The Pumpkin Muffin Murder (12 page)

“Of course it’s all right,” Eve answered without hesitation. “You know me, Phyllis. I’d absolutely love to spend the day with a handsome young man, and Bobby certainly qualifies.”

“Thank you.” Phyllis looked down at her grandson. “Okay, Bobby?”

“I guess. I wish I could have one of those punkin muffins we brought, though.”

“I’m not sure anybody’s going to get them,” Phyllis told him. “But we can always make more when we get home, can’t we?”

That brought a smile to Bobby’s face. “Yeah!”

Phyllis looked at Eve again and said, “I’ll give you the key to my car. You can use it to take Bobby home whenever the two of you are ready to go.”

“How will you get back?”

“I’ll catch a ride with Sam or Carolyn,” Phyllis said as she took the key ring from her purse and handed it over.

Eve nodded. “All right. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m just glad you were here, Eve, and you didn’t get caught in this mess like the rest of us did.”

“What if Mike calls? Do I tell him—?”

“Good Lord, no.” The last thing Mike needed to hear while he was out there in California with his wife and his dying father-in-law was that his mother was mixed up in another murder back home. She added, “There’s nothing he could do, anyway.”

Phyllis glanced back and saw that Detective Largo was watching her with a particularly intense stare. She knew she had probably already stretched the detective’s patience as far as she ought to. She bent down under the crime-scene tape and hugged Bobby, then said quickly, “I’ll see you later,” and walked back over to Detective Largo.

“Why did you give Mrs. Turner your keys?” the detective asked.

“So she could take Bobby home,” Phyllis explained. “Eve didn’t bring her car.”

Detective Largo considered that answer for a moment, then nodded, apparently accepting it. “Follow me,” she said.

She led Phyllis away from the taped-off scene, through the park, and back to the parking lot. She opened the passenger door of a nondescript sedan that was either her personal car or an unmarked police vehicle.

“Have a seat,” Detective Largo said. It was an order as much as an invitation, Phyllis knew.

“Are you taking me to police headquarters?”

The detective shook her head. “No, I just thought this would be a good place for us to talk.”

That relieved Phyllis’s mind a little. She slid into the car. Detective Largo closed the door and went around to get in behind the wheel. It was warmer and quieter in there.

Detective Largo took a small digital recorder from the pocket of her jacket, switched it on, gave the time, and identified herself and Phyllis. She said, “You’re not under arrest, Mrs. Newsom, and you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“That’s all right,” Phyllis said with a shake of her head. “I don’t mind answering your questions. I want to help. I want to find out what happened to Logan Powell as much as you do.”

“Fine,” Detective Largo said. “Tell me how it happens that you discovered a body under mysterious circumstances . . . again.”

P
hyllis felt a brief surge of annoyance at the detective’s tone, but she told herself to be reasonable. Most people went through their entire lives without ever finding even a single dead body, if they were lucky. There was no denying that she had stumbled onto more than her fair share of them over the past few years.

She made herself reply in a calm voice, “I delivered my entry for the cooking contest to the dogtrot when I got here to the park with my grandson and my friend Eve Turner.”

She didn’t mention that her entry was pumpkin muffins. Let Detective Largo find out if there was any connection between those muffins and the unidentified brown substance found in Logan Powell’s mouth.

“From there, Carolyn—Mrs. Wilbarger—and I walked around the park for a while with Mrs. Powell, who was looking for her husband,” she went on.

“Wait a minute. That’s the dead man, right?”

Phyllis nodded. “Logan Powell, yes.”

“So his wife was looking for him?”

“That’s right. She said he hadn’t come home last night, and she was worried about him.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I didn’t have any reason not to,” Phyllis said. “And Mrs. Powell certainly looked and sounded like she was sincere about the way she felt.”

“But you didn’t find Mr. Powell anywhere else in the park, of course, because all the time he was sitting on that hay bale dressed like a scarecrow.”

“That’s right,” Phyllis said again, thinking that the situation sounded even more bizarre when summed up in Detective Largo’s flat, emotionless voice.

“I noticed some other scarecrows sitting on bales of hay when I was walking into the park,” the detective said. “Are they just for decoration?”

Phyllis nodded. “Yes, volunteers made them this week and then put them out because they fit in with the Harvest Festival theme. In fact, I was one of the people who put them out on display yesterday.”

“That’s interesting. Who was responsible for placing the one in the dogtrot, there between the two halves of the cabin?”

“That’s just it,” Phyllis replied with a shake of her head. “There wasn’t supposed to be a scarecrow there. There wasn’t when I left the park yesterday. They were scattered around all over, but not in the dogtrot.”

“So someone moved that hay bale, dressed Mr. Powell in the scarecrow costume, and propped him up on it?”

Again, Detective Largo’s description of the event made it sound even more far-fetched. But Phyllis could only nod and say, “Yes, that must be what happened. It’s the only explanation.” Something occurred to her. “Unless . . .”

A spark of interest flared in the detective’s dark eyes. “Unless what?”

“Unless Logan moved the hay bale and put the costume on himself,” Phyllis said. “I suppose he could have done that.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

Phyllis had to respond with the answer that was cropping up a lot this morning. “I have no idea.”

“But if he did, then he sat down there and died.”

“Maybe he had a heart attack, or something like that.” Phyllis nodded, seeing how the theory fit together. “In fact, I saw his face, and it looked like he was in pain before he died. It could have happened just that way, Detective.”

“Maybe it could have,” Detective Largo said. “But that doesn’t explain why he moved the hay bale or put on that scarecrow costume.”

“No,” Phyllis admitted. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Let’s get back to when you found the body. You and Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Wilbarger walked around the park looking for Mr. Powell, and when you didn’t find him, what then?”

“We went back to the cabin. The judging for the contest was going to be starting soon. Carolyn had to be there because she was one of the judges, and of course I wanted to be on hand because I had an entry in the contest.”

“And Mrs. Powell came with you?”

“That’s right. She was still worried and upset, of course, but Carolyn and I had tried to convince her that Logan would turn up sooner or later.”

“Well, he did, didn’t he?”

Phyllis caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. She hadn’t thought about it like that, but Detective Largo was right. She sighed and nodded.

“Yes, he did.”

“Why did you and Mrs. Wilbarger go over to the scarecrow?”

“I told you, we helped put them out on display yesterday. We knew there wasn’t supposed to be one there in the dogtrot. Carolyn said it had been bothering her all morning, so she suggested that we move it, since there were still a few minutes until the contest judging began.”

“So it was Mrs. Wilbarger’s idea to move the scarecrow?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“I think it’ll be up to the investigation to determine what means something and what doesn’t, Mrs. Newsom.”

This time Phyllis couldn’t keep a slight edge out of her voice as she said, “If you think Carolyn had anything to do with Logan’s death, you’re wrong, Detective.”

“I didn’t say that,” Detective Largo replied, smoothly unperturbed. “Go on with your story.”

“Well, Carolyn said she would move the hay bale, and I could move the scarecrow. They don’t weigh much. But as soon as I took hold of it, I knew something was wrong.”

“How did you know?”

“It didn’t feel right. It was too heavy. It felt like there was something solid in it, not just some paper stuffing.”

“Then what happened?”

“I stepped back and said there was something wrong. Carolyn took hold of the scarecrow and started to lift it; then she let go, and it fell back on the bale, and . . . then it fell off onto the ground and made this noise. . . .”

“A noise like a body landing on concrete?” the detective suggested.

“Yes,” Phyllis said. “That was exactly what it sounded like.”

“So you knew then what you’d found.” Detective Largo didn’t bother making it sound like a question this time.

Phyllis nodded. “I had a pretty good idea. The scarecrow’s hat had come off when it fell, and the burlap bag over the head had slipped some. I could see what looked like skin between the bottom of the bag and the shirt collar.”

“What did you do?”

“I was about to tell Carolyn to get away from it and not disturb it anymore—”

“Because you know how evidence is supposed to be handled.”

“Well, yes. But I was still a little shocked, and before I could say anything, Carolyn reached down and pulled the burlap bag off, and . . . there was Logan.” Phyllis shrugged. “Then there was all sorts of commotion, of course, and two of the officers who were on duty here at the festival showed up, and I expect you know everything after that from talking to Chief Whitmire.”

Detective Largo flicked off the recorder and smiled politely. “Thank you, Mrs. Newsom.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. I think you’ve provided all the information you can, based on your own direct knowledge.”

That was true enough, Phyllis supposed. She opened the car door and stepped out. So did Detective Largo. Without saying anything else, they walked back across the park to the cabin.

“Mrs. Wilbarger, would you come with me?” Detective Largo asked when they got there.

Carolyn frowned suspiciously. “Why?”

“I just want to find out what you can tell me about discovering the body.”

“You mean you want to see if my story matches what Phyllis told you.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Carolyn went with the detective, grudgingly. She would never fully trust the police after that earlier case, Phyllis supposed. She wasn’t sure she could blame her friend for feeling that way, either. The very idea that Carolyn Wilbarger could ever murder anybody was ludicrous.

Phyllis looked around, curious to know how Dana was doing, but she didn’t see her right away. Then she spotted Dana sitting on one of the folding chairs that the judges would have been using during the contest if it had taken place as scheduled. Someone had taken it from behind the table and brought it out here in front of the cabin so that Dana could sit down, and Phyllis had a pretty good idea who that someone was, since Sam was still standing near Dana as if he were watching over her.

She went up to him and asked quietly, “You got that chair for Dana, didn’t you?”

“She’s had a mighty hard time of it,” Sam replied with a shrug. “I didn’t want to have to try to catch her if she fainted.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Hangin’ in there, I reckon. It’s got to be pretty bad for her. She must feel like her whole world’s been yanked right out from under her.”

Phyllis put a hand on his arm and squeezed for a second. “You’re a nice man, Sam Fletcher,” she said. “Looking out for Dana like this when you barely even know her.”

He shrugged. “I figure she must be all right if you and Carolyn are her friends.”

As a matter of fact, though, Phyllis thought, she and Dana weren’t really all that close. They were acquaintances more than friends, the way it was with Phyllis and those other teachers from that little circle at Loving Elementary. Sam didn’t know that, though, so he was doing what he assumed Phyllis would want him to do.

Phyllis stood there for a moment looking at Dana, who was gazing at the dogtrot and the crowd of police in it with what could only be termed stark horror on her face. She probably couldn’t see Logan’s body from where she was—all the police standing around blocked the sight—but she had to know it was there. If Dana had really had anything to do with Logan’s death, she was one of the best actors in the world, Phyllis told herself. Of course, anything was possible. People had fooled Phyllis before . . . but not for long.

“That detective get through askin’ all her questions?”

Phyllis looked over at Sam. “What? Oh, yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has more later on, though.”