Murder by Devil's Food

by Joanne Pence

  Someday, she hoped, they'd get their schedules in sync.

  She heard a sound not far from her, and started walking a little faster.

  Was it the sound of footsteps?

  Running footsteps? She gasped. The sound was much closer.

  Her senses sprang alert. As she turned, hands grabbed her shoulders from behind. "Got you!"

  She screamed.

  o0o

  Connie laughed so hard tears came to her eyes. She doubled over, holding her stomach, unable to say a word.

  Angie put her hand to her heart. "Are you trying to kill me?" She didn't find it funny in the least. "What took you so long?"

  "I had to stop for gas, and then my credit card was declined and it took a while to sort out the problem." Connie wiped her eyes, trying to control her laughter. "Oh, my! What a reaction! Were you scared or what!"

  Angie pursed her lips. "I wasn't scared. You just startled me a little."

  "With that scream? Every dog in the state heard you. You must have thought I was the Hostess CupCake monster attacking you for starting up a rival business." Connie started to laugh all over again. "Maybe you thought you were grabbed by a giant Ding Dong or maybe a Ho Ho?"

  "I'm glad you find my new business so funny!"

  "I'm sorry." Connie tried to stop, but she wasn't very successful. "It's the setting—that spooky old church across the street. The churchyard is probably teeming with ghosts." She smirked. "From your reaction, you thought so, too. Anyway, I had to park on the other side of the church. Didn't you realize you're in a red zone?"

  "So what? It's not as if there's anybody else around."

  "Nope," Connie admitted. "Just us and them haints." She laughed again.

  "Very funny," Angie said. "There's nothing scary about that old church."

  "What about the churchyard next to it? Don't they have graves?" Connie asked.

  Angie smoothed her hair. She was sure it was standing on end. "Old churchyards are interesting, that's all."

  "I don't think so!" Connie said. "And neither do you."

  Angie folded her arms as an idea for revenge came to her—revenge at having been scared half to death. "Come to think of it, I'd like to go in there to see if it has any old tombstones. They might make intriguing cupcake decorations."

  Connie's eyes narrowed. "You're kidding me, right?"

  "Not at all. Of course, if you're too scared to come with me..."

  Connie resolutely raised her chin. "Lead the way."

  Angie didn't let herself smile as they crossed the street to the churchyard's iron gate. She licked her lips—the taste of vengeance was already sweet.

  Connie stuck close to her. "Maybe the gate will be locked," Connie said hopefully.

  Angie easily lifted the gate latch. "I guess nobody worries about grave robbers anymore." The gate required a hard shove to open, and the rusted hinges creaked their protest. She held the gate wide to let Connie enter. "After you."

  "No," Connie drew back. "You can have the honor."

  Grinning to herself, Angie walked into the garden. Only faint light from streetlamps lit the area. Trees cut off most of the moonlight and overgrown bushes loomed all around them. It took Angie a while to find the path through the garden to the area where she hoped to find some graves.

  "I don't think this is such a good idea," Connie murmured.

  "Sure it is." Angie crept deeper into the garden, then stopped. "Did you hear that sound?" she whispered, her voice low, quivering.

  Connie, quaking, grabbed her arm. "No."

  Angie chuckled. "Me, neither."

  "Darn you!" Connie cried, giving her a shove. "That does it. Onward to the graves, Elvira, Mistress of the Night."

  Angie suppressed her laughter as her steps quickened. Suddenly, the shrubbery opened up, letting more of the moonlight shine onto the ground marked with seven tombstones, all topped with crosses.

  "I wonder if they were priests," Angie whispered as she bent close to a stone. Although she'd been joking about little tombstone cupcakes, she had to admit the idea wasn't bad. But what occasion could they possibly be used for?

  "Don't step there!" Angie said, as Connie approached.

  Connie jumped back. "Why not?"

  "You were standing right on a grave. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  The wind whipped up and made a low, crooning sound. Connie shrank further to the side. "Angie, let's get out of here."

  "But this is so great! The atmosphere is wonderful. I should soak it in so I'll be ready if someone wants an early Halloween party." She moved to a larger tombstone and crouched down, but couldn't make out any of the letters other than a large R.I.P.

  The crooning sound grew louder, then suddenly stopped. All turned absolutely still.

  "I can't take this, Angie," Connie said, whipping her head from graves to markers to rocks and trees. "Let's go."

  Silence.

  Connie turned back to the tombstone Angie had been looking at. She was gone. "Angie?" Connie's voice scarcely worked.

  She heard nothing.

  "Angie?" Connie wailed, close to tears.

  No answer.

  "ANGIE!" she shrieked.

  Suddenly Angie jumped out of the bushes behind her. "Boo!"

  Connie let out a terrified squawk. When she could breathe again, she glowered at Angie, who was laughing so hard she could scarcely stand. "You think that's funny?" Connie cried.

  Angie could only nod as her laughter continued.

  "All right," Connie said. "You got even. So let's go."

  They heard a "clang," as if the iron gate had been shut. The metallic-sounding echo danced down their spines. "What was that?" Connie whimpered, standing still.

  Angie's smile vanished. "I don't know."

  "Did you do it?" Connie demanded. "Is this more of you getting even?"

  "Believe me, I didn't do a thing."

  The two edged closer together.

  "Probably just some pedestrian saw the gate open and decided to shut it," Angie said. "Being a good citizen and all."

  "You're right." Connie didn't sound too convinced.

  "Maybe we should leave now." Angie's mouth was dry.

  From the area of the church came a loud, chilling creak.

  "I...I thought the church was empty," Connie whispered.

  "So did I. It must be the wind again," Angie whispered back.

  They glanced at each other and then began to run, but Connie stumbled over something on the ground, and grabbed Angie to stop her fall. Both fell.

  Now, not only had they stepped on graves, they sprawled over them. Angie lifted her eyes. From this angle, she could read the gravestone's cheerful message. "All flesh is grass."

  Connie was the first to her feet. She grabbed Angie, tugging wildly at her. But then, Angie noticed a flicker of light a little way off the path. "Wait, what's that?"

  She stood and stepped closer. Behind a tombstone, she saw a lit votive candle. Beside it were a woman's legs, her feet shod in red high-heeled shoes.

  "Connie." Her voice was a strangled whisper.

  Connie wordlessly stepped to Angie's side, and then covered her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

  "We've got to call the police," Angie whispered as she stared at the body. Three additional candles burned near it, but they weren't what consumed Angie's attention. The woman's clothes and body were ripped and covered with blood, more blood than Angie could imagine. She forced her eyes from the body—she didn't want to know, or see, exactly what had been done to it—and looked at the woman's face. With a shock, she recognized the director of the ballet studio, Lorraine Miller.

  "It's our customer," she said, her voice scared and tiny.

  "Let's get out of here!" Connie cried. She ran towards the street.

  Angie was alone momentarily, until she decided Connie's idea was the right one.

  The iron gate was shut. Connie pulled at it, but it didn't open. Angie reached for it as well, trying to help, slapping Conni
e's hands away from the latch until she could finally yank the latch back and pull the gate open.

  Bouncing and jostling against each other, they squeezed through, ran to Angie's car, which was closest, and once there, jumped inside and locked the doors.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hours later, Paavo awoke with a start from a bad dream. He knew he had been dreaming about the murder scene Angie's call had sent him to.

  It had been horrible.

  Now, his chest felt tight, and he gasped for breath. He sat up in bed. Angie was asleep beside him after having tossed and turned for hours. He would never forget how white her face had looked as he arrived and found her and Connie huddled in her car. After receiving her call, he immediately called for patrol officers to speed to the crime scene, not only to secure it, but to protect Angie and Connie until he arrived. The thought of Angie and her friend alone in an area where a killer had struck made his skin go cold.

  He got out of bed, went to the living room, and then opened the sliding glass door to the back yard. The night temperature was in the forties, and the air was heavy with ocean fog, but it felt good at the moment—anything felt good after the torturous dreams he'd been having. He couldn't quite remember them, but he knew why he was dreaming them.

  Much earlier that evening, he had arrived home to an empty house. Angie had warned him she would be out delivering cupcakes and would be late, so he wasn't worried. She had been beyond thrilled at receiving a cupcake order from the city's most famous prima ballerina, Lorraine Miller, now retired from dancing. Angie had told him all about how Miller had once danced with major ballet companies throughout the world. She was still fairly young, but years of sprains and torn ligaments meant that when she suffered a fall that injured her back, she was unable to fully recover. Miller now ran an exclusive ballet school for children.

  Angie had practically pirouetted around the house as she talked about her new customer. And she had been sure that the publicity she would get serving cupcakes to the school's wealthy ballet-loving parents would lead to many more customers as well.

  Given how busy she'd been because of that, and since he made a mean pot of chili, he had planned to surprise her by cooking dinner himself that night.

  He found it kind of ironic that Angie, who had started baking for Connie's tea room as a means to help her friend, was already seeing a decent profit from her customized cupcakes. Angie's inability to find a good job that used her knowledge of fine food and cooking was a sore point with her. But now, with this cupcake business, even he had to admit her little creations were surprisingly cute, and he could see why people were willing to pay more for them than he imagined a rational person would ever spend on a cupcake.

  The chili had been made and he was waiting for her to come home when she had called, terrified, after she and Connie found the body of Lorraine Miller.

  When he got to the crime scene—an old graveyard at an abandoned church—a horrible cold overtook him, as if he had stepped into an industrial-size freezer. It was all he could do to not shiver from it. Oddly, no one else reacted that way. The location, the entire set-up around the body, he found beyond disturbing.

  Initially, when he had called to report the situation to Homicide, he had volunteered to take the investigation of the death since he would be at the crime scene. But as soon as he saw the body he phoned Calderon and Bo Benson. He realized the similarities to the case they had talked about the day he returned from his honeymoon, the murder of a young woman, Anna Gomez. The detectives remained stymied by it, having found no leads that brought them any closer to the killer.

  Even in death, Paavo could see Lorraine Miller had been a beautiful woman.

  Now, he stepped out onto the deck, rubbing his arms against the chill as he looked out at the night and listened to the gentle lap of the ocean waves on the shore. Something about this case got to him—the murders and removal of the hearts of beautiful women. It not only disturbed his sleep, but also troubled his psyche. And he especially hated that anything so ugly had gotten close to Angie.

  That she was the one who found the body bothered him greatly.

  o0o

  Angie awoke to an empty bed. The clock on the nightstand showed four a.m. She wondered where Paavo was. She sat up in bed, listening for his footsteps.

  The usual house sounds softly murmured in the background—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of a Georgian style wall clock in the dining room, the occasional rush of warm air pushing through the heating vents. But nothing else.

  She had had a difficult time falling asleep last night after her adventure in the churchyard, and awake now, an awareness of troubling dreams rattled in her head.

  She got out of bed, put on a robe, and decided to look for Paavo. Moonlight through the sliding glass door showed him outside on the deck.

  "Are you okay?" she asked, as she stood in the doorway.

  He faced her. "Yes, fine. I hope I didn't wake you."

  "Were you thinking about Lorraine Miller?" she asked, walking up to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

  "Her death had troubling similarities to a case being worked by Calderon and Benson," he said. "I'm sure they'll find out who was behind the murders soon. But I also don't like that you were in the same area as a killer."

  "I don't either, but right now, you're the one I'm worried about. You feel like ice."

  He took her in his arms. "I've got a good idea how to warm up," he murmured, and they headed back to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning, after seeing Paavo off, thoughts of the horror of the previous evening stretched Angie's nerves nearly to the breaking point. She had baking to do for Connie's tea room, but being alone made her jumpy. Normally, she was fine with being alone, enjoyed it, in fact, at least for a little while.

  Maybe it was because of how upset Paavo, Calderon and Benson all seemed by the former ballerina's murder. Or maybe it was because she had overheard them talking about how this was the second such grisly murder in less than four weeks, and how much it troubled them.

  She went out to the yard. "Jock?" she called. She hadn't seen the little West Highland White Terrier since they got back from their honeymoon. She wondered if he'd ever return.

  She went back inside to see Hercules walking around his bowl. He loved canned food in the morning. She opened a small can and was dishing out when the cat made the most unearthly howl.

  He arched his back high, his fur standing on end, as he stared at the entry to the kitchen.

  But nothing was there. Or, nothing that Angie could see.

  "What is it, Herc?" she asked, as she slowly crept towards the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

  She still saw and heard nothing, but behind her, Hercules sprang onto the counter, made a flying leap that took him halfway across the dining room, bounded through the living room to the stairs and, scarcely touching them, vaulted up to the second floor with its three small bedrooms.

  Angie watched in slack-jawed silence. She'd never seen him do anything like that before. It was as if something had badly scared him. But what?

  Even more nervous than earlier, she looked around.

  She saw nothing. What had bothered Hercules so badly?

  She had always heard that cats could see things we humans couldn't. She'd never taken it seriously before, but now, she had to wonder.

  Finally, she decided to phone her old neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette, to tell him about her scary evening. She thought talking about it might help calm her, especially since the cat had gone into hiding.

  Stan had been her across-the-hall neighbor when she lived in her father's apartment building. He would stop by to visit her nearly every day, particularly when he was hungry. Angie's refrigerator tended to be stocked with leftovers from dinner or from a new recipe she had tried. Angie's leftovers were a major part of Stan's regular diet.

  She had scarcely begun her tale when Stan said he'd be right over, no doubt to b
e a good listener and to inspect the new refrigerator.

  He showed up as Angie was baking and working on a new custom design for her cupcakes. He stood about six feet tall, slim, with puppy dog brown eyes, and silky brown hair that often flopped onto his forehead. He always dressed well, today with a pale green Izod short sleeved pullover tucked into belted natural linen slacks and polished brown loafers. In his early thirties, he occasionally worked in a bank where his father was an officer. It should have been consistent work rather than "occasional," but reliability wasn't a part of Stan's vocabulary.

  Now, Stan leaned casually against the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in hand. He watched Angie work as she told him all about how frightened she and Connie had been. She spoke of her nightmares and even Paavo's inability to sleep the night before.

  Stan commiserated for a while, but then said, "I think your evening has affected you more deeply than you know. Do you really want to decorate your cupcakes with brains?"

  "Brains? What are you talking about?"

  "Aren't those pink, swirly things you're making supposed to be brains? That's what they look like."

  "Of course not!" Angie cried. "They're tangled piles of pink yarn! These are for a knitter's club—a women's group." Angie studied her design and frowned. "Although, now that you mention it …"

  Stan said nothing, but reached in the cookie jar for some sustenance. It was empty. "Have you given up baking for yourself because of your business?"

  "It's taking up all my time." She threw away her "pink yarn," then took some fondant and added drops of yellow food coloring. "I'll make what will look like skeins of yarn in yellow and green, and stack them on top of the cupcakes. Hopefully, they'll look yummy rather than disgusting."

  "Maybe." Stan didn't sound convinced as he opened the refrigerator door. "I didn't eat yet today." Halfway inside, his voice echoed as he said, "Doesn't seem to me that baking a few cupcakes should take up all your time this way."