Game of Tarts

by Wendy Meadows

  She guides me back to the front door and re-erects her impenetrable veneer of sociable charm and panache. “So nice of you to drop by, Ms. Nichols. I hope I see you again soon.”

  She shuts the door in my face.

  7

  I wander back to my house full of my own thoughts. So Scott Freeman was poisoned with cyanide in his own coffee house. He was in the middle of his morning routine to open the establishment, so whoever did it must have known his routine pretty well. They must have either snuck into the Coffee Canteen ahead of time or somehow got in while Scott was still working.

  Then again, the door was unlocked. Maybe the killer either walked right in or introduced himself to Scott. The killer might have gotten inside under the pretext of wanting to talk to Scott about whatever beef made the killer kill him.

  I can just picture the scene. The killer comes to the door and knocks. The door is locked, of course, at that hour of the morning. Scott would have no reason to leave it unlocked before he opened for business.

  Scott comes to the door and unlocks it to ask the killer what he or she wants. The killer explains they just want to talk to him about…. insert topic here. Scott agrees and lets the killer in.

  Scott runs a coffee shop. What’s the very first thing he does when someone comes around wanting to discuss some sensitive subject? He offers the person a cup of coffee.

  He pours the coffee, and he and the killer enjoy a little tête-à-tête of conversation to get warmed up. Finally, the killer trots out whatever is seriously bothering him. The exchange heats up and emotions run high.

  In the course of the increasing tension, Scott gets up to pace around the room thinking about what the killer is saying. He leaves his coffee cup sitting on the counter within arm’s reach of the killer. While he paces, he turns his back on the killer just long enough for the killer to pour the poison into his coffee cup.

  After a minute or two of impassioned argument and debate on the problem, the killer puts out his hand to Scott. He says something to the effect of, “Come on, man. We can work this out. Come and sit down and let’s figure this out man to man.”

  Scott relents and sits down. Both men pick up their cups and drink in the spirit of comradely negotiation—at least, it’s comradely on Scott’s part. The killer watches Scott’s Adam’s apple bob up and down when he swallows, and his heart skips a beat. He’s done it. He finally killed that moronic, interfering peacock with his own cursed coffee.

  The killer keeps his cool for another couple of minutes. They banter about the issue and how it’s really not such a big deal. Through the whole exchange, the killer secretly celebrates his victory until, suddenly, a look of startled horror bursts onto Scott’s face.

  His eyes stare in shock at the killer. He tries to grab at his throat, but his hands and arms won’t obey him. His cup falls to the floor with a clatter. He topples off his stool and collapses on the floor at the killer’s feet. The killer glares down at him with menacing hatred.

  The killer gets up, puts his coffee cup in the dishwasher, and saunters out of the building, back to his own business.

  The whole scene makes perfect sense. Even the part about the killer being a man completes the scenario. I just can’t imagine a woman doing that, though I can’t think why. Poison is a woman’s weapon. I read that somewhere, and I can’t find any fault with it. When a man gets angry enough to kill someone, he turns to violence, even if it’s calculated and pre-meditated.

  Still, I can’t picture a woman killing Scott. Sophie definitely didn’t do it. She wouldn’t sully her manicured nails with anything as plebeian as killing someone. If she wanted Scott dead, she would have hired someone to do it.

  Scott didn’t know any other women around this town well enough to inspire them to murder—at least, I haven’t found out about any yet.

  I turn into my street and spot David’s car parked in front of my house. I hesitated to go near it. Then I rally and continue on the rest of the way.

  I halt next to the car and peer through the window. “What are you doing sitting out here?”

  He fidgets in his seat. “I went up to the door. Your son told me you weren’t home.”

  I wait for him to say something else, but he won’t even look at me.

  Now that’s a scene I can definitely picture. I can just imagine big, courageous Detective Sergeant David Graham shuffling his feet on the porch like a teenaged boy while my son Zack stares him down. I can just hear Zack’s voice dropping a register to inform the Detective that I’m not home.

  I bite back a smile. Zack must have made him uncomfortable, and now he’s lurking in his car waiting for me to come home.

  I wave to him. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  He doesn’t move. He clenches his fists around the steering wheel and scowls through the windshield. “I don’t think I should.”

  “It’s my house,” I inform him. “I can bring you inside if I want to.”

  His eyes slide my way for an instant. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. I mean, what if he….?”

  “Stop it,” I snap. “He’s my son, and he’s a fraction of our age. We can’t let him dictate what we do, and we can’t hang around out here like a couple of whipped puppies while he sits inside my house like the lord of the manor.”

  His head whips around in surprise. Then he breaks into a grin. “You’re right.”

  He kicks the door open and swings out of the car. He climbs to his feet and I see a potted geranium in his hand. “What’s that for?”

  He holds it out to me. “It’s a present for your garden to apologize for being a jerk at the café this morning.” I open my mouth to tell him to forget it, but he cuts me off. “I really have to learn to watch my mouth. I didn’t realize until I met you I could be so colossally rude. I’m sorry, and I can only hope you’ll put up with it long enough for me to break the habit.”

  I lower my eyes to the plant to avoid looking at him. “Thank you. When you put it like that, it sounds like I might put up with it a little longer.”

  “Thank you.” He pushes the pot into my hand. “I know how much you enjoy gardening. I was thinking, maybe…you know…. things might blossom….”

  My gaze shoots to his face. “Between us, you mean?”

  “Between us, and with the plant, and with your garden—well, all of it, really.”

  I snort with laughter. “Is that your idea of a pun?”

  His mouth twists with mirth, and his eyes glisten with moisture. “Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  I jerk my head toward the house. “Let’s go around back and I’ll find a place to put this.”

  He tags after me through the gate into the backyard. He keeps casting sidelong glances at the house, and he speaks in an undertone. “Are you sure he won’t mind?”

  “Are you listening to yourself? Since when do you take orders from him?”

  “I just don’t want to cause trouble,” he replies. “I don’t want any friction with him about us…. you know.”

  I put the geranium down near the back steps and turn on the hose. “There won’t be. He’s okay with it.”

  “Are you sure? He didn’t act okay with it when I talked to him early.” He frowns toward the windows like Zack’s going to jump out at him any second.

  “Maybe that was just your own anxiety playing out, or maybe he sensed it and acted the opposite part to make you uncomfortable. Don’t you see? What he thinks doesn’t matter. All that matters is what we think. If we want things to blossom, as you say, why shouldn’t they? He’s not in charge here.”

  He puffs out his cheeks and breathes a heavy sigh. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I would hate to think of coming between you two.”

  I laugh out loud at the thought. “You won’t. Besides, he’s okay with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, he said so, so if he isn’t, that’s his own problem.”

  He nods, but he still frowns to himself. “Okay. I guess I can live with that.�
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  I fist-bump his shoulder. “Will you lighten up? How are things supposed to blossom between us with you tiptoeing around waiting to get caught by Big Bad Zack? Did you come here to see me, or did you come here to cower and scrape?”

  He shakes himself. “Sorry. You’re right. I’ve got to get this whole thing in perspective.”

  “Imagine if the shoe was on the other foot and he was coming around your place to ask your daughter out. You would give him a hard time and make him stutter and call you Mr. Graham, but underneath it all, you would wish him well and be happy about your daughter dating him.”

  He snickers under his breath. “You’re right. I would do exactly that.”

  “He’s doing the same thing to you. Just remember that and remember I’m not his daughter. I’m his mother and he’s living in my house.”

  “He’s protective of you,” he points out. “I appreciate that, and I don’t want him to stop being protective. I think it’s really cool what you two have. I don’t want to disturb that.”

  I let the hose drop to the ground and smack my lips. “David, please. I just told you he’s okay with it.”

  He nods and kicks a stone off the path. “Right.”

  “So…uh…” I nod toward the house. “Do you want to come inside?”

  “I better not. I have to get back to the station. I have a bunch of calls to make to Scott Freeman’s former employees. I have to see if any of them held a grudge against him.”

  I freeze at the mention of the case. I shouldn’t say it. I keep telling myself over and over, Don’t say it. Don’t say it, even as I know I’m about to. “Why didn’t you tell me Scott was poisoned? You took my statement this afternoon, and you never mentioned it. You knew I would want to know, and you kept it from me.”

  He throws up both hands and spins away. “Oh, for pity’s sake!”

  “I talked to Scott’s widow,” I tell him. “She told me.”

  He marches up to me and props his hands on his hips. “Don’t even tell me that. Don’t you even stand there and tell me you talked to Scott’s widow.”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk to her?” I keep digging myself into a deeper hole with every passing minute. No amount of bluster can hide it. “I found Scott’s body. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

  He fixes me with hard, piercing eyes. “Do you take me for a fool, Margaret? Do I look like an idiot to you, standing here?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that….”

  “Then don’t feed me that line about wanting to offer your condolences,” he fires back. “You went there to investigate the murder.”

  “How could I do that when I didn’t know at the time he was murdered?” I counter. “I had no reason to believe he was murdered when I went to see her.”

  He whips around the other way and strides over to the fence that separates my yard from Mary King’s. He mutters under his breath. “I blame myself, you know? If I hadn’t been rude to you at the Coffee Canteen, you would never have taken it into your head to investigate. I told you to stay out of it. I might as well have flashed you a neon sign telling you to investigate. I should have known that would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I implanted the idea in your mind to investigate. This is my fault.”

  I can’t listen to this. I sneak up behind him, but when it comes touching him, I hesitate. Why? We both know we like each other. We both want things to blossom between us. Why shouldn’t I touch him?

  This has nothing to do with Zack. My son might be watching us through the windows at this very moment. That’s not why I hold my hand an inch away from David’s back without letting it fall.

  A cushion of electric tension holds my hand at a magnetic distance. It crackles between us with all the unspoken possibilities that could unfold if I touched him.

  The next minute, I overcome my ambivalence and rest my hand on his shoulder. He feels just as good, and solid as I knew imagined. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You know how I am. I probably would have gone to see Scott’s widow, even if you had said nothing. I’m a bulldog, remember? I sink my curious little fangs into something and I can’t let it go. This has nothing to do with you.”

  He turns his head. “Really?”

  “Well, maybe a bit. Come on. You can’t blame yourself for my actions. Turn around. It’s okay. She didn’t tell me anything she didn’t already tell you.”

  I steer him around to face me. His features smolder with buried emotion. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course.” I don’t dare tell him Sophie Freeman suggest I be her private investigator. “That’s what she said. She made a big deal over the fact that she already told you everything and she had to repeat it to me.”

  He nods and the shadow fades from his face. “Okay. I guess it’s all right, then. I was going to tell you. I just wanted to follow up a few more leads before the whole town found out. That’s the only reason I didn’t mention it when I saw you at the store.”

  I let my fingers slip into his. “So, are we all right?”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs down at me. “We’re all right.”

  “Do you…. want to talk about the case at all?” I ask.

  “Not yet. Maybe after we uncover a few more details of Scott’s past dealings, I’ll need a sounding board.”

  I beam up at him. “I’d like to be your sounding board.”

  His hand radiates warmth up my arm and into my middle. I drift an inch closer to him. I turn my face up to his. I really want to kiss him right now. His lips quiver and his eyes slip down to my mouth before he looks up at me again. He bends forward.

  At that moment, the back door clunks open and Zack steps out onto the porch. “Oh, hey, Mom. I didn’t know you were back.”

  David and I jolt apart. I swivel around to make it look like I wasn’t just about to kiss David in my backyard. “Hey, honey. How’s everything?”

  God, I sound guilty, but Zack doesn’t notice. He heads off to the tool shed on the other side of the garden. He completely ignores me and David.

  I turn back to David, too nervous to pick up where we left off. When I glance up at him, I find him blushing down at his shoes. He screws his toe into the bricks. “Well, I, uh…..I guess I better go.”

  I walk him out to his car. He slides into the seat without a word. He gives me one last brief smile before he fires up the engine and drives away.

  8

  Zack and I leave the house together at eight o’clock the next morning. We walk down the street in silence until we get to the candy store. I unlock the door and let us in, but I don’t lock it behind us.

  I take a tray of chocolates out of the fridge while Zack gathers the flyers from under the counter. When I get back to the entrance, he meets me by the door with a flat box loaded with them.

  He holds the tray while I relock the door and we set off. First, we return to our own neighborhood. We approach Kyle’s door first, and Zack knocks.

  Kyle chortles with glee when he sees us. “What’s this—Diet Busters?”

  Zack hands him a flyer, and I hold out the tray. “We’re offering free samples to advertise our Sweet Sale. Have a chocolate.”

  He examines the tray. “Hmm. We could be here all day.”

  “Just choose one, or one will be chosen for you,” Zack tells him.

  Kyle laughs and plucks a chocolate out of the tray. He bites the head off a chocolate rabbit. “It’s good. I might have to stop by that sale.”

  We laugh and wave as we migrate down the block to Mrs. Patterson’s house. She quavers with delight over the tray. “These look fabulous. Will you be carrying these for the sale?”

  “Definitely,” I reply. “We have a huge selection of all kinds of sweets. Maybe Mr. Stewart would like to share them with you.”

  “Oh!” she titters. “Mr. Stewart frowns on candy of all kinds. If I bought anything from your shop, I would have to hide it from him. He would be greatly displeased if he ever found out.”

  We turn our step
s toward the bungalow where Greg and Frankie live. Zack pauses on the sidewalk. “You’re a conniving little devil, Mom. You tricked her. You already suggested to Mr. Stewart that he buy her some candy at the sale.”

  I bite back a grin. “I didn’t want to spoil his surprise by hinting that he plans to buy candy for her. She’ll be especially delighted when he presents it to her.”

  He casts a sidelong glance at me as we continue on our way. “I never knew you were such a friend of Mr. Stewart.”

  “He’s starting to grow on me,” I tell him. “Ever since he helped us bust Roger Callahan for Dorothy King’s murder, I have a newfound respect for the man. He might be abrasive and disagreeable on the outside, but he’s got a good heart underneath the surface. The way he treats Mrs. Patterson is proof of that.”

  We make the rounds of the neighborhood. We knock on doors and hand out all the chocolates on the tray. On our way back through town, we stop by the store and pick up the next tray.

  Zack scans Main Street. “Who should we hit first? Mr. Stewart?”

  I give him a wry grin. “Why not? I want to ask him a few questions, anyway.”

  We cross the street. To my surprise, Mr. Stewart greets us at the door with a big, toothy smile on his face. “What a surprise, and you don’t even have a dog!”

  I laugh along with him, which feels strange considering he’s one of the prickliest characters in town. “I won’t offer you a chocolate. I just wanted to remind you about our Sweet Sale. We just visited Mrs. Patterson, and she was very excited about it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it.” He reminds me of Bela Lugosi when he smiles. “I have your flyer pinned to my office corkboard.”

  “Then I won’t give you another one.” I shift gears. “Did you hear the news that Scott Freeman was murdered?”

  “Good,” he snaps. “Then he won’t be polluting the environment with his rotten discarded coffee grounds.”

  I prick up my ears. “What do you mean—polluting the environment?”