Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  In the uncertain flicker of light I nodded. I felt too frightened to even look around. I had images in my crazy head of the Land Rover being swallowed by a giant sea monster, in the middle of the Sonoran desert, no less. How else could I explain the darkness and strange stillness engulfing us?

  I said it out loud, “It’s like some big monster swallowed your car, or a UFO got us.”

  Tristan shook his head. All I could see was his shadow. How did I get in the back seat?

  “Yes, ma'am. I’m here. It’s possible. We were approaching the rest area. I’m sure it’s the only one between Casa Grande and Phoenix. Oh, I see. I have plenty of battery life, but I don’t know about reception. Yes, that’s good to know. We will be very still and patient. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, I will listen for the emergency vehicles. Yes.”

  All went dark again. My arm was still draped over his shoulder. I patted him and asked, “What is it? Where are we? What happened?”

  He put his hand on mine, to calm me, no doubt. I was panicking. His hand felt warm and reassuring, but I needed a lot more to calm me down. I had to know where we were and what was happening.

  “It appears we're not alone after all.”

  “Oh, my god.” I freaked out. “There's someone else? Here? In the car? Who?”

  “No, of course not.” I don’t know how he managed to sound so in control, and again, he shushed me. “According to the operator, other calls have come in about a major accident just off exit 185, north bound. A huge semi plunged from the overpass and caused havoc. How we're alive I don’t know, but supposedly we're trapped by the jackknifed truck that’s on its side. Or maybe the operator meant we're trapped between the truck and the underpass. Other vehicles could be involved, too. She said help is on its way, and we're to listen for sirens. The emergency crew will communicate with us, but we must stay very still because the weight of the semi may shift.”

  He went silent. If he wanted my reassured response, he’d be disappointed. I was more frightened now than before. Stay put because the truck’s weight is shifting? Meaning what, crushing us to death? While we sat? Doing what? Watching our past lives flash before our eyes? In the dark I could swear the sides of our car were closing in on us. We were trapped, soon to be crushed to death. My voice didn't work.

  “Hey, Fiat, we can talk, as long as we don’t jump around. What were we talking about? Seemed important to you. I don't remember what it was, though. Italy?”

  I still couldn't get my voice to work, and my brain was shutting down.

  “Listen, I know you’re scared, so am I. Talking will help us relax a little. We’ll keep our voices down so we can hear when help arrives.”

  I knew he kept up the no big deal attitude to reassure me, but he wasn’t Oscar material in the acting department. His breathing had become more labored. I was squeezed between the driver’s seat and what felt like the back seats. How was that even possible? Where was my seat? I felt around with my hands and found my purse on the back seat.

  “Tristan, is the Land Rover upside down?”

  “No, it’s not, but it may be leaning to one side. It may be the reason we were told not to move. Unless they have live cams on the overpass, someone must be already here on the scene to tell them about that. Good observation, Fiat.” There was a long pause and then a faint, “good observation.”

  A siren howled and it sounded closer than I expected.

  His voice was fainter, “Help is here, we’ll be okay. You’ve been a real sport.”

  Tristan again patted my hand and let it linger. I flipped my hand, palm to palm, and laced my fingers through his. Loud thumping came from outside and a strange buzzing. A saw? Voices. Many voices.

  His fingers pulled my hand closer and whispered, “Think of the story you’ll get to tell.”

  I had to concentrate to hear him with all the commotion happening outside. His shallow breathing trumped the calm of his voice. The buzzing noise was so close, and the whole vehicle vibrated. His phone chimed. He let go of my hand and answered it. The screen lit up his profile.

  “Yes. Sure. Now? A moment. I need to warn my friend.” He turned to me. “Fiat, one of the rescuers is about to bang hard on the car. We need to let them know how close we are to the spot. So don’t be frightened, okay?”

  I just nodded.

  “We're ready, you can go ahead.”

  Tristan kept the phone to his ear, but stretched his free arm to touch my shoulder. The thumping was above us, a few feet from our heads, toward the back. Tristan explained that to the person on the phone.

  “Understood. Fiat, they’ll be coming through the roof and want to make sure we don’t get hurt.” The whole car shook like an impromptu joyful dance. “Can you scoot a little more this way?”

  I was squeezed against his seat, so the only place I could scoot, as he called it, was up and over, into his lap. That's where I ended up, my head on his shoulder, and his arms around me. My weight was on the steering wheel, which felt very close to his chest. I closed my eyes and waited for our rescue. Tristan became very quiet and very still. I wasn't sure he was even conscious. Actually, I wasn't too sure I was conscious any more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  BRENDA PICKED ME up from the hospital. Her tired eyes matched my weariness. It had been hours since the firefighters had pulled me from the Land Rover. Their paramedic team whisked me off to the emergency room to have my injuries checked out. Aside from scratches and bruises, though, I was okay, thankful to be alive. I had no concussion and no broken bones, though the car looked like a pancake, and not one I’d want to have for breakfast.

  I'D HAD TO leave Tristan behind. He was still strapped into the driver’s seat with the rescue workers attempting to remove the steering column, when an EMT had lain a blanket on me, resting on the gurney for the short trek to the waiting ambulance. Rules they told me when I insisted on walking. It wasn’t until I settled down and my body stopped shaking, that I realized I'd left all my belongings in the Land Rover. My wallet, my phone, my purse and the Horse Ranch file.

  While everyone was super nice and polite at the hospital, I couldn’t get them to share information regarding Tristan Dumont. But they all agreed that we had had a special saint watching over us. The driver of the semi was dead, but no one knew for sure if he had died because of the accident of if he'd lost control because he died at the wheel. Either way, it was one sad way to go. Alone, in the dark. O’Neill had also died alone, in the dark. Clear your mind Monica, clear your mind.

  The hospital called Brenda for me and as we drove home I asked, “Do you think we’ll make the news?”

  “God, I hope not. The last thing we need is more publicity. We just got served.” If Brenda’s eyes seemed tired, her voice sounded down right exhausted.

  “Served? We? What do you mean?” I pulled the edge of the blanket tighter around my body.

  “Some woman claiming to be O’Neill’s estranged wife filed a wrongful death lawsuit against B&B Catering.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s stupid. We didn’t kill him. What’s her excuse?”

  “Aside from having a good lawyer? We're being accused of acting irresponsibly by forcing him to work under conditions that brought on his allergy attack and finally anaphylaxis. I’m giving you the abridged version. Tomorrow I need to start interviewing lawyers and nip this in the bud before it totally destroys my business and my life.”

  “Wow, Brenda, I’m so sorry. Is there any way you can call, you know, him, Mr. Big Name Politician and ask him to do something?”

  She laughed, a brief, dejected laugh. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls since Detective O’Neill was set free after I refused to press charges.”

  “He got mad at you for doing that?”

  “I did that because he asked me to. Let’s not talk about him, not now. You need a good night's sleep. And I need a good lawyer.”

  I slept very soundly that night, but woke up feeling guilty for having slept when I still didn't know what had happened to Tristan
. Talk about messed up. All was quiet. My clock said nine. Someone was knocking on my door. Flashbacks to the accident hit me. I wanted to talk to Tristan in the worst way. I just wanted to hear his voice, and know that he was okay.

  I opened the door, still rubbing sleep away from my eyes. Brenda handed me a steaming cup of coffee with milk and sugar, just the way I liked it. “How are you feeling?”

  I shrugged, sipped the coffee.

  “You need to call your office. Kassandra says she's tired of taking your calls. I’m hitting the road. Do you think you can take Dior out for a quick walk before you go to work?” Pause. “How are you getting to the office?”

  Damn, my car was parked there. “I forgot about that. What if I hitch a ride from one of the neighbors?”

  “Good idea. Try Bob first, he’s good about lending a hand. Monica, take it easy, you may have lingering effects from the accident.” She patted my arm, catching me by surprise. “I left the back door unlocked in case you want to use the phone.” She seemed to hesitate. “Wish me some of your luck. I can use it.” And she was gone.

  By the time the coffee kicked in, I had my sweats on and Dior on his leash. Coffee or not, I couldn’t match the dog’s energy, not even close. I felt like I'd been hit by a truck, and then I remembered that I had been hit by a truck. Dior and I did, however, get a quick stroll around the neighborhood. I stopped by Neighbor Bob and he kindly agreed to drive me to the office.

  I always picture in my mind dogs' sniffing to be the equivalent of human email messaging, which meant that by the time we got back to the house, Dior was up to date with his friends and foes.

  I called the office with Brenda’s landline.

  Kassandra picked up. “Where are you? Get your butt here. I'm tired of taking your phone calls. For a new agent, you sure are popular.”

  I recalled all the calls I'd made to prospects the day before. I guess I had some takers. Nice. “Hey, I was in a big accident in case you don’t know and ––”

  “You sound fine and I’m sure you can get a ride here. Seriously, get to the office. And by the way, I should have warned you about the accident. Cards don’t lie.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you high on something?” She had to be hanging out with my ex, Tommy. He always made people slightly crazy and ill tempered. “When I get to the office you can tell me about your Tarot cards.”

  I checked on Dior’s water and food situation, then went back to my place to dig out the spare car key, and ten minutes later I was in Neighbor Bob’s Jeep. He drove like a maniac, which meant that the minute he stopped the car before the agency's parking lot, I escaped his death trap, thanked him, and hurried off. You'd think knowing I'd just been in a car accident, he would have driven more carefully. Wrong.

  The parking lot was full. Why so many cars? Did I miss an email about something? A meeting? What? I hurried in. The lobby was deserted. Even Kassandra's elevated throne was empty. What the hell? I heard someone laughing in the kitchen.

  I found Kassandra, Scott, and a young woman, who worked as a courier for one of the escrow companies, eating a fat panini. Ah, just what the doctor ordered. I walked up to the counter and grabbed what looked like a prosciutto and cheese before anyone had a chance to stop me. I nodded my head in greeting, continuing my intense chewing.

  “About time,” Kassandra declared, hands on her hips.

  I came up for air long enough to say, “Don’t start. I’m in no mood.” I took another bite.

  Scott laughed and the courier girl grabbed her case and made a hasty exit.

  “Where is everybody? With all the cars in the lot I expected to see ––”

  “Monthly tour.” Kassandra stated.

  “Oh, of course.” I went looking for a glass. “Well, I’m here. What is it that couldn’t wait until I had some breakfast?” I poured myself some old, flat soda.

  Scott cut in, “Is it true about the car wreck? How is the Dumont dude?”

  “He called asking for you,” Kassandra said, studying my reaction.

  I nearly choked on the stale soda.

  “So did the cop. Even after I gave him all the detailed info about the phone calls.” Her eyes locked on mine.

  What was she trying to tell me? I started to tell her what I thought, “I've been thinking about the phone call and I think I know ––”

  Kassandra’s eyelashes were sure fluttering fast and …oh. I turned and Sunny was standing by the kitchen door, and she didn’t look too happy.

  “Monica, can I see you in my office?”

  No hello, how are you? Happy you’re alive. Nothing. The silence in the room thundered. I left my stolen breakfast, turned on my heels and followed her to her office.

  “Close the door, please.”

  I did. The awkwardness of the situation got under my skin. What was going on? I could feel Sunny's deep distress. This couldn’t possibly be about Smith’s story regarding Celine and Philippe Dumont, could it? Unless Tristan told Sunny about my questions. And so what? The story was in a paper. I didn’t write it.

  “Are you aware of the police going through the office phone calls trying to find out why O’Neill called here and who he was trying to reach?”

  I nodded. Sunny sat at her desk and fiddled with her pen. She avoided my eyes. A sense of awareness slipped into my consciousness. Why would she be discussing this with me? By now they should all know I wasn’t the one he called. Right?

  “Apparently his call ended up on my line, so—did you take his call while in my office?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Officer Clarke reminded me the phone call came in the day you sent me to the west side of town to show a listing to Tristan Dumont and…”

  Oh, my god. I looked at Sunny. Really looked at her, the shaking hand pounding the pen on the glass desk, the tilted head to make sure our eyes didn’t meet… and I knew.

  “And because O’Neill didn’t ask to speak to me. He asked to speak to Belle.”

  Sunny dropped the pen and it rolled and fell off the edge of the desk, landing at my feet.

  Kassandra’s voice came over the speaker, “Monica Baker, Mr. Dumont would like to speak to you. He’s holding.”

  “Sorry, Sunny, I have to take this.” I escaped to my cubicle in the bullpen.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” We spoke in unison.

  Tristan was the first one with a comeback, “What do you know? We even talk alike. How are you, Fiat? Seriously.”

  “I’m fine. Shaken, but nothing broken. Tell me about you. Where are you? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

  “Hey, hey, slow down.” I sensed a smile in his voice. “I’m home. I have to wear a soft cast on my left foot for a few weeks, no biggie. The EMT who rescued me put every personal item found in the Land Rover in a large plastic bag and this morning I realized that your phone and your purse and other personal items that must have spilled at impact are in the bag. Your cell stopped going off, probably dead. I was wondering if you felt like coming by to get them or—” He paused.

  “Sure, that’s so nice of you. Will it be okay if I come by in maybe an hour or so? I need to return some phone calls first. But are you sure you only injured your ankle?”

  “I’ll show you all my boo-boos when you get here.” He chuckled. “Take your time. Come over when you feel like it. I’m not going anywhere. I could actually use some company.” His tone became a bit softer, “Unless you've had enough of me already.”

  “No, no. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Did you happen to find the ranch’s file in the things the EMT gave you?”

  “Oh, yes. Not sure if all the pages are there, but you can figure it out, right?”

  “Right. I’ll be making a business call, I guess.”

  He laughed. “See you.” We both hung up. I was so excited by his call my hands shook when I set the phone down.

  “Looks like the crash was a bonding event after
all.” I turned to see Kassandra standing behind me, eavesdropping, of course. “It’s in the stars,” she spoke in a trance like manner.

  “What? The crash? Kassandra, seriously? Hey, does Sunny know about that nasty article the Smith girl wrote?”

  “Can’t say. Scott and I disposed of the paper for good. If she found out, it wasn’t our fault. You think it’s true? I didn’t see that in the cards.”

  I shrugged. “What do you do? Go home after work and read Tarots cards for the whole office? What else? Voodoo dolls?”

  “Well, Monica Baker, you think this is funny? It isn’t. Tommy asked me to do it for you. He’s such a sensitive soul, he wanted me to warn you, but of course it was too late.”

  “Tommy, a sensitive soul? That’s a good one. And please refrain from sharing my business with that creep. I need to get to work or I’ll never get out of here.”

  Just then the entry door rang and some of the agents that were on tour came in, talking and joking. It must have been a good tour with freebies and giveaways. That always put realtors in a good mood. When they saw me they all headed toward my cubicle, asking a million questions about the accident. And they all marveled that I was there at my desk after such trauma.

  Supposedly my name made the morning news, saying I had been checked out and released while the driver and owner of the car had broken bones and fractured ribs. That wasn’t what Tristan had just told me. I had to return my calls and drive over to his house so I could see for myself. But it was hard to concentrate and sound calm and collected while speaking to prospective clients.

  My confrontation with Sunny was nagging at me too. After all, she was my boss and had always treated me fairly, but there she was, trying to make it look like O'Neill had been calling me here. Would she fire me? Should I apologize? I couldn’t. She had to fess up to the police about the call and about the argument at the Dumont’s party.

  The main reason I had been so angry at O’Neill that evening was because I felt protective of her. They had been arguing. But now I had a problem accepting the fact that she hadn't even asked me how I was, after the close call with death. The only reason I was in the Land Rover in the first place was because I was helping her out. Something was very, very wrong.