those turkeys need to cook?” Brad asked. He leaned against the doorjamb, looking every bit the
GQ
cover model.

“These will cook all night. I’ll pull them out right before the parade and bring them to the house.”

“They look pretty heavy. Are you going to be handling them yourself?”

“I’ve got a house full of family. One of the guys will come over and take care of it.”

He reached over and took my hand. “I can come over and take care of it, if you want me to.”

Oh boy.

“I figured you’d be busy with the Elks club float and your own family dinner.”

“There are plenty of people taking care of the float,” he said, low and soft. “And as for family, they’d take one look at you and understand.”

“That’s a nice line,” I said, trying to pretend that the spit didn’t dry up in my mouth. “Everyone knows that Thanksgiving is for family. My family would have a conniption if I tossed over Thanksgiving with them for some guy I was dating.”

“That is one of the things I admire about your family.”

“What? That we’re loud, creative, boisterous, and have a tendency to need a lawyer?”

“Maybe you should think about how much you need a lawyer in your family.” He raised his eyebrows, and his smile would have melted butter. Lucky for me my knees were stronger than his easy charm.

“Not dating.” I think I said this out loud, as he backed off, if not physically, at least mentally.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, paying attention to his cell phone.

“I’m good, you know. You don’t have to see me home.” I picked up my purse and grabbed my coat from the hook near the back door.

He was beside me in a second, taking the coat from my hands and holding it out for me. “I’d feel better knowing you were home safe.”

“I promise not to fall asleep at the wheel. Seriously, I’ve had about a million pots of coffee today.”

“Are you afraid someone might help you, or are you afraid of me?”

I stopped and stared at him. It was a good question. “Maybe both.”

“At least you’re truthful.” He cocked his head, his blonde hair falling across his eyes, and he brushed it away. It was a terribly endearing thing for him to do. “Come on, I’ll follow you.”

We stepped out into the floodlight I’d installed behind my building and I locked the back door. It was quiet out—that fall silence after the first frost when the bugs have hunkered down to sleep for the winter and the birds have moved onto warmer climes. The gravel of the back parking lot crunched under our feet and I noted that he had parked his Cadillac next to the bakery van.

“I talked to Hutch Everett today,” I said as I stopped by the van and unlocked the door.

“Okay.” It was not a question, but a declaration that I had his full attention.

“Did you know that Lois Striker was his birth mother?”

“I guessed as much.”

“And his father was Champ Rogers.” I studied Brad’s face for the surprise I hoped to see. He had a great poker face.

“Interesting,” was all he said.

“Grandma Ruth thought that Lois knew something about Homer Everett. She speculated that Homer killed Champ.” Brad grunted and I figured he knew something I didn’t.

“What?”

“Where’s your motive? Weren’t they best friends?”

“That’s what Hutch confirmed,” I said. “You don’t kill a man and then adopt his son as your own. Do you? Unless you couldn’t give your wife a son—they had been trying for ten years.”

“So what? When he couldn’t give his wife a child and learned that Champ had gotten Lois pregnant, he what? Killed his friend in a fit of rage?”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe guilt is what drove him to adopt Hutch as his own.”

“Wow, you have a good imagination.”

I gave Brad a dirty look. “Okay, so blackmail and/or a fight over a woman doesn’t do it for you—what does?”

Brad laughed. “I prefer not to speculate before I see the evidence.”

“I told Hutch about the courthouse wall.”

“What good did you think that would do?”

“He said he’s had a reward out for information on Champ’s death for years. If anyone can get the police to cut a hole in the judge’s wall, it’s Hutch Everett—Homer’s son or not Homer’s son.”

“And you’re certain of this?”

“Yes, aren’t you?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because your family runs in the same circles as Hutch. Because they have a vested interest in his political connections.”

“I don’t remember having a vested interest, and I know nothing about Homer—or Champ, as he died before we were even born.” Brad crossed his arms.

“I know. I thought maybe you remember stories your grandparents might have told.”

“My grandparents rarely talked about anything but what my parents were doing and how I needed to go to the right colleges.” He tilted his head. “What did your family talk about?”

“My family talked about what sports my brothers were into, who my sisters were dating, and what the professors at the college were doing.” I blew out a breath, realizing he hadn’t been asking about my family but was making a point. He was right. I suppose I was still trying to investigate and making a hash of it. I blame the fact that I was running on two hours’ sleep.

I climbed up into the van, and he closed the door for me. I put on my seat belt, and he made a motion for me to roll down my window. I did as he asked.

“Keep your windows open to let in the cold air. I’ll be right behind you,” he said. “If I see you weaving too much I’m going to honk.”

“I’m really not that . . .” A big yawn came over me, and he raised a thick blond eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll keep my window open.”

“Good.” He pounded his pronouncement on the side of the van. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I started up the van and waited for him to get into his car and pull out. Then I gently drove through the parking lot and out into the street. It was only seven
P.M.
, but the entire town had closed up. Most people were at home entertaining family or preparing for tomorrow’s feasts. My thoughts turned to Grandma. What was she really looking for when she climbed the statue? I’d asked Hutch straight out if they siliconed the statue, and he had said no. So how did the silicone get there? And worse, I still didn’t know who had killed Lois, or why. Time was running out.