Murder by Devil's Food

by Joanne Pence

"There's something wrong with that shoe," she complained, rubbing her toes and casting him a steely, black-eyed glare. "It must be mismarked. My husband used to own this shoe store, by the way. We never had mismarked shoes when he was here. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

  The salesman was pale now. "Let me see what I can do," he murmured, and rushed away.

  "Maybe, at times, I took Connie for granted," Angie said as her mother cast daggers at the salesman's retreating back. "It's my cupcake business."

  "Are you sure it's what you want to be doing?"

  "I'm good at it."

  "That's not the same thing," Serefina said. "What's more important to you, cupcakes or Connie?"

  The salesman came back, with four other styles in size seven and a half. He showed them, one by one, to Serefina, who shook her head more emphatically with each. "I can't believe this," she bellowed. "I want to talk to your manager!"

  Sweat poured from the salesman's brow. "I'm sorry, but—"

  "Oh, wait," Angie said. "Look. Here's a size six in the shoe my mother wants." She picked up the very first shoebox the salesman had brought out and held it upside down. "You must have overlooked it," she said to him.

  Mouth agape, his eyes jumped from her to her mother. "But that's—"

  "Size six?" Serefina cooed. "Let me try it."

  She put on the pink shoe. "Bellissimo! And that bow is cute. It fits perfectly." She gave the salesman an arch stare. "It's good I have my daughter with me. At least she knows what she's doing."

  As they walked up to the counter to pay for the shoes, Serefina said, "Now, you and Paavo need to think about bambini. You talk about your business and your girlfriend. Angelina, but figlia mia, a woman must have priorities."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Paavo filled Calderon and Bo Benson in on everything he'd learned. They were surprised to hear about the Danse Macabre. It wasn't anything that Lorraine Miller's friends or employees had even hinted at.

  The ballet studio was completely shut down, but they had the names and phone numbers of everyone who worked there, and planned to quiz them all about the dance clubs.

  While they pursued that angle, Paavo went to talk to Milly Culligan, the accountant for the Ballet Academy. At the CPA's office, the receptionist led him directly to a serious, middle-aged, stern-faced woman with jarringly large red-framed glasses.

  He quickly introduced himself and showed his badge . "I'd like to talk to you about Lorraine Miller's business. Specifically, if she was renting out the basement."

  "I don't usually—"

  "It's a murder investigation," he said.

  She didn't argue further, but pulled out a folder and opened it. "Lorraine did rent out the basement, but only on Saturday nights, and only two or three times a month."

  "Who did she rent it to?" he asked.

  Culligan didn't even need to look in the folder to answer the question. "Someone named Baron Severus."

  "Baron? As a title, or a name?"

  "I don't know for sure, but Lorraine did call him 'the Baron.'"

  "Did they have a contract or a lease?"

  "If they did, Lorraine didn't give it to me. I had the impression it was a purely cash arrangement, at least, I never saw any checks that had passed between them. She simply reported the amount as a rental. Although …"

  The woman stopped, pursing her lips. "Although?" he asked.

  "Well, she once mentioned that he put a stage in as well as a sound system and lights—everything to make it more attractive to young people who couldn't go to bars legally. Lorraine asked if she needed to declare that as some kind of income."

  "Did she?"

  Culligan hesitated. "The tax laws are quite complicated."

  "I'm sure they are. What can you tell me about Baron Severus?"

  "I never saw him. All I picked up was that he was older, although Lorraine once said he actually was younger than he appeared because his hair had turned completely white when he was still a young man. I thought, for a while, Lorraine was intrigued by him."

  "How long had their arrangement gone on?"

  "Nearly a year."

  "When you said she seemed intrigued 'for a while,' do you know what happened?"

  Culligan shook her head. "She never said, only implied, that he seemed to be getting a bit crazier every day. But she always laughed when she said it. Although, I think it troubled her more than she let on."

  Paavo decided to sit down, to try to bring the conversation to a more personal, less formal level. "How long did you work for Lorraine Miller?" he asked.

  "Oh, my—over seven years."

  "It sounds as if you knew her fairly well."

  "Yes. Although it was a strictly business relationship."

  He faced her a moment, trying to figure out how to best word the main cause of his confusion. "Do you have any idea why a famous prima ballerina, now a ballet instructor, would want to have anything at all to do with a heavy metal, punk rock dance club for teenagers? Or, for that matter, someone who sounds kind of crazy and calls himself a Baron?"

  Culligan's shoulders slumped, and she looked sad. "Before I met her, Lorraine suffered a severe back injury in the course of her dancing, and she could no longer do it with the elegance and grace she once had. And she suffered chronic pain. Because of that, she refused to dance ballet in anyone's presence. But she did enjoy music. I think she believed her own basement, filled with people who had no idea who she was, was the one place she could go and simply let herself be caught up by the music and the emotion of the moment. It was a place for her to be completely free, free of the past and of her loss."

  Paavo nodded. It made sense.

  "Can you tell me how I might reach this Baron?" he asked.

  "Lorraine insisted he give her an address, and he did," Culligan said. "She said it was most likely fake, but better than nothing." She found the address in her database and wrote it down for Paavo.

  With that, he soon left.

  o0o

  Paavo drove to the address Milly Culligan had given him to find it was the abandoned church across from the Ballet Academy. Everything kept pointing to that same area.

  He walked around it, but as far as he could tell, no one had entered the church for years. Grass and weeds had grown around the doors, helping hold them shut every bit as much as the padlocks had done.

  He returned to Homicide. Lt. Eastwood wanted all the detectives gathered together to share everything they knew and to see if they could connect any dots to find out exactly who was behind the murders. So far, none of them was having any luck in identifying exactly who the "old man" was who seemed to keep appearing in different ways throughout the case.

  "Baron Severus" was the closest anyone had come to even learning the man's name, as well as the information that he wasn't necessarily old, but simply had prematurely white hair. The detectives searched all the databases they could think of looking for any clue as to who he might be, with no luck.

  Also, while the bottle of holy water had fingerprints, they could find no match for them in the system.

  Whoever the Baron was, he was managing to stay well hidden.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Why don't you like Danger?" Angie asked Kylie a day later. The two were working on an order to supply cupcakes for a computer tech school graduation party hosted by the thrilled and well-heeled parents of a graduate. They had invited most of the class and their parents to the party and wanted something different. One hundred "computer cupcakes" were just the thing.

  Angie and Kylie had been making little sugar laptops to put on top of the frosting. It had taken a while to come up with a design that made sense when tiny. Putting running legs on an oblong gray square with eyes and a mouth seemed to convey the right image.

  When Angie realized those cupcakes needed to be delivered to Menlo Park, far south of the city, at the same time as she needed to be making two batches for other events, she contacted Danger to make the delivery. He was expected at an
y moment, which was the reason for Angie's question.

  Kylie shrugged. "It's not that I don't like him. He's a puzzle. A mystery. Maybe you should worry about him."

  "Why?"

  "Oh, no reason, I guess."

  "I thought there was more to it," Angie said.

  "Not really."

  Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Danger.

  He entered the kitchen and stared at the decorated cupcakes. "Hey, cool. I've had computers that seemed to act like that."

  "Haven't we all?" Angie said with a chuckle. She was glad to hear his reaction. She was, frankly, so sick of cupcakes and tiny computers at this point, she could barely stand the sight of either.

  Kylie glanced at him, then at Angie. "While you're boxing these, I'll run down to the market and get another couple pounds of butter. We're almost out."

  "Get five, and here are a few other things we'll need." She handed Kylie a list she'd been working on, plus some money.

  "I don't think she likes me," Danger said at the sound of the front door shutting.

  "What's with you two?" Angie asked.

  "I guess I got off on the wrong foot when we first met."

  "Where did you meet?"

  He grinned. "At a dance. She's a good looking woman."

  Ah! How interesting! Before she had a chance to pursue it, Danger picked up two flat boxes of cupcakes and carried them to the van. Angie had finished packing the third and had begun the fourth when he returned. A dozen cupcakes fit in each box, so she needed nine boxes. She decided to throw in enough extra cupcakes to fill the last box.

  "I've got to get more boxes," she said.

  She walked into the den where she kept them. They were flat and needed to be folded into box-and-lid shapes. She carried the flats into the kitchen.

  There, she found Danger on the floor. Beside him, Kylie's backpack lay open. She'd left it under a chair. Seeing Angie, he scrambled to his feet, bumping his head on the underside of the kitchen table as he did so.

  "What are you doing?" Angie asked.

  "I thought I saw a big glob of frosting," he said, rubbing his head. "I wanted to clean it up before it was ground into your hardwood floor."

  "Really?" She pulled the chair aside, but didn't see anything.

  "It was just a shadow, I guess," Danger said.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  "You got what you needed?" he asked, eyeing the boxes in her hands.

  "Yes. Why is Kylie's backpack open?"

  "Is it?" He glanced down and zipped it shut. "Guess she left it that way. Say ... you don't think ..." His gaze shifted between her and the backpack. "Look, Angie, if you're going to be suspicious of anybody, it should be Kylie. She's the one who's a mystery."

  "Is that so?" Didn't I just have this conversation? "I think she's nice."

  "That's easy to pretend ... for a little while. Just watch your back."

  "Why don't you like Kylie?" she asked.

  Danger shrugged. "It's not that I don't like her. I do. She's a puzzle, though. An intriguing puzzle."

  Déjà vu all over again.

  Angie studied the almost wistful expression on Danger's face. Could he have been looking in the backpack for information about Kylie? Her address or phone number?

  It was all becoming, as Alice in Wonderland once said, curiouser and curiouser.

  Before she had a chance to ask him more, Danger left with the deliveries.

  o0o

  Alone in her kitchen, Angie couldn't help but wonder what Danger had found so fascinating about Kylie's backpack.

  Her gaze traveled to the kitchen floor, to the backpack under the chair. It was now open.

  Open? Hadn't Danger zipped it shut?

  She was sure he had. Nevertheless, she really shouldn't...

  On the other hand, what if Paavo and Danger were right? What if she was being shortsighted, naïve, dumb, and all their unspoken insults, about Kylie?

  She was trying to decide what to do when the backpack, by itself, slowly tipped over.

  A shiver coursed through her body as she slowly backed away, gawking first at the backpack, and then all around her, side-to-side, front to back. It must be a breeze of some sort, she thought. But she felt no breeze. Or, maybe Danger had left the backpack unbalanced and it took a while for gravity to cause it to fall. But it didn't seem to be the least bit unbalanced.

  Which meant it tipped over because of something else.

  No, she told herself. No ghost did this. There's no ghost in this house. Ghosts are not real. There's a good, normal explanation. I just need to figure it out.

  But then, as she watched, a large manila envelope came sliding out of the open backpack and onto the kitchen floor.

  Her mouth gaped in shock and fear.

  She swallowed hard, and then rubbed her hands against her slacks. Should she pick up the envelope? Or would the only prudent thing be to run out of the house and call for help?

  She shook her head against such foolishness. Clearly, she'd be wrong about the backpack. That envelope, itself, had been what caused it to become unbalanced, and that's why it spilled out onto the floor. Case closed.

  She hoped.

  She reached down and snatched up the envelope. She could simply put it back and zip the backpack shut. Or …

  She sat on the floor and being careful not to tear it, opened the envelope and removed the contents. Newspaper clippings about the ritual murders were the first things that caught her eye. What would be Kylie's interest in them?

  A small white envelope was included. Inside were photographs. One was of a young woman with short bleached blond hair. She looked like a young version of Kylie. This must be the sister Kylie had mentioned. The combination of the girl's photo and the newspaper clippings gave Angie pause.

  The girl's eyes were painted black and she wore lots of cheap jewelry. A knit top of white and black stripes was worn under a black jacket. Beside her stood a couple of geeky looking young men, scrawny and pimply, and behind them, others danced near small tables—a club scene of some kind.

  Other photos showed garishly dressed punk rock and 'emo' types. A street scene of people entering a building stopped her. She recognized the building. It was the Ballet Academy.

  She next found several copies of well-fingered "Missing Person" posters showing the young woman again. Her name was Joy Zwolinsky. If Kylie Zee and Joy Zwolinsky weren't sisters, or at least cousins, Angie would be shocked. And she could well understand someone with the name "Zwolinsky" simplifying it to "Zee."

  Angie spread the pictures of people entering the club around her. Joy Zwolinsky was in one of them, but she didn't recognize anyone else.

  The doorbell rang. It had to be Kylie returning with the baking supplies. Angie quickly put everything away, zipped up the backpack, and went to open the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "I'm glad you called," Angie said, clasping Paavo's arm as they walked along Fisherman's Wharf. He had called to ask if she had time to join him for dinner since the case was taking up so much time, he hardly made it home at a decent hour lately.

  Angie was more than ready. She and Paavo had had some of their nicest times together strolling along the water's edge, and then enjoying a delicious seafood dinner. Besides, she wanted to talk to him about the strange contents of Kylie's backpack.

  Paavo's gaze softened as he looked at her. "And I'm glad I was able to lure you away from a hot oven for a while," he said. "I needed something bright and pretty in my day."

  "The Wharf?" she asked, smiling up at him.

  "Exactly," he said teasingly.

  They stopped and bought shrimp cocktails from a sidewalk vendor as appetizers, and then walked along a pier. The evening was warm and the sky clear over the water. As they ate, she told him about her upcoming cupcake jobs but then her tone grew serious. "I'm now wondering, like you did, about my two helpers, Kylie and Danger," she said.

  "It's about time," Paavo said emphatically.

&
nbsp; "Now, wait a minute," Angie protested. "You were a mystery to me for a long time, and I stuck with you, didn't I?"

  "That's different."

  "I'm afraid that in many ways you're still a mystery, Inspector Smith. That's one of your many attractions."

  Cocktails finished, they stood against an old wooden railing, peered down at the water, and watched a couple of fishermen making their boat ready to head out to the Pacific. Paavo reached over and took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "If I'm such a puzzle, why did you marry me?"

  "Because I love you." She squeezed his hand, and turned toward him. "And because of your nature. You aren't a man to lie or cheat."

  "Never with you, Angie. That's how we should always be with each other."

  "Absolutely." She drew in her breath and proceeded to tell him what was on her mind. "Even though I joked about Kylie earlier, I found out something curious that I want to talk to you about."

  "What is it?" he asked, interested.

  "I've actually felt guilty about it," Angie said, "but I looked inside her backpack and saw a missing person's poster. You know, a photocopied sheet—the kind people staple to telephone poles."

  Paavo nodded.

  "I think she's looking for her sister. We once talked about sisters, and she got upset. I can't help but think her sister is one of the runaways who seem to find their way to this city."

  A seagull cawed and swooped right by their heads. They ducked, then began walking once again.

  "Anyway, what's really weird, is that she had some photographs of the girl in the poster going into what looked like a dance club for emo types."

  "Emo … I think I've heard that before," Paavo said.

  "It's a weird style with pale skin, lots of eye liner, and strange colors in the hair. Emo people like to look and feel sad, as well as misunderstood. It's kind of 'Goth,' but modern, not 1990's stuff. Still, to me they look spooky, as if they're living a Dracula fantasy."

  "They look like vampires?"

  "Some do. Most just look weird, and kind of ludicrous."