Honey-Baked Homicide

by Gayle Leeson

  I went back to the original page and read that I should speak with the victim about her experience without judgment or agenda. I should express concern, show support, and urge Fern to seek help. I shut off the laptop and told Rory I believed I was ready. He woofed to indicate that he was too.

  Princess Eloise came meowing and winding around my ankles to remind me that I’d been home for several minutes and had not yet put food in Her Majesty’s dish. I fed the pets, then I got washed up and took the lemon bars I’d brought home from the café and arranged them on a decorative plate.

  I put the bars, a small pitcher of iced tea, and two tumblers filled with ice on a serving tray. I carried the tray out to the front porch and placed it on the white wicker table between the matching rockers. I sat on one of the rockers and waited for Fern to arrive.

  As I was sitting there, a hummingbird—looking and sounding like a colorful, overgrown bumblebee—darted forward and back.

  “You’re in the wrong place,” I said. “The hummingbird feeders are at the big house on the left side of the wraparound porch.”

  Almost as if it understood my words, the bird flew away.

  Moments later, Fern pulled into my driveway. She got out of her compact car and came around to the front porch. She stood there assessing me.

  “Come on up and have a seat,” I said.

  She slowly walked up the stairs and sat on the available rocker. “What do you want? Why did you ask me to come here?”

  “I’m interested in making friends with you, that’s all.”

  “You don’t think I have any friends?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m sure you have plenty of friends, but we can always use another. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t want to be friends, then why did you agree to come?”

  “I wanted to see what you were up to—why you’d invite me to your house.”

  I decided to level with her. “Look, after seeing the bruise on your face at the grocery store and then watching how nervous you were at the café yesterday, I became concerned that Chad was abusing you. Is he?”

  “That’s crazy! Chad is a wonderful man. I couldn’t ask for a harder-working husband or a better provider.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I was wrong.”

  “You are wrong! Here I thought you might really want to be my friend, but all you want to do is tear down my husband.”

  “I do want to be your friend, Fern. And I’m not trying to tear down Chad—I don’t even know Chad—I was only looking out for you. I wasn’t making any accusations—merely asking a question.”

  “You went off to that big-city chef school and came back here to Winter Garden thinking you’re better than everybody else.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re no better than that Calvin Dougherty or Stu Landon! They thought they were better than everybody else in Winter Garden too. Landon even tried to hide who he really was, but Chad knew. Chad’s smart. He always said, ‘That beekeeper is in too deep with the Carvers not to be one of them.’”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “The man was a liar—that’s what difference it makes. He’d have the whole town up in arms against Chad just because Chad had to spray his crops. Didn’t that stupid beekeeper want my husband to make a living? Did he want Chad to just let the bugs eat up our crops?”

  I thought Chad could’ve certainly been more responsible in his spraying, but I wasn’t about to say so.

  “And that Calvin Dougherty was another liar. He told us that if there was a natural gas reserve beneath our land, we could have a life of leisure,” Fern ranted. “Chad works so hard. Did you know that in addition to running the farm, he works at the steel mill in Meadowview, cuts down trees, and mows people’s fields? Did you know he did all that?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, you didn’t know. You don’t even care. I was glad Chad was finally going to have an easier time of things for the first time in his life. Did you know that Chad had to start helping his daddy on that farm when he was only ten years old?”

  “I didn’t know that, Fern. And I’m sorry for any misunderstanding. I certainly didn’t intend to upset you. It’s clear that I misread the situation.” I stood. “Thanks for stopping by, but I really need to go inside and get dinner started. I suppose you need to do the same.”

  “So that’s it?” Fern demanded. “You want me to leave now?”

  “You’ve been angry from the moment you arrived. Why would you want to stay?”

  Fern stood. “I don’t want to stay. I—”

  A truck roared by, slammed on its brakes, and then backed up. We looked over and saw that it was Chad Thomas. He gave Fern a hard look before driving on.

  Fern stomped her foot and gave a growl of frustration. “Well, thanks a lot for getting me in trouble!” She jumped down from the porch, bypassing the steps altogether, got into her car, and sped off.

  Feeling completely bewildered, I called Jackie. “Are you ready to say ‘I told you so’?”

  “Always. It blew up in your face, didn’t it?”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie, it did. Do you and Roger have plans tonight?”

  “No. He’s working over trying to get this latest project done.”

  “Want to come over for dinner?” I asked.

  “Can we have something simple—like pimiento cheese sandwiches?”

  “Sure. I’ll make a salad and some Parmesan garlic tortilla chips to go with them. And, of course, we have lemon bars.”

  • • •

  When Jackie got to my house, we ate at the kitchen table. I told her about the Fern visit from beginning to end.

  “Then Chad drove up, gave Fern a look, she accused me of getting her in trouble, and then she stormed off.”

  “Maybe she has that Munchausen syndrome,” said Jackie.

  I frowned. “You think Fern is injuring herself to make people think Chad is beating her?”

  “No, no, no. I meant that thing where people fall in love with their attacker. What’s that called?”

  “Stockholm syndrome? I’m not sure—I’ll have to look it up later.”

  “You do that, Ms. Freud.”

  “At least I know the difference between Munchausen and Stockholm,” I teased.

  “Okay, then, smarty pants. What is Munchausen syndrome?”

  “Munchausen is where someone intentionally fakes being sick or gives herself an injury in order to be treated like a victim.”

  “Huh. Maybe I was right then. Maybe that’s what Fern has.”

  Later that night after Jackie had left, I got to thinking about Fern and wondering if she could have Munchausen syndrome. I went into the fancy room, got out my laptop, and sprawled onto the fainting couch.

  My investigation of Munchausen syndrome led me to histrionic personality disorder. I looked into that a bit more and discovered that the disorder, more common in women than in men, makes the sufferer excessively sensitive to criticism or disapproval. That certainly fits. I found that out this afternoon.

  The article I was reading suggested that histrionic personality disorder is characterized by a long-standing pattern of attention-seeking behavior and extreme emotionality. The sufferer might not think before acting. She might make rash decisions.

  “A person with histrionic personality disorder will often act out a role, such as princess or victim.”

  Role of victim, huh? That could certainly apply to Fern. Maybe Chad didn’t beat her, but she wanted people to think he did so that she could get attention. On the other hand, maybe he did beat her and she had Stockholm syndrome.

  And I could be completely grasping at straws simply because I wanted to understand what had taken place on my porch this afternoon. I shut off the laptop, deciding i
t was best from now on to give both Fern and Chad Thomas a wide berth and to let them live their lives as they saw fit.

  I went into the living room and watched TV for a little while, but my mind kept returning to Fern. Here I’d been thinking that Fern had been trying to cover up the fact that she was being abused by Chad, but today she’d seemed completely off her rocker. Although I’d seen ample evidence of Chad’s explosive temper, that didn’t mean he was abusive to Fern. What if all along he’d been trying to hide how disturbed she was from the rest of the world? Was that why he hadn’t wanted her with him while he conducted business? I’d thought it was because he was being controlling, but maybe he simply didn’t want her to go off on one of her tirades.

  Deciding to shut off the television and do a little more research about what kind of wackadoo codependent relationship the Thomases might have, I went back to the fancy room to retrieve my laptop. Although I wanted to know for my own enlightenment only, I began to wonder as I walked through the house just how disturbed the couple might be. Could they be responsible for Stu Landon Carver’s murder? It had been firmly established that the killer had an accomplice. And it had seemed to me this afternoon that Fern would do anything Chad wanted her to . . . even help him move a body.

  Just before I stepped into the fancy room, Rory began barking. Not turning on the light, I went over to the window and peeped out to see what had drawn the dog’s attention. I saw the silhouette of a slight figure and the glow of a burning cigarette.

  Darn those Carver boys! I was not going to put up with their aggravation. And what about that security system? If there was someone lingering in my yard, shouldn’t the company have sent someone to check it out by now?

  I raced back to the living room to get my phone. I snatched it up off the coffee table, called 9-1-1, and hurried back to the fancy room. As I was telling the dispatcher what was going on, I saw the silhouette move to the gate.

  “The person is coming through my back gate!” I shouted into the phone. “Get somebody here now!”

  “Ms. Flowers, please remain on the line until—”

  “I can’t! I’m afraid they’ll hurt my dog!”

  The dispatcher was saying something, but I ignored it. I left the line open and slid the phone into my pants pocket as I went to the back door.

  At first, I tried calling Rory to come to me through the door. He wouldn’t. He steadfastly barked at the intruder. I grabbed the cleaver out of the knife block and cracked open the door.

  “You’d better get out of here!” I yelled. “The police are on their way, and I have a weapon!”

  “I don’t care about your weapon. And I don’t care about your dog.”

  “Fern?”

  She stepped closer to the door. “Tell this mutt to shut up.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought about what you said today,” she said sweetly. “Can I come in and talk with you?”

  Radically shifting emotions.

  “No,” I said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Rory, come on inside.”

  Rory listened to me this time and ran onto the porch. I opened the door enough for Rory to get inside, and Fern tried to rush the door.

  I slammed the door shut and locked it.

  “Please, Amy! Let me come inside. Chad is on his way here. He’ll hurt us both.”

  “Just stay where you are then. The police will be here any minute.”

  “It’ll be too late. He’ll kill us . . . just like he did the beekeeper.”

  I hesitated. What if I didn’t let her in and Chad did kill her? I’d never forgive myself. And yet I’d already decided that Fern was unbalanced. And the police really would be here soon. It might seem like it was taking forever, but it had been only about three minutes since I made the call.

  “Get in your car and lock the door,” I told her. “You’ll be fine until the police get here. You can have them arrest Chad then.”

  I jumped back when I heard a loud thump against the door. The voice that spoke next was Fern’s but it was gravelly and menacing. “You let me in that house right now, or I’ll slit your throat just like I did Stu Landon’s. Do you have any idea how warm a man’s blood is when it courses from his body? It—”

  She gave a strangled cry, and then I heard a thud.

  Was it Chad? Had he killed her?

  “Amy! Let me in!”

  “Mom?” I threw open the door. There stood Mom on the stoop with a baseball bat. I quickly pulled her inside, shut the door, and locked it again. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I knocked out that freak who was trying to get into your house.”

  We were both breathing as if we’d been running a marathon. Mom’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and I imagined mine were too.

  “I’m not taking any chances, though. Call the police.”

  I took the phone from my pocket. “They’re on the way.” I held the phone to my ear. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You might need to send an ambulance too,” I said. “My mom hit the intruder with a baseball bat.”

  “Softball, dear.”

  “Softball,” I repeated to the dispatcher. I didn’t know what difference it made, but apparently it did to Mom.

  Mom and I were still huddled with Rory, the cleaver, and the baseball bat at the back door when Sheriff Billings and Ryan arrived. Fortunately, the ambulance came to take Fern to the hospital a couple of minutes later. She was all right, other than a mild concussion.

  Chad Thomas got to the house before the ambulance pulled away. He’d wanted to go to the hospital with Fern, but Sheriff Billings detained him until he’d answered some questions. I’d already told the sheriff that Fern had confessed to killing Stu Landon Carver, and Mom confirmed that she’d heard the confession too.

  Torn between admitting to committing a crime and getting to the hospital to be with his wife, Chad had finally asked the sheriff, “If I tell you everything, will you let me go check on my wife and I promise to come right back to the police station afterward?”

  “Yes,” the sheriff said. “I’ll send Deputy Hall with you, and he can bring you back.”

  “All right.”

  And then the twisted tale unfolded.

  Fern had always thought Chad should have Stu’s farm. The land adjoined, and it would make a huge, profitable farm for the Thomases. And she’d always hated the fact that Stu tried to tell Chad when he could and when he couldn’t spray the plants. They were Chad’s plants. He could do with them as he liked.

  Chad had tried to hide it from Fern that he also wanted Stu’s land, but she overheard him talking with Calvin Dougherty about it.

  “Why had you tried to hide the fact from her?” Sheriff Billings asked.

  “Because I’ve seen how she can get sometimes. She gets obsessed with things . . . with people.” He looked at me. “I tried to make her quit coming around your café, but she was already obsessed with you. She’d come around here at night and just watch your house.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  My interruption got me a sharp look from Sheriff Billings, but then he repeated the question to Chad.

  Chad shrugged. “I don’t know. She thought Amy had a happy life . . . and I guess she wanted it.”

  “Okay, now go back to discussing the farm,” said Sheriff Billings. “Are you telling me that your wife, Fern Thomas, killed Stu to get his land?”

  “I’d been fussing with Stu,” Chad said. “He came over here and said my pesticides were killing his bees. But I couldn’t spray my fields when he wanted me to because I have another job. I told him he was more than welcome to spray my crops himself, and he said that suited him. I was mad, he was mad; but he left, and when I’d had time to think about it a little more, I thought that if he wanted to spray my crops, that was fine. It would save me s
ome work. So I went to talk with him.”

  “And did you find him at home?” the sheriff asked.

  “No. So I figured he’d gone to check on his other hives. I went out to the Old Cedar Cove hive first, and sure enough, he was there. But Fern’s car was there too.” Chad ran his hand through his hair. “I hadn’t realized it because I’d gotten back on the lawn mower and was working on the backyard, but Fern had followed Stu to the hive when he left our house.”

  “What happened when you arrived at the hive?”

  “I went up there, but there was no sign of either of them. I thought they must be in the barn.” He lowered his head. “They were.”

  “And what did you see, Mr. Thomas?”

  “She’d killed him. She told me she’d pretended to flirt with him. When he turned to walk away from her, she’d taken his knife and cut his throat. He was lying there in the dirt.” His voice broke. “I tried to save him. I swear I did. But there was nothing I could do . . . nothing anyone could do.”

  “What happened next?”

  “She told me that now I could spray whenever I wanted and that I could buy Stu’s land and have all the gas reserves.”

  “And then?” the sheriff prompted.

  “I didn’t want her to go to prison. I helped her. I wrapped Stu’s body in an old sheet I had in the backseat of my truck, and we drove to the café. We figured he’d be found there, and that the town would put his assets up for auction. We didn’t realize he had any family.”

  “All right. Mr. Thomas, Deputy Hall and I are going to take you to see your wife. And then both of you will be charged—her with murder, and you with accessory to murder. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After they left, Mom and I sat on the sofa in the living room. I took her hand.

  “Thank you for being here. How did you know to come?”