To Have and to Kill

by Mary Jane Clark

  Piper was savoring the moment and appreciating the effort Jack had put into making her farewell dinner a special one. She loved the idea of Jack Lombardi, tough-guy FBI agent, stopping at the Korean grocer to buy flowers, lighting the candles, and selecting the music that now played, rhythmic and sensual.

  Piper broke the silence. “I love the ’rents, Jack, but they can be really out of control sometimes: Mom is the queen of unsolicited advice, and Dad with his emergency preparedness craziness. He can’t relax and he’s always ‘getting ready’ for a disaster.”

  “You can’t blame him. He’s seen a lot.”

  “I get that, but it’s a bit much. I don’t know how my mother stands it.”

  “Maybe she loves him?”

  “Wow, and people wonder how you got into the Bureau,” Piper teased. “But, seriously, something’s up with her. I don’t know what it is, but something’s wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Several things I noticed, but especially the fact that the last few times I asked her about what she’s doing special for the holidays at the bakery this year, she changed the subject. That’s so not my mother. The woman thinks up her Christmas cakes and is practicing her designs by the Fourth of July. She lives for it. And she told me that she turned down three wedding cake orders because things have been too busy at the shop.”

  Jack shrugged and took a large swallow of wine. “Makes sense to me. It’s smart not to overextend yourself.”

  “For someone else, maybe. But for my mother to turn down a wedding cake job is like you turning down a chance to go to a Yankees–Red Sox game. Decorating wedding cakes is her crack. It’s like Obama and his BlackBerry: she needs it.”

  Piper started to stand, reaching for the empty plates.

  “Uh-uh,” said Jack. “You just sit there tonight.”

  Piper watched as Jack cleared the dishes away. The sleeves of his V-neck sweater were pushed up, revealing his muscular forearms. As he turned and carried the plates to the sink, she couldn’t help but admire his tall, trim build and broad shoulders.

  “Speaking of wedding cakes, want to go to a wedding with me?” asked Piper. “I had lunch with Glenna today and she’s getting remarried on Christmas Eve.”

  “I hope it’s to a guy who obeys the law this time,” Jack answered from the kitchen.

  “Actually, she’s marrying one of the teachers at her daughter’s school.”

  “Going the modest route, huh?”

  “Not too modest,” answered Piper. “The ring was amazing.”

  “Good for Glenna,” said Jack, coming back and putting two espresso cups on the table. “You gotta give credit to someone who’s willing to get back up on the horse.”

  Piper nodded, deep in thought.

  “What?” asked Jack.

  “I hope she’s doing the right thing. Glenna’s only known him for a few months and someone sent her a really bizarre note warning her not to marry him.” Piper bit her lower lip.

  “Oh no,” Jack groaned. “Here it comes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told Glenna that you’d have me look at the letter.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I know you and I can tell by the expression on your face that you volunteered me for something but you don’t want to tell me because you think I won’t like it.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Hand it over,” he said with resignation.

  “Great,” said Piper as she sprang up to get her purse. She pulled out the envelope and gave it to him.

  Jack glanced at the white, business-size envelope. Glenna Brooks’s address was printed on the front.

  “I bet just about anyone could get her address if they really tried,” said Piper. “You can find everything on the Internet if you look hard enough.”

  “Really, Sherlock? I didn’t know that.” Without commenting further, Jack took the letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and began to read. There was no salutation. Just a few lines of type on standard computer paper.

  “ ‘Stay clear when it’s Casey at the bat,’ ” Jack repeated the last line. “I remember memorizing ‘Casey at the Bat’ when I was in fourth grade.”

  He handed the letter back to Piper. “This could be from anybody,” he said, “but first I’d look at Glenna’s ex-husband or find out if the groom-to-be has an old flame who doesn’t want this wedding to go forward. But, if you want my opinion, I don’t think whoever wrote this is really someone to worry about. My gut tells me this is just an amateurish, sour-grapes attempt to intimidate Glenna.”

  “That’s it? Shouldn’t you take it to a lab or something?”

  “Come on, Pipe. Believe it or not, we’ve got a war on terrorism going on. You can’t really expect me to have this dusted for prints or checked for DNA, can you?”

  “No, I guess not,” answered Piper, though that was exactly what she had been hoping he’d do.

  Jack read the disappointment on Piper’s face. “Look, if she wants to make it official and file a police report, she can. But there are lots of nut jobs out there who talk a good game but are harmless in the end. It’s going to be hard to get the cops to devote any manpower or lab power to this based on that kooky letter. Want some sambuca with the espresso?”

  Piper let the matter drop, knowing she wasn’t going to get any further with Jack. They drank and laughed and drank some more. When Piper stood up to leave, she wobbled, grabbing hold of the edge of the table. Jack reached over to steady her. For a moment, he held her and pulled her close.

  “I wish you’d stay,” he said.

  “Let’s not get into that again. I’m leaving for my parents’ in the morning and that’s it.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Jack whispered. “I wish you’d stay here tonight . . . with me.” He reached out and put his arms around her, enveloping her in an embrace.

  Piper closed her eyes, welcoming the warmth and strength of Jack’s body. It would be easy to just let things progress. But Piper was scared. She and Jack had a good thing going, a tight friendship that she deeply valued. Bringing romance into it was taking a big risk. It would change things and, if it didn’t work out, it could ruin what she really treasured.

  “Whoa there, mister,” Piper said as she forced herself to pull back. “Let’s not do something we’ll regret.”

  Chapter 8

  Potassium cyanide seemed to make the most sense. It was available and could be mixed to contaminate common drinking water. Internet reports were conflicted about what the taste would be like, primarily because the people who could be trusted to know were dead.

  The scent of almonds had been detected on the breath of some who had ingested cyanide, and there was a faint, bitter-almond odor to both cyanide gas and crystals. So there was speculation that there might be a bitter taste to a drink laced with it. But, if enough of it was used, by the time the drinker realized anything, it would be too late.

  A lethal dose would require 200–300 milligrams. Taking into account that the crystals would be dissolved in the water, and the victim probably wouldn’t ingest the entire drink, it stood to reason that it would be best to mix in more. The Web helped with that too, suggesting the use of a scale, available for purchase for $5, to weigh out the necessary milligrams.

  Milligrams that devastated the central nervous system and heart. Milligrams that had led to the demise of Adolph Hitler, his bride, and his aides. Milligrams that were mixed with Kool-Aid at Jonestown and killed more than nine hundred men, women, and children. Milligrams swallowed by captured soldiers and spies to avoid the risk of divulging secrets under torture.

  But all those milligrams had been ingested as suicides. The milligrams ingested at the Metropolitan School for Girls auction would be murder.

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, November 30 . . . T
wenty-four days until the wedding

  The frenzied barking began even before Piper inserted her key into the lock. As she opened the front door of her parents’ home, the Jack Russell terrier sprang up to greet her.

  “Hey, Emmett,” Piper cooed, tossing down her bag on the floor of the small entry hall and bending down to embrace the dog. “How’s my boy, huh?”

  After several licks to Piper’s cheek, the dog stood back on his hind legs, his front paws held out in anticipation.

  “Sorry, Em,” said Piper. “I don’t have anything for you right now. I’ll get you something to eat in a little bit.”

  The dog looked at her.

  “Don’t make me feel guilty, buddy,” said Piper. “Please.”

  From the Saturday afternoon Piper and her mother had gone to the animal shelter and spotted the little white dog with the floppy ears and a big brown patch around his left eye, they were goners. Piper had still been working on A Little Rain Must Fall, and it was the week before she attended her first—and last—Daytime Emmy Awards ceremony. She’d named the terrier Emmett in honor of the occasion, only later realizing how appropriate the moniker would be. The dog could just as easily have been named for world-famous clown Emmett Kelly.

  Happy-go-lucky and friendly, Emmett was very smart and responded exceptionally well to the obedience training Piper’s father had insisted upon. But it was Piper’s mother who cultivated the terrier’s special talents, teaching him a series of tricks using food as a reward.

  The dog had already provided the Donovan family and their neighbors with hours and hours of delight and laughter when Terri came up with the idea of having Emmett featured in commercials for the bakery, which ran on the local-access cable channel. As a result, Emmett had become something of a celebrity in Hillwood.

  Piper gave Emmett another pat as she called out, “Anybody home?” While she brushed the dog hair from the sleeves of her coat, Piper heard her father’s voice.

  “Down here.”

  Piper went through the door at the end of the foyer and down the cement steps to the basement, where her father had created what they all called his “man cave.” The walls were lined with wire-mesh shelving loaded with clearly marked, transparent plastic boxes filled with paraphernalia collected over many years. First-aid supplies from simple to borderline-combat-medic gear, signal mirrors, compasses, key rings, lanyards, water purifiers, Swiss Army knives, pocket-size wrenches and pry bars, folding screwdrivers, wind- and waterproof matches, duct and electrical tape, and long lengths of cord in widths ranging from dental floss to thick climbing rope.

  Numerous books on first aid, survival, and travel sat on a shelf positioned next to a gun safe stocked with a .22 caliber rifle, a stainless-steel Ruger 10/22, a pump-action shotgun, a cowboy-type carbine, a .357 Magnum, and a companion Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. The weapons were not displayed, and Vin was fastidious about keeping the big metal cabinet locked. Only he had the combination needed to open it.

  Vin said he hoped to never use any of the guns, but he was ready if necessary. He believed that the Second Amendment of the Constitution meant what it said. He had a right to defend himself and his family.

  Her father sat at a large utility table lit by a swing-arm lamp with a built-in magnifying glass. Vin looked up from the project he was working on and smiled at Piper.

  “Good to have you home, lovey,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she answered, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Mom at the bakery?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s on the agenda this time, Dad?” asked Piper, leaning down and putting her arm around his shoulders.

  “Putting fresh batteries in the emergency kits.”

  Vin Donovan regarded life as a series of challenges and possibilities for which he and his family needed to be prepared. What if the car broke down? What if there was an ice storm and the power went out? What if his daughter was stranded in the subway?

  He couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t think that way. He knew that people rolled their eyes and poked fun at his hypervigilance, but he didn’t give a damn. Those same people showed up at his door when the power went out and they needed candles and batteries.

  Everyone seemed to attribute Vin’s actions to his years as a cop, but the fact was Vin had made his first kit when he was five years old—filled with a few Band-Aids, iodine, gauze, rolled cotton, a pair of tweezers, and a kid’s small, blunt-nosed scissors.

  For as long as he could remember, Vin had felt the need to be ready for any emergency. Even before Homeland Security devised its color-coded security advisory system soon after 9/11, he had lived his whole life at “Threat Level Orange.”

  Chapter 10

  Friday, December 3 . . . Twenty-one days until the wedding

  Piper and Terri worked efficiently at the back of the bakery, packing Linzer tortes, ginger snaps, and sugar cookies in the shapes of bells, stars, and snowflakes, into pink boxes and tying them with green twine.

  “Please, Mom,” said Piper. “Say you’ll do it. Glenna’s been a good friend to me.”

  “I just can’t take it on, Piper. I’m sorry.”

  “But I already told her you would.”

  “I told you, we’re just too busy at Christmastime to make a Christmas Eve wedding cake.”

  “Mom. Think about it. It’s Glenna Brooks. It’s her wedding cake! For all we know, InStyle Weddings or People magazine will be covering it. Come on, think about the caption: ‘Terri Donovan of The Icing on the Cupcake captured Brooks’s desire for both warmth and elegance with her three-tiered wedding cake.’ You’ll be the talk of Curves.”

  “I said no, Piper, and that’s it.”

  Piper was stunned. She had been home for a few days now, and she had been coming into The Icing on the Cupcake to help in the kitchen and at the counter. While the store was definitely busy, it didn’t seem any different from the usual holiday rush.

  Terri reached for another box but knocked it onto the floor. Piper reached over to pick it up, noting to herself that her mother had missed the cup when pouring coffee earlier. She couldn’t figure out why her mother wasn’t looking her straight in the eyes.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Mom?” asked Piper.

  “No. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just a little tired, I guess.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Terri. “You know, Piper, if you really want this wedding cake done for your friend, why don’t you make it?”

  “Hilarious, Mom.”

  “Why not? You know how to decorate. You’ve been doing it since you were a little girl. And you’ve watched and helped me so many times.”

  It was true. Piper did know how to make pretty much everything her mother did. When Piper was growing up, Terri used to bake cakes for all the neighborhood kids. Each child would count the days until it was their turn to place an order from the photographs in the Wilton cake decorating books. Then Mrs. Donovan would work her magic to create the flavorful cake that looked almost identical to the enchanting images in the pictures. Honestly, Piper thought, they turned out even better.

  Piper had stood at her mother’s elbow, helping to mix buttercream and meringue, working with fondant and chocolate, practicing making shells and petals and leaves from icing. Once she was old enough, Piper worked after school on Fridays and on the weekends and helped her mother in the bakery. By the time she went off to college, Piper was almost as good as her mother at decorating cakes.

  Piper considered her mother’s suggestion. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy. She had always liked decorating the cakes. Maybe it would be good for her to have something to keep her mind occupied. In a way, it was therapeutic to decorate a cake. It didn’t allow you to think of anything else. Not old boyfriends or a stalled career. Nothing but the cake.

  Piper had to
admit that sounded pretty good right now.

  “Would you help me?” asked Piper.

  “I don’t think you’ll need much help,” said Terri as her fingers counted off cookies. “But, yes, I will.”

  “You’ll help me come up with the design?”

  “Um-hmm,” Terri answered. “But you need the bride’s input on that. I have a list of questions I always ask my brides. I’ll give it to you and you can ask Glenna.”

  Piper thought. “Man, I’ll have to start practicing soon.”

  “Fine,” said Terri. “There’s a sheet cake for the Pacheco Christmas party ready to be done on the counter over there. She wants angels and stars. Get to it.”

  Chapter 11

  Thursday, December 9 . . . Fifteen days until the wedding

  The Metropolitan School for Girls was housed in a Fifth Avenue mansion once owned by a prominent New York family. Built at the turn of the twentieth century, it was a five-story Beaux Arts masterpiece with a white marble facade, intricate carvings, and Ionic columns that flanked the entrance. Across the street, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Central Park offered world-class opportunities to learn and play. There were some scholarship students, but most of the girls who attended the school were from families who were quite well-off financially.

  Entering the building, Piper gave her coat to an attendant, checked in at the desk, and made her way through the grand reception area. An oil painting of a rolling landscape hung over an elaborate fireplace that graced almost one entire wall. On the other side of the room, a sweeping marble staircase began an ascent, circling upward to the floors above. Carved moldings lined the ceiling, an exquisite crystal chandelier sparkled above, and a large Oriental carpet covered the floor. The expansive space was crowded with well-heeled guests, mingling and drinking.

  “Piper! There you are.”