Turning down the cobbled streets of the Old Market, they pulled up in front of Pies and Pages. Unfortunately, just as Bert had suspected, there was still police tape across the doorway. She was betting that finding the evidence was more difficult this time around thanks to the fact that the gas company had trampled through first.
She wondered why he hadn’t called her to keep her updated like he’d promised.
“Looks like we’re out of luck,” Carla observed, leaning down for a better look at the storefront. “Don’t worry. You can borrow some of my clothes. I’m betting we’re probably close to the same size.”
“Just wait for me a minute.” Opening her door, Bert put one foot out on the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m just going to run around back and see if my apartment is closed off too. They might not have sealed it because it wasn’t part of the official crime scene.”
“Good idea. I’ll wait here for you.”
“Be right back.” Dashing down the side of the building to the back alley, she came to the bottom of the fire escape stairs and was about to climb up when she paused, eyeballing the back door. She knew for a fact that it went into the stock room and wondered what kind of clues might be in there.
Something else caught her interest as well. The hole into the room there. Her theory about someone pumping carbon monoxide fumes inside came back to her. Glancing around, she tiptoed casually toward the hole.
The door itself had tape over it, but there was nothing saying she couldn’t inspect the brick wall. Crouching down, she gently brushed her fingers along the circumference of the hole. To her surprise, it was sticky. She rubbed her thumb and fingers together, trying to get a better sense of what it could be. Sap maybe? Glue?
Snapping her fingers, she had an idea. It reminded her of the residue that heavy duty duct tape left behind. This helped to clinch her theory. Someone had probably taped a hose there and then connected it to something?
She thought of the tire tracks she’d seen in the alley the other day. A lightbulb instantly turned on in her mind. Someone had pulled into the alley, parked right behind the store, and pulled back out. Whoever it was might have drilled the hole in preparation for the murder, knowing ahead of time that Delila would be back there.
If Bradford and Bradford were paying the young blogger to sabotage the shop, like planting a rat, maybe even turning on the gas and starting a fire, it could be that someone else knew what they were planning . . . and made plans of their own.
It was a pretty convoluted theory, but it was at least something.
A bigger question was, were the Bradford’s themselves capable of murder? Or was someone connected to them involved?
“Stop right there,” a booming voice shouted from behind her. A light flashed over her as she jumped up in surprise, putting her hands up in the air. Turning, she saw Harry approaching her.
Now she was in trouble.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
“Bert!” Harry exclaimed upon seeing her. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Deciding to play on the defensive, she placed two tight fists on her hips. “This is my building, isn’t it?” she demanded.
Lowering his flashlight, he walked toward her. “I know that.” He passed his beam of light back and forth along the alleyway, looking for something. “Where is that blasted officer?”
“I was hoping to grab something from my apartment.” It was the truth, even if she’d been snooping near the back of the building.
“This is still a crime scene, Bert,” he scolded her, his familiar gruff candor echoing off the brick walls. Flashes of the first time she met the detective returned, including his rude and dismissive behavior.
Would he act that way again?
“I was just seeing if my whole building was taped off or if I could climb up the fire escape and go to my apartment freely.”
“You should have tried to get in contact with me first,” he told her.
“I called you this morning.”
Not taking the time to listen to her, he stepped close, pointed a finger at her face. “I said I’d give you a call when the place was open again. I know you’ve been involved in other investigations, but I want you to steer clear when it comes to murder.”
“So, it was for sure murder?” she pointed out, calling him on the fact that he let some more information slip.
“Bert, just let me do my job, will you?” he snapped.
She let her shoulders slump. If he was so interested in dating her, why was he acting like this now, especially when he’d seemed so caring and helpful earlier that morning? On the other hand, if she really was as frustrating as he seemed to imply, why did he seem so drawn to her? If he didn’t want her so closely involved with police work, maybe dating a policeman wasn’t her best option.
“Are you listening to me?” he asked.
“I heard you, detective, yes.”
“Good. Promise me to keep out of it, at least until things have settled.”
“How can I keep out of it? This is my building—my business and home.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And what happened to keeping me in the loop? Weren’t you going to try and have my shop back open by tomorrow?” Bert was not happy with the way the conversation was going. Folding her arms, she took a step closer to him. “Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I’ve been preoccupied with the investigation itself.”
“I called and left a message on your voicemail. You never called to ask me what it was I had learned.”
Clenching his jaw, his eyes flashed with frustration. “That’s because you're not supposed to be digging around for clues on your own.”
“So, you weren’t interested in the fact that someone used that hole right there,” she pointed down at the brick wall, “to pump car emissions into that room with the poor girl? It doesn’t interest you that someone might have purposefully opened the gas valve on the stove in hopes that it would explode and burn up the evidence—thus killing me in the process.”
Harry tightened his lips, hiding them behind his furry mustache and trying to conceal the hurt in his eyes.
“And it doesn’t matter to you that Delila Browning dropped out of college to work as a personal secretary for Bradford and Bradford?”
Looking down and folding his arms over his barrel chest, Harry grunted with dissatisfaction. This was a sign to Bert that he hadn’t known that last piece of information she’d just given him. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, and Bert wondered if he was going to apologize when the sound of a vehicle pulling up drew his attention away from her. It was one of the city’s powder blue, yellow, and white cop cars.
“Bert, I need you to leave,” the detective ordered, turning to walk toward the car. She could hear him cussing out the officer for leaving.
“I just needed some coffee. I was only gone for five minutes,” he defended himself, much to the chagrin of the detective.
That poor cop was in for a scolding he’d never forget.
* * *
“I’m almost positive that Bradford and Bradford is attached to this whole mess somehow,” Bert thought out loud once she was back in Carla’s car and they were on their way to Christmas in July.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the murder case anymore,” she noted, referring to their earlier agreement to have a girl’s night free of any discussion around the recent incidents at Pies and Pages.
“I know that,” she agreed as they pulled into the local parking garage designated for downtown residents. Bert herself hardly parked there. Instead, she just had a special membership connected to a phone app that allowed her to park at any metered street space in the Old Market for a flat monthly fee. It ended up being a tad more than the parking garage, but she didn’t mind paying for it.
“Then what’s got your goat? What did Harry say that’s got you all riled up again?” Carla asked,
wondering if there were any new developments in the case. While she often scolded Bert for being too nosy, she herself was just as curious—if not more so—than her best friend when it came to matters of mystery.
“Well, Harry seems extra concerned, like he thinks I’m in more danger than usual.”
“Maybe this was a professional killing and he wants to keep you as far away as possible.”
“Maybe. I also found some sticky residue on the hole at the back of my apartment. I think that clinches the fact that someone taped a hose there to pump car fumes inside.”
Carla let out an impressed whistle. “Wow. I’d say so, too. That looks pretty bad.”
“And the same morning we found that hole, I noticed tire marks in the alley. I’m almost positive that someone drilled the hole that night.”
“Why wouldn’t you hear that?”
“They could have used a manual drill. One of the large hand crank ones, you know.”
“Still.”
“Don’t forget, I also wear earplugs and have that grinding heater in my room.”
“Right,” Carla said, remembering. Pulling into her assigned spot, she shut off the car and both ladies got out.
“In any case, this whole thing was well planned. If Delila was working with the Bradford’s to do some underhanded spying and sabotage, then someone else knew that she was going to be in the shop around that same time.”
“Someone on the inside?”
“My guess is a big company like Bradford and Bradford would be pretty discreet and secretive if they were up to anything sketchy or illegal. It would have to be someone on the inside.” Crossing the cobblestone street under the light of the old wrought iron streetlamps, they entered Christmas in July through the front door.
“So, how do we figure out who it is that’s behind all this then?” Carla asked, latching the lock behind them before leading the way up the skinny staircase behind the checkout counter.
“I’m not positive we can,” Bert responded, slipping out of her coat and laying it on a chair. Her eye wandered over to the desk and the computer. “I have an idea where we can start.”
CHAPTER 12
* * *
Before hopping onto the internet, the two made popcorn in the air popper, doused it in fresh melted butter from the microwave, a dash of salt, and added in the red, pink, and white chocolate candies Carla had purchased and stashed away for a special occasion.
“We can’t very well do any investigating without snacks,” Carla joked as they grabbed handfuls of the sweet and salty treat and began to munch down.
Despite the plastic bowl of popcorn, the ladies didn’t stick with their original plan. Instead of plopping down on the couch in front of the television, they both crowded in front of the computer screen to look for clues.
Typing Bradford and Bradford Co. into the search bar, they immediately located the company’s professionally developed website. Clicking on it, they were instantly presented with images of buildings, employees, and mantras that were so generic and bland that they could have been plastered on any random website.
“They’re not even very clear about what their business is about here on the website.”
“Probably because they like keeping their actions under wraps,” Carla suggested.
“Or, they’re all about buying out businesses to make money, and that’s the bottom line.”
Crunching on a piece of popcorn, Carla leaned forward. “What are we looking for, exactly?”
“I’m not totally sure. Do they have an About page on here?” Scanning with her eyes, she found the link at the very bottom of the webpage in a list of links. “Well hidden.” Clicking on it, they opened a panel of images and text.
The two Bradford brothers stood side by side, smiling and shaking hands. She instantly recognized Chase Bradford, the man that had so rudely shown up unannounced on her doorstep the other morning. The man next to him, she’d not ever seen before.
“That one’s Ken. He just got married.”
The title at the top of the page said Bringing your business into the modern age. “I bet,” Bert groaned.
As she skimmed over the text, she stopped on something that caught her eye. “Hold on. You said this guy’s name is Ken?” she asked, pointing at the white-haired brother.
“That’s right. He married a red-headed girl who was half his age.”
“But here, it says that his full name is Kenner.” Somehow, that name seemed very familiar.
Leaning in, Carla read the line and nodded. “So, it does.”
“His new wife is a redhead?”
“Yep. As fiery as they get, and ornery too, according to the article I read.”
Bert instantly spun in the swivel chair to look her friend right in the eye. “Carla, do you still have that tabloid you picked up at the supermarket, the one about Kenner Bradford getting married?”
“Do I still have it?” she gasped, acting offended. “I said I glanced at it when I was in line at the supermarket. I didn’t buy it.”
“Carla,” Bert scolded, tilting her head and giving her friend an all too knowing look.
Her nose wrinkled up while she hesitated. “Fine. You’re right. I have it.”
“I knew it,” Bert said with a hint of a song. “Can you go get it?”
“What for?”
“It might just be the key to solving this case. I need to see that article about the wedding.”
“I don’t see how, but I’m on it.” Rushing out to her car, Carla returned a few minutes later with the trashy three-dollar magazine in hand. “Here,” she announced, opening to the page in question and setting it on the card table. Bert stood up and bent over to have a look.
“There they are at the wedding. Kenner and his new wife, Peacock. See, I told you it was some sort of ridiculous bird name.”
Bert leaned in close over the grainy and poorly developed image, looking over the woman’s face, desperate to connect the dots once and for all. “That’s her. I am almost one hundred percent positive that it’s her.”
“Who?” Carla asked, still not having caught on.
She laid a finger on the redhead in the wedding dress. “This is the woman who was in my shop the day that Delila was there. She ordered a pie and a book for a man named Kenner.”
“Her new husband.”
“That’s right.”
Carla looked closer at the article and then shrugged. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I remember her ordering a copy of an Alexandre Dumas novel to be delivered with it.”
“Which one?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”
Carla gasped, starting to catch on. “A book all about betrayal and revenge.”
“She wrote a card to go with the delivery, but we never look at what they write. We just seal it up and send it on its way.” Grabbing her purse from where she’d set it on the table earlier, she dug inside and pulled out her phone. “I need to see what she wrote. I think Shiv still might have the pies from yesterday in the cooler in her car. I know she said she wasn’t able to get any of the new orders delivered.”
Calling up her young employee, Bert was thrilled to hear that the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, the pie, and the card didn’t make it to their intended destination yet. Begging Shiv to bring the item in question over to Carla’s place, she hung up and waited.
It was only about twenty minutes later that there was a knock on the storefront door below. Carla rushed down and answered it.
As Shiv ascended the steps with the wrapped package in hand, she caught Bert’s eye. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m really, really sorry if I did something wrong.”
“You’re perfect,” Bert praised her, hoping to abate any doubt’s in the young woman’s mind. She even gave her a hug.
“O-Okay? What is all this about?”
“I just need to see the card.” Taking the package and ripping off the small envelope, she eagerly to
re the flap. Flipping the card open, she gasped.
“What is it?” Carla and Shiv asked in unison.
Holding the tiny note out for them to see, all three of them read the words scribbled there.
Your girlfriend is dead, and you’re next.
They had their murderer.
“We have to call Harry right now.”
CHAPTER 13
* * *
“It’s a good thing you called me when you did. Peacock Bradford was originally going to wait until the Valentine arrived at her husband’s and then kill him. I think she got impatient. When I arrived on the scene, she had just fed him a whole bunch of sleeping pills dissolved in bourbon,” Harry informed the trio of ladies as they sat in Pies and Pages a few days later.
Bert stood behind the counter, working on making a fresh batch of pies while Shiv reorganized the display of romance novels they had on display near the register. They were inexpensive novels and were an easy impulse buy for anyone coming through that day for last minute valentine gifts.
Carla, on the other hand, sat at the table drinking a cup of coffee and eating her own personal Lovers Pie she purchased for herself.
“I guess that makes it easy to pin the whole thing on her,” Bert commented.
“Even without that, the note from the gift was in her own handwriting. If it proves premeditation.”
“So, basically, Keener married Peacock as his trophy wife but still had an even younger woman on the side?” Carla asked, horrified by the whole deal.
“It seems so. Peacock didn’t take that news too well when she found out.”
“Clearly,” Shiv said.
“Luckily, Peacock confessed to everything. I’ve seen it before, but she is one of those people who are proud of their handy work.”
Bert shivered at that thought. How morally defunct did you have to be to take pride in murder? Whether or not her new husband was slime, no one deserved to be killed. “And what about me? Did she open the valve in my oven?”
“She sure did, and she’ll be tried for an additional attempted murder charge.”
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