Bun for Your Life (21 page)

I was pretty sure I wasn't. Something in me said Jane had something to say and it might be important. It might even tie in to Calista's murder. How, I didn't know. I had no idea where Sean was in his investigation, but I believed every little bit of information helped.

I knocked on Ed's door softly. If he was napping, I'd feel bad waking him. I glanced over at a late-model black Honda, hoping it was his. That meant chances were that he was home. Unless he had gone for a stroll, decided to crash the funeral, or what have you.

His door opened a few seconds later. “Good morning. Molly, am I right?” He flashed me a big grin. “You forget something when you moved out? I haven't found anything. Then again, sometimes my eyes aren't so good.”

I smiled back. “Hi, Mr. McCray. I didn't forget anything. There's something, or someone, rather, I want to ask you about.”

“Come on in, then. But I told you before, it's Ed. None of this Mr. McCray stuff. It's nice to have a visitor.”

I walked into the familiar living room. His couch and love seat looked brand-new, as did the coffee table and end tables on either end of the couch. He had a large flat screen TV tuned in to a game show.

He nodded at it. “Early Christmas present from my sons and their wives. Don't know why they thought I needed such a hifalutin TV. My twenty-five-year-old RCA worked about perfect. Hardly noticed the lines in the picture anymore, and the way people's skin turned green at times.”

I grinned at him. He was clearly thrilled with it, despite his grumbling. “It's great. What a clear picture.”

“I suppose. I'm looking forward to watching my baseball games on it, have to admit that. But you didn't come over to discuss my TV. Got water, milk, orange juice, tea, coffee. What can I get you?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, thank you.”

“Come on and sit. What can I do for you?”

I sat on his couch, and he sat across from me on the love seat. “I came across an interesting article in an archived newspaper at the library while I was . . . um . . . researching something.” I dug in my purse and pulled it out. No need to tell him the whole story. I'd probably sound crazy. “This article was about a man who committed suicide back in nineteen forty-nine. His name was Peter Travis. The article mentioned a James McCray.” I handed it to him. “Do you know who he was?”

I waited while he read.

When he had finished reading, he handed the article back to me. “That was my uncle. Tell me again how in God's name you found this?”

“The library. They have a database of old newspapers they've archived. You can look them up on one of their computers. Did your uncle ever say anything about Peter's suicide?

His brow creased and he rubbed his chin as he thought. “Not that I recall. At least not to me. I do remember something about Max Danforth being accused of stealing Peter Travis's novel when I was a young man. Supposedly, that's why Peter killed himself. Max made it to the
New York Times
bestseller list in nineteen fifty with
Broken Delilah
. Peter was the one
who wrote it, so Peter claimed. He said Max changed the name from
Brooklyn at Dark
. They were best friends. At one time.”

“You've got a fantastic memory. That should have been in the paper, too.”

He nodded. “Oh, it was. That I do remember. Even in the papers in New York City. At least until the Danforths hired the best attorneys they could find and threatened to sue all the papers for character assassination.”

“So it was never proven?”

“I can't recall. Maybe it was. I was a teenager. I was interested in girls, cars, school, and sports, so it's possible it was and I missed it. I do know that you didn't cross a Danforth and win. The rumor quickly died. Soon after, Peter Travis did, too.”

“Could he have been killed?”

“I don't think so. The coroner ruled it a suicide.”

“Are you familiar with Enid Middlebrook?” I asked, hoping I didn't sound like I was grilling him like a splayed catfish.

“That author lady that everyone's in a tizzy about?”

“Yes, her.”

“Don't read her books, but yes, I know who she is.”

“Is she Peter Travis's daughter?”

His eyebrows raised. “His daughter? Don't know about that. I didn't know Peter Travis. Like I said, I was a teenager back then.” He chuckled. “And ‘back then' for me is a hell of a long time ago.

“I didn't pay too much attention to stuff like this. I don't even remember reading this article.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Technology sure has come a long way. Can't believe I'm sitting here reading something from an almost seventy-year-old newspaper.”

“It's amazing, isn't it? Do you know who Max was?”

“If I recall, he was Calista's grandfather. The dead woman. If you don't mind me asking, what's gotten you so interested in this story? You sure have got a lot of questions.” He laughed. “You sound like a policewoman on one of those detective shows. What's got you wondering about our famous author-in-residence?”

“I think it may tie in to Calista Danforth's murder. It's something Jane Addair said. She's your landlord's grandmother.” Or was Jane mistaking Enid for someone else who could somehow be involved with Calista's murder?

His face clouded. “That poor woman. I hope they find her killer soon. The longer they don't, the less chance they will. Molly, are you working undercover or something?”

“No!” I almost shrieked. “I'm not. I own Bread and Batter Bakery. I'm just trying to help out Detective Corsino.”

“Is that so?” Ed pinned me with a stare that reminded me of my junior high school principal after he caught Brian and me under the bleachers in the school's gymnasium during lunch. Details not forthcoming. Ed almost had me squirming in my seat, just like Principal Beacon had.

“Yes. I won't bore you with all the details.”

His eyes twinkled. “I'll leave that up to you. If you decide to, you know where I am. My wife appreciated what a good listener I was.”

“Thank you, Ed.” I breathed an internal sigh of relief that he wasn't pressing me for more details. “Thank you for answering all my questions.”

“Not at all. If you figure out whatever it is you're trying to figure out, stop by and give me an update.”

Smiling at him, I got up. “I promise. By the way. My landlady is about your age. Her name is Dottie Brand. Would you be interested in meeting her?”

He frowned at me, but I could see he was making an effort not to smile. “You trying to fix me up, young lady?”

I laughed. “Yes. Yes, I am. How about it?”

“If she's willing, then I guess I can risk it. Does she iron?”

I tried unsuccessfully to glare at him. “That's sexist, you know. I think you'll like her. What's your phone number? I'll talk to her and have her give you a call if she's interested.”

I waited while he went to the kitchen and wrote it down on a pad. “She's not one of these crazy ladies with a hundred cats, is she?” he asked when he returned.

I tucked the paper with his number away in my purse and burst out laughing. “No. She's quite sane. No cats. Leave everything to me.”

He walked me to the door. “I'll do that. Glad you came by. You're more entertaining than my new TV. Merry Christmas, Molly, and a happy New Year.”

“You too.” He was such a nice man. I was sure he and Dottie would hit it off. I'd approach her when she came back home.

As soon as I climbed into my car I pulled out my phone so I could text Sean. I felt as if I was getting close to something. Did it hinge on Enid possibly being Beatrice Travis? Or did that have nothing to do with anything? He probably wouldn't give what I had to say a second thought. He wanted concrete evidence: a smoking gun, or, in this case, a smoking doughnut injected with peanut butter. That didn't stop me from trying, as you can see.

Hi there. I did some digging and found that Peter Travis, who may or may not be Enid Middlebrook's father, may have committed suicide because Max Danforth stole his manuscript. Max is Calista's grandfather. This could be important to your investigation.

I only had to wait two seconds for a response. I settled in to read it.

I can only assume you are independently wealthy.

I read his reply again, thinking I'd misplaced a few words.
Are you answering the right text?

Oh yeah!

What does that mean?

You own a bakery, yet it appears you spend most of your time researching, and trying to help—and I use that term
loosely—me solve Calista's murder even though I don't recall ever asking you to. Now you're off on some tangent about stolen manuscripts. How do you make any money?

I spend plenty of time at the bakery.
Not lately, poor Olivia, but I had every intention of making my absence up to her.

The notes didn't scare you enough? I suppose it's useless for me to say this, but I've got everything under control. I still don't need your help. I don't want you messing something up.

Well! Excuse me.
I didn't know how to do a text snort, or I would have.
This information could be important.

I'll make a note of it. I appreciate that you want to help, but to put your busy mind at rest, I've got some of Jacoby's team working on leads. They're making progress.

What leads?

Never mind. How's Beau?

He's fine. I'm very attached to him.

If you get more notes, make sure you let me and Jacoby know. I don't want you to get hurt, okay?

You aren't going to even entertain the notion that I may have stumbled on something?

No. I'm on a murder case, not a missing manuscript case. Go back to your cupcakes. Talk soon.

Really????

Silence. I stared out the window. Was I actually losing my mind? Had I lost touch with reality? I didn't think so.

*  *  *

I went home, did some cleaning, then called Bobby. I wanted to see how he did with the assignment I gave him.

“Mrs. Middlebrook agreed to talk to me. At first,” he said after he came on the line. “She met me at Daphne's Trattoria. The story was going to run the day before Christmas.”

“Did you ask her about writing under a pseudonym?”

“Yes. I told her you thought her name might really be Beatrice Travis. I asked her if—”

“You told her I said that?” I yelped. “Bobby, I told you to leave my name completely out of it. My exact sentence was, ‘Casually ask her if Enid Middlebrook is a pseudonym.'” I wished I hadn't mentioned the name Beatrice Travis to Bobby; it only confused things.

“Sorry, Molly, it slipped out. I hope I didn't ruin everything for you. She insisted her name was never Beatrice Travis anyway. She said she didn't know where you got such a ridiculous idea, and wanted to know if were still hanging on to the harebrained idea that you could help solve a murder. You'll be happy to know I told her I had no idea. That's the last thing I said, because she abruptly ended my interview. Not exactly a friendly woman; she's a little odd, if you ask me. I got a weird vibe from her.

“Plus, she told me she had a lot of packing to do so she can move to Paris. Or was it Peru? It looks like our famous resident is ready to move on.

“Anyway, she threw down her napkin and walked out of the restaurant. But not before telling me that if I printed the interview she'd sue the paper. I don't know why that question set her off. It was the weirdest thing. Sorry, Molly. No interview and no information. I paid the bill and left.”

“It's okay. You tried. I'm grateful. Thanks, Bobby. If I don't talk to you, have a merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, Molly. You too.”

I headed toward the bakery. I wanted to make sure Olivia was okay. There was a light snow falling by the time I reached Bread and Batter. The old-fashioned streetlamps were already casting a golden glow on Lacey Street, even though it was just four o'clock. The scene would make a perfect greeting card. I left my car and shivered as I breathed in the clean, chilly air.

“You look familiar,” Olivia greeted me when I walked in. “But I can't place you.”

I made a face at her. “You're so funny. How's the day been?”

“Not bad. How about you? Everything okay?”

I brought her up to date in a most general way. I didn't want her to worry about me. Or to start procedures on committing me to some sort of asylum until I recovered my wits.

“Where's Sara?” I asked.

“She just left. We had a really good day. Lots of customers. Not one asked about Calista being killed with one of our doughnuts.”

I laughed. “That's good to know. I've been thinking. We need to start thinking about building a website so we can sell online. We should hire someone to do that for us. I think we need to hire someone part-time, too, for behind the counter.”

Olivia clapped her hands together. “I was thinking the same thing. I hate always calling Sara. She has her own life. Shall we put an ad in
The Destiny Trumpet
?”

“Let's wait until after the New Year. People are busy right now. That will give us a chance to decide exactly what kind of people we want and get together the questions we want to ask.”

“I agree.”

“Why don't I run to the bank and make the deposit, then I'll come back and help you clean up and close. Did I tell you I'm staying with my parents for a few days, starting tonight?”

“Why?”

“The notes creeped me out. I feel weird staying at the house by myself. I'm such a baby.”

She nodded. “I'd be scared, too. You can always stay with me if you like. You know you're always welcome.”

I gave my best friend a hug. “I know. Thanks. Sean seems to think he's got everything in control, but I don't like that Calista's killer hasn't been caught.”

Olivia nodded. “I know. I can't say I'm crazy about staying by myself, either.”