A Killer Edition

by Lorna Barrett

  “Looking good so far,” Angelica commented, then she squinted. “Rats! The stoves are still electric.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to risk a gas explosion,” Tricia suggested.

  “Shhh! Don’t say such a thing! Do you want to have us kicked out of here?”

  It was obvious that no one on the “set” was ready to perform, what with the cables lying around, darkened areas where the hot lights had yet to be lit, and the lack of the talent—Chef Andrews. Bored-looking technicians and cameramen came and went, and there was a lot of muttered “testing, one, two, three, four” for sound checks. Tricia looked at the clock over the auditorium’s side exit. They weren’t supposed to start filming for at least another forty-five minutes. She should have brought a book to read. Then again, she could read from an app on her phone. She should have thought about downloading a new-to-her book to read. Then again, her phone could access her collection of e-books from the cloud.

  Unlike Tricia, Angelica seemed riveted. “Isn’t this exciting,” she said.

  No, it was boring. “It doesn’t look like they’re going to be ready anytime soon. I may as well take a walk.”

  “What if you miss something?” Angelica demanded.

  “You can fill me in later. Save my seat.”

  Tricia got up, squeezed past the other people in the row, and walked up the aisle and out into the area outside the auditorium. It couldn’t be called a lobby—too small—and she made her way back out of the building and into the air, which was already hotter than it had been when she and Angelica had entered the school not long before. She took off her outer sweater, tossed it over her arm, and started to walk.

  For a while, her head just felt empty as she started up Hickory Street and away from the school. But then her thoughts wandered back to the day she’d found Vera Olson. Vera had been on her mind a lot lately, but Tricia tried not to dwell on the memory of actually finding the woman’s body. Maybe that had been a mistake.

  Poor Vera had lain on the grass behind Joyce’s vegetable garden. No puddle of blood had mired the grass. Vera’s blue eyes had been wide open, and the pitchfork had stood upright, piercing her middle.

  That last thought made Tricia wince. Vera’s arms had been cushioned by the grass, her palms down. Someone very strong, or very determined, had probably had to straddle her body to push the pitchfork through her. She could imagine a heavy booted foot thrusting hard against the top of the steel tines until they had penetrated the woman’s torso. That task was difficult to do in the hard, dry earth, let alone a fat-and-muscled body.

  Surely it had to be a man who’d killed Vera. Few women possessed that kind of strength. Tricia seriously doubted Joyce did. But what about Officer Pearson? She was much younger than Joyce and was tall and buff. To get hired by the police department, she would have to have passed some kind of physical fitness test.

  And what about Toby Kingston? He was tall and looked capable of the kind of strength it would take to stomp on the lethal garden tool. And why do that? Vera was dead before she was pierced. Had it been done as a message to others? But if so, to whom?

  Vera had had problems with Toby Kingston. Was it Bonnie Connor or Rebecca Shore who’d mentioned that Vera had had a private meeting with Toby and had left his office very upset? Was there something really fishy going on at Pets-A-Plenty? That seemed logical. Perhaps it was the reason Toby hadn’t welcomed Tricia with open arms. Was that because she’d had nearly as much—or perhaps even more—experience running a nonprofit organization? Okay, her skills might be a little rusty, but she could have polished them up in no time. And Cori Haskell, the Pets-A-Plenty volunteer, had talked about her distrust of Monterey Bioresources and anomalies that went on within Pets-A-Plenty. Did Vera know something about the company and tie it to the pet rescue, too?

  But who had told Nikki about Grace trying to influence Toby and the board to take Tricia on? What if it had been Toby himself? For what reason? And if so, how could she prove it?

  Tricia turned the corner at Poplar Avenue and started walking south.

  What did she really know about Toby Kingston, anyway? He had come to Pets-A-Plenty a year or so before, but she wasn’t sure what kind of administrative work he’d done in the past. He was definitely not a people person, so she couldn’t imagine he had an affinity for animals, either. And worst of all, he didn’t like her. But did that make him a killer?

  No.

  What about the most obvious suspect: Joyce?

  Joyce apparently had had the opportunity, but what was her motive? She’d had the large limb on the maple tree in Vera’s yard removed. It had been Vera who’d threatened Joyce—and in front of witnesses, too. It would have been pure stupidity for Joyce to have killed Vera. If it had been Joyce who’d turned up dead, Vera would have been the prime suspect. But as far as the witnesses in Joyce’s store were concerned, the altercation between Joyce and Vera had been initiated by Vera. It was Joyce who’d been threatened, and no one would have been surprised if she’d been the victim of violence.

  Supposing Joyce’s innocence, the door in the south side of the tall wooden fence had to have been opened by someone other than Joyce. It had been bolted on her side of the yard, and the chain-link gate to the front yard had been padlocked, but it wasn’t particularly high, either. Just about anyone could have easily scaled it and gained entry to the yard and then opened the wooden door that separated the yards. Who could have known about it? Or was that thought a dead end?

  What if Vera herself had scaled the chain link to get more catnip from Joyce’s herb garden? Or could she have been confronted by her killer in her own yard? That seemed the best scenario. Could there have been traces of catnip on Vera’s hands or under her fingernails? Would the medical examiner have noted it? Tricia could ask Baker, but he might think her question frivolous—as he now seemed to regard her. His loss.

  Baker was to be on hand for the Bake-Off’s judging. They were keeping the spectators away from the culinary rooms where the Bake-Off was being filmed, and also away from the judges and contestants. But there might be an opportunity when she could corner the man and ask. Tricia would have to see what she could do to make that happen.

  With that in mind, she turned onto Main Street once again and started back toward the school, not that she was in a hurry. It would likely be hours before the competition came to an end and she could track down and speak to Chief Baker.

  Tricia made peace with the fact that it was likely to be a boring day, but maybe by the end of it, she’d have some answers.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t feel all that hopeful.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  By the time Tricia returned to the school, brandishing her pink bracelet so that she didn’t have to pay the entrance fee once more, she found that the contest had already begun in earnest.

  “What did I miss?” she whispered to Angelica after taking her seat.

  “Everybody running for their ingredients. They’re filming the actual Bake-Off in real time. I thought it was going to be an all-day event,” Angelica said, sounding disappointed.

  “Wow.”

  “They’ll be doing pickup shots at the end,” she continued, and actually sounded like she knew what that meant.

  The audio feed seemed to be malfunctioning, as only a loud hum was broadcast over the auditorium’s sound system. In addition, the student-run camera was focused on only one of the rooms, and on two of the contestants: Nikki Brimfield-Smith and the Brookview’s pastry chef, Joann Gibson. Both were French trained, and both had a shot at winning. Dressed in chef whites, they both looked good on camera, but it was Nikki who, every so often, gave sly looks in Larry Andrews’s direction.

  “She could be a little less obvious,” Angelica quipped.

  “I’ll say.”

  With the static camera angle, the competition was pretty dull, but Tricia consoled herself with the fact t
hat the money the school collected would buy new equipment to help its future moviemakers and broadcasters and those sponsoring the contestants would be giving money to local charities.

  Several times Tricia found her head drooping, as it was hard to stay alert with the lack of action and sound and the rising temperature in the auditorium. She felt sorry for the kids who had to endure assemblies during the warmer months of the school year.

  When the hour had passed, the bakers were given a signal, and their arms flew into the air. Time was up. The bakers surrendered their cupcakes to the judges and then finally a break was called while they set up the shots for the judging. A screech of feedback assaulted their ears, and then the sound was finally available again. The audience broke into cheers, whistles, and a hearty round of applause.

  “About time,” Angelica muttered.

  They watched and heard many voices speaking over one another as the makeup crew descended and gave everyone a quick touch-up while the judges conferred off camera.

  At last, the student camera was moved to take in the judging area, with more audio squawks before settling down once again. The judges stood in front of a green screen. That meant that before the network broadcast they were going to add a different background than the bland classroom behind them. They stood gravely in front of the linen-clad table covered with beautifully decorated cupcakes, and then the elimination began.

  Tricia didn’t know the first four contestants, who must have come from restaurants and bakeries from the greater southern New Hampshire area. She watched with growing agitation as Booked for Lunch’s short-order cook, Tommy, came up to be judged. She was pulling for him. All his baked goods at the little retro café were more pedestrian than what Nikki or Joann made, but they were delicious just the same. Alexa from the Coffee Bean was next, and, of course, her entry was a mocha cupcake. Nikki and Joann were next, and just as Tricia had expected, the real competition was between the two of them.

  The three judges were poker-faced during the segment, but then finally Andrews stepped forward. “It’s been a tough decision. Everyone put forth a cupcake worthy of praise, but two of the contestants stand out. Nikki Brimfield and Joann Gibson, will you please step forward?”

  Tricia could only imagine the looks of disappointment on the other contestants’ faces, but thanks to the static picture, the audience wasn’t privy to that view. Nikki and Joann moved to stand in front of the judges.

  “Joann, your hibiscus, mango, peach, and rum cupcake was a tour de force of taste, but the judges felt you got a little carried away with the rum.”

  A definite “aww” echoed through the auditorium, but everyone knew what that meant. Joann’s head dipped ever so slightly, but she forced a smile. “Thank you, Chef.”

  Andrews turned his attention to the other finalist. “Nikki, your crème brûlée cupcake was a breath of fresh air in this hot and stuffy kitchen. The taste was there, and the custard center hit the bull’s-eye. Therefore, you, Nikki Brimfield, are the winner of the professional portion of the Great Booktown Bake-Off.”

  The applause was sincere, but it was obvious that despite the popularity of her bakery, Nikki wasn’t the audience’s darling. And there was no mistaking the rather snarky smile that crossed her features. As the applause died, Tricia saw Russ Smith get up from his seat and trudge up the aisle. His expression was dour. Was he unhappy that his former wife had won the professional portion of the Bake-Off or that she’d dropped his surname?

  Andrews handed Nikki a gold trophy in the shape of a cupcake and she held it up over her head in triumph.

  The director called “Cut,” and everyone “on the set” seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The director then turned to the student camera to address the members of the audience. “We’ll be having an impromptu press conference and picture-taking opportunity in front of the school in fifteen minutes. See you there.” As his words died in the air, the big screen went dark.

  “Well, that should prove interesting,” Angelica said, but Tricia doubted she meant it.

  Around them, people rose to their feet and started filing out of the auditorium. Tricia and Angelica remained seated. Who wanted to stand around in the hot sun for a quarter of an hour or more?

  “Well, what do you think?” Tricia asked.

  “I think I’m going to give Joann a raise just for putting up with that pompous Larry Andrews.”

  Aha! So Angelica had changed her mind and now thought the celebrity chef had feet of clay. It wasn’t really surprising.

  “And?” Tricia prompted.

  “I’d sure like to try that cupcake she made.”

  “I meant what do you think about Nikki winning?”

  “The way she made eyes at Chef Andrews? Well, if I was going to be catty—which I would never do—I’d say I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’ll meet him for drinks—and more—at his hotel room later this evening.”

  “Meow,” Tricia agreed. “Are you going to hang around for the picture taking?”

  “And watch Nikki preen? No, thanks.”

  “I think I will.”

  “Going for a photo op with her?” Angelica asked.

  “No way. I just want to see what happens.”

  “You don’t think she or anyone else in the competition had anything to do with Vera Olson’s death, do you?”

  “Of course not. But Pixie has everything under control at Haven’t Got a Clue, so I won’t be missed if I stay away a little bit longer.”

  Angelica eyed her sister. “No, I don’t suppose you will.”

  Tricia was about to ask for further clarification on that, but then Angelica stood. Tricia rose, too, and followed her out of the auditorium and into the cooler corridor, where the students were hawking the last of their breakfast leftovers. They passed by them and filed out into the hot, trampled schoolyard.

  “What are you going to do now?” Tricia asked.

  “Head to the day spa. I’m sure I can find something to do there, and, of course, I always have tons of e-mails, contracts, and sales catalogs to go through for my other businesses.”

  “Are we having dinner together?”

  “Darling girl, when do we not?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia smiled. “I’ll see you later.”

  She watched as Angelica started down the sidewalk before gravitating to the shade under one of the large maples that populated the front of the school. The crowd that waited was a lot smaller than she had anticipated, and she didn’t find any familiar faces among them. To kill time, she took out her phone to check her e-mail and phone messages and, to her disappointment, found nothing pressing.

  It was just about the estimated fifteen minutes after the competition had ended when most of the contestants filed out of the building. It looked like several reporters—probably from Nashua or Concord—had made it to the Bake-Off and would probably be filing stories, possibly with pictures, but it didn’t take long for the losers to be dismissed as unimportant, and none of the newspeople seemed particularly interested in meeting and interviewing them.

  “Tricia,” said a familiar male voice, and she turned around to find Antonio standing behind her.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to congratulate my pastry chef for coming in second. I consider it an honor and I wish to convey that sentiment to Chef Gibson as well.”

  “Were you in the auditorium for the whole Bake-Off?”

  “Just for the last ten minutes or so.” He flashed his pink bracelet to show that he, too, had coughed up ten bucks to benefit the students’ television arts campaign.

  “You should have come and sat with Angelica and me.”

  He waved a hand. “It would have been disruptive.”

  She nodded. “You must have stepped out as soon as it ended.”

  “Yes, I needed to make som
e calls.” He looked up. “Ah, and here she comes now. Would you mind taking our picture? I would like to share it with the rest of the kitchen staff.”

  “Of course.”

  Tricia followed her nephew to the bottom of the stairs, but a reporter intercepted the Brookview’s pastry chef and they had to wait two or three minutes before Joann was free to join them.

  Antonio greeted his employee, introduced her to “my dear friend Tricia,” then handed his cell phone to Tricia. She took several shots before handing his phone back.

  “I’m so sorry your entry didn’t come in first, Joann. It sounded fantastic.”

  “Some of our customers like it,” she said modestly.

  “Which is a lie. Everyone loves it. The last time it was served at a bridal shower, the guests begged for the recipe,” Antonio said.

  “And did you give it to them?”

  “Of course not. It’s my strategy to entice the bride to book her wedding reception with us.”

  They all laughed and then Antonio turned to Joann. “May I walk you back to your car?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “I will see you later, Tricia,” Antonio said.

  “It was nice meeting you, Joann,” Tricia said, and then watched them walk to the sidewalk and head south for the municipal parking lot.

  Just then, Tricia recognized another familiar face in the crowd—Rebecca Shore from the Pets-A-Plenty shelter. “Rebecca! Rebecca!”

  Rebecca turned at the sound of her name and Tricia hurried over to intercept her. “Hi. You’re just the person I was hoping to run into.”

  “Really?”

  “I wanted to let you know that last week I spoke to one of the volunteers at Pets-A-Plenty and she had some serious concerns about Monterey Bioresources.”