I watched Tavish’s face closely as Brady delivered the news, checking for any signs of guilt. All I saw in his eyes was shock and surprise.
“Annabelle? How? When?”
“I don’t know the exact time yet, but according to my deputy, the coroner says it likely happened late last night or early this morning.” Brady’s sheriff eyes drilled into Tavish. “Where were you between, say, midnight and five AM?”
“Asleep in my room at the Lake House,” Tavish answered without hesitation. “I went straight to bed after Teddie dropped me off from our date.” He sent me a warm smile. “A fun and lovely date, I might add, and one I hope to repeat soon.”
I turned away.
“Teddie? What’s wrong?”
The concern in Tavish’s voice sounded genuine—or was that simply his plummy English accent? Could I be blinded by that accent?
Not just his accent. How about that book-loving, dog-loving connection you share? And that he finds you attractive—with an “honest beauty”—and doesn’t seem to care about your lack of breasts. If that’s even true. My mother’s voice intruded upon my inner neurotic. “Men are visual. They like breasts.”
Of course they do, my practical inner voice agreed. You have to admit, Kristi was pretty boobalicious, and it sounds like his ex-wife was too. Didn’t he say she had a perfect body?
Yessss, I answered my pragmatic devil’s advocate. Was it only last night that we had talked about his wife—a woman who was also blonde and superficial like Kristi? Tavish had said he was trying to change his dating type to someone real and genuine. Like me.
Yes, but think about it logically. Isn’t it possible that everything Tavish said to you was a crock to get you on his side and to divert attention away from him? You have to admit it’s more than a little suspicious that the only two murders to have ever occurred here in town coincided with Tavish’s visit. Face it, girl. You’ve been played.
A sour taste filled my mouth.
“Teddie?” Tavish’s voice interrupted my inner battle. “What’s wrong?”
I whirled on him. “Besides the fact that yet another woman you know is dead? And not only dead, but strangled with one of my scarves. Again.”
“What? Bloody hell! What the devil is going on?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Brady stuck his notebook in his shirt pocket. “Tavish, I’d like you to come with me to the station to answer some questions.”
“Of course.” The response was automatic, as Tavish focused his attention solely on me. He reached out and touched my arm. “I’m sorry, Teddie. I cannot believe this has happened again. It makes no sense. I thought Annabelle killed Kristi. Who would have killed Annabelle? And why?” His eyes widened. “Unless—” His head whipped around to Brady. “Could Annabelle have committed suicide and used Teddie’s scarf to try and implicate her?”
Brady raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I suppose … although death by strangulation is rarely suicidal.” He fixed Tavish with a steady gaze. “It’s usually homicidal.”
At those words, I moved away from the man I had hoped to kiss a mere twenty-four hours ago, causing his hand to drop from my arm.
Tavish’s face shuttered, but not before I glimpsed the hurt in his hazel eyes. “I’ll accompany you to the station now, Sheriff, and answer any questions you might have.”
My mother chose that moment to make an entrance. “Good morning, everyone,” she trilled. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were having a party?”
Chapter Twelve
After Brady and Tavish left, Mom took a seat at my kitchen table and began bombarding me with questions, while I brewed coffee and cut a couple pieces of almond macaron kringle—a sliver for her, a normal-size piece for me.
“Why were Tavish and Brady both at your house so early?”
“Eight o’clock isn’t early, Mom,” I said. “Lots of people start work at that time.”
“Never mind that.” She took a bite of kringle. “Why were they here?”
There was no way around it. I had to tell her about Annabelle’s murder.
“What?” My mother’s eyebrows rose so high on her Botoxed forehead that they nearly disappeared into her hairline. “That crazy lady in the hideous muumuu who yelled at you at dinner, then attacked you in front of Andersen’s?”
“The one and only.”
“Where was she killed?”
“Near the high school.”
“Our high school?”
I nodded.
“Oh my God! There’s a killer running loose in Lake Potawatomi!” She jumped up from the table and locked my back door.
“A lot of good that will do with the broken window.”
“You need to get that fixed right away.”
“Already on it.”
Her gray eyes narrowed. “Is that why Brady and your author friend were here? Does the sheriff think Tavish Bentley killed that Annabelle creature?”
“I don’t know, Mom. You’ll have to ask Brady.”
“Well, Tavish Bentley is the only one around here who knew her, so that makes sense.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Just because she died here doesn’t mean the person who killed her is staying here or even from around here.”
Then the words I had uttered to distract my mother from her guilty-Tavish assumptions registered. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Tavish was a famous author with readers all over the world. Who was to say Annabelle was his only stalker? There could be another obsessed fan out there knocking off the competition so she—or he—could have a better shot at Tavish.
And that crazy fan is using your scarves to commit the murders why exactly?
No idea. I ignored the logic of that question as I zeroed in on one word. Scarves. Plural. I’d neglected to mention to my mother the tiny little detail that the second victim had also been strangled with one of my scarves. Maybe I didn’t need to tell her.
Yeah, like that’s an option. It’s probably all over town already. You better tell her before someone else does.
I did. And as expected, she freaked.
“Theodora Renee St. John! What will people think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that I suddenly went berserk one day and decided to start strangling women I don’t know for some inexplicable reason. Or”—I adopted a sinister tone—“maybe it’s not so inexplicable. Maybe it’s because they have something I want.”
“Tavish?”
“Breasts.” I took a bite of kringle with a chaser of coffee.
“Very funny. You don’t have to be so sarcastic, young lady.” Mom rubbed her forehead. “All this is giving me a headache.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Char.
Char: OMG! Brady just told me about the dead Annabelle and your scarf. WTF??
Me: Can’t talk. Mom’s here. Will call you later.
Char: Good luck with that.
“Someone must have it in for you,” my mother mused as she popped a couple of ibuprofens.
“Huh?”
“I said someone must have it in for you.”
Was that a note of concern I detected in her voice?
“What in the world did you do to tick someone off?”
Ah, there it is. Her tendency to think the worst. Mom always played bad cop to Dad’s good cop during my childhood, and she was still playing that role. Even though I’d left childhood behind decades ago and my good cop had been gone three years.
My good-cop dad died suddenly of a heart attack while out jogging around the block one day. And life as I knew it changed forever. Dad had always been my biggest champion. When I got the news that a publisher had bought my first book, Dad had almost been more excited than me, proudly introducing me to everyone he met (including grocery store clerks and gas station attendants) as “my daughter, the author.” He’d also bought fifty copies of Death by Danish from Char’s bookstore when it first released and handed them out to everyone he met.
I blinked back tears and stood up to pour a
nother cup of coffee.
Before I got the chance, Gracie trotted into the kitchen, making sure to skirt a wide path around the section of linoleum where she had lain unconscious last night, which made my stomach clench. When she reached my side, Gracie pawed at my foot and gazed up at me, her liquid-chocolate eyes full of concern.
I scooped her up and nestled her against my chest, all the while making the kinds of ooey-gooey noises and baby talk I used to roll my eyes at in my pre-doggy days. As my canine daughter and I indulged in a mutual love fest, my phone buzzed with another text. I checked the screen and saw a message from Sharon.
Just heard about Tavish’s dead stalker and YOUR scarf! Again?? WTH???
Sharon, like Char, would just have to wait. Right now, my hands were full of something more important.
Mom gave my Eskie an awkward pat on the head. “I’m happy to see Gracie is back to her normal self today.” She turned her wrist to view her vintage Rolex. “I must dash. My book club is having brunch at Cheryl’s this morning, and I’m helping her set up.” She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “Make sure you get this glass replaced today.”
“I will.”
“And Teddie?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.” She held my eyes for a moment before slipping out.
I stared after her retreating figure. What had just happened here? Had aliens appeared and replaced the woman who gave birth to me with a kinder, gentler mom-clone while I was spending the night at the vet’s?
Gracie appeared as confused as I did.
I feel the need. The need to bake. Whenever things are chaotic, stressful, or just plain do not make sense, baking is my go-to cure. Some people do yoga, practice meditation, or see a therapist; I bake. I do my best thinking when I bake, and afterward I always have something delicious to show for it. There is a comfort in the familiarity of ingredients, especially recipes from past generations. I inherited all my Grandma Florence’s recipes when she died. My Dad’s too. Although my father enjoyed baking, he absolutely loved to cook, which is a good thing, since Mom has always been a lousy cook and has zero patience for it. Dad’s roast chicken is still the best I’ve ever had, and his lasagna remains legendary around Lake Potawatomi. Today, however, I wanted to make some of my father’s yummy muffins.
Growing up, I loved sitting in the kitchen watching my dad as he cooked and baked. We would talk about everything as he measured, chopped, and stirred. School. Books. Boys. Travel. And food. Always food. We both loved to eat (unlike my mom, who was forever dieting and determined never to gain an ounce on her slim frame). Dad taught me how to crack eggs and measure ingredients when I was five, and at six I baked my very first cake—Grandma Florence’s fruit-cocktail cake from the fifties, dad’s favorite. (Which I immediately recognized when Truvy mentioned it as the “cuppa, cuppa, cuppa” cake the first time I saw Steel Magnolias.) I’ve been baking ever since.
I set Gracie down, and she trotted over to her doggy bed in the corner, turned three times, and curled up on her soft blankie. Gracie loves her naps. So do I, but not this early.
Flipping through my recipe box, I pulled out the one for Dad’s famous carrot-cake muffins. Instead of muffins, however, I decided to make mini loaves to give as gifts to friends. I pulled out flour, sugar, baking powder, soda, and cinnamon. As I mixed the dry ingredients together, I kept seeing the hurt in Tavish’s eyes after I stepped away from him earlier. The same hurt I’d felt when Brady, one of my oldest friends, even entertained the thought that I might be capable of taking a life. The difference was that Brady had known me for over three decades, whereas I’d met Tavish only a few days ago.
Longevity isn’t the only friendship factor, however. Sometimes there is an instant connection with a person. I recalled how Tavish’s eyes had softened when he talked about his dogs and how he had shown up on my doorstep that morning as soon as he heard about Gracie. I also remembered how Gracie had immediately taken to Tavish—the polar opposite of how she’d responded to Annabelle. Dogs see a person’s true heart and soul. If Gracie responded negatively to someone, there was a reason for it, and I needed to pay attention. And if she liked and trusted someone, I needed to pay attention to that also.
Hmmm. Does that apply to Tavish? You may have really screwed up there.
The ceramic sign on the wall above Gracie’s food corner, which I had found years ago at a garage sale, caught my attention—“To err is human, to forgive canine”—and I realized I had messed up. The hurt in Tavish’s eyes wasn’t fake. I had jumped to conclusions based on the way things appeared—Tavish seemed to be the only connection between the two dead women, ergo, Tavish was the killer. Yet someone who didn’t know me—the platinum-haired Boobsey twin at the signing, for instance—and saw my scarf wrapped around Kristi’s neck might jump to the conclusion that I was the killer. Especially once a second woman showed up dead with another one of my scarves as the murder weapon.
I hadn’t killed Kristi or Annabelle—someone just wanted to make it appear that I had—and Tavish hadn’t killed them either, contrary to how it appeared. Deep down, I knew in my bones that my fellow author and dog lover wasn’t a killer, but how could I prove it?
Figure out the identity of the real killer.
Exactly. Not while grating carrots, though. Blood doesn’t go over well in carrot cake.
After I finished shredding the carrots, I mixed in eggs, crushed canned pineapple, canola oil, vanilla, and orange extract. Then I beat all the ingredients together, poured the batter into several small greased and floured aluminum loaf pans, and stuck them in the oven.
Setting the timer, I grabbed the yellow-lined legal pad I always keep handy in case a great plot point or killer sentence for my work in progress pops into my head while cooking. Call me old school, but I like writing on a yellow notepad, especially with a black rollerball pen—medium point, not fine. There is something about the feel of the pen in my hand and the sight of the free-flowing ink spilling onto the heretofore blank page. The letters form fluidly one after another, creating a waltz of words.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat down at the table. As I started to make notes on the legal pad, I reminded myself to think like a cop—like Brady—and to base my investigation solely on evidence, possible motives, and relationship to the victims.
The evidence showed that two women—polar opposites—had been strangled with scarves. Scarves belonging to yours truly. Therefore, Brady had to question me and consider me a possible suspect. As the town’s peace officer, he was compelled to pursue that line of investigation, much as he probably didn’t want to.
My hurt and anger at my longtime friend receded.
The sheriff also had to examine the connection between the two victims. That connection was obviously Tavish. Finally, he had to come up with a motive.
I scribbled the question: What could Tavish’s motive be for killing Kristi?
To rid himself of an unwanted fiancée who didn’t understand the meaning of “It’s over.”
And Annabelle?
To rid himself of a crazed stalker who was intruding on not only his professional but also his personal life. By murdering both women, Tavish could kill two birds with one stone.
Bird as in the English slang for chick? Ba-dum-bum. Although the expression doesn’t quite fit middle-aged Annabelle.
Annabelle. As I thought about the deranged Lady Muumuu, I recalled the hate in her blue-shadowed eyes when she stared at me, simply a new friend of Tavish’s. Just because she was now dead didn’t mean she hadn’t killed Kristi. In fact, it was quite likely that Annabelle had killed his ex-fiancée, a gorgeous young woman whom Tavish had had a much more intimate relationship with than he had thus far with me. The fact that he had recently broken up with Kristi was not common knowledge, so Annabelle would probably have thought the two of them were still engaged. As obsessed as she was with Tavish and as insanely jealous as she was of any woman who came near him, Annabelle would have viewed
Kristi as a roadblock in her quest to possess Tavish for herself. What does a bulldozer do when it encounters obstacles in its path? Plows right through them and then discards them.
No, even though she was dead now, crazy Annabelle was still at the top of my list for murdering the unlucky Kristi.
Which meant there were two murderers. And one was still on the loose.
Chapter Thirteen
The timer dinged, and I pulled the carrot-cake loaves out of the oven, setting them on baking racks to cool. Gracie jumped up at the sound of the ding and trotted over, tail wagging and smiling up at me expectantly.
“Sorry, that’s too hot and also too sweet for you, Gracie-girl.”
Her ears flattened, and she sent me a mournful look.
“Well, I guess we know who the alpha female is in this house.” I opened the fridge and tossed her a baby carrot.
Sucker. That dog plays you like a violin.
I know. Good thing I don’t have kids—they would probably be spoiled brats. In my defense, however, the vet says carrots are good for dogs’ teeth, so I’m only watching out for Gracie’s dental health.
Keep telling yourself that.
Oh, shut up.
Returning to the table, I chewed on the end of my pencil, trying to decide what to do next. Maybe it would be good to write down everything that had happened since the day Tavish arrived in town and Kristi was murdered. Perhaps if I saw it all laid out on paper, I might discover some kind of pattern or clue that could lead us to Annabelle’s killer. That always works with my books when I’m stumped about what to do next or the plot is sagging and I need to figure out how to get the story moving again—usually with another murder. I started writing.
• A woman smelling of jasmine stole my scarf from the bookstore during Tavish Bentley’s signing. She also had a Tavish-focused encounter with a mystery woman in the restroom. Two hours later the jasmine-scented woman, Kristi, Tavish’s ex-fiancée, was found dead with my silk scarf around her neck.
• Kristi’s drunken ex-boyfriend Tom accused Tavish of murdering Kristi and decked the author, whereupon I promptly kneed him.
Murder Most Sweet Page 10