At the edge of the kitchen I saw a bloody footprint with two circles. So Mark wasn't the killer. Or if he was, he wasn't the guy on the floor in the kitchen, moaning.
I pulled my phone out and hit the emergency call option. I figured if there was someone about to attack me then at least they'd get busted for it. Not that I was too keen on dying in a dingy mobile home on the outskirts of Bakerstown, but you know. Only so much control you have over fate.
(I know. You're probably thinking to yourself that if you don't want to die in a dingy mobile home filled with cats in some small town, then you shouldn't go there in the first place. And I'd agree. But I think you probably know by now that I'm not always the brightest about the choices I make.)
I took another step forward. A man was sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor, his face a bloodied mess. He watched me through eyes that were probably going to swell shut soon and moaned again, waving at me like he wanted me to leave.
But it was too late. The emergency dispatcher answered the phone and I told her where I was and to send an ambulance. The man shook his head and tried to stand, muttering "I'm fine. I'm fine. No need to call…"
I gave him my "are you serious" look. As I hung up, he fell over again. This man was in no shape to do anything other than go to a hospital.
"I'm…fine." He again tried to stand and fell back to the floor.
I shoved the phone back into my purse. "You don't look fine to me. If you don't want to press charges against whoever did this, that's your business. But you need to see a doctor. Because if whoever attacked you hit more than your face you could be in serious trouble right now."
"I'm fine. I just need to clean up. Get a little rest. That's all." He shifted to the side of the fridge and somehow managed to get it open, reaching inside for a can of beer. (Am I the only one that remembers when generic products actually came in white containers with black lettering? Back in the day my grandpa literally drank generic beer that just said BEER on the side of the can. But I digress.)
"Maybe you should hold off on that beer until they've taken a look at you." I knelt down and tried to meet his eyes, but he wasn't quite focusing on anything at that point. I sneezed again and muttered something about cats as he took a long, long sip.
"I'm fine. Call them back. Tell them I'm fine."
"Sorry, but I'm going to leave this one to the professionals if you don't mind. Are you Mark Fletcher?"
He nodded and took another sip.
"Who did this to you? Was it Mason Maxwell?"
He started to laugh but it turned into a racking, hacking cough. "Mason? You think little Maisy boy did this to me?" He grabbed at his chest and winced.
"Well if it wasn't him, who was it?"
"Friend. We had a misunderstanding. It's all good now." He took another long swig of his beer.
I desperately wanted to ask him about the plot of land, but it seemed a little rude given the circumstances. I would've probably still done it if I'd thought he'd remember the conversation later, but it was pretty clear he was barely holding on.
I sneezed again. I could already feel my throat starting to close up but I didn't have any Benadryl and I doubted he did either.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you here?"
I sat down across from him, careful to avoid the pool of blood on the floor. "Take it you don't read the papers much."
He shook his head. "Sports. That's all."
His head started to droop and I clapped my hands in front of his face.
"What? What?" He stared at me, bleary-eyed.
"Concussion. Can't nod off like that." I glanced around. There was a picture of him with a pretty woman and a brown lab held onto the fridge with a magnet from Niagara Falls. "Who's that?"
"My wife. Or was. Divorced me."
"She get the dog in the divorce, too?"
He nodded. "And the house. And the money. Well, what was left." He tried to laugh, but gasped in pain instead.
I sneezed again. I really, really wanted to leave, but I knew I needed to stay there until the ambulance arrived. Fortunately, I heard them pull up outside just then. Right behind them came a fire truck and two police cars. Talk about overkill. But when not much happens I guess you send out everyone you can.
The cops came in first, weapons drawn. The first one pointed his gun at me. "You. Put your hands on your head."
"I'm the one who called you."
"Hands on your head," he shouted again.
Really? Did I look like I'd just beaten a man to a pulp?
"Hands. On. Your. Head."
"Fine." I put my hands on my head. No point getting shot.
The next few minutes involved me being manhandled out the door, shoved up against a police car, frisked, and handcuffed. They sure knew how to treat a Good Samaritan. But since I was also someone charged with the murder of the mother of the man who was beat up inside and he wasn't going to be much help in clearing my name, I just went along with it.
Although, by the time they were done I was thinking I should've just listened to Mark Fletcher and let him lie there on the kitchen floor until he felt well enough to crawl back into his bedroom and die. Of course then I would've been the suspect in yet another murder and I still hadn't figured out how to clear my name on the first one.
The officers were deep into a debate about whether to take me in or not when a third police car pulled up and Matt stepped out. I'd never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life.
"Maggie May. What on earth are you doing out here?"
"If I told you I was trying to buy a plot of land from Mark Fletcher would you believe me?"
"Mark Fletcher doesn't own a thing besides this beat-up mobile home and that truck there with the three flat tires."
He removed my cuffs and I rubbed at my wrists as I told him about Mark's inheritance and why I wanted to buy the land. "But when I got here someone had beat him up. Look." I walked him over to the front of the mobile home to show him the footprint I'd seen, but it turns out that when two policemen and two paramedics storm into a small mobile home they pretty much obliterate any evidence. Same with the one inside. Someone had knelt on it. It was just a bloody smudge now.
So I told him about what I'd seen. "And…Listen to this. Last night I confirmed that Mason Maxwell wears that kind of shoe."
Matt crossed his arms and stared me down. "So let me see if I've got this straight. You came here to try to buy a plot of land from Mark Fletcher. You found him beat up in his kitchen. You saw a print that might be the same kind of print we found at Janice Fletcher's house. And, for reasons I'm not quite clear on, you now think it was Mason Maxwell who left those prints. So you now think it was Mason who beat up Mark Fletcher and killed his mother."
"Yes."
"Go home, Maggie."
"But…"
"Go. Home. Let the police do their job."
I shook my head. "Don't you get it? Letting you guys do your job is why I'm now charged with murder. Don't you think I'd love to let you do your job? Don't you think I want nothing more than to hang out at the barkery with Fancy or at home with my grandpa? But you keep arresting the wrong people."
"Well, I'm certainly not going to compound that error by arresting one of the most respected men in this county. Mason Maxwell is not a killer and if I were to even suggest that he was to anyone, anywhere, they would laugh at me. Now, where are you parked?"
I nodded towards the parking lot.
"Allow me to escort you back to your vehicle, Ms. Carver." He took me by the elbow and marched me back to the van. After he'd watched me buckle myself in he leaned close. "Go home, Maggie."
"Only if you promise me you're going to talk to Mark Fletcher about whoever did that to him."
He closed his eyes for a long moment and then looked at me with that piercing gaze of his. "Do you think I'm incompetent?"
"No. I think you're very smart and capable."
"So don't you think that I'm going to ask an assault victim who
it was who assaulted him?"
"Well. Yeah. I guess. I just…"
"Enough, Maggie. Go. Home."
Reluctantly, I started the van and drove away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I knew Matt wanted me to go home. He'd practically ordered me to go home. But I was too wound up for that. What was I going to do? Watch TV? Try to read a book? I mean, Fancy would appreciate it, but other than that, I could see no reason it made sense to go home.
Much better to go into the barkery and take my frustrations out on making some dog biscuits. We were running low on canine crunchies and could probably use another batch of doggie delights, too. And if that wasn't enough to calm me down I'd been working on a few new ideas. Might as well take the time to perfect one.
By the time I pulled up outside the barkery it was the downtime between the breakfast rush and the lunch rush, so there was just one other vehicle in the parking lot—a sleek black Range Rover with Nevada plates. (Jamie lives just a couple blocks away so she walks to work every day.)
I wondered whose it was, but that mystery was solved when I walked in through the café door and saw Don and Jamie sharing a coffee.
Jamie stood, watching me closely. "Hey. I didn't think you'd be in today."
I glanced down, but there was no blood on my clothes. She must've just known something was wrong. Best friends are good that way.
"Yeah, I know. I wasn't planning on it. But I needed something to occupy my mind for a couple hours." I almost told her about Mason and what he'd done that morning, but decided it was a waste of breath. I already knew what she'd say. Instead I said, "I thought I'd get caught up on some baking. After I have a cinnamon roll and Coke, of course. Or maybe two."
"Of the cinnamon rolls? Or the Cokes?"
"Both." I heated up a cinnamon roll, grabbed a Coke, and came back to join them.
I sneezed. Me and cats, I tell you. I'd thought getting away from that trailer would be enough, but I was clearly wrong. I was also too lazy to go grab a Benadryl right then. I wanted to eat my cinnamon roll first.
Jamie grabbed my arm. "What's up? You seem off."
"I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say I had an interesting morning." I took a bite of yummy gooey cinnamon roll and sighed in pleasure.
"Did you talk to Mark Fletcher? Is he going to sell to you?"
"He's a bit indisposed at the moment. I'm not sure he'll be selling to anyone, anytime soon."
Don leaned forward. "He dead?"
"No. Just beat to a pulp. And I'm pretty sure I know who did it." I stabbed another bite of cinnamon roll before I met Jamie's eyes. "You do, too."
Jamie pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Jamie, I know you don't think the same things about Mason that I do." I glanced at Don. He didn't need to know all our business, but I had to say what I had to say. "But you have to agree with me on this one. He has the motive. And the shoes."
"Why are you so obsessed with those shoes, Maggie? Don has those shoes, too. He's not a killer."
I froze with a bite of cinnamon roll halfway to my mouth, suddenly realizing what I'd been missing about this whole situation. (If you realized it before me, good on you, but it's not like I walk around suspecting everyone of murder. I should. I certainly do more now than I did before I moved to the mountains.)
I forced myself to finish the bite, careful not to look at Don.
"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice flat and deadly in a way it had never been all these days he'd been hanging around.
"No. Nothing's wrong. It's just been a heckuva couple of weeks, you know." I chugged down the last of my Coke and pushed my plate away even though there was most of a cinnamon roll left. "I think I'm going to go get started on that baking."
Before I could stand, Mason Maxwell walked through the door. He smiled at Jamie with the look of a man who is definitely infatuated. "Any chance you still have some cinnamon rolls left?"
Mason glanced at Don, recognizing his competition, but determined to pretend otherwise.
"Absolutely. Let me get one for you." Jamie took my plate and started towards the kitchen, Mason trailing after her.
"Wait. I can get that," I called after her, but she was already halfway to the kitchen.
Don grabbed my wrist before I could stand. "Why don't you let Jamie do it? I'd like to talk to you about something."
We both knew he had absolutely nothing he wanted to talk to me about. He just didn't want me calling the cops. But I'd said he was calculated. If he could find some way to get me out of there and get rid of me without Jamie or Mason being any the wiser, he'd take that opportunity.
So to protect my friend and my lawyer, I had to play it cool, too. But I didn't have to play it stupid.
"Mason, why don't you join us while Jamie's heating that up for you?" I called.
"Okay. Thanks."
Don glared at me, but I ignored him. "Have you met Don before?"
"No. Can't say I have officially."
I sat back as they exchanged banal comments and tried to figure out how to get out of this mess. There was no way Don was going to let me live, not if he realized I'd figured out he was the killer. Which meant I needed to find a way to alert the authorities. But how?
I reached towards my purse but Don stepped on my foot, hard enough to let me know he knew what I was doing. Okay, that was out.
I glanced towards the kitchen. "You okay in there, Jamie? You need my help?"
"Nope. I've got it." She came back carrying a cinnamon roll and coffee.
Great, now another potential hostage was in Don's reach. And things were about to get much, much worse. Because pulling up outside was a police car. With Matt behind the wheel. I glanced towards Don and saw him slowly ease a gun out from the small of his back and place it on his thigh.
Matt walked through the door just as Jamie sat down and glared right at me. "Maggie May, I thought I told you to go home."
This was it. This was my chance. "I was going to go home, but then I decided to come in here and do some baking. But I got sidetracked by cinnamon rolls. Hey, by the way, I don't think you're allowed to come in here any longer unless you have the appropriate footwear. You're going to have to buy a pair of fancy Italian shoes like Mason and Don here or you have to go home."
Matt frowned at me for a split second, but then he realized what I was telling him and forced a laugh as he glanced at the two men's shoes. "That's too bad. I'm more a tennies kind of guy myself."
Mason—who still didn't know what was going on—raised his pant leg to show off his shoe. "Every man should own at least one pair of nice shoes, Matt. Look at that fine stitching. And they're comfortable, too."
"I'll have to think about it. Maybe you can send me a link to the site where I can find those?"
"Absolutely."
Now that Matt knew who the killer was, I needed to create a distraction. I met his eyes and he nodded slightly.
I grabbed Don's coffee, threw it in his face, and screamed "Get down!"
As I hit the floor I saw Mason grab Jamie and take her to the ground, shielding her with his body. There were shots. I couldn't tell you how many. I couldn't even tell you who fired them. I was so jacked up on adrenaline that all I knew was there were shots and that I was on the ground with Mason and Jamie right beside me.
And that Matt was still standing, exposed. In danger.
I rolled to the side and looked towards where I'd seen Matt last, but he wasn't there. I looked down, worried he'd been shot, but then I saw him. He was standing over Don who was slumped in his chair. Matt kicked Don's gun away so that it went spinning across the floor and checked his pulse.
I wanted to stand. I wanted to run to Matt's side and tell him I was so glad he'd understood what I was telling him, and that I had never been happier to see someone alive and well in my entire life. But I just sat there and shook instead.
It was Matt who came to me. He knelt down in front of me and took my face in his hands and
asked if I was okay. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
"Good. I better call this in."
When he stood it took everything I had left not to call him back to me.
After the police and Mason left, Jamie and I sat out back, still trying to recover from our near-death experience.
"How did you know Don was the killer? Was it really just the shoes?" she asked.
"No. It was the stupid cats, believe it or not."
"What?"
"You know how allergic I am, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well. At Janice's house and at Mark's trailer I kept sneezing because of their cats. Usually if I can get away from a cat I'm fine. But there were a couple times here at the barkery that I started to sneeze or my eyes started to water, too. I didn't think anything of it because the first time was the same day I'd been at Janice Fletcher's. But when it happened today…And when I realized I'd seen that footprint at Mark Fletcher's and that Don wears those kinds of shoes, too, it all came together. I'd never even suspected he was the killer. He was just some out-of-town guy hanging around you, why would he want Janice Fletcher dead?"
"Good question. Why did he want her dead?"
"I'm not positive, but I suspect he was Mark Fletcher's bookie here from Vegas to collect on what he was owed. But Mark Fletcher didn't have anything to pay him. I figure Don killed her so that Mark would inherit. But then Janice Fletcher went and left everything to her cat. I figure Don probably beat Mark up when he realized that's what had happened."
"Huh. Wow. Do you think they'll drop the charges against you now?"
I stared at her. "They better. I mean, Don was the real killer."
"Yeah, but can someone prove that?"
I had nothing to say. Could someone prove it? It was so obvious to me. But what if they couldn't? Now that the killer was dead, there was certainly no chance for a confession.
A Crazy Cat Lady and Canine Crunchies Page 13