The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer (18 page)

“What does everyone have planned for the evening?” Carolyn asked.

“
White Christmas
is on TV,” Eve said. “It's been several years since I've seen it, so I wouldn't mind watching it again.”

“Is that a movie?” Allyson asked.

Sam gazed across the table at her in disbelief and said, “You've never seen
White Christmas
?”

“I don't think so, no.”

“Well, we'll have to do somethin' about that gap in your cultural education. I'm not the biggest fan of musicals in the world, mind you, but I like this one. Anyway, it's almost a war movie for a few minutes at the beginnin'.”

Phyllis said, “Dessert first.” She got the plastic container with the last of the candy cane cupcakes in it, opened it, and set it on the table so everyone could help themselves.

Carolyn looked like she was about to say something, and Phyllis was worried that it might be about how one of the cupcakes was the last thing Barney McCrory had eaten, or how she and Nate had eaten them the last time they were there before he was arrested. Phyllis caught Carolyn's eye and gave her a warning frown. Allyson didn't need to be reminded of that. Phyllis hadn't thought about it until she'd put the cupcakes on the table, and then it was too late to do anything about it without calling attention to that uncomfortable fact.

Allyson didn't seem to think anything about it. She took one of the cupcakes, ate it, and said, “That was really good.”

“Thank you. I was pleased with the way they turned out.”

Sam said, “Well, there's one left, and if nobody else is gonna eat it . . .”

Phyllis laughed and said, “Help yourself.”

“I can give you a hand cleaning up,” Allyson offered.

“Oh, no. That's not necessary. You're a guest—”

“I'd like to—really. You've all been so friendly to me. I—I just don't know what I would have done without you.”

“All right, then,” Phyllis said, smiling. “But it's not much trouble. I just have to load the dishwasher.”

“Well, then, I'll give you a hand with that.”

It was nice working side by side with the younger woman, Phyllis discovered, almost like having a daughter. She still wasn't ready to look on Allyson as a granddaughter. When they had finished up, they went to the living room and found that Sam, Carolyn, and Eve already had the big-screen TV on.

“Movie's about to start,” Sam said. He patted the sofa beside him. “Have a seat and enjoy.”

Allyson sat on one side of him; Phyllis on the other. As the movie got underway, Allyson said, “I've heard the song ‘White Christmas,' of course, but I didn't know it came from a movie.”

“Actually, it made its debut in another Bing Crosby movie called
Holiday Inn
—”

“Don't get him started,” Carolyn said. “He's like a living DVD commentary.”

“All right,” Sam said, chuckling. “I'll shut up and let everybody watch the movie.”

Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye as GIs had just started to sing a touching song to their hard-nosed but tenderhearted general when the doorbell rang. Phyllis stiffened.

Some instinct warned her this unexpected caller might not be welcome.

Sam muted the TV and got up hastily.

“Let me get it,” he said. “Could be those reporters again.”

That was what Phyllis was afraid of. She followed Sam to the door, ready to read the riot act to Felicity Prosper and her companions if she had to.

But it wasn't Felicity who stood there when Sam opened the door. It was Jimmy D'Angelo, and, from the look on the lawyer's face, he didn't come bearing good news.

On the TV, artillery shells began to rain down on Bing, Danny, and the rest of the cinematic dogfaces.

“S
orry to bother you folks this late,” D'Angelo said.

“It's no bother,” Phyllis told him. “Come on in.”

D'Angelo stepped into the foyer. Sam closed the door behind him. The lawyer wore an overcoat, and Sam said, “Let me take that for you.”

“Thanks,” D'Angelo said as he shrugged out of the coat.

Allyson could see through the arched opening between the living room and the foyer. She was on her feet, and even though she had seemed to relax earlier, she was stiff as a board again now. The tension drew her features taut as she asked, “What is it, Mr. D'Angelo?”

D'Angelo came into the living room, with Phyllis and Sam following him. He said, “I hear you had a visit from the cops again.”

“I should have called you, shouldn't I?”

“Yeah, but don't worry about that,” D'Angelo told her.
“There was nothing I could have done to stop Largo from serving you that search warrant.”

“How do you know about it?” Phyllis asked.

“I stopped by the police station to check on Nate. Since his bail hearing is in the morning, they're still holding him there instead of transferring him to the county jail. I ran into Detective Largo, and she seemed to think I knew about the second search and what they found. I guess she thought you'd called me and told me about it. I played along with her and let her spill however much she wanted to spill.”

“So, you know about the rifle,” Allyson said.

“Yeah. You're sure there's no reason—no innocent reason, I mean—why Nate would have stashed it in that camper?”

“None I can think of. Like I told the detective, I don't think he ever had it out there.”

Phyllis asked, “Do you know if they found out anything from it?”

“Not for sure,” D'Angelo said. “Largo seemed pretty pleased with herself, though. If I had to guess, the serial numbers match up, they found Nate's prints on the rifle and nobody else's,
and
they got a ballistics match with the, ah, other bullet.”

“The bullet that killed my father,” Allyson said grimly.

“Well, yeah. But look, I don't know any of that for sure.” D'Angelo sighed. “I've talked to a lot of cops, though, and I'd say Largo was acting like one who had just wrapped up a big case. Like she had dotted all the
i
's and crossed all the
t
's.”

Allyson stood there with a bleak look on her face for a moment, then asked, “What do we do now?”

“Same as before,” D'Angelo said. “We concentrate on the
bail hearing in the morning and getting Nate out of jail. Then we keep working on his defense. They'll have to turn over all their evidence to me before the case goes to the grand jury.”

“How long do you think it'll take for that?” Phyllis asked.

“It'll be after the first of the year,” D'Angelo admitted.

Allyson said, “So he'll have that murder charge hanging over him until then. Merry Christmas. Happy holidays.”

Phyllis didn't blame her for sounding bitter. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as what Allyson expected, though.

For one thing, Phyllis was far from giving up on discovering who had killed Barney McCrory. In fact, she thought, Sam and I are just getting started.

“Do I need to be there for the hearing in the morning?” Allyson went on.

“It can't hurt for the judge to see Nate's wife waiting for him,” D'Angelo replied. “I may need to call you to testify that he's not a flight risk, too.”

“All right. Whatever needs to be done, I'll do it.”

D'Angelo looked at Sam and asked, “Can you be there, too, Mr. Fletcher? To serve as a character witness, if need be?”

“Sure,” Sam said without hesitation. “Anything I can do to help, I'm willin'.”

“Very good. Allyson, try to get some sleep. I know it may not be easy, but try.”

D'Angelo said good night and left. Allyson glanced at the TV, where Bing and Danny were watching Rosemary Clooney
and Vera-Ellen perform in some glitzy postwar nightclub. She said, “I'm sorry, Coach, but I don't think I feel like watching any more of the movie.”

“Don't worry about that,” Sam told her. “You can watch it some better time. It's on a lot around Christmas.”

“I'm afraid it's not going to be much of a holiday season for Nate and me.”

“Don't give up.” Sam glanced at Phyllis, who wished she could look more reassuring. “You might be surprised.”

“I think I'd like to just go up to my room now, if that's all right.”

“Of course it is,” Phyllis said.

As she ushered Allyson out of the room and toward the stairs, she glanced back at Sam, Carolyn, and Eve. The two women looked sympathetic, but Sam wore an angry, determined expression. Phyllis had a hunch he was feeling the same thing she was.

They had a killer to find.

•   •   •

Unfortunately, by the time she got up the next morning, Phyllis had no real idea how to go about doing that. Her optimism and determination from the night before had faded somewhat.

But she had to start somewhere. One place she hadn't visited yet was Nate's office. Over breakfast, she found out from Allyson exactly where it was.

Allyson was picking at a bowl of oatmeal. The dark circles under her eyes were silent testimony to the fact that she hadn't slept much. She asked Phyllis, “What are you going to do?”

“I just want to take a look at the place,” Phyllis explained.
She didn't go into detail about how she wanted to check the line of sight from the window and make sure it would have been possible for Nate to line up the shot that had killed his father-in-law.

Allyson was smart enough that she might have guessed that anyway. She said, “You'll need a key. I'll give you mine.”

“I can go with you to the bond hearing, if you'd rather I do that.”

Allyson shook her head.

“There's really nothing you can do there. You don't have any history with Nate, so you can't be a character witness for him like Coach can.”

Sam nodded and said, “I can vouch for the boy's character, that's for sure.”

“I'd rather have you out looking for something to clear his name,” Allyson added to Phyllis.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do,” she said.

She just hoped she didn't find more evidence pointing to Nate as Barney McCrory's killer.

The weather remained chilly, but the overcast of the day before had gone away. The sky was mostly clear this morning, with a brisk wind out of the north, as Phyllis parked on the square and walked toward the Cranmoor Building.

Like most of the buildings on the square, it was old, dating back more than a hundred years. Its exterior had been refurbished a number of times during its existence, so it didn't look as old as it really was. Since it was close to the courthouse, most of the offices were rented by legal firms, bail bondsmen, and the like, although there were also some accountants,
financial managers, and other professionals who had offices there.

The lobby was small but ornate, with several potted palms and a lot of gilt trim. The floor was smooth tile. Hallways led off to both sides. As she came through the entrance, directly in front of Phyllis was an old-fashioned cage-style elevator. She was sure it was safe enough, but the broad tile staircase with a gleaming, carved wooden banister was more appealing to her. She had never cared much for riding in elevators. A little touch of claustrophobia, perhaps.

She had just started toward the stairs when the elevator cage descended from the second floor and stopped. The door with its metal grate slid back, and Detective Isabel Largo stepped out. She and Phyllis both stopped short at the sight of each other.

The startled pause lasted only a second. Then Isabel smiled, nodded, and said, “Mrs. Newsom.”

“Detective,” Phyllis said.

“I'd ask what you're doing here, but I'm pretty sure I know. It's the same reason Mr. Fletcher was with Allyson Hollingsworth yesterday afternoon, isn't it?”

“If you mean we feel sorry for that poor girl and her husband and want to help them, then you're right.”

“I mean you're investigating the McCrory case,” Isabel said. “As for your sympathy, I think you're wasting it, at least where Hollingsworth is concerned.”

“Because he's a murderer?”

“That's what the evidence indicates,” Isabel replied coolly.

D'Angelo had been right: The detective carried herself as
if the case against Nate were sewed up tight. Phyllis didn't want to believe that.

“Why don't I ask you what
you're
doing here,” she said.

“No reason not to tell you,” Isabel replied with a shrug. “I was just unsealing Hollingsworth's office and taking a last look around. All the investigators have finished their work here.”

“So it's not considered a crime scene anymore?”

“I didn't say that.”

And she wouldn't say anything about what the forensics investigators had found, either, Phyllis knew. Isabel was too good a cop for that.

“Talked to Mike lately?” Phyllis asked instead. She tried to keep her voice neutral and casual, but she wasn't sure she'd succeeded entirely.

“It's been a few days.”

“I saw him day before yesterday. I need to find out what plans he and Sarah and Bobby have for the holidays. This is a wonderful time of year when you have small children. Quite busy, though.”

“I know. I have a son, too, remember?” Isabel paused. “And you don't need to remind me that your son is happily married, Mrs. Newsom. Mike and I are just friends. I have no intention of breaking up his marriage. I
like
Sarah.”

“That's not what I meant—,” Phyllis began.

Isabel motioned with her head toward the second floor and asked, “Are you going up to Hollingsworth's office?”

“I have his wife's permission,” Phyllis said. “Allyson gave me her key.”

“Yes, I suppose she's at the hearing right now, isn't she? Did she send you to fetch something, or are you hoping to find evidence that will prove Nate Hollingsworth's innocence? Because you're going to be disappointed if you are.”

Phyllis didn't answer the detective's questions. Instead she said, “If the office isn't sealed, there's no reason I can't go in, is there?”

“No reason at all,” Isabel said with an annoying, condescending smile. “Help yourself.”

Phyllis nodded again, a little more curtly this time, and started up the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder as Detective Largo walked out of the Cranmoor Building.

She told herself she shouldn't be angry with Isabel. The detective was just doing her job. She didn't know any of the people involved in this case. She was an objective observer, just going by the evidence.

And as far as Isabel was concerned, the evidence clearly said that Nate Hollingsworth had killed his father-in-law.

Phyllis reached the second floor and went along the hall to Suite 208. The door had a frosted-glass upper panel with no writing on it, only the numbers to indicate that it was the right one. There was no crime-scene tape on the door, so Phyllis unlocked it and went in.

The outer office, which Nate didn't even use, according to Allyson, was small and unostentatious. The door to the inner office wasn't locked. Phyllis stepped in, turned on the lights, and saw that the place had a comfortable look to it. There was a desk with a swivel chair behind it, a couple of leather armchairs in front of it, a computer workstation, a couple of low file cabinets, and a love seat. One wall had built-in bookshelves
on it, but they were only about half-full of books. The rest of the space was taken up by a number of framed photographs, mostly of Allyson, but also some of Nate and Allyson together. There were even a few with Nate, Allyson, and Barney McCrory in them.

The office was on a corner, so there were two windows on adjoining walls, built that way for ventilation in the days before air-conditioning. Phyllis went to the one that overlooked the square. She pushed back the curtains and raised the venetian blinds to make the view even better.

She could see a little of the courthouse and most of the lawn on the near side of that distinguished edifice. Looking past the courthouse, she had a good view of Main Street stretching off to the south. The Christmas parade had been coming straight in this direction, Phyllis saw.

From here it would have been easy for an excellent marksman to shoot Barney McCrory. The line of sight was perfect. The only real challenge would have been the distance.

Phyllis's heart sank a little. If the rifle found in the travel trailer was Nate's, if the test bullet fired from that gun matched the one that killed McCrory, and if the forensics crew had found any evidence in this room to indicate that a gun had been fired here, then it was easy to see why Detective Largo would be so smug. With the testimony of the ranch hands, along with Nate's own admission that he and his father-in-law had argued, to provide motive, it was no stretch to think that any jury would convict him of murder.