Treacherous Tart (26 page)

“I love it. I'll talk to Aunt Clara. I'm sure she'll be thrilled too.”

Ryan put a few notes into his phone, already thinking about the story again. “I wonder if he told the police that part about the ten-inch heels.”

“Could be Debbie. She was wearing heels at the salon.”

“Maybe.” Ryan's phone rang. The fire chief wanted to talk to him about the fire at the
Weekly
building. He gave her a hug good-bye and then turned to leave. Maggie hated to see him go, but she knew it was important. It would be slower as the day went on. Mornings were always their busiest time.

She went into the kitchen and started making the chicken potpies. She cooked the diced chicken with the stock and vegetables. She needed the base to be as thick as possible. She tried to remember everything Aunt Clara had done when she made the dish at Ryan's house.

A few students came in wanting Coke and some day-old pieces of pie. Aunt Clara always kept some on hand and sold it for half of what a fresh piece brought. She primarily did that for the students. Sometimes it was all they could afford.

Maggie made ten piecrusts and tops for the potpie mixture. The students in the front were studying,
not making any noise. She kept pushing herself to keep her schedule. If she baked ten potpies today and ten tomorrow, she'd be ready for the library event.

She prayed that Aunt Clara would be back by then. If she wasn't, Maggie would take them to the library in her place. It was all she could do right now. If she couldn't help Aunt Clara, she'd at least keep her reputation going.

The door chimed, and Maggie glanced through the service window. It was Albert Mann. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Maybe when she opened them again, he'd be gone. She really didn't want to talk to him today.

“Feeling all right?” he asked from the doorway.

Note to self: Get a door on that space to keep people from popping in.

“I'm fine. Thanks. Something I can do for you?”

His eyes searched the kitchen. “Where's Clara?”

“She's under the weather. I hope she'll be back in a few days.”

Albert's face took on a sly expression. “So it's true. Your aunt
has
been kidnapped.”

Maggie set down the bowl of chicken filling harder than she'd meant to. “Why are you here? Did
you
kidnap her? The police don't know what happened to her. How do
you
know?”

“My dear, when you've been listening to people—ferreting out their weaknesses—as long as I
have, you learn a lot of things you're not supposed to know.”

“Are you ferreting out my weaknesses?” She was ready to throw the potpie filling at his head.

“No. Actually, I went by the police station earlier to see what I could find out about Garrett's building being burned—obviously arson. Instead, I learned that he was in the hospital after being attacked while with your aunt. Maybe the police don't want to call it a kidnapping as yet, but I think we both know a skunk when we see one.”

“Go away,” she said wearily. “I don't want to talk to you.”

“I hope she's all right. She's a wonderful person. I would hate for anything to happen to her, despite what you may think, Maggie.”

She took a deep breath before she turned to face him again. She didn't want him to see her cry. “Thanks.” Maybe he wasn't sincere, but she didn't have the heart to press him on it.

“I know we've had our differences, but I hope we can still be friends. Believe me, I only have your aunt's best interests at heart.”

He left her with a smile, and tears in his eyes. Maybe he really did care about what happened to Aunt Clara, she considered as she continued working.

A surprise birthday party group occupied her time for the next two hours. There were ten yelling,
running children in the dining room, trying to do as much as they could in the small space.

The two mothers who'd accompanied them sat and drank coffee as though they were out by themselves. Neither one looked up when the napkin holders were thrown to the floor or the children used filling from their slices of pie to draw on the front window.

Maggie was glad to see them go. Why did mothers even think of bringing a group that size to Pie in the Sky if they couldn't handle them? It wasn't a pizza restaurant with games and slides.

She spent the next hour wearily cleaning up the mess. Had they eaten any of the pie at all? It all seemed to be on the windows and the floor. At least they'd left a good tip.

The chicken potpies smelled wonderful baking in the kitchen. It was such a different aroma from what people were used to smelling at the pie shop. She knew they were going to have some twitching noses and eager customers once the word got out.

It was five thirty when Maggie sat down at a clean table. No one else had come in as the day was ending. The weather had been clear but cold all day. No doubt everyone was worried about ice forming again that evening as the sun went down.

There was no word about Aunt Clara. She didn't know what to think. With each passing hour, she grew more worried.

How long could someone keep her aunt without anything worse happening to her? The stakes were getting higher too. If she had been kidnapped, the longer she was held, the more trouble the person holding her would be in.

All Maggie could do was pray that Aunt Clara was okay.

The potpies were scheduled to come out of the oven at five forty-five. Even though she longed to close early and go to the police and ask for word about Aunt Clara, it would be six before the pies were cool enough to put away. Her phone rang. It was Ryan, updating her on everything that had been going on.

“I'm taking my dad home. The doctor said he should be fine as long as he rests. He wanted to come and see you. I told him he'll have to wait a few days unless I can convince you to come to my place. You shouldn't be alone, Maggie.”

“I'll be fine. I've got Fanny and the kittens. I want to be there in case Aunt Clara comes home. I don't want her to find the house empty.”

“You've been at the pie shop all day,” he reminded her.

“She'd expect that. She would've looked for me here first.”

“Okay. I'll try again later. I wish you'd come to my place. I don't have anyone to stay with my dad. I hate to leave you alone this way.”

“There's nothing wrong with me. Garrett needs you, Ryan. I'll be fine. Did you hear anything else about Debbie?”

“No. Frank said it's like she's fallen off the map. The police are watching the roads, bus station, and the train. She hasn't used a credit card, tried to get in her house, or use her bank account.”

Maggie nodded. “And what about the fire?”

“The fire chief says it was definitely arson. Someone started a fire in a trashcan. They think it could have been a homeless person trying to stay warm. But the investigation isn't over. I can't do anything else until the chief makes his determination. So the paper will probably be homeless next week. I'll have to figure out what to do.”

They said good night on the phone. Ryan promised to call her later, and asked her to call him when she got home.

“I will. Take care of your dad. I'll talk to you later.”

Maggie closed her phone, and felt close to tears again. The timer in the kitchen buzzed. It was time to take the pies out of the oven.

By the time the potpies had cooled and she'd put them away, it was a little after six. The whole afternoon seemed like it had gone on for weeks. Time was dragging as her mind wrestled with the questions about Aunt Clara. Was she warm and comfortable? Was someone treating her well? Was she scared and begging for her life?

She tried to keep positive thoughts in her head. Garrett had said she seemed to go willingly with the other woman. Maybe it was someone she knew. She was going to be fine. She
had
to be fine.

Maggie put on her jacket and scarf, switched off the lights in the pie shop, and opened the door to leave. To her surprise, Debbie Blackwelder was on the sidewalk outside.

A little nervous at finding her there—not sure if she had killed Donald and kidnapped her aunt—Maggie tried to handle it carefully. She didn't want to be Debbie's next victim.

“I'm sorry. The pie shop is closed.” Maggie smiled and waited, hoping she'd leave.

“Do you recognize me? You and the newspaper reporter came to visit me at my salon. I was wondering if we could have a cup of coffee and talk for a while.”

Maggie didn't know what to say. If she told Debbie she was on her way home, the woman would want to go there and talk. Maggie felt safer at the pie shop. She was closer to the police, and could possibly find a way to call for help as she was making coffee.

“Sure. Come in.”

Debbie stepped inside as Maggie held the door for her. She looked at Debbie's boots—definitely the type Artie had described, except without a missing chain. She was also “bulkier” than Clara, as Artie had said.

She could have replaced the missing chain on the boot.

“I'm sorry about this.” Debbie sat down at a table as she removed her coat and put down her handbag. She set down a thick folder. “I was hoping the reporter would be here. I have to get my side of the story out. I'm out, but my lawyer says they could haul me back in at any time if they get fresh evidence. I didn't kill Donald Wickerson.”

That caught Maggie's attention. She wanted to hear the story. Maybe she could convince Debbie to do the right thing if she knew where Aunt Clara was.

“It would be easier for me to make a couple of lattes, if that's okay. The coffee urn is huge.”

“Anything is fine. Any chance of getting the reporter over here? I have a feeling the police might find me before morning. I've been one step ahead of them all day.”

Maggie paused as she started to make a latte. She had to know. “Do you know where my aunt is? Did you kidnap her?”

Debbie's face was a mask of surprise and anguish. She bit her lip. “Of course not! Why would anyone kidnap her? Why would you think I could do such a thing?”

Maggie turned her head toward the latte machine. “I know you were arrested for Donald's murder.”

“So if I'm capable of murder, I could do anything?” Debbie shook her head. “All I wanted to do was find out what happened to my mother. I guess
everything that happens now is going to be blamed on me. I didn't kidnap your aunt. I haven't done anything wrong, except to try and get justice for my mother.”

Maggie's first impulse was to believe her. She seemed sincere. On the other hand, she might only be a good actress. All of the puzzle pieces fit together, implicating her in Donald's death.

But Maggie had been on that short list for wrongdoing once too. Timing and proximity had made her appear guilty, but it wasn't true. It might not be true for Debbie . . . Fran . . . either. Aunt Clara would definitely give her the benefit of the doubt, if she were there.

“Sorry. I had to ask. You know who Aunt Clara is because of your research on Donald, right?”

“Yes.” Debbie snorted. “I know who she is. He went after her, and every other woman in Durham who had a little money and no husband. He didn't mind bragging about it at the salon. I would've liked to cut his throat right there in the chair for what he did to my mother—and those other women—
and
what he planned to do again.”

Maggie acknowledged the truth of her words. “The police were looking at my aunt for Donald's killing before they set their sights on you. She wasn't guilty, but someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like she was.”

“That's exactly the kind of information I need.”
Debbie opened the thick folder. “I've been following Donald for a year, trying to get a bead on him. I
know
he killed my mother, and probably those other women too. I think I have enough to prove it now.”

“Did you tell the police?” Maggie looked through all the information she'd gathered.

She had hundreds of photos of Donald with dozens of women, as well as crime scene information. She'd interviewed people from Atlanta and throughout North Carolina who knew anything about the deaths Donald had been accused of.

“The police!” she spat. “I've given them concrete proof that Donald was responsible for my mother's death. They ignore me. They won't even look into it. They have fingerprints, motive, and opportunity. I can't get anyone to pay attention. It's like they want to ignore what he's done because it would be too much trouble to follow through.”

Maggie didn't understand why no one took Debbie seriously either. She had more real information against Donald than the police had on her, or Aunt Clara, for his murder.

“They said believing he killed my mother gave me motive to kill him.” Debbie shrugged. “Maybe it does. I don't know. Mostly, I wanted everyone to know the truth so it couldn't happen again. I didn't want him dead. I wanted to hear him admit what he'd done.”

“You said you've been following him. Is there
anything you've seen that could help us find his killer?”

“I don't know. I didn't kill Donald. If your aunt didn't kill him, I'm not sure who did. Probably one of those other women in town that he played fast and loose with. I fit the composite the police have thrown together for his killer—and I own a gun I can't find. But I don't know who did it. I wish I did.”

“I'm sorry. The police might be looking at you for kidnapping my aunt too.”

“Like I said—I'm guilty of everything now.”

“Are you sure Donald didn't say anything about one of his ladies getting violent, or beginning to doubt him?” Maggie tried to concentrate.

“There were only two women actively in his life, as far as I know.” Debbie took pictures out of her file. “Your aunt—and
this
woman.”