Gluten for Punishment

by Nancy J. Parra

  “Thank you. Listen, maybe you should hold off on the ghost tours for a few weeks,” I suggested.

  “Why ever would we want to do that? Halloween is the perfect time to start them.”

  I leaned against the glass counter. “I don’t disagree.” I rested my chin in my palm and tried to come up with an argument Sherry would appreciate. “But until the killer is caught, we can’t be sure the brochure will list all the proper places.”

  Sherry frowned and clipped her way back to the counter. “I don’t understand.” Her perfect hair was sprayed within an inch of its life. It probably would have withstood a tornado. The color sparkled in the morning light coming from the front windows.

  “What if the killer isn’t done killing?” I suggested. “You can’t keep reprinting brochures.”

  “Oh my goodness.” She clutched her throat with her free hand. Her expression was horrified. “You don’t think he or she will kill again?”

  “There have been two killings now in a week. If it turns out it’s a serial killer, then people could keep dropping until he or she’s caught.”

  “Oh, my.” She narrowed her eyes and sipped from the giant coffee cup. “Oh, my. How can we give an incomplete tour? Plus you know you get a better discount when you have a larger print run.” Sherry shook her head. “Why, I could be stuck with hundreds of incorrect brochures.”

  I nodded, bit my lips, and raised my eyebrows a bit. “Think of all the trees you would have killed and the money you would have spent, and for what? To only show half the tour?”

  “Darn it, you’re right.” Sherry placed the large coffee cup and saucer on the counter. “I’ve got to rethink this. I’ll be in touch.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Toodles!” She clipped her way out of the shop.

  “Who was that?” Meghan walked in, tying an apron around her waist.

  “Sherry Williams from the chamber of commerce. She’s setting up ghost tours for Oiltop.”

  “Cool.”

  “Not cool if people keep dying,” I pointed out. “Hopefully the chief will figure out who did it before another spot ends up on the tour.”

  “You’re no longer investigating?”

  “I got Ed killed with my investigation. I almost got us killed.” I frowned. “I don’t want to be responsible for any more.”

  “Too bad.” Meghan checked the coffee carafe and grabbed an empty one to refill. “I thought you were doing a great job.”

  “Ha! I thought Ed Bruner was the killer. How wrong was that?”

  Meghan shrugged. “It was kind of cool to work for a caped crusader. I mean, you could be Bat Woman and I could be Bat Girl.” She held two fingers up in a sideways V, one under her eyes and one over. “I always wanted to be part of a dynamic duo.”

  I laughed. “You are silly. Now, when you’re done with the coffee, I’ve got an idea for a seasonal muffin.”

  “Great, I’ll be in back in a jiff.”

  I walked into the kitchen, put on a fresh apron, and washed my hands. My thoughts churned. Who benefited from killing George? I certainly didn’t. Ed did but now he was gone. Todd didn’t really benefit, except maybe to extract revenge. Not that revenge wasn’t a good enough motive, but it felt wrong. Todd was pretty adamant about not being out of bed that early in the morning. There was Tasha’s idea of Mike Smith creating news to sell papers, but then it could be him or Candy or Rocky. I ruled out Candy and Rocky because they really had no reason to frame or threaten me. A thought struck me and I froze. Sherry and the chamber benefited. In fact, she’d started this whole ghost tour thing shortly after George had died, and was all hard-core happy about Ed dying.

  Still, I couldn’t imagine Miss Kansas, Sherry Williams, hitting grown men over the head and killing them. No, her mode of murder would be more refined, like poison, or convincing your ex-girlfriend to stab you in the back or even blowing up a rival with a bomb in the crown . . . no wait, that was only done in a movie.

  Okay, I thought as I dried my hands. Let’s keep Sherry as a person of interest. Who else? I came up with bupkes, nothing, nada.

  “What are we making?” Meghan came into the kitchen, tied on a fresh apron, and washed her hands.

  “Chocolate chip pumpkin muffins,” I said. “With coconut flakes.”

  “Yum. I’ll get the dry ingredients.” Meghan pulled three bins off the shelf and mixed the proper proportion of flours and starches. “You were here the morning Mr. Meister died, right?”

  “Yes.” I pureed pumpkin. Fresh was best because you couldn’t be certain the canned pumpkin hadn’t been processed in a plant with wheat or nuts.

  “Were you scared?” She brought the weighed ingredients over and poured them into a big stainless mixer.

  “No. I mean, I had no idea anyone was out there.” I added eggs and water and honey to the pumpkin.

  “But you said you heard something, right?”

  “Yes, I heard what sounded like a bird hit the window.”

  “And you looked out, right?” She placed the measured chocolate chunks and coconut flakes on the counter. “You really didn’t see anything? I mean, the guy was murdered a few feet from the door.”

  I mixed the dry and wet ingredients while she leaned against the counter and watched me intently. “No, it was dark. I didn’t see anything.” I paused. “Why the fifth degree?”

  She shrugged and pulled out muffin pans and began to place paper liners in them. “I’m worried about you.”

  “You are?”

  “Sure. If you saw anything you could be in real danger, like Mr. Bruner.” She glanced my way. The sound of paper sliding against paper filled the air as she lined the tins. “I’m not the only one who’s worried.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.” She finished her task and put her hands on her hips. “Uncle Sam is worried, too. He asked me to ask if you remembered seeing anything.”

  “Well, you can tell him I didn’t. Seriously. If I did, I would have told the police.” I folded in the final ingredients.

  “Well, what if you remember something suddenly . . . like in the middle of the night or something?”

  “Then I’ll call the cops.” I scooped up quarter-cup measures of the dough and filled the tins. “Trust me. I’m not going after a killer by myself. Now, let’s get to work.”

  By the end of the afternoon, we had experimented with pumpkin muffins and cinnamon apple muffins along with pumpkin cheesecake tarts and mini apple turnovers. The weather outside was bright with a blue sky and a warmth that laughed at the colored leaves. We cracked the bakery front door open and let the smells draw customers in.

  Meghan was busy in the front and I was busy on my computer researching any links between Ed and George. I wasn’t getting very far. Public records showed they had gone to school together, but that was about it. Then again, they had gone to school with half the people I knew, including Brad Ridgeway and Mike Smith. So that proved nothing. I could get their addresses and even their credit scores if I paid money. Which I didn’t have. None of this was getting me anywhere.

  After the last threat, this was all feeling very personal—as if all this mayhem were my fault. Now, I knew a rational person wouldn’t feel that way, but at that moment, I wasn’t being rational. Men were dying. Even though I’d told Meghan I was done investigating, I wasn’t. It was pretty clear I was caught up in Ed’s death somehow. I couldn’t let it happen again. I was more determined than ever to figure out who was threatening me and who had killed these men. Was it the same person?

  Maybe if I made a list of everyone I had come in contact with since the day of the grand opening. I decided to give it a whirl and was surprised at what I came up with. Oiltop was a small town, but my list was pretty long.

  If the killer were at the memorial, it was a much smaller list. I started a list of memorial attendees with two columns. At the very top of the possible suspect column was Sherry. And the ghost walk business gave her a motive. Then there was Alisa. I put her in the innocent
bystander column; she didn’t really seem the murdering type. She was more peacemaker than head breaker. I continued down the list, adding Tasha’s suspects to the left column. Even then, more people fell into the bystander column than the suspect one. For kicks, I put Officer Emry’s name under Sherry’s. A girl had to have some fun.

  The phone rang and I jumped. I’d been lost in thought and forgotten where I was.

  “Baker’s Treat, this is Toni, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, kiddo.”

  I sat back and relaxed. “Hi, Grandma, how are you?”

  “I’m good. Listen, I was researching public records when I ran across something interesting.”

  I perked up. “What?”

  “Did you know Ed Bruner’s bank recently sold Tasha’s mortgage on the Welcome Inn?”

  “What?” My stomach knotted up.

  “Yep, he sold it to a holding group. To make money off the mortgage, the group is changing the due dates to every two weeks or raising the interest rates, Tasha’s choice.”

  “Wait, that’s not fair. Can they do that?” I sat up, all thoughts of the murder gone. “Tasha didn’t say anything about that.”

  “I bet she didn’t want you to worry. Anyway, she can try to refinance through another bank or credit union before the end of the ninety days.”

  “Incredible,” I muttered, at once worried for my friend and ticked off she hadn’t said anything to me about something important in her life—again.

  “Thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, Grandma. Any news on the murder investigation?”

  “I’m cross-checking everyone who attended the memorial. Don’t worry, kiddo, my sources are at work.”

  I ran a hand over my hair. “I can’t help but worry, Grandma. I need to know if Ed died because of me.”

  “Ed died because someone hit him upside the head with something heavy. You had nothing to do with it. Don’t let those notes and threats get to you. You have a business to grow and a friend to help. Got it?”

  I sighed. “Got it.”

  “Good. Besides, Bill and I are helping. We’ll get it all worked out.”

  “I certainly hope so, Grandma. I certainly hope so.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I left Meghan alone at the store and took a big box of muffins and cookies to the Welcome Inn. “Hey, Susy, is Tasha around?”

  Susy was a college student interning at the inn. The inn itself was another big old Victorian brick mansion built by the railroad barons, and then had been added onto by the oil barons. It had ten bedrooms and four floors. The ten-by-ten-foot foyer was paneled in solid oak and smelled of lemon wood polish. It gleamed to perfection in the light of the crystal chandelier. A Persian rug softened my footsteps.

  Tasha had put an unobtrusive reception desk across from the sweeping oak staircase. She was meticulous about design, and the desk appeared to be made of the same materials as the paneling. In essence, it blended right in, except for Susy sitting behind it in her neat gray-and-white suit. Her brown hair was pulled back in a soft but commanding style.

  “Tasha’s in her office,” Susy said. “Do you want me to let her know you’re here?”

  “No, don’t bother. I’ll put the food in the parlor and go see her.” I walked through the square double-door frame with pocket doors. The parlor was huge with a green-and-white tiled fireplace, arts and crafts furniture, and three ceiling-to-floor windows, which let in the afternoon light. There was a small buffet set up beside the fireplace and in full view of the clusters of chairs and tables, meant to allow roomers to gather in small groups or simply come down and feel as if they were in their own living room.

  I arranged the cookies and muffins on the sideboard and made a beeline for Tasha’s office. The house was arranged in a big square with small rooms and porches jetting off of it. I went through the formal dining area to the kitchen and turned right to the back den, which Tasha used for her office.

  “Hey.” I walked in without knocking and settled into a green, microfiber, wingback chair close to her desk. The den was also paneled halfway up the wall but Tasha had painted the top portion a light, soothing sage and kept the curtains thin enough to filter light. “I brought a couple dozen cookies and some seasonal muffins I’m trying out.”

  “Wonderful, thanks.” Tasha glanced up from her computer, sent me a distracted smile, and then went back to her work.

  “Anyway.” Might as well get to the real issue. “I thought we were best friends.”

  Tasha didn’t even look away from her work. “We are.”

  I curved my mouth briefly in a downward angle. “When did it become an I-tell-you-everything-while-you-keep-secrets-from-me kind of friendship?” I drummed my fingers on the wooden ends of the chair arms.

  “What?” She really looked up this time.

  I leaned forward. “Grandma Ruth told me Ed Bruner’s bank sold your mortgage and now you either have to refinance or you’ll get stuck with payments every two weeks or a raise in interest.”

  “Oh, damn.” She sat back, her blue eyes wide. Her mouth slightly opened and trembled. Was that guilt in her eyes? “I suppose I should have told you.”

  “Yes.” I nodded and raised my eyebrows. “You should have told me. It’s not like we haven’t spent time together. What’s going on with you, anyway? First you keep Craig from me and now you keep this. What else don’t I know about you? Are we even really friends?” I was mad. Only yesterday afternoon she’d nosed her way through my entire life. Payback is a bitch.

  Tasha blew out a sharp breath and sat back. “With all the things going on in your life, I didn’t want to give you more to worry about.” She bit her bottom lip and shook her head once. “I’ve been scrambling to refinance. In fact, that’s what I was working on when you came in.” She turned her monitor toward me. “See?” There were several online forms for financial institutions.

  “I’m not fragile, Tasha, and I might be able to help.”

  “I know.” She turned her monitor back and folded her hands on top of her desk.

  “Friendship has to work two ways or it’s not a friendship.”

  “I know,” she muttered and studied the top of her desk. “It’s just Craig said—”

  “Wait, what? You told Craig but you didn’t tell me?”

  “I see Craig every day. He cares about me and Kip.”

  I sat back astonished at her words. “And I don’t?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I crossed my arms. “What did you mean?”

  “I meant, Craig sees us more often. He doesn’t work as hard as you.”

  Right. Tears welled up in my eyes. “I thought we were closer than sisters. Hell, you’re closer to me than my own sisters. I can’t believe you’ve held out on me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tasha leaned forward and stretched out her hand. “That was wrong of me.”

  I wasn’t ready to touch her yet, but I wanted to let her know I was not self-absorbed. “How bad is the mortgage thing?”

  She frowned. “Bad. I’d been working with Ed about refinancing through him, but he turned me down. Something about the new mortgage lending laws.”

  “Ed turned you down after selling you out? That rat bastard.”

  “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but I kind of have to agree with you there. He waited a full month before telling me. Meaning I now only have sixty days to figure out what to do next.”

  “Did you speak to a lawyer?”

  “My lawyer said my contract specified Ed’s bank could sell the mortgage and when that happened I might have new rules. And I would have ninety days to refinance or accept.”

  “Can you accept?”

  She raised an eyebrow and her mouth made a firm line. “You own a business. Could you accept? My entire budget was run off the mortgage as it was.” She put her elbows on the desk and rested her forehead in her palms. “Poor Craig, he said he’d talk to Ed. He tried to reason with him based on their long friendsh
ip, but Ed wouldn’t budge. He said with the new laws, it was all out of his hands.”

  “Wait . . . Craig went to Ed? How long ago was this?”

  “About four days before Ed died.” Tasha shook her head. “If Ed was doing this to other people, I can see why someone would be angry enough to kill him.” She looked me in the eye. “Do you think that’s what happened? Do you think Ed killed George and someone else killed Ed?”

  “Sheesh, I hope not. I’d hate to see people in town taking the law into their own hands. This isn’t the 1850s.”

  Tasha lifted one corner of her mouth. “We are a cow town of sorts. Did you know there’s a movement to pass a law so people can openly wear guns on their hips?”

  “Crazy people.” I shook my head. “What are you doing about the mortgage? Are you applying for refinancing anywhere?”

  “I’ve been filling out the paperwork for one of those online places that’s supposed to give you three offers in a matter of days.”

  I tilted my head. “Really?”

  “Yes, as long as your credit is good.” She sat back and sighed. “Mine’s not great because of the divorces and some crap Kip’s dad did to discredit me.”

  “Wasn’t that a long time ago?”

  “You have to wait seven years, and even then it takes a while to get the mark off your credit rating, unless you pay someone to fix it. If I could afford to pay someone, I wouldn’t have bad credit.”

  “What happens if you can’t refinance?”

  “Truthfully?”

  My mouth tightened and my gut clenched. “Give it to me straight.”

  “I’ll have to take the increased interest rate. There’s no way I can pay every two weeks.”

  “What will the increase in interest do?”

  “It blows my little budget out of the water.” She shrugged. “If I can’t refinance, I’m going to have to put the inn up for sale.”

  “But you and Kip live here.”

  “I know. . . .” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ll be homeless . . . again. You know how hard it is on Kip.”