Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) (4 page)

“Oiltop is a small town,” I pointed out. “How many secrets can there be?” It certainly seemed like my life was constantly under scrutiny. Can you imagine if you were the town hero?

“Wait—Homer Everett was connected to Lois?” Tasha struggled to keep up with our conversation. “Wasn’t that like sixty-some years ago? What secrets could Lois possibly know that would get her killed now?”

“She knew something,” Grandma said thoughtfully. “I was this close to getting it out of her.” Grandma held up her hand and put her index finger and thumb together. “It had to be good, too.”

“What makes you say that?” I think my heart flopped over in my chest.

“Clearly someone didn’t want her to tell me what it was that she knew about Homer.”

“That’s entirely supposition on your part, Ruth,” Brad pointed out. “As of now we have no idea who wanted Lois dead, who killed her, or even how she was killed.” He steepled his hands.

“You might not know, but I do,” Grandma said with a certainty that made me nervous. “My investigation stirred up secrets. Secrets someone would kill to keep quiet.”

“What could she possibly know about Homer?” Tasha asked. “Why would it matter after all these years?”

“It seems that will go to her grave with her.” Grandma sighed and grabbed a lemon cookie. “I’d been working her for months trying to get her to spill her guts on Homer. When I gave her some details I’d dug up in old newspapers, she got nervous. Then today she suddenly called me and said she had made the decision to come clean.

“We were supposed to meet in front of the Statue of Homer near the courthouse. But she never showed.”

“Where did they find her body?” I asked.

“They didn’t say exactly.” Grandma shrugged. “Somewhere in the courthouse square.”

“They’re keeping the details of the investigation closed,” Brad said. He sent me a long look. “Chief Blaylock stressed that he did not want amateur investigators involved. He said, and I quote, ‘Too many innocent people get hurt when nonprofessionals try to do a policeman’s job.’”

I pinched my mouth in a partial frown. “I was not trying to do his job last time.”

“No.” Grandma Ruth nodded. “She was trying to do mine. I am an investigative journalist.”

“No, no, I wasn’t,” I protested. “I was trying to do
my
job. I like baking. I love bringing a tiny bit of normal into gluten-free people’s lives. I swear this time there will be no investigating.”

“Hmmm.” Brad swallowed the last of his coffee and stood. “As long as you’re clear on that; because as your lawyer, I have to advise you against doing anything on your own here. That includes you, Ruth.”

He gave Grandma a raised-eyebrow look.

She raised both hands in innocence. “I won’t do the police chief’s job.”

“Good.”

“Unless he doesn’t do it, because someone has to. . . .”

“Ruth!”

Grandma laughed, a deep cackle that seemed to start at her toes.

“It’s late. Thank you for the dinner and the conversation. It was . . . entertaining.”

“Well that’s one thing we always strive to be here in the Nathers household—entertaining.”

I sent Grandma a stern look. She raised both hands in a gesture of innocence. Right, like anyone believed that Grandma Ruth was innocent. Wait—shoot—no wonder the police had her in the interview room. I sighed and walked Brad down the hall to the small foyer of the homestead.

“Thank you for coming to Grandma’s rescue today. She really has no idea how much trouble she could be in with this investigation.”

“You’re welcome.” Brad snagged his wool dress coat from the stand near the door. “I’ll try to find out what I can. You do your best to keep Ruth out of the way. Deal?”

“Deal.” I opened the door.

He kissed my cheek as he stepped out. “Thanks for dinner.”

“I’d say anytime, but you have to know I’m still not ready to date.”

My divorce, just a few months prior, had been bitter.

I’d come home early one day to find my ex in my bed with his best friend’s wife. It seemed so cliché, but at the same time hurt me more than I’d thought something like that would. I was scared. I’d watched too many of my divorced friends dive right back into a relationship. As far as I was concerned that was a big mistake. It took time to grieve the loss of your marriage and to figure out what happened. I didn’t want to repeat my mistake in falling for the wrong guy. So I’d decided not to date until I felt ready to get back out there. It would give me time to put myself and my fledgling gluten-free bakery business first.

“I’m counting the days.” Brad’s electric-blue gaze grew serious. “And when you decide you’re ready, I’m coming over for a real date.”

“I’m not making any promises,” I said, and hugged the door to my chest.

“Is that a ‘No, thank you’?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the fairest thing I can do.”

“One thing I know about you, Toni, is that you are honest about your feelings.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to keep asking. You keep being honest. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He wasn’t the only one waiting out my dating moratorium. Sam Greenbaum, rancher, handyman, and overall good guy, with the body to match, was also waiting. Sam and Brad knew about each other. I had made no promises to either, but eventually I was going to have to choose.

That was the worst part. Right now I didn’t trust myself to choose. That was why I had told them both to date other people. If they could find love with someone else, then the decision would be out of my hands. It was the lazy way to go, I suppose, but right now it was the way that worked for me.

“Good night, Brad.”

“Call me if you need anything.” He stepped off the porch and out into the cold black November night.

Across the street, Mrs. Dorsky’s curtains fell closed. It wouldn’t be long before the entire community knew that Brad had had dinner at my house . . . and had kissed me good-bye. I touched the still-tingling skin on my cheek. Closing the door, I leaned against it and shut my eyes. If the man had slipped and kissed my mouth I might have thrown my arms around him and dived in.

Thank goodness that didn’t happen. If it had, I would have disappointed myself, and worse, I would have let loneliness and fear decide for me.

“So, when do you want to get started on the investigation?” Grandma Ruth waddled down the hallway. She was a character with her tightly curled, carrot-orange hair and her square face covered in freckles. Her outfit, a combination of man’s corduroy shirt and a butterfly-patterned skirt, matched in color theory only. You had to give her credit, though. The accent color on her knockoff Nikes matched one of the butterflies—a fanciful shade of fuchsia.

“Didn’t you hear Brad?” I pushed off from the door. “Chief Blaylock said we are to stay out of the investigation.”

“Pshaw.” Grandma waved away the thought with her large square hand. “Damn the man. I am on to a good story, and nothing keeps an investigative journalist down.”

I blew out a long breath. “You know I’m scheduled to make fifty piecrusts for the Thanksgiving weekend pie run. That means fifty pies in less than ten days.”

“That’s what you have Meghan for.” Grandma took me by the arm and steered me back to the den. “Phyllis has this fabulous idea how to find out where Lois was found and how she died. . . .”

G
luten-free piecrust is one of my favorite things to make. It takes a lot of shortening, but the rice-and-tapioca-flour mixes baked up lighter and flakier than wheat flour. The hardest part is rolling out the dough. Without the gluten, the dough doesn’t stretch as easily, which means you have to be super careful when you roll it to ensure the proper amount of shortening dispersal and depth. I solve this problem by rolling the dough out between parchment paper. That way you can flip it over without tearing it.

Aunt Phyllis took Grandma Ruth to early Mass that morning, and afterwards they planned to stop by the bakery for coffee and leftover pastries. The idea was for us to come up with a plan for the investigation. I, as I’d already explained, wanted nothing to do with another investigation, but I agreed with their plot, mainly to keep an eye on them. If I had protested, they would only have investigated behind my back. Grandma Ruth could be a force of nature with a laugh to match.

I figured that the best I could do was pretend to go along. That way at the very least I would know what was going on. The last thing I wanted was to be surprised with another phone call telling me that Grandma was in jail, or worse . . . that she had gotten herself killed.

The back door to the bakery opened and Grandma Ruth came in in a wheelchair pushed by Aunt Phyllis.

“When my new scooter comes, I’m going to send the bill to Chief Blaylock,” Grandma said, pouting. Her pouts were one part puppy-dog-adorable and two parts annoying because you knew you couldn’t resist.

“And you should,” Aunt Phyllis said. She wore a snappy ice-blue suit under a classic trench coat. A tiny pillbox hat sat at an angle on her bright hair. In contrast, Grandma Ruth wore a white men’s dress shirt, a dark brown corduroy skirt, knee-high hose, and classic white Nikes. If Grandma ever had to run somewhere she was fully equipped . . . minus the fact that her knees and hips wouldn’t let her.

“Grandma, where’s your coat?” I waved the rolling pin at her. “It’s November.”

“Of course it’s November, dearie. What does that have to do with my coat?”

“I think she’s hinting that winter will soon be here.” Phyllis pushed Grandma over the smooth black-and-white tiles on my floor. When they reached the small table next to the office, Phyllis took off her coat while Grandma adjusted herself to table height, tucking her chair neatly under the Formica top.

“Winter doesn’t officially get here until the twenty-first of December,” Grandma pointed out. “Coffee, dear, cream, and two packets of artificial sweetener.”

“I know when winter gets here.” I continued to frown at her. “I asked where your coat was.”

“I took it to the dry cleaner last week.” She ran her long square fingers along the chrome edge in front of her. The table was a 1950s diner table with a bright red top and chrome legs. I’d found it rusty and a bit beaten up at a garage sale and rescued it. It took me a month to restore it, but I loved it and almost based the bakery theme on it—until I realized the red and chrome were more a match for a pharmacy’s soda fountain than for Baker’s Treat.

The “English library” theme for the bakery worked out better, considering my last name was Holmes.

“Grandma, a lie so soon after church is not good,” I chided. “You did not take your coat to the cleaner. I saw you wearing it the day before yesterday.”

“Huh, then I must have taken it to the cleaner yesterday.” She gave me her best innocent look. “I’m old. I forget.”

“You’re a lifetime Mensa member. You never forget, and you remind me every day in case
I
might forget.”

“Fine.” Grandma flipped her hand. “I took it to the cleaner yesterday before I went to the police station.”

“Why?”

“It was dirty.”

“Grandma—”

“Coffee!” Phyllis came in with two oversized green cups with yellow daisies on them. She held one in each hand and set them on the table. “Pastries?”

I blew out a breath. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any more information out of Grandma. Aunt Phyllis looked at me expectantly. “I’ll get the platter.”

Putting down the rolling pin, I went to the walk-in freezer, where I pulled out a platter of assorted pastries. Gluten-free donuts, muffins, and Danish did better if they were kept frozen. I popped the platter in the oversized microwave and hit forty-five seconds. In exactly forty-five seconds the once-frozen baked goods would be as warm and tasty as if they had come straight from the oven. It was how I kept all my gluten-free baked goods at home. Without preservatives and with a variety of flours, gluten-free was best eaten fresh and warm.

The microwave
ding
ed and I pulled out the platter and set it on the table. Aunt Phyllis had found yellow and green plates on the shelf in the kitchen to match the mugs. I let the piecrust rest and grabbed my own cup of coffee, sitting down with two of my favorite people.

The kitchen smelled of fresh apple and three-berry pies. The crust I was working on was meant for a series of classic pumpkin pies. Some were made with real milk and eggs and a couple were made with almond milk and an egg substitute for two vegan friends and one lactose-intolerant family.

“I love these cranberry muffins.” Aunt Phyllis took one off the platter and unwrapped it slowly from the cupcake paper I had baked it in. “What do you put in them to give them that interesting taste?”

“I make them with almonds and walnuts and white chocolate chips for a sweetness to match the tart of the cranberry.”

“They are good,” Grandma Ruth said as she put two on her plate. “But I prefer the donuts.”

The donuts were apple spice with maple glaze. All the best tastes of fall. There were apple-cinnamon fritters on the plate, and chocolate chip pumpkin muffins. I took one of the pumpkin muffins and unwrapped it. “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted me to help you investigate before the police dragged you in for questioning?” It was my attempt at diverting Grandma Ruth from her need to discover who killed Lois and why.

“That’s the most interesting part,” Grandma said, and popped half a muffin into her mouth. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“Ruth was working on her investigation into Homer Everett,” Phyllis said, and used her fork to take a dainty bite of her muffin.

“Yes.” Grandma pointed at Phyllis. “Right.” She turned to me with the other half of her muffin in her hand. “As I was saying last night before we got interrupted by Tasha and her sweet kid, no one is as untarnished as Homer Everett appeared to be. There are secrets there, and I intend to uncover them.”

“Grandma, you need to let sleeping dogs lie. Have you learned nothing from Lois’s death?”

“Huh, what good investigative journalist lets secrets deadly enough to kill alone?” Grandma Ruth shook her carrot-top hair. “Nope. I fully intend to poke that dog with a stick.”

I rolled my eyes. “Aunt Phyllis, talk to Grandma.”

“Why?” she asked. “I’m all for uncovering the truth. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a boil is to lance it and let the bad stuff ooze out.”

“Eww—stop with the nasty metaphors,” I said. “I’m baking here.”

“Fine, let’s just say that it’s clear whatever I stumbled on is worthy of murder, and as long as the bad guys made me a suspect then I have the right to investigate further.” Grandma snagged another apple fritter.

“Let’s make this simple.” I put my hands on my hips. “Where were you when Lois was murdered? Please tell me you have an alibi. It’s all you need, right?”

“My alibi or lack thereof does not matter.” Grandma popped the apple fritter in her mouth and kept talking. “I believe that Lois was murdered because she knew things about the mysterious murder of Homer’s best pal, Champ Rogers.”

“Wait, I’m confused—I thought Champ disappeared.” I scooted in closer and put my elbows on the table, cradling my chin.

“Oh, yes. Well, he was reported missing, Homer organized a countywide search for his best friend. Eventually Champ was found dead in a picnic area near the lake. It was a big mystery. He was shot in the back of the head at close range, but the murder weapon was never found.” Grandma reached for another apple fritter. “I investigated as best I could, but things weren’t as easy back then as they are now.”

“I remember how scared everyone was that a killer was on the loose.” Phyllis cut another bite with her fork. “Mayor Everett demanded that the killer be found and brought to justice. It seemed that the more he stormed and fussed, the colder the investigation got. After a few months and no further murders, people went about their lives and forgot about it.”

“Except for Paul Abernathy,” Grandma Ruth said with her mouth full. “He was the doctor who did the autopsy. He spent the rest of his life going over the details of the case, but without a murder weapon or fingerprints there was little he could deduce.”

“I remember.” Phyllis took a sip of her coffee. “He would visit all the suspects once a year on the anniversary of the murder and ask questions.”

“How long did he do that?” I asked.

“Nearly thirty years,” Phyllis said. “I think he hoped someone would come clean on their death bed. But whoever did it took the deed to their grave with them.”

“So they hoped,” Grandma said, stopping long enough to wash down her fritters with the dregs of her coffee. She put down her empty cup and slid it toward me. “More, dear.”

I got up and went to the large silver pot that I used for catering, but which mostly hung out in the bakery kitchen ready for any member of my oversized family to visit. I pushed the spigot down, and the rich dark liquid poured out, filling the room with the fragrance of organic coffee. “Let me guess, you found something no one else could find on Champ’s murder.”

“Of course I did.” Grandma sat back, her eyes shining with pride. “I found the murder weapon.”

I turned quickly, sloshing the coffee. “What do you mean you found the murder weapon?”

“We’re pretty certain we found it. Right, Ruth?” Phyllis asked, leaning toward Grandma.

“There are too many coincidences if it isn’t the right one,” Grandma said, spitting crumbs.

“Okay, you two. Where is the mystery murder weapon and what does it have to do with Lois?”

“I’m getting to that part; hold your horses.” Grandma took her refilled cup from me and fixed it up until it was unrecognizable as coffee. I shook my head as she sipped her cream and sugar with a little coffee. “Now . . . where to start? Ah, yes, I recently remembered that five years ago when they were renovating the county courthouse the original plans were to remove a wall from the old judge’s chambers.”

“Exactly,” Phyllis said. “But there was some kind of structural issue that made them work around the wall. Right?”

“That’s what we were told.” Grandma raised one orange eyebrow. “When I researched Homer Everett, I found an old floor plan for the courthouse. They did a renovation in the late fifties.”

“I didn’t remember that until you brought it up last week.” Phyllis sat back.

“That’s because it was a small change to the judge’s chamber. It turns out that Judge Jonas was a good friend of Homer Everett.”

“And?” I sat and leaned toward her.

“And the renovation was a ‘wall repair.’” Grandma made the quote marks in the air with her hands. “They said that there was water damage and they had to redo the wall.”

“Okay . . .”

“Except it was on the first floor, and the redone wall was the same one that allegedly was used for support and unable to be torn down.”

“Again, I say, and . . . ?”

“And the current support wall is eight inches thicker than the one in the original plans.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“We compared floor plans,” Phyllis said.

“Yep.” Grandma looked please with herself.

“How did you get the original plans?” I leaned back and chewed the inside of my cheek with worry. “Did you do something you shouldn’t?”

“I would never. . . .” Grandma snorted and pretended to be insulted.

I crossed my arms over my chest and gave her a long look. Grandma grinned at me like a drunken sailor.

“The plans are a matter of public record,” Phyllis said. “Every building in town has to have a permit to be built. Those permits and floor plans are all a matter of public record.”

That thought sobered me. “Does that mean that someone can look at the floor plan to this bakery?”

“Yes.”

“My house?”

“Yep.” Grandma’s grin widened. “So, you see, I compared the two courthouse floor plans. It was pretty clear to me that that so-called load bearing wall was a false front.”

“When Ruth told me about it, I sent the plans to an architect friend of mine. He agreed with Ruth. It’s not a load bearing wall—and the 1950s renovation added eight inches to it,” Phyllis said.

I drew my eyebrows together. “How long have you two been working on this?”

“About three weeks,” Phyllis said.

“Just a week or so,” Grandma said.

Right,
I thought. “Grandma when were you going to tell me?” I held up my hand to cut off her reply. “I know, right after you broke into the courthouse and cut a hole in that wall. Right?”