The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer (3 page)

That told Phyllis she'd been right when she thought she saw an unhappy look cross McCrory's face earlier when Sam had brought up the man's daughter and son-in-law. McCrory had been upset about the argument, too, it seemed. Such an assumption was a bit of a leap, but Phyllis's instincts told her it was correct.

One of the EMTs, Ted, hopped down from the carriage and approached Whitmire. He and the chief talked quietly for more than a minute. An angry expression appeared on Whitmire's face as they spoke. Phyllis couldn't make out anything the EMT said, but she heard Whitmire's response as he demanded, “Are you sure?”

With a grim look on his face, Ted nodded. He said something else, then turned back to the carriage to assist his partner as he started lowering Barney McCrory's body from the seat.

Knowing that he probably wouldn't answer her, Phyllis asked Whitmire, “What was that about, Chief? Mr. McCrory died of a heart attack, didn't he? I know you'll need an autopsy to be sure—”

“We'll need an autopsy, all right,” Whitmire interrupted heavily. “It appears that the deceased was shot. This is murder.”

There was still a lot of commotion going on up and down the street, but next to the carriage, a stunned silence fell for a moment until Carolyn said, “Well, at least he wasn't poisoned. Now no one can blame those cupcakes of yours, Phyllis!”

A
fter everything that had happened, the parade couldn't go on, of course. And the police couldn't keep the bystanders—and possible suspects—from leaving, either. There were too many people and not enough cops for that. Phyllis saw the frustration on Whitmire's face, but there was nothing the chief could do.

Nothing he could do about that part of the investigation, anyway. He turned to her and Sam and said, “The two of you talked to McCrory just before the parade started, right?”

“That's right,” Phyllis said.

“That's when this cupcake business came up.”

“Yes. But now that you know—”

“No offense, but I don't know anything yet except that McCrory was shot. And I shouldn't have mentioned that.” Whitmire sighed and shook his head glumly. He muttered, “I guess I should have expected it by now.” He became more
businesslike as he went on. “Were the two of you the last ones to speak to the victim?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “I don't remember seein' anybody else say anything to him before the parade started.” He nodded toward the carriage, where Clay Loomis was sitting alone now. All the cheerleaders had gotten out of the vehicle. “I reckon one of the folks back there could have said something to Barney, but I don't recall seein' him turned around, talkin' to them.”

“Well, I'll ask Mr. Loomis about that later,” Whitmire said.

Phyllis said, “There was a little bit of time right after the parade started when Sam and I were walking in this direction. I wasn't watching the carriage then.”

“How long was that?”

“I don't know. Twenty seconds, maybe.”

Whitmire asked Sam, “How about you? Were you watching the carriage the whole time?”

“I was lookin' in this general direction,” Sam said, “but I wasn't really payin' that much attention to Barney. I was lookin' at the crowd and the parade and all the lights . . .” Sam frowned in thought. “But I saw him kind of rock back on the seat a little, and then he started to stand up. I knew he wouldn't be doin' that while he was drivin' the team unless something was wrong.”

Whitmire nodded and said, “You two will have to come down to the station and give statements. Too many witnesses have wandered off already. I'm not letting the two of you get away.”

Carolyn was standing close enough to hear the chief's
words. She said, “That sounds rather ominous. Should Phyllis and Sam bring a lawyer with them?”

Wearily, Whitmire shook his head and waved off the question.

“No, no, they're not being charged with anything—”

“You're not supposed to even question them without letting them know their rights,” Carolyn went on. Both she and Phyllis had fallen under suspicion of murder in the past, and that had caused Carolyn to look at the local law enforcement in an adversarial light most of the time.

Chief Whitmire was starting to look annoyed, and Phyllis didn't want Carolyn to get arrested for interfering with an officer or obstructing justice. She turned to her friend and said, “It's all right, Carolyn. I'm not worried about it. I waive the right to counsel.”

“So do I,” Sam said. “I don't have anything to hide.”

Carolyn said, “Hmph. We've seen before that innocence doesn't always mean much in this town.”

Whitmire looked like he was about to say something angry, but before he could, McCrory's daughter, Allyson, stepped up to him and asked, “Where are they taking my father, Chief?”

Calvin and Ted had loaded McCrory's body onto a gurney and were wheeling it toward the waiting ambulance. Whitmire said, “They'll take him to the funeral home. My office will keep you informed about the situation, ma'am.”

“The situation,” Allyson repeated. “What does that mean?”

“There'll have to be an autopsy. You're the deceased's daughter?”

“That's right. I'm Allyson Hollingsworth.” Her face was red and puffy from crying, and tear streaks on her cheeks reflected the myriad lights all around. But she was more composed now than she had been a few minutes earlier. She nodded toward the fair-haired man beside her and added, “This is my husband, Nate.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. I'll need to talk more to both of you, so why don't I have one of my men take you down to the police station, and I'll meet you there shortly?”

Allyson stared at him in disbelief.

“You're
arresting
us?” she demanded.

“No, not at all,” Whitmire said. “I just need to get statements from both of you. I realize this is a terrible time to be bothering you—”

“Yes, it is,” Nate Hollingsworth said coldly.

“But we're just following procedure,” Whitmire forged ahead. He signaled to one of his men. “This officer will take you to the station.”

“We can't go in our own car?”

“It'll be simpler this way. He can show you exactly where to go. And then he'll bring you back to your car when we're done. I hope it won't take very long.”

Nate looked like he wanted to argue, but Allyson said, “All right, if we've got to, let's get it over with. But I'll have to get to the funeral home and talk to them about the . . . the arrangements . . .”

Her face started to crumple into sobs again. Nate put his arms around her shoulders and drew her against him.

“You can talk to the funeral-home people in the morning,” Whitmire told them. “There'll be plenty of time.”

He is right about that, Phyllis thought. It would probably be at least several days before McCrory's body was released, since it would take that long for the autopsy and the other parts of the forensics investigation to be carried out.

The police officer ushered them away from the carriage. Whitmire turned back to the vehicle and said to its visibly shaken passenger, “I'll need to get a statement from you, too, Mr. Loomis.”

Even under these circumstances, the politician's natural arrogance asserted itself. Loomis said, “You know who I am, don't you, Chief?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I still need a statement from you.”

“This has been very upsetting—”

“We won't keep you any longer than we have to.” Whitmire motioned another officer over to them and spoke briefly to him, telling him to escort Loomis to the station.

“But . . . but I'm dressed like Santa Claus!” Loomis objected. “This is humiliating.”

That protest didn't do any good. He went off with the second officer.

Phyllis asked Whitmire, “Are you going to put us in the back of a patrol car, too, Chief?”

“No, I don't think that's necessary.” He pointed with his thumb at Sam's pickup. “This is your vehicle, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yep.”

“You can take it down to the station as soon as my officers get the street cleared enough to turn it around. Just let whoever's working the reception counter know when you get there, and they'll pass the word to me.”

Carolyn said, “It sounds to me like a gathering of the suspects.”

“Hardly,” Whitmire said. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“And now he sounds like Columbo,” Carolyn muttered.

Whitmire pretended not to hear her. He said, “Where are those cupcakes you were talking about?”

“They're in the pickup,” Phyllis said. “I suppose you want me to bring them in so they can be analyzed.”

“No, actually. I was thinking that maybe you might not mind if we ate some of them,” Whitmire said. “I don't think I've heard of candy cane cupcakes before, but they sound really good.”

•   •   •

The police department was on Santa Fe Drive, which ran parallel to and several blocks east of South Main Street, where the Christmas parade had been scheduled to take place. Once Sam was able to move his pickup, it wouldn't take long for him and Phyllis to get there.

As Sam drove, Phyllis said, “I'm sorry about your friend. Mr. McCrory seemed like a nice man.”

“He was. Barney McCrory was a real charmer . . . when he wanted to be.”

That comment made Phyllis cock an eyebrow. She said, “I take that to mean there were times when he wasn't that way.”

“You should've heard some of the cussin'-outs I got when Barney didn't agree with the way I was playin' his little girl on the basketball team. After some games, it felt like he spent an hour in my face, tellin' me what a lousy coach I was.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe he was right.”

“I highly doubt that,” Phyllis said.

“I never really held it against him, though,” Sam went on. “Shoot, if you're a good parent, you can't help but get involved with your kid's life at school, whether it's academics or athletics.”

“Yes, but some of them get a little
too
involved,” Phyllis pointed out.

“Yeah, no doubt about that. Barney never crossed the line about Allyson and the team, though. Not
too
much, anyway. And that was just his way. He was like that about plenty of other things. Hard chargin' all the time, straight ahead. He held himself to a high standard, and he felt like everybody else ought to be the same way.” Sam shook his head. “It's hard to talk about him in the past tense. Somebody as vital and bigger than life as Barney was, it seems like he'll be around forever.”

“And yet that can change in an instant,” Phyllis said. “To be honest, I've come to feel that way about you, Sam. Like you'll always be around.” Her voice caught a little as she went on. “And then I see you doing something like leaning over so far that you're practically falling out of the pickup while you tried to stop those horses . . .”

She couldn't talk anymore. At the time, she had been too caught up in what she was doing to think too much about how dangerous Sam's heroic actions were, but now, when she realized just how easy it would have been at that moment for her to lose him, it was like a cold hand clutching at her heart.

Her left hand rested on the seat beside her. Sam reached over with his right and laid it on top of hers. She turned her hand and laced her fingers together with his.

“I'm not goin' anywhere,” he said quietly. “I plan to be around for a good while yet.”

“I hope so.” She tried to lighten the mood a little by saying, “What in the world did you mean when you said . . . Oh, I don't even remember what it was now. It didn't really sound like English, though.”

“When are you talkin' about?” he asked.

“When I said something about John Wayne and
Stagecoach
.”

“Oh.” Sam laughed. “You mean Yakima Canutt.”

“I know I've heard you talk about that before, but I can't recall what it is.”

“He,” Sam said. “That's the name of a famous Hollywood stuntman. He's the one who jumped on the stagecoach team in the movie, not John Wayne. In fact, he did it twice: once when he was doublin' one of the Apaches, and once when he was doublin' the Duke. Remember the fella who falls under the stagecoach and the wheels go on either side of him?”

“I suppose. Yes, I think so.”

“That's Yak, too. Best stuntman there ever was.”

“How do you remember all these things?” Phyllis asked.

“Trick brain,” Sam replied with a grin. “Just don't ask me what I had for lunch yesterday, because odds are I can't tell you.” He turned off the street into the parking lot of a sprawling redbrick building. “Anyway, we're here.”

He was right. They had arrived at the police department. Sam parked, and they went inside, shivering a little because the chilly December wind had gotten stronger during the evening. A cold front had blown through, and according to the
forecast, the temperature was supposed to drop close to freezing by the next morning.

It was warm inside the police department lobby, though. As she and Sam approached the counter, Phyllis wondered if Allyson and Nate Hollingsworth and Clay Loomis were already here. They probably were, and there was a good chance Chief Whitmire was already questioning one of them.

She wondered also if the chief would handle the investigation into Barney McCrory's murder himself, since he'd been the first officer on the scene, or if he would turn the case over to one of his detectives. She knew several of those detectives from previous cases.

Sam told the officer at the counter who they were, and that Chief Whitmire had asked them to come in and give statements. She thanked them and told them to have seats in the waiting area, adding, “The chief will be with you shortly.”

Phyllis supposed that answered her question about who would be heading up the investigation, at least for the time being.

They waited for about thirty minutes before a door opened and Whitmire came out. He looked even more tired and harassed than he had at the murder scene. He said, “I'm sorry to have kept you folks waiting. Mrs. Newsom, we'll start with you.”