Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) (15 page)

“Besides, the private investigator had to go home for the holiday.” Aunt Phyllis sipped her coffee.

“Who is she?” I asked. “Can I hire her to keep an eye on you two and report back the minute you decide to do something foolish?”

“Hi, guys.” Meghan walked in the back door, the wind ruffling her fauxhawk. “What’s up?”

“My granddaughter is being a stick in the mud,” Grandma muttered, and dragged herself to a standing position. “I’m going home and taking a nap.”

“I’ll drive you,” Meghan offered and handed Grandma her walker. “I’ve got deliveries in your neighborhood anyway.”

“Fine.” Grandma took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she leaned on her walker. “I’ll go out to the van and wait.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” I said and opened the back door for her. “You know I’m only looking out for your best interests. Someone is out there killing old ladies. I don’t want you to be next.” I kissed her dry cheek. “I love you.”

“Of course you do,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you investigated, you know. . . .”

I didn’t dignify that comment with a response.

Aunt Phyllis pulled her shoulder bag over her head and followed Grandma out. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” she said. “It will give you time to figure out who killed Lois.”

“I don’t—” I closed my mouth. After a while, my protests started to sound as foolish as Grandma’s schemes.

“G
et a big trash bag,” Todd ordered as he eyed my flowered float.

“Is it that bad?” I pulled a large black bag from the box that sat on the shelf near the door to the 4-H building where the floats were being stored.

“Hmm, like I said, it needs to be edited.” Todd walked around it. “Did you design this?”

“Yes?”

“It does have a certain sensibility about it.” He cupped one elbow and drummed his fingers on his chin.

“Can you make it look like it can compete with that?” I waved at the Elks club float Brad had been working on.

“Only if I tore it all down and started over from scratch,” Todd commented. “Right now it looks like a tissue craft project gone bad.”

“I was afraid of that.” I dropped my shoulders in defeat. “Tell me what to do.”

“Let’s start by removing every other flower.” Todd jumped up on the float. He had taken off his suit coat and tie and rolled up his pink shirtsleeves.

I started on the front left and picked off every other flower, carefully tossing the crumpled tissue in the bag. I had over two hundred dollars in tissue invested in the project. Maybe I could give the flowers away in a promotion of some sort.

The 4-H building was empty except for Todd and me. The parked trailers looked like an odd flotilla of Homer Everett statues, as if he himself were a one-man army. I suppose you had to be an Oiltop native to truly understand.

“You’ve lived in Oiltop your entire life, right?” I asked.

“Yes. . . .” Todd didn’t stop removing things from my float. The bag was filling up fast.

“What do you know about Homer Everett—I mean besides the fact that he was a war hero and a football hero?” I handed him the bag.

“He was mayor of Oiltop for like twelve years,” Todd said. “Everyone, including my grandmother, was half in love with him.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes, everyone.” Todd straightened. “You should ask your grandmother. She might have fancied him, too.”

“Grandma Ruth thinks he was a murderer.”

“What?”

“She’s been investigating the possibility that Homer killed his best friend, Champ Rogers.” I handed him the bag and went to get another off the shelf. “We just can’t figure out why yet.”

“No. Not
the
Homer, hero of my Grandma’s stories. She made him out to be some kind of caped crusader when I was growing up.” Todd tied up the first full bag. “There has to be some kind of misunderstanding. Besides, if Homer did kill Champ, wouldn’t he have told someone? There are too many heroic stories about him for him to have died without admitting the truth.”

“Didn’t he die of a sudden massive heart attack in the Chamber of Commerce parking lot?” I continued to pull off tissue paper flowers.

“Right. I suppose there wasn’t time for a deathbed confession.” Todd attacked Grandma Ruth’s throne with a tad too much glee. “I heard he kept detailed journals. If that is true, then he would have felt compelled to write it in his journals.”

“That’s what Grandma Ruth thought. She spent the last two weeks attempting to go through his journals for clues. It was an arduous project. The historical society will only let you go through a few pages at a time—with white gloves. So Grandma Ruth contacted Lois Striker. You see, Lois was Homer’s secretary back in the day. She would know things that might not have been written in the journals.”

“But Lois was killed last week.” Todd stood on the float in a pile of tissue paper flowers and streamers that came up to his knees.

“Exactly.” I shoveled the pile into the new bag I held.

“Wait, you think that someone killed Lois so she wouldn’t tell what she knew about Homer?”

“Yes.”

“Who would do that?”

“That is what we’re trying to figure out.” I glanced over the float. It looked bare and . . . better, much better.

Todd did some magic to Grandma Ruth’s sitting area. It looked good—dare I say, almost professionally designed. For the first time I felt as if the float might actually be a finalist in the parade. That is, if Hutch Everett was fair in his judgment.

Todd jumped off the trailer and walked the circumference. “Maybe whoever killed Champ wanted everyone to think it was Homer. With Lois dead, no one would ever know. It would become a cover-up and people would write conspiracy books on the possibility of what happened without ever knowing the facts.”

“Really? People would write conspiracy books on this? Why would anyone care about an unsolved murder in a small Kansas town?”

“Oh, honey.” He shook his head. “There are true crime mystery fans everywhere. It’s a huge genre. Seriously, don’t you read?”

I drew my eyebrows together. “Who has time to read? I spend as much time as I can on my business, and then there’s my family—”

“And your own investigations.” He waggled one eyebrow at me.

I pursed my lips and gave him the stink eye. “I am not an investigator. I’m a baker.”

“Riiight.” He grinned at me and winked. “Seriously, if you read true crime you might learn a thing or two on how mysteries are solved. That could really help you in your investigations.”

“I am not . . . Oh, never mind.” I turned my attention back to the float. “Wow, it looks fantastic.” I walked the perimeter, amazed at what he had done. “You are good.”

“Thank you.”

“No, seriously, you are really good. You should do this kind of thing for a living.”

“I do, only instead of floats, I edit men, and trust me, honey, they are as bad as, if not worse than, your float.”

I flung my arms around him and gave him a big hug. “Thank you, thank you!” I had a chance of being noticed by the parade committee. If I could make the final three floats I would be able to put a plaque in my store window. That meant that the town would take me seriously and expect even better next year.

That thought made me pause. I held Todd out at arm’s length. “I’m hiring you to help with next year’s float. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

He laughed. “Don’t say that, sweetie. I cost more than you can imagine. Let’s agree that I will be on your float committee for next year. Okay?”

“Okay.” I gave him a quick hug and then picked up the two giant black trash bags. “Do you have a need for pink tissue paper flowers?”

He gave me a look that was easily interpreted as not only
no
, but
hell no
. I laughed and raised the bags up. “You could use the tissue to pack clothes in bags.”

“Honey, no cowboy will come into the men’s store if I start packing their items in hot pink tissue paper.”

“Oh, true.” The door to the 4-H building opened and Hutch Everett and his wife walked into the building. Hutch was a tall, older gentleman with the jowl and belly of a man who sat behind a desk most of his life. He had brown eyes and gray hair that had thinned on top. He solved the thinning by combing it straight back. Not that it was a bad comb-over. It was clear that he had a good stylist who showed him what to do with thinning hair.

He wore the uniform of a professional: black dress pants, a pale blue shirt, and a red tie. Funny how men wore their politics around their necks these days: red ties for staunch Republicans and blue ties for Democrats.

His wife, Aimee, wore a neat little suit in maroon tweed with a crisp white shirt that had a Peter Pan collar. Her champagne-blonde hair was twisted up in a French knot. She held her finger to her nose as if she was afraid to breathe the air. I have no idea why. There wasn’t anyone but Todd and me inside.

One thing I did notice as they came closer was the fact that Hutch’s eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. Then I realized that, if our speculation was correct, Lois was his birth mother, and I remembered how hard it was when my mom had passed away.

I went over to where they stood studying the Elks club float. “Hi, Mr. Everett, Mrs. Everett.” I held out my hand. “I’m Toni Holmes. I own the Baker’s Treat bakery on Main.”

“Yes, I know.” He took my hand and gave me a proper firm shake. Aimee simply sent me a small smile and waved off my hand.

“I take it you’re sponsoring a float this year?” Hutch’s voice was at once quiet yet commanding.

“Yes.” I waved in the direction of my pink-and-white decorations. “I think it’s important to be part of the community.”

“All the monies raised from the parade go to the free clinic in the hospital’s west wing.” His mouth moved into a brief smile. “There are so many underserved children and single moms in the area.”

Perfect. He had led me right into the subject I wanted to talk about. Was he adopted? Was Lois his birth mother? Maybe if I hinted around the subject he’d tell me the truth. “So true. I heard you are head of the parade committee. Something I’ve always wondered—is serving children and single women a passion of yours or your father’s?”

Aimee let out a small sound, her eyes alight with anger for a brief second before her superior expression returned to place. Hutch studied me for a moment and my heart pounded heavily in my chest. Did I overstep my bounds? Will he toss my float out of the running?

“In my youth, adoptions were closed,” he said quietly. “Many people were hurt, and there was a huge stigma involved for young women who were not married but in the family way. I’m glad things have changed. I’m also glad the proceeds of the parade go toward helping those in need, which is the right thing to do no matter what your passion is. That said, I still support the celebration of my father and all he did for the community of Oiltop.”

“Oh, of course, of course, wow—closed adoption. Sure glad that’s changed. It is so important to know your family roots now, what with so many diseases having genetic links.”

“Exactly. I know my genetic links, Ms. Holmes.” He crossed his arms. “As does everyone in this room. It’s a privilege to know your family history, and one of many reasons we promote open adoption.”

The look in his eye was suddenly cold and predatory. I had to work at not taking a step back.

“So, um, speaking of family history—it doesn’t bother you that your father’s journals are available for anyone to read?”

“No, why would it?”

“Every family has its secrets.” I sent him an innocent smile. “I’m not sure I would want my father’s journals on display for the entire town to read. You are a brave and generous man. I’ll be sure and tell my grandmother to put that in the article she’s writing about your father. Do you want me to have her send you a copy before it’s published?”

“No need. Your grandmother can’t possibly say anything about our family that isn’t already common knowledge. If she can, and if she has proof to back it up, then good for her. Do pass on to her that my lawyer will be reading her article closely.”

“Oh, right.” I tried to smile and made a point of looking at my watch. “Speaking of my grandmother, I have to go. She and my aunt are coming for dinner. It was nice to meet you both.”

“Have a good evening, Ms. Holmes.”

“Come down to the bakery sometime,” I offered. “We have the best coffee in town, and the baked goods are tasty.”

“We’ll do that,” he said with an implied
not
.

I picked up my trash and bustled off, my hands full of bags. Todd waited for me by the door. He pushed the glass open and let me through first.

As soon as the doors closed behind us, Todd spoke up. “What did you say to them? They did not look happy.”

“I asked him if single mothers were a passion of his.”

Todd opened the back of my white paneled van for me. “That certainly took guts. What did he say?”

I tossed the bags into the back and closed the doors. The beep from my key chain told the world that the doors had been unlocked. Todd walked me to my van door. “He said his passion came from the closed adoptions of his age, and that knowing your genetics is a privilege. Although with my family, I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“So he didn’t mention that he knew he was adopted?”

“Oh, he knew he was adopted, all right.” I climbed into the driver’s seat.

“But did he come out and confirm your suspicions?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

I started up the van and glanced around to see if anyone but Todd was there. The parking lot was empty except for my van, Todd’s Lexus, and a Bentley that I had to assume belonged to Hutch Everett. “But his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. I’ve seen that look before, and it doesn’t come from alcohol. It comes from grief.”

“Then common knowledge or not . . .”

“Lois Striker has to be Hutch Everett’s birth mother. Or at the very least a surrogate. No one grieves like that unless someone close to them dies, and if Lois were simply Homer’s secretary, there would be no need for tears.”