by Mary Maxwell
“I’m sorry,” Carmen said as he went back out to the car. “But I should get going if I want to keep the peace.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Thanks for telling me about Amelia’s uncle.”
“You’re so welcome,” she replied. “The spookiest thing is the fact that Garrett Bachus used strychnine to kill a bunch of people in Providence. It was some kind of workplace rivalry that began with a simple argument and ended with murder. At the time, Amelia was just a toddler, like maybe three. And as I already said, Hugh wasn’t even born yet. But it’s a family scandal that they’ve desperately tried to keep hidden. That’s part of the reason they both changed their last name.”
I nodded. “It’s understandable why they would want to keep it quiet.”
“I suppose so.” Carmen arched one eyebrow. “But it may also explain why someone used the same method to kill Amelia.”
CHAPTER 27
“Good day,” said Earl Dodd that afternoon when I called his family’s motel. “You’ve reached the Moonlight in beautiful Crescent Creek, Colorado. How may I direct your call?”
I laughed. “It’s Kate Reed,” I said. “And who are you going to direct my call to? You’re talking on the only business line at the motel.”
He scoffed. “Well, there you go. Spoiling what little fun I can have on a cloudy, crappy afternoon. We’re super slow this week, Katie. I’m going stir crazy over here.”
“Doesn’t that come with the territory?” I asked.
Earl groused a few words about how much he hated being bored. Then he griped about his father’s gassy disposition. And then he asked again if I wanted him to transfer my call.
“No, but thanks,” I said. “Although your father’s a really sweet guy, I was trying to reach you.”
“Alrighty then,” he replied. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m looking for Hugh Felton,” I said.
“Join the club,” Earl replied.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Somebody else called you about him?”
“Somebody from Texas,” he told me. “She sounded really upset.”
“From what I’ve heard over the years,” I said, “that’s a fairly common response to Hugh.”
Earl chuckled. “He makes people mad?”
“Mainly just women,” I answered. “Especially the ones that foolishly married the guy.”
“Sounds like a champ. What did he make you mad about?”
“Me? Nothing yet. I’m just trying to find him so I can ask a few questions about his sister.”
“Oh, yeah,” Earl said, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Such a sad thing, huh? Eating rat poison because she thought it was artificial sweetener.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Otis told me.”
“And where did he get the information?” I asked.
“Same place he gets all of his facts,” Earl said. “Shooting pool with Big Wally and the Stiegler brothers.”
“Well, those three are a brain trust,” I said, “but they don’t exactly have the scoop right about Amelia.”
“No?” Earl sounded disappointed. “Is this like the time they sold me Britney Spears tickets when she wasn’t really coming to do a show at the Community Center?”
“It might be a little bit different,” I said. “Did they really tell you Britney was coming here?”
“They seemed convincing at the time,” Earl said.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m pretty sure Crescent Creek will never be one of the stops on a Britney Spears tour.”
“I know,” he replied, sounding doubly disappointed. “Not enough people.”
“There’s always Vegas,” I suggested.
“I suppose,” Earl said. “So were you wanting to talk to Hugh?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“Better luck next time,” Earl replied with a mischievous snicker. “He drove off about ten minutes ago.”
“Any idea where he was going?” I asked.
“None whatsoever, Katie. My guess is, he’s either working on his sister’s funeral arrangements, grabbing a bite to eat or picking up some random family members from the airport.”
“Okay, I’ll try back later,” I said.
“Fine with me,” Earl replied. “Before you hang up, can I ask a question?”
“What’s on your mind?” I said.
“Have you heard the hush-hush story about Amelia’s family scandal?” he said.
“Any idea what it’s about?” I asked, wondering if it was the same gossip mentioned by Carmen Alvarez.
Earl laughed. “The family,” he said. “And a scandal.”
“I sort of had that impression,” I told him. “But I was looking for some kind of hint as to the nature of the scandal.”
“Like I said before,” he told me. “Join the club. I’ve been trying to get the scoop ever since Hugh came to stay with us.”
“If you learn anything, please let me know,” I said.
“You’ll be the second call that I make,” Earl promised. “Right after I talk to the gossip columnist from The Crescent Creek Gazette. I’ve heard that she pays ten bucks for the really juicy tips, and I could use the money to replenish my Doritos stash.”
CHAPTER 28
I met Phyllis Hartley for coffee that afternoon at Java & Juice to ask her a few questions about the Family Flair Bakeoff. If the smudge on the box recovered from Ken Ballard’s office was a match for the purple frosting used on the Nite to Remember cake, we might be one step closer to identifying Amelia Felton’s killer. Phyllis had agreed to talk in exchange for anonymity and a dozen peanut butter snickerdoodles.
“Before we get started,” she said as I slid the box of cookies across the table, “these are for my husband’s client meeting on Monday morning. And I was just teasing about needing a bribe to meet with you, Katie.” She pulled a checkbook from her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
I gave her the total, she wrote a check and I slipped it into my pocket.
“Besides worrying about a serial killer in town,” she said, “how’s your day going?”
“Pretty well so far,” I answered. “No burns, no bruises and I stopped myself after the third mini chocolate chip cookie.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “Like that’s even possible when you’re surrounded by delicious things all day long.”
I held up my right hand. “On my honor,” I said. “You can ask Julia when you see her at yoga.”
“I’ll take your word for it. As trim and fit as you are, it’s obvious that you have amazing will power.” She reached down and pinched at her waist. “See all this? I have no idea where it came from. It was like, one night I went to bed, and the next morning I’d changed into the Goodyear blimp.”
Phyllis was anything but heavy. She was like most of my friends; constantly worrying about her weight, trying new diets and feeling lesser than the stick figure models in television commercials, fashion magazines and web ads. Luckily, advertisers and the media had begun to slowly introduce women with realistic sizes and shapes to replace some of the emaciated stick figures wearing big smiles and tiny outfits.
“Now then, what can I help you with?” she asked.
“There was a three-layer cake in this year’s competition,” I told her. “It had purple frosting, and the—”
She made a noise, somewhere between a groan and a heavy sigh. “Those two made things so complicated this time around,” she said. “They won last year, you know, and she seemed to think that gave her the right to treat other people with disdain. She was so haughty and conceited during the auction, and her brother was even worse.”
“Can you give me a hint who we’re talking about?”
She opened the Sky High box and peeked inside. “I would kill for one of these right now.”
“Go ahead. There’s another box in my car.”
Phyllis laughed. “Do you always drive around with a dozen extra snickerdoodles handy?”
“I was going to drop them off at Blanche’s house,” I said. “But I can make another batch and deliver them tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, so that’s something else that Mrs. Speltzer and my husband have in common,” she said. “They both like martinis, socializing after Pickleball games and peanut butter snickerdoodles.”
“And they also like strong, independent women who can get things done,” I said with a wink. “Thus, you’ve been in charge of the Family Flair Bakeoff for the past two decades.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “Back then, it was a blast. Everyone was dedicated to raising money to help the animal shelter. But nowadays, with everything being posted on Facebook and Twitter and whatnot, our contestants are more like ruthless savages than civic-minded men and women. Did you know that Dixie Pluff made almost a hundred thousand dollars last year from being an influencer?”
I smiled. “I don’t know what that is.”
“An influencer?” Phyllis said. “That’s the thing where you pretend to be an expert in something and post a bunch of stuff on Instagram or wherever. Then people visit your page and you can charge advertisers thousands of dollars to promote their products.”
“Ah, okay,” I said. “I’ve heard of that business model, but I didn’t know the actual name for it.”
“Influencer,” she said again. “It’s a huge industry now, like millions and millions of dollars.”
“Well, good for Dixie,” I said. “It has to be a lot better than shoveling manure.”
Phyllis laughed. “Oh, she’s still doing that, too. Brian told her to hire someone else to help at the ranch, but she likes pinching pennies too much.”
Dixie and Brian owned a large spread north of Crescent Creek. In addition to boarding horses and raising goats, they also offered riding lessons for children and adults.
“Who doesn’t?” I joked.
She furrowed her brow and pitched forward. “Cynthia Stone,” she whispered. “That loon just spent three thousand dollars on a bodysuit from La Perla.”
“Probably from the money she inherited when her Aunt Lucille died,” I guessed.
Phyllis shook her head, easing back in the chair again. “That’s not it,” she said. “Lucille’s an influencer, too. Don’t you remember that quilting blog she started about eight or nine years ago?”
“I wasn’t living here at the time,” I said. “That’s when I was in Chicago.”
“Okay, right,” Phyllis replied. “Long story short: Cynthia’s making a fortune off of the advertising and associate marketing revenue streams.”
I smiled. “Somebody has to, right?”
“I suppose.” She sipped her coffee. “But you wanted to know about Family Flair, not Cynthia Stone and her fancy bodysuit.”
I nodded. “Can you tell me who baked the Nite to Remember cake?”
“All the entries were supposed to remain anonymous,” she said. “The whole idea of the event is people giving back to the community. They get involved not for notoriety or publicity but for the satisfaction that they’re doing good things to help the little homeless critters in the animal shelter.”
“How is that possible?” I asked.
She frowned. “I don’t understand your question, Katie. What do you mean?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I mean, how is it possible for the entries to be anonymous? Aren’t the cakes baked by local families?”
“At least two relatives,” she said. “It can be more, but I believe most of the people that enter are married couples, mothers and daughters, that sort of thing.”
“Do you know who they are?”
She laughed. “Well, of course! Someone has to be at the YMCA when they drop off their goodies.”
“Okay,” I said. “In that case, we really need to know who made the Nite to Remember cake.”
“What on earth for?” she said. “It didn’t win anything.”
I smiled. “This isn’t about the contest,” I said. “It’s about Amelia Felton.”
The spark suddenly left her eyes. “Oh, so…”
“These are highly unusual circumstances,” I told her. “We understand that in all of its twentysomething years, the Family Flair Bakeoff has been publicized as being an entirely selfless community service. And I’m sure that everyone involved in the investigation respects that unique characteristic. But in this case, evidence was recovered at one of the crime scenes that may be linked to the Nite to Remember cake.”
“The cake?” Her forehead creased. “Or the people that made it?”
“Probably both,” I replied.
“Oh, Katie,” she said quietly. “This is so…” She blinked a few times, as if tears were welling in her eyes. “If I tell you the names, what will happen?”
“I’ll pass the information along to Dina Kincaid,” I said. “She’s handling the official inquiry. I’m just consulting to help with some of the background work and interviews.”
She took a moment to think, gazing down at her coffee cup. When her eyes lifted again, I could tell that she’d reached a decision that would please Dina but might anger someone else in town.
“Alright,” Phyllis said. “I’ve been sick to my stomach about this for the past few days. I think it’ll actually be a blessing to get it off my chest.”
I waited as she got up from the table, walked slowly to my side and leaned down beside my ear. Then she whispered two names, one of which was already on my short list of suspects and one that was a complete bombshell.
“What are you doing right now?” I asked Dina ten minutes later after Phyllis left the coffee shop with a dazed expression on her face and the box of peanut butter snickerdoodles in her hands.
“I’m getting ready to microwave some Orville Redenbacher,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“I just talked to Phyllis Hartley,” I replied. “And I wanted to find out about Richard Lorenzo. Is he doing okay?”
“He’s fine,” Dina said “He hates cupcakes, so they were untouched when we got to his office.”
“That’s such good news,” I said.
“What about Phyllis?” she asked. “How’d that go?”
“I’ll fill you in later on all the details,” I said. “But I think we may have identified the Strychnine Stalker.”
“Please tell me that you’re serious,” Dina said.
“I am.”
“What can I do?”
“Meet me at the Moonlight Motel as soon as possible,” I said. “And bring a couple of uniformed officers with you.”
CHAPTER 29
It was around eight o’clock that night. I was in a booth at Scoops of Joy with Drew Vitale and Pamela Lipton. When I called Drew earlier to ask if he’d be willing to discuss Amelia Felton, he agreed easily with one condition. “I’ll buy the ice cream,” he’d told me. “If you’ll bring some of those mini cranberry scones that you make.”
We’d arrived at seven and enjoyed a few minutes of small talk before indulging in mountainous hot fudge sundaes. Then Drew surreptitiously opened the box of cookies after checking over both shoulders like someone preparing to commit a crime.
“They’ll probably get upset if they see me eating something that we didn’t buy here,” he said.
I shook my head. “I doubt it. The owner’s a friend of mine.”
“Good to know,” he said, throwing open the carton and pulling out one of the diminutive scone for himself and one for Pamela. “How about you, Katie? Care for one of these beauties?”
“I’ll pass,” I said. “I sneak enough of those little devils during the day at work.”
“What a cool life that must be,” said Pamela. “Making delicious things for people and experimenting with new recipes.”
“It’s better than digging ditches,” I said. “Although I did that one summer to earn money for college, and met a ton of really amazing people.”
“Meeting good people sounds alright,” Drew drawled. “But not digging ditches.”
; “I’m glad that I did it,” I said. “It helped me appreciate all of the men and women that take care of our roads and public spaces.”
They both enjoyed a few bites of scone while I did my best to extract the last vestiges of hot fudge from my sundae dish.
“I could eat a dozen of those suckers myself,” Drew said after the last bite.
Pamela smiled. “I believe you,” she said. “And that’s only because I’ve seen you do it.”
He leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. That’s sweet, I thought. People who actually love another.
“Okay, Katie,” he said after one last smooch. “You wanted to ask questions about Amelia.”
“And her brother,” I said. “I’ve heard some things about Hugh lately.”
“I’ll bet it’s nothing good,” Pamela said. “When I first met Drew, we were at the movies. Hugh was up from Texas and he was in the theater with some friends from town. The jerk kept throwing popcorn in my hair during the night. Every time I whipped around, he was idly gazing at the screen and the popcorn bag was nowhere in sight.”
“But he was doing it,” Drew said. “That whole Felton bunch is rotten to the core.”
“Okay,” I said. “That would suggest that the breakup was less than amicable.”
“It was less than anything you’ve got,” Drew said. “Amicable. Civilized. Decent. Reasonable. A long, long time ago, Amelia Felton was a very sweet woman. But somewhere along the way, a switch was flipped and she turned into a vindictive, mean-spirited shrew.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to harm her?” I said.
He grinned. “Besides me?”
Pamela slapped his arm. “Stop it, Drew! That’s nothing to joke about!”
“I’m just teasing,” he said. “And I suppose that was in bad taste, so I apologize, Katie. I’ve been in a weird place since we got the news about Amelia.”
“And her ex-boyfriend, too,” Pamela added. “It’s so creepy that someone wanted to kill them both.”
“When did you speak to her last?” I asked.
“Oh, probably three weeks,” Drew said. “She called up, weeping and wailing, as she had a couple of other times lately. She wanted to borrow money.”