Trick or Deadly Treat (14 page)

“You and Woods had some sort of disagreement. What was that about?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Baxter said, but Sam saw the way his eyes darted toward D'Angelo. Baxter was worried about saying something in front of the lawyer, which made Sam think that Woods had indeed been mixed up in something illegal. Baxter had either been involved in it, too, or at least Woods had tried to get him involved in it.

“You used to be Woods's vet and you took care of all those prizewinnin' dogs of his, didn't you?”

“Yeah. He was one of my customers, but so are a lot of other people. I don't see what that has to do with Susan's murder.”

“Then you shouldn't mind sayin' why you dropped him. Or did he drop you?”

Baxter's jaw tightened. He said, “I told Woods to find another vet. I just didn't like the guy. He's smug and arrogant and just a big jerk. If you'd ever spent even five minutes around him, you'd know that.”

Sam did indeed know that, but he didn't explain how he did. He wasn't the one accused of murder here.

“I guess you didn't know Woods offered your assistant Tommy a job,” Sam said.

Baxter leaned forward sharply. “He what?”

“From what Holly said, Woods wants Tommy to help him out with his dog-breedin' business.”

Baxter shook his head and said, “No. Absolutely not. That would be the worst thing for Tommy to do. I'll have a talk with the kid.”

“He'll need a job if this place closes down.”

“Who said the practice is going to close down?”

“People are takin' their pets elsewhere now. I didn't want to, but I even made an appointment with another vet to check Buck's leg in a few days.”

Baxter subsided and muttered, “That's probably a good idea. I don't have my mind on work these days, and it's best not to take a chance with pets. But that doesn't mean it'll always be this way.”

“Maybe not. I hope not. I'd rather bring Buck here when he needs his cast taken off.”

Baxter looked at his watch and said, “That's all. I've got to go home and get ready for the funeral. You don't mind giving me a ride, Jimmy?”

“Of course not,” the lawyer said. “I brought you by here so you could check on things, didn't I?”

“You don't have to keep babysitting me. I'm not going to do anything crazy.”

“Hey, nobody said you were, pal.” D'Angelo turned to Sam and said, “You'll tell your friend Mrs. Newsom everything we talked about here?”

Sam nodded and said, “I sure will. She started out tryin' to stay out of this case, you know. I did, too.”

“Well, I'm glad you both changed your minds. Like I said, I'm not proud. I'll take all the help I can get.”

“You sort of tricked me the other day in your office, though. You were talkin' to me under false pretenses, as they say.”

“I think you were doing a pretty good job of that yourself, buddy boy.”

Sam chuckled. Despite the vast difference in their backgrounds, he found that he was starting to like Jimmy D'Angelo.

He just hoped that the lawyer was as canny as he seemed, and that between D'Angelo, Phyllis, and him, they could find the evidence they needed to prove Hank Baxter was no murderer.

S
ince the deadline was approaching rapidly to submit recipes to the contest being sponsored by
A Taste of Texas
, Phyllis spent the morning polishing hers. She had tried a couple of different versions of the white chili casserole and was satisfied she wasn't going to be able to improve it, so after looking over everything one last time, she used the form on the magazine's website to submit the recipe and enter the contest online.

That felt odd to her, even a little wrong. To someone of her generation, recipes were supposed to be written down, preferably on a three-by-five index card, and kept in a plastic box made for cards that size. Phyllis had spent literally decades keeping track of her recipes like that. In fact, she still had her recipe box tucked away on a shelf in one of the cabinets, but she hadn't used it in a good while.

“Pixels,” she muttered as she turned off the computer monitor.

“What did you say, dear?” Eve asked without looking up from her needlework.

“Oh, nothing important,” Phyllis said. “Just lamenting the passage of time and the changes in modern life, I suppose.”

Eve shook her head and said, “There's no point in that. Life is going to change whether we want it to or not. It always has and always will.”

“That doesn't mean we have to like it,” Phyllis said as she got up from the computer.

“No, but I try not to dwell on it, myself. What's that old saying? ‘Life is what happens when you're making other plans.' I find that it saves time to just leave yourself open to new experiences.”

Eve was a fine one to say that, sitting there and doing needlework like an old woman, Phyllis thought.

But the thing of it was, after all the trials and tribulations and downright tragedies Eve had experienced in her life, sitting calmly and doing something just to pass the time really was a new experience for her. As Phyllis realized that, she smiled and said, “You're right, of course, Eve,” and then went out to the kitchen to prepare lunch. She didn't know exactly what time Sam was going to be back, but she was just going to fix hero sandwiches. They were better if made the night before, but it didn't really matter that much. Susan Baxter's funeral was at two o'clock, she reminded herself, and Sam had expressed his intention of attending. She thought he would probably come in soon, so he'd have time to get ready after he'd eaten. As for herself, Phyllis still hadn't decided whether she was going to attend, although she was leaning in that direction.

Sam came in just as she was finishing up the sandwiches. He grinned and said, “Looks like good timin' on my part.”

“You usually have good timing when it comes to food,” she said. “Did you find out anything?”

“Maybe,” Sam said.

“Let me tell Carolyn and Eve that lunch is ready and then you can tell me all about it.”

When the four of them were sitting around the kitchen table with their sandwiches, chips, and iced tea, Sam explained how he had discovered the link between Tommy Sanders and Kyle Woods, then encountered Hank Baxter and Jimmy D'Angelo at the vet clinic.

“Under the circumstances, I sort of had to come clean with them,” Sam said with a slightly sheepish look on his face. He recounted the conversation he'd had with the two men in Baxter's office.

“Wait a minute,” Phyllis said. “This lawyer, Mr. D'Angelo, he spoke to you the other day because he wanted to get me involved in the case?”

“That's what he said.”

A frown creased Phyllis's forehead. “I'm not sure I like that sort of manipulation.”

Carolyn said, “It seems to me that he's paying you a compliment. He thinks you can solve the murder. Clearly he's been reading up on you, like he told Sam.”

“Maybe so, but he lied to Sam.”

“I was lyin' to him,” Sam pointed out, “or at least not tellin' him the whole truth. I think I sort of like the fella, even if he is a Yankee.”

“Do you think we should . . . ? What was it he said? Go to work for him as consultants?”

Eve asked, “Is he going to pay you?”

“Well, we didn't exactly talk about gettin' paid,” Sam
admitted. “I think it was more like we'd be volunteers, but if the cops got their noses out of joint because we were pokin' around in the case, we could tell them we were workin' for D'Angelo and they wouldn't be able to say anything.”

“You'd be like Paul Drake,” Eve said.

“Except Paul Drake never solved anything himself,” Carolyn added. “Perry Mason always did that. The Drake Detective Agency just gathered information for him. Does this man D'Angelo strike you as another Perry Mason, Sam?”

That question made Sam laugh. He shook his head and said, “Not hardly. He may be a good lawyer—I don't really know about that—but he's not gonna go out and solve this murder himself.”

“Then it's up to us, I suppose,” Phyllis said. “If you want to work with him, Sam, I can go along with that. This has always been more of your case than it has mine.”

“All right,” Sam said. “We'll play along with D'Angelo, at least for the time bein'. Right now, though, I guess we'd better get ready if we're goin' to that funeral.”

*   *   *

You couldn't get to be his age, thought Sam, without going to way too many funerals. Friends, relatives, loved ones . . . As time passed, the circle shrank more and more. One of these days, it would be his turn to leave the circle. A few years earlier, after watching his wife, Victoria, die a slow, agonizing death, he would have said that the day couldn't come too soon to suit him. He was through with this world and ready to move on to whatever lay beyond it.

Now . . . not so much. Phyllis had changed that, and so had having friends like Carolyn and Eve. And now he had
Buck to think about, too. The Dalmatian was a relatively young dog with a lot of good years left in him. Buck was going to need Sam around to take care of him. Sam took that responsibility seriously. Any thoughts of being ready to shuffle off this mortal coil were long gone.

Sometimes, though, you didn't have a choice.

Susan Baxter's funeral was a vivid reminder of that.

As Sam had expected, the funeral was so well attended that nobody paid much attention to him and Phyllis as they made their way from the church parking lot to the sanctuary. They were just two more mourners among hundreds who filed into the church. A lot of people from the hospital and the rest of the medical community were there. Susan had been active in society and civic affairs, too, and her friends from those parts of her life had come to pay their respects.

Sam and Phyllis took seats in one of the pews toward the back of the church, on the right side. Mournful hymns played over the speakers. Sam thought, not for the first time, how the whole thing gave him the creeps. He and Phyllis were practical people and trusted each other to see that their wishes were respected, so they had discussed what they wanted to happen after they were gone. Sam wanted to be cremated. No funeral, no memorial service. But if the weather permitted, he wanted his friends to get together somewhere outside, at a park, maybe. They could grill hamburgers and hot dogs, have a big tub full of ice and soft drinks, bring chips and pies and cookies . . . just have themselves a good time, basically, and if they felt like it, maybe say a few kind words about ol' Sam. He hoped that he would be there in spirit. If he was, it would be just about the best send-off a fella could ever hope for.

The pews up front were empty, reserved for family. As the
time neared for the funeral to begin, a number of people emerged from a door to one side and filed into those pews. Sam spotted Meredith and Jack Carlyle. He nudged Phyllis and whispered, “That's Susan's sister and her husband.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I saw her at Susan's office. This is the first time I've seen Jack Carlyle except in pictures, though.”

Carlyle had an arm around his wife's shoulders as they walked past the flower arrangements, which formed veritable floral mountains on both sides of the closed coffin on its gurney in front of the altar. Meredith already had a handkerchief in her hand. She used it to dab at her eyes. As they passed the coffin, Meredith shrugged her husband's hand off her shoulder, which struck Sam as a little odd. Carlyle looked like he wanted to say something to her, but as far as Sam could tell, he didn't.

The two of them went on and took their seats in the first pew in the center section, all the way at the left end of the pew. Other family members settled down beside them.

Sam knew from reading Susan Baxter's obituary that she and Hank hadn't had any children. From the looks of it, neither did Meredith and Jack. That was the way of it these days, Sam reflected. When he was young, most families had had three or four children. In the generation before his, seven or eight or even more children in a family wasn't uncommon. Now it was more like one or two . . . or none. People just didn't have time for kids the way they used to. If they were successful, they were likely to be busy with their own lives and interests. If they weren't, they were working all the time, struggling to make ends meet in an economy that seemed to be stuck permanently in quicksand.

The music was still playing, but Sam heard a commotion over it. He turned his head to look toward the doors at the back of the church.

“What is it?” Phyllis whispered.

“Looks like Hank showed up like he said he was going to,” Sam told her.

Hank Baxter stood in the vestibule wearing a darker, even more somber suit than the one he'd had on earlier. Several men clustered around him, and Sam knew from the flowers they wore pinned to their lapels that they were either pallbearers or worked for the funeral home that was in charge of the service. When Hank tried to move from the vestibule into the sanctuary, a couple of the men got in his way and blocked his path. Sam had been involved in enough fights in his life to know that Baxter was ready to take a swing, and so were the men confronting him. All of them wore belligerent expressions on their faces.

“Stay here,” Sam told Phyllis as he stood up. He thought for a second she was going to argue and try to come with him, but then she nodded and stayed where she was.

More people were turning to look at the confrontation now. Sam thought it might have been smarter for Baxter to stay away, but he could understand why the man wanted to be here, especially if he was innocent, as he claimed.

Of course, a clever prosecutor might claim that Baxter was just trying to make himself look innocent by coming to the funeral.

As Sam approached the vestibule, one of the funeral home men tried to stop him. The man put out a hand and said, “Please, sir, if you'll return to your seat—”

“I know Dr. Baxter,” Sam said. “Maybe I can help.”

The man looked pretty distressed. The voices coming from the vestibule were getting louder and angrier. Sam heard Hank Baxter say, “I have a right, damn it—”

“You don't have any rights,” one of the other men interrupted. “You forfeited all those when you bashed my cousin's head in!”

So, he was a relative of Susan Baxter's and a pallbearer, Sam thought.

Baxter had gone pale under the lashing words. He stepped forward and said through gritted teeth, “If you don't get out of my way—”

“Hank,” Sam said firmly as he moved closer. “Hank, you don't want to do this.”

Baxter's eyes darted toward him. Sam wasn't sure Baxter even recognized him. That was how upset he was.

But then he said, “Stay out of this, Fletcher. I have a right to mourn my own wife.” A little vein jumped in his forehead from the strain he was under. “I loved her. That's what nobody seems to understand. I still loved her—”

Again someone interrupted Baxter. This time it was Meredith Carlyle, who charged into the vestibule like a linebacker and screamed, “Shut up! Shut your lying mouth! You . . . you come here and ruin the last thing . . . the last thing anybody can do for my poor sister . . .”

She ran out of steam, both physically and verbally, which might have been a good thing because the men had stepped aside and left her a clear path to Hank Baxter. But instead of attacking him, she stopped and put her hands over her face as sobs racked her body.

Her husband caught up to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Meredith—”

She wrenched away from him. Turning to one of the men from the funeral home, she asked in a grief-choked voice, “Is there a private room here where . . . where this man can wait . . . until after the service?”

“Certainly,” the man answered.

Meredith turned back to Hank Baxter and said coldly and with an obvious effort at self-control, “If you'll go with this gentleman and not do anything else to disrupt the service, you can have a moment or two alone with . . . with Susan . . . when the funeral is over.”

“I'm her husband,” Baxter argued. “I ought to—”

“It's the best deal you're going to get, Hank,” Meredith said, “and it's more than I'm really inclined to give you. But if you keep making trouble, I'll call the police. Under the circumstances, which one of us do you think they'll try to accommodate?”

Baxter stared at her for a couple of long seconds, then said, “You always were a cold-blooded bitch, Meredith.”

“Hey!” Jack Carlyle exclaimed. He clenched his fists and moved toward Baxter. “You can't—”

Some of the other men started to get between them to prevent a fight. Sam was close enough that he was able to put a hand on Carlyle's arm and stop him.

“Take it easy,” Sam said. “Emotions are runnin' pretty high here. Folks say things they don't mean.”

Carlyle's head jerked toward Sam and he looked at him as if sizing him up for a punch. Then the realization that Sam was probably thirty years older than he was seemed to sink in. He relaxed his hands.