Sketcher in the Rye: (28 page)

Sierra took her time chewing a mouthful. “I guess you're guilty by association,” she said finally.

“A little over the top, don't you think? I know you're in competition with her, but everyone in business has to deal with that sooner or later. It's called ‘capitalism.'”

“Change comes hard for some people,” Sierra said without rancor. “Peggy had the only bakery around here for almost twenty years. To her I'm the usurper of customers, the black hole of profits. And if I'm the devil incarnate, I guess she sees you as one of my handmaidens. What I don't get is why she hasn't tried to up her game to lure her customers back or to hold on to the ones she still has. From what I'm told, her line of baked goods has been exactly the same for two decades. Even she should be bored to death by now. Speaking of which,” she said, “you're coming back to my house after dinner to try my new apricot Linzer tortes.”

“Have you ever considered framing an invitation in the form of a question?” Jaye asked with a laugh. “For example, ‘Would you like to come over after dinner? I have a fabulous new dessert I'd like you to try.'”

“I like my way. It makes it harder for the invitee to refuse.”

“I guess I'll take the rest of my dinner to go,” Jaye said with an exaggerated sigh, “since you're apparently going to be force-feeding me dessert.”

***

Jaye followed Sierra into West Sedona, where her friend had plunked down half of her inheritance from her grandmother on a small, older home that had started to fall apart the day after she went to closing. As a result, renovating the kitchen and tackling other cosmetic issues had had to wait until the roof, plumbing and appliances underwent repairs. After a brief but rowdy meltdown, Sierra had meditated herself into a generally peaceful acceptance of the situation. Whenever Jaye had tried to practice that art during times of stress she'd only succeeded in falling asleep. Not half bad as failures go.

They had one stop to make on the way to Sierra's house—Dee's Play and Stay, which offered day care for dogs as well as boarding. Jaye pulled into the lot and waited in her car while Sierra went inside. She reappeared a minute later holding the leash of a prancing, snow-white American Eskimo who answered to the name of Frosty. Sierra had adopted him from the elderly woman whose house she'd bought. Unable to take the dog with her to the nursing home, the woman had begged Sierra to keep him or she'd be forced to leave him at a shelter. Sierra had never owned a dog before, but with her usual “how hard could it be?” philosophy, she'd agreed. Within a week she was completely besotted with him. Unfortunately, it took Frosty the better part of a month to accept his new housemate. He ran away five times, soiled the rugs, couch and linens with every orifice he had, and even went on a hunger strike, although that had only lasted for one day.

As soon as they arrived at Sierra's house, she let Frosty out in the backyard to attend to doggie matters while she started the coffee. He hadn't been outside long when he started barking full throttle as if he'd been ambushed by a band of starving zombies with a yen for dog stew.

“Could you go see what's got him in such an uproar?” Sierra asked as she measured the grounds into the filter. “I'm afraid one day he's going to corner a snake or a coyote back there. He doesn't seem to realize when he's outmatched.”

“But I certainly do,” Jaye said, stopping with her hand on the doorknob. “Exactly how many snakes and coyotes have visited since you moved in here?”

“None, or at least none that Frosty or I have seen. If you're worried, turn on the outside lights. There's also a flashlight in the pantry.”

Flashlight in hand, Jaye switched on the lights and headed out the back door. The elderly woman who'd lived there for three decades before Sierra had let the property return to its natural state of high desert scrub. When Sierra had still been riding her home-buying high, she'd talked at length about whipping the land into shape, buying some ornamental plants and maybe even seeding for grass. But getting her bakery up and running while she was teaching herself the art of baking had barely left her with time to breathe.

Since the backyard wasn't large, it was immediately obvious that Frosty had to be somewhere else. His barking had taken on a hysterical, high-pitched quality. Jaye tried calling his name, but when he didn't appear she followed his barking around to the left. Whoever had installed the outdoor lighting had clearly not anticipated a need for it on the side of the house, so she had to rely completely on the old flashlight's narrow amber beam. She found Frosty frozen in place in the darkness, still issuing the doggie equivalent of a call to arms. Jaye couldn't see any reason for his distress until she used the flashlight to follow his line of sight. She gave a startled yelp of surprise when the beam revealed what appeared to be a woman sprawled facedown on the ground a good twelve feet away.

It took Jaye only a moment to throttle down from her initial shock and shift gears into action. She moved forward cautiously, half expecting the woman to jump up and apologize for stopping there to take a nap. But the woman didn't move. Frosty's barking had ebbed to a breathless chuffing now that he'd done his job and summoned the troops, but he kept his distance, clearly not interested in accompanying Jaye on a closer inspection.

When Jaye was at the woman's side, she ran the beam of light down the length of her body and noticed that her limbs were splayed at odd angles like a rag doll flung aside by a child who'd moved on to other toys. She considered the possible reasons why a person might be lying there. There weren't many. Either the woman was a victim of foul play or she'd been felled by a stroke, a heart attack, or some other fatal condition. Or maybe she wasn't dead at all. Fighting a sudden case of squeamishness, Jaye managed to hunker down and check for a pulse in her neck. It was only then, with the flashlight so close to the woman's head, that she realized her dark hair was thoroughly matted with blood.

Sharon Pape
is the author of the Portrait of a Crime Mysteries and the Crystal Shop Mysteries. She lives on Long Island with her family.