“Good,” Wayne interrupted. “That’s as it should be.”
“But,” I continued, looking him straight in the face, “I’d imagine Raela met a lot of people in town in her attempt to start up her vet clinic. I don’t know who they are, specifically. I don’t know if she intended to hire any vet techs, for example, or if she’d spoken to any other kinds of assistants. And since a number of people have already come here from San Diego, maybe she left a bunch of enemies there who’d be willing to follow her here to get rid of her permanently. And—”
“Thank you, Carrie.” This time Bridget interrupted. “We appreciate your suggestions.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you could act on them,” I continued, despite realizing she was attempting to end this meeting. “Just don’t assume that the people on your radar at first are the most likely to be guilty.” I paused. “That’s how I wound up helping you before, you know. Your primary suspects were just that—but they weren’t killers.”
That had to be true this time, too—right? I was all but certain that Reed was innocent.
I was still really bothered by that “all but certain.” And I recognized that it applied to Arvie, too.
At least I was done here for now. Although I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
We started saying our goodbyes, but as I reached the door I turned back to the detectives. “I know you’re not going to share with me the way I did with you. I understand why and all that. But if there’s anything at all you can share with me, I’d really, really appreciate it. And if anything occurs to me that I think I should share with you, I’ll do it.”
“Good. Thank you. Goodbye, Carrie.” And Wayne showed me out the door.
As I walked to my car, I rehashed the whole meeting in my mind—ending with my promise to share. I at least liked how I’d qualified it.
I would share with them only what I thought I should. And considering how they wouldn’t share with me at all, well, my additional sharing could also be … nothing.
My Saturday evening with Reed was pleasant. I caught him up on all I’d been doing, questions I’d been asking, what had gone on with Oliver and the detectives and more. We’d even gotten into who else I should put on my suspect list to report to the cops—which really amounted to no one.
He once more expressed concern about my safety, but still, again, didn’t really ask me to stop nosing around in my attempt to help him.
We didn’t spend the night together. I’d left Biscuit at home with Neal, and Reed had to get back to Hugo.
And our respective states of mind were definitely relationship-directed, but not especially romantic. Not with an official murder accusation and more potentially hanging over Reed’s head.
The next day at the shops went well, as usual—at first, at least. Our crowd was always enhanced on the weekend, and Dinah had the day off, so my other three assistants and I kept busy.
I kept thinking that one of the detectives would call and ask more questions. I kept hoping they’d call and instead give me some possible answers, but I knew better than that.
But today was Sunday, after all. I figured the police probably weren’t investigating today unless there was some imminent danger to someone that suddenly became apparent.
So there’d be no further communication with either detective, at least not today. I did communicate with Reed, but neither of us was enthused about getting together that evening.
At some other time, my feelings might have been hurt, but at the moment I felt as if I needed some space.
And maybe some additional time, to think about other suspects or related information that I could provide to the cops … and therefore potentially, at least, get a sense of how hard they were investigating, and whether anything I’d said had helped them decide to focus on others besides Reed.
Or not.
I learned that the answer must be yes when Oliver stormed into the Barkery that afternoon.
“What did you say to those damned detectives?” he asked through gritted teeth, after I’d led him away from the line of customers toward the quieter area near Biscuit’s enclosure. Fury blazed from his hazel eyes, and he looked as if his already receding hairline was disappearing even more—from stress?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I got a call from the guy cop. He wants to schedule another meeting with me—another interrogation. He didn’t explain why, but when I demanded a reason, he kind of laughingly said something like I should feel glad it’ll be with actual authorities so I can clear myself if I’m innocent. Does that mean an amateur like you turned him back against me? Does it?”
He’d drawn closer, leaning over me enough that I heard Biscuit growl from inside her enclosure.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” I glared at him with my hands on my hips. “No matter what I say, you’re clearly ready to argue. I think I’ll call the detectives myself now.” I yanked my phone from my pocket and held my index finger against it, then looked back at Oliver.
“You had better not be accusing me again,” he hissed, “especially to the cops.” And then he stalked out.
My assistants were grouping around, apparently ready to protect me, but I told them all was well. I hoped I was telling the truth.
I closed the shops on time that night and was glad that Neal was home from work that evening. After eating a quick casserole I’d prepared and walking Biscuit, we settled in to watch TV. Fortunately there were some silly sitcoms on, but we also saw a show about—what else? Cops investigating murders, this time in New York.
Hugging Biscuit on my lap, I made myself watch till the bitter end, partly since I knew there would be a satisfying conclusion. That was fiction, after all, on a TV show with good ratings.
“You okay, sis?” Neal asked more than once. He knew I’d gone to see the cops yesterday and that I was concerned about the apparent non-results of this trip. And I’d briefly mentioned Oliver’s visit to my stores, without saying how much I’d felt threatened by him.
“Sure,” I said each time he asked, soothed somewhat by Biscuit’s close presence and trying to act as if it was true.
In some ways, it was, after all. I was maintaining a somewhat cordial relationship with the detectives. They had acted as if they somewhat gave a damn about my thoughts and suggestions, or at least hadn’t told me they considered me not only an interloper but a stupid one to boot.
And they had left the door open for me to contact them again if anything else occurred to me.
They had also apparently started following up on what we’d talked about. They had contacted Oliver and started pushing him harder.
It turned out he wasn’t the only one. At bedtime, I received a call from Reed. He, like Oliver, wanted to know what I’d said to the cops. Both he and Jon had been told to come back to the station for further interviews in the next day or so.
I didn’t gather that the cops had even hinted about my conversation with them this time. I decided I would most likely contact the cops again tomorrow, to let them know what Oliver had done.
But when I did contact them on Monday, that wouldn’t be the only reason. No, it was because I was scared—really scared—and needed their help.
Twenty-Five
The day started like all the rest—again. As always, early in the morning, Biscuit and I got out of my old Toyota at the small parking lot to the rear of my shops. It was still dark outside, but the narrow alley, lined with similar parking areas behind stores, was lit by small streetlights.
When my leashed dog and I walked toward the building, I saw an envelope taped to the back door that led into the kitchen. My name was on it, printed by a computer, I supposed: Carrie Kennersly.
Strange. If it had been hanging there the previous night before I left, I would have noticed it when I checked to make sure the door was locked. Someone had apparently stuck it there late at night—and undoubtedly unobserved.
I consequently felt worried even before I opened the env
elope, which I didn’t do immediately. I pulled it off without unlocking the door, since I had to enter through the front of the Barkery with my pup. I let her take her time sniffing on the way, and all the while my mind churned about what was in the envelope.
Well, heck. It could just have been an invitation to a party, or someone placing an order for Barkery or Icing treats without having the time to stop in to do it—although they could always order online or even by phone. Or it could be … my imagination was running wild, and I tried to calm it.
We reached the street out front and, under the somewhat brighter light there, I opened the door to the Barkery—after staring all around in case I might see someone with a bag of envelopes sticking them onto all the neighboring businesses. Which I didn’t.
Out of self-protection, I also gazed into as many corners of the street and buildings as I could, looking for any movement except for the occasional car driving by. Was someone out there waiting for me?
Not that I could see. But the envelope made me nervous. For no reason?
Once the door was open and Biscuit and I were inside, I locked it again behind us after flicking on the lights. I let Biscuit off her leash, allowing her as usual to be loose in the Barkery before we were open for business.
Then it was time. I put my purse down on the counter and used my index finger to slit open the envelope.
A piece of paper was folded inside, which wasn’t a surprise. I opened it—and gasped.
The printing on it said, Stop contacting the cops about Raela Fellner or your dog will suffer the consequences.
I dropped the page onto the counter and knelt on the floor. Biscuit immediately rushed into my arms and I held her tightly, murmuring loving things to her.
Nothing, nothing, could happen to my baby.
But should I listen to the command I’d been given? Would obeying it mean Biscuit—and I—would remain safe?
Not likely. In fact, if I just accepted what it said without attempting to find out who’d taped it to the door or without letting the authorities know I’d been threatened—well, Biscuit had been threatened, and that was the same thing—then that person would assume they had won and perhaps would make more demands.
Or, if that person was the killer, they might believe there would be no consequences to their actions, even if I was closer to figuring out who the murderer was than the cops were. And if that wasn’t the case, why threaten me?
So, I concluded, the killer had to be Oliver. Maybe. But Oliver was too obvious, and the most obvious suspects hadn’t been the killers in my earlier investigations.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t true this time, though. And—
Okay. This was getting me nowhere. Still holding Biscuit, I ducked behind the counter, since we were bathed in light here, inside the store, while outside it was dark.
Anyone going by—or hanging around—would be able to see us.
But I wasn’t going to let that person win. My life was going to remain normal, and so was Biscuit’s.
I had to keep her in the Barkery, so I fastened her leash so she had to stay behind the counter, then checked to ensure the door was locked. I turned out the lights.
And then, despite the warning on that horrible note as well as the early hour, I tried calling Bridget, then Wayne. But in both cases I only got the standard recording asking me to leave a message, which I didn’t. And to be really brazen, I also tried Chief Loretta, but the result wasn’t any different there.
So for now, I went into the kitchen, but I left the door just a bit ajar so I’d hear anything happening in the Barkery.
I washed my hands thoroughly, as I had to, wishing I could do the same to my mind, purging it of my thoughts and fears. And then after taking another peek inside the Barkery to ensure that Biscuit was there, lying comfortably behind the counter and secured so she couldn’t run around—or, hopefully, be harmed—I got started baking Barkery dog treats.
But I stopped frequently to check on Biscuit. And when Frida came in to help with the early baking of the day, I felt highly relieved.
“Is something wrong, Carrie?” she asked almost immediately.
Despite Frida being a wonderful cook, I wasn’t as close to her as, say, to Janelle or Dinah. I really liked Vicky and Frida, but I didn’t feel as obligated to reveal everything to them, unless their safety became an issue, too.
Today, Frida wore a loose brown Icing on the Cake T-shirt over beige slacks, and her brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail as always. Her plumpness seemed to indicate that she appreciated the human bakery goods and other delicacies she created. She was kind, smart, and astute, and she’d know I was lying if I said all was well. So instead I just said, “I’ve got some things going on that are worrisome, but I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though.”
I guessed Frida knew me well enough not to press for answers, but I did catch her looking at me more often than usual, as if attempting to read inside my head what my worrisome thoughts were.
Time passed more slowly than I would have liked, since I was waiting for it to be late enough in the day to actually reach one of the people I wanted to talk to—primarily, one of the detectives.
At seven o’clock, Janelle showed up and I opened the shops. She was stationed first in the Barkery, and without explaining why, I told her to keep a close watch on Biscuit and make sure no customers got too close to her. I popped in and out of the Barkery a lot, too, despite still finishing the early baking.
And then at eight, I again tried to contact the detectives, this time while in my office at the back of the kitchen, wishing I could bring Biscuit in with me. I’d have no privacy if I called from the shops, and I would worry about Biscuit’s safety if I went outside with my dog.
I was really relieved when Wayne answered the call. I told him what I’d found on my shops’ back door.
“Biscuit and I can come right away to the station to show it to you, and maybe you can have it tested for fingerprints. I’ll tell you my suspicions about it, too.” I would let him know about Oliver’s rant yesterday, since, oh yes, Oliver was now not only at the head of my suspect list but was ripping the top off it. He clearly wanted me to stop looking into who killed Raela.
Assuming it was Oliver who’d left the note—and I was, indeed, assuming that.
“Umm—well, I understand your concern, but I have to leave in a minute.”
“How about Detective Morana?” I asked.
“She’s out on a case right now. But, look, why don’t you plan on coming in this afternoon? I’ll call you when I return, and then you can come in and we’ll talk.”
This afternoon. My heart was already beating fast out of fear for my dog. Would it last that long?
Of course it would. And at least I had a plan started—kind of.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait for your call.
And figured unhappily that I’d be waiting for a while.
Not that I just sat around staring at my phone. But I did spend most of my time in the Barkery with Biscuit.
Would whoever left that note know somehow that I’d dared to defy it and called the police? I couldn’t take that chance, even though attempting to get quick official help hadn’t worked so far.
And I realized that even if the officials looked into it, and checked the note for fingerprints, that might not provide answers—and it wouldn’t help that I’d touched that note myself while opening it. But at least I hadn’t touched it a lot.
Fortunately, the stores were busy. Or unfortunately, in some ways, since I was even more concerned about security and ensuring that no one could get too near Biscuit, even people I knew. Especially people I knew. What if I was completely wrong about the suspects in Raela’s killing and just the fact that I’d dared to make suggestions to the authorities had riled the actual murderer?
I kind of wished that Dinah was working that morning so I could talk part of the situation over with her as “research.” I didn’t really want to discuss it with my other a
ssistants. Even so, Janelle knew the general situation, thanks to her relationship with Neal and some of our mutual conversations … and because I’d once helped her when she was a murder suspect. She was a wonderful asset, not only in the shops but to help bolster my mood.
In fact, she’d taken me aside as soon as I’d returned from my office after my brief phone discussion with Wayne. I must have looked as dejected and fearful as I felt despite my attempt to put on a happy face, even as we stood near Biscuit’s enclosure.
“What’s wrong?” Janelle had asked.
“Nothing,” I’d responded.
“Well, whenever you want to talk about nothing, be sure to let me know. Meantime, just remember I’m here for you. If there’s something you want me to do, or if you need to leave, just let me know and I’ll help in any way I can. And if you’d like me to bring Go in to keep Biscuit company, be sure to tell me.” Go, or Goliath, was her beautiful purebred Labrador retriever, and he and Biscuit were good buddies. Janelle brought him in now and then when she was at work.
I thought about asking Janelle to take some particularly great photographs of Biscuit if she had some extra time—and then I quickly erased that from my mind. It felt too much like conceding it was possible that I’d lose my sweet girl to the horrible threat in the note.
That wasn’t going to happen.
So I thanked her and hugged her and said all was fine. And then, for the rest of the morning, I made myself act as if that was the truth.
It worked just fine until Dr. Mickey Krohan came in. I was waiting on a customer in the Barkery, ringing up an order on our register, when I saw him enter and look around.
What was he doing here? Just shopping, probably. Even so, I almost shuddered when his eyes caught mine and he nodded in greeting. He walked all around the Barkery, past the partially occupied tables on the tile floor, past Biscuit’s enclosure, which made me quiver all the more, and then to the counter where I stood. He went past me and stared into our refrigerated treat case, and that seemed to grab his attention for a while.
Fortunately, Janelle was in there with me. Once again, I sensed that she read my mood, but since she was busy with a family and their Yorkie, she only glanced at me now and then.
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