“Did Betty have German chocolate?” I asked, taking the cake box.
Mia nodded, still transfixed by my choice of color palette. “She said to give you this, too.” She handed me the small cookie jar shaped like a beehive.
“I’ll take that,” Monica said, swiping the cake box from my hand. “Mia, close your mouth, you’re catching flies.”
Mia clamped her mouth shut and flung herself around. “I’m going to the Soda Pop Shop to see Stephanie. She’s so upset, she needs me to pick out her outfit for the calling hours tomorrow.”
“Be back before dinner,” I called to her retreating form.
I needed to order flowers to be delivered to the funeral home and find something to wear, myself. Walking into Jenn Berg’s calling hours with half the town thinking I was the reason she was lying in the casket would be the most awkward situation I’d ever been in. But if I didn’t go, the speculation would multiply like Metamora Mike’s progeny. He was one duck whose family tree would never die out.
“What do you want us to do with no phones, Cameron Cripps-Hayman?” Roy tucked his hands in the pockets of his dirty navy sports coat that he wore no matter how high the temperature climbed.
“Let’s go inside and figure something out,” I said, carrying the cookie jar up the porch steps and into the house.
“I could go for a cookie,” he said, peering over my shoulder.
“Jeez, let me get the lid off.” I set the jar on the counter and tugged off the airtight lid. Inside were about half a dozen bone-shaped biscuits and a recipe card. “I hate to break it to you, Roy, but Betty sent these cookies for the dogs.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, sticking his hand in and grabbing one. Before I could tell him to at least wait until I read the ingredients, he had a big hunk in his mouth. “Tasty,” he said, spraying crumbs onto the counter.
“Let’s see the recipe,” Johnna said, snatching it from my hand and looking it over. “All regular, human ingredients in them. I bet they’d be even better with a bit of bacon and cheese though.” She strolled over to my fridge and yanked the door open. “Bacon bits would last longer. You have any of those, Cam?”
“I saw some in the cupboard,” Monica said, joining in the fun.
“You need a mold to make ’em bone shaped.” Roy nudged Nick’s shoulder. “Let’s go see what we can find in the shed to jerry-rig together.”
Making dog treats was definitely not community service approved work, but we were keeping an eye on Nick, and until I could question him and prove him innocent, I decided that was close enough. Plus we were caring for orphaned dogs, so it was like volunteering at an animal shelter, right?
After justifying baking dog biscuits, I felt much better about the whole operation.
“Where do you keep your wheat flour?” Johnna asked, plopping a block of cheddar on the counter.
“I’m not sure I have any.” I wasn’t a baker. Every attempt I made resulted in the smoke detector going off. Ben eventually took the batteries out of the one closest to the kitchen.
I rooted through the pantry and found some cornmeal from the grist mill tucked in the pantry. “Will this work?” I asked.
“Dogs can eat corn,” Johnna said. “We’ll give it a try.”
We assembled the measuring cups and spoons along with the ingredients and a large bowl. “Now what?” I asked, my hands starting to tremble.
“Follow the directions,” Monica said in a tone like I was a kindergartner.
“It’s not that easy for me. I follow the directions and still end up with charcoal.”
“Let’s preheat the oven,” Johnna said, reaching for the buttons on my stove. “What’s the temperature?”
“Three fifty.” I checked and double-checked the recipe card to be sure.
“Don’t hyperventilate,” Monica said, patting me on the back. “You’re baking for a pack of wild dogs, not the Queen of England.”
“Why does it feel like they’re judging me already?” I peered out the window to where Gus and the twins were attempting to de-limb my weeping cherry while Isobel snoozed under the picnic table.
“Those dogs would eat the tires off a monster truck,” Johnna said, plucking a wooden spoon out of the utensil holder beside the stove. “Now measure out the ingredients and mix ’em all up.” She handed me the spoon, and it might as well have been the Olympic torch for as important as it felt in my grasp.
“I’ll do my best.” I took one more look out the window to my furry tribe and picked up the beef stock.
After all the ingredients were added and a ball of dough sat in the bottom of the bowl, I poured it out onto a strip of parchment paper and used the rolling pin I got for a wedding gift (and never used) to spread the mixture to a half an inch thickness.
“Where are your cookie cutters?” Monica asked.
“I’m assuming they’re at Betty’s,” I said, “since that’s where I buy my cookies.”
“You don’t have cookie cutters? Even I have cookie cutters.”
My sister, the sophisticate. Even she had cookie cutters. Where was Mia when I needed a good eye roll?
“We can just break it into pieces,” Johnna said. “The dogs aren’t going to care.”
It was nice having Johnna helping me. My mom was good at a lot of things—mostly things related to being a public relations consultant—but cooking was never one of them. I didn’t have anyone to pick up kitchen tricks from or teach me favorite family recipes. I’d hoped I’d find that in a mother-in-law, but all I managed to get was grief from Irene. She gave up on asking me to bring a dish for holidays, or inviting me to potlucks about two months after Ben and I were married. Her enthusiasm for his second marriage was not long-lived.
I transferred the parchment paper with the rolled-out biscuit dough to a cookie sheet, popped it in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes. “Wait and see,” I said. “It’ll be black on the bottom when it comes out.”
Johnna tapped a finger to her lips, looking over the buttons and dials on the oven. “When you bake, do you use the convection setting or the regular button here that says bake?”
“I usually use convection. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to use for baking cakes and things?”
“Only if you take some baking time off the recipe and lower the temperature. Unless it says it’s the time and temperature to use in a convection oven. It’ll cook a bit faster and hotter. That’s why you’re burning the tar out of everything.”
“I had no idea.”
The front door squealed opened. “Cam?” Andy called. “Sheriff Reins is here to see you.”
“This place is a zoo,” Monica said with a sigh.
“It’s not normally like this.” My stomach did the jitterbug. No more putting off Reins. “I’m coming!” I called to Andy and strode through the hallway toward the door and my fate. When I stepped outside, my life would be in the hands of a man with a badge who was unable to speak aloud about a dead body. How was that fair? What qualified him over me to question suspects and solve this murder case?
Probably something qualified him, but in the midst of bolstering my bravado I wasn’t going to admit it.
I squared my shoulders and turned the door handle. The bright sun blasted me, and I had to blink a few dozen times, shading my eyes with a hand. It wasn’t exactly the swagger down the porch steps I’d been aiming for, but at least I didn’t trip and fall. “How are you, Sheriff Reins?”
“Doing well, thanks,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat. “I was hoping you had a few minutes to finish our talk.”
“I’m baking biscuits, but I just put them in, so I have a few minutes.”
“I’ll make it quick,” he said. “Nick Valentine wouldn’t happen to be volunteering for you today, would he?”
Oh good gravy. I knew I should point Reins in the direction of my shed,
but a mama bear protective streak came over me. Nobody was going to get to Nick before I did.
I glanced at Andy, and like always, he got my hint and headed toward the shed to keep Nick tucked away safe inside. “No,” I said, willing my voice to stay steady. “He’s not volunteering today.”
Reins nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Ben probably told him Nick was here. Nick and Mia were talking only a couple hours ago right in this very spot. “Come inside,” I said, hoping to get Reins back on the subject of me finding Jenn Berg’s body. It seemed the least likely topic to get me arrested today.
“It smells good in here,” he said, as we strolled through the door. “What kind of biscuits are those?”
“Bacon cheddar. They might be the first thing I’ve ever baked that actually turns out edible.”
I ushered Reins into the dining room and pulled the pocket doors closed on nosy Johnna and controlling Monica. “Would you like some coffee, Officer Reins?” I asked, pushing aside Johnna’s knitting.
“No, thank you. I just had a cup.” He sat down across the table from me and took out a notebook. “So, Mrs. Hayman, you knew the um … the uh … ”
“Dead body?” I supplied.
“Yes. You knew it was a woman. How did you know this?”
“It’s not hard to distinguish a female’s hand from a male’s. From her slender fingers and nails, I assumed it was a woman.”
“And your whereabouts the night before you found Miss Berg?”
“I was here.”
“Alone?”
“Well, Andy Beaumont was here for a while—Andy’s always here if he’s not filming—but he probably left around seven.”
“Probably around seven p.m.?”
“Yes. But I don’t remember that exact evening.”
“So it’s possible Mr. Beaumont had not been here at all.”
I gripped Johnna’s ball of yarn tightly under the table. “He’s usually here.”
Reins tapped his pen on the notepad. “Did you know Miss Berg was dating your husband?”
“They weren’t dating. He said they went out a couple times, but that’s it. Anyway, no, I didn’t know until after I found her in the canal.”
“So, you didn’t know she was pregnant and seeing your husband?”
“He says they never even kissed!” Heat was creeping up my chest. This line of questioning was making it hard to hide my anger. How could Ben date—go out with, do anything with—a girl that young? And after only six months of separation?
“You look agitated, Mrs. Hayman.”
“I’m not agitated.”
I was seriously agitated. Three days after Jenn Berg is found dead, Ben’s giving me conditions to move back in? If she wasn’t dead, would he want to come back or would he be taking her to dinner and a movie tonight?
“What is the Metamora Action Agency?” he asked.
“Oh, that?” I swallowed hard, not expecting this swing in direction. “Since the musical is on hold, we’re using the phone bank as a tip line to help find the person responsible.”
“And what are you doing with these tips?”
“We’ll turn them over to you. Of course.” I gave him what I hoped was an earnest smile.
“You haven’t received any yet?”
I shook my head. Too many lies. I couldn’t get my tongue to tell any more.
Reins shot me a stern, narrow-eyed look. I didn’t think he’d bought anything I told him since he stepped foot on my property.
He tucked his pen away and closed his notebook. “If you see Nick Valentine, let me know. I need to speak with him.”
“Okay.” I stood from the table and slid the pocket doors open, relieved to see Johnna and Monica on the other side—polar opposite lifelines in the melee my life had become.
The timer on the oven beeped, and Johnna took the dog biscuits out. “Not burned a bit,” she said.
“Those smell so good, my stomach’s grumbling,” Reins said.
“I’ll wrap a few pieces for you to take with you,” I said, grabbing my foil.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Hayman,” he said.
Monica sucked in her lips, doing her best not to laugh, while Johnna broke off a couple flat chunks and slid them on the foil.
“Here you go,” I said, handing over the shiny wrapped package.
There was nothing in them that wasn’t human food, but knowing I just handed the sheriff a stack of freshly baked dog treats to eat filled me with redemption because I did not kill Jenn Berg, and it wasn’t my fault that my husband was dating—or whatever-ing—her.
“Enjoy!”
• Eleven •
I’m going for a walk,” I said, desperately in need of a few minutes away from my house. Between the dogs and the Action Agency crew and my sister—and let’s not forget Mia—I had to get away. Reins was the topper to my insane day.
Nick was leaving too. The train was set to depart in twenty minutes back to Connersville. “I’ll walk you to the station,” I told him. It was now or never.
We made our way past Schoolhouse Antiques and the Cookie Cutter before either of us said a word. Finally, I stopped trying to think of a tactful way to broach the subject and blurted it out. “Nick, we got a tip that you were seen arguing with Jenn the day before she was found.”
“I figured somebody saw us,” he said.
“I wanted to talk to you about it before Sheriff Reins found out, but he came by today and asked for you. I told him you weren’t volunteering today. Since I lied to a police officer, do you think you can tell me what you were arguing with her about?”
“It was nothing,” he said, running a hand over his head.
“You don’t talk a lot,” I said. “You don’t like opening up to people. I get that. But I’m trying to help you. What were you arguing about, Nick?”
He rubbed his forehead like he was debating what to say. “She owed a friend of mine some money. That’s it. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“How much money? For what?”
“Five hundred. For a puppy.”
“The missing puppy?” My heart sped up to about a million beats a minute. Money owed, a missing puppy—this could be a valid lead.
“I guess. Is it missing?” The lack of concern in his voice piqued my suspicion. Did he not care that a woman he knew, at least in passing, was dead?
“It is missing,” I said. “Did your friend take it back?”
He shrugged. “No idea. You can call him and ask.”
“Fine. Who do I need to call to get some answers, Nick?” I was two seconds from screaming. There we were—the Metamora Action Agency—traipsing over to Brookville and setting up a tip line, and Nick had information the entire time.
He knew something. His friend was involved—or he was involved. Maybe both of them. I had to find that missing puppy. If Nick’s friend had the dog, he had to have gotten it from Jenn, and if he did come and get the pup, did he use force to take it?
“She got the dog from Cory Bantum,” Nick said and spit over the side of the wooden bridge into the canal.
Cory Bantum. Bantum … That name was familiar. “How do I reach him?”
“You have the number. You called him to take her dogs.”
“I did? I—” Bantum Kennels! The number on the dog tag Old Dan found and gave to me. No wonder the man who answered was so rude when I mentioned Jenn Berg. He might have killed her!
I was breathing so hard, and my heart was pounding so fast, I was light-headed. I had to get it together. If Nick, who had already been arrested for assault, was involved in killing Jenn Berg, he wouldn’t think twice about taking me out before I turned him in to Reins or Ben.
I shrugged. “Hmm. I don’t remember. Oh well. I guess the Action Agency can look for the dog. That would be helpful.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah,” he said, grabbing hold of the handrail and stepping up into the train. “See ya Monday.”
“Right. See ya,” I muttered.
I needed to think, get a handle on the situation. Should I turn all the information over to Reins, or would that look like a desperate attempt to divert his attention from me?
It felt too early. I needed more solid evidence. Just because Jenn owed five hundred dollars for a puppy that was now missing, and she was seen arguing with Nick about the money … okay, it looked bad. Andy would know what to do. He’d at least provide me with an outside perspective. I’d sit on this until I could talk to him about it.
“Cameron?” I turned around, hearing my name called. Roger Tillerman, the train conductor, walked toward me.
“Hi, Roger. How’ve you been?” Roger was probably in his early sixties. He was starting to get the droopy jowls that older men get, and his blue eyes always looked watery, but he wasn’t a bad-looking man. You could tell he was probably a lady-killer when he was younger.
“I’ve been good. I hear you’ve been busy fighting crime.” His bright smile told me he approved and wasn’t making fun.
“We’re doing our part,” I said. “Since the musical is cancelled, I needed something for my volunteers to do to get their service hours.”
“I think it’s a great idea. Like a neighborhood crime watch group.”
“Exactly!” Finally, someone got it and didn’t seem skeptical.
The train whistle blared, making me jump.
“I should board, but I was hoping I’d run into you soon.” Roger clasped his hands together like he was about to give a sermon. “Tomorrow, the train is making an evening run through town for a dinner stop at the Briar Bird Inn. I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”
It took me a moment to understand he was asking me out. To dinner. Tomorrow. A man hadn’t asked me out in over four years. Despite multiple suggestions lately, I hadn’t actually considered going out on a date since being separated from Ben.
Ben had no problem in that area, obviously. And because of his escapades, I was a suspect in his little friend’s murder.
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