“I’ve been best friends with Tamera for over fifteen years. About a year ago, she signed up for one of my baking classes.”
“I saw you offered those. I’ve wanted to join—I’ve always wanted to be able to bake.” The genuine interest in Adam’s eyes caught her off guard.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He shifted nervously and looked down at his notepad. “Sorry, where were we?”
A new image of Adam Eastwood formed in Margot’s mind, but she refocused on the task at hand. “I often get clients from the D.C. area, being so close and all, and since I supplied pastries to a few well known parties, I would often get higher profile guests.” She thought back to the night class she’d offered. There had been six students, all of differing ages, genders, and interests. It had been a fun class. With the hint of a smile still on her lips, she continued. “George was part of that class. When we did introductions and he said he was a lawyer in D.C., I wondered how in the world he’d heard of my class, let alone why he’d want to come down to North Bank for a night baking class, but it turns out his firm had purchased pastries from me and he’d liked them so much he looked me up, and that was that.”
“So he and Tamera hit it off?”
“You wouldn’t believe how terrible of a baker George turned out to be.” She laughed just thinking of it. “But, though Tamera has never really baked, she’s been around me for years so she stepped in to help. And the rest, they say, is history.”
“All right.” Adam nodded. “Did he ever mention cases or anything when you were around?”
“You mean did he ever talk about plotting to kill off a star witness? No.”
Adam’s head jerked up. “How did you know he was a star witness?”
“Simple deduction. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
Adam nodded, though he looked like he’d rather be doing anything but. “Last question—for now.” He folded his notebook and looked up to meet her gaze. “What do you think about George?”
“Is this off the record?” she asked, indicating his notebook.
“It’s more ‘next to’ the record. I’m asking you for a personal feeling, not fact-based judgment, based on the time you’ve spent around him.”
“I think he’s a good guy. I mean, I don’t know him as well as Tamera, but I do know Tamera. If she trusts him, which she does, then I do too.”
Adam nodded and reached for his pocket where he pulled out a buzzing phone. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this. I’ll let you get back to your shop.” He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, but then nodded and went toward the door, pressing the button as he went. “Eastwood here.”
She watched him go, wondering about what he’d said. She did think George was a good guy, it was obvious he loved her friend, but she didn’t know much about him. Maybe it was time to change that.
Chapter 4
“Shame ‘bout that man who was killed last night. You seen Tamera at all, sweetie?”
Margot shook her head, pushing up her reading glasses. “Sorry, Gladys, I’m just trying to finish this article here.”
“Oh sure, sure.” The older woman, a regular at the senior center, nodded and placed her other hand on top of her cane that rested upright in front of her. “But really, in our little town? What’s North Bank comin’ to? Turning into the big city. A den of evil, if you ask me.”
And that was why Margot didn’t ask. She kept her attention focused on the screen. Her home computer had ended up in the shop the week before when her power had surged and it suddenly wouldn’t turn on. Left with her phone, she decided to use the computers at the local library. Unfortunately, Gladys had found her and wanted to chat, disrupting Margot’s research into George Wells’ online presence and life.
“And to think Phyllis saw him.” The older woman shuddered. “Terrifying.”
This drew Margot’s attention. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s terrifying! I wouldn’t want to see a murderer, you know.”
“No,” Margot felt her heart pounding in her chest. “What did you say before that? Who saw him?”
“Why, Phyllis Henderson of course.”
Of course! Margot leaned back, her mind whirring with the new information. “Let me guess, you heard it from Anita?”
“Say, you’re really turning into some kind of detective.” Gladys practically beamed. “I did. She came down to my room to tea yesterday and told me all about it. Poor Phyllis.”
Sure, poor Phyllis. Margot had a feeling she had embellished on what she’d seen. Then again, Margot couldn’t be sure until she knew what she’d said.
“Can you tell me what Anita said?”
“Sure, dear, though I thought you were looking in that computer of yours?”
Margot ignored the slight and urged the woman on.
“The way Anita tells it, Phyllis was walking Mr. Golden and—”
“Who?”
“Oh.” Gladys gave a throaty laugh that would surely get them kicked out. “Mr. Golden, her corgi. He’s very sensitive to heat and must go out at night.” Margot nodded so the woman would continue. “Anyway, Anita says that Phyllis says that she was walking down Front Street when a man in a fedora—of all things—walked past her. That's when she looked up and saw George going into the shop. Can you believe it? She saw him right before he committed a murder.” The woman gave a look of pure disgust.
Margot wanted to remind her that George was innocent until proven guilty, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t do any good.
“Did she say anything else?”
“Not that I can recall. You could talk to Phyllis though, I'm sure she’d tell you.” She would, and everyone else who even breathed next to her.
“Thanks so much, Gladys. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she said, patting her hand. “Oh! There’s the bus—my ride—I’ll see you around. Don’t forget those nice pastries the next time you stop by the senior center.”
Margot agreed and watched her leave before turning back to the recent search she’d put in to the database. So Phyllis was the witness and she’d seen a man in a fedora? It was all too bizarre to piece together now.
Margot drew her attention back to the screen. She’d done the usual Google search and come up with nothing more than a little-used Twitter account, a Facebook page, and a few articles where George’s name was mentioned in conjunction with his firm.
On a whim, she clicked the second page of results. An article at the top caught her attention.
Victor Carow: Is his fate sealed?
She clicked on it. It was just a basic article written in the Washington D.C. Post that talked about Victor Carow’s “reign of terror,” as they dubbed it. Apparently, he was a well-known drug lord coming out of Baltimore. What seemed to make him special, though, was the fact that he catered to the elite as well as the average street druggie. That, and the fact that there has been no solid evidence about him specifically.
“How is that possible?” she breathed the question to herself.
She was about to click back to try one more search when a soft voice spoke up behind her. “You’re interested in this too, eh?”
Margot looked up to see Wilhelmina leaning down. She blushed and stood up. “I’m sorry, Margot, that was rude.” She pushed up her wire-rimmed glasses and tugged at the hem of her royal blue sweater.
“It’s all right. What do you mean by ‘too’?” Margot leaned forward, wondering what the young librarian could know about Victor Carow.
“Oh, just that Barbara and I were talking about it all this morning.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if caught by a chill. “We saw the news this morning that said the star witness in this case had been killed.” She indicated the article still up on the screen. “Frightening thinking of another murder taking place here in North Bank.”
“Yes, very, but what do you mean by ‘too’?” Margot felt like a broken record, but she had a vested interest in this.
She had promised Tamera she would help George and this information could be valuable. It could also lead nowhere.
“A few weeks back, maybe a month or more, someone came in and was researching that very same thing. I wouldn’t have remembered it at all, I actually didn’t see the man, but Barbara helped him with the computer—some kind of error code had come up—and she saw that he’d been reading about Victor Carow. I guess Barbara knows someone living in D.C. who’s talked about this man and—”
“Sorry, but you don’t know who it was?”
“No, dear, Barbara helped him.”
“Is Barbara here? I’d like to talk with her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to say she left for her vacation after her shift was over at two.”
Margot’s hopes fell. “Do you have her phone number?”
“I do,” Wilhelmina said but bit her lip, cuing Margot to the fact that she was either nervous about giving it over or something else was wrong.
“I understand you may not want to give it to me, but—” But what? She was trying to get her friend’s husband out of jail? That sounded a little too drastic. No need to frighten the poor woman any more than she already was.
“Oh, it’s not that,” Wilhelmina said with a short laugh. “I just don’t think it’ll do you any good.”
“It won’t?”
“Nope. She’s gone hiking in the Blue Mountains. She told me she’d be out of service for several days.”
Margot contained her groan for the most part. “Can I get it anyway? Maybe I’ll try her now and see if I’ve caught her before she’s out of range.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back,” Wilhelmina said, spinning on her ballet flats.
Once Margot had the number, she pressed dial the minute she stepped out of the library but it immediately went to voicemail. Terrific. The first lead she had and there was no way to verify it.
Margot bit her lip as she maneuvered her car down the narrow streets in the older part of town. She had a feeling that Tamera could use some companionship right now and, if she was home and not at the police station, Margot was going to console her in any way she could.
Turning down the cobblestone street, she spotted Tamera’s light blue car parked in front of her stone row home. George’s larger SUV was also parked in front, letting Margot know that Tamera was indeed home, unless she’d gotten a ride to the station.
Taking a chance, Margot parked down the street where a spot was available and walked the block back to Tamera’s bright red door. She knocked, but there was no reply. Knocking again, she heard nails on the floor and one bark. So Mr. Puggles was in the house—that probably meant Tamera was too.
“Tam, it’s me,” she said through the door.
Finally, the door swung open and a furry ball of energy butted up against her legs. “Hello, Mr. Puggles,” she said, leaning down to scratch the pug behind the ears. When she stood, she met her friend’s gaze. “I couldn’t stay away…from Mr. Puggles.”
Tamera cracked what almost could have passed for a smile and stepped inside. “You might as well come in. Tea?”
“I’d love some.”
They walked into the French country-inspired kitchen painted in bright yellows with deep red accents, figures and pictures of chickens scattered throughout.
“How are you, Tam?” she asked as she slid into a chair at the bar.
“How do you think?” Tamera’s back was to Margot, but her inflection was clear. She was on the verge of tears.
“Not good, I’m sure. Do you want me to take you down to the station?”
Setting the kettle on the stove, she turned to face Margot. “Not yet. George said it would take them a while to p-process him.” She covered her trembling lips with a hand.
“He’s right. But you should go down in a little while. I’ll go with you. We can see if Adam will let you talk with George.”
Tamera nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I know it seems impossible, but think of it this way—the police are only doing their job following up on a lead. They have to take all tips seriously until they find out who did this.”
“I know. It’s just…” She took a deep breath. “What was he doing back so early?”
“What do you mean?” Margot leaned forward, trying to understand what her friend was talking about.
“When they took George into custody, I called his boss—I didn’t know what else to do. He assured me that, should he need it, they’ll send someone to represent him. He said he’d never seen a harder worker than George. I agreed and said only a man like George would cut his honeymoon short for work.”
Margot swallowed. She didn't like where this was going. “It wasn’t for work?”
“No.” Tears swelled into Tamera’s eyes. “He said that he hadn’t been called back.”
Though Margot was not willing to entertain the idea that her best friend’s husband had in fact had anything to do with the murder, the circumstances were starting to become rather suspicious.
Just then the teakettle sang, drawing Tamera away for a moment as Margot considered this new information. If George hadn’t come back for work, then why had he come back? There were a million reasons, but it had to be something very strong in order to draw him away from his honeymoon.
Tamera set down a cup of tea in front of Margot and the minty aroma swirled up to greet her. She breathed in and allowed it to calm and refresh her. They would figure this out.
“Marg, do you think—” Tamera couldn’t even get the words out.
“No. He didn’t do this.”
“But—”
“I know it looks…concerning, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. The police may have already figured out why he came back.”
“I just don’t even want to think about the fact that he lied to me, Marg. Lied to my face about having to come back for work. Why would he do that unless…?”
“Tamera,” Margot said, waiting until her friend’s eyes met hers. “Do you love George?”
“Absolutely.”
“Does he love you?”
Tamera took a deep breath and, meeting Margot’s gaze, she nodded. “I have no doubt that he does.”
“Then that settles it. There’s an explanation for everything and we will come to the bottom of it. Now let’s finish our tea and go to the police station.”
Chapter 5
Margot walked next to Tamera as they ascended the steps of the small police station. North Bank, not a large town, wasn't known for its crime, though recent history would tend to disagree with that reality. They stepped into the station, which smelled like stale coffee and sandwiches.
After checking in, they waited only a moment until Adam came into the front room.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, looking appropriately grim. The greying hair at his temples gave him a sage look, but Margot could already see that a late night had affected him. His shoulders drooped with the weight of tiredness. “I suppose you’re here to see George?”
His question was directed at Tamera and, after looking to Margot, she agreed. “Yes. If I may?”
“I think we can arrange that. Harver,” he called into the room, “a moment.”
A younger deputy came toward them, his belt cinched up tight to accommodate his lithe frame. “Yes, Detective?”
“Will you escort Mrs. Wells to the holding cell area? Give her some time with her husband, all right?”
“Sure thing, sir.” The young man turned to Tamera. “This way, ma’am.”
She looked to Margot as if she couldn’t bear to go alone, but Margot encouraged her with a slight nod. The pair disappeared into the depths of the building and Margot turned to look at Adam. “Can we talk?”
“Of course.” He led the way back to his office and Margot sank into a chair facing his desk.
“Adam, this is ridiculous.”
“I assume you’re not talking about the fact that I still have my cup of coffee from five a.m. half-full on my desk?”
“Not exactly.”
He propped his elbows on the desk, resting his head in his hands as if it was too tiresome to keep his head upright by itself. “Then you must be talking about George.”
She gave him a look that said, Of course that’s what I’m talking about.
“Look, I know you’re friends with Tamera and all, but—”
“It’s not just about that. I mean, it is in a way, but—” She huffed out a breath. “George is no murderer.”
“There are a lot of things unknown about the case at this present moment.”
“You sound like a press release,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms.
“What can I tell you? We still don’t have cause of death from the M.E. yet, we don’t know how in the world Mark Jennings got to North Bank or how he got inside of Tamera’s shop. Neither do we know the status of George Wells. It’s just…” Adam sighed and roughed a hand over his face. “Never mind.”
“It’s just what exactly?” She leaned forward.
“How well do you know George Wells?”
Margot felt—as much as saw—the switch in Adam. He went from tired friend to alert investigator.
“What do you mean? I told you everything this morning.”
“I mean, you are close friends with Tamera. You introduced her to George, in a manner of speaking.”
“I’d hardly say placing them as partners in a cooking class constitutes introduced. I didn’t know much about him before the start of the class anyway. But I suppose I did facilitate their relationship in a way.”
“Exactly. So tell me more about George? What was he like in class? What did you know from him before, during, and after?”
“Why does it feel like I’m being interrogated? Didn’t we go over this earlier?”
“Margot…” He gave her a stern look.
Desserts and Deception: A Margot Durand Cozy Mystery Page 3