Mango Cake and Murder

by Christy Murphy

  "They came to my house and arrested me! I was in jail for hours until My Dearest could post bail. It was awful."

  "What were you doing with the necklace?" I asked.

  "That," Celia waved it off, "is just a simple misunderstanding. Sir Harold wanted me to have it." I could tell she was taking great pains to downplay that it was a big deal.

  "But the agency doesn’t allow gifts!" Mom said.

  "Of course not! I told him. He insisted. So I took it. I figured I would bring it back after the party, return it to the safe, and he would think I had it."

  "You have the combination to the safe?" I asked.

  Celia smiled. "Sir Harold has me open it for him all the time. He trusts me more than his own daughter."

  "Celia, does Mr. Sanders keep a copy of his will in that same safe?" I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  "Celia," Mom said. "You read that will, didn’t you?"

  "He wanted me to read it," she said, but her lie wasn’t convincing.

  "How much did he leave you?" Wenling asked, once again not hiding her excitement.

  "He left me the necklace, some money, and a car!" Celia said.

  "And your fingerprints are all over that safe," I said.

  "Aye!" Mom said knowing what I was getting at.

  "How much money?" Wenling asked.

  Celia shrugged her shoulders trying to be coy.

  "That much," Wenling said, nodding her head. Mom nodded, too.

  "I didn’t say anything," Celia said.

  "I bet it’s a half a million," Mom said.

  Celia’s jaw dropped open. "How did you know?" she asked. That’s when my jaw dropped open. How did Mom know?

  Mom smiled, but didn’t answer Celia’s question. I made a note to ask Mom about that later. Although, she still hadn’t told me how she convinced Mr. Sanders to agree to the party.

  "They think you did it, because of the will, you know," Mom said.

  "That and the pills," Celia answered.

  "What about the pills?" I asked.

  "That’s why he was asking about Celia administering medication," Mom said. "Something went wrong with the medication."

  "They’ve already talked to you?" Celia asked, glaring at me.

  "DC came by this morning,” Mom said.

  "The handsome detective came to your house?" Wenling asked not hiding her hurt about not getting the news. "Why didn’t you tell me while we were waiting?"

  "I didn’t want to explain it twice," Mom said.

  Wenling was less than impressed with that answer.

  Celia interrupted. "What did you say?"

  "He talked mostly to Christy," Mom said, totally throwing me under the bus with the truth. Celia turned to me and glared.

  "I had to tell the truth, but we told him that we’d never seen you with the necklace,"’ I said, leaving out the part where I had to confirm that she’d bragged about going to Europe.

  "How could you betray me?" Celia asked, folding her arms.

  "I didn’t betray you!" I said.

  She turned away from me.

  "What about the pills?" Mom asked.

  "They said that Sir’s pills had been half-empty. That someone had opened each of the capsules and poured out the medicine!"

  "Why would someone do that?" Wenling asked.

  "To kill him," Celia said. "But they think it was me who did it."

  "Your fingerprints are probably all over the bottle," I said.

  "Of course! I give him his medicine every day. I pick it up from the pharmacy! But why would I pour out the medicine from his pills? I could just substitute different pills, he wouldn’t know the difference."

  "Someone else had to do it," Mom said. "The son was staying there wasn’t he?"

  "For three days only," Celia said with disappointment.

  "But he could’ve gotten to the pills," I said.

  Celia shook her head. "He might not have died after only three days."

  "But maybe," I said.

  "Maybe," Celia said sounding dejected.

  "Then it’s the daughter," I said. "The checkbook was open when I found the body, and they’d fought about it."

  "It was there when I went upstairs. That’s when Harold paid me," Mom said distracted by her thoughts. "I just don’t think," Mom paused. "maybe it was her."

  "Her fingerprints might be on the bottle," I added.

  "If I were her," Mom said. "I would’ve poured out the pills, wiped the bottle, and just waited for Celia and Harold to fingerprint it up again."

  I nodded. Mom was right.

  Jennifer rushed into the kitchen. "Thank God, you’re here and you’re all right," she said to Celia. "You need to stay away from George?"

  "Why?" Celia asked.

  "Who’s George?" Wenling chimed in.

  Mom said, “You know, George. He’s Harold’s son."

  “That George," Wenling said.

  Jennifer nodded. "He’s really upset about his father’s death."

  "Or he’s just pretending," I said.

  Jennifer shook her head no. "You know Barbara’s niece, Ann works part-time at The Watering Hole, right?"

  "That’s no place for her," Wenling said.

  Mom nodded her head in agreement. "It’s shady."

  The Watering Hold was a dive bar in Sylmar, which is the next town over.

  Jennifer nodded and then continued her story. "Ann called home to Barbara to tell her if she saw Celia to watch out for George. She came in for the lunch special and told me just now. I didn’t tell her you were here, so word doesn’t get out."

  Celia put her scarf back on, and glasses.

  "But why would Celia have to watch out for George?" I asked.

  "George was in the bar getting drunk and talking crazy. He said he’d kill Celia if he finds her. He even asked Ann where Celia lives!"

  "This is a small town. Everybody knows where everybody lives," I said.

  "He can’t think I’m the killer!" Celia said. "No one really believes that."

  Jennifer looked down. I could tell she must’ve heard people gossiping who did believe Celia did it. "Maybe you should leave town with your kids."

  "The judge said not to leave town," Celia said. "But maybe my kids and husband should go to my mother-in-law’s in Arizona."

  "That’s probably smart," I said.

  "Jennifer, tell everyone Celia is off to Arizona with her family, and we’ll hide her at our house," Mom said. "Leave your car here so no one will know, and we’ll drop you off."

  "Where are you guys going?" Celia asked.

  "We’re going to find out who really killed Harold Sanders," Mom said.

  Celia smiled. She seemed to believe we would find the real killer.

  I wasn’t so confident.

  * * *

  For a moment I thought I might miss that darn cat, but after trying for a half an hour to wrestle him into the van, I was so over it. We headed back up the dreaded mountain to see Margaret, under the pretext of finding the owner for that menace of a tuxedo cat. My catering-van driving skills hadn’t improved much, and rush-hour traffic didn’t help. Okay, Fletcher Canyon didn’t have the traffic problems most of Los Angeles did, but even the few extra cars we had on the road made me nervous. It’s one thing to die in a fiery crash off the side of a mountain. It’s a whole other thing to take innocent bystanders with you.

  "Is that a siren?" I asked Mom as I checked my mirrors and wished, once again, for a rearview window. The noise grew louder.

  Mom tilted her head for a listen. "I don’t think so."

  Panic set in. "There’s no place to pull over on this road."

  "There’s a turnout over here," Mom said and pointed to a very small bit of dirt to the right of the road, next to a death-drop of an edge.

  "That wasn’t big enough for our van."

  "It was the size of two parking spaces."

  "It came up too fast."

  The siren grew louder, and in my mind, it sounded angrier. I
kept trying to see the cop behind us, but all I saw was empty road. He must be right on our tail.

  "We’re almost at the Sanders’ house. Just pull onto their private road and stop," Mom said.

  My heart raced. The police already had it in for Celia. Now they’ll have it in for me. I pulled onto the private road and shut off the ignition, almost forgetting to engage the emergency brake. Mom and I traded a look. "Sorry," I said.

  The siren kept blasting, which annoyed me, because we’d obviously pulled over. I opened the door with my hands up in surrender.

  "You don’t have to put your hands up," Mom said.

  "I don’t want them to shoot me for fleeing," I hissed at Mom. Or rather, I didn’t hiss, something else did. And that’s when I realized it wasn’t a siren. It was that darn cat yowling in the back of the van.

  Mom suppressed her laugh.

  "That cat could’ve killed us," I said getting back into the van and heading up the road to go to Sanders' house.

  "I’m going to miss her when we find her owner," Mom said.

  "It’s a him,” I corrected but Mom didn’t answer. She pointed to the open gate. Normally, we’d have to buzz to be let in, this time it was open. I shot Mom a worried look.

  "Just drive in," Mom said.

  I did what she said, but I didn’t like the look of this.

  * * *

  The moment I parked the van, the yowling stopped, which took the edge off my worry.

  "You get the cat. I’ll ring the bell," Mom said.

  "That cat hates me," I said.

  Mom rolled her eyes. "I’ll help you with him."

  I paused before opening the back doors of the van, and prepared to use the door as a shield if the cat leapt out and attacked me. Mom rolled her eyes, scooted me out of the way, and opened the doors herself.

  The cat yowled. Mom shushed him, and the little thing quieted. "Come on," Mom said to the cat, and the fur ball trotted to the edge of the van and leapt into Mom’s arms. "Good cat," Mom said and patted it on the head.

  I shook my head and closed the van doors.

  We rang the doorbell. Margaret greeted us, but she was obviously expecting someone else.

  "I thought you were my psychic," she said.

  "Is that why the gate's unlocked?" Mom asked.

  "Yes. I didn’t want to risk missing her. I desperately need her advice."

  "About what?" I asked.

  Margaret gave me a shocked look. "The murder of course. I can’t believe Celia would have killed my father. And I have to find out who did it before my drunken brother does something stupid."

  Mom and I traded glances. "Do you think it’s possible your brother did it?" Mom asked.

  "I’d thought of that, but he’s so upset, and he hasn’t been here long enough," Margaret said. Her attention turned to the cat. "What a beautiful cat! Did you bring her in for an evaluation?"

  "Yes," Mom said.

  Margaret beamed. "Come inside."

  "Is this the cat from the party?" Margaret asked.

  "Yes," Mom said. "We really like him."

  “His coat is very shiny. I’d advise keeping the dear as hydrated as possible so that her fur will look its best when she’s preserved."

  It took me a moment to realize that we were getting a taxidermy consultation.

  "How much longer did the vet give her to live?" Margaret asked.

  "It’s hard to say. It depends on how well she responds to the medication," Mom answered.

  Mom was always a fast thinker. Margaret nodded, but she looked a little disappointed at the idea that the cat might live. Heck, the thing was more of a kitten than a cat. I almost felt bad for the little thing—almost.

  "There’s an oil you can use that will keep her fur soft just in case," Margaret said hopefully. I found it interesting that an heiress to a multi-million dollar fortune was so interested in making a sale. "It also is good for preventing flees," she added.

  "How much?" Mom asked.

  Margaret smiled. "Only twenty dollars," she said.

  "We’ll take it," Mom said.

  Margaret sprang from her seat to get the oil.

  "She doesn’t seem like a murderer," I said.

  "No," Mom said. "If I’d killed my dad to fund a weird animal stuffing business, I wouldn’t hire a psychic."

  "Me neither," I said.

  "Do you have twenty dollars?" Mom asked.

  I reached into my purse for my last twenty. "I guess this means we own a cat now."

  Margaret returned with the oil and gave us instructions on how to use it.

  "Who do you think besides Celia could be a suspect?" Mom asked. I was surprised Mom came right out and asked.

  "I have no idea. The only people with access to the pills would be Celia, George, and me. Unless Dad committed suicide, but I doubt that."

  Mom nodded. "Me, too."

  Even though I knew Mom and Margaret were right, I wished they weren’t. Because Celia looked pretty guilty right now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’d forgotten it was Monday afternoon until Mom reminded me. On Mondays the restaurant closed early. That’s when Mom (and now Mom and I) baked the cakes and almond cookies for the week. I drove down the winding hill while our new cat rested in Mom's lap.

  Mom called home to check on Celia. I could tell by what I overheard that Celia was disappointed we hadn't found out more about the real killer. Mom reassured her that we'd figure it out, which worried me.

  "How is Celia?" I asked as I turned on Foothill Boulevard.

  "She ate leftovers and settled into your room," Mom said.

  "My room! What's wrong with the guest room?"

  "The window to your room faces the back of the house. She wanted to make sure the press couldn't spy on her," Mom said.

  I didn't buy that explanation. The guest room was smaller and doesn't have a TV. I knew Celia chose the better room on purpose, but I let it go. If I were a suspect in a murder, I might need to watch some television to take my mind off of things.

  I parked the car behind the restaurant. Mom knocked on the back door. They locked it at sundown.

  "Who’s there?" Wenling asked.

  "Aye!" Mom said. "It’s us. What you mean who’s there?"

  Wenling opened the door. "Jo! Christy! So sorry," she said. "A reporter spotted Celia’s car in the back, and he insisted she was here. He kept knocking on this door for like a half hour.

  "It’s us to bake. It’s Monday," Mom said.

  That’s when Wenling realized she’d been blocking the doorway.

  "I forgot," Wenling said, moving out of the way. "You’re early."

  "We figured we'd have an early dinner and give you the news," Mom said.

  Wenling smiled. "Good idea! I’ll make coffee. Do you want shrimp? Crab?"

  "Wow!" I said. We normally had the special of the day or whatever they had the most of. Since Wenling always refused to let us pay, we never ordered anything extravagant.

  Mom mumbled under her breath. "She’s buttering us up to get the good gossip."

  "I think it’s going to work," I said, ready to eat crab.

  "Yeah," Mom said and laughed.

  * * *

  Fletcher Canyon was a small town with early risers–especially during the week. Mondays were slow, and the few people who came in after lunch ordered take-out. So instead of crowding into the back office, we ate dinner at our usual booth in the back. Wenling even set out a small bowl of milk with a piece of fish for the cat to eat under the table. This made Wenling and the cat instant best friends. Despite having forked over twenty bucks to get that special fur oil for him, the cat only tolerated my presence. We caught up Wenling on what we’d learned visiting Margaret Sanders.

  "It looks like Celia might be in serious trouble," Wenling said. "You don’t think she did it, did you?"

  "She couldn’t have," Mom said. "The will isn’t that strong a motive to risk prison. He was eighty five years old and on heart medication. All she had to do was
wait," Mom said.

  "Maybe she has a gambling problem? Or a secret baby stashed somewhere," Wenling said.

  "She can’t have a secret baby. We would have had to see her pregnant," I said.

  "From before she came here then," Wenling said.

  "She came to the US when she was fourteen," Mom said.

  "That’s old enough," Wenling said.

  "Then, why would she suddenly need the money now?" I asked.

  Wenling considered that idea. "Maybe college? Or the kid is sick?"

  "Or maybe there’s no secret baby," I said.

  "Then, it has to be gambling debts," Wenling said in a solemn tone.

  "I don’t think so," I said.

  "We’d have noticed sooner than this," Mom said. "When you have a gambling problem, you sell your stuff first, not kill your biggest client."

  "But she didn’t have anything to sell. All her jewelry was fake," Wenling said.

  "I know," Mom said shaking her head. “But she had a car."

  My mind went to the pearl necklace with the jade and diamond clasp. I looked up at Mom and she shook her head for me not to say anything.

  "Well, it’s time to start baking," Mom said, looking at her watch. It was ten minutes to six. We usually started by five, and I was already tired.

  Wenling closed the restaurant while we cleared the dishes.

  Once she left I said, "You don’t think she did it, do you?"

  Mom furrowed her brow and mixed the ingredients for the almond cookies in a bowl. "I don’t know. We might have to rethink things. I need you to go over everything you remember from the murder."

  "Mom, that’ll take hours," I said.

  "So will this baking. Now get the almond extract while I grab the rolling pin," Mom said.

  I dug around the cupboard to find the little bottle. Mom made me get the extract because the chef puts it on the top shelf. He never needs it during the week. I found it shoved behind some soy sauce that had to have been there for thirty years, it was so thick. I walked over to the bowl to add it.

  You know how you sometimes smell something, and it reminds your of when you were a kid? For me candy apples always reminded me of Halloween in elementary school. Well, the second I got a whiff of the almond extract my mind flashed back to the murder scene.