The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer (7 page)

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she thought about Barney McCrory's murder and how close Sam had come to dying, and how other innocent people might have been hurt or even killed. She thought about all the families who had turned out on a crisp winter evening to enjoy a parade and a Christmas-
tree lighting to launch a wonderful holiday season, only to have it turn into screaming chaos.

Then she said, “And I don't want whoever did this to get away with it.”

W
hen Phyllis woke up the next morning, the world was new again, as it usually was, and for a moment there was no room in her head for thoughts of murder.

That didn't last long, though, as memories of what had happened the night before came flooding into her brain.

Sometimes that first rush of thought brought with it possibilities that she hadn't considered before. That wasn't the case this time. She was just as baffled by Barney McCrory's murder as she had been when starting out. Mentally, she examined everything she had seen and heard, and didn't spot anything that would prove Nate Hollingsworth was innocent.

Conversely, though, there was nothing else to point to him as the killer, other than what he and Allyson had talked about downstairs in the living room as they ate cupcakes and drank coffee.

It was early—Phyllis never slept in anymore; that ability seemed to have deserted her—but Eve was already in the
kitchen when Phyllis came in. Eve seldom attempted to cook anything, but she had the coffee on already. She sat down at the table with the cup she had just poured and said, “Carolyn tells me you're going to investigate that murder at the parade last night.”

“It's possible,” Phyllis admitted as she got her cup from the drainer by the sink.

“I'm sorry I didn't join you when there was company here. I was all wrapped up in something and didn't even know about it until I ran into Carolyn in the hall later.”

Phyllis filled her cup and said, “That's all right. Were you working on something?”

“Oh, just a little hobby I've taken up. Nothing important.”

Phyllis hadn't heard anything about a hobby and was curious about what Eve was up to, but her friend didn't seem to want to talk about it, and Phyllis wasn't going to press her. It wasn't like she was nosy or anything.

That thought brought a smile to her face.
Nosy
was probably one of the milder words some people might use to describe her. She didn't see it that way, but she could understand why others would.

She preferred to think of her activities as digging for the truth. Like an archaeologist.

Eve said, “I'm sure Sam is worried about that situation. It was an old friend of his who was killed, after all.”

“It seems like these things always hit too close to home,” Phyllis said with a sigh. Eve knew that as well as anyone, since she'd had her own run-in with murder, nasty business that had landed both her and Phyllis behind bars for a while.

“Well, if you want to talk about it anytime, I'd be glad
to listen. I'm no detective like you are, but my ear is always available.”

“Thanks,” Phyllis said. Eve's attitude was a little puzzling. She had never taken that much of an interest in the cases Phyllis investigated unless they affected her personally.

Interrupting her thoughts, Carolyn came into the kitchen and said, “I wouldn't expect Sam to be down anytime soon, the way he's sawing logs up there. I could hear him out in the hall when I passed his room.”

Phyllis smiled and said, “I'll cook some bacon. That smell always has amazing rejuvenating powers where Sam is concerned.”

Carolyn sat down at the table with her cup of coffee and asked, “Have you decided what your first column is going to be about?”

The question sounded casual, but Phyllis suspected that it wasn't. A few months earlier, she had won a recipe contest sponsored by their favorite magazine,
A Taste of Texas
, and the editor had surprised her by asking her to write a monthly column featuring a new recipe. The deadline was looming, and Phyllis knew she had to come up with something soon.

“I was thinking about combining a couple of things I like,” she said, then hesitated. Over the years, she had gotten into the habit of being rather closemouthed about recipe ideas around Carolyn, since they were usually competing in one contest or another. Phyllis didn't think for a second that Carolyn would actually steal one of her recipes, but just knowing what Phyllis was considering might give her an advantage in making her own plans.

This time, however, there was no competition involved.
Indeed, Carolyn had seemed to be nothing but pleased and supportive about Phyllis's column.

“Combinations are usually a good idea,” Carolyn said now. “As long as you don't try to combine things that really don't go together. Those oddball mixtures are usually awful.”

Phyllis wasn't so sure about that. How were you supposed to know what went together well if you didn't try them out?

But she let that go and said, “I think these will be just fine. I'm going to make some baklava macarons and see how they turn out.”

“Oh, that does sound good,” Eve said.

“Yes, it does,” Carolyn agreed. “If I can give you a hand, just let me know.” She paused, then added, “You wouldn't even have to mention me in the magazine.”

Phyllis took a sip of coffee to keep from laughing. Eve wasn't that restrained. She smiled sweetly and asked, “How's the fishing, dear?”

“Fishing?” Carolyn frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Phyllis didn't know if Eve's pointed comment had really gone over Carolyn's head, or if Carolyn just chose to pretend not to understand. Either way, the conversation had gone far enough. She stood up and headed for the cabinet to get out a frying pan and start on that bacon.

•   •   •

As Phyllis had predicted, about ten minutes after the smell of frying bacon filled the big old house, Sam walked into the kitchen in his bathrobe. By that time, Carolyn had mixed up
some blueberry muffins and had them in the oven, and the aroma in the kitchen was even more delicious.

As the four friends sat around the table eating, Carolyn asked, “Are you and Sam going to start investigating this morning, Phyllis?”

“I imagine we'll wait to hear from Mr. D'Angelo's office,” Phyllis said. “We're supposed to go by there sometime today to sign those statements we gave Chief Whitmire last night, and he'll be talking to Nate this morning, too. It's possible Mr. D'Angelo may think the police don't have a strong enough case to charge Nate, so the whole thing could turn out to be moot.”

Carolyn frowned and said, “But what about that cloud of suspicion you mentioned last night? If the real killer isn't caught, some people will always believe that Nate shot his father-in-law.”

“I suppose that's true. I'm not sure the general public will ever hear enough about the case to form such an opinion, though.”

“Are you joking?” Carolyn asked. “A murder at a Christmas parade, a runaway Santa Claus sleigh, and who happens to be on hand to stop it and save lives? You two!” She shook her head. “I'll bet the story is all over the Internet already. Those—what do you call 'em?—fan sites will be buzzing about this.”

Phyllis frowned. She hadn't thought about that. As far-fetched as it seemed to her, as difficult as it was for her to believe, she knew there were true-crime websites devoted to the cases she had solved. She didn't have any connection to any of them, and she scrupulously avoided commenting on
them, no matter how outlandish they got, but she knew they were out there.

And she knew Carolyn was right: Barney McCrory's murder would be prime blog fodder.

Sam said, “Nobody who knows Nate very well would ever think he was a murderer. He was always a good kid, and grew up to be a good man.”

“You know that,” Carolyn said, “and the rest of us will certainly take your word for it. But what about everybody who doesn't know him? He's going to be the prime suspect in everyone's mind, Sam. There's no getting around that.”

Sam grimaced and shrugged. He knew there was no point in arguing with Carolyn, especially when she was right.

After breakfast, once they had cleaned up the dishes and gotten dressed, Sam fed his Dalmatian, Buck, who had been part of the family since Sam had adopted him several months earlier. Phyllis went to the computer in the living room and turned on the monitor. She checked her e-mail—nothing important, not even a message from a Nigerian prince—and then opened one of the true-crime websites in her browser. She didn't want to admit it to Carolyn, but she had bookmarked several of them.

She winced as she saw the title of the first post:
WEATHERFORD, MURDER CAPITAL
OF TEXAS—AND PHYLLI
S NEWSOM'S HOMETOWN
. There was a picture of the big crowd gathered on the courthouse lawn for the previous year's Christmas-tree lighting, since it had never taken place this year.

The person who had posted the story had included a photograph of Barney McCrory, too. It had been taken
somewhere outside, probably on his ranch, and Phyllis thought it made him look like the Marlboro Man. Of course, there was no mention of that, since not many members of the Internet generation would even be aware of who the Marlboro Man was.

There was a picture of Clay Loomis, too: a professional portrait showing his sleek, silver-haired good looks and plenty of white teeth bared in a politician's smile. The story explained that he was the local official who'd been playing Santa Claus in the parade.

Not only that, but there were also pictures of attractive young women in elf costumes that were even skimpier and more suggestive than the ones the cheerleaders had actually been wearing. The story made it sound as if the women in the photos were the high school girls who had been on the carriage, even though they really weren't.

As she skimmed through the story, Phyllis had to admit that despite its overall sleazy tone, the basic facts as presented by the website were correct. She clicked on the bookmarks again and went to another site.

This one was more restrained, although one of the commenters on the post had written in all caps, NEVER GO TO THE OPERA WITH PHYLLIS NEWSOM! She wasn't sure what
that
meant. She hadn't been to the opera in years. She didn't even
like
opera.

Then she frowned and said, “Ohhhh,” as the light dawned.
The idea was ridiculous, of course. She went to plenty of places where murders never took place.

Sam came into the room behind her and she gave a little guilty start, as if she'd been looking at something she shouldn't. She started to close the browser, then decided not to. She wasn't doing anything wrong.

“Carolyn was right, eh?” Sam said. “The story's already out there?”

“Yes, but there's really not much about Nate and Allyson.” She let out a ladylike little snort. “They're too busy making snide comments about how dangerous it is to be around me.”

“Maybe I'd better keep that in mind,” Sam drawled. “These days, I spend more time around you than anybody else, so I reckon I'm in the most danger.”

“Don't be—” She was going to say
ridiculous
, but then she turned and saw that he was grinning. “You're just giving me the business.”

“Maybe.” He grew more serious as he came to stand beside her. “Did you see anything that gave you ideas?”

“Unfortunately, no. There's nothing in-depth in any of the stories. We need to sit down with Nate and Allyson again, maybe with Mr. D'Angelo there, and go over everything they can tell us about Mr. McCrory and his business. There has to be something somewhere to justify someone taking a shot at him.”

“Unless it was just a random shooter,” Sam said.

“If that were true, isn't it more likely he would have kept shooting? Maniacs like that generally don't stop with one shot.”

“That's true. The way the whole thing played out makes it
look like he was just after Barney. When he made his first shot, that was the end of it.”

Phyllis frowned. She said, “How do we know it was his first shot?”

“Well, nobody else was hurt . . .”

“Maybe his first shot missed. Maybe his first two or three shots. The police need to go over that carriage very carefully and look for bullet holes. I wonder what happened to it.”

“My guess is that the cops impounded it. It'll be in the police garage. I don't see what some extra shots would prove, though.”

Phyllis sighed.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “The case has barely gotten started, and I'm already grasping at straws.”

“You're gatherin' information and considerin' possibilities,” Sam said. “I wouldn't call that graspin' at straws.”

“Maybe not, but—”

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her.

“You expectin' anybody?” Sam asked.

“No,” Phyllis replied with a frown. She turned off the computer monitor and stood up. A glance out the living-room window showed her an unmarked van parked at the curb in front of the house. The van might not have any words written on it, but the presence of a small dish antenna attached to the vehicle's roof was a dead giveaway.

The TV people had arrived—and they were just about the last people Phyllis wanted to see.