by Linda West
I followed behind her trying to give her encouragement. “I’ll call Dr. Archibald as soon as I get back to the contest.”
Carol’s voice was shaky as Fuzzbottom pushed her into the back of his cop car. “He’s at the hospital. Tell him what happened won’t you Kat?”
I nodded in sympathy, and fought back the tears that filled my eyes It was horrible seeing her in the back of the cop car with her bright red beehive smooshed down around her because it was too high for the car roof. She looked like a sad Ronald McDonald doll with her pale face and weird bouffant hair squooshed down around her. Of course Ronald never had handcuffs on, or was accused of murder with an egg McMuffin.
Or in Carol’s case – having croaked a guy with a crockpot.
CHAPTER 17
Of course we won the 1st place at the chili contest, but it wasn’t excitement that got me up early the next morning.
Carol Landers was innocent and it was up to us at the bakery to prove it.
I knew Ethel would be opening up the bakery at 6 AM. I had some time to think about this, and we had to figure out a way to get Aunt Carol out of jail. I knew she was innocent.
I had seen somebody in the bushes right by Jackson’s house, that same somebody that came running towards me – that same somebody that should have a nick from my bottle cap somewhere on their body.
A CLOSED sign hung at the front of the Landers’ Bakery door even though I knew Ethel was there. Her car – and Dodies’ for that matter – was parked on the street out in front. Not very incognito if that was the point.
I knocked on the window, but nobody answered. The lights were off and it seemed lifeless. I tried Dodie on her cell first. She was the manager so she usually arrived before everyone else in the wee hours. It went to voicemail. Then I tried Ethel’s cell. She picked up and hissed in a whisper, “SHHHHHH! Come in the back door we’re in the kitchen.”
I looked both ways and cut between the slim alley between Max’s scrapbooking shop and the new cafe. It was way too early for Maxine to be in. Her shop didn’t open until 10:00 AM because she was on European time. Although she lived her entire life in Kissing Bridge she cleaved to her English lineage and lingered over tea late into the morning.
I made it to the back door, and tried the handle to the bakery, but it was locked. I knocked on the back door but there was no answer. I had no idea what Dodie and Ethel were doing. I knocked again. Again no answer.
What were they doing? I remembered Ethel had insisted we all learn a secret knock. I tried to remember the knock. I finally just got creative to let them know that it was me and not somebody else, so I did a triple tap, double tap, and single tap – and Ethel threw open the door. She had a wild look in her eyes as she scanned the back parking lot looking both ways, and then pulled me inside.
CHAPTER 18
It was a dismal site inside the back of the bakery kitchen this morning. Usually the back of Landers’ Bakery was like walking into a sunny morning dream. People chatting and singing as they created the specials of the day, and every imaginable smell of comfort food wafting around you in a big aromatic hug.
But now it was empty, most of the stoves were cold. There were no trays of pastries ready to go, no other employees at all – other than Dodie. She was drinking coffee lost in thought, when the stove buzzer rang and she got up to check it.
The Landers’ Bakery might not be opening today, but that didn’t stop the need for some sugar when things were tough. I liked these girls’ priorities.
Dodie pulled out a fresh baked pastry tart. It shone with a glaze of butter on its perfectly done crust and it smelled heavenly.
“What’s in that?” The newfound gourmet in me just had to know.
Dodie smiled. “It’s made with fresh strawberries and key lime filling.”
Hmmm interesting combo. I drooled as I watched her pull out a pastry tube and drizzle warm chocolate on top.
Ethel sat back down at the small table with me and played with her chamomile tea bag dunking it in and swirling, dunking it in and swirling. I was nearly hypnotized by the swinging bag when Ethel suddenly bolted out of her seat like a rocket, and scampered around rechecking the restaurant for any possible breaches.
She made a quick dart around the room making sure all the windows were closed, and readjusted all the curtains to make sure they were pulled tight. She was extra rattled and amped up – even for Ethel. She let out a big huff, and then came back and sat back down with a serious expression. She almost looked her age as she slumped over in a defeated position and contemplated the situation before us.
Ethel is in her seventies, and most of the time she looks like a sweet elderly elegant very beautiful lady. But I’ve gotten to know Ethel and let me tell you, that old lady thing is all a big charade. Old lady –Ha! She can run faster than me. I’m not kidding. I’m not a great athlete, or even very graceful, but I am less than half her age! I raced against her at the fair in the thirty and over contest to win a free bottle of champagne, and she smoked me. Like she came in way ahead of me – it was humiliating. She beat me in the obstacle course too. Whatever, I’d had a beer.
But now, her beloved sister Carol was in jail for murder. Sure Ethel had just sharpened her amateur sleuth teeth during the recent Christmas cookie cutout recipe theft debacle – but it hadn’t prepared her for the magnitude of dealing with something like this.
“We've got to put our heads together and figure out how to get Carol out of jail.”
Dodie set the tarts down on the table and joined us. They looked amazing. I picked one up, and took a little nibble. Hmmmm! I inspected the tart thoroughly discerning any nuances I might learn as a new chef. I glanced at Dodie from under my lashes with new-found respect.
Note to Self: Chocolate makes about anything taste better.
Dodie was looking at my intense inspection with one eyebrow raised. I put down the tart and cleared my throat. “I’m pretty sure we can get Carol off today after I give my declaration that I saw someone else at the scene,” I said. “I’m an eyewitness that someone else was there at the time Jackson would have been murdered.”
Ethel sniffed away the tears that threatened to fall out of her baby blue eyes. “Eye witness? Someone else? Of course we all know Carol couldn't have done this right?”
We all shook our heads in agreement.
“What did you see?” Ethel asked.
Although the curtains were tied tight and nothing hummed but the stove light, I felt the need to look over my shoulder before I spoke. I leaned in closer and whispered.
“Okay so when I was outside smoking cigarettes that I don't officially smoke if you see my dad… I saw this figure outside Jackson's house – only I didn’t know it was Jackson's house at the time. I thought he might be throwing up from some bad chili because he was hunched over, but then I realize he was hunched over because he was sneaking around! When I caught his eye- he came running at me. At the time I didn’t understand why this guy might want to hurt me, but now I know it’s probably because I saw him and could put him at the scene of the crime.”
Ethel and Dodie leaned in absorbed by my story. I realized in all the murder chaos and chili cook-off blue medal winning, I had forgotten to tell them about any of this.
I reported everything that had happened with the strange man and the knife – especially my skillful bottle cap slinging. “Anyway he was all dressed in black and had a ski mask on so that’s all I know.”
When I finished Dodie looked at Ethel and placed her hand over mine. “You poor thing you must have been terrified!”
“What did he look like?” Ethel remained focused.
“Well, he was all dressed in black,” I said, “and he had a ski mask on, so that’s all I know.”
Dodie and Ethel looked at each other and shook their heads.
“How come you didn't say anything at the chili cook off about that?” said Ethel.
“Well it happened so fast, and I was in shock, and…well, and then the arrest�
��”
“So you think the man with the knife might be the real culprit?” said Ethel.
I nodded. “I'm supposed to give a statement to that Six Pines police officer today, Det. Fuzzbottom.” I made a face.
Dodie asked, “Do you know him?”
“I had a run-in with him before, but he was the officer at the scene with Carol. He wants to question me.”
Ethel nodded. “He’ll want you to identify the other suspect and the time you saw him at the house.”
Dodie thought about it. “Are you a suspect too?”
“Me?” Good grief I hoped not.
Dodie took my hand. “No, don't worry about it. You were with us at the chili cook-off the whole time, then you were with Jaime. Everybody saw you.”
I sighed. “Right.”
“Besides, it seems as if you may have seen the real murderer. Thank God you weren’t hurt. Just go in and tell the police exactly what you told us.”
Who knows what might have befallen me if I hadn’t been a pro beer bottle snapper?
These were strange occurrences that had never tainted even the outskirts of Kissing Bridge before. Poor Mr. Jennings dead, sweet Carol blamed, and a bloody crockpot that no one would ever want to touch again.
Ethel was distraught. “Well, we need to get her free and I hope your information is the key, Kat. They wouldn’t even grant her bail yesterday; poor Carol is sitting in a cell right now.” Her big blue eyes – atypical of the Landers women – swelled up with tears.
I felt her pain. Carol was one in a billion. She was kind and generous and smart and she had your back. Carol had never had children of her own, so if she liked you, she took you under her wing like a real fairy grandmother and you got to call her Aunty.
When my mom passed away fifteen years ago, Carol urged me into the choir with her. She took me to her scrapbooking circle at Maxine’s shop to keep me busy. Dad worked a lot, and I found solace scrapbooking old memories of our family in better times, trying to piece together the loss. I spent many tear-filled nights being comforted by Carol and pasting away my pain. They had been friends of my mothers, and now officially, they were friends of mine too.
I truly adored “Aunty” Carol for so many reasons. I knew in my heart that she couldn’t have killed anyone, and I was going to make it my mission to get her out of jail, but we had to find the real murderer first.
And I knew just where to start, because we had an ace in our hand the murderer hadn’t counted on.
CHAPTER 19
Ethel Landers.
She was our ace in the hole, and answer to finding the real killer of Jackson Jennings and she didn’t even know it.
It was well known that the Landers women got together every Sunday for brunch, and watched their favorite movie - Breakfast at Tiffany's.
You’d think they’d get sick of it.
But it was true. Every Sunday. Morning.
Every Sunday morning they closed the bakery and they got together and watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s while they taste tested out new recipes together and had family time. The movie was so ingrained in their psyches they could mouth the words to the entire movie while they watched it - like their own version of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, only much more elegant and with delicious tasting real treats. Some of their best recipes came out of those Sunday Breakfast at Tiffany’s brunches.
But a little know tradition of the Landers ladies, was that of the marathon taking to the bed episodes. Only the real insiders, such as myself, knew about this tradition. My mother had been in attendance at one of the events and had kept me captivated by the stories of what went on at the Landers house -between four bedposts and a good plasma screen TV.
You see, when things got overwhelming in the outside world, Landers women sought the refuge of their bed.
The bed was their own safety zone oasis, where they could hide away and create a buffer against difficult times. Whenever things got rough for the Landers ladies, they had a bad day, or plain old melancholy – the antidote was always the same – take to the bed.
The – taking to the bed routine consisted of staying in bed for a day – sometimes more - where the “bed-dee” was treated like British royalty taking refuge in their boudoir. The bed-dee was brought food to her bedside, and allowed to binge watch whatever she wanted on Netflix.
Her attendees were usually the immediate family, but close friends were known to join in because some good food and rowdy times were had at bedside.
Well, each of the Landers ladies had their own favorite shows to help them feel better when they took to the bed. While Summer enjoyed old Baywatch reruns, and Aunt Carol liked the mean cooking guy show, Ethel was all about Murder She Wrote marathons.
Ethel had actually watched every single episode of Murder She Wrote ever made. In fact she watched all 12 Seasons consisting of 264 episodes five times over before they took it off Netflix. Of course Summer bought her the box set for Christmas, so who knew how many times she was up to now.
The point I’m trying to make is: Ethel Landers Elkins was a certified Murder She Wrote expert.
Although it wasn’t criminology class, right now, I’d take all the TV crime school help I could get. I was counting on her to help find some answers to getting Carol freed and finding the real killer.
I looked at Ethel expectedly. “Ethel, I think we need to count on ourselves to find the real murderer. I don’t trust that stupid Fuzzbottom. He seemed too quick to accuse Aunt Carol.”
Dodie took a sip of coffee. “Well she was holding the crockpot that killed him.”
We both looked at her. This kind of talk wasn’t helping.
“Ethel you're the expert on murders, what would that old lady do…?”
Ethel knit her brow together, that appeared to be her go to look whenever she was kind of upset, and didn't know what was going on. She seemed bewildered that we were turning to her for advice. “Whatever do you mean?”
Dodie spoke up.
“She’s talking about your innate detective skills Ethel. You’re the resident expert on amateur sleuthing via your Murder She Wrote marathons! You can always answer all the questions every time we get one on trivia!”
The magnitude of the bed episodes and the Murder She Wrote marathons was beginning to dawn on Ethel.
Ethel smirked. She looked at us both with a new interest. “Well I never thought about it like that but I suppose I do know some things about solving a murder – but it is TV.”
“Look -,” I said, “you’re as close to an expert we have on this! Jaime’s got his hands tied ‘cause it’s out of his jurisdiction. So think. What would that old lady do if it were her sister accused of croaking somebody with a crockpot?”
CHAPTER 20
Ethel thought about it.
The silence stretched out for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she cleared her throat and looked at us both with a new determination.
“First of all,” Ethel took a sip of her tea, “ her name is Jessica - let's be respectful here. She's a fabulous actress and she was tremendous in the part. So what would Jessica do? Well…”
The thinking resumed. This time it seemed it’d take a week. I suddenly wanted a cigarette I wasn’t supposed to have. Instead I got up and made another pot of coffee and put it in the warm carafe. I steamed up some heavy cream to bring on the side, and added a liberal dash of Irish Bailey’s liquor. It seemed to be exactly what we needed right now. But you know how I feel about liquor and food and beverage. Again, that's my personal secret.
It's not like I'm going to tell the Landers about my French liquor training. Not that we’re competing against each other, but let's just say I'd like to earn some credit here in Kissing Bridge as a real chef.
I thought about that night at the Six Pines Chili Cook-Off. Ethel looked at me seriously now, feeling exalted in her new knowledge that she actually had some clout and ability in the detective department.
“Okay - let's start with the figure you saw, Kat.�
�
I nodded.
“Because they're obviously going to ask you about what you saw, and that's the most important thing to get Carol off. You’re an eyewitness that can put somebody else at the scene. Right there we’ve established reasonable doubt.”
Sounded good.
“So I just tell Fuzzbottom the truth about how I saw some guy crouched down looking like he was puking,” I said, “but then he must have been fine because he came after me. He needs to find that guy.”
Dodie listened from her position at the stove. She was grinding up some fresh tarragon to put in the scrambled eggs, and the smell woke me up with its fresh bite. I watched her as she rubbed a fresh piece of garlic out of its skin like a lover, and then diced it apart. Like my love life. Girls can’t live on sweets alone and these were stressful times. It looked like we were having a two-course breakfast sleuthing session. Eating always seemed to help, and a good crisis is the perfect time for complete calorie denial.