Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Conversation flowed easily over the perch and grilled vegetables. As we talked books and publishing, Brady chimed in to say he’d known back in second grade when I wrote the story of Wendy the Wriggly Worm I would wind up being an author someday.

  “Wendy the Wriggly Worm?” Tavish grinned at me.

  “Don’t ask.”

  Sharon raised her glass. “Well, I for one would like to make a toast to things getting back to normal around here.” She shook a playful finger at Tavish and me. “No more murders, thank you very much, except in the pages of one of your books.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Tavish said.

  “Me too.” I raised my glass. “Here’s to normalcy.”

  “Amen,” Brady said. He clinked his glass with mine.

  For dessert, Sharon served Danish layer cake from Andersen’s Bakery. All talk ceased as we concentrated on the deliciousness that was three layers of moist yellow cake filled with ribbons of custard and raspberry jam and topped with buttercream icing.

  “This cake is scrumptious,” Tavish said. “A bit like Victoria sponge, only on steroids.”

  “Danish layer cake is a local staple that originated in Racine and made its way here,” Sharon informed Tavish and Melanie. “We always have it on special occasions.”

  Brady licked frosting from his fork. “Andersen’s cake is good, but it can’t compare to Ted’s.”

  “Ya got that right,” Char said. “Teddie makes the best Danish layer cake around.” She smacked her lips. “She made me one for my fortieth birthday. Yum.”

  Tavish grabbed my hand and beseeched me. “If I promise you the world, will you please make me this luscious cake for my birthday?”

  “I might be able to do that. When’s your birthday?”

  “Wednesday,” he and Melanie said in unison.

  “Jinx.” Tavish grinned at Melanie, and she blushed.

  Sharon kicked me under the table, and Char slid me a discreet knowing gaze.

  “Can you send this kind of cake through the mail?” Melanie asked. “We won’t be here for Tavish’s birthday. By then we’ll be back home.” She smiled at her boss. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get back to New York.” She darted a glance at Sharon. “No offense. There is nothing like the city. Right, boss?”

  “Right. There is no place like New York.” Tavish shifted in his seat. “Actually, Mel, I’m not going back home quite yet,” he said apologetically. “Sorry. I meant to tell you this afternoon and ask you to change my flight, but my Chicago business today took longer than expected and I didn’t catch you before dinner.” He laid his hand atop mine and gave me a warm smile. “I’ve decided to extend my stay.”

  Sharon and Char exchanged a satisfied smirk.

  Tavish turned back to Melanie. “I know you’re eager to get home to Brandon, though. I’m sure he’s missing you and vice versa.”

  “Who’s Brandon?” Sharon asked.

  “Melanie’s boyfriend,” Tavish said. “He’s a great bloke.”

  “Yes he is,” Melanie said with a pride-of-ownership smile. “And I do miss him.”

  So … just your average garden-variety boss crush, not the crazy-stalker kind. Thank God. One Annabelle was more than enough.

  “How long have you two been together?” I asked.

  “Since high school. We started dating junior year.”

  “Sounds familiar.” Char gave Brady’s shoulder an affectionate bump. “So have you guys—”

  A loud crash from the foyer interrupted her. “Hey, where is everybody?” a man’s voice yelled.

  “Excuse us.” Sharon and Jim both jumped up to hurry out front. Before they reached the doorway, however, a well-dressed older couple, obviously under the influence, stumbled into the dining room and collided with the buffet, nearly tipping over a crystal vase of flowers. Quick on his feet, Jim grabbed Sharon’s beloved Waterford before it fell.

  “Whoops-a-daisy,” the petite woman in purple said. “We could have used you in the other room. That poor plant wasn’t as lucky.”

  “We’ll pay for the damages,” said the man, who was not much taller than her.

  “I jus’ love flowers, don’t you?” The woman hiccupped. “’Scuse me. I think I may have had one too many old-fashioneds.” She giggled.

  Sharon led her to an easy chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Jim approached the seersucker-suited man, who had opted to support himself against the wall. “May I help you?” he asked politely.

  “Yep. We have reservations.”

  Jim frowned. “I’m afraid we don’t have any reservations for tonight.”

  “Sure do. I booked it myself online—two nights for our anniversary. Jack and Rhonda Hellman.”

  “Ah, Mr. Hellman.” Jim’s frown was replaced by an apologetic expression. “Actually, your reservation is for tomorrow and the next night.”

  “What?” shrieked the woman. She glared at her husband. “Leave it to you to get the date wrong. I knew I should have done it.” The couple traded colorful insults back and forth as we all watched transfixed from the peanut gallery.

  Brady sighed, pushed back his chair, and walked up to the combative couple. He flashed his badge and introduced himself. “Now you two need to settle down.” He steered the suddenly docile husband to the chair beside his wife. “I’m sure we can work this all out.” Brady inclined his head to innkeeper Jim.

  “Actually, we do have another room available,” Jim said. “It’s not the Lake Michigan suite you booked—I’m afraid that’s occupied until tomorrow—but our Lake Superior room with a queen bed and claw-foot tub has a great garden view. You could stay there tonight and we can move you to your suite tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “Well … it’s okay with me,” Jack Hellman said, “but I don’t know about the wife. She had her heart set on that king-size bed and spa tub.”

  “I’m not going in a Jacuzzi tonight,” she said. “Not in my current condition. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

  “There, you see,” Brady said, “it all worked out. Let’s have some coffee before we call it a night.” He nodded to Sharon, who brought over a pot of coffee and cups. Jim followed with milk and sugar.

  They’re going to need something to absorb all that booze and coffee, I thought. My eyes slid to the half a cake remaining on the table. “Char, can you get a couple plates and forks, please?” I cut two slices of cake.

  “Any chance I might have another piece as well?” Tavish winked and held out his plate.

  “Someone has a sweet tooth.” I cut him a large slice, then carried two cake plates over to the inebriated couple. “Happy anniversary.”

  “Thank you,” said the older woman.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Her husband crammed his mouth full of cake, spilling crumbs on his blue seersucker.

  Mrs. Hellman took a daintier bite and murmured her appreciation. Her bleary eyes met mine and then widened. “Hey, I know you!”

  Wow, two fans in one week. Time to ask for a bigger advance.

  She zeroed in on my turquoise scarf. “You’re that mystery author who’s been strangling women with her scarves.” Her hand fluttered to her crepey neck.

  “That’s right.” Jack Hellman stared at me. “I thought you looked familiar. We read all about you on that blog thingamabob.”

  “What?” Brady burst out as I took an involuntary step back.

  “Teddie hasn’t strangled anyone!” Sharon glared at her guests.

  I heard movement behind me.

  “Well, that’s what it said online,” Mrs. Hellman said defensively.

  “And you believe everything you read online?” Tavish drew himself up to stand shoulder to shoulder with me. He squeezed my hand. “Wherever did you read such rubbish?”

  “Tavish Bentley!” she gasped, going all fluttery.

  As the older woman stared speechless at the celebrity author, the efficient Melanie appeared beside her boss, iPad in hand. She read aloud. “‘What small-town Wi
sconsin writer popular with blue-hairs and known for funky scarves and doggie-sleuth mysteries is killing women associated with a certain New York Times bestselling author and why? Research for her next book, maybe?’” She passed the iPad to Tavish, causing him to drop my hand and stare at the screen in his hands.

  I peeked over Tavish’s shoulder. I had seen the young, spiky-platinum-haired woman at the top of the page somewhere before.

  Tavish’s fingers tightened on the iPad. “That’s Brittany Maloney, Kristi’s friend. We’ll sue her for libel.”

  “She was at your signing,” I recalled. One of the Boobsey twins. Although I did not say that aloud.

  Everyone started talking all at once. Char’s voice cut through the clamor. “She threw out a wild accusation then too.”

  Glancing up from the iPad, I saw my best friend intent on her phone. Char read aloud. “‘And why exactly hasn’t local law enforcement arrested this killer yet? Could it be because she’s tight with the sheriff?’”

  Brady’s jaw clenched. “I think it’s time to give this Brittany Maloney a call …”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gracie pounced on my bed early the next morning, telling me it was time for her morning walk.

  I groaned and buried my head under the pillow. It had been a late night. Nevertheless, my dog would not be deterred.

  She swatted my shoulder with her paw.

  I pulled the quilt up over me.

  Gracie burrowed beneath the quilt and nudged me with her cold nose.

  I ignored her.

  She nudged me again.

  I turned over on my side, presenting my back to her.

  Finally, she took a flying leap, landed atop my pillow, and barked. C’mon, Mom, I really gotta go.

  I yanked my head from beneath the pillow before Gracie smothered me, threw back the covers, and swung my feet over the side of the bed. “All right already. Hang on, Miss Impatient.”

  Gracie jumped off the bed and wagged her tail, before racing down the hall.

  Yawning, I shuffled after her. She scratched at the back door in the kitchen. After I opened it, she shot into the backyard and promptly emptied her bladder. Years ago, I had installed a doggy door for Atticus so he could come and go as needed to answer the call of nature. It had worked for Gracie at first too. After she got skunked for the third time, however, and filled the entire house with the awful fragrance of eau de skunk—including my favorite quilt, which she rolled on in an attempt to rid herself of the smelly oil—I’d closed off the doggy door for good.

  Coffee. Must have coffee. Only the coffee canister was empty. I grabbed the bag of French roast, poured the beans into the electronic grinder, closed the lid, and pushed the button.

  “Ow!” I clapped my hands over my ears. Make it stop. Make it stop.

  I hit the button again. “Shh,” I whispered. “Not so loud.”

  There was nothing for it. I pulled down the instant coffee I kept on hand for emergencies, nuked a mug of water, then spooned a heaping teaspoon of the coffee crystals into the hot water, stirred, and took a big gulp.

  Yech—should have gone with tea instead. I popped a couple of ibuprofens and rested my throbbing head on the table.

  * * *

  Last night after the Hellmans had sidled off to their room, the rest of us had stayed up late drinking wine and discussing the best course of action.

  “That woman won’t get away with slandering you like that, Teddie,” Sharon said.

  “Absolutely,” Jim agreed. “Freedom of speech doesn’t include slander. Everyone thinks they can say whatever they want online without any consequences. Wrong.”

  “Actually,” Melanie corrected her B and B hosts, “slander relates to speech—the spoken word; libel is printed.”

  “Slander, libel, whatever you call it, she’s not going to get away with it.” Sharon’s blue eyes snapped.

  “No, she’s not.” Tavish pulled out his phone. “I’ll ring my lawyer and he’ll sort this out. That post will be removed immediately or we’ll sue Brittany for defamation of character.”

  Once upon a time, I would have thrilled to have a knight in shining armor ride to my rescue, but that was back in my fairy-tale reading days. I’d left fairy tales behind decades ago.

  “Thanks, Tavish”—I laid my hand on his arm—“but I can handle this. I’ll contact my publisher first thing tomorrow, and their legal department will take care of it.”

  “Um, I don’t think you want to wait till tomorrow,” Char said. “Her followers have increased a thousandfold in the past few days.”

  “How do you know that?” Sharon asked.

  “Because she humblebrags about it on her blog,” Melanie interjected. She read aloud from her iPad, adopting a breathless, girly tone. “‘Wow, y’all, thanks so much for following my little beauty blog! Just a few days ago, I had less than a thousand followers, but now I am up to 400,000 and climbing! You guys are the best!!!’” Melanie lifted her head, grimacing. “In addition to the overuse of exclamation points, she ends with two rows of smiley faces and kiss emojis.”

  I winced.

  Tavish shook his head. “I don’t believe this. The woman gives makeup tips on a blog—that’s how she and Kristi met.”

  “Online?” Brady asked.

  “Yes. They only recently met in person—during my book tour.”

  Char’s eyes widened. “At my bookstore?”

  “No, in Detroit.”

  I stared at him. “Wait. This Brittany came all the way here from Detroit? She must be a huge fan.” It’s Annabelle Cooke all over again, I thought.

  “Actually,” Tavish said, “I think she was more a fan of Kristi’s. Kristi told me Brittany had a crush on her. She was trying to make me jealous, but I was actually relieved, thinking it might be a good distraction for her.”

  Brady lifted an eyebrow. “Distraction?”

  “From our breakup—I ended our engagement that evening.”

  Brady exchanged a quick glance with Char. When Char saw that I had witnessed it, a rush of color stained her pale cheeks.

  Looks like a talk with my best friend is in order.

  “Well, I don’t care if this Brittany had a crush on Kristi, you, or Wonder Woman,” Brady said, “but she’s making libelous statements about me and Ted, and that’s going to stop right now.” He pulled out his phone and left the room.

  Sharon fanned herself. “Whoo, that Brady is sure something when he’s riled up.”

  Jim peered at his wife over the top of his glasses. “I’m right here, dear.”

  She winked at him and blew him a kiss. “You sure are, baby.”

  * * *

  Gracie bounded back inside and scampered over to me. Okay, Mummy. I’m done in the backyard. Time for walkies now.

  “Mummy?” I stared at her. “Walkies? When did you start speaking with an English accent?”

  Her tail thumped on the linoleum. I clipped on her leash and we headed outside, only to run smack into Mom.

  “Theodora!” she said breathlessly. “You’ve been accused of murder by a platinum blonde with dark roots.”

  “I know—I saw it last night.” I tilted my head. “Question is how do you know?”

  “I follow a couple beauty blogs to keep up with makeup trends.”

  Of course you do.

  Gracie strained at the leash. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. The post has been removed—she was threatened with legal action.”

  “But it’s already gone viral. It’s spreading like wildfire on Facebook.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have introduced my mother to social media. The woman is addicted to Facebook. At least she hasn’t discovered Snapchat.

  “Well, they say no publicity is bad publicity. Maybe it will increase my book sales.” I was not being cavalier. I have just learned not to sweat the small stuff. After going through the cancer mill, I don’t waste my time and energy on the negative these days.

  She stared at me. “Aren’t you worried about this
ruining your professional reputation? What will your publisher think? Can they drop you because of this?”

  “Of course not. It’s just innuendo and rumor—no one loses their job because of a silly rumor that has no basis in truth.” I pushed my hair behind my ears. “Besides, someone is already in custody, so once the real murderer is announced, all the people who believed that ridiculous rumor are going to feel awfully foolish.”

  Gracie released an impatient bark.

  “And now I need to take this girl for her walk before she does a number right here.”

  Mom quickly retreated in her leopard-print flats.

  As Gracie and I made our way through the neighborhood, I thought about my mother’s concerns about my publisher. I love Baker Street Press, the small house that publishes my Kate and Kallie mysteries, and I have a great relationship with them, so I wasn’t worried about their reaction to the insinuations against me. However, last night before bed I had emailed my editor, Jane Hall, to give her a heads-up. Might be a good idea to follow up with a phone call to reassure her things were under control, thanks to Brady’s official warning to Brittany.

  When we returned home half an hour later, I picked up my cell to call my editor and noticed I had a voice mail. “Hi, Teddie, it’s Jane. I got your email—thanks. Can you give me a call back, please?”

  I pressed the callback button, and Jane answered on the first ring. “Hello there, favorite author,” she said. “Sounds like you’ve had a lot of excitement in Lake Potawatomi lately.”

  “Ya got that right.” I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the couch. “It’s been crazy. We’ve never had a murder in our entire history, and now to have two in one week—it’s insane.”

  “I can imagine. And how are you doing?” I could hear the genuine concern in Jane’s voice. Not only my editor, the sixty-something publishing veteran has also become my friend and mentor-slash-champion over the past few years. “Must have freaked you out that your signature scarves were used to strangle those women.”

  “Yeah, how creepy is that?” I shuddered.

  “So bring me up to speed on where things stand now.”

  I filled her in on all that had happened, including having my scarves stolen and the likelihood that Annabelle Cooke had killed Tavish’s ex Kristi and that her husband, Harley, had in turn killed Annabelle.