Killer Cheesecake Tart

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Growing impatient, Bert shoved the clay train back into her bag. “So? Can you tell me who sent it?”

  He folded his arms and leaned to one side. “Unfortunately, no. I can’t do that?”

  “Why not?” she pushed. “Is it against store policy or something?”

  Carla put a hand on her friend’s arm, realizing that Bert was growing a tad snippy with the man.

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I simply don’t know who the customer is.”

  Bert’s jaw dropped. “You don’t?”

  “No. The item, note, and payment were dropped off by a third-party delivery service and picked up by them as well. I never knew who the actual client was.”

  “They didn’t give you a name for the order?”

  “No, just a delivery number.”

  Chapter 11

  * * *

  “Whoever committed this murder planned everything very carefully. An anonymous delivery service? Can you imagine?” Bert complained as they left the shop. “And he didn’t even know the name of the delivery service.”

  “Well, he was nice enough to at least give you the delivery number they had on file for the order, wasn’t he?” Carla said.

  “It’s better than nothing, but I’m not one hundred percent sure that this string of random numbers is going to help lead us to the killer. If they were smart, and it seems like they were, then they would make sure they couldn’t be tracked even through this,” she said, waving the slip of paper with the number on it around.

  Climbing into the car, Bert shut her door and put both hands on the steering wheel. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she attempted to think straight. How could she track down the delivery service that had delivered the package with this number? Would just putting it in online work?

  One thing was sure. Before she could worry about rushing back to the shop to do any investigating online, she wanted to check out the pottery and ceramics shop. It was a long shot, but if the killer used this shopping area regularly, they might have stopped in.

  “I want to make one more pit stop before we head back.”

  “You’ve got one of your hunches?”

  “That’s right.”

  Before she could explain her thought process to Carla, her purse vibrated, indicating her cell phone was ringing.

  “Who’s calling?” Carla asked.

  “I don’t know.” Digging down into her purse, Bert pulled out the phone and looked at the caller ID. “It’s the pie shop.” Hitting the answer button, she spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hello? Shiv?”

  “Detective Mannor is here,” she said without a beat of hesitation.

  “And?”

  Shiv’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I overheard him say something over his radio about having made an arrest. I think he is charging Claudia with the murder of Vera Blackwell.”

  “We’re on our way,” Bert said, hanging up the phone.

  “What is it?” Carla asked.

  “We’re skipping my original plan and heading back to the shop. I think Claudia may have been arrested.”

  Putting the car into gear, she pulled out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  Bursting into the shop, Bert spotted the detective sitting at one of the tables munching on a piece of the tart. He looked up from his late morning snack at Bert and put on a smile behind his mustache. However, she could instantly tell it was more apologetic than a greeting.

  Setting her purse on the table and plopping down into a chair across from him, she crossed her arms. “Did you show up to tell me the case is closed?” she pressed, a hint of impatience on the edge of her voice.

  “Hardly. I came to get a piece of pie.” He pointed at the pink flowered dessert with his fork. “This is phenomenal, by the way.”

  Bert pushed her lips together and stared at him.

  Sighing, he set down the fork and brushed off his hands. “Look, I did want a piece of pie. However, I also wanted you to hear the news from me before it got into the newspapers.”

  “Let me guess. You arrested Claudia as soon as she was released from the hospital.”

  Harry’s brow furrowed, and his bushy eyebrows pushed down unhappily. “Okay, yes. How did you know?”

  Shiv raised her hand from behind the counter. “You weren’t exactly discreet when you chatted on your radio.”

  He shot a glare in her direction before turning his gaze back to Bert. “Look, we had solid evidence to bring her in. Not only was she found at the scene of the crime covered in water, but we also found traces of blood on her clothes.”

  “Of course, you did. She fell in the water where Vera had been bleeding.”

  “She had an altercation with the victim right before the murder was committed.”

  “According to whom? A bunch of gossipy ladies at the wine and cheese party? Can you really trust them?” she argued, trying to grasp at any shred of hope to get her fellow church member out of this horrible predicament.

  “We can’t make character judgments when we are doing witness interviews. Multiple people told the same story, but that’s not all.”

  “What?” Bert asked.

  “Her hands also match the size of the strangulation marks on the body, Bert. I’m sorry, but we have more than enough for a conviction.”

  Leaning back in the chair, Bert closed her eyes and let out a breathy sigh.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I know she was your friend—”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Bert retorted, keeping her eyes closed.

  “But, sometimes it is the most unassuming types who commit these types of crimes. That’s one problem a lot of new detectives in my department have. They think all murders have a certain type, look, or behavior when in reality they are just normal people like you and me. For most folks, it is one bad choice in a fit of passion.”

  This wasn’t a fit of passion, Bert thought to herself. She learned long ago that it wasn’t worth it to argue with Harry over these matters. No matter how much she thought he was wrong, she had to submit to his professional status and authority as an officer of the law.

  However, deep inside she knew there was more to this case than Harry thought. The strange train in the gift package proved that. She was sure, even if she brought it up to him, that he would claim the possibility of a connection between the murder and the gift were slim. After all, it had just been a random item Bert had dug out of a waste bin.

  Just because an anonymous person sent a broken clay train—maybe a symbol of something—and a sad note didn’t make them a killer. Vera had many people she’d wronged throughout her life and the gift could be from nearly anyone.

  “Look. There was another reason I came down here today,” Harry admitted, cutting into her thought process.

  “What then?” Bert asked, opening her eyes. She was working hard not to be angry with her sometimes boyfriend. After all, he was just following protocol. He had the solid evidence he needed, which was the most important thing for an arrest and official report.

  “I know this case was probably a difficult one for you, since Claudia—friend or not—is a fellow member of your church congregation.” He paused to glance at Carla as well, who was also a member of said church.

  Bert gave a little nod. “Yes, I guess you could say you have a certain loyalty to church members.” It had been hard enough that a seeming friend and congregant had been implicated in a crime the previous Halloween. To have Claudia also arrested would just put a real black cloud over the community.

  “Anyway, my point is I wanted to thank you for not getting involved this time around.”

  Bert could feel her face growing warm with embarrassment.

  “I know you always want to help, and in the past, you’ve had a habit of doing a little under the radar investigating on your own against my requests not to. It means a lot to me that you did as I said this time around and let my team handle this.”

  Bert chewed on her lip and nodded, not wanting to give away that she had b
een doing exactly the opposite of what he was praising her for. “You’re welcome,” she said.

  “Anyway, to show you how much I appreciate it, how about I take you to that new sci-fi movie that’s playing in theaters right now? Vanished Among the Stars,” he offered, knowing how much Bert loved a good sci-fi movie. In fact, she even played a sci-fi video game on her console from time to time (a gift from Harry the previous Christmas)—not the norm for a woman of her age and demographics. “At least that way I can take your mind off this murder,” he suggested.

  Bert put on her best smile. “That sounds lovely.”

  * * *

  As soon as the detective was gone, Bert ran upstairs and grabbed her laptop, bringing it down into the kitchen.

  “Smooth talking back there,” Shiv joked.

  “He doesn’t need to know what I’ve been up to. He thinks he has his killer and that’s good enough for now.”

  “Well, what if he’s right? What if Claudia really did kill Vera?” Shiv offered.

  “It wasn’t her,” Bert and Carla said in unison.

  Shiv put up her hands defensively. “Sorry. I’m just saying it could be, that’s all.”

  “Claudia may be stuck up, gossipy, and rude, but she wouldn’t physically hurt anyone. Honestly, do you really think she could be strong enough to strangle Vera and hold her under the water?” Bert pointed out.

  “Sure, she could. She’s your age and while she probably couldn’t take down a man of similar size, she isn’t weak or frail, at least by the looks of it. Vera, on the other hand, is older and would be weaker, making it easy to strangle or drown her.”

  “But over a simple mistake about a party invitation? I mean, I know it was embarrassing for Claudia, but resorting to murder just seems unlikely.”

  Shiv shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Bert let her shoulders slump. What if Harry and Shiv were right? What if Claudia just had a quick moment of indiscretion and let her anger get the best of her? Still, murder was a pretty radical step to take.

  Shaking her head, she opened the laptop. “Okay, but I still can’t help but feel like this package has some sort of connection. Let’s see if this number brings up anything worthwhile.” Typing in the number she’d received from the clerk at the wrapping shop, she hit enter on the search engine.

  Nothing seemed to come up.

  “I’m not seeing any connections to any delivery services here,” she groaned.

  “Maybe it’s a really exclusive and private type of company,” Carla suggested.

  “That doesn’t help us, does it?” she complained. Digging into her purse again, she brought out the broken clay train and set it on the counter. “I can’t help but feel like this stupid thing is related somehow, but I just can’t pinpoint a reason.”

  “That’s supposed to be a train? Oh, my goodness I feel ridiculous. I thought it was a bus this whole time,” Carla admitted.

  “Didn’t I say it was a train?” Bert asked, examining the childlike workmanship. She could see how Carla had mistaken it for a bus. The only real defining element that made Bert assume it was a train was the squished smokestack.

  “You probably did, but I just had it in my brain that it was a bus for some reason. You know. Little kids like playing with toy cars and buses a lot, so that’s where my brain went.”

  “Does it matter?” Bert asked.

  Carla licked her lips and nodded. “Yeah, it just might.”

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  “So, you see, there was a tiny scandal a while back with the Blackwell family that I’d completely forgotten about until now,” Carla revealed as she and Bert drove along the highway back to the all-too-fancy shopping center.

  When Bert had realized that the clay train itself may have some deeper importance, she remembered the pottery shop all over again. It was a long shot, but if the killer had kept up on their artistic habits into adulthood, perhaps they visited the pottery shop at some point as well.

  “Go on,” Bert encouraged her friend.

  “Vera was good friends with another well to do woman at the time. They were scheduled to take a train trip together to some fancy event in Denver. You know, riding in those really expensive train cars with full rooms we could never afford.”

  “And?” she urged, wanting to get to the point of the story.

  “And, Vera ended up not going at the last minute. Her friend went alone. Here is the kicker, though. The train had an accident and the friend died, leaving a child alone in the world since the father had already passed away from cancer.”

  Bert’s jaw dropped. “What happened to the child?”

  “Well, that’s where things get a bit foggy. You see, all the newspapers and tabloids had different stories they were telling. Vera did a decent job of keeping things under wraps when she needed to. However, the most popular story went like this. The orphaned child went into a very fancy and expensive boarding school that Vera herself paid out of pocket for. Some people even believed she was the godmother of the child, which is why she took care of the kid.”

  “But wouldn’t a godmother have brought the child into their own home?”

  “That’s the idea, but she probably wanted to avoid more attention and gossip then she was already getting.”

  “What was the child’s name?” Bert urged.

  “No one knows. Some people believe that Vera had the girl’s name changed so that she wouldn’t spend her whole childhood in the media spotlight or being recognized by her peers as the daughter of this famous dead woman.”

  “Alright then, who was the mother?” Bert asked.

  “A Cybele Rightworth—the famous modern painter.”

  “I haven’t heard of her,” Bert confessed.

  Carla rolled her eyes. “All you need to know is that her paintings go for thousands of dollars apiece.”

  “Well, if art runs in the family, we just might find our killer through that line of thought.” Bert took the exit off the highway toward the shopping center. “The thing is, did this godchild feel neglected or betrayed by being carted off to boarding school? If so, was it enough to kill Vera?”

  “Guess we’re going to find out, huh?” Carla said.

  Parking outside the pottery shop, the two women headed inside.

  The interior felt more like an art gallery than a pottery store. Items were displayed with accent lights on pedestals and along shelves. The names of the artists along with the price were also listed.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked from behind a desk labeled commissions. She wore very dark make-up and had her hair dyed a stark shade of red.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Bert said, walking over and sitting down at the desk. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out the broken train and set it down on a piece of paper sitting on the desk.

  Carla, meanwhile, was browsing the shop.

  “I’m afraid we don’t take broken items,” the lady said without hardly glancing at the item. “And excuse me, but I forgot to file this.” She slid the paper out from under the train and Bert got a glimpse of it before it disappeared into a filing cabinet.

  What caught her eye was the number at the top. It looked like it was the same length, and with the same dashes in the right places, as the number she had.

  “Bert,” Carla called. “You should see this.”

  “Just a second,” she told her friend. “Ma’am, that number at the top of the paper. Is that the order number?”

  “It’s the item number, why?” she said, taking a seat again.

  “Do you ever send your purchased items over to Wicked Wrappings?”

  “All the time. We have an errand boy who does it and he simply lists the wrapping job under the item number until it’s done, then he goes and picks it back up. We simply add that charge on top of the purchase.”

  “And you didn’t send this?” Bert asked, pointing at the train.

  “I already said we don’t take broken items or items of such low quality. This lo
oks like a child’s work.”

  “I know, I know. However, I received this item myself from someone and I thought maybe it came from here.”

  The woman raised a curious eyebrow at the broken train. “Hardly.”

  “Bert, come see this,” Carla requested again.

  “Hold on,” Bert retorted.

  “We would not have sold this in our shop,” the woman said back. “We do accept artists who want to display and sell their work in this shop, but we have strict standards.” The woman stood up. “However, if you’re looking for a clay model train that is a professional piece, I do have one artist who does excellent work in that area.”

  Bert stood bolt upright. “You do?”

  “Yes. In fact, trains are her main focus. We do sell a good number of them here. She seems to have a knack for art.”

  Bert looked over and realized Carla was already over there looking at the exquisitely crafted train models. This was what she’d been trying to get Bert to look at.

  Following the store clerk over to the display, Bert instantly spotted the name under one of the items for sale. “Persephone Tailville.”

  “She is one of the best artists we’ve worked with. A real magician with clay.”

  “These are amazing,” Bert said in wonderment at the tiniest of details in the sculptures. You’d almost never know it was modeled out of clay.

  The clerk checked her watch. “In fact, the young lady is in our back workshop right now. Only our most select artists are invited to work on sight here.”

  “Can we meet her?” Bert pressed.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged. Let me go and ask if she has a second to come out.” With that, the woman disappeared into the back of the shop.

  “Do you think this artist is the killer?”

  “I’d bet on it,” Bert said, grabbing the train off the desk.

  A few seconds later, the back door of the shop opened, and Persephone stepped through. Upon seeing Bert, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Bertha Hannah? From the party?” she asked.

  “Yes, Persephone. Is this your train?” she asked, holding out the item in question.