As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles (A Food Lovers' Village Mystery) Page 14

  And what—if anything—linked the murder, the theft, and the hit-and-run?

  The grocery store lot was nearly empty and he parked close to the front door. “Rice and what else? Tylenol?”

  “No. I’ve got the arnica pills, and gel at home. How about ice cream? We’ve got chocolate-Cabernet sauce in the fridge.” In summer, the Merc sells pints of a local ice creamer’s wares, but in winter, they take their truck and head south. Happily, I find Tillamook’s Oregon Hazelnut and Salted Caramel an equally addictive substitute.

  Adam dashed inside while I waited in the car. After a minute or two, I dug out my phone. Lights flashed, but nothing else happened. I dropped it back in the bag and stared out the window.

  A movement caught my eye. The grocery store’s electric doors swooshed open and a young boy emerged, followed by a man. Greg Taylor and his son, each carrying a bakery box. I opened the Xterra’s passenger door and called out.

  At the sound of his name, Greg stopped, then spotted me. “Hop in the truck,” he told the boy, a miniature version of himself, minus the gray hair. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “You’re shopping late.”

  “His team won the sixth-grade basketball tournament over the weekend. He forgot to tell us the school is celebrating tomorrow and he’s supposed to take cupcakes.” Greg gestured with the bakery box. Then he saw my face and frowned. “What happened to you?”

  “Got run off the road between here and Pondera. And I’m not sure it was an accident.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re okay, though, right? Thank God.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Actually, I’m glad to see you. We’ve been friends a long time, Greg, and I know you’re not so sure about me helping you prove you didn’t kill Merrily.” I watched as he lowered his eyes and shifted his feet. “But I don’t think you were completely honest about your relationship with her. You hired her, sure. You also rented her your grandmother’s house.”

  “She needed a place to live.”

  “She didn’t come back here asking for your help, did she? She wanted to do this on her own, to prove to her parents and the town that she was a good person and wasn’t here to take advantage of anyone.”

  “Nobody else would give her a job,” he said. Not even me, though I hadn’t actually had an opening. He tightened his grip on the cupcakes. “She was a good person. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “You said you two were friends, but it was more than that, wasn’t it? And that’s how you knew about the schoolhouse. What a special place it was to her.”

  In the bright circle cast by the parking lot lights, his skin looked sickly and the gray streaks in his hair more pronounced.

  “In the cigar box in the bottom of her desk drawer,” I continued, “along with the cash, were pictures and a few small objects. One was a token from the old Bijou theater.”

  Greg let out a ragged breath. His parents had met as theater students in college and spent a few years putting on musicals with traveling companies. They settled in Jewel Bay and took over the crumbling movie house, the Bijou. They started a community theater, and later, a summer company featuring aspiring young professionals. Eventually, the village foundation bought the building and remodeled it into the current Playhouse, managed by Greg’s older brother.

  The tokens dated back to the 1930s, and for decades everyone in town who’d grown up going to the Saturday movies had a stash of them, though the movies had stopped before I could collect any. They’d been used as tickets initially and, later, handed out in school and Scouting as prizes to be redeemed for popcorn or Junior Mints. For a few years after the movies ended, kids left the tokens on desks or passed them in the hall, to send messages—meet me after class, meet me by the City Dock.

  Meet me at the schoolhouse?

  “Did you give it to her, or did she give it to you and you slipped it back in her cigar box when we were in the office? So Bello wouldn’t figure out that he was right, that you did lure her out to the schoolhouse?” Bello wasn’t from around here. He wouldn’t know about the tokens and their significance. But Kim would, and I knew that eventually she’d see the token and figure it out. If I didn’t tell her first.

  “What? No.” Greg’s head jerked back. “Erin, I swear—she was dead when I got there.”

  “What I don’t know,” I said, “is whether you figured out that she was pilfering cash, or whether she figured out that you were behind it. Weren’t you a computer science major?”

  “A hundred years ago. I haven’t kept up with that stuff. Why would I steal from my own company?”

  “You were angry because Merrily kept the truth from you. You thought you were better friends than that.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Erin. I swear—”

  The electric door opened and Adam walked out. At the sound of footsteps, Greg glanced over his shoulder, then back to me. “I swear to you, Erin. When I talked about second chances, I was talking as much about myself as about Merrily.”

  Eighteen

  You’re supposed to rest,” Adam said the next morning when I asked him to take me into the village and drop me off at the Merc.

  “I can rest at work.”

  “Not what the doctor had in mind. She only let you go because your blood pressure came back up.”

  Sure. It rose every time I thought of dark pickups.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “No internal bleeding. No hypothermia. None of the things you’re worried about happened.”

  The set of his jaw told me I was wrong about that.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Fresca will be in and out, and Chiara’s across the street. Besides, Lou Mary will hover better than any nurse.”

  That brought a curve to his lips and a dimple to his cheek. Gad, I love that dimple.

  Predictably, both Tracy and Lou Mary fussed, and I let them—not for my sake, but for theirs. I answered all their questions, except the one I wanted to answer most: Who?

  But I was going to find out. Because you don’t mess with a Murphy girl without paying the price.

  I was sitting at the counter trying once more to resuscitate my phone when Wendy arrived.

  “You tried rice on that?” she said.

  “The phone or my face? Yeah, but I guess that trick only works if the battery just got damp. This got dunked.” It spat to life like R2D2, with spurts and burps, red lights and green, though unlike the beloved droid, it did not spin its head in excitement.

  “I brought medicine,” she said and handed me a double nonfat latte and a paper bag.

  I drank in the coffee scent, then took a bite of the pain au chocolat. “Thankth. Thizh wull fikth evryding.”

  She perched on a stool, her cherry-red rubber clogs the same shade as the upholstery. Today’s cotton drawstring pants were a solid navy, a subdued choice for her.

  Between bites, I answered her questions and asked about her baby, Stephanie. That brought a bit of color back to her cheeks.

  “I almost forgot,” she said after she slid off the stool to head back to the bakery. “Michelle wanted me to tell you she’s got a lead, and a plan.”

  I frowned, puzzled. Oh, the bag with the note and cash. I’d asked the barista to help me identify the thief. But what did she mean by a plan? A project to rehabilitate teen thieves? “Oh. Great. Tell her thanks, and I’ll pop in as soon as I can.”

  As she exited the front door, I smiled to myself, hoping Michelle knew that in Jewel Bay, if you suggest a project, you own it.

  The phone had gone dark again. Silly thing was playing with me.

  I limped upstairs and used the shop phone to call my cell carrier. They would be pleased to send me a replacement—for the small sum of three hundred and nineteen dollars.

  I begged. I whined. “It wasn’t my fault. I got run off the road by an unidentified driver. I tried rice. I took a hair dryer to the wires. Nothing.”

  Which prompted them to remind me that attempting repairs myself would breach the warranty.

  “On an
electronic paperweight?” I said.

  Then I rang my insurance agent. “If I hadn’t heard from you by noon,” she said, “I was going to call you myself. You okay?”

  “Glad to hear the grapevine’s working. Yeah, thanks. My car, not so much.” We went over the details. An adjuster would inspect the damage later today. “Sounds like it’s totaled, though,” she said. “We’ll need the crash report. Gotta get official confirmation before we can pay on an unknown driver claim.”

  Well, that stank. Creep runs me off the road and lands me in the hospital, and I’m the one who has to jump through the hoops.

  I thanked her and hung up. My project list kept getting longer. I called the bank and made an appointment with Pamela Barber to see about a car loan.

  Black eye or no, business details don’t wait. I skimmed yesterday’s sales info and scanned our inventory system for alerts. We were in good shape, except for our custom coffee blend. I called the roaster and placed a special order. Updated Facebook and Instagram, then added a social media section to the procedures manual.

  Darn it, the carpenter still hadn’t called back. Who else could I ask? I sent the Universe a message, asking for a referral. Sounds silly, but it works sometimes.

  Then I opened my Spreadsheet of Suspicion and timeline. I had no new suspects, but I hadn’t ruled anyone out, either.

  Oh, wait. Hadn’t the woman at the crash site referred to the truck driver as he? A generic he, or had she actually seen the driver’s face?

  I closed my eyes, trying to conjure up the image of a big, dark pickup. Where else had I seen one recently? Monday at the schoolhouse, Greg had been driving his own vehicle, not one of the small white company pickups he usually drove. A big pickup, dark gray. The same truck he’d been driving last night on the cupcake run with his son.

  Brad Larson had parked his truck outside the Methodist Church. Also big and dark.

  Who else? Last time I’d been at the Building Supply, I couldn’t have thrown a stone without hitting one.

  But if Merrily Thornton’s death—like her life—taught me anything, it was that when it comes to other people, you never know what you think you know.

  And a big vehicle can give a small person a sense of power.

  I switched screens to the timeline.

  “Erin?” Lou Mary called up. “The detectives are here to see you.”

  Detectives, plural. The office was too small to hold us all. I pushed myself up, wincing at the pain in my left ankle.

  “Don’t come down, Erin.” Kim’s voice. “I can’t believe you’re working. Actually, I guess I’d be shocked if you weren’t,” she said as she came up the stairs.

  I sank back into my chair. “Any news?”

  Kim, wearing dark green today, took the piano stool. Bello put one foot on the top step and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ve assigned the investigation of your accident to Detective Bello,” she said, “because—well, because of our connection. I came along to see how you are.”

  “I’m okay, thanks. Don’t you two think me getting run off the road is related to Merrily Thornton’s murder? It has to be.” My hands clenched and I felt the heat rise in the room.

  Kim flushed and didn’t reply.

  “The whole situation could have been much worse if the witness hadn’t been so quick on the scene,” Bello said.

  I shuddered at the memory, fresh and raw. “Any chance she could ID the driver? Or that she saw the plate number?”

  “No to both,” Bello replied. “She saw a face in profile. Male or female, she couldn’t say. I’ll admit, I’ve been surprised by how many women drive them up here.”

  That was true. Horsewomen. Boaters. Others who regularly haul trailers or large loads.

  “You searched Merrily’s house, didn’t you, Detective? You saw she wasn’t living large. How would she have known how to put up sophisticated firewalls and protected areas in the Building Supply’s accounting software? And I’m guessing you didn’t find a stash of money, either.”

  “No, we didn’t,” Kim said. “Although at this point, we don’t know for sure how much disappeared, through the different schemes.”

  “But it’s more than she left in that cigar box, and more than the few hundred from the deposit bag,” I said. The spreadsheet was still open, and I prepared to share my suspicions. “Have you taken a close look at the bookkeeper? Cary Lenhardt?”

  “Believe it or not, Miss Murphy, we have,” Bello said. “I hate to sound harsh when you’re not feeling well, but my job would be a lot easier if you stuck to selling soap and jam.”

  “So you do think my wreck is connected to the theft. And the murder. You’re saying—”

  “I’m saying, I am not fresh off the boat. I may not know what everyone in this town eats for breakfast or who went to grade school with whom, but you were very lucky last night. This is my case, and I am not interested in seeing one homicide become two.” With that, Detective Bello stomped down the steps out of sight.

  Stunned into silence, I stared after him, then looked at Kim. “Tell me more, Kim. I’m the victim here.”

  Hands on her knees, she pushed herself up. “You know I can’t, Erin. Just … be careful.”

  ∞

  They’d searched for the missing money in Merrily’s house. No doubt they’d scoured her car and rummaged her other desk drawers. I wondered if she’d hidden it at her parents’ place—that could have been the reason she went to the schoolhouse.

  And then I wondered about the package she’d mailed on Saturday. Maybe it had held more than truffles.

  I needed to talk to Holly.

  But to do that, I needed a car.

  I limped downstairs. All was well in the shop. I headed out the front door and glanced at the hole in the soffit. At least it hadn’t gotten worse. The garland swagged nicely—you’d have to look close to see my makeshift solution—and the gutter fix was holding.

  “Thank you, building gods,” I said out loud.

  Across the street in Snowberry, April Ng sat behind the front counter with a pen and sketchbook. “Erin!” She dropped her things and rushed toward me, then stopped herself, hands flying up as if she were under arrest. “Is it okay to hug you? I don’t want to hug you if it hurts.”

  “Hug away,” I said. “I’m a firm believer in the healing power of touch.”

  She embraced me gently, then stepped back, surveying my face. “In a few days, you’ll be able to cover that black eye with a little foundation.”

  “Thanks.” I held up the once-stunning leather bag she’d made from recycled coats and manufacturers’ scraps. Post-consumer and post-industrial waste, she called it. “Is there any hope?”

  Snowberry is built on a shared passion for making art. April had joined after moving to Jewel Bay last spring with her husband and daughter. If anyone could salvage the bag, she could.

  She took it in both hands. Surveyed the stains, studied the seams. Peered inside, her long black hair falling across her face. “Let me try.”

  “Thanks. Sis in?”

  She nodded and pointed. I limped to the back room in my loose-fitting snow boots, hoping my bruised ankle would heal in time for me to wear my red cowboy boots and dance at my wedding. Someone had tried to stop me, and they were not going to succeed.

  “No, you can’t borrow my car,” my big sister said two minutes later. “You just about got killed last night, and now you want to go driving around? Doing what, investigating? Besides, you’re not even supposed to be on that ankle. How can you drive?”

  “It’s my left ankle, and it’s fine.” It was not fine, but I wasn’t going to admit it.

  “No,” she repeated. “I can’t believe Adam let you come to work. Although you probably didn’t give him any choice.”

  I hadn’t. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  Clearly, she did not agree, and she was not handing over her keys.

  A minute later, I was back on the sidewalk, pondering my options.


  “I hear your luck nearly ran out last night,” a woman said, and I turned to face Sally Grimes.

  The way I saw it, my lucky stars had saved me. I knew that was Sally’s way of saying she was sorry about the accident and glad I’d come through relatively unscathed.

  “I’m fine, Sally. Thanks.”

  “Good. We wouldn’t want two dead bodies in one week.” She jerked her head toward the antique shop. “Now you see what comes of getting too close to Merrily Thornton.”

  “That’s harsh. You don’t think she learned her lesson? That she truly wanted her parents’ forgiveness? And maybe even yours?”

  Her chin quivered. From the cold, or emotion? Coatless, in suede loafers, she must have come outside when she saw me. “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “Funny-strange. I never blamed Taya for what Merrily did, but she was so mortified, she could barely stand to talk to me. Even after she and Walt opened their shop and we saw each other often in passing. After—” She hugged herself. “After you helped me reconnect with my own daughter, I told Taya to swallow her pride. But then when Merrily returned, I just …”

  “Oh, Sally. It’s okay. We all overreact sometimes.” As I had been accused of doing more than once. “Especially when it comes to protecting what we love.”

  I stepped forward, rested my hands on her back, and held her as close as I dared. After a long moment, she patted my shoulder blades, then stepped back. She kept her eyes on the snow bank separating street and sidewalk, embarrassed by even that show of emotion.

  “Sally.” Not quizzing her, Mom, I told myself. Just talking. “Did it ever occur to you that Merrily might not have stolen from you after all?”

  Sally gasped and took a step back. “She pled guilty. She went to prison.”

  “I know, I know. But she was eighteen. She only worked for you a few months.” I called up facts culled from the newspaper archives. “The bulk of the money came from accounts connected to other businesses your husband ran for you. Merrily wouldn’t have had access to those accounts, would she? And I think the judge had the same questions.”