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Authors: Jennifer McAndrews

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“Well, now, Diana,” Grace said, placing a porcelain mug on the counter. “You did say odds were—”

“I know what I said,” Diana snapped. Eyes wide, nostrils slightly flared, she squared her shoulders and stood just that little bit straighter. An observant person could see anger coming on Diana like storm clouds approaching on the horizon. “I said the victim's symptoms were inconsistent with a heart attack. Doesn't make it impossible.”

Arms still folded over his chest, Terry turned his swivel stool so he was facing Diana. “That is what you said. But you also said you were down at the bakery. Now, unless things have changed, the bakery still serves coffee and yet here you are, picking up three coffees to go and a couple donuts. Means you're not entirely comfortable with the refreshments on offer down there.”

Terry let the statement hang. While Diana's face continued to redden, Grace pushed the porcelain cup toward me without even looking in my direction. Her gaze was locked on Terry. Though the steam was swirling above the cup of coffee, promising warmth and energy all in one tasty package, I didn't want to pull my gaze away from Terry's face long enough to take a sip. I didn't want to miss a thing.

“What are you saying, Ter?” Tom asked, his voice unusually small.

Terry shot Diana a quick glance. “I'm saying that poor man that died—and he did die, didn't he?”

Diana made no response. Terry continued. “That man was poisoned.”

*   *   *

I
would call the statement a bombshell, but somehow I think bombshells ought to create noise and some measure of havoc. Terry's theory caused a resounding silence. It seemed even the kitchen—whose noises were usually a constant background hum of clattering dishes and running water—had gone still and quiet.

I sneaked a peek at Diana, and her eyes met mine like she was seeking a lifeline. It was a rare expression from her, and one I couldn't ignore perhaps because of that rarity.

I gave Terry a friendly tap with my elbow. “Heck of a theory,” I said. “But there were a lot of people in that tent. You and I were among them. If it was poison, how come we're okay?”

“Poison. Bah.” Grace produced a counter-wipe towel
from the pocket of her ever-present apron and swiped at the counter with it. “That's ridiculous.”

“Right? Not to mention Rozelle,” I added in. “Not even possible.”

Even Tom shook his head. “I gotta agree, Terry. That's not something Rozelle would do. She wouldn't hurt a mosquito, that one.”

Terry raised a hand as though to pause the conversation. “I didn't say anything about Rozelle. But something in that bakery—”

“But we all had that coffee yesterday,” I said. “Well, most of us had coffee anyway.” There was also tea and cocoa on offer—which is to say an urn of hot water behind tea bags and hot chocolate packets.

“And everyone had cookies and whatnot,” Tom added. “Even you.”

“Care to make another guess as to why the police are down at the bakery right now?” Terry asked.

If there had been a back on the stool, I'm sure he would have leaned into it. He had that look of subdued pride on his face—the subtlest of smiles and a little glint in his eye.

Diana pulled in a slow, deep breath, eyes slipping closed momentarily. “I really wish I hadn't come in here.”

From the open walk-through doorway separating the counter service area from the kitchen, a tall, reedy man ambled out, brown paper shopping bag in hand. He lifted the bag—handles straining against the weight of the sack—and rested it atop the counter. “Here you go, Diana. All set.”

“Thank God,” she muttered. She took the shopping
bag from the counter, eased out from the corner space she had been tucked into. “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

Tom sat straighter. “You can't go yet. You didn't tell us if Terry's right or not. Was David Rayburn poisoned or wasn't he?”

Her smile was just the slightest bit evil and a big bit smug. “At this time we have no definitive cause of death.” She nodded a brief good-bye and took a few steps toward the exit, which put her even with where I sat. “Pour House tonight?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I assured her.

I thought a measure of tension left her shoulders before she continued on her way out of the luncheonette and onto the sidewalk. When she was past the window and headed for the bakery, I turned to Terry. “Do you really think Rayburn was poisoned?”

“What do you think?” he countered. “Tom speaks pretty highly of your skills as a sleuth.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “I don't have any skills,” I said. “Not really. Not as a sleuth, I mean. I just have a habit of being in the right place with the wrong people.”

He gave me a little sideways smile. “That's not a bad habit to have for a detective.”

I held up both hands, palms out. I don't know if I was signaling surrender or hoping to create some invisible barrier that would keep his words away. “Oh no. No thanks. I have a job. I have several jobs. And none of them involve encountering criminals.”

Grace laughed, picked up a folded newspaper that I knew from long experience was open to the crossword puzzle. “I wouldn't be too sure about that, Georgia. You
never know who's sitting in the dark at your granddad's movie house.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said as the bell over the door jingled. “That fills me with all kinds of confidence.”

“Georgia.”

My mother's voice cut through me like a cold shard. There was a certain note her voice hit only when I did something she was going to make me regret, which in the past had ranged anywhere from cutting my own hair to staying out past curfew. A long time past curfew.

I looked over my shoulder to where she had come to stand behind me.

“The police are inside the bakery, and one of them is looking for you. Care to tell me what that's all about?”

5

L
ife had settled into a comforting routine since last I had to face any member of the Pace County Police Department other than Diana. I wasn't eager to reintroduce the police into my every day anytime soon. Sure, at some point in the future I would no doubt encounter them when the Heaney case went to trial. Until then, I was content to operate like an average citizen who had no need to keep the number for the precinct listed in her cell phone under frequent contacts. There was also the small matter of one Detective Chris “Chip” Nolan, who, when his invitation to dinner had shocked me speechless, wrongly presumed my silence meant I had no interest. Now, whether I did or didn't made no difference. I was as committed to Tony as I could be without, you know, declarations and promises
and rings and whatnot. But I hadn't seen Chip since he had taken my statement after the disowned heir to the Heaney estate had threatened Carrie and me at gunpoint. I was uncertain whether things would be at all awkward between us. And yeah, throw in my mother's presence for added amusement.

I gave it my best shot, but there was no convincing her to wait at the luncheonette while I checked in with the police. She walked beside me along the sidewalk, head high, handbag tucked tight under her arm. I might have had a momentary flashback, a long-buried memory of walking with her like this along the halls of yet another unfamiliar school so she could introduce me to yet another principal pretending to be interested. But the scene through the bakery window dispelled those visions from my past.

Rozelle kept only two small tables inside the bakery with a total of six chairs between them. She was seated at one. Detective Nolan was standing beside her.

“Him,” my mother said as I suffered a figurative punch in the gut at the sight of the
CLOSED
sign hung on the door and reached for the handle. “That's the man who was asking for you.”

I turned back to face her. “What were you doing down here anyway? You were supposed to meet me at Grace's.”

“How was I supposed to know the bakery was closed? I wanted to get some fresh bread for your grandfather,” she said. “He likes the rye.”

I almost said I know, that I always kept a spare loaf in the freezer in case of emergencies requiring toast or roast
beef, but before I could get the words out, Detective Nolan called my name.

“Come on in,” he said once he had my attention.

I waved my mother ahead through the door and followed her inside. As predictable as sunrise, the gorgeous aroma of fresh-baked breads and sweet cakes filled my senses, making my mouth water and my belly protest its need of a treat. The misbehaved voice in the back of my mind tried to make me believe since I had to leave my beloved cat at the vet that I deserved something highly fattening to ease the upset. But the display cases filled with Rozelle's amazing baked goods stretched along the right side of the shop, and Detective Nolan stood on the left, hands in his pockets and elbows holding open his suit jacket. I had a feeling the pose was calculated to show off the gleaming detective's shield clipped to his belt.

“I heard you were looking for me,” I said, looking away from Nolan and instead searching the shop for Diana. Rozelle remained seated at the little table, hands clasped tightly in her lap, gaze locked on the display counter, and a single uniformed officer stood admiring the cups and saucers that decorated the far wall. Diana was nowhere to be found. “Or someone was anyway. Where's Diana?”

Detective Nolan tipped his head toward the back ovens. “Working,” he said. In two long strides he stood before us, extended his hand to my mother. “We didn't meet properly. I'm Detective Nolan, Pace County Police Department.”

“Joanne Sutter.” My mother laid the tips of her fingers against his palm, as though she was far too old-fashioned to shake hands with a man.

If Detective Nolan was at all surprised to hear my mother refer to herself as Sutter while my last name was Kelly, it did nothing to disturb his impassive cop face. “Why don't you have a seat, Mrs. Sutter? I'd like to talk to Georgia for just a few minutes.”

Mom looked from Nolan to me and back again. “What business do you have with my daughter, Detective? Don't tell me she's in some kind of trouble,” she said over a laugh.

Nolan treated her to a lightning strike of a smile—a brilliant flash that was gone as fast as it came. “Not that I'm aware of,” he said.

I knew he was kidding. I knew I hadn't done anything to warrant suspicion from the police. So why did my stomach knot? What was my conscience guilty of?

“You know when she was a teenager, she had a bad habit of driving without a license,” my mother offered.

“Once.” I folded my arms. “Once I drove without a license. Once does not create a habit.”

Mom gave me an indulgent smile before renewing her efforts at charming Detective Nolan. “She's never been one to follow orders.”

His smile then was slyer, almost mischievous, and directed at me. “I never would have guessed.”

“Oh, the stories I could tell you,” Mom said.

“I'd love to hear them sometime, Mrs. Sutter.” He gestured toward the empty chair opposite Rozelle. “But right now, if you wouldn't mind . . .”

Mom finally acquiesced. She joined Rozelle at the little round table, immediately launching into a conversation about Grandy's fondness for fresh-baked rye bread, while Detective Nolan tipped his head toward the front door.

I preceded him out onto the sidewalk, surprised to find that after leaving the sweet, yeasty aroma of the bakery, the early autumn air carried a delicious fragrance all its own, a crisp, clean scent as refreshing as a soft breeze over new snow.

Turning my face to the sky, I took a deep breath, let my eyes slip closed. One deep breath to keep thoughts of my cat and my mother and the question of who had sharper claws from intruding on my thoughts and making it tough to focus on whatever it was Nolan wanted to talk to me about this time. One deep breath to help me face the good detective, just the two of us, for the first time in months.

“So that's your mother, huh?” Nolan asked once the door had shut behind him.

“According to all reliable accounts,” I said. “Maybe some unreliable ones, too. It's possible.”

I don't know why I expected him to look somehow different since the last time I had seen him. A couple of months would not have changed his appearance, yet I found myself peering close, looking for a few more laugh lines around his eyes, a wider swath of gray at his temples, but neither were there.

“What, um, what did you need to talk to me about?” I asked. Again I folded my arms across my chest, somehow bracing myself.

He met my gaze, eyes locked on mine as seconds ticked away. I nearly shivered with the feeling he was trying to see inside me something I wasn't willing to show. One breath before the situation went from awkward to uncomfortable, he finally spoke. “According to Rozelle, you entered the reception tent early yesterday.”

I nodded. “I went to see if she needed any help setting up.”

“You want to walk me through that?”

I didn't think there could be anything illuminating in my story of heading for the tent before the speeches were over and offering to put napkins on tables, but for Nolan's sake, I went back through it, step by step, as best I could recall.

“So I helped the girl, Nicole, put cookies out on tables,” I finished. “Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin.”

“And what was Rozelle doing while you were doing that? Do you recall?”

The door to the bakery swung open and Diana stepped out onto the sidewalk, a cardboard box with filled bags labeled
EVIDENCE
tucked under her arm. She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with both me and the detective.

I watched her for moments only before turning back to Detective Nolan. “You don't honestly believe that man opposed to building the promenade was poisoned, do you?”

He set his hands on his hips, hung his head as he sighed. “That's the preliminary cause of death. It's my job to investigate based on that finding.”

“Okay, sure, I understand that part. But . . . Rozelle?
Seriously? Come on. Rozelle runs a little bakery that closes by five. What possible motive would she have for poisoning David Rayburn? You'd do better to look for someone who stands to benefit from the promenade. Like someone in building or construction,” I said.

Detective Nolan's brows rose high.

Oh, crap. “Pretend I didn't say that last part.”

“Georgia, just tell me what Rozelle was doing while you and Nicole were putting out cookies.”

“She was directing,” I said. “Or overseeing or whatever else you want to call it. Making sure we separated the cookies and put them on each table.”

“That's all she was doing? Giving orders while you did all the work?” Nolan sounded doubtful, as though he couldn't quite believe someone as diminutive as Rozelle would shout out commands.

“Come on, Detective. That's not the way it was at all. She . . .” As I spoke, my mind reviewed the memory of that morning, feeding my consciousness images it deemed relevant. “She was holding a pastry box,” I said, my voice betraying me by going soft. “She had cheese Danish. Special made. Sugar free, gluten free. I think they were for David . . .”

Detective Nolan nodded. Had Rozelle told him about them? Had he guessed? No spark of surprise or intrigue lit his face; I was telling him something he already knew.

But it was something I hadn't put together until that moment. The Danish. The one thing not everyone had eaten. The one thing only Rayburn had access to. All at once my head went empty and light. My thighs went weak
and my knees threatened to buckle. I reached a hand toward Detective Nolan.

He caught my arm and held me steady. “Georgia, what's wrong? Are you all right? What is it?”

“Grandy,” I said, nearly a whisper. “She offered to put some aside that I could bring home for my grandfather.”

My gaze had somehow locked on Nolan's detective shield while his hands held me steady and vaguely upright. The shield. The gold-colored symbol of protect and serve. I wanted to find comfort in that symbol, but the glimpse of the grip of the revolver tucked into its holster served only to reinforce the threat of danger.

“It's all right,” Nolan said. He slipped an arm across my shoulders—more businesslike than tender—and turned me back to the bakery entrance. “Let's go inside. Have a seat. No one's going to hurt Pete.”

I took one step at his urging before digging in my heels in resistance. Straightening, I said, “No, that's just it. She would never hurt my grandfather. She's crazy about him.”

His eyes searched mine. I could almost see a question forming in his brown-eyed gaze.

The bakery door banged open and my mother rushed to my side.

“What happened?” she asked. “Are you okay, honey?” She turned and looked daggers at Detective Nolan while trying to pull me free of his hold. “What did you say to her?”

“Are you sure?” he asked me, tone earnest and gaze intent.

“A hundred percent,” I assured him before turning to my mother. “I'm fine, Mom. Just a little light-headed.”

Nolan nodded sharply. “Could still be the bakery.”

“But not Rozelle.”

But if not Rozelle, then who?

*   *   *

M
y mother wanted to drive straight home following my chat with Detective Nolan. She claimed I looked pale. As a redheaded, freckle-faced Irish girl, I always looked pale. It took no small effort on my part to convince my mother I was capable of continuing with the day as planned. At length she determined it was better to go inside the market than to stand on the sidewalk and argue with me, and we spent the brief excursion with her complaining about the lack of selection in between my constant reassurances that I was in no danger of losing consciousness.

I thought once we arrived back at Grandy's house that I could retreat to my room. I needed a few minutes to myself to allow everything that had happened in the past couple of days to sink in. Between the idea of retreating to my single-bed room—the room I was relegated to in the childhood years I'd spent living with Grandy and Grandma—and the fact of my mother driving me around, a flashback to my teen years loomed large and dangerous. Adjusting to my new life as a permanent citizen of Wenwood had been tough enough; losing my sense of adulthood would no doubt cause a setback.

“Maybe we shouldn't tell your grandfather about the police.” My mother made the final turn onto Grandy's
street, and I smiled, remembering Grandy saying the same thing about telling
her
all those months ago.

“I think he can handle it,” I said. “He's pretty used to my run-ins with the police. Besides, the bakery's going to be closed for a while. He'll find out. And you know what a bear he'll be if he even suspects we knew and didn't tell him.”

She slowed the car as the house came into view. Cedar shakes in need of a paint job, split-rail porch with a pair of battered Adirondack chairs, and Grandy and my mother's husband, Ben, standing amid the fallen leaves on the front lawn, looking up at the old cedar tree.

“Your grandfather.” Mom shook her head, made the final turn into the driveway. “He thinks he's the only one in this family allowed to keep secrets.”

She shifted the gear into “Park” and shut off the engine then turned to me with narrow, accusatory eyes. “Not that you're any better,” she said. “How could you not tell me about your grandfather being arrested? And on suspicion of murder, of all things.”

For the nine-billionth time I said, “We didn't want to spoil your honeymoon. What were you going to do anyway? Cut your trip short? And do what? He already had a lawyer and wouldn't let anyone see him. Besides, it wasn't like he was guilty.”

BOOK: A Shattering Crime
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