The Christmas Cookie Killer (23 page)

gripped Helen’s hand, and Helen didn’t pull away. “I didn’t mean to upset you or your children. But I’m really not sure that Randall Simmons killed his grandmother.”

184 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“I don’t know one way or the other,” Helen said. “All I know is that I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course not.” Phyllis squeezed Helen’s hand and then let it go. “I’d better be going. You and Denise and Parker enjoy those cookies, now, you hear?”

Helen summoned up a smile. “All right. Thank you, Mrs.

Newsom.”

“Goodness, you don’t have to thank me. Not after all the uproar I caused, even if I didn’t mean to.”

Phyllis left, hoping that Helen would be able to think of something to tell the children that would calm their fears and make them forget that this incident had ever happened. That wasn’t always quite as easy as Phyllis had made it sound when she was trying to reassure Helen. Sometimes, things stuck in the minds of children and stayed with them the rest of their lives, for both good and bad.

From the sound of it, Helen hadn’t been much more than a

child herself when she’d had to take that man’s life in order to protect her mother. Something like that would stay with a person, too, no matter how much she tried to tamp it down in her memory, and Phyllis had to wonder what sort of effect it might have the next time that person found herself threatened somehow . . . or believed herself to be threatened, anyway. . . .

And there she went again, she realized, thinking of Helen Johannson as a suspect, when she’d already decided that she wasn’t going to do that.

The thing of it was, if Randall Simmons hadn’t killed his grandmother, then somebody else had to be guilty.

And it was looking more and more to Phyllis as if the killer might have come out of this very neighborhood. Even though she couldn’t pin it down, she still had the feeling that someone had lied to her, somewhere along the way, and she ought to know who it was. . . .

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 185

. . .

Phyllis took cookies to several more of the neighbors during the day, and in each case she was able to draw them into talking about Agnes’s murder. She didn’t have to try very hard since it was still on everyone’s mind. But she didn’t uncover anything as shocking as the revelation from Helen Johannson’s past, nor did anyone she talked to mention having seen suspicious people or activities in the neighborhood in the week or so before the murder.

Phyllis found herself wondering if Jimmy Crowe even ex-

isted. Was it possible that Randall had just made him up to try to throw suspicion on someone else?

No, she recalled, Frank had told her that Juliette Yorke had checked out Crowe through contacts of hers in Dallas. She didn’t think the lawyer would lie about something that could be verified so easily. Jimmy Crowe was real, and he was probably every bit as dangerous as Randall said he was.

But that didn’t prove that he had ever been here in Weatherford, did it?

Phyllis’s last visit of the afternoon was to Vickie Kimbrough, who was glad for the company and eager to talk. Phyllis knew that Vickie’s husband, Monte, worked long hours, and they didn’t have any children, which was evidently the source of some tension between the Kimbroughs. Phyllis recalled Vickie mentioning several months earlier that she and Monte had gone for some marriage counseling at the church, which had a faith-based counseling center as one of the sidelines to its regular business of saving souls.

Vickie took the plate of cookies and said with a grin, “You know I have a sweet tooth, Phyllis. I think I’m going to eat a couple of these right now.”

“Go right ahead,” Phyllis told her as they sat on the sofa with the plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of them.

186 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Vickie picked up one of Carolyn’s pecan pie cookies. “I

saw the picture of these in the paper this morning. They look delicious.” She took a bite, chewed, and enthused, “They
are
delicious!”

“I’ll tell Carolyn you said so.”

“I saw them at the cookie exchange but didn’t get a chance to try one before . . . well, before all that other business happened.”

“Yes, that ruined the whole afternoon, didn’t it?” Phyllis said, glad that Vickie had brought up the subject of the murder so that she wouldn’t have to.

“Yes, but not as badly as poor Agnes’s afternoon was

ruined.”

“No, of course not.”

Vickie shivered. “I hate to think of something like that going on right across the street. I mean, her grandson hiding out there and all, and then . . . and then . . .” She shook her head. “Well, it’s just hard to believe; that’s all.”

“I’m not sure I
do
believe it,” Phyllis said.

Vickie frowned. “What do you mean? The police arrested

Randall Simmons, didn’t they? I know I read that in the paper, after I saw all the commotion over there the other day.”

“Randall was arrested, all right, but I’m not sure I’m convinced of his guilt.” That was putting it right out in the open, but Phyllis had been beating around the bush all day and was tired of it. “In the past week or two, have you seen any strangers around here, or anyone acting suspicious?”

Vickie thought about the question for a long moment be-

fore shaking her head. “I don’t remember anything like that,”

she finally said. “I’d ask Monte, but I’m sure he wouldn’t know.

He’s never around here enough to know what’s going on in the neighborhood.”

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 187

Phyllis felt a pang of sympathy for her. “He’s still spending most of his time at work?”

“Yes. He was a little better about it for a while, when Dwight was counseling us, but once those sessions were over, he went right back to working all the time.” Vickie gave a little laugh but didn’t sound very amused. “I suppose I should be grateful that he’s just working and not getting drunk or playing around with other women.”

That set off a little alarm bell in the back of Phyllis’s mind.

She had known couples in the past where the husbands had

strayed, and in almost every case, they had tried to cover up their infidelity by claiming that they were putting in long hours at their jobs. In reality, though, they had been with other women instead of at work. Phyllis wondered if Monte Kimbrough was the sort of man to do that . . . and if he was, whether Agnes Simmons might have found out about it somehow.

But she was really reaching with that idea, she told herself.

Agnes had been laid up with that broken hip, and even before the injury had occurred, she hadn’t gotten out all that much.

She wasn’t likely to have discovered that Monte Kimbrough was having an affair unless he was carrying it on right under his wife’s nose, with someone here in the neighborhood.

Phyllis started to catch her breath but managed to suppress the reaction quickly enough so that Vickie didn’t notice it.

Maybe Monte
was
having an affair with a neighbor. Or maybe something was going on between some of the other people who lived on the street. Maybe everyone in the neighborhood was involved in some sort of floating orgy that involved them all except for Phyllis and her friends, and Agnes, of course.

She couldn’t stop herself from chuckling at that crazy

thought. And it
was
crazy. She was seeing murderers and motives behind every tree. Sure, the people who lived around here
188 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

had their secrets. People in every neighborhood did. But that didn’t mean they were killers.

Vickie looked puzzled. “What’s funny, Phyllis?”

“Oh, nothing,” Phyllis said. “I was just thinking about how pleased Carolyn is going to be that you liked her cookies.”

“Now, which ones are yours again?”

“The lime sugar cookies that are shaped like snowflakes.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Dwight Gresham told me the other

day that you’d made them and how good they were. Let me try one.” Vickie picked up one of the green, snowflakelike cookies and took a bite. “Scrumptious,” she said as she nodded.

Phyllis was pleased, but she decided that she wouldn’t pass along that particular comment to Carolyn, who had been so pleased when the newspaper had used that very word to de-scribe her pecan pie cookies that morning.

After chatting with Vickie for a few more minutes, Phyllis left the plate of cookies there and went back across the street.

She wasn’t sure whether she had done any good or not today.

She’d found out something she hadn’t known about Helen Johannson, but she still found it unlikely that Helen had killed Agnes Simmons. It was physically possible, of course; despite being on the small side herself, Helen was young enough and strong enough to have overpowered the frail old lady, wrapped that robe belt around her neck, and choked the life out of her.

Helen wasn’t so big and powerful that the struggle would have automatically left marks on Agnes’s body. That was another bit of evidence pointing toward her, rather than Oscar Gunderson or Monte Kimbrough or any of the other men in the neighborhood. Still, Phyllis thought she was being unfair to Helen. Just because someone had killed once, under extenuating circumstances, didn’t mean they would kill again.

She knew Sam was curious about what she might have found

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 189

out, but she didn’t get a chance to talk to him alone before dinner, and she didn’t want to have to explain everything to Carolyn and Eve, too. She told herself that maybe she’d have a chance to discuss the case with Sam after they had all eaten.

That didn’t happen, though, because they were still at the table when someone knocked on the front door. The sound was rather urgent, as if there were a problem of some sort. Phyllis murmured, “What in the world?” as she got to her feet and started toward the front of the house. Sam, Carolyn, and Eve followed her, equally curious.

Phyllis was surprised to see Vickie Kimbrough standing

there on the porch when she opened the door. Unlike a couple of hours earlier, Vickie wasn’t chatty and friendly now. In the glow of the front porch light, she looked worried instead. Phyllis opened the door and asked, “Vickie, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Phyllis,” she said quickly. “Your son’s not here, is he?”

Phyllis shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen Mike all day.”

“I was hoping he would be. I thought maybe he could do

something about it, you know, unofficially, so the police wouldn’t have to get involved. But I don’t know what else to do except call them. I’m afraid somebody’s going to get hurt if I don’t.”

“Vickie, what are you talking about?”

The woman turned and pointed directly across the street at the Horton house, where every light in the place seemed to be lit up.

“Lois and Blake,” she said. “If somebody doesn’t stop them, I’m afraid they’re going to kill each other.”

Chapter 17

“I
’m not sure this is a good idea,” Sam said as he approached the house, going cautiously up the front walk toward the porch of the Horton house. “Most folks don’t like it when somebody interferes in their private arguments.”

A crash came from inside the house, followed by another

stream of loud cursing.

“Somebody has to do something,” Phyllis said from right

behind Sam, “and it won’t help for the police to come and haul Blake off to jail.”

“Might be just what the fella needs,” Sam muttered.

A part of Phyllis felt the same way, but at the same time, she didn’t think it would solve anything. Being arrested might just make Blake act worse when he got back home.

Carolyn, Eve, and Vickie trailed along behind them, ner-

vously hanging back a few yards. The neighborhood was lit up more brightly than usual because of all the Christmas lights and decorations up and down both sides of the street. Over the sounds of discord coming from inside the house, Phyllis THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 191

heard music playing somewhere in the night. It was somewhat discordant, too, because “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and

“Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” were competing

against each other.

Signs of the season, Phyllis thought, as inside the house Lois and Blake Horton continued to scream curses at each other.

She and Sam reached the porch. Sam jabbed a finger against the doorbell button, and even though Phyllis could hear the bell ringing inside the house, Lois and Blake didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. They might not even be able to hear it over all the racket they were making, Phyllis thought.

“You’d better knock,” she told Sam. “Maybe that will get

them to stop.”

Sam raised a fist. “Maybe I ought to holler out that it’s the police.”

“That might get you in trouble for impersonating an officer.

Better just knock as hard as you can.”

He nodded and began pounding on the door. Something

broke inside the house with a shattering crash, and a voice yelled, “Help! Oh, God, help!”

A shock went through Phyllis. She wouldn’t have been sur-

prised to hear Lois Horton screaming for help . . . but this terri-fied voice belonged to Lois’s husband, Blake.

Sam glanced at Phyllis and muttered, “What the hell . . . !”

“See if the door’s unlocked,” she urged him. As Blake

screamed again, she realized how important it was that they get in there, even if they had to break down the door.

That wasn’t necessary, though, because when Sam jerked

the storm door open and tried the knob on the wooden door, it turned easily. He shouldered into the room, throwing the door back as he did so. Phyllis was right behind him. Carolyn, Eve, and Vickie stood in the porch, peering anxiously into the house.

192 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Phyllis and Sam stopped short after rushing into the Horton living room. A fireplace was on one side of the room, and Lois had a black iron poker in her hands, lifted over her head and poised to descend on Blake, who lay sprawled on the floor at her feet, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. The shattered remains of a lamp were on the floor near him, and Phyllis supposed that the cut on Blake’s head had come from a flying piece of the lamp’s ceramic base.