6 Death Takes The Blue Ribbon (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do with the information Maddie had just given me. Did Gladys’ comments mean a permanent, irreversible solution? Would she really go that far? I was so lost in thought that I didn’t really pay attention to where I was going, until I ran into something hard. My burger hit the ground. Sighing, I focused on what I had run into. Oh good grief…it was Jake.

“You must have been thinking about something awfully hard not to see me in front of you,” he laughed, bending down to pick up my now grass and dirt covered hamburger. “Care to share your thoughts?”

“Not really,” I replied as he threw my burger in a nearby trash can. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard there was a hot story, and I was wondering why you hadn’t called in with the details yet.”

“Because I was asked not to,” I said.

“By who?”

“The lead investigator.”

“Who is it? Maybe I can cite freedom of the press, and all that good stuff to get him to change his mind. Where is Owen?”

“It’s not Owen.”

“Why not? This is his jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but he’s a witness.”

“A witness to what?”

“A sudden death.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t believe for one minute that you don’t already know the answer to that question, especially if you know there’s a hot story around here.”

“Ok, so I know Harold Norwell got up close and personal with a pie during the pie eating contest.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I also know
who
the lead investigator is, and that
you
were there when he questioned Gladys Norwell.”

“If you know all that, what do you need me for?” I said, walking around him. I needed to find Faye Robison, the woman who was supposed to be using the tent for tomorrow.

“Because you have all the details,” Jake replied, quickly catching up to me.

“And I told you, I’ve been asked not to write anything about it yet.”

“Surely we can say something.”

“You’ll have to check with Owen or T.J.”

“Why can’t you ask them?”

“Because I have to ruin someone else’s day before I go home for some dog therapy.”

Jake grabbed my arm to stop me. “Are you seriously not going to write this story?”

“Look,” I said, shoving his hand off my arm, “Gladys has been through enough today, don’t you think? She saw her husband die right before her eyes. I think we can afford to give her one day’s peace and quiet, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Jake said. “You know every major news station in the area is going to descend on this town like a flock of buzzards looking for fresh meat. This is our story, and with all due respect to Gladys, we need to be the first ones to get the story out.”

I silently called him every name in the book. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Then you need to stop bugging the crap out of me, go find Owen or T.J., get your information, and write your story, you bloodsucking jerk.” I walked away, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open in surprise.

Faye Robison was at the Methodist church’s booth. I let her know about the tent being unavailable for the next day, but apparently she already knew about it, and had made other arrangements. As I walked toward the parking lot, I checked my watch. It was almost five p.m. I had been up for twelve hours, taking care of the last minute details. The stress of the day was getting to me, I could tell, because I felt tense all over. But then I felt selfish for thinking about myself when Gladys was going through her own nightmare.

When I got home, I dropped my stuff on the couch, poured myself a Dr Pepper, and went outside with Babe and Mittens. Babe plopped down under the big shade tree, while Mittens ran around, barking at the leaves as a light breeze blew them around. I sat down in a blue and white striped lawn chair and stretched my legs out in front of me. I wondered where Mother and her new husband were on their honeymoon cruise. I thought about advertising and stories that I needed from Ellen and Bruce for next week’s editions. I made myself think about anything but Gladys and Harold, but it didn’t work. The look on Harold’s face right before he went face first into the pie kept playing over and over in my mind. Mittens walked under the chair, curled up and went to sleep.

“Hiding out back here?” someone said. I jumped out of the chair, spilling my Dr Pepper all over my jeans. I looked up to see T.J. trying not to laugh. “Sorry about that.”

Babe growled at him, and Mittens came out from under the chair, sniffed T.J.’s pants leg, and bit him. Apparently, my babies knew that he was in the doghouse with me, and felt the need to let him know he wasn’t welcome. “It’s alright,” I replied, bending over to pick up my cup. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be babysitting Gladys?”

He shook his head and stepped away from Mittens, who growled at him before returning to her place under the chair. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere tonight. I’ve got someone sitting in the driveway at her house, though. If she tries to go back to the house, he’ll send her home.”

“Do you have someone watching the back gate?”

“All I saw back there was a bunch of bushes and ivy.”

“There’s a gate back there. You have to know where to look. I’d get someone back there ASAP if I were you.”

He put down the bag he was holding, pulled out his phone and made arrangements for someone to cover the gate overnight. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said as he put his phone away.

“No problem. So, what brings you over here?”

He pointed at the bag on the ground that Mittens had taken an active interest in. Picking it up, he said, “I thought you might be hungry, so I brought some steaks and corn on the cob to grill, if that’s alright with you.”

“Wow, you really took a chance, didn’t you? You just assumed that I’d want to eat with you?”

“I know you can’t turn down a good steak. There’s dessert, too.”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Cherry cheesecake.”

“Isn’t there a law against bribing a reporter?”

“Hm, I don’t think so.”

“You know where the grill is.”

“I do. Want to take this stuff inside for me while I warm it up?” he said, holding out the bag.

I watched him for a minute before going inside. It reminded me of the first day I had met him, when he brought the exact same food over to apologize for accusing me of killing my own grandfather. That was when we slowly started to become friends before we started dating. I wondered if T.J. had remembered that first day, too. Knock it off, Lizzie, I chided myself. You can’t go back to the way things were.

Putting the cheesecake on the table for a minute, I opened the fridge and took out lettuce, celery, carrots, a cucumber and tomatoes. As I chopped up the vegetables, T.J. came inside and started prepping the steaks. It was weird having him around again, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about him coming back to town. Maybe it would be better if he left town (and took Jake with him!) until I could sort my feelings out. Yeah, right, and maybe Santa Claus would show up on my birthday. Fat chance, in other words.

He took the steaks out and put them on the grill. I followed him out, pulling my chair closer to him. “So, did you move back into your old apartment?”

“No, it was rented out. Owen’s mother had a house for rent, though.”

“Lucky you.”

“I still have to finish moving my stuff down here from my place in Dallas. I brought a load down with me, and decided to stop at the fair on my way out of town. Good thing I did,” he said, turning the steaks over.

There was a loud crash from inside the house. I jumped out of my chair and headed for the back door, but T.J. got there first. “Stay here,” he said before he opened the screen door and went inside. There was a growl, and then T.J. laughed. He came out, holding Mittens out in front of him. She had a red ring around her mouth, and pieces of cheesecake and graham cracker crumbs in her fur. “I hope you have something else for dessert, because the cheesecake is toast.”

It took twenty minutes to get Mittens clean, so I didn’t get a chance to tell T.J. about the Norwell argument. So I waited until we were eating to tell him what Maddie had said. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I said, “it strengthens her motive for killing him.”

“Are you changing your mind about her innocence?”

“No, I still don’t think she did it. But what if someone is setting her up?”

T.J. laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Someone stole the pies, poisoned them, and then somehow made sure that Harold would eat the correct pie so it would kill him? That might happen in one of those mysteries that you read, but this is real life here, Lizzie. It just isn’t possible.”

I resisted the urge to be childish and flick a tomato in his face. “What’s your theory of the crime?”

He scratched his chin. “I don’t really have one at the moment.”

I nearly choked on a cucumber. “What?”

“It’s the truth. I don’t.”

“Is it possible that his death was just an accident?”

“Anything is possible.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“I’ve never seen someone drop dead after eating a pie, have you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Granted, this could be an accident. But until Doc Endicott tells me otherwise, I have to treat it as a suspicious death.” His phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Hey Doc, what did you find out? Uh huh…uh huh…yeah…really? Are you sure? How much would it take…that’s all?”

I hated listening to conversations where I could only hear one side of things. I started cleaning up the dishes while he continued talking.

“I appreciate the call. When will the rest of the lab results be in? In the morning? Great, could you send all that to Owen’s office as soon as you can tomorrow? Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you taking care of this so quickly. Yes, I agree, he was a very nice man. Talk to you tomorrow, Doc.”

I turned around and noticed he was frowning. “So what did he say that has you looking so grim faced?”

“Well, in the remnants of the pie that Harold ate, they found bits of ground up rhubarb greens.”

Owen must have suspected that or seen something in the pie when he asked me about the rhubarb earlier. For some reason, he didn’t mention this to T.J. Interesting. I decided not to mention it to him. “But those are poisonous. Gladys didn’t make a rhubarb pie. She made blueberry and blackberry pies.”

“Apparently, the greens were mixed into the blueberry filling. 25 grams can kill a 140-lb person. Doc says there was definitely more than that in the filling. They’ll know more when they get the lab results back. He also said there is no way this was an accident.”

Leaning against the counter, I could only shake my head at the news. Someone had deliberately killed Harold Norwell.

And the prime suspect was definitely Gladys.

Chapter Eight

T.J.’s phone rang. “Reynolds. Yeah, I know where she’s at. She’s standing right in front of me. Why?” That certainly got my attention. “Owen wants to know if you still have the keys to the bakery.”

“I think so, why?”

“Because he’s got a search warrant for the bakery and he needs to get in. Yeah, she’s got them. Right, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He hung up. “Could you get those keys for me? I need to get down there.”

I shook my head. “No way. Take the keys, you take me.”

“I can’t take you to a crime scene.”

“It’s not the first time you have.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it this time.”

I crossed my arms. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“Lizzie, I don’t have time for this.”

Turning around, I went into the living room and grabbed my purse. “Then we better get going. Do you want me to ride with you, or take my car?”

T.J. came into the room, shaking his head. “Oh, for the love of all that is holy,” he said, totally exasperated. “Fine. Meet me down there, but you stay out of the way when we get there.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in the little dining area of the bakery. Owen came into the room from the kitchen. “What is she doing here?” he asked T.J., jerking his thumb in my direction.

“I’m responsible for those keys. I’m not about to let something happen to them.”

Owen looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Are you serious?” I shrugged. “You know what? It’s not even worth arguing about. Get her a pair of gloves. I’m sure she’s going to look around anyway, whether we want her to or not. At least we can make sure she doesn’t contaminate the surfaces or leave her fingerprints everywhere.”

“But my fingerprints are already in here,” I reminded him. “I came over to get the pies this morning. It’s why I have the key, remember?”

“It’s a good thing we already have your fingerprints on file,” Owen said sarcastically. “For elimination purposes only, of course. Unless there’s something you want to tell me?”

“Very funny,” I replied, taking the gloves that T.J. had retrieved for me.

“T.J., go check on things in the alley,” Owen said. “I’d like to talk to Lizzie for a minute.” He waited until T.J. left. “I want to ask you a serious question, and I need an honest answer from you.”

“Ok, shoot.”

“Do you think Gladys killed Harold?”

“I thought we talked about this. Neither one of us believes it. So why are you asking me now?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “As a cop, I can’t get close to people, so I don’t know what’s going on in their private lives. I only see what goes on in public.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“People don’t put up the same walls around you, like they do with me. You see the good and the bad. Lord knows you’ve had plenty of interaction with the Norwells to have an idea of what their relationship is like. Is there anything that raised a red flag for you? Something that would make you think they could harm each other?”

I laid my hand on his forearm. “I know what you’re asking, and the answer is no, Owen. Despite their little disagreements in public, and the nitpicking she did, they were, by all appearances, devoted to each other. Gladys is truly heartbroken about Harold’s loss. She’s not that good of an actress to hide something like that from me or anyone else, for that matter.”

He nodded his head, as if he were satisfied with my answer.

T.J. stuck his head in the doorway that was between the kitchen and the dining area. “Owen, we’ve found something back here. You might want to take a look.”

“Put those gloves on,” Owen said before following T.J. into the kitchen. As I pulled the gloves on, I walked behind them quietly, hoping they wouldn’t see me and order me to leave.

They were standing by the back door, and T.J. was shining a light on the door plate. “It looks like someone tried to jimmy the door open,” he pointed out to Owen. “There are some fresh scratch marks here.”

“We need to find out from Delia if she’s had a break in recently,” he replied. Turning around, he frowned when he saw me standing behind him. “Has Delia said anything to you about problems here?”

I shook my head. “But then again, I haven’t seen her much lately. They just got back from vacation about a week ago.”

“Send someone over to talk to Delia and her husband,” Owen said to T.J., who nodded and walked out.

“I thought T.J. was in charge of this investigation?”

“D.A. said he would prefer that I handle it,” Owen replied. “It’s not that he doesn’t trust T.J., of course. He knows T.J. is a good investigator…”

“It’s because of the whole FBI thing, right?” He shrugged. “Maybe you should let him run it anyway. What the D.A. doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And I think it would help to re-establish T.J. in the community.”

He didn’t say anything. T.J. came back, and the two of them stepped outside to look around the alley. “Don’t touch anything,” Owen admonished me as they walked out.

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at his retreating back. Instead, I glanced around the kitchen. Stainless steel was everywhere: the sinks, the countertops, the work tables, even the freezer. I wondered how many fingerprints they would find on the surfaces. Knowing Delia, probably not a whole lot. She was very meticulous about keeping the bakery clean. She told me once it was because she never knew when a health inspector was going to show up unannounced.

As I looked around, I noticed a trash can near the freezer. I thought that was kind of odd. Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave it closer to the sink or the work tables so you could throw egg shells, empty spice bottles, or other baking needs out? I walked over and looked into the black rubber trash can. There was a large black garbage bag in it, and there appeared to be something near the bottom, but I couldn’t make out what it was, so I pulled out my phone, and turned on my flashlight app. There was some colored plastic wrap wadded up in a ball, and some old newspapers. Something shiny under the edge of one of the newspapers caught my eye, so I pulled up the edge of the paper to take a look. I gasped at what I saw.

Two smashed pies. Blueberry.