For Whom the Bread Rolls

by Sarah Fox

  “Bentley it is, then.” Brett got to his feet and fished his phone out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. “There’s a vet clinic about ten minutes away. I’ll give them a call.”

  I grabbed my beach towel and slipped my feet into my flip-flops. Once Brett found a number for the clinic online, he put a call through and spoke with someone on the other end for a minute or two.

  “They’ll see him?” I said when he hung up, gathering as much from his end of the conversation.

  “Yep. They said to bring him right in.”

  “Hear that, Bentley?” I said. “They’re going to help you feel a lot better.”

  We headed up the beach toward the house, having no trouble getting Bentley to follow us. We walked slowly so the dog wouldn’t try to rush. He was hardly putting his injured leg down at all, hobbling along on three legs through the soft sand. Walking got easier for him once we reached firmer ground, and we soon arrived at Brett’s truck, parked near the front of the house.

  “Want to come with us?” Brett asked me as he opened the passenger door.

  “I want to,” I said, “but I’d have to change first and I don’t want to make you guys wait.”

  As Brett coaxed Bentley toward the open door, I remembered my trip to the bakery the day before.

  “Oh, but I’ll just grab something for you while you’re getting him into the truck.”

  As quickly as I could in my flip-flops, I hurried around to the back of the house and in through the French doors. I grabbed the bakery box from the kitchen and was back out the door a second later. When I returned to the front of the house, Bentley was settled on the passenger seat of Brett’s truck, his tail thumping against the upholstery. Brett shut the door as I approached.

  I held out the box. “I forgot to give these to you yesterday. Sorry they’re a day old now.”

  “Are those what I think they are?” He peeked inside the box. “Yep.” He grinned and gave me a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

  “Let me know how things go at the vet clinic?”

  “I will.” He climbed into the truck and started the engine.

  I waved as he pulled away from the house, and he raised a hand in response. Once the truck had turned onto Wildwood Road and disappeared from sight, I made my way inside to change out of my swimsuit. I was worried about Bentley but relieved that he would get the care he needed now. I wished I could find similar relief in relation to my other worries, especially the ones that had to do with my relationship with Brett.

  He knew something wasn’t quite right, and I hated to think that I might be planting seeds of doubt in his mind as to how I felt about him. I needed to get a grip, but I wasn’t sure how to do that.

  After I’d changed and had eaten a simple meal, I called out to Flapjack. I hadn’t seen him since I’d come back into the house and figured he was sound asleep somewhere upstairs. Soon after I called him, he padded into the kitchen, blinking.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead. Ready for some dinner?”

  I set his dish down on the floor, but instead of going straight for his food as usual, he paused to sniff at my feet and legs.

  “I’m guessing you smell Bentley. He’s a sweet dog.”

  Whether or not Flapjack thought any dog could be sweet, I didn’t know, and he didn’t give me any clues as to his opinion. After another sniff he lost interest and zeroed in on his dinner. I wandered over to the open French doors and looked out over the water as I considered what to do with myself that evening.

  I had plenty of tasks I could tackle inside the house, but most of them were big projects that I wasn’t quite ready to delve into. I hadn’t changed much of the decor or furniture since I’d moved into the Victorian, and I still found it hard to think of the house as my own rather than Cousin Jimmy’s. My goal was to redecorate and do some updating—especially in the kitchen, which hadn’t had a face-lift in at least twenty years—but those projects would take far more planning than I’d had time for. I could have spent my evening browsing online catalogs to come up with design ideas for my new kitchen, but that didn’t appeal to me at the moment.

  With a cloud of suspicion hanging over my head, I couldn’t get excited about home renovations. After all, if The Flip Side lost too many customers, I’d be more hesitant about spending a chunk of my inheritance on sprucing up the house. I recalled Brett’s reassurances that the pancake house would weather the storm just fine, and I hoped fervently that he was right. I loved my new life in Wildwood Cove and I didn’t want any part of it to slip through my fingers.

  Deciding I needed to take steps to make sure that didn’t happen, I grabbed my phone and called Lisa.

  “I stopped by to see Joan earlier, but she wasn’t home,” I said once we’d exchanged greetings. “Do you know if she’s there now?”

  “She is,” Lisa replied. “I can see her from here. She’s out in her backyard watering her plants. Do you want me to see if she’ll talk to you this evening?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, hold on a moment.”

  I waited, hearing only muffled noises on the other end of the line. A full minute later, Lisa was back.

  “She says to come on over.”

  “Great! I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Come around back when you get here,” Lisa said. “We’re going to be on her porch. Oh, and I recommend you walk rather than drive.”

  Although her last words made me curious, I agreed to what she’d suggested. After giving Flapjack a quick goodbye cuddle, I locked up the house and set off on foot for Lisa’s neighborhood. A short time later, as I walked along a shady street toward Joan’s house, I hoped desperately that Lisa’s neighbor would give me a lead to follow, one that would take me in the direction of clearing my name.

  Chapter 10

  After passing through the gate in the white picket fence at the side of Joan’s house, I followed a concrete path into the backyard. A West Highland terrier came running toward me, barking. I crouched down and put a hand out. The little white dog gave my fingers a sniff and then licked them, a gesture I took to mean I was welcome to continue farther into the yard. As soon as I rounded the corner of the house—the Westie trotting along at my heels—I spotted Lisa with an older woman. The two were seated in white wicker chairs on the back porch, drinks on a round table between them.

  “Hey, Marley.” Lisa waved when she caught sight of me. “Joan, this is my friend Marley McKinney. Marley, this is Joan Crenshaw.”

  “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I greeted the gray-haired woman as I climbed the steps to the back porch.

  Joan returned the greeting as she sprung to her feet, her energy and agility not matching her apparent age. “Let me fix you a drink, my dear.”

  Lisa raised her glass and grinned at me. “Joan makes a mean margarita.”

  “Is mango all right?” Joan called to me through the open sliding glass door that led to her kitchen.

  “Mango is perfect,” I replied.

  I settled into an empty chair and put my tote bag down on the porch.

  Lisa took a sip of her margarita and leaned back in her wicker chair. “This is the life.”

  I followed her gaze out to Joan’s back garden, full of colorful blooms, everything carefully tended.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” I said. “And Joan has a gorgeous garden.”

  “She does,” Lisa agreed. “I don’t know how she manages it. I can’t even keep a house plant alive for more than a week or two.”

  “Love and attention,” Joan said as she sailed out onto the porch, a margarita glass in hand. “That’s what plants need to thrive, just like any other living thing.”

  She handed the glass to me and I thanked her. I took a sip of the drink as Joan returned to her seat, and the mango flavor burst across my tongue.

  “Good, right?” Lisa said with a smile.

  “Delicious.”

  “Now,” Joan said when she had her own drink in hand again, “Lisa tells me you were the unfortunat
e soul who found Ida Winkler’s body the other day.”

  “That’s right.”

  Joan shook her head. “You poor thing. It was bad enough crossing paths with that woman when she was alive. I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been to find her dead.”

  “It was definitely an unpleasant shock.” I took a sip of my margarita to help ward off the memory of finding Ida’s lifeless body.

  “And the shocks didn’t end there,” Lisa told Joan. “Now Marley’s a suspect.”

  “Good heavens. Not really?” Joan said.

  “A person of interest, to be exact,” I said, hoping my status hadn’t changed to something worse. “But I swear I had nothing to do with her death.”

  Joan waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you didn’t. I might have known you only a few minutes, but I can already tell you’re not a killer.”

  I knew from experience that it wasn’t always so easy to tell a murderer from a good person, but I didn’t say so. I appreciated her vote of confidence.

  “I understand you saw a prowler in the alley the night before Ida’s death,” I said.

  “I certainly did.”

  “Did you report it to the sheriff?”

  “No, I didn’t. The prowler took off as soon as he saw me, so I didn’t think there was much point. But now that Ida’s been killed, I suppose it would be a good idea for me to let the authorities know.”

  “I think that would be for the best,” I agreed.

  “I’ll get in touch with the sheriff’s department first thing in the morning. Do you think the prowler could have been Ida’s killer?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “At the very least, it’s a bit suspicious that someone was hanging around her property the night before her death.”

  “Highly suspicious,” Lisa said. “And if we can figure out who he was, maybe he’d get bumped up ahead of you on the suspect list, Marley.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” I addressed Joan, “Can you describe the man at all?”

  Joan took a sip of her drink as she considered the question. “It was dark out, of course, and there’s barely any light in the alley at night, but I’m positive it was a man. He was a bit on the heavy side and was taller than me, but not terribly tall. Maybe five foot nine or so? And I can’t say for sure, but I got the impression that he had a beard. I’m afraid that’s about all I can tell you, though.”

  “That’s a start, at least,” Lisa said.

  I nodded my agreement. “You didn’t get a look at his face?”

  “No,” Joan replied. “It was too dark for that. And he only glanced my way for a split second before hightailing it in the opposite direction.”

  I sipped on my margarita as I absorbed her answers. The description wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of anyone who fit the description of the bearded, heavyset man. I did, however, know that Kirk Jarvis didn’t fit the bill. That didn’t make him any less likely a suspect in my mind though. The prowler and the killer weren’t necessarily the same person, and if Kirk was the victim of blackmail as I suspected, he was the only person I knew of who had a firm motive to kill Ida. So far, anyway.

  “Do you have any idea what the prowler was up to?” I asked Joan.

  “Not really, other than the fact that he was definitely focused on Ida’s property. He must have been in the alley for a while before I went out for a look, because it took three or four minutes for me to go out there after Angel raised the alarm. At first I thought there was just a raccoon or something in the yard, but Angel didn’t stop barking, and when I opened the door, he went straight for the back gate. That’s when I decided to have a quick look.”

  I recalled what Lisa had told me the day before. “And the man was looking into Ida’s yard?”

  “That’s right,” Joan confirmed. “He’d opened the back gate a crack and was peeking through it. I don’t know if he intended to go into the yard or if he was just having a look-see, but it was definitely Ida’s property that had his attention.”

  I asked Joan another question or two, but she couldn’t provide any further information on the prowler.

  “Did you enter any flowers in the show this year?” Lisa asked Joan, her gaze on the colorful blooms in the garden.

  “Oh yes. I like to put a few entries in each year.”

  “Did you win any prizes?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was volunteering at the thrift shop all day, so I won’t know until I go to the show tomorrow.”

  “Joan often wins the prize for scoring the most points in the category for roses,” Lisa told me.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said as I admired the flowers from the porch.

  “Sheryl Haynes always gives me some good competition though,” Joan said. “She’s won that prize more recently than I have.”

  “How well do you know Sheryl and her family?” I asked, pouncing on the opportunity to learn more about the woman.

  “Oh goodness. Not terribly well, but they’ve lived across the alley there for well over a decade. Sheryl seems nice enough. Always proper and dressed like she’s on her way to a country club, but I have no reason to complain about her, unlike some people.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard people call Sheryl judgmental and scornful. I’ve also heard one or two people say that she’s the last person who should be judging others.”

  “Why’s that?” Lisa asked.

  “There have been rumors about her past, but I don’t know how much truth there is to them.”

  I hoped Joan would elaborate, but she didn’t.

  Silence settled over the porch until I broke it with another question, “What about her daughter?”

  “Ah, Melinda, yes.” Joan looked down at her empty glass and then glanced at mine and Lisa’s. “Anyone for another drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I said quickly. “It was delicious though.”

  As much as I’d enjoyed the mango-flavored drink, I wanted to be able to walk home in a relatively straight line. Lisa declined as well, and Joan returned her attention to our conversation.

  “Melinda must be, oh, about twenty-three or twenty-four now. She never stirred up too much trouble right here in the neighborhood, but I did hear her having a tantrum now and then, even in her late teens. She was suspended from school once or twice, I believe. I think one time she got into a fight and another time she was caught smoking in the girls’ locker room.”

  I rested my empty glass on my knee. “Does she still live with Sheryl?”

  “I don’t think so,” Lisa replied.

  “No,” Joan said. “She rents a place with some friends here in town, but she’s been spending a lot of time at her mother’s place since her father passed away a few months ago.”

  “Right,” Lisa said. “That was sad. It was very sudden and unexpected.”

  The older woman nodded. “That’s right. He had a massive heart attack while at work one day. There one moment, gone the next.” Joan shook her head sadly. “Sheryl and Melinda have been cleaning out the house. Planning for a fresh start, I think.”

  “I heard that Sheryl wants to move to Florida,” I said, recalling my conversation with Patricia Murray.

  “Yes, and I suspect Melinda will go with her. That’s where Sheryl grew up, and the family made frequent trips there all through Melinda’s childhood. Sheryl will probably want to be closer to the rest of her family now that her husband’s gone.”

  Angel jumped up from his spot by Joan’s feet, his attention captured by a squirrel darting across the yard. Yapping fiercely, the little dog flew down the steps, chasing the squirrel up a tree. Joan called him back and a moment later all was quiet again, but I realized that the sun had dipped below the houses while we were chatting.

  I told the others that I needed to be on my way, and Joan collected our empty glasses. Lisa and I followed her into the kitchen, Angel at our heels. Joan deposited the glasses by the
sink and led us through the adjoining dining room and living room toward the front door.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said, waving a hand toward the couch, which was covered in piles of clothes. “As I said, I volunteer at the local thrift shop, and sometimes people drop off donations here rather than at the store. I’m sorting through these things before I take them in on Monday.”

  She grabbed a little girl’s Cinderella nightgown and an adult-sized red T-shirt that were teetering precariously at the top of one pile and set them on a smaller heap.

  “If you’re ever looking for anything secondhand, just come on by the shop,” she told me. “The shop’s profits go to local charities.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured her.

  At the front door, I thanked her for the drink and for talking with me.

  “Anytime, my dear. It was lovely to meet you.”

  “You too,” I said.

  Lisa and I took our leave, following the path to the sidewalk. After we’d exchanged a few more words, Lisa headed for her house and I set off down the street. When I reached the corner, I paused, wondering if I should turn right or left. Going right would take me home, but if I went left I could circle around into the alley and get a look at the back of Ida’s property.

  I’d been in the alley on Wednesday when I’d spoken with Ray in his cruiser, but I’d been far more focused on my conversation with the sheriff than my surroundings. Checking out the alley likely wouldn’t give me much in the way of insights, but I decided to go have a look anyway. Fortunately, the mango margarita had given me a pleasant buzz without making me too tipsy and I was able to walk briskly without crashing into anything.

  Once I was in the alley, standing between Joan’s property and Ida’s back fence, I realized that the detour had been a waste of time. As I’d suspected, there wasn’t much to see. The gate leading to Ida’s yard had been sealed by the sheriff’s department, eliminating the possibility of getting a closer look at the scene of her death. While I could have climbed the fence to avoid the sealed gate, that wasn’t a real option in my mind. I had no intention of trespassing on a crime scene, and I figured there wouldn’t have been much point anyway. I’d had a close look at the scene after I’d found Ida’s body. Maybe I’d missed something in my state of shock, but even if that was the case, any potential clues had likely been taken away by the sheriff and his deputies, logged, and stored as evidence.