The Pumpkin Muffin Murder

by Livia J. Washburn

  Whitmire nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. You think whoever put him in that scarecrow outfit pulled out the stake and tossed it in among those plants.”

  “That’s right.”

  The chief turned to his officers. “All right, get that stake out of there. Be careful with it.”

  While the officers were retrieving the stake carefully to preserve any evidence on it, Chief Whitmire turned to Phyllis and said, “I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve decided to investigate this case on your own, Mrs. Newsom.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘play detective’, Chief?” Phyllis asked.

  Whitmire shrugged his burly shoulders. “Call it what you want. It’s not something civilians need to be doing.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Like you said earlier, though, we have a duty as citizens to assist the police when we can. I happened to think about that stake and thought you should know.”

  “And I appreciate that. It could turn out to be an important piece of evidence. If you think of anything else, I’m sure you’ll let us know.”

  “Of course.”

  “But that’ll be the end of it.”

  Carolyn said, “You just don’t want Phyllis solving this murder before you do.”

  Whitmire’s face hardened with anger for a second before he controlled the reaction. “I know you don’t think much of the police department, Mrs. Wilbarger, and it may surprise you to know that I understand why you feel that way. But we don’t know that Logan Powell was murdered, and until we do, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go around saying that he was. That might compromise our investigation. Which we will be carrying out to the best of our ability. I assure you, we’ll get to the bottom of Mr. Powell’s death.”

  “By dragging his wife off to be questioned? Whatever happened to Logan, Dana didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “If that’s true, then that’s what our investigation will show.”

  Phyllis wished that Carolyn would quit arguing with the chief. She was about to say something in an attempt to smooth things over, when she saw one of the Windbreaker-clad officers lifting the stake from the middle of the plants. She could see the sharpened tip now. Her eyes searched keenly for any sign of bloodstains on it.

  The stake looked perfectly normal, though. Phyllis didn’t see any blood on the wood. She felt a brief pang of disappointment, then instantly was ashamed of herself for feeling that way. She supposed she had hoped that the stake would turn out to be the murder weapon, because that would have answered one question and brought them that much closer to a full explanation of Logan Powell’s death.

  Handling the stake with rubber gloves, the officers put it into a clear evidence bag the size of a kitchen garbage bag and sealed it shut for the time being. Phyllis knew they would take it back to their lab and test it for fingerprints and any foreign substances, including blood. Getting the full results would take a while, but Phyllis thought they would be able to determine pretty quickly whether there was any blood on the wood—and whether it had played any role in Logan’s death.

  Carolyn and Chief Whitmire had been distracted by the stake, too, and their brief clash seemed to be over. The chief nodded to Phyllis and said, “Thanks again for your help, Mrs. Newsom,” then turned his head and nodded to Carolyn, “Mrs. Wilbarger.”

  “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’d let me know what you find out about the stake,” Phyllis said.

  “That’s a matter for the police.” Whitmire followed the Crime Scene officers out of the park.

  Carolyn glared after him and said, “That man is one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s just trying to do his job the best way he knows how,” Phyllis said.

  “Then he ought to let you help him. You have a better track record at solving murders than he does!”

  Phyllis shook her head. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “Well, I would.” Carolyn paused, then went on, “You were thinking maybe somebody stabbed Logan with that stake, weren’t you?”

  “The possibility occurred to me. If it pierced the heart, the wound might not have bled much.”

  “I didn’t see any blood on the stake, though, did you?”

  “No, it looked clean to me,” Phyllis said.

  “So we’re back to not knowing how Logan was killed, or even if it was murder.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  They left the park themselves then, each woman taking her own car back to the house.

  Sam, Eve, and Bobby were waiting around the kitchen table when Phyllis and Carolyn came in. The containers of pumpkin muffins sat in the center of the table, and Bobby was eyeing them hungrily.

  “We waited for you,” Sam said, “but it was a little hard for some of us.”

  “Those are good punkin muffins,” Bobby said.

  “All right, you may have one,” Phyllis told him with a smile. “But only one. I don’t want you to ruin your appetite for supper.”

  “Does the same go for me?” Sam asked.

  Phyllis laughed. “I don’t see why not.”

  Each of them had a muffin; then Bobby went off to the living room to watch TV. Phyllis could tell from the sleepy look on the little boy’s face that the long, busy day was catching up to him. She suspected that Bobby would be asleep on the sofa in just a few minutes.

  “All right,” Eve said as the four adults remained seated at the kitchen table. “What was that all about back there, Phyllis? What did you think of that made you and Carolyn stay at the park?”

  “I’ll bet it was somethin’ to do with the murder,” Sam said. “You just solved the case, didn’t you, Phyllis?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “Far from it. I have no idea what happened to Logan, or whether it was murder or not. But I did start thinking about something.”

  She explained about the hay bale and the stake that someone had put in the clump of yuccas.

  “You could see part of it from the path,” she concluded, “but I doubt if anyone would have really noticed it, or thought anything about it if they did.”

  “And now the police have it,” Eve said.

  “That’s right. I’m sure if there’s any real evidence there, they’ll find it.”

  Carolyn said, “Well, you have more confidence in them than I do, then.”

  Phyllis didn’t see where any good would come of continuing to discuss Carolyn’s lack of confidence in the police, so she said, “From what I could tell, the festival is a big success, despite what happened. The volunteers must have taken in thousands of cans of food already, and it’ll be going on until later tonight.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find out the total number early next week,” Carolyn said. “All the volunteers will be getting together to figure out the details of how we’ll handle the deliveries on Thanksgiving morning. You’re welcome to come to the meeting, Phyllis, since you said you wanted to help.”

  Phyllis nodded. “Just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”

  “I could give you a hand with that, too,” Sam said.

  “And I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Bobby,” Eve added.

  “That sounds fine to me,” Phyllis said. “I’m glad we’ll be able to help out some people—”

  The phone interrupted her by ringing. She stood up and snagged the receiver from its base that sat on the counter, then frowned as she glanced at the caller ID readout.

  It said W’FORD POLICE DEPT.

  She couldn’t think of any good reason the police would be calling her . . . but she could come up with quite a few bad ones.

  She thumbed the TALK button and said, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Newsom?”

  Phyllis recognized Chief Ralph Whitmire’s voice, and her apprehension grew stronger. “That’s right,” she told him.

  “This is Chief Whitmire,” he said unnecessarily. “Would you mind coming down to police headquarters for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

/>   “About Logan Powell?” she asked, and that caused eyebrows to go up all around the table.

  “Yeah, we’ve got some preliminary results back from the medical examiner.”

  “He’s already done the autopsy?” Phyllis asked, surprised that things were moving that quickly. Even in a relatively small city like Weatherford, the wheels of officialdom usually ground slowly.

  “No, that’s going on now,” Whitmire said. “He was able to identify that unusual substance found in Powell’s mouth, though.”

  Brown slime, the paramedic had called it, and the description fit as well as any, Phyllis thought. She didn’t want to think about what Whitmire might tell her next, but she couldn’t help herself. There was only one reason he would be calling her about this.

  “What was it?” she forced herself to say.

  “Well, this isn’t a positive identification, you understand—that’ll have to wait for further tests—but according to the ME, the substance appears to be what’s left of some sort of . . . baked good. A muffin, maybe. And the best guess is—”

  “A pumpkin muffin,” Phyllis said.

  Chapter 17

  Sam insisted on coming along with her to police headquarters. Carolyn wanted to come, too, but Phyllis talked her out of it. She didn’t think her friend’s hostile attitude toward the police would help matters right now.

  Sam offered to drive and Phyllis accepted, glad that she wouldn’t have to worry about the traffic. Her brain was spinning so much because of what Chief Whitmire had just told her that she wasn’t sure it would be safe for her to get behind the wheel.

  “I’m sure they don’t think for a second it was one of your muffins that killed him, Phyllis,” Sam told her as he headed his pickup toward police headquarters. “Shoot, I don’t see how Powell would’ve even got hold of one of them. They’ve got to be wrong about what they found in Powell’s mouth.”

  “I don’t know,” Phyllis said slowly. “When Dana stopped by the house looking for her keys yesterday evening, she ate one of the muffins and took another one with her.”

  Sam frowned. “Oh, yeah. I’d forgot about that.” He glanced over at her. “So you’re not worried about the cops blamin’ you for what happened. You think this’ll help ’em pin it on Mrs. Powell.”

  “I don’t know. She’s already admitted that she was at the park with her husband yesterday evening and that they argued. There were witnesses to that, including Carolyn.”

  “Maybe she poisoned the muffin and left it for him to eat, then came back later, after he was dead, and put him in that scarecrow outfit.”

  “I don’t believe Dana would have killed him,” Phyllis said, “but even if she did, why dress him like a scarecrow?”

  Sam shook his head. “I got no clue. It’s a crazy thing to do, all right.”

  When they walked into police headquarters, the officer on duty at the desk recognized Phyllis. “Chief Whitmire is waiting to see you, Mrs. Newsom,” she said. “Do you know where his office is?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Phyllis said.

  The officer picked up a phone. “You can go on back. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Whitmire was waiting in the open doorway of his office when Phyllis and Sam got there. He looked curiously at Sam, and Phyllis said, “You remember my friend Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, of course,” Whitmire replied. “I thought you were a teacher, Mr. Fletcher, not a lawyer.”

  “Retired teacher,” Sam said. “Not even close to a lawyer.”

  “Well, since you’re not Mrs. Newsom’s legal counsel, I’ll have to ask you to wait for her back in the lobby.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Sam began with a frown.

  Phyllis put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Sam.” She didn’t want him getting on the chief’s bad side. “If Carolyn were here, she might suggest they were going to bring out the bright lights and rubber hoses, but we know better, don’t we?”

  “I reckon so. But if you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

  He stood there with his hands tucked into the hip pockets of his jeans while Whitmire ushered Phyllis into the comfortable, well-appointed office. Whitmire closed the door behind them.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, holding out a hand toward a red leather chair in front of his desk, which was a little cluttered with papers but not too messy. “I’m sorry to have to call you down here,” he went on as both of them settled down in their chairs. “I want this investigation to stay up to speed, though. Logan Powell was a well-respected member of the business community here in town. The sooner we know what killed him and why—and who, if it comes to that—the better.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Phyllis said. “We all just want the truth to come out.”

  Whitmire clasped his hands together in front of him. “You baked pumpkin muffins for the contest at the festival?”

  “That’s right,” Phyllis said as she nodded. “But I brought them with me to the park this morning. They were in closed containers, and they were all accounted for.”

  “You can prove that?”

  Phyllis realized suddenly that she and the others had eaten some of those very muffins when they got back to the house, so she no longer had the physical evidence that she was telling the truth. But she said, “You saw them for yourself, Chief, and so did a lot of other people. They were still sitting right there on the table when Logan’s body was found. No one had gotten into them, or into any of the contest entries.”

  Whitmire nodded. “Yeah, you’re right about that. We have pictures of the table, too, although they’re not detailed enough to tell us whether any of the muffins were missing from those containers. But I think we can stipulate that there weren’t.”

  “I think so, too,” Phyllis said.

  “Which leads to my next question: Have you ever made muffins like that before, Mrs. Newsom?”

  Phyllis wasn’t surprised at the turn the conversation was taking. “As a matter of fact, I have,” she said. “I wouldn’t enter any recipe in a contest without trying it out first, usually several times.”

  “I didn’t think so. What happened to those other muffins?”

  “We ate them. Except . . . I believe there are still a couple left from the last batch I made before the ones for the contest.”

  “And where are they?”

  “At my house.”

  “No one’s eaten any of them except you and the other folks who live there? Mrs. Wilbarger, Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Fletcher, if I remember right.”

  Phyllis nodded. “That’s right. And my grandson Bobby. He’s staying with me right now.”

  “Mike’s little boy.” Whitmire’s grim expression was relieved momentarily by a smile. “Cute kid. Where’s Mike?”

  “He and Sarah are visiting Sarah’s family in California. Her father is in bad health.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How come Bobby didn’t go with them?”

  “He came down with an ear infection earlier this week and the doctor said he shouldn’t fly.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. Sorry to hear about that, too. How’s he doing?”

  “I believe he’s just about over it.” Phyllis didn’t doubt that the chief’s expressions of sympathy were sincere. She knew Ralph Whitmire was a decent man. He could be pretty dogged in his devotion to duty, but that was a good thing, after all.

  “I’m glad to hear it. It looked like he was enjoying the festival today.” Whitmire moved some papers around on his desk. Phyllis didn’t think there was any reason for what he did, other than to signify that the interview was getting back to an official basis. “Now, you’re sure nobody got any of the muffins from that earlier batch except the people in your house?”

  Phyllis realized that she was at a crossroads. She could either lie and risk it coming out later on that Dana had taken one of the muffins with her, which would make things look even worse for both of them, or she could tell the truth, which is what all her instincts urged her to do anywa
y when she was talking to the police.

  She made up her mind and said, “Actually, Dana Powell had one yesterday evening when she stopped by the house.”

  Whitmire’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Powell was at your house yesterday evening?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?” Whitmire added quickly, “You realize you don’t have to answer that, Mrs. Newsom. You haven’t been charged with anything. You’re within your rights not to talk to me at all.”

  “I know that. Mrs. Powell came by my house after school to see if I still had her keys.”

  “Her keys?”

  “Earlier in the day, Mrs. Wilbarger and I stopped by the school to pick up the scarecrows that Mrs. Powell had in the back of her SUV. She gave us her keys so we could get the scarecrows; then I took them back to the school office. That’s what Mrs. Powell asked me to do.”

  “Then why did she think you might still have them?”

  “Because I left them with the school secretary, Katherine Felton, and then later Katherine couldn’t find them and wasn’t sure whether I’d given them to her or not.”

  “So Mrs. Powell’s keys were missing.” Whitmire picked up a pencil and made a note on a piece of paper. “Do you know if she ever found them?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. The question didn’t come up the next time I saw her, which was this morning.”

  Whitmire nodded. “So she ate one of the muffins at your house. I don’t suppose she took any of them with her when she left?”

  “As a matter of fact, I wrapped one up in a paper towel and gave it to her. I knew she was on her way to the park to help set everything up for the festival, and she hadn’t had any supper yet.”

  Whitmire frowned across the desk. “She took one of your muffins with her, and then this morning what’s left of a pumpkin muffin shows up in the mouth of her dead husband.”