Real Women Eat Cake: A Yellow Rose Cozy Mystery (Yellow Rose Mystery Series Book 1) (3 page)

The next morning, Betty was up at six. She did her usual thirty minute walk around the neighborhood, enjoying the solitude of the mostly empty streets as she did so. Another early riser, Mrs. Jenkins nodded a greeting as she approached from the opposite end of the sidewalk.

The canine owner held firm to the leash that Puddles, her Chihuahua, was attached to. The animal sniffed at random spots, and trotted along at a brisk pace apparently happy to be outside. The sun would be up soon, but for now illumination came from the street lights and houses with porch lights on. Returning home, Betty let herself in through the front, showered, put on fresh clothes, then started a pot of coffee.

Hungry, she mixed waffle batter in a large bowl as she pondered what to do about the bakery. She'd decided against a visit with Hank Blevins, and instead had called. She'd left a voicemail regarding the wiring for the building owner where her storefront was located late yesterday afternoon. He hadn't immediately called back, which didn't surprise Betty. Hank was a good man, but rarely responded to any given situation with a sense of urgency. She knew he'd return her call soon enough, though she would call again later in the day to keep things moving along.

There was a noise in the kitchen doorway. Brianna stumbled in and poured herself some coffee into a ceramic mug.

“Well, good morning,” Betty said as she plugged in the waffle iron. “Didn't expect to see you up this early. How'd the studying go at the library yesterday?”

Brianna frowned as see sipped her coffee. “I didn't go to the library. I spent the day with Ethan.”

Betty nodded and made no indication that she already knew this. “Oh?” she said as both reply and a prompt.

“He's going through some rough times, Mama. The drummer in his band quit so he and the other two guys in his group can't get gigs right now. Plus his van needs a new transmission and he doesn't have the money to fix it.”

“What about his day job?”

“His what?” Brianna asked.

I knew it.
Trying not to sound too sarcastic, she said, “Day job. That thing other people have to pay their bills as they pursue other activities.”

“Oh, Mama,” Brianna said in an exasperated tone that only the young can make. “You don't understand. Ethan's got potential.”

Betty took in three deep breaths before the spots in her eyes dissipated. “That's...nice,” she said in a quiet tone. “But what he needs is a job. Better yet, a career.”

“He's got a career, Mama. He's a musician. He sings and plays guitar and writes his own songs. All he needs is a break. Like a really good music video that goes viral on the Internet.”

Betty shook her head and pulled two squares from the waffle maker. “Hungry?” she asked.

“A little,” Brianna said. Hearing a noise at the back door, she got up and undid the lock.

“Wait, before you let Zorro in make sure he doesn't have...”

The warning came two seconds too late. As the door cracked open, Betty's cat trotted in. In his mouth was a live mouse. The cat positioned the rodent underneath his paw against the floor and proudly looked up at Betty.

“Eww!” Brianna said. “Bad cat! Take that thing back outside.”

She tried herding the feline toward the door. Zorro gave a confused look, quickly scooped up the mouse in his mouth, and ran into the living area.

“That's why you check him at the door,” Betty said in an exasperated tone.” We've talked about this before. He likes to bring things he's caught inside to play with.”

“That's not the way it's supposed to work,” Brianna said, following Zorro's path into the living area. “Cats are supposed to catch things inside the house, then take them outside.”

Betty searched behind the sofa. “Like daughters, cats don't always do what they're supposed to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you need to pull your head out of your bottom, get back into school, and stop chasing losers.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Betty regretted them. But the stress of the last several days were beginning to wear on her.

Brianna froze, then turned and stormed down the hall into her room, slamming the door shut behind her. Before Betty could follow, Zorro sauntered out from behind a chair and started cleaning himself.

“What did you do with the mouse?” Betty yelled, throwing her hands into the air. Zorro stared up at her with a blank look, then slowly walked into the kitchen and lapped at his water dish.

Betty's cell phone rang and broke through her aggravation. It was Camden. She assumed he was already at the storefront working since he liked to start early each day on the projects he worked. She hesitated, thinking it might be bad news.

Her instincts were right.

“Betty?” the laborer said with hesitancy in his voice.

“Yes, Camden?”

“I've already called the police, but felt you should know as soon as possible. The reporter guy that was here yesterday, Toby Sanders. David and I found his body in the alley behind the storefront a few minutes ago.”

Martin Lane lived in a red brick house in a cul-de-sac located only a few miles from Betty. Like her, his spouse had died years before and he hadn't seen the need to remarry. The two had met at their local church and eventually become close friends.

Though small, his home contained the main features he desired – a garage to tinker around in, a covered porch in back where he could grill and relax, and a well-stocked kitchen. Like Betty, Martin liked to cook.

Yet to Martin, the house's best quality of all was the absence of a mortgage. He had never been comfortable owing others anything except the occasional favor. Just the opposite, in fact – he liked giving them and he enjoyed helping others.

He was up and dressed and almost finished with the local newspaper. Though he got the bulk of his information on-line, he liked doing the daily crossword puzzle with a good number two pencil. He'd worked as a news reporter years earlier before going into business for himself and he still liked the feel of paper in his hands.

Betty had phoned earlier and asked to come over. She explained the call she'd received from Camden that morning and needed someone to talk to. Martin told her to come over whenever it was convenient, that he would be there all day. He was semi-retired and did minor consulting for businesses at his desk in the room he'd converted into an office.

The doorbell rang. Martin went to the front, checked the peephole, then let Betty inside. After a quick greeting, the two went into the den. Martin sat in his recliner. Betty took up residence on the nearby sofa.

“So,” Martin began, “it's only Tuesday, and I understand you've already had a full week.”

Betty nodded. “First it was the wiring in the storefront. A situation I'm still working on. Then issues with Brianna, and now someone's dead behind my as-yet unopened bakery.” Betty kicked off her shoes and curled her feet underneath her.

“Toby Sanders,” Martin said matter-of-factly. He recalled seeing the man's feature piece in the paper that morning.
Possibly the last one to carry his byline
, thought Martin.

“Yes, and without trying to sound callous about it – his name will now be associated with my work address, which will be associated with me.”

“I'm sure the city police are already working on it,” Martin replied. “They'll do their job, and ultimately justice will be served.”

Betty sighed, lowered her head, and gave a soft, “Um hmm.”

Martin gave his friend's reaction careful consideration, then coughed with the force of a hurricane into his left shirt sleeve. The noise made Betty jump.

“What?” she asked, startled, looking directly at Martin.

“Do I have your attention now?”

“What? I – ”

“We've been friends for a long time, Betty. Let's fast forward and get to where this is headed.”

Betty repositioned herself on the sofa, but said nothing.

“I know you respect the law, as well as the men and women in uniform who are investigating the case. I also know, however, that you're not one to sit on the sidelines and wait and watch. Having said that,” Martin said, leaning forward in the chair, “what are your plans, and what is my part in them?”

Betty fidgeted. “I suppose the first thing to do is figure out who would want him dead.”

Martin nodded. “You might want to start with Toby's father.”

Betty sat up straight and looked at Martin in a curious manner. “Why do you say that?”

“Besides writing features, Toby periodically pounded out columns. A major part of what he wrote about involved his family, including his father who he hinted at was violent at times when he was growing up.”

“He was physically abusive?” Betty asked.

“That's what he indicated. Think that the paper may have his columns archived online if you want to review them.”

“Thanks for the information,” Betty said. “Like you said, a good starting point.”

“What else is on your mind?” he asked.

Betty told him about Brianna. When she mentioned Ethan, Martin arched a brow.

“What?” she asked.

“Well,” he began, “you know that he once worked at the newspaper, right?”

“No, I didn't,” Betty said, her eyes widening. “But I'm learning there's a lot I don't know about my children. What do you know?”

“Nothing officially. But it's my understanding from a friend who does some freelance work that he was an intern there for a short period of time. Scuttlebutt was that he crossed someone and was summarily dismissed.”

“Any idea who that was?” Betty said, planting her feet on the floor again and leaning in toward Martin.

“No, but I can check.”

Betty's phone went off. She mouthed,
Excuse me
, to Martin who smiled and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he was about done, Betty walked in and said, “That was Lieutenant O'Brien from the police department. I've been asked to come in and give a statement.”

Martin nodded. “Standard procedure, I'm sure. But if you like, I can come with and keep you company.”

Betty nodded. She wasn't sure how other people got along without friends helping out. Right now, she was having a hard enough time with her current support system. “I'll get my things,” she said.

Martin Lane walked into the lobby of the Yellow Rose Police Department. He'd told Betty he'd like to have a word with those in charge of the case privately before she was questioned. She hadn't understood the request, but trusted Martin and told him she'd be along in another twenty minutes or so.

“Looking for Lieutenant O'Brien,” he said to a uniformed female behind a glass panel.

“Name?” the woman said.

“Martin Lane.”

The woman punched in the information at her terminal. She instructed him on how to go through the security scanner located to his right, then informed him someone would join him momentarily.

Martin did as told and, sure enough, moments later a police sergeant escorted him to a room with a table and three chairs and was told to wait.

Martin waited. Five minutes later, two men walked in. They each wore off-the-rack suits with narrow ties and serious expressions. The taller of the two eyed Martin for several seconds before walking up and introducing himself. “Name’s Lieutenant O’Brien, and that’s First Deputy Cortez.”

Martin repeated his name in the same firm, polite tone as he'd given to the woman at the front desk.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve interfered with an investigation, is it?” the First Deputy asked.

Martin shrugged, hoping he wasn't about to get pulled into a pissing match with the local law.

“Only if asking questions is interfering,” he said.

“We got a call about a vic found behind the storefront occupied by Betty Hitchens,” the Lieutenant said.

“She'll be here momentarily. She's got a lot on her plate right now and I'm helping her out,” Martin said. “I'm guessing you were the ones who were at the scene?”

Cortez nodded. “From the doctor’s report, Toby Sanders has lesions on his forehead, indicating he'd been hit in the back of the head. We're still looking for the weapon.” He furrowed his eyes at Martin, who was savoring every word.

O’Brien stepped in, feeling the tension between them.

“Betty was one of the last people to have talked with Mr. Sanders before he died. We'd like to ask a few questions, see if we can get a lead on who may have killed him. Find out what hours she was at the store yesterday, if she saw anyone suspicious, knows of anyone who could have had a problem with him. That sort of thing.”

Cortez crushed the empty Styrofoam cup in his hands. He appeared to be having a hard time standing in the same room as Martin. He tossed the cup at the waste bin, then watched it bounce off the edge and onto the floor. What remained was an angry cop seemingly not wanting anyone sniffing out his territory, not before he’d claimed it.

“Okay, spill it,” Martin replied.

“What?” Cortez puffed out his chest. “You’ve got a problem with me, Lane?”

“It's your problem with me, isn't it? That series of stories about your brother in Houston that I contributed to. The ones that got him fired from the force for corruption. I only reported the truth, Cortez. What he did, he brought on himself.”

“Let’s try and stay focused on the issue at hand,” O’Brien said, moving between the two. “Tell us what you know, Lane, even if it's only second-hand information.”

O'Brien glared at Martin.

“It’s okay. None of this was meant to stir the pot for all of us,” Martin said, holding his hands out. The gesture didn’t totally go unnoticed. Cortez pushed O’Brien out of his way, moving away from Martin Lane and closer to the room's exit.

Martin's attention went straight to Lieutenant O’Brien, thinking it might be that he knew something when he arrived at the scene of the crime.

“If you guys came along, that means the boys in blue must have stumbled onto something,” Martin said.

O’Brien hooked two fingers in his belt loops and hitched it up his waist.

“There’s already been a search of Toby’s residence. Turns out his wife's missing. One of her suitcases is gone and a drawer was pulled out with clothes scattered about. Looked like someone packed and left in a hurry. There was also a map with some notes regarding Lake Travis lying on the floor. We've got someone scheduled to go out and talk with one of the managers in case she fled there.”

Cortez snorted and chimed in with his own sense of things.

O’Brien dug his finger into Cortez's chest.

“You and I are gonna have a problem if you can’t keep it together, Deputy.”

Cortez smiled, placing a toothpick in the corner of his lip. He looked like he'd taken the last crack that he needed. Martin never understood the joy of tearing another person down. Taking people down a peg was all that mattered, regardless of the cost. It was like a badge of pride or something. The man was painful – like a bone fracture that kept breaking and never healed.

“Well, looks like someone needs to get busy,” Martin said.

“You’ve gotten in the way long enough,” Cortez said." Why don’t you let the professionals take it from here, huh?”

“Is a professional the man who I’m staring at right now?” Martin asked.

“Lane,” O’Brien cautioned.

Though most likely Cortez would have liked nothing more than to knock Martin's lights out, he simply flashed another arrogant half smile as he followed Lieutenant O’Brien out of the of the room.