Killer Thanksgiving Pie (Pies and Pages Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you, of all people, know that better than most.”

  “It’s true, I don’t think I could hear those words in anyone else’s tone of voice but yours,” she joked with a biting sarcasm.

  Mannor grunted unhappily in return. “Maybe if you kept your nose out of police business, like I’ve warned you on multiple occasions, you wouldn’t have to hear me say it.”

  “Look, would you rather I hadn’t reported this theft? Huh? I could have just acted like so many other people and said, ‘It’s none of my business’.”

  “No, of course you should report a crime when you see it. However, after you’ve made you report and given me a statement, your job is done.”

  “Clearly, that isn’t the case, since you’re taking me along to the college.”

  He tapped the steering wheel with a flat hand. “You’re an eyewitness. It’s your job to help identify the suspect so I can make the proper steps to bring him in.” Pulling up into the campus’ administration lot, he took the liberty of parking in the official campus security designated spot. Putting the car into park, he turned off the engine. “Now, from here on out, no more questions. Just do as you’re told, and we won’t have any more problems.”

  “Fine by me,” she sighed, wishing she didn’t have to spend part of her day with the irritable man. She knew he had saved her life on one occasion, but she wasn’t sure that gave him the right to treat her so harshly.

  She knew she had a way of pushing his buttons, and he certainly pushed hers, but did that mean he had to constantly treat her like such a nuisance?

  “Follow me, don’t say anything unless I tell you to,” he ordered, stepping out into the snow.

  Groaning inwardly, Bert followed suit, straining to figure out how to smooth things over with the detective. She hoped she could keep from opening her mouth and fighting back against him. Unfortunately, that was just her nature.

  Walking into the building’s lobby, the detective seemed to intrinsically know his way to the Records and Registration office.

  “Good afternoon. How may I . . .” The young woman behind the desk let her voice trail off as she saw the detective holding out his badge.

  “My name’s Detective Mannor. I need to talk to your supervisor.”

  “R-Right away officer,” she stuttered, heading off to the back room. A few moments later, a man with a large belly and wearing a tweed jacket walked out of the room. The big bushy mustache couldn’t hide his genial smile.

  “Detective Mannor. Good to see you. What can I do for you this fine day?”

  “Carl, we’re looking for a young man who attends this college, first name Skylar.”

  The man clasped his hands in front of himself. “Is he in some sort of trouble, detective?”

  “He may be a key witness in a homicide case,” Mannor replied without mentioning the theft at the camera shop.

  “I see. Why don’t you step into my office and we can have a look?”

  Detective Mannor bowed slightly in thanks and followed the man behind the counter. Bert stayed close behind.

  “Oh, is she with you?” the supervisor asked, eyeballing Bert with one eyebrow raised in suspicion. The expression made him appear like a villain from an old silent movie.

  “She’s an eye witness who can identify the boy we’re looking for.”

  “Very well,” he agreed, opening the door and allowing them entry into his cramped office space. It was cluttered with various files, folders, papers, and food wrappers. The walls were lined with photographs of all of the different department heads. Many of them weren’t straight and it bothered Bert to no end.

  How such an unorganized and cluttered man could keep a job at a well-respected college was beyond her.

  “Go ahead, have a seat.”

  The detective and Bert both slid into the uncomfortable wooden chairs.

  “Now, what did you say this young man’s name was?”

  “Uh, Skylar,” Bert announced.

  “First name?” he pressed.

  “That’s correct,” the detective confirmed.

  “And last name?”

  Bert glanced over at Mannor, but he offered her no help. “I don’t know the last name.”

  That eyebrow shot up dramatically again, making the supervisor look silly. “You don’t have his full name? How in the dickens do you expect me to be able to help you that way?”

  “All I got was a first name,” she admitted.

  “Well, there could be fifty Skylar’s alone at this school.”

  Mannor leaned forward on the desk, an old chocolate wrapper crinkling under one elbow. “Do you have pictures on file?”

  “Well, of course we do. That’s how we make the student IDs.”

  “Then, we’ll just have to look through all those images, if you don’t mind pulling them up.” He put on his best smile, which wasn’t very convincing. He’d done a better job looking happy with Shiv—probably because he liked her more.

  Giving a groan of complaint, the man agreed and typed in the search into the system. “There, you see. Just over twenty names,” he turned the computer screen toward them, showing a list of images and names.

  “It isn’t fifty, is it?” Detective Mannor retorted.

  Bert nearly laughed out loud upon hearing this comment, hardly able to believe her ears. Had the detective just made a biting joke? She guessed that even he had a tiny sense of humor.

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Hannah. See if you recognize any of the photos.”

  Nodding, she began the process of slowly examining each face to see if anyone matched the young man she’d seen at the camera store. It was only about five in when she spotted him. “There,” she said with a point of her finger.

  Mannor leaned in and read the name. “Skylar Roundhouse. Communications department.”

  Bert instinctively started looking at the images on the wall for the head of the communications department. She assumed he would want to know about the student’s criminal behavior.

  “So, there he is,” the supervisor mumbled.

  “Now, was that so hard?” the detective pointed out. “Now, do you mind calling up his address for me?”

  “I’d usually require a warrant for this kind of information,” he complained, but not stopping the process of pulling up the information.

  Finally, Bert’s eyes rested on the communication director and she gasped loudly. “Detective,” she exclaimed.

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Hannah,” he instructed, pulling out his notepad as he watched the screen.

  “Detective, you need to look at this.”

  “Let me copy this information,” he told her.

  “Detective,” she insisted, pulling on his sleeve.

  “What, Mrs. Hannah?” he snapped, frustrated at being interrupted.

  “That man in the picture, the head of the communication department. Does he look familiar?” she pointed up at the portrait on the wall.

  Mannor’s eyes followed the path of her finger, his gaze resting on the man’s face. Instantly, he recognized him. “Is that?”

  “Our murder victim,” Bert confirmed.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  “Where is the communications director?” Mannor demanded, putting his hands on his desk and looking the mousy man in the face.

  “I thought you were looking for this Skyler?”

  “This is important. Where is the communications director?”

  “Well, like most of the staff, he’s probably off celebrating his Thanksgiving. There is only a handful of us left on campus this weekend, mostly doing catchup work.”

  “Are you positive he’s out with family?”

  “I have no idea. I can look up the notes on his file, if you want.”

  “Please,” the detective insisted with a strained smile of politeness.

  After a few more taps of the keys and a click of the mouse, he had the file pulled up. “It looks like he’s on sa
bbatical this semester to work on a research project.”

  “What project?” Mannor insisted.

  “I don’t know. His specialty is journalism, so maybe he’s trying to compile some info on a story—probably something big.”

  “Wait a minute, did you say journalism?” Bert pressed, jumping into the conversation.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  Bert glanced up at Mannor. “I think I have an idea of what’s going on, Detective.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “I’d have to confirm my theory first. Maybe he kept some sort of notes, took some pictures, anything to point us in the right direction.”

  “Can’t you just tell me?” he asked.

  “If I’m wrong. . .” she let her voice trail off.

  Mannor, without even a second thought, turned to the man behind the desk. “I need access to the communication director’s office.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, they were in the communication department’s main office, facing the director’s doorway as Carl slipped the master key in and unlatched the lock.

  “Now, don’t touch a darn thing. I’ll do the looking,” he ordered Bert while shaking his index finger at her.

  “Not a problem,” she agreed. They were finally hot on the right trail, it seemed. If it meant finally catching this murderer once and for all, she’d try to follow the detective’s instructions to a T.

  As the door swung open, the detective charged in.

  “I usually would need a search warrant for this too,” the chubby man muttered under his breath, but Bert heard him.

  “Then why let the detective in, if you’re so worried about it?”

  He put up both hands defensively. “I’m not. I just don’t want a big hassle over all this.”

  Bert rolled her eyes and walked in behind Mannor. Every wall of the office was lined with shelves of books, folders, and photography equipment. The desk itself had a name plaque, along with papers, pens, and files.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he reminded her.

  “You already said that,” she returned with her own snappy remark.

  He was already opening the filing cabinet and flipping through files for anything that might stick out. “And yet, somehow, you don’t always seem to listen to me when I tell you to do something.”

  She scanned over the room for anything strange or unique that stood out to her. An image, even a word or phrase, might lead them in the right direction.

  The detective moved over to the desk, sat in the chair, and began opening the drawers and rifling through them.

  At that same moment, a manila folder on the corner of the desk caught Bert’s eye. It was labeled with one singular word: Poison. Without another thought, she picked it up and opened it. The news clippings, images, and notes led her to the correct conclusion. “Hey, I think this is it. This is what we are looking for.”

  “I told you not to touch anything.”

  “Just as I thought. He went undercover as a homeless man to look into these poisonings.”

  “What? Give me that,” he blurted out.

  She went on reading without giving it to him. “And . . .” she paused, her breath catching in her chest.

  “What? What did he find?”

  “He tracked the deaths, the poisonings, back to the soup kitchen.” She hated the implications of what this could mean. Andie had strict rules about non-volunteers not coming behind the counter into the kitchen. The only volunteer who was consistent enough to continually poison the soup was Shiv. “She has to be bringing the poison in, in her pockets, her purse, something like that, since the kitchen doesn’t have any of its own,” she whispered.

  The detective snatched the paperwork from her hands and scanned over it. “Come on. We’re going down to that kitchen right this instant.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  “Stay in the car,” Detective Mannor ordered Bert as they pulled onto the street just outside the alleyway. The police tape was still in place and Bert’s car was still sitting where it had been left the day before.

  “Now, wait a minute.”

  “Don’t argue with me. It was bad enough that you came into the victim’s office, and that you were touching things.” He popped open his door.

  “Hey, you didn’t stop me,” she retorted, knowing it was a useless dispute.

  “And now I am. Stay here.”

  “But, I’m the one who figured this all out.”

  “And I’m the professional police detective, so stay put,” he demanded, sliding out and making his way under the tape. A moment later, he disappeared inside the back door.

  Sighing, Bert slumped down in the passenger seat while she waited. What did he expect to find in there? Rat poison? If so, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Andie had specifically said she never kept any rat poison on the premises.

  If Shiv was adding the poison to the soup or other foods in the kitchen, she was sneaking it in.

  The one thing that was still majorly bothering Bert was why? Why would a young woman like that, someone who had relied on charitable services such as the soup kitchen, also try and kill others in the same situation?

  Did she have some sort of hidden grudge under the surface, hiding behind the gentle and pretty exterior?

  Shaking her head, Bert opened her door to let the chilly late autumn air into the car. She breathed deeply, drinking in the crisp freshness of the day, something that seemed to help ease her stress around this whole chaotic situation.

  Swinging her feet out of the car, she stood up and let out a heavy breath and it turned to steam in the air in front of her.

  A light honk on a car horn caused her to jump, ripping her from her deep thoughts. Spinning toward the back end of the police car, she was surprised to see Andie parked there, smiling and waving.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Bert walked over as the passenger window was rolled down.

  “Hey, Bert, what are you doing standing out here?” Andie asked.

  “I got stuck tagging along while the detective went in to do some more snooping around. We think we’ve almost got this case solved.”

  “Well, thank heaven for that. I would prefer to have my soup kitchen in good working order before the rush of the Christmas season hits us full swing. I was just dropping by to see if they were done with things.”

  “And I'd like to have my car back,” Bert agreed with a slight laugh.

  “Speaking of, do you need a ride back to your shop? Does the detective need you to stick around?”

  “I doubt it,” she noted, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

  For a moment, Bert considered whether or not she should tell the detective that she was leaving. Finally, she decided that he would likely be happier to find out that she was gone. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled that I’m not sitting around in his car.”

  “Shall we, then?” Andie laughed.

  “We shall.”

  Putting the car back into drive, Andie pulled out onto the street and continued along the snowy pavement toward Old Market. “So, what is it that you and the detective discovered? You said he was getting close to an answer?”

  “Only because I helped him,” she pointed out.

  “If I’m not mistaken, Bert, you’ve helped out a couple times now.”

  “Detective Mannor hardly seems happy about it, trust me. If I was smart, I’d just keep my nose out of it.”

  Andie glanced over at her friend. “Why don’t you? I mean, what is your personal investment in the cases?”

  “Hey, when you find some poor person’s dead body, you just feel some sort of obligation to them.” She gave a little shrug. Opening her purse, she began to rifle through for her lip balm. The sudden onset of the cold weather had dried out her skin considerably. “If it wasn’t my personal friends who were always the ones involved, like you, I wouldn’t even bother. I’d butt out just like the detective wants.”

  Andie whistled a quiet laugh
. “You never were one to let someone in need go by, especially if you suspected some sort of injustice.”

  “I guess, that’s so,” she agreed, digging all the way to the bottom of her purse. She really didn’t care for purses. She liked things to be neat and orderly, but most purse designs made that impossible. Even if she always tried to keep her lip balm on the right inside pocket, it seemed to just fall out and get mixed in with everything else.

  “Missing something?”

  “My lip balm. This snow is really drying me out.”

  “I get it.”

  “Do you have any?” Bert asked, instinctively popping open the glove box to check inside.

  “Wait, don’t open that,” Andie shouted.

  It was too late. Bert paused with her heart hammering in her chest as she stared at the odd and unexpected contents inside.

  Laying among some scattered papers and receipts was a box of rat poison along with a bloody kitchen knife.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Bert’s voice was hesitant, like dry cotton was caught in her throat, before she could manage to whisper her question. “Andie? What is all this?”

  “I-It isn’t what it looks like,” her friend argued, reaching over and slamming the glove box shut.

  “Then what is it, Andie? Because it looks like you’ve got a bloody knife in your car—maybe the knife used to stab that poor man in the alleyway.”

  Turning the car down the road at the next intersection, Andie sped up her pace along the icy pavement. “Look, I found the knife in Shiv’s purse, so I took it and hid it here in my car.”

  “But why? Why not just hand it off to the police?” Bert noticed they were no longer heading the direction of the Old Market district.

  “Shiv is a great volunteer. She’s like a daughter to me. Even if she killed the guy, I couldn’t let her take the fall for it.”