The Pumpkin Muffin Murder (15 page)

She pointed into the clump of yuccas. “Do you see that wooden stake, Chief?”

Whitmire leaned toward the plants and looked at the almost-hidden stake. “Yeah,” he said. “What about it?”

“I’m reasonably sure it was used to hold up the scarecrow that should have been sitting on that bale of hay instead of Logan Powell.”

Quickly, Phyllis explained how the scarecrows had been set up and how she and Carolyn had used a process of elimination to determine which of the bales was now sitting inside the dogtrot.

“I just got to thinking about that and wondered which bale it was,” she said. “Then I asked myself what had happened to the stake. I noticed that it wasn’t there when Carolyn and I approached the scarecrow in the dogtrot this morning, but then, what with finding Logan’s body and all, I didn’t think about it again until just a little while ago.”

Whitmire nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. You think whoever put him in that scarecrow outfit pulled out the stake and tossed it in among those plants.”

“That’s right.”

The chief turned to his officers. “All right, get that stake out of there. Be careful with it.”

While the officers were retrieving the stake carefully to preserve any evidence on it, Chief Whitmire turned to Phyllis and said, “I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve decided to investigate this case on your own, Mrs. Newsom.”

“Don’t you mean ‘play detective’, Chief?” Phyllis asked.

Whitmire shrugged his burly shoulders. “Call it what you want. It’s not something civilians need to be doing.”

“I’m well aware of that. Like you said earlier, though, we have a duty as citizens to assist the police when we can. I happened to think about that stake and thought you should know.”

“And I appreciate that. It could turn out to be an important piece of evidence. If you think of anything else, I’m sure you’ll let us know.”

“Of course.”

“But that’ll be the end of it.”

Carolyn said, “You just don’t want Phyllis solving this murder before you do.”

Whitmire’s face hardened with anger for a second before he controlled the reaction. “I know you don’t think much of the police department, Mrs. Wilbarger, and it may surprise you to know that I understand why you feel that way. But we don’t know that Logan Powell was murdered, and until we do, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go around saying that he was. That might compromise our investigation. Which we
will
be carrying out to the best of our ability. I assure you, we’ll get to the bottom of Mr. Powell’s death.”

“By dragging his wife off to be questioned? Whatever happened to Logan, Dana didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“If that’s true, then that’s what our investigation will show.”

Phyllis wished that Carolyn would quit arguing with the chief. She was about to say something in an attempt to smooth things over, when she saw one of the Windbreaker-clad officers lifting the stake from the middle of the plants. She could see the sharpened tip now. Her eyes searched keenly for any sign of bloodstains on it.

The stake looked perfectly normal, though. Phyllis didn’t see any blood on the wood. She felt a brief pang of disappointment, then instantly was ashamed of herself for feeling that way. She supposed she had hoped that the stake would turn out to be the murder weapon, because that would have answered one question and brought them that much closer to a full explanation of Logan Powell’s death.

Handling the stake with rubber gloves, the officers put it into a clear evidence bag the size of a kitchen garbage bag and sealed it shut for the time being. Phyllis knew they would take it back to their lab and test it for fingerprints and any foreign substances, including blood. Getting the full results would take a while, but Phyllis thought they would be able to determine pretty quickly whether there was any blood on the wood—and whether it had played any role in Logan’s death.

Carolyn and Chief Whitmire had been distracted by the stake, too, and their brief clash seemed to be over. The chief nodded to Phyllis and said, “Thanks again for your help, Mrs. Newsom,” then turned his head and nodded to Carolyn, “Mrs. Wilbarger.”

“I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’d let me know what you find out about the stake,” Phyllis said.

“That’s a matter for the police.” Whitmire followed the Crime Scene officers out of the park.

Carolyn glared after him and said, “That man is one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met.”

“He’s just trying to do his job the best way he knows how,” Phyllis said.

“Then he ought to let you help him. You have a better track record at solving murders than he does!”

Phyllis shook her head. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“Well, I would.” Carolyn paused, then went on, “You were thinking maybe somebody stabbed Logan with that stake, weren’t you?”

“The possibility occurred to me. If it pierced the heart, the wound might not have bled much.”

“I didn’t see any blood on the stake, though, did you?”

“No, it looked clean to me,” Phyllis said.

“So we’re back to not knowing how Logan was killed, or even if it was murder.”

“I’m afraid so.”

They left the park themselves then, each woman taking her own car back to the house.

Sam, Eve, and Bobby were waiting around the kitchen table when Phyllis and Carolyn came in. The containers of pumpkin muffins sat in the center of the table, and Bobby was eyeing them hungrily.

“We waited for you,” Sam said, “but it was a little hard for some of us.”

“Those are
good
punkin muffins,” Bobby said.

“All right, you may have one,” Phyllis told him with a smile. “But only one. I don’t want you to ruin your appetite for supper.”

“Does the same go for me?” Sam asked.

Phyllis laughed. “I don’t see why not.”

Each of them had a muffin; then Bobby went off to the living room to watch TV. Phyllis could tell from the sleepy look on the little boy’s face that the long, busy day was catching up to him. She suspected that Bobby would be asleep on the sofa in just a few minutes.

“All right,” Eve said as the four adults remained seated at the kitchen table. “What was that all about back there, Phyllis? What did you think of that made you and Carolyn stay at the park?”

“I’ll bet it was somethin’ to do with the murder,” Sam said. “You just solved the case, didn’t you, Phyllis?”

Phyllis shook her head. “Far from it. I have no idea what happened to Logan, or whether it was murder or not. But I did start thinking about something.”

She explained about the hay bale and the stake that someone had put in the clump of yuccas.

“You could see part of it from the path,” she concluded, “but I doubt if anyone would have really noticed it, or thought anything about it if they did.”

“And now the police have it,” Eve said.

“That’s right. I’m sure if there’s any real evidence there, they’ll find it.”

Carolyn said, “Well, you have more confidence in them than I do, then.”

Phyllis didn’t see where any good would come of continuing to discuss Carolyn’s lack of confidence in the police, so she said, “From what I could tell, the festival is a big success, despite what happened. The volunteers must have taken in thousands of cans of food already, and it’ll be going on until later tonight.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out the total number early next week,” Carolyn said. “All the volunteers will be getting together to figure out the details of how we’ll handle the deliveries on Thanksgiving morning. You’re welcome to come to the meeting, Phyllis, since you said you wanted to help.”

Phyllis nodded. “Just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”

“I could give you a hand with that, too,” Sam said.

“And I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Bobby,” Eve added.

“That sounds fine to me,” Phyllis said. “I’m glad we’ll be able to help out some people—”

The phone interrupted her by ringing. She stood up and snagged the receiver from its base that sat on the counter, then frowned as she glanced at the caller ID readout.

It said W’FORD POLICE DEPT.

She couldn’t think of any good reason the police would be calling her . . . but she could come up with quite a few bad ones.

She thumbed the TALK button and said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Newsom?”

Phyllis recognized Chief Ralph Whitmire’s voice, and her apprehension grew stronger. “That’s right,” she told him.

“This is Chief Whitmire,” he said unnecessarily. “Would you mind coming down to police headquarters for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

“About Logan Powell?” she asked, and that caused eyebrows to go up all around the table.

“Yeah, we’ve got some preliminary results back from the medical examiner.”

“He’s already done the autopsy?” Phyllis asked, surprised that things were moving that quickly. Even in a relatively small city like Weatherford, the wheels of officialdom usually ground slowly.

“No, that’s going on now,” Whitmire said. “He was able to identify that unusual substance found in Powell’s mouth, though.”

Brown slime, the paramedic had called it, and the description fit as well as any, Phyllis thought. She didn’t want to think about what Whitmire might tell her next, but she couldn’t help herself. There was only one reason he would be calling
her
about this.

“What was it?” she forced herself to say.

“Well, this isn’t a positive identification, you understand—that’ll have to wait for further tests—but according to the ME, the substance appears to be what’s left of some sort of . . . baked good. A muffin, maybe. And the best guess is—”

“A pumpkin muffin,” Phyllis said.

S
am insisted on coming along with her to police headquarters. Carolyn wanted to come, too, but Phyllis talked her out of it. She didn’t think her friend’s hostile attitude toward the police would help matters right now.

Sam offered to drive and Phyllis accepted, glad that she wouldn’t have to worry about the traffic. Her brain was spinning so much because of what Chief Whitmire had just told her that she wasn’t sure it would be safe for her to get behind the wheel.

“I’m sure they don’t think for a second it was one of your muffins that killed him, Phyllis,” Sam told her as he headed his pickup toward police headquarters. “Shoot, I don’t see how Powell would’ve even got hold of one of them. They’ve got to be wrong about what they found in Powell’s mouth.”

“I don’t know,” Phyllis said slowly. “When Dana stopped by the house looking for her keys yesterday evening, she ate one of the muffins and took another one with her.”

Sam frowned. “Oh, yeah. I’d forgot about that.” He glanced over at her. “So you’re not worried about the cops blamin’ you for what happened. You think this’ll help ’em pin it on Mrs. Powell.”

“I don’t know. She’s already admitted that she was at the park with her husband yesterday evening and that they argued. There were witnesses to that, including Carolyn.”

“Maybe she poisoned the muffin and left it for him to eat, then came back later, after he was dead, and put him in that scarecrow outfit.”

“I don’t believe Dana would have killed him,” Phyllis said, “but even if she did, why dress him like a scarecrow?”

Sam shook his head. “I got no clue. It’s a crazy thing to do, all right.”

When they walked into police headquarters, the officer on duty at the desk recognized Phyllis. “Chief Whitmire is waiting to see you, Mrs. Newsom,” she said. “Do you know where his office is?”

“Yes, thank you,” Phyllis said.

The officer picked up a phone. “You can go on back. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Whitmire was waiting in the open doorway of his office when Phyllis and Sam got there. He looked curiously at Sam, and Phyllis said, “You remember my friend Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yes, of course,” Whitmire replied. “I thought you were a teacher, Mr. Fletcher, not a lawyer.”

“Retired teacher,” Sam said. “Not even close to a lawyer.”

“Well, since you’re not Mrs. Newsom’s legal counsel, I’ll have to ask you to wait for her back in the lobby.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” Sam began with a frown.

Phyllis put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Sam.” She didn’t want him getting on the chief’s bad side. “If Carolyn were here, she might suggest they were going to bring out the bright lights and rubber hoses, but we know better, don’t we?”

“I reckon so. But if you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

He stood there with his hands tucked into the hip pockets of his jeans while Whitmire ushered Phyllis into the comfortable, well-appointed office. Whitmire closed the door behind them.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, holding out a hand toward a red leather chair in front of his desk, which was a little cluttered with papers but not too messy. “I’m sorry to have to call you down here,” he went on as both of them settled down in their chairs. “I want this investigation to stay up to speed, though. Logan Powell was a well-respected member of the business community here in town. The sooner we know what killed him and why—and who, if it comes to that—the better.”