The Christmas Cookie Killer

by Livia J. Washburn

  The younger woman shrugged. “I only met him a few days ago, true, but in my line of work I’ve learned how to size up people pretty quickly.”

  “I learned the same thing,” Phyllis said. “I was a school-teacher for a long, long time. I got to where I could size up a class and pick out the troublemakers, the brownnosers, and the truly good students, usually on the first day of school. Within the first week, for sure.”

  Juliette Yorke regarded her intently for a long moment, then nodded. “I see. And based on what you learned as a teacher, Mrs. Newsom . . . do you truly think that Randall Simmons is a murderer?”

  Phyllis leaned back against the sofa. She wished that the lawyer hadn’t asked her that question. But since she wasn’t in the habit of lying unless it was absolutely necessary, she said, “He doesn’t really strike me as a killer, no.”

  “Interesting choice of words, because it’s commonly assumed that the killer did strike you. Knocked you unconscious, in fact. How are you doing, by the way? Any aftereffects from being attacked?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Except for having to answer that question.

  “You got a good look at Randall. Do you think he would hit a woman on the head, hard enough to knock her unconscious and possibly injure her severely?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he’s capable of it. People are usually capable of things that you wouldn’t believe they’d do, if they find themselves in a bad enough situation.”

  Juliette Yorke nodded and said, “I know that’s true.”

  “I suppose you see proof of that all the time in your work, if you’re a defense attorney.”

  “Yes, of course.” A faint smile touched the lawyer’s lips. “I have every right to be hard and cynical, Mrs. Newsom, based on my experiences. So when I do believe in someone, that ought to tell you something.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” Phyllis agreed. “But a good lawyer will fight just as hard for a client she doesn’t believe in, won’t she? That whole business about how every defendant is entitled to the best possible defense?”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Don’t think for a minute, though, that lawyers aren’t just as human as anybody else. Since you insisted that this conversation be off the record, Mrs. Newsom, I don’t mind telling you that sometimes lawyers do work harder for clients they believe to be innocent. It’s just human nature.”

  Phyllis turned that over in her mind. Juliette Yorke was being open and honest with her . . . or else playing on her emotions to get what she wanted. Who could tell with a lawyer?

  “What is it you want from me, Ms. Yorke? Why did you really come here today?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me everything you can remember about what happened on Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’ve given my statement to the police.”

  Juliette Yorke nodded. “And I’ve read it. But I want to hear it from you, Mrs. Newsom, in your words as you remember it now.”

  “You’re trying to get me to change my story so you can discredit me at the trial,” Phyllis said with a smile.

  “Not at all. But there might be details that come back to you now that you couldn’t recall when you talked to the police. Or you might remember things the same way but put a different interpretation on what you remember. I really just want to get a feel for the way things were that afternoon, and you’re the only one who can tell me . . . because you and the killer were the only ones there except for Agnes, and she can’t speak for herself anymore. You have to speak for her.”

  That was nicely done, Phyllis told herself. Heartfelt and sincere, with just enough outrage in the timbre of Juliette Yorke’s voice. What would it be like, she wondered, to live in a world where doing your job meant playing on the emotions of other people and probably manipulating your own emotions in the service of the client until you might not even know what you really believed?

  She was glad she had been a teacher, not a lawyer.

  “All right,” Phyllis said. “But you’re not going to get anything that you didn’t already see in the police report.”

  She began telling about the events of Saturday afternoon. As she had predicted, she didn’t recall anything new, nothing that she hadn’t already told Mike and then Chief Whitmire and Detective Largo.

  But as Phyllis spoke, something nagged at the back of her brain—not something she remembered, not something she was saying, but something else entirely. She couldn’t pin down what it was, but she thought that whatever had set off that uneasiness, it was something Juliette Yorke had said.

  And yet, as Phyllis paused and replayed the conversation in her head as best she could, there was nothing unusual there, nothing that stood out.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Newsom?” the lawyer asked with a frown.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Phyllis replied. “Just trying to make sure I have everything straight.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  Phyllis went back to the story, and that elusive whatever-it-was receded. She decided that she was just uncomfortable talking to the defense lawyer when she was supposed to be on the side of the prosecution.

  She suddenly asked herself why she felt that way. It wasn’t like Mike was building the case against Randall Simmons. She had no personal stake in this case except wanting justice for Agnes Simmons.

  And if Juliette Yorke was right and Randall was innocent, that meant the real murderer was still out there somewhere, and that idea rubbed Phyllis the wrong way, and also scared her a little.

  Finally, Phyllis said, “That’s all. I just don’t remember any more. I told you that you weren’t going to learn anything new.”

  “Maybe not, but now I have a clearer picture of how everything looked to you. And as I pointed out, Mrs. Newsom, you’re really the only witness.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  That was worrisome, too. If Randall hadn’t killed his grandmother, then the murderer might get nervous about Phyllis. Was it possible that she might be targeted? Getting rid of her could backfire on the killer, because then it would be obvious Randall couldn’t have done it while he was in custody . . . but if her death was made to look like an accident . . .

  Phyllis took a deep breath. She was just trying to scare herself, and she needed to stop it. She was perfectly safe. Nothing was going to happen to her.

  Juliette Yorke stood up, briefcase in hand. “Thank you for talking to me, Mrs. Newsom.” She smiled. “And thank you for the cookie. It was good. Gingerdoodle, right?”

  “That’s right.” Phyllis picked up the plate as she got to her feet, too. “Here, take a few with you.”

  The lawyer hesitated, then said, “Thank you,” and picked up several cookies, taking another gingerdoodle, a couple of the lime snowflake sugar cookies, and one of Carolyn’s pecan pie cookies. “They all look so good.”

  Phyllis showed her out, then stood at the door and watched as Juliette Yorke got into a late-model car parked at the curb and drove away, munching on a cookie as she did so.

  Then a footstep sounded right behind Phyllis, and she jumped and gasped.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, frowning in surprise at her reaction as she turned around quickly.

  “Nothing,” Phyllis said, embarrassed that she had been so startled for no good reason. “I was just talking to Randall Simmons’s lawyer.”

  She’d been dwelling too much on the idea that the killer might want to get rid of her, too. She couldn’t allow herself to become paranoid.

  But maybe it would be a good idea if she did some more thinking about the case. The police thought they had their man, and despite Detective Largo’s follow-up questions about other suspects, Phyllis didn’t really expect a thorough investigation into any of the other possibilities. For her own peace of mind, if nothing else, she was going to have to look into this until she was sure that Randall was guilty, that no one else could have murdered Agnes Simmons. Otherwise she was going to keep looking over her shoulder in fear, and she didn’t wa
nt that.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Something’s brewin’ in that head o’ yours,” he said. Demonstrating that he had some natural shrewdness of his own, he made a guess. “You don’t think the Simmons kid did it, do you?”

  “Well, he’s certainly the most likely suspect, given his criminal background and the fact that he was there, hiding out from the law. . . .”

  “That doesn’t make him guilty.”

  “No,” Phyllis said. “No, it doesn’t. We’ve seen for ourselves that people can look guilty without actually doing anything wrong.”

  “The kid’s done some stuff wrong, no doubt about that. But murderin’ his own grandmother, when she’d been tryin’ to help him out . . .”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  Sam stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head and muttered, “Here we go again.”

  No, Phyllis thought. She wasn’t going to investigate Agnes’s murder. Not really.

  But surely it wouldn’t hurt anything to ask a few questions. She just wished she could figure out what Juliette Yorke had said that had made her wonder. . . .

  Chapter 13

  Detective work was one thing, cooking was another, and there were still those pies to bake. But when Phyllis returned to the kitchen, she found that Carolyn already had the pies in the oven. She hadn’t realized that she’d talked to Juliette Yorke for so long.

  “Don’t worry,” Carolyn said. “I followed the recipe for the pumpkin pie filling that you had lying on the counter.” She paused. “I might have modified it just a little bit. . . .”

  That came as no surprise to Phyllis. When it came to cooking, Carolyn always thought that her ideas were just a little bit better than Phyllis’s.

  Soon the aroma of the pies baking filled the house, and Phyllis had to admit that they smelled really good.

  With nothing to do where the baking was concerned, she might as well start trying to figure out who else might have killed Agnes, she decided. In order to do that, she needed more information about what was going on in the neighborhood. Maybe someone had noticed something suspicious going on around Agnes’s house in the days before her death. Despite the little things that seemed to indicate that Agnes had known her killer, it was still possible that the murderer was someone who broke in. Phyllis had learned from Mike that sometimes there were elements of a crime that went forever unexplained, even when the culprit confessed and there was no doubt of his or her guilt. Phyllis wanted to know if any strangers had been lurking in the neighborhood or if anything else suspicious had been going on.

  And the best way to find out things you wanted to know was to ask.

  Luckily, she had a good reason to go visiting, here just a few days before Christmas.

  Since there were still plenty of cookies left, she put together a plate of them and covered it with clear plastic wrap. Most people wouldn’t turn down cookies. Even Juliette Yorke, stiff as she was, had unbent long enough to sample a gingerdoodle.

  Phyllis knew that if Sam was aware of what she was doing, he would insist on coming along with her. A part of her wanted him to come along, not only because she enjoyed his company, but also because they had proven to be a good investigative team in the past. And if there was still a killer on the loose, she could do a lot worse for a companion than rangy, athletic Sam Fletcher.

  But Sam was still a relative newcomer to the neighborhood, and Phyllis thought that people might open up more if they were talking to just her. So she waited until he was busy in the garage again before she got the plateful of cookies and headed next door to Oscar Gunderson’s house.

  For many years, Oscar had worked in the personnel department of the aircraft plant over in Fort Worth, which had gone through a series of ownership and name changes. The place had been Consolidated Vultee, Convair, General Dynamics, and finally Lockheed. Oscar had retired and enjoyed a few years with his wife, Geneva, before she passed away. Since then Oscar had lived alone, friendly with his neighbors but a little reserved. Geneva had been the social member of the couple, and without her Oscar didn’t have anybody around to prod him out of his shell very often.

  Phyllis walked across to Oscar’s front door, noticing as she did so that the weather was even warmer today than it had been yesterday. It looked like this was going to be another mild Christmas—unless this was the period of milder temperatures before another cold front blew through. . . .

  Phyllis rang the doorbell and heard movement inside. No one came to the door, though, and after a moment she frowned. She knew she had heard someone walking across the room, and they’d been fairly heavy footsteps, at that.

  The thought occurred to her that if Agnes had been killed by a burglar, the criminal could have returned to the neighborhood. That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do, but lawbreakers usually weren’t noted for their intelligence. That same burglar could be inside Oscar’s house right now. He could have done something to Oscar! As Phyllis stood there on the little front porch, staring at the door, she seemed to sense some sort of malevolent presence just on the other side of it, listening, waiting to strike. . . .

  “Who’s there?”

  The gruff voice that called the question through the door was instantly familiar. Phyllis recognized it as belonging to Oscar Gunderson. She heaved a sigh of relief.

  “It’s just me, Oscar,” she said. “Phyllis Newsom.”

  “Oh. Hang on just a minute.”

  Oscar didn’t sound like he was hurt or under any sort of duress, just busy with something. Phyllis felt a little silly now, letting her fears run away with her like that.

  When Oscar opened the door a few moments later, he was wearing a robe that left his sturdy calves bare. His feet were bare as well. Some gray chest hairs poked out of the opening at his throat. He was a short, broad man with a bulldoglike face and a fringe of gray hair around his ears.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Phyllis said. “I got you out of the shower, didn’t I, Oscar?” That was the most obvious explanation for his attire, although Phyllis would have sworn that she’d heard him moving around in the living room right after she rang the bell.

  “No, no, not at all,” he said. “What can I do for you, Phyllis?”

  She lifted the plate in her hands. “I wanted to bring you some cookies, since we had so many left over from the get-together the other day. And I thought we might visit for a while. Do you have any plans for Christmas Day? You could always come over and have dinner with us. We’ll have more than enough food. We always do!”

  She was talking a little fast, she knew, but she hoped that he would invite her in to chat so that she could work the conversation around to Agnes’s murder and find out if he had noticed anything unusual going on in the neighborhood recently.

  However, Oscar wasn’t showing any signs of doing that. He said, “Thanks for the invitation, but I’m driving down to Brownwood on Friday to spend the weekend with my son and his family.” Oscar’s son was a professor of economics at Howard Payne University. As he reached for the plate of cookies, he added, “These look great. I’ll take them with me down there . . . if there are any left by then!”

  As she got ready to hand over the cookies, she realized that her plan wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t very well snatch the cookies back and refuse to give them to him unless he allowed her to question him.

  Then she glanced down, was surprised by what she saw, and said, “Your, uh, slip is showing, Oscar.”

  His eyes widened. He said, “What?” then jerked his head down and stared at the two or three inches of what appeared to be the lacy hem of some silk lingerie showing below the bottom of the robe. A strangled sound came from his throat.

  Phyllis tried hard not to be shocked. She had to admit that for a fleeting second, seeing Oscar in a robe in the middle of the day like this, she had wondered if he had a woman in his house, even though as far as she knew, he hadn’t even dated since his wife’s death.

  Evidently that wasn’t
the case.

  She thought for a moment that he was going to slam the door in her face—either that or have a heart attack on the spot, if his rapidly purpling face was any indication. Then his shoulders slumped as if he were giving up. He stepped back, opened the door wider, and rumbled, “Come in for a minute. Please.”

  Phyllis hesitated. She didn’t think she was in any danger from Oscar Gunderson, having known the man for twenty years, for goodness’ sake, but obviously people were capable of all sorts of surprises, even good old Oscar. Her curiosity got the better of her, though, so she stepped into the house. He closed the door behind her.

  The drapes over the front window were tightly drawn, so that no one could look in. The reason for that became understandable when Oscar loosened the belt of the robe and opened it a little, sort of like a flasher. He wasn’t exposing himself, though, but rather the sleek, pale pink slip that he wore. It matched a pair of feathery slippers sitting on the floor where Oscar must have kicked them off before answering the door.

  He pulled the robe closed and knotted the belt again. “You can’t tell anybody about this,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” Phyllis assured him. “It’s none of my business, Oscar. None of anybody’s business.”

  “Darned right it’s not.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and then sighed. “I got to admit, though, in a way it . . . it’s nice to have somebody to talk to about it. Since Geneva’s been gone . . .”

  Phyllis didn’t want him to talk about it with her. She was as open-minded as the next person, but there were still some things that made her uncomfortable. And at the same time, she was having to fight the impulse to giggle. She knew that would be a terrible, hurtful thing to do. . . .

  But the sight of gruff, burly Oscar Gunderson standing there in a pink slip had just been so funny.

  She forced that image out of her mind. Oscar was entitled to his dignity, and she had no business judging anyone. And if she did talk to him for a few minutes, maybe he would open up to her about things other than his . . . hobby.