The Christmas Cookie Killer (7 page)

yourself,” Sarah said. “It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet since you were brutally attacked.”

“Yes, I know. I just want to be neighborly, that’s all.”

48 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Sarah pulled into the driveway, stopped the engine, and got out to hurry around the car and open Phyllis’s door. Carolyn parked beside Sarah’s car. Sam’s pickup was in its usual spot at the curb in front of the house.

Sam himself came out of the house. He must have been

watching and waiting for them to arrive, Phyllis thought. Eve followed him, and Phyllis couldn’t help but wonder how much flirting had gone on while those two were alone in the house.

Not that it was any of her business whom Sam flirted with, or even if he flirted with anyone. But Phyllis had known Eve for a long time, and she was confident that the former high school English teacher had relished the opportunity to spend some time alone with Sam.

“Let me give you a hand,” Sarah said, and Phyllis didn’t

argue. She still had a little dizzy spell every now and then, so she was glad to have Sarah’s hand on her arm steadying her as she went to the porch and climbed the steps.

“Welcome home, dear,” Eve said with a smile.

“How’re you feelin’?” Sam asked.

Phyllis nodded as she came up the steps. “I’m fine. My

knees are a little sore, but that’s all. No headache or anything like that.”

“You’re lucky that monster didn’t bust your skull wide-open,”

Carolyn said from behind her. “I hope the police catch him soon.”

Sam nodded toward the house next door. “That little gal

who’s the police detective was back over there a while ago. She stopped by here when she left and said to tell you that she wants to talk to you, Phyllis.”

“I’ll be glad to answer any questions she might have, but I don’t know if I can tell her anything I didn’t already tell Chief Whitmire. You say she’s a female detective?”

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 49

Sarah answered before Sam could. “Her name is Isabel

Largo,” she said. “Mike and I stopped by the police department and spoke with her yesterday evening after we left the hospital.”

“Oh.” Phyllis thought she heard a little tension in her

daughter-in-law’s voice, as if Sarah didn’t care much for Detective Isabel Largo. “Well, I’ll be happy to talk to her whenever she’d like.”

“Let’s get you inside, out of this cold air,” Sam said as he opened the front door.

It was still chilly and overcast this morning, with the temperature in the thirties, Phyllis guessed. In less than a week it would be Christmas, so it was appropriate that the weather was cold. Chances were that it wouldn’t be a white Christmas, though. Those were rare in this part of Texas. In her more than sixty years of life, she could remember seeing only a handful of Christmases on which it had snowed. Even then, any snowfall was usually just flurries that didn’t stick, but melted when they hit the ground.

The warmth inside the house felt good as it closed around her. The tree in the corner of the living room with the colorfully wrapped presents underneath it was another reminder of the season. This was the time of the year to celebrate birth—one birth in particular—instead of death.

And yet Agnes Simmons’s death was inescapable. So far,

Phyllis hadn’t been successful at putting it out of her mind for very long. She probably wouldn’t be able to until she knew that the killer had been brought to justice.

“Why don’t you sit down here in your chair and make your-

self comfortable?” Sarah said as she led Phyllis to her favorite recliner.

“Can I get you something?” Carolyn asked.

50 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“Got coffee in the kitchen,” Sam put in.

“And there are plenty of cookies left from yesterday,” Eve added.

Phyllis laughed. “It’s a little early in the day for cookies, but I’d take a cup of coffee. They brought me some with my breakfast in the hospital this morning, but it wasn’t very good.”

“Comin’ right up,” Sam said. He hurried out to the kitchen.

“You know, I never did get to try your pecan pie cookies,”

she said to Carolyn. “I suppose one wouldn’t hurt.”

Carolyn smiled and brought one of the cookies from the

kitchen. It was a round shortbread cookie with a depression in the center that was stuffed with pecan pie filling and topped with a pecan half.

“I have a feeling this will be the winning entry in the newspaper contest this year,” Carolyn said as she gave the cookie to Phyllis, not even trying to conceal the pride in her voice.

Phyllis took a bite and said, “My, it
is
good. You may be right, Carolyn. But have you tried my lime snowflake cookies?”

“Yes, and they’re fine, but you know how people feel about pecan pie, and these are like having little pecan pies in the shape of cookies.”

Sam returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee for

Phyllis before the rivalry could get out of hand. She took a grateful sip of the hot liquid, finished off the pecan pie cookie, and was ready to sit there and rest for a while as she drank the rest of the coffee.

That plan might have worked if the doorbell hadn’t rung

just then.

“I’ll get it,” Eve volunteered. She went into the front hall and returned a moment later with a heavyset man following her.

Phyllis recognized him right away, even though he was a lot beefier and his dark hair was a lot grayer than it had been when he was a young man living next door.

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 51

“Hello, Frank,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your mother.”

Frank Simmons nodded in acknowledgment of her sympa-

thy. “How are you, Mrs. Newsom? I heard that you were at-

tacked by the same person who . . . attacked my mother.”

“I’ll be just fine, Frank. Won’t you sit down?”

He glanced around uneasily. None of the others in the room knew him very well, although like many people who had grown up in Weatherford over the past forty or so years, he had been in Eve’s English class when he was in high school. He had missed having Phyllis or Carolyn for teachers.

Frank Simmons was in his midforties. Phyllis had lost track of him after he got married and moved away, but she seemed to remember that he lived in Dallas, which was about an hour to an hour and a half to the east, depending on which part of that sprawling city you were talking about. She had no idea what he did for a living. He sat down awkwardly in one of the armchairs and said, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m, uh, sorry about what happened to you.”

“I appreciate that, Frank, but it wasn’t your fault.”

Unless he had something to do with his mother’s death,
Phyllis thought suddenly, then felt a little ashamed of herself for even thinking such a thing. She had been around murder too much lately, she told herself. It was making her overly suspicious of everybody.

Frank clasped his hands together between his knees. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have gotten hit if you hadn’t been trying to help my mother. The cops said you were trying to find something to . . . to get that belt off of Mama’s neck when that guy attacked you.”

“That did seem to be the way it was,” Phyllis said with a nod.

“But it was just bad luck. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Sam grunted. “I’d say it was the fault o’ the no-good rascal who did it.”

52 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“Well, yes, of course,” Phyllis agreed.

“Have y’all heard anything about whether or not the cops

have any leads?” Frank asked. “Your boy’s a policeman, isn’t he, Mrs. Newsom?”

“Mike’s a deputy sheriff. The police department’s in charge of the investigation.” Phyllis looked over at Sarah. “I believe he talked to the detective last night. . . .”

Sarah shook her head. “We didn’t really find out anything.

You’ve talked to Detective Largo since the last time any of us have, Mr. Simmons.”

Frank sighed and said, “I know. I just thought she might’ve said something, told you something that she wouldn’t tell the family. . . .”

“I’m sure the police will keep you up-to-date on any new

developments,” Sarah told him.

“Yeah.” Frank put his hands on his knees and pushed him-

self to his feet. His face was red, and he seemed to be short of breath. Phyllis wondered what sort of shape his heart was in. “I guess I’d better be running along. . . .”

“Are all of you going to be staying next door?” Phyllis

asked.

“Well . . . for a while, I suppose. We’d planned to visit for a week or so. Now, of course, we have to arrange for the funeral and . . . and take care of all that.” Frank grimaced at the thought, causing Phyllis to feel another pang of sympathy for him and the other members of the family.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she

said.

“That goes for the rest of us, as well,” Carolyn added.

Frank nodded. “Thanks.” He moved toward the front door.

“I’ll be seein’ you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Sam said.

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 53

Frank stopped before he reached the hallway. He looked back and said, “You know my boy Randall, don’t you, Mrs. Newsom?”

“I remember hearing Agnes talk about him, and I’m sure

I’ve seen pictures of him,” Phyllis said, “but I don’t recall that I ever met him, Frank.”

“Well, if you see him . . . if he happens to come by while we’re not around . . . I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him we’re looking for him. We, uh, haven’t seen him for a while.”

Sam frowned and said, “You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. He moves around a lot.”

“All right,” Phyllis said, her voice gentle. “I really don’t think it’s very likely I’ll be seeing him, Frank, but if I do, I’ll be sure to tell him to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” Frank Simmons lifted a hand and this time left

the house.

When Sam came back from closing the front door behind

the visitor, he asked, “What the heck was that last bit about? You know anything about the guy’s kid, Phyllis?”

She cast her mind back over conversations she’d had with

Agnes in the past and then said, “I think Randall Simmons was sort of the black sheep of the family. From things that Agnes said, I think Frank had a lot of trouble with the boy when he was growing up. They never got along very well. I didn’t know that Randall had disappeared, though.”

“I can’t imagine a child going off like that so his family doesn’t have any idea where he is,” Carolyn said. “That must be a terrible feeling.”

“Randall would be a grown man by now. He must be Mike’s

age, at least.” Phyllis paused, then went on. “But I know what you mean. It doesn’t matter how old your child is; he’s still your child. And you still worry about him.”

54 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Sarah smiled and said, “You mean I’m never going to stop

worrying about Bobby?”

Phyllis shook her head. “No, dear, I’m afraid you won’t.

That’s just part of being a parent. You worry about your kids, and your grandkids, and your
great
-grandkids. . . .”

She knew that Agnes Simmons had worried about her

grandson Randall. Phyllis could remember hearing the concern in the older woman’s voice when she talked about the troubles between Frank and Randall. It was unusual for Agnes to open up that much about family matters, especially since she and Phyllis hadn’t really been all that close. But that was a good indication of just how upset she was about the subject.

Sarah stood up and said, “Speaking of my kid, I’ve got to go pick him up. Is there anything I can do for you before I go, Phyllis? Or anything you need from the store?”

Phyllis shook her head and said for what seemed like the

hundredth time, “No, I’m fine. And if there’s anything I need, I have these three here to help me.” She smiled at Sam and Carolyn and Eve.

“And we’re not goin’ anywhere,” Sam said. “I reckon you

can count on that.”

Phyllis did. She had come to count on their friendship every day of her life.

Chapter 6

L
ater that morning, Phyllis dozed off in the recliner, and that sleep was actually more restful than what she had gotten in the hospital the night before. She supposed it had something to do with being home again.

When she woke up, the smell of good food cooking filled

the house. She smiled without opening her eyes. All rivalries aside, Carolyn really was an excellent cook, and Phyllis didn’t mind admitting that.

She stood up and went to the kitchen, pausing just inside the doorway in surprise when she saw Sam standing at the counter with a saucepan in one hand and a spoon in the other. He was placing dollops of some sort of caramel mixture from the saucepan into the center of what looked like chocolate oatmeal cookies arranged on a long sheet of waxed paper. On the other side of the kitchen, Carolyn tended to food that was cooking on the stove.

“Why, Sam Fletcher,” Phyllis said, “I didn’t know you could bake cookies.”

56 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Sam started a little and looked around, almost guiltily, like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t, Phyllis thought.

“Well, you, uh, don’t have to bake these,” he said. “You just mix

’em up in a saucepan and cook ’em on the stove. Actually, I’ve made these before, and I think they’re pretty good. Just about the only thing I
can
make, except sandwiches.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Carolyn said, “I know; you could have knocked me over with a feather, too, when he came in here and started rummaging around. But I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

“No, of course not,” Phyllis agreed. She went over to where Sam was working. “What are you making?”

“I call ’em fudgy peanut butter cookies,” he explained as he spooned the mixture from the saucepan into the depression in the center of the last cookie. “They’re sort of like oatmeal cookies. You mix up milk, sugar, cocoa, and butter in a saucepan, boil it a little, take it off the fire, and blend in some oatmeal and a little vanilla. Then you put ’em on the wax paper, gouge out a little place in the center while they’re still soft, and fill it with a mixture of peanut butter and corn syrup.” He hefted the saucepan in his hand. “This stuff here.”