Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) (5 page)

“Oh, no, we weren’t going to cut a hole,” Phyllis said.

“We rented a metal detector.” Grandma looked so proud of herself. “I wanted one of those sound wave machines that bounce off metal objects and gives their shape, but we weren’t able to get our hands on one.”

“Besides the handheld metal detector will be easier to smuggle in.” Phyllis sipped her coffee.

I shook my head. “What do you think you’ll find in there?”

“The murder weapon, I hope,” Grandma said. “At least I told Lois I’d found one. It’s why she agreed to speak with me.”

That made me sit back. “You told Lois you found a murder weapon, and she believed you?”

“Not
a
murder weapon;
the
murder weapon. The one that killed Champ.”

“Over the years, Dr. Abernathy was able to figure out that Champ was killed by a military handgun. He thought maybe a Beretta.”

“You think Homer killed Champ and Lois knew about it? Is that what you think is the motive for Lois’s murder?” I don’t know why my mind leapt to that conclusion, except that both men served in the war.

“Exactly,” Grandma Ruth said, and slapped her hands on the Formica table. “I was
this close
to getting Lois to spill the beans on the old story and
bam
! She winds up murdered. Anyone else here think that is more than mere coincidence?”

Phyllis raised her hand and I shook my head.

“So you think someone killed Lois before she could come clean about the murder?”

“The key word there is that I
think
. I have no proof. It’s why I needed to know what Lois knew.”

“It’s also why we need to break into the courthouse and check that wall.” Phyllis put down her coffee. “So, are you in or are you out?”

“Why don’t you take your suspicions to Chief Blaylock?” I asked. I mean, it seemed like the obvious thing to do.

“Because he will think I’m an old woman with strange ideas.” Grandma crossed her arms over her chest.

“You
are
an old woman with strange ideas.” Phyllis laughed and patted Grandma’s hand.

“Okay, my ideas may be strange, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

“Here’s a question: Why would Homer kill Champ?” I tugged on a wild curl and pulled it behind my ear. “Was Champ blackmailing Homer?”

“I’m still working on motive.” Grandma rubbed her sandpaper-sounding chin. “Too bad you can’t track money back then like you can now. We might be able to determine if Homer paid someone—say Lois—to kill Champ.”

Phyllis’s cup rattled as it hit the saucer. “Does Homer have any of his bank or office money ledgers in his archives?”

“Hard to tell.” Grandma’s blue eyes narrowed. “The historian in charge of his collection of papers is notoriously stingy with letting anyone read them. I even tried to bribe her with a twenty-dollar bill. All she did was look down her nose at me and ask me to put my request in writing to be considered by Homer Everett’s family.”

“Old ledgers might not be as easy to search as the Internet,” I pointed out. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t searchable.”

“Too bad we can’t bring those papers and journals home. We would have plenty of time to dig out clues,” Grandma said.

“I have it.” Phyllis laughed. “We can go to the courthouse and offer to scan in all Homer’s documents to get them out on the Web for the entire world to see.”

“I tried that.” Grandma brushed off her hands. “It seems it was Homer’s express wish that his papers and journals only be available for study
inside
the society. We don’t have time to fiddle-fart around with historians—not with my life on the line. We need to get in there, make copies, and get the heck out.”

“Wait, why can’t we simply tell the cops what we suspect?” I stood and removed the nearly empty plate.

Grandma reached over and grabbed the last donut on the plate. “We can’t go to the cops—old woman, strange ideas, remember?” She took a bite of the apple cinnamon donut. “I need evidence. It doesn’t matter whether it is an accounting error or a scan of the weapon or both.”

“Stop it, Grandma.” I tossed the crumbs in the trash and the plate into the soapy dishwater in the sink. “I won’t have you arrested for trespassing or, worse, breaking and entering.”

“Oh, please, you know I’d be fine in jail.”

“You might be fine,” I retorted, “but I’d be a wreck. Phyllis, it’s your job to see that she stays out of trouble. Is that clear?”

“Quite.” Phyllis raised one blonde eyebrow and sipped her coffee.

“And neither of you are to go to the courthouse without me.” I pointed from one to the other and gave them my best stink eye. “I don’t want to have to put my business or the house up as collateral to bail you out of jail. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.” Grandma Ruth popped the last bit of donut into her mouth. She swallowed the dregs of her coffee. “Come on, Phyllis, I think we should let Toni get back to her work.”

Phyllis got up and put on her coat, then pushed Grandma to the door. As she passed me, she leaned in to me and said, “It’s Sunday and the courthouse is closed. Ruth plans a midnight escapade tonight. I expect you’ll be there.”

“I can’t persuade you to go during business hours and perhaps tell the historian what you want to know?”

They looked at me, shaking their heads, their chins set in stubborn lines.

I blew out a deep breath. “I suppose someone ought to go and keep an eye on you two. Why midnight?”

“It’s the witching hour, my dear,” Grandma cackled as they pushed through the door and out into the parking lot.

I
had lost my mind. It was the only reason I could think of that I would be hanging out in Phyllis’s van in the middle of the night, helping these two old women.

“Help me with my Camo makeup,” Grandma demanded. The green-brown makeup was supposed to hide her pale freckled skin from detection in the moonlight, but it wouldn’t cover her bright orange hair.

“Where did you get the camos, Grandma?” I dutifully rubbed more brown on her stubbled chin.

“I dug them out of your uncle Joe’s closet,” Phyllis said. Uncle Joe was only ten years older than me and was Grandma Ruth’s happy accident. He’d spent time in the army and liked to go hunting and fishing. Thus he had camouflage clothing in his closet big enough to fit Grandma Ruth’s frame. Phyllis, on the other hand, wore a black catsuit that made her look like a 1960s film star. Her bright yellow hair was carefully tucked into a black stocking cap and her face and hands were painted green-brown.

I had come straight from the bakery. After making pies all day I’d taken the afternoon off to catch up on my reading. Then I’d gone back to the bakery to start the dough for the morning’s pastries. So I wore a pair of black slacks covered in fine gluten-free flour, a black tee shirt with hand smears on it, and a stocking cap borrowed from Phyllis.

“You really should paint your face,” Grandma Ruth warned.

“I think my face is fine.” I ran the makeup sponge across her forehead, smearing the last bit of pale skin. “Tell me again why we are skulking around the courthouse in the dark?”

“Ruth told you, the historian won’t let us take scans of any of the papers. For that matter she won’t let you touch anything without gloves on. Heaven help you if you breathe on something. We just want to get in and get the journals we haven’t read yet and get out.

“You agreed,” Grandma pointed out and pushed my hand away. “Besides, this will give us a chance to take a good look at the courthouse square. Lois died somewhere in that square. Maybe we’ll find something the police missed.”

“How are we going to do that?” I asked, my arms akimbo.

“We’re going to use flashlights, like all the crime shows,” Grandma stated, and rocked herself up and out of the captain’s chair that served as the passenger seat.

“That’s television, Grandma, not real life.” I didn’t want to be negative, but Grandma was bordering on crazy here.

“That’s right,” Phyllis said. “In real life we use spotlights.” She lifted up a small round super bright light that my brother used to spot deer out in fields at night.

“I hardly think we’ll go unnoticed shining that thing around.”

“That’s the plan.” Grandma grinned.

“What’s the plan? To get arrested?”

“No, no,” Phyllis said. “You are going to shine the spotlight around and see if we can figure out the crime scene, and if anyone notices, you can tell them that you are investigating the crime.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because they would believe you,” Phyllis said, as if she had no reason not to think I’d be willing to shine a spotlight around near a patch of ground surrounded with crime-scene tape.

“No, they wouldn’t.” I tried to reason. “I’ve already been warned not to snoop.”

“But you’ll be providing a distraction so that Phyllis and I can see if that side entrance to the courthouse is unlocked.”

“Why would the door be unlocked?” I asked.

“Because I was in there earlier and unlocked it,” Phyllis said.

“Oh, no, no, I won’t be party to breaking and entering.”

“Good.” Grandma stuffed the spotlight in my hand. “Because you won’t be doing either. Now, go out there and look around. Who knows, you might actually find something the cops overlooked.”

“Maybe I should call Brad.”

“You do and we’ll investigate on our own next time.” Phyllis had her hands on her hips. She knew she had me. Neither one of us wanted Grandma Ruth arrested. She might be wicked smart, but she would not last long in prison. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The very least I could do was ensure I was around to explain the madness when these two got caught.

“Fine.” I gave in and took the spotlight. I opened the van door and stepped out into the quiet of the cold November night. Phyllis had parked in the courthouse parking lot on the left side. It was the only car in the lot and stood out like a sore thumb even when parked as far from the streetlight as possible.

I tugged my jacket around me and glanced about. The courthouse was made of red rock and limestone. It was over one hundred years old and had been built for a time when there was reverence for the law. I wondered if Grandma Ruth’s missionary grandmother was turning over in her grave. I stepped out onto the cold, dew-damp grass. The trees were bare against the moonless night. Stars twinkled above the dim streetlight. The air was crisp with newfound cold and the scent of dead leaves. The wind whispered there was snow on the way even though the sky was crystal clear.

The air was filled with that deafening quiet that comes after the first frost when the insects were either hibernating or dead and the birds long gone to warmer climes.

My tennis shoes squeaked on the grass as I made my way around the courthouse to the area that had been taped off. I could hear Grandma Ruth and Phyllis whispering back and forth to each other as they stumbled around in the dark. Their tiny flashlights were not as revealing as they had hoped. I wanted to go over there and hand them the spotlight, but thought better of it. Phyllis wasn’t kidding. Grandma would keep me out of their investigation if I didn’t follow along.

And having Grandma investigate on her own was a nightmare I didn’t want to ever know about. I turned on the spotlight and dutifully ran it along the ground on my side of the taped-off section.

I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking for, and I was a little weirded out by the idea of walking around alone, possibly steps from where a woman was murdered not twenty-four hours ago. I reached into my pocket and wrapped my free hand around my cell phone. If worse came to worst I could speed dial my way out of trouble—at least I wanted to believe it could happen.

I ran the spotlight along the ground and to the foot of the statue of Homer Everett. As a kid I’d been half-frightened and half-fascinated by the bronze likeness so clearly profiled against the night sky. Homer was balding with a bad comb-over that the sculptor had captured in all its creepy goodness. The man would forever be wearing a 1970s leisure suit and a heavy chain around his neck. The only thing missing was the John Travolta pointed finger in the air. The crime-scene tape ran from the back of the statue to the side of the courthouse. The taped-off area was about ten feet deep and thirty feet long. It encompassed a line of thick bushes with entangled empty branches and piles of leaves at their feet.

I ran the spotlight across the grass, wondering where exactly Lois had been found. It wasn’t like the police had left a chalk outline or anything. Could she have fallen from a window? I ran the light up the side of the courthouse. There was a small window three stories up. From where I stood I couldn’t see if it was big enough for someone to push Lois out. I made a mental note to stop by the courthouse in the morning and see if I could figure out what room that window belonged to and if the frame showed any signs of a struggle.

Although I supposed if it did the police would have already known it and have it taped off. I ran the light across the grass again looking for the incriminating scooter tracks that made Chief Blaylock bring Grandma Ruth in for questioning.

There were indeed dark twin tracks that looked as if they might be the same width as Grandma’s scooter. I stepped as close to the crime-scene tape as I could, but it was difficult to gauge the width. What I needed to do was go under the tape and measure the distance myself. It would give me a better idea of what kind of vehicle made the marks.

A quick glance around, and I saw I was alone. Heart pounding, I decided to go for it, and ducked under the tape. I was careful to walk in a single line so as not to tamper too badly with the scene. Unlike in crime shows on television, real-life police work was pretty much done and the scene released the first day. I reasoned it was simply out of respect for Lois that the tape was still up.

My athletic shoes made a squishy sound on the damp ground as I crossed to the tracks. The ground certainly had a bit of a bounce to it. If Lois was pushed or fell from the window she might not have died immediately. That thought gave me the shivers. I hunkered down and examined the scooter tracks, if that was indeed what they were. They were about a half inch deep, and the tread did look like Grandma Ruth’s all-terrain tires. Something was not quite right about them. They appeared to start and stop on either side of the bushes. I shined my light under the bushes, and something sparkled through the leaves. Reaching my hand into the pile, I hoped whatever I grabbed wouldn’t be a critter with sparkly eyes.

A snapped twig made me let out a slight squeal as adrenaline flooded my system. I stood and whirled quickly, the spotlight landing on the outstretched hands of a man of about five foot ten and a body that would make the oldest woman drool. “Turn it off, Toni, you’re blinding me!”

I blew out a breath at the familiar voice and pointed the spotlight toward the ground. “Sam, you scared me silly.” My heart pounded in my throat as I ducked quickly under the crime-scene tape before he got his vision back enough to figure out I wasn’t where I should be.

“I didn’t mean to.” Sam lifted his cowboy hat and ran his hand through his gray-tipped, dark brown hair. “What are you doing out here this late at night?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” I stepped closer, keeping my back to the crime-scene tape in hopes of distracting him from where I’d been.

“I finished up a job at the Murphys’ place across the park.” He pointed toward a big old house made of limestone block from the turn of the last century. “The Dumpster is parked in front of the house, so I parked in the courthouse parking lot.”

“Oh, right, Grandma said the Murphy house was being remodeled,” I said, and slipped my arm through his and pulled him along the sidewalk. “Did you design the remodel?”

“No, I’m putting in the bathroom and patching up the living room.” He walked with me under the stars. I was careful to turn my spotlight off and keep it away from him in case he remembered I had it.

“Really? Are they going with a modern bathroom, or one that matches the era of the house?”

“There were no bath fixtures contemporary to that structure. It was one of the first buildings built in town. So we picked something close.”

“Oh, did you choose one of those flush toilets with the tank way up high on the wall?”

“Yes, and small tile and a pedestal sink. Now tell me what you were doing behind crime-scene tape with a spotlight.”

I swallowed. It was easier to distract Sam than to lie to him. He lifted a dark eyebrow, and I noticed that his eyes glittered in the streetlight.

“I wanted to see the tread marks where Lois Striker’s body was found,” I said. “Chief Blaylock brought Grandma Ruth in for questioning because he said the tread matched Grandma’s scooter.”

“It’s after midnight, Toni.”

“I had to wait until this late to keep Grandma from finding out I was here.” I said it with as much conviction as I could. “She would have wanted to come with me, and the last thing I want is for the police to think Grandma was out here tampering with a crime scene.”

“But it’s okay if you tamper with a crime scene. . . .”

“I wasn’t tampering.” I began to feel a little too desperate.

“Methinks thou doth protest too much.” He crossed his arms over his magnificent chest. Tonight he wore a jean jacket opened to reveal a white tee shirt tucked into tight cowboy jeans. His big shiny buckle was a testament to his rodeo days.

“Really . . . you’re quoting Hamlet?”

“What, a rancher can’t be educated?” He sounded seriously offended.

“No, I wasn’t saying you weren’t educated.” I stumbled for the right words. “I was merely saying, really, you would quote Shakespeare at a time like this?”

“You mean after I caught you snooping around a crime scene where you don’t belong?”

I opened my mouth to say something, then caught the twinkle in his dark eyes. Thank goodness the parking lot had streetlights or I wouldn’t have known he was kidding.

“Gotcha.”

I could feel the heat of embarrassment rush over my cheeks. To cover it, I gave him a small shove in the arm. Sam was a thoroughly well-built man, and my shove did more to my muscles than to his. It crossed my mind more than once that seeing him shirtless in jeans and his tool belt might be fun.

We reached his truck. “Where are you parked?” he asked.

“Oh, I borrowed my Aunt Phyllis’s van.” I pointed to the vehicle with the hippie peace signs painted on it. “She’s visiting from California.”

“I don’t remember your mom having a sister named Phyllis.”

“That’s because she’s not my mom’s sister. She’s one of Grandma Ruth’s adopted kids. She’s a bit of a free spirit.”

“I see.” He opened the driver’s door to his black truck. “Sounds like someone I need to meet . . . have dinner with . . . at your place.”