Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  Aunt Abby! Was she all right? Had Dillon arrived to make sure she was safe?

  “Aunt Abby?” I answered, alarmed. “Are you okay? Is Dillon there?”

  Silence.

  “Aunt Abby!? Are you there? Has something happened?”

  More silence.

  “Aunt Abby! Talk to me!”

  The line went dead.

  I punched REDIAL. The call went to voice mail.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said, more to myself than to Livvy as she stepped back in the office. I looked at her. “You called the police?”

  She nodded. “They’re on their way. What’s the matter?”

  “My aunt . . . I’ve got to go. Will you be all right by yourself until they get here?”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll arrive in a few minutes. Go.”

  I ran from the room and out the back door, headed for my car. I hoped Livvy would be safe, but my priority was Aunt Abby. And the way things had been going, I didn’t want to take any chances. Even if Dillon was there, he was no Superman, unless it involved virtual fighting.

  As soon as I arrived at my car, I knew something was off. I glanced down at the front tire. It was flat. I checked the back tire. Also flat. As I rounded the car, I was sure I’d find two more flat tires.

  Obviously someone knew I was at the restaurant and had sent me another message, this time by disabling my car. Whoever it was had probably stuck a knife in the tires to flatten them.

  Great. Now what? I could call AAA and get a tow, but that would take an hour or so, time I didn’t have to spare. I could ask Livvy if I could borrow her car, but she was going to be dealing with the police. And if they came while I was here, I’d have to answer all kinds of questions. Again, I didn’t have the time. My only other option was to hail a cab.

  I walked down a couple of blocks, searching for a taxi, but all the ones that passed by were occupied, most likely by tourists. I finally caught one on Columbus and gave the driver directions to my aunt’s house. We passed the bustling Fisherman’s Wharf and North Beach areas, where the tourists were out in full force, sampling crab cocktails and checking out shops along the brightly lit street. I kept calling my aunt and Dillon, but the calls continued to go to voice mail.

  Totally panicked, I dialed 9-1-1.

  A voice came on the line. A recorded voice.

  I was put on hold.

  Seriously?

  I hung up, frustrated, then had a thought. I could call Jake. He’d offered to help if I needed it. I pulled his business card out of my purse, flipped on the interior cab light, and punched in his number as quickly as I could. I misdialed twice; third time was the charm.

  “Hello?”

  “Jake! It’s Darcy! I think my aunt is in trouble. . . . I just got a call from her and—Watch out!” I called to the cabdriver, who was trying to squeeze the car between a bus and a truck.

  “Darcy?”

  “Sorry. I’m in a cab headed for Aunt Abby’s and . . . Never mind. Anyway, can you meet me there as soon as possible? I think something’s seriously wrong. . . .”

  “You sound out of breath. Slow down, and tell me what happened.”

  I took a deep breath and explained everything I knew—the phone call from Aunt Abby, the four punctured tires, the unanswered call to the police. “Can you come?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Hurry!”

  I hung up and told the driver to hurry too. He stepped on the accelerator and took the corners like Vin Diesel in one of those Fast and Furious movies. I felt the tires skid a few times and heard the squeals, but I said nothing, too frantic about my aunt’s well-being. And Dillon’s.

  In spite of the cabdriver’s race-car maneuvers, it was nearly seven when we reached Aunt Abby’s house, thanks to the congested streets and crowds of pedestrians. All in all, I’d lost a lot of time.

  I got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran up the driveway of my aunt’s home. The house was completely dark. Not good. Was there any chance Aunt Abby had decided not to go home? If so, then where would she have gone? Where was Dillon? And why had she called?

  I debated about whether to call the police again, decided to try, and gave up when I was put on hold once more. I had no choice. If my aunt was inside, she could be in real trouble.

  I tiptoed up to the front door, peering into the dark window. No sign of anyone.

  Suddenly I heard barking. Basil!

  I tried the door. It opened.

  That wasn’t like my aunt. Even though she left the sliding glass door in the back unlocked for me, she never left her front door unlocked. I supposed Dillon could have done it—he’s that absentminded. But under the circumstances . . .

  Slowly, I pushed the door open. Basil barked wildly until he recognized me, but he still seemed agitated.

  “Aunt Abby?” I called before stepping inside.

  “Mmmphlrph!”

  At the muffled sound, I broke into a sweat, but I listened, trying to determine where the sound came from.

  “Aunt Abby?” I called again, glancing around for a sign of an intruder. I glanced down at Basil. “Where is she, boy?”

  A thud came from the kitchen area.

  I switched on the entryway light and ran toward the sound, then switched on the kitchen light. Basil was at my heels.

  The room was empty.

  “Aunt Abby!” I screamed, looking around for her. Basil made a beeline around the kitchen island.

  I heard a moan. From behind the island.

  I sped around the corner of the island and spotted my aunt. She was lying on the floor, tied up with duct tape, bound to a kitchen chair, with a flour sack over her head. It looked like she’d fallen over backward. Basil continued barking.

  “Hold on!” I said and knelt down, frantic to free her. I pulled off the bag and tugged the duct tape from her mouth, trying to reassure her. As soon as I cleared her airway, she coughed.

  “Aunt Abby! What happened? Are you all right?”

  She rolled her eyes, appearing dizzy and disoriented. Finally her eyes cleared and she spoke, “Darcy . . . Thank God you’re here. Find Dillon!”

  “As soon as I get you untied.” I worked at the tape that bound her hands and legs to the chair, then grabbed a large kitchen knife and cut through the tape. Moments later I had her free. She reached over and picked up her small dog.

  I helped her to a sitting position on the floor. With Basil on her lap, she rubbed her wrists, then massaged the back of her skull. “Oh, my head,” she said. “I fell over trying to scoot to the phone.” She lifted the dog and tried to get up. “I’ve got to find Dillon. Dillon!” she called.

  We both heard a muffled noise coming from the hall closet.

  “Help me up!” Aunt Abby said, putting the dog on the floor. I gave her a hand and she staggered for the closet. I followed, holding the knife in case I needed it for more than cutting through duct tape.

  Aunt Abby pulled open the closet door. Dillon was seated on the floor, his arms taped behind his back, his legs folded and taped together. His head was also covered with a flour bag. As soon as I pulled off the bag to reveal his duct-taped mouth, his wide eyes spoke volumes. While Aunt Abby removed the tape, I cut through the bindings that held his arms and legs. We had him free minutes later.

  “Dillon! What happened?” Aunt Abby knelt beside him, while Basil licked him.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Dillon said as he pushed himself to standing. He helped his mother up and looked her over. “Did they hurt you?”

  She rubbed her head. “No. I bumped my head when I fell over in the chair. I was trying to get to the phone.”

  “What happened?” I asked, relieved they were both alive and apparently well.

  Aunt Abby looked down at her hands. “I . . . guess I left the back door unlocked.”
/>   “What? I told you to lock up!” I cried.

  “I know, but I knew Dillon was coming over. Sometimes he doesn’t have his key. . . . I didn’t really expect . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “Anyway, I thought it was Dillon when I heard the door slide open, so I called out to him. A few seconds later someone put a bag over my head and tied me up. Then they duct-taped my mouth. I was so scared.”

  Dillon gave his mom a hug. “It’s okay, Mom. We’re all right.”

  “Great watchdog you are, Basil,” I said to the dog. I turned to Dillon. “You didn’t see or hear anything when you arrived?”

  “No . . . I came in through the back door and headed for the kitchen. That’s when someone pulled that cloth bag over my head. I tried to wrestle with him but I couldn’t see. He knocked me down and bound me with that tape and shoved me into the closet.”

  “At least he didn’t hurt Basil,” Aunt Abby said. She headed for the kitchen, Basil at her feet. “I think we could all use a glass of wine.”

  When we got there, I noticed a recipe card lying on the floor near where I’d found Aunt Abby. It must have blown off the counter at some point. I bent down and picked it up, flipped it over, and read the words scrawled in black marker.

  “Remember the rat? Next time it’ll be you.”

  “Oh dear God!” Aunt Abby said, spotting the message in my hand. She looked up at me.

  Dillon blinked, then ran to his bedroom. He returned moments later, looking relieved. “Ratty’s fine.”

  I shook my head. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t been sticking my nose into these murders, Aunt Abby and Dillon wouldn’t have been attacked. And if I hadn’t dawdled so long in the parking lot with Jake or at the restaurant with Livvy, I might have been here in time to deal with the intruder. I could feel tears forming and blinked several times to keep them at bay.

  “What’s taking Jake so long?” I said to myself.

  “You called Jake?” my aunt Abby asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “After I got your phone call. I was worried. I couldn’t get through to the police, so I asked him to come.”

  Aunt Abby looked puzzled. “What phone call?”

  “The one you made about thirty minutes ago. You didn’t say anything when I answered and when I called back, you still didn’t answer, so I had a feeling you were in trouble.”

  “I didn’t make any phone call,” my aunt said. “Not after I talked to Dillon and he told me he was headed home.”

  “But you had to have made that call,” I said. “Who else would it have been?”

  Aunt Abby ran into the kitchen. I followed her and found her digging through her purse.

  “What is it, Aunt Abby?” I asked.

  “My cell phone,” she answered, withdrawing her hand from her purse. “It was in here.”

  “Uh-oh,” Dillon said. He reached into his pockets. His hands came out empty. “My phone’s gone too. Whoever attacked us took our cell phones.”

  I shuddered. Why would someone do that?

  Where had that call—the one I thought was from Aunt Abby—actually come from?

  And who had made it?

  Chapter 20

  The doorbell rang, startling all of us. Basil barked. I jumped. Aunt Abby let out a little scream. And Dillon ran back to the closet, got in, and closed the door.

  “That’s Jake!” I said, rushing out of the room. At least I hoped it was Jake, I thought as I neared the front door. I slowed down and switched on the hall light, calling out, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Are you all right?”

  I looked through the peephole and was relieved to find it was indeed Jake. I yanked open the door and pulled him inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Basil wagged his tail.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jake said, eyeing me. He took me in his arms—and I let him. It felt good to be held.

  “Thank God you’re here! Someone broke into the house. . . .” I led him into the kitchen, where Aunt Abby was waiting with the large knife in her hand.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Abby. You can put the knife down.”

  Aunt Abby lowered the weapon and set it on the island counter, then plopped onto a stool, looking exhausted.

  “Dillon!” I called. “You can come out now. It’s just Jake.”

  The closet door creaked open. An eyeball appeared in the crack. The eyeball scanned the area; then the door opened the rest of the way and out stepped Dillon.

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked, glancing around at the three of us.

  I explained what I’d found when I’d arrived and showed him the note. Aunt Abby filled in the rest of the details. Dillon said nothing. Instead he helped himself to some leftover snickerdoodles Aunt Abby had brought home from her food bus.

  “You called the cops, I assume,” he said to me.

  “I tried, but all I got was a recorded message, so I gave up. That’s why I called you.”

  Jake pulled out his cell phone. I figured he was going to call 9-1-1, but he withdrew a business card from another pocket and tapped in a seven-digit number.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer me. Instead, he said into the phone, “Yeah, Detective Shelton? This is Jake Miller. I’m . . . friends with Abigail Warner. . . .”

  He paused, listening, then continued. “Right. I’m over at Mrs. Warner’s house. Someone broke into her place a while ago and tied her up and threatened her. Can you send somebody over?”

  I watched Jake’s face as he listened to the detective, trying to read his reaction to Shelton’s response, but other than the tight eyebrows, Jake’s expression masked his emotions.

  As soon as he hung up the phone, I asked, “What did he say?”

  “He’s coming over with a couple of crime techs. Said to stay put, keep the doors locked, and not touch anything.”

  Dillon swallowed the bite of cookie in his mouth, nearly choking on it, before managing to say, “I’m outta here.” He mumbled something more through the remaining crumbs, but I couldn’t make out his words.

  Jake shot him a look. “Shelton’s going to know you were here, Dillon. You’re part of this. You can’t go running off again.”

  “Oh no?” Dillon said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Watch me.”

  “Dillon!” Aunt Abby cried. “What should I tell Detective Shelton?”

  “Tell him I was here, but then I left and you don’t know where I went,” Dillon said. “Tell him I’m doing my own investigation since they obviously can’t seem to solve these murders and want to pin it on you and me. Tell him to go—”

  “Dillon! Watch your language,” Aunt Abby said. In spite of everything that had happened, my aunt still believed in good manners, even from her grown son.

  “Later, dudes,” Dillon said. He gathered a handful of snickerdoodles, stuffed them in his jacket pockets, and ducked out the back door. I heard his little motor scooter buzz off into the night.

  Aunt Abby glanced at me, then Jake. She threw up her hands in defeat. “Don’t look at me like that. I tried. He had no choice. They have a warrant for him.”

  Jake and I said nothing, but we both understood. The only problem was, when we eventually told the detective what had happened—including the part about Dillon—would we be accused of aiding and abetting a wanted criminal?

  Aunt Abby prepared some coffee and arranged the remaining snickerdoodles on a fancy plate. Jake looked around the room for clues about the intruder, being careful not to touch anything. I sat on a stool, pulled out my notebook, and jotted down what had happened.

  Ten minutes later there was a loud knock on the front door. Basil ran to the door and barked loudly.

  “That was quick,” Aunt Abby said. She checked her lipstick in the toaster reflection, fluffed her curly hair, and said, “I’ll get it.�
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  I didn’t want her to answer the door alone in case it wasn’t the detective, so I followed her. Jake was right behind us. Aunt Abby peeked through the peephole, then turned to us and said, “Remember, we don’t know where Dillon is.” With a last tug at her jersey top in an attempt to straighten it, she opened the door to Detective Shelton and two officers wearing white overalls and latex gloves.

  I felt like part of a welcoming committee, standing there with Jake and my aunt.

  “Oh, Detective Shelton!” Aunt Abby said. “I’m so glad you’re here. It was horrible!”

  For a moment there, I thought she was going to throw herself into the detective’s arms.

  And then it dawned on me. My aunt actually had a crush on Detective Shelton!

  “Ms. Warner,” the detective said, nodding in respect. “Ms. Burnett. Counselor,” he said to me and Jake.

  Jake started to say something but then just shut his mouth.

  “Come in, come in,” Aunt Abby said, opening the door wider. Once the cops were inside the entryway, she led them to the kitchen, where the plate of snickerdoodles sat on the island counter waiting for them. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it. And these snickerdoodles are homemade. My secret ingredient is nutmeg.”

  I stared at my aunt. She was blathering on as if these guys were party guests instead of police officers.

  “No, thanks,” Detective Shelton said curtly. He turned to the crime techs. “Look around, guys. See what you can find.”

  The two men immediately went to work, taking notes, snapping pictures, and examining the duct tape that had bound my aunt and nephew, along with the flour sacks.

  The detective sat down on a stool at the counter and pulled out his notebook. “All right, Ms. Warner, tell me exactly what happened.”

  Aunt Abby poured coffee and brought the cups to the island counter. She set one near the detective and kept the other, then took a seat. Jake and I remained standing—and coffeeless—nearby.

  “Well, I was in the kitchen,” she began, “testing a new recipe for a seafood casserole made with crab instead of tuna—my secret ingredient. Anyway. I thought I heard Di . . . Someone come in the back door. I’d left it unlocked in case, uh, Darcy came home and forgot her key. Anyway. I called out and no one answered, so I kept working, and that’s when someone came up from behind me and pulled that bag over my head.”