That lovely little factoid had escaped my notice in all of the chaos. “He was my brother’s best friend in high school.” I stalked to the utility room and found my mop, and Gus rattled around in his crate. “I’ve known him for years.”
“Let me guess. He had a crush on you.”
“Maybe. I’m not a mind reader.” I faced him and squashed the guilt from my dishonest answer. “That was a long time ago.”
Cal took the mop from my hand. “If he didn’t then, he does now.” He pulled me up against his muscular chest. His lips met mine, and I forgot about Hamlet, coffee grounds, and my unruly pet. “Go change. I’ll keep our food warm and clean the floor.”
After dinner, Cal put his arm around me as we lounged on my sectional sofa, chatting and enjoying the warmth of my fireplace. “Vanessa and I were talking today, and we thought it might be fun if you and I went on a double date tomorrow night with her and her fiancé.”
I drew a throw pillow to my chest. “Cool. What do you have in mind?”
“She has two extra tickets to see Grease at the dinner theater in Richardville.”
“Perfect! I’d like to get to know her better.”
“She said the same thing about you.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We could use a break after this crazy week at work.”
“Speaking of work…” I gazed at him. “Is there anything else you’re allowed to tell me about Beverly’s case?” I gave him my very best smile. I was shameless.
“Not really.”
I was used to that answer, so I decided to be a good girlfriend and change the subject. “I had an interesting encounter with Clara Alspaugh today.”
He sat up straighter. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” I told him about Clara’s apology, her suspicions about the break in, and Jack Schultz’s affair with Fiona Sylvan.
“I’m glad Clara apologized,” he said when I finished.
I stared at him. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
That you’ve cleared her as a suspect. I fingered the necklace Cal had given me for my birthday. “Never mind. What movie do you want to watch?” I picked up the remote and scrolled through the on-demand movie choices.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” Mildly irritated, maybe. I knew there were things he couldn’t tell me, and about 95 percent of the time, I was cool with that.
Okay, so maybe it was more like 80 percent.
“How reliable is Earl Smith?” he asked.
That was random. I lowered the remote and turned my attention from the list of movies on the TV screen. “I strongly suspect he’s behind the rumor that I was moving to Nashville to try and make it as a country singer.”
He grinned. “Were you?”
“No way. I don’t have the pipes for that. Besides, I hate country music.”
“You’re missing out.”
“Um, no. I’m not.” I considered why Cal had brought up my nosy neighbor. “Earl told Vanessa he saw a gray sedan full of teenagers carrying on shortly before the break in. Is that why you’re asking?”
“Yes. We talked to Earl again, but he said after he took his dog out, he was inside watching Gunsmoke all night and didn’t see anything.” Cal laced his fingers through mine. “Which is fine, except Vanessa and I both got the feeling he’s hiding something.”
My eyes widened. “You think he killed Beverly?” He fit Clara’s description of an average-sized man.
“With his arthritis, it’s highly unlikely.”
“True.” I thought of how slowly he’d moved the night of Beverly’s death. “Do you want me to see if I have any luck talking to Earl?” Though Cal couldn’t tell me everything, in the past he’d asked me to pay attention to what folks around town were saying and let him know if I learned anything important.
“Why are you asking?” His eyes gleamed, and his dimple made an appearance. “You’ve already made up your mind to track him down first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Exactly—and I know right where to find him.”
“Surprise, surprise.” He kissed the top of my head. “Just tell me what you find out.”
Everyone in Wildcat Springs knew Old Man Smith loved cookies. Each morning until the Lord decided to call Earl home, he’d descend upon Pastry Delight between nine and ten o’clock for coffee and three cookies.
Earl, of course, not God. That would be a whole other story and a testament to the quality of the food at Pastry Delight.
The owner, Taryn Anderson, specialized in pies, but she could’ve sold only cookies and kept her business afloat. After graduating high school with my brother and Hamlet, she’d gone to a fancy culinary school in New York and had come back home to open a shop. She’d taken the best of both worlds—fancy pastries and her down-home flair—and her shop drew people from all over Richard County and beyond.
Saturday morning, I threw on some workout clothes and a sweatshirt and headed into town. Indiana weather could be absolutely ridiculous, and it had set out to maintain its fickle reputation that day. After the snowstorm had dropped a grand total of ten inches on Wildcat Springs, a warm front descended on our neck of the woods, bringing sun and mild temperatures that I appreciated as I walked to the shop.
When I stepped inside, the door entry alert played a tinny version of “Für Elise.” Taryn had used pink on the bakery’s sacks and boxes and on the store’s walls. Her color choice gave off a sugary vibe.
As expected, Old Man Smith sat behind the USA Today’s sports section at his usual table and had already devoured one of his three cookies. A gingersnap and an oatmeal raisin cookie remained on his plate.
“Good morning, Taryn.” I approached the counter.
“Morning.” She smiled and donned plastic serving gloves. “What can I get for you?” Her perky blond topknot wobbled.
I surveyed her display case loaded with cookies, brownies, pies, muffins, cheesecakes, and tarts. Maybe my hankering was for pie since Taryn had a few varieties that she sold by the slice. I certainly wasn’t above eating dessert for breakfast. No. I had a fitted dress to squeeze into for the wedding. A cookie was healthier. “One cranberry-oatmeal-pecan cookie and a small coffee.”
Oatmeal was nutritious, right?
“Good choice.” She reached for the cookie.
“How’s business been?”
“Great. I’ve been swamped lately—and it’s not even wedding season yet.” She rang up my purchase.
“I’m looking forward to eating your cake at Grandpa’s wedding.” Wanda had picked a vanilla cake with raspberry filling.
“Thanks. I hope they love the design.”
When I’d paid, I strolled over to Earl, who was perusing the Richard County Gazette’s minimal contents. “Hey, Neighbor. Mind if I join you for a moment?”
“Sure, Miss Georgia.” He folded the paper. “You’re much more interesting than this old rag.”
“I certainly hope so.”
He flicked his fingers against the paper. “You wouldn’t think that a paper here in flyover country could have a left-wing bias, but somehow even this editor manages to be out of touch with the people in this county.” He dropped it on the table.
“That’s too bad.” I slipped into the chair across from Earl and sipped my coffee. I didn’t love politics, but I couldn’t disagree with Earl about the paper’s slant. I took a bite of cookie. Taryn had to have just baked this batch because it was soft on the inside with a hint of crispness on the outside.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
I pointed to the cookie. “Right now, this is all I can focus on.”
He guffawed so hard that Taryn jumped and turned around to stare at us. Earl pointed at me. “Get this girl another cranberry-oatmeal-pecan cookie. On me.”
I raised a hand. “Oh, no. They’re wonderful, but I—”
“Nope.” Taryn put a cookie in a bag and bustled around the counter. “Earl’s my bes
t customer, so he’s the boss.” She set the package on the table and moved to help the customers who’d arrived.
“Well, if you insist,” I said. “Thank you, Earl.”
“No problem. Now, I’ve been coming here for going on five years, and never once have you strolled in here and joined me. In fact, I’m surprised you’re up this early. You ain’t exactly a morning person in the winter.”
My face warmed, and I took a moment to reassure myself that I always kept my blinds tightly closed after dark—and that Earl’s house didn’t face my bedroom window. “I’m definitely a night owl.” I shoved another bite in my mouth.
“I know.” He split his oatmeal raisin cookie in thirds. “I’ll bet you’re investigating, and you’re planning to pick my brain.” He tapped his temple.
“Maybe.”
He shook his head. “I sure wish I could tell you more than I already told those detectives.”
“Maybe you can. You told me you got a package of pictures from Beverly that night. Did she seem upset about anything?”
Earl shook his head. “She was friendly, but I didn’t stay long because she was making dinner. I suppose she was nervous about seeing Clara, but she didn’t say so. I reckon she was worried about Denise too, seeing as how she and Jack are having trouble, but Bev didn’t talk about that either. Speaking of Jack.” Earl took a bite and chewed for a few seconds before leaning forward. “You know he’s a part-time gun dealer, right? Years ago, he set my Becky up with a revolver. I was gone driving a semi all the time, and she wanted something to protect herself.”
“Really.” I’d never heard about Jack’s side hustle. But then, I hated guns. “Are you suggesting Jack might’ve shot his mother-in-law?” I whispered.
“Can’t be sure.” He held up both hands. “Far be it from me to make any accusations. I don’t know much else about Jack other than he was a high school football star.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Wanna know something else interesting?”
“Sure.”
“Beverly had an appointment to change her will.”
“Seriously?” I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking him why he didn’t think that was pertinent information to share with Cal.
“Absolutely.” He thrust his thumbs toward his chest. “I know what I overheard on Tuesday when I was eating lunch at Pizza Heaven. I ain’t senile.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest you are.”
“Aww, Georgia, relax. I’m messing with you.” He shoved half of a gingersnap into his mouth. “Bevvy wan Clawa to have huh faahr shah.”
Life Lesson #798: Your mother was right. Don’t talk with your mouth full.
Thankfully, he swallowed before continuing. “Much as Clara keeping her distance hurt Bev, she wanted her daughter to have her half of the estate. Bill cut Clara out years ago. Bev decided to change it back, and she told Denise about it when they was having lunch.”
“That sounds like Beverly. How’d Denise take the news?”
Earl squinted at the tile ceiling. “Well now, I hate to say it, but Denise wasn’t a happy camper. She told Bev that was her decision, and she respected it, but her face got all red, and she had her fist clenched under the table.” He demonstrated for me.
I smothered a grin. “Did Beverly say when she was going to see her lawyer?”
“She had an appointment for this coming Monday.”
The decrease in inheritance gave Denise plenty of motive, because Beverly owned farm ground. The change would impact Jack too, if he managed to reconcile with Denise. However, Clara would’ve only benefited from killing her mother after the change to the will. Unless she didn’t know her dad had cut her out.
Jack was average height, so he fit Clara’s description of the shooter. Plus, he’d kept himself in shape and didn’t have a belly like a lot of men his age. Denise was also a little taller than average.
“What’re you thinking?” Earl asked.
“I don’t know, so I’m glad it’s not up to me to figure it out.” I finished the last of my second cookie and glanced at my watch. “It was a pleasure talking with you, but I have to meet some friends. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. I reckon you’ll find out who killed Beverly before long.” He picked up the newspaper.
I hurried back to my truck, which was parked on Pearl Street. As I unlocked the door, my eyes fell on the United Methodist Church and the history museum next to it. It was easy to see how the mystery person had escaped Brandi’s notice. The church completely obscured the driveway that led to the museum’s parking lot.
I turned and looked across the street at Latte Conspiracies and Miller’s Books, and one thought hammered me.
The new security cameras.
Chapter Seven
After texting Brandi and Ashley to walk the Wildcat Trail without me, I breezed in to Latte Conspiracies, got in line, and savored the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Hamlet and his sixteen-year-old brother Holden dashed around trying to keep up with the Saturday morning crowd.
Even though I’d already had coffee, I didn’t feel right about plying information from Hamlet without buying a drink. I studied the menu and decided I could suffer through Bobbi Sue’s newest creation—a Sasquatch Mocha. It was a white chocolate mocha with blackberry syrup.
Life was rough.
While I waited, I texted Brandi.
What time were you at the museum on Wednesday?
It took a few minutes, but she responded.
My mom sent a text right when I walked in. Time stamp says 4:13.
That was a huge help. I thanked her, dropped my phone into my purse, and stepped toward the counter.
Holden smiled. “Hey, Georgia.”
There was no mistaking the increase in volume when he said my name. Hamlet looked up from the milk he was steaming and waved.
Clearly, I’d been talked about.
My face flamed. “Hey. I’ll take a small Sasquatch Mocha.” I held out my money and loyalty card.
“You got it.”
Holden was shorter and stockier than his brother and played on the high school’s tennis team. I was also fairly certain that he’d never be caught dead in a sweater vest since he was wearing a button-down shirt with a modern cut. While Holden made change, I glanced over my shoulder.
No one behind me waiting. Perfect timing.
“Hamlet will have your drink ready in a minute.” Holden smirked and handed me my change and loyalty card.
“Thanks.” I tucked them in my wallet.
Asking Hamlet for help might be a bad idea, but Bobbi Sue wouldn’t be back before the wedding, so I didn’t have a choice. I had to figure out who Beverly had argued with, and their security cameras were my best shot. Plus, I didn’t want Cal wasting time running down a bunch of dead-end leads.
“A Sasquatch Mocha for Georgia Rae.” Hamlet held out a large cup.
“But I only paid for—”
“I know. I upgraded you.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet.” I’d be flying high from caffeine and sugar by the time I was finished. “Do you have a moment? I need your help with something related to Beverly’s murder investigation.”
I wasn’t exactly a believer in superpowers, but Hamlet demonstrated a remarkable level of speed and agility as he darted around the counter.
“At your service.” He saluted. “Holden, I’m taking a break.”
“All riiight.”
Hamlet turned and glared at his squirrely brother. “To help Georgia with a case.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Holden’s eyes gleamed.
Hamlet shook his head and faced me.
“I have stepbrothers like him,” I said. “So I feel your pain.”
He laughed. “How can I help?”
“Do your new security cameras have a view of Main Street?”
He tilted his head. “Yes. It won’t be the clearest picture. Our camera is mounted on the back wall facing the door and windows, but you should be able to see cars and people
passing by the shop—at least on this side of the street.”
I glanced at the camera. “Could you show me footage from Wednesday starting at 4:13? I want to see who drove by shortly after that time.”
“That’s very precise.”
I met his eyes. “I’m that good.”
“I know.” He winked.
Bad Georgia. Apparently, Nice Georgia had gone into hibernation for the winter. If she’d ever existed, in spite of my best efforts.
“Come on back.”
I followed him down a narrow hall into Bobbi Sue’s office. A shelf of alien figurines kept watch over the tidy desk with a picture of Bobbi Sue, Hemi, Hamlet, Holden, and the boys’ sister Harper.
Hamlet sat and opened the laptop sitting on the desk. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing a tattoo of a cross made of nails.
I liked it. A lot.
Bad, bad, Georgia.
A few minutes later, he turned the computer toward me and showed me how to scroll through the footage. Then he stood and held out the chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back after I check on Holden.”
I set my coffee on the desk and zoomed in on the grainy footage, but that didn’t help, so I zoomed out and focused on the cars passing by in a five-minute time frame starting at 4:13. The ceiling above the door and windows cut off the full view of the sidewalk across the street, but I recognized Brandi’s coat, though I could only see her from the waist down when she entered the building. A few seconds later, she darted back out and disappeared in the alley between the museum and the church.
I reversed the footage and studied the passing cars. A cream-colored Cadillac. A mini-van. And a black Camry.
Just like Wanda’s.
Chapter Eight
“Did you find what you need?” Hamlet leaned against the office’s doorframe.
“Possibly.” A lot of people drove black Camrys. Not to mention, I couldn’t see the driver or distinguish the license plate. I searched more footage, hoping to see Jack’s silver Chevy truck, the mysterious gray sedan, or even Denise’s Escape with the nursing company logo, but nothing fitting those descriptions passed by.
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