The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer (8 page)

S
am had come up beside Phyllis to peer through the window. He muttered, “I don't like the looks of that.”

“Maybe if we just ignore them, they'll go away,” she suggested.

“Maybe,” Sam said dubiously, “but I doubt it. Anyway, there'll just be some more along later.”

The doorbell rang again. Carolyn came up the hall from the kitchen and said, “Goodness, isn't someone going to answer that?” She started toward the door herself.

Phyllis waved her back and said in resignation, “I've got it.”

She opened the door to find three people standing on her porch: two burly men in Windbreakers and blue jeans, one carrying a video camera and the other some sort of equipment Phyllis didn't recognize, and a young woman with artfully tousled chestnut hair and perfect makeup. She held a microphone and wore a blue blazer and a scandalously short skirt that showed off sleek, nylon-clad legs.

“Mrs. Newsom,” she said quickly, without any preamble, “I'm Felicity Prosper from
Inside Beat
. I'm sure you've seen our program. What can you tell us about this latest murder case you're investigating? Have you zeroed in on the killer yet?”

“I'm sorry,” Phyllis began, “I really can't comment—”

“You
are
Phyllis Newsom, aren't you?” the young woman went on. “Texas's Elderly Angel of Death?”

That question left Phyllis so shocked, she couldn't find any words. While she was standing there speechless, Sam moved up behind her, rested a hand on her shoulder, and said through the screen door, “Listen here. You folks just get on out of here. You've got no business comin' around and upsettin' people—”

“You're Sam Fletcher,” Felicity Prosper said. “Mrs. Newsom's
friend
.” Her tone of voice put a leer in the word. “What's it like to be romantically involved with a woman who catches killers for a living?”

Phyllis finally found her voice again. She burst out, “I don't catch killers for a living. I'm a retired schoolteacher!”

“A retired schoolteacher who's responsible for nearly a dozen murderers being behind bars, even though the incompetent authorities in this town had no idea they were guilty,” Felicity Prosper went on smoothly. Phyllis wondered crazily how the woman could talk so fast without ever stopping to take a breath. “That's true, isn't it? In every one of those cases, the police arrested the wrong person and claimed that he or she was the killer. Including one of your very best friends.”

The torrent of words threatened to overwhelm Phyllis. She thought about slamming the door in Felicity's face, but before she could do that, Sam said angrily, “I've seen that
Inside Beat
show of yours, miss. It's pure trash. Nothin' but sordid celebrity gossip and the most lurid crimes you can dig up. Well, there's nothin' for you to see here. Nothin'!”

Sam stepped back, bringing Phyllis with him, and took care of slamming the door. In fact, he slammed it so hard, it shivered in its frame.

“Dang,” Sam muttered. “Hope I didn't knock anything outa line.”

“Good grief,” Carolyn said from behind them. “I don't think I've ever seen you so angry, Sam.”

“I just hate to see those . . . those buzzards peckin' around in the tragedy of a good man's death.”

The doorbell rang again. Phyllis's only response was to reach up and turn the dead bolt, making sure it was closed. Then she went back into the living room and pulled the curtains shut over the picture window.

Felicity Prosper gave up trying to wear out the doorbell after a while and went back to the van, trailed by the two men, who hadn't said a word. A few minutes later the phone rang, and when Phyllis answered, the first thing she heard was the young woman's voice saying, “Mrs. Newsom, if you'd just give me an interview—”

Phyllis thumbed the button to end the call. It went against the grain for her to hang up on someone—her generation had been raised to be polite—but she didn't want to talk to the tabloid-TV reporter.

A few minutes later Felicity was back on the porch, ringing the bell.

“Would it do any good to call the police?” Eve asked. She had joined Phyllis, Sam, and Carolyn in the living room.

“I'm sure the police could tell them to get off the property,” Phyllis said, “but then they'd just sit out there in their van. That's not against the law.”

“Maybe it should be,” Carolyn said. “It ought to be illegal to harass law-abiding citizens in their own homes.”

“It's the information age,” Sam said, “and information wants to be free. Or so all the anarchists will tell you. That's not what the young lady and her associates are after, though.”

“What do you think they want?” Phyllis asked.

“Ratings.” Sam rubbed his right thumb against the fingertips of that hand. “Money. Moolah.”

Phyllis had to laugh.

“I don't think I've heard anybody use that word in ages,” she said. “Thank you, Sam. You've lightened the mood.”

“Maybe so, but I don't reckon it'll take Miss Short Skirt out there long to darken it again.”

Phyllis raised an eyebrow and said, “You noticed the skirt, did you?”

“Hard not to. My bones may creak, but my eyes still work pretty good.”

It was a long morning. Felicity Prosper went back and forth from the porch to the van, ringing the doorbell each time, and she called on the phone at least half a dozen times. Phyllis let both of them ring.

Finally, though, on one of those calls, the phone displayed the name of the law firm where Jimmy D'Angelo had his practice. That one Phyllis answered right away.

“Good morning,” D'Angelo said.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Phyllis told him.

“Oh? What's wrong?”

“There's a reporter from some tabloid TV show camped out on my front porch. She wants to talk to me about Mr. McCrory's murder.” Phyllis paused. “She called me Texas's Elderly Angel of Death.”

D'Angelo made a noise on the other end of the connection. She couldn't tell if he was trying to be sympathetic—or trying not to laugh.

But he managed to sound properly outraged as he said, “That's terrible. I can try to get a restraining order against them. It might not be easy, though. I'm sure the show has plenty of lawyers on retainer, ready to start yelling about the freedom of the press.”

Phyllis sighed and said, “I wouldn't waste any time and energy on that. This reporter is persistent, and I'm sure there'll be others. I'm just going to try to ignore them.”

“You can always say
no comment
, no matter what they ask you,” D'Angelo said. “Do you think you can get out without them following you?”

“It's doubtful, but I can try. Do you want to see me?”

“You and Sam. I've got those statements for you to sign. Also, Nate Hollingsworth was here earlier. I think it would be worthwhile for all of us to sit down with him and his wife to talk about the case. They're supposed to be here at two this afternoon. Can you and Sam make that?”

“We'll be there,” Phyllis promised. “We may have a TV crew in tow, but we'll be there.”

•   •   •

Felicity Prosper and her cohorts must have taken a break for lunch, because their van disappeared from the curb in the
middle of the day. Phyllis hoped they would be gone until after she and Sam left for Jimmy D'Angelo's office. She didn't want the TV people following them there. That would tip them off that D'Angelo was involved and might lead them straight to Nate and Allyson.

In fact, once the housemates had finished eating lunch themselves, Phyllis said to Carolyn and Eve, “Do you two mind cleaning up? I think it might be best if Sam and I went on downtown now, while Miss Prosper and her friends aren't out there, spying on us.”

“That's a good idea,” Carolyn said. “Of course Eve and I can take care of things here.”

“That's right,” Eve seconded the statement. “You two should go ahead while you've got the chance.”

“We'll be early,” Sam pointed out as he stood up from the kitchen table, “but I suppose we can wait in Jimmy's office, or maybe walk around the square.”

Phyllis thought that was a good idea. They could walk by the Cranmoor Building, where Nate had his office, and see how the second-floor windows lined up with the trajectory of the shot that had killed Barney McCrory.

Quickly, they got ready to leave. Instead of taking Sam's pickup this time, they got into Phyllis's Lincoln inside the garage. The garage door was closed, so they couldn't be seen from the street. Phyllis opened the door, backed out quickly, and turned toward the downtown area.

They had gone less than a block when she noticed something odd in the rearview mirror.

Someone was following them on a bicycle.

The schools hadn't dismissed for Christmas vacation yet,
since Christmas was still more than two weeks away, so there shouldn't have been any kids out and about on a weekday. Well, not many anyway, Phyllis thought. These days there were always a few homeschooled children around.

The person on the bicycle didn't look like a child, though. He appeared to be a grown man, and a rather large one at that. In fact, he was so big, he looked ridiculous perched on the bicycle seat.

He seemed to be having trouble controlling the bike, too. He wobbled and weaved back and forth nearly from one side of the street to the other as he pumped hard on the pedals. It was a good thing there was no traffic right now.

Then Phyllis exclaimed, “Oh, dear!” as she saw the cyclist lose control of the bike and fall over. It was a classic wipeout, the sort of crash that left a rider with skinned elbows and knees, if not worse.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked, as Phyllis slowed down.

“There was a man back there on a bicycle,” she explained. “He wrecked it.”

“Kind of a chilly day to be out ridin' a bike,” Sam said, as Phyllis turned into a driveway and began to back up and turn around. “Sure it's not a motorcycle?”

“It would be just as cold on a motorcycle as on a bicycle, wouldn't it?”

“Well, yeah, I guess it would,” Sam said with a shrug. “A bicycle just seems colder somehow.”

“Anyway, this fellow looked familiar. I want to make sure he's all right.”

Phyllis hadn't realized until just then that there
was
something familiar about the man. I must have noticed it subconsciously, she thought as she drove toward him.

By the time she reached him, he was sitting up and shaking his head like he was groggy. He wasn't wearing a helmet. She hoped he hadn't hit his head on the pavement and seriously injured himself.

The curb was empty, so she parked there even with the man and the overturned bicycle. He was an overweight young man with a shock of curly dark hair and thick lenses set in black plastic rims. He wore jeans and a University of North Texas sweatshirt with a lightweight Windbreaker over it.

The knees of the trousers were torn. It looked like he had skinned his knees, although his elbows appeared to have escaped the crash unscathed.

Phyllis got out of the car and asked, “Good heavens, are you all right? That was quite a tumble you took.”

The young man's glasses had slipped down on his nose. He pushed them up and said, “Yeah, I—I guess so. It knocked the wind out of me pretty good.”

Sam had gotten out of the Lincoln, too. He came around the front of the car and said, “I know you. You're one of the fellas who was with that reporter gal. Miss Prosper.”

The young man looked down, seemingly embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I'm one of Felicity's interns.”

“You were following us, weren't you?” Phyllis said sternly.

“She told me to, okay? I'm sorry, but she's the boss. She
calls the shots.” Under his breath he added, “Boy, does she ever.”

Sam said, “She left you behind to keep an eye on us, didn't she?”

“Yeah. She and Nick went to get something to eat. They said they'd bring something back for me.” The young man blew out his breath. “Nick said I could go longer without eating because I've got plenty of fat stored up.”

“Well, that was rude,” Phyllis said.

“Yeah, maybe, but it's true.” The young man pushed up his glasses again. “They left me the bicycle. Felicity carries it around with her so she can get in her ten miles a day.” He groaned. “If she finds out I wrecked it, she'll kill me! I told her I wasn't any good on bikes.”

Sam went over to the bicycle and righted it.

“Doesn't look damaged to me,” he said. “Anyway, wouldn't she be more worried about you?”

A bitter laugh came from the young man. He said, “You don't know Felicity.”

“And I don't think I want to,” Phyllis said. “If you're all right, we need to be going.”