Bun for Your Life (20 page)

I had been through a couple of years' worth of newspapers when I found something very interesting in
The Destiny Trumpet
dated June 26, 1949. Apparently, it was a much more serious newspaper back then.

Local Man Found Dead in Destiny Lake

Forty-five-year-old Peter Travis, of Destiny, was found dead early yesterday morning by a man fishing. The man, who prefers not to be identified, is still recovering from the trauma of stumbling upon a dead body. He told police he was enjoying his early-morning fishing when he saw an empty rowboat bobbing along. Thinking it had probably gotten away from its moorings, he approached it, and was scared out of his wits when he noticed a man lying face up on the bottom of the boat with a horrible head wound. The fisherman immediately returned home, docked his boat and called for police. The Travis family was notified and an investigation is under way.

This meant Jane could be right. If, indeed, this really was Enid's father. But why had Enid said in so many words she'd never heard of Destiny? Or was Jane just confusing Enid with someone she had known in her childhood named Beatrice Travis? I realized I was off track from investigating Calista's murder, or, more accurately, trying to help investigate Calista's murder in my own mind, but Jane's information had piqued my interest. I sensed there may be a sliver of a chance there was something behind what she'd said.

I flipped to the newspaper of the next day and saw nothing. But the day after I hit pay dirt. Peter Travis' obituary. My phone chirped. I had a text. I dug for my phone in the caverns of my purse, annoyed at the untimely interruption. Yes, I could ignore it, but there it would be, burning a hole in my purse, and my thoughts, until I read it. My annoyance disappeared when I saw it was Sean responding to my earlier text.

Sorry, I couldn't answer any sooner. You got another note?

Yes. Sergeant Jacoby has it.

What are you doing that's making someone angry?

How would I know?

I don't like this.

You don't like it? How about I don't like it?

You've ruffled someone's feathers. What's Jacoby doing?

I shrugged, then realized Sean couldn't see me.
I don't know. I imagine he's hard at work investigating, not eating or leaving his desk until he gets the person responsible.

Funny. I'll call him. You're staying at your parents, right?

Yes. I'll pick Beau up later. I'm sure he and Pepper will be great friends.

Pepper?

My parents' beagle.

I'm sure they'll get along great. I appreciate you looking after Beau. I know he's much happier with you than in a kennel.

You're welcome. He's such a sweetie. I swear he understands every word I say to him. I'm going to have a hard time giving him back when you come home. Which is . . . ?

I'll be back a couple of days before Christmas. You can visit with him whenever you like. So two notes, that's it?

So far. You think I'm in danger?

I couldn't guess. It could be a prank. Or it could be something more.

That certainly makes me feel better. I'm scared.
I felt embarrassed admitting that. Could I be more of a big baby? But it wasn't like I was advertising to the world I was interested in helping solve Calista's murder, so why the notes?

I thought about the woman Trey had been with at the bookstore. Who was she? Maybe he had made her write the notes. My phone chirped with a text.

You wouldn't be human if you weren't. I'll ask Jacoby to send a patrol car to circle around the bakery, Dottie's house, and your parents' house for a few nights. How's that?

Okay. Thanks.

No problem. Be careful. Okay?

I didn't feel like letting him go yet. I was rattled by the notes. I felt abandoned by Brian. At least sort of abandoned, which was illogical, I admit. I was obviously in a self-pitying funk. I wanted to talk to someone who could assure me the notes were nothing but a prank. Even if they were, who would do that?

Seriously. Why is someone writing me notes?

I wish I could tell you. If you get any more, keep Jacoby, and me, in the loop.

Not exactly an answer. I liked texting Detective Corsino. He was hundreds of miles away, but it made me feel safer in a weird way. Still wasn't ready to let him go.

Is it possible Calista's death may have nothing to do with apples, orchards, or old cars? Nothing to do with Trey or Blake?

Of course! That's why the investigation is still ongoing. Why? I've got a feeling you've got a reason for asking. No, I'm not sharing any information with you.

I texted all about Jane's outburst and how she had been right about a man drowning, and how I couldn't stop thinking about what she said.

I'm guessing you think that has something to do with Calista's murder?
Sean texted back.

Maybe it's nothing, but it could be something. Should I keep digging just in case?

No!!!!! Concentrate on your bakery. Take care of Beau for me. And yourself. Gotta run! Text me later. Bye.

Bye.

I put my phone away and returned my attention to Peter Travis's obituary dated June 28, 1949. It was short.

 

TRAVIS—Peter Travis, 836 Round Rock Road, Destiny, passed away suddenly on Saturday morning June 25 at the age of 45. Born in Destiny, he spent his whole life here. Peter was a popular published novelist as well as the editor of
The Destiny Trumpet
. His funeral service will be held at St. Mary's Episcopal Church and, at the request of his family, will be private. Burial will be made in the family plot at St. Mary's Cemetery.

 

Unfortunately, it made no mention of any family members who had survived him. I wondered how he had died and began looking at newspapers again. I didn't have to go very far when I found an article printed two weeks after his obituary.

Destiny Man's Death Ruled a Suicide

The death of Peter Travis, of Destiny, has been ruled a suicide by the Lake County coroner. His family has declined to comment and asked that they be left alone to mourn Peter. The only person to speak out was James McCray, who told this reporter, “Peter Travis was a good friend. Take a look at Maximillian Danforth if you want to know why Peter died.”

I stared at the old newspaper on the screen. Danforth? Was he related to Calista? He must be—they were the only Danforths around. What did he have to do with Peter's murder? I printed out the article, grabbed my purse, then hurried over to the printer to pay my dime and retrieve it.

McCray, I thought as I folded the article and put it in my purse. Why did that name sound familiar? Come on, I told myself. Think! McCray, McCray. Nothing came to me. It was as if my brain had fallen asleep. I decided to look up Maximillian Danforth.

On the way back to the computer I was startled to see a man wearing an expensive-looking camel hair coat looking intently at the computer screen.

“Excuse me,” I said, resisting the urge to tap him on the shoulder.

He turned and gave me a wide smile, along with an embarrassed look, which made him look boyish, and he had to be around sixty. “Hello there. Sorry. Not trying to be nosy. Although I find most writers are, by nature, nosy. That's how we find our ideas.”

I recognized him immediately. “You're Chase Middlebrook.” As if he didn't know.

His smile grew. “I was this morning, anyway. Are you a fan?”

I smiled back. I had to, his smile was very engaging. “I've read a couple of your books.”

“And?”

From the way his eyes were twinkling, I gathered he was teasing me. “They were interesting.” Not exactly a lie. They were interesting; just not to me. I was more concerned about what he had seen on the screen. I didn't want him to know I was trying to find out information about his mother. He'd think I was a stalker, and the last thing I wanted was for him to tell Enid. On the other hand, I could ask him about Enid's pseudonym. Maybe it was serendipity that he was here. “Are you waiting for this computer?”

“Yes. If you don't mind. Sorry to rush you off. As you can see, there is only one of them for those of us with a need to look up old newspapers. I need to do some research for my current novel. I hope you'll be a fan of that one, also.”

I could tell he was expecting me to comment, or shower him with questions about it, but I had more pressing things to think about.

He glanced at the screen. “What are you looking for? Anything exciting?”

I was surprised at his bluntness, but realized he had given me my opening. “Someone at the talk your mother gave the other day at Barking Mad Books mentioned Enid Middlebrook is a pen name.” I gave a self-deprecating laugh that I hoped was half-convincing. I looked at him through my lashes, stopping short of batting them at him.

“You'll think this is silly, but I love doing research on my favorite authors. I just have to find out every little juicy thing about them.” I hoped he wouldn't demand a recounting from me of which of his mother's plots were my favorites. “I'm trying to find out if that's true; if she does have a real name. Now that you're here, you can tell me.”

He stared at me a little too hard. His smile faded as he stiffened and scrutinized me. “You hope to find that information in old newspapers? Someone gave you misinformation. I can assure you my mother never uses a pen name, nor has she ever. She's much too proud. I feel the same. I want people to know who I am. I don't want a made-up name getting credit for all my hard work.”

I nodded. “That makes sense. So, Enid is Enid.”

He was still looking at me, but not so severely, as well as standing a little too close. I don't know when he had moved in, but having my space invaded makes me very uncomfortable. I moved back.

“Yes. Enid is Enid. I'm Chase.” He relaxed as a smile lit up his face again. “Anything else you want to know . . . I'm sorry, what's your name?”

“Molly. Molly Tyler. I'm half owner of Bread and Batter Bakery here in town. Stop by when you can. Do you know who Peter Travis is?”

“Never heard of the man. I hope you won't consider that a character flaw. Anything else?”

“No, I don't think there's anything else I need to know.” He had moved closer again. I moved back again, then motioned toward the computer. “All yours. Nice meeting you, Mr. Middlebrook. Happy researching. Good luck with your new novel.”

He caught my hand mid-motion and kissed the back of it. I was too stunned to react. “Chase, to very close friends, my dear. Lovely meeting you. Molly, right?”

I nodded and withdrew my hand. I resisted wiping the back of it on my jeans.

“Maybe someday you'll have dinner with me. Before I leave town. Which will be soon, so we mustn't wait too long.”

“Maybe. Look at the time.” I pointed to the big clock on the library wall. “I should go now and let you get to work.”

I didn't give him time to respond, or pin me down for an actual date to have dinner. If indeed he was even serious. Not that he wasn't attractive for an older guy, but he was still way too old for me to consider him as a romantic interest. Besides, there was something overly chivalrous about him. Uncomfortably so.

I left the library and slid into my car. That's when I remembered why the McCray name sounded familiar. Ed McCray was Brian's new tenant. How could I have not remembered? Could he be a relative of James McCray? I decided to pay him a visit. I hoped he wouldn't mind the intrusion.

I was about to start my car when I had another brilliant idea. I whipped my phone out. I really had no idea how I managed to conduct my daily life properly for so long without it. I Googled Crandall Ford, then dialed. When the receptionist picked up, I asked for Bobby.

“This is Bobby Crandall. How can I help you today?”

“Hi, Bobby. It's Molly.”

“Oh. Hi, Molly,” he greeted me, abandoning his I'm-not-only-going-to-sell-you-a-car-I'm-going-to-be-your-best-friend voice. “Did you change your mind about a Mustang? There's one sitting here with your name on it. Those cupcakes were awesome, by the way.”

“Thanks. No, I haven't changed my mind about a Mustang. Don't worry. I'll let you know the second I do.”

“What can I do for you?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is this another covert operation? Will I get any credit for helping you?”

I rolled my eyes. “I do need another favor.” I took a deep breath and began explaining.

Once I had hung up with Bobby—someday he would figure out that I truly wasn't with the FBI, or any other such law enforcement organization—I called Kate.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Kate. It's Molly.”

“Molly! How are you?”

“I'm good, thanks. I was wondering if Jane would like to attend Enid's talk at the library next week? I'll be happy to take her.”

“Isn't that sweet of you,” Kate cooed. “I'm sure she would. She loves getting out. She's doing so much better now. Wait till you see.”

I felt a twinge of guilt. Not that I minded taking her, but I had an ulterior motive, which I wasn't going to reveal to Kate. I did care for Jane, so it wasn't as if I were using her, but I felt guilty nonetheless. “I'll pick her up at six thirty then?”

“That would be marvelous. She's been so peppy and happy. See you then.”

I confirmed, and we said our good-byes.

Ten minutes later I parked on the street a little past Addair Funeral Home. A funeral was obviously in full swing, explaining the lack of parking. I really did hate barging in on people this way, but I had no way to call Ed first. I wondered again if I was on some wild goose chase, combined with a decline in my mental capacity. I was afraid there was a good chance the answer was yes. To the wild goose chase question, I mean.

I left my car and made my way to Ed's apartment, hoping I wasn't catching him mid-nap. Before I knocked on the door
that would lead up to the apartment, I glanced at the funeral home and thought of Brian. For a second, I wished I still lived above the garage. Only for a second. I thought of what my mother had asked me: “Are you sure you aren't making stuff up to think about to take your mind off Brian getting married?”