Custom Baked Murder

by Liz Mugavero

  Stan poked her head in, called out, “Hello?” Scott sometimes stayed here and she didn’t want to invade his privacy.

  But no one answered, so she went in. Jessie followed, dropping onto a chair at the kitchen table. She placed her beer in front of her and stared at it. Stan closed the door behind her and surveyed the room, noticing the female touches that hadn’t been here when it was Jake’s bachelor pad—fresh flowers in a vase on the counter, a modern wooden bowl filled with fruit on the kitchen table. The room smelled like apple cider. She noticed a half-burned Yankee candle on a small table in the hall. It always felt homey when Jake lived here, but Brenna’s touch turned it into something completely new.

  She pulled out the chair opposite Jessie and sat. “What’s going on?”

  “With what?”

  “With you! Since when do you drink beer? And why aren’t you working?” If she hadn’t been so puzzled, she would’ve seen the irony of asking this question when most of the time people asked Jessie why she was still working.

  “It’s my weekend off,” Jessie said sarcastically.

  “Is Marty here?”

  Jessie sniffed. “No. Why? Am I not allowed out unless Marty’s with me?”

  “I figured you’d be working on the murder. Or sleeping.”

  Jessie said nothing.

  Oookay. “Anyway, I need your help.” Stan leaned forward across the table. “It’s about Richard.”

  Jessie sat up abruptly, her knee banging the table and causing her beer to slosh over the edge of the mug. She cursed and rubbed her leg.

  “Jeez. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Jessie said through gritted teeth. “But forget Richard. He’s in custody. It’s over.” She picked up the beer and took a long swig, unable to hide the grimace as she swallowed.

  Stan reached across the table and pulled the beer mug out of her reach. “Jessie. What is wrong with you? You haven’t even heard what I have to say. Listen, Richard is a jerk. Trust me, I know this. But he’s not a killer. Eleanor was . . . not the most popular person on earth. He can’t be the only choice from that crowd.”

  “Maybe not, but I have someone on record who saw him arguing with her. ‘Screaming,’ was the actual quote. Then he takes off in a snit and shows up looking like he just wrestled an alligator, with some lame excuse about chasing Tony’s cat.”

  “Tony’s cat? Tony has a cat? My mother’s never mentioned that. Who heard them arguing? About what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jessie interrupted. “Forget it. Forget all of it. Last night is not your problem. It’s not mine anymore, either.”

  “I think you need to get some sleep. You’re not making any sense. Why don’t you go take a nap? I’m sure Brenna won’t mind if you crash here for a while. Want me to find you a blanket?” She rose to go check the living room for a blanket and pillow, but Jessie stopped her.

  “Stan. Get it through your thick head.” She took a deep breath. “I’m off the case.”

  Chapter 22

  Stan froze, the words floating into her brain but not really sinking in. “I . . . don’t understand.”

  “Join the club,” Jessie muttered. “The official word is, ‘Given the sensitivity and high-profile nature we thought it best to turn this one fully over to Major Crimes.’ Which I translated to, ‘We’re closing this no matter what and we don’t want you effing it up.’”

  Stan sank back down in her chair, finally getting it. “They’re protecting somebody. Not somebody,” she corrected herself. “Tony. From the publicity.” Or something else.

  Jessie covered her face with her hands. “I hate hearing that out loud. I hate even thinking it. But it’s the only thing I can come up with. And there’s diddly-squat I can do about it.”

  “But listen. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I just left Izzy’s.” Stan recounted Izzy’s story about Eleanor and Curtis Wallace. “Wallace was at the party. That’s enough to at least look at him, I would think. Not to mention . . .” She hesitated. “Tony’s convenient absence. It doesn’t sit well.”

  “In any other situation, that would be enough to at least question someone,” Jessie said. “But they think they have their man. Case closed. And unless I want to be totally out of a job, I can’t say a word.” She laughed bitterly. “Do you know how mad that makes me? I became a police officer because I believe in justice. And now the people I look up to are—” She broke off. “Maybe I’m in the wrong job after all.”

  “Jess. You’re not. Listen to me. You can make them listen.” Stan reached across the table and grabbed Jessie’s arm. “You just need to figure out what really happened. You were at the party before I got there. Did you see anyone arguing with her? Did you notice her? Was she behaving oddly? You’ve got a sixth sense for crime. I feel like I missed whatever happened to set this off, and when I finally got there I was too busy getting yelled at by my mother and confronting the rest of my old coworkers to notice anything weird.”

  Jessie stared at her, then shook her head, pulling her arm away. “Honestly, for once in my life I didn’t have crime on my mind. I was trying not to be miserable in that ridiculous getup while Marty ran around gawking at the house. And you’re wrong, Stan. I don’t usually feel like my hands are tied, but this is different. This is my captain saying, Leave it alone.”

  “Somebody had to have heard something last night,” Stan said, more to herself than Jessie. “Something other than her and Richard fighting. She fought with everyone. Jesse, I don’t think Richard did it.”

  “Then I hope he has a good lawyer,” Jessie said.

  Frustrated, Stan folded her arms over her chest. “You’re not a quitter. And you hate corruption. Are you really going to let them do this?”

  “What can I do?” Jessie challenged. “I just told you, I have no authority to even look into this anymore. My boss made it pretty clear—he catches me going down any other avenue, I’m dead meat. I’m already in trouble because of the newspaper story. They’re convinced I tipped off Cyril. Because none of the other hundred people there could’ve mentioned the state police presence at the party and the woman who never came out of the bathroom. And like half the town doesn’t have the police scanner app.” She rolled her eyes. “By the way, can you get in touch with Monica? I have her phone that I still can’t get into. Left a message with the grandmother but no one’s called me back.”

  “I’m sure I can find her. But Jess, you can’t just drop this. No way.” Stan rose and walked around the room. “Wait. You said if he catches you.”

  “Me, Sturgis, Colby, any of us peons. Anyone not authorized to work on this. When I asked for the list of authorized people, I got one name.”

  “So anyone on the state police payroll can’t look into it.”

  Warily, Jessie nodded. “Right.”

  Stan shrugged. “I’m not on their payroll. And you can give me advice.”

  Jessie’s eyes almost popped out of her head. She stood up so fast her chair tipped over. “No way. You’re crazy. You’re not getting involved. Did you hear what I said? This one’s high stakes.”

  “Why not? Someone has to if there’s a chance an innocent person will go to jail!”

  “Why not? I’ll tell you why not.” Jessie ticked points off on her fingers. “First, my brother will kill me. Second, you’ll probably get yourself killed. Or else you’ll get me fired. Do you really need more reasons than that? Stan, I’m telling you. Just forget about it. You don’t even know for sure he’s innocent.”

  “I can’t,” Stan insisted. “And I know you can’t, either. But if you won’t help me, I’ll have to figure it out myself. And I’ll start with Wallace.”

  Jessie grabbed her ponytail in one hand, tugging on it so hard Stan was afraid she’d yank it out of her head, and stalked around the small room. She reminded Stan of a captive zoo animal who hadn’t yet gotten used to its enclosure. “You’re impossible. You make my life a million times harder than it needs to be. You know that, right?”
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br />   Stan held Jessie’s gaze, not giving in.

  “Wallace is a moron anyway. He’s about as dangerous as a ladybug. If I was still allowed to investigate my own case, I’d be all over Tony like flies at a picnic.”

  Stan raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t like his answer about where he was all day?”

  “Like it? I didn’t get a chance to like it or not. I never got an answer. But nobody cares about that.” Disgusted, she stalked another lap around the kitchen.

  “I’m fully capable of being discreet,” Stan said.

  “And how exactly do you plan on gathering this information?” Jessie demanded. “You’re just going to ask Wallace what he and the dead woman were fighting about and figure he’ll tell you? Same with Tony about where he was all day?”

  Already tried that, Stan thought, but didn’t say it. “Actually, I do know what I’m going to do with Tony.”

  Jessie raised an eyebrow, her foot tapping a staccato beat on the floor. “I can’t wait to hear.”

  Stan smiled. The idea came as she watched Jessie pace the floor. Divine wisdom. Or a mental illness finally showing its symptoms. “I would think,” she said slowly, “given the media interest this is sure to get, that Tony would need to be well prepared in how to handle that. Given his prior track record.”

  Jessie looked puzzled, then it dawned on her. “Oh man. You wouldn’t.”

  Stan spread her hands wide. “What? Clearly, he’s going to have a job opening for an executive coach now.” The thought made her stomach turn, but it made the most sense. An insider had the best chance of finding out what really happened last night, especially if Tony and his political cronies were involved. If she put her acting hat on and pretended to be concerned, she could be that insider with no problem. Her mother would be delighted. She wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  Plus, Stan owed it to her mother to find out if Tony wasn’t who he appeared to be. She hoped she wouldn’t find out anything, but still. And figuring out who killed Eleanor and freeing an innocent man were also good motivators.

  Jessie blew out a long, resigned breath, but some of the fire had returned to her green eyes. “You’re gonna do what you want anyway. I may as well make sure you don’t get into too much trouble.”

  Stan grinned. “I appreciate it. Here.” She pushed the beer at Jessie. “Finish your beer and let’s go back down before someone notices we’re missing.”

  Jessie wrinkled her nose. “You can have it. I don’t even like beer.”

  Chapter 23

  Jessie went downstairs first, not wanting to draw attention to their huddle. Paranoia, certainly, but Stan obliged. While she waited the instructed five minutes, she poured the remnants of Jessie’s beer down the sink and rinsed out the mug, pondering these latest developments.

  Tony had influence. Enough influence that the state police seemed willing to make a bad arrest to keep the heat off him. But why? She’d seen him slipping out with the captain. It hadn’t looked like trouble. It looked . . . cozy. He had to have pull somewhere. Or knew someone’s dirty little secret.

  Stan kicked herself for not making an effort to get to know Tony, either as her mayor or her future—she gulped at the thought—stepfather. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and things got more awkward when her mother started dating him. Given the instability of her own relationship with her mother, she’d been content to try to ignore the whole thing. Now she realized how little she knew about this man who was dangerously close to becoming part of her family.

  But someone had to have looked into him. Cyril Pierce, for one. A background check at the very least. Tony couldn’t have gotten away with running the mayoral race if he had a criminal record. She racked her brain to that time nearly a year ago, trying to remember if she’d read any of the inevitable background stories done when a new candidate came to town. So much else had been going on, though, that she couldn’t recall. She made a mental note to ask Cyril as soon as possible. Financial questions were at the top of her list. Even a salary of $50K was pushing it. So where’d he get the funds for his fancy house?

  Another disturbing thought pushed through her subconscious. What if her mother was the one with the influence? She certainly had money. Would her mother really sink so low as to bribe the police? She was a lot of things, but dishonest had never been one of them. Unless she’d been pushed beyond her breaking point. But what was her breaking point?

  The disturbing image of Eleanor with the diamond ring in her mouth kept flashing in front of her eyes. If that got out, people would automatically assume her mother discovered Tony and Eleanor having an affair and taken matters into her own hands.

  She shivered and turned to go downstairs, then realized she wasn’t alone in the kitchen. She jumped, bobbling the beer mug, gasping in surprise.

  “Sorry, Stan!” Scott, Brenna’s boyfriend, rushed to catch the heavy glass, dropping a pile of clothes he carried. Stan reached for it, too. Both of them missed and it fell with a thud. At least it didn’t shatter.

  Scott grimaced and picked it up, examining it for cracks before handing it back to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry about that.”

  “No, my fault. I’m sure you weren’t expecting someone to be in here.” Stan took a breath and willed her heart to stop pounding. Who did you think it was, Tony coming to get you? she chided herself.

  Scott scooped up his clothes and straightened. “The door was open and I knew Brenna was downstairs. I thought some drunk person had wandered up.”

  “No, just me. I . . . wasn’t feeling well,” she lied. “I came up here to get away from the crowd for a minute.”

  “Don’t apologize. You want to sit down?” Scott asked, concerned. “Brenna’s on her way up. Here, I can make you some tea or something. Do you need food?”

  Stan smiled. “No. Thank you. I’m fine, really. I feel much better now.”

  “You sure? Bren will be mad at me if I let you leave feeling sick.”

  “Yes. Honestly. It was a long night and I didn’t get much sleep. I better get back downstairs. Are you coming down for the competition?”

  “I am. I came up to change. I had to go in to work unexpectedly this morning.” He held up the clothes as if proof of this statement.

  “On Sunday?” Stan frowned, searching her memory for his profession. Something to do with social work, if she recalled correctly.

  “I’m a counselor,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I work with people in recovery from addiction, mostly. And since we’re short-staffed, I also work with the agency that supports people with mental illness. Often the two go hand in hand.” He shrugged. “Jack-of-all-trades. Plus, I need the overtime. Which sometimes means I work weekends, usually when people are in crisis.”

  “That must be tough,” Stan said.

  “Tougher for them than me. Like this client I had to see this morning. Sad.” He shook his head, his face clouding over.

  Stan thought he had kind eyes behind the hip black glasses he wore. They were a chocolate brown that reminded her of Scruffy’s. He was cute in an outdoorsy way with sun-streaked, brownish hair and a perpetual tan. He smiled a lot, too. And anyone could tell he completely adored Brenna. “What agency do you work for?” she asked.

  “Safe Harbor in Hartford. I travel around the greater Hartford area. But I’m hopefully getting a new job on this side of the state, so I don’t have to travel as much. Plus, it would be a supervisor job.” He tossed his clothes over the back of the chair. “That way I can be around to help Brenna, too, since she’s working so many jobs.”

  “That’s great. Good luck,” Stan said.

  “She’s really excited about your shop,” Scott said. “I told her to tell you, if you guys need anything let me know. I’m pretty handy. I can save you some money.”

  “Thank you,” Stan said, delighted. “So sweet of you to offer. I’m sure we’ll take you up on it.”

  “I hope so. See you downstairs.”

  Stan returned to the packed pub
. The tantalizing smells were even more intense than before—vegetables steeping in broth, traces of garlic lingering in the air. She could almost forget the stew ingredients if she didn’t actually see them. She saw Jake behind the bar. He caught her eye. She blew him a kiss, then moved into the heart of the crowd gathered near the stews.

  The different groups cooking the stew chose charities to support with their entry fees and, hopefully, their winnings. The grand prize winner got two thousand dollars for their charity. Stan scanned the participating groups. Betty Meany and Lorinda, one of the librarians, stood proudly behind the Frog Ledge Library table with their stew, spooning out samples for the guests. Amara and Vincent, Stan’s neighbors and the owners of the town vet clinic, were set up next to them. Amara fussed over her pot, sniffing and adding dashes of salt and pepper. Izzy Sweet’s Sweets had one also, although Izzy wasn’t manning the table. One of her baristas, Kayleigh, looked like she was taking stew duty seriously, making notes on a pad in front of her. The local Rotary Club, the Girl Scouts, and the senior center occupied the next tables. Stan squinted at the last sign. The state police? Jessie hadn’t mentioned that.

  A man stood behind the table, carefully filling a paper cup for a waiting customer. He looked vaguely familiar. As he finished spooning and handed the cup over with a smile, Stan recognized him. The new-to-town officer who’d been at her mother’s last night. Colby. He looked different without his hat and police gear. Guess they were all looking for something to fill their time since their investigation had been shelved.