Murder Most Sweet

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Char jutted out her chin at her sheriff boyfriend. “I can show you the Twitter trail about the Silk Strangler that leads directly back to Ron Simms, or as he calls himself online, Don Juan.”

  Tavish had remained silent during my entire recitation, listening thoughtfully to what I had to say and contemplating it, but now he spoke up. “Don Juan? As in the great lover?”

  “Yep,” I said, giving him a wry look, “from a man who is anything but, based on what we learned and saw firsthand.” I turned to Brady. “As far as proof goes, the only proof I have is the Twitter trail Char uncovered about the Silk Strangler and the creepy books Ronald Simms wrote. I’m not a cop or a private investigator. That’s above my pay grade. I leave that to you and the professionals.”

  Brady threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  A little later after Brady and Char left, just as things were starting to get interesting between Tavish and me, Mom showed up. Thankfully, she didn’t use her key and just barge in this time. I had divested myself of my old-lady disguise in favor of a casual navy cotton boho dress and multicolored scarf, which Tavish was admiring as he slowly unwound it. Helping him remove the scarf, I dropped it on the floor. We were snuggling on the couch when the knock came on the back door and we heard my mother’s voice call out, “Teddie?”

  Picking up my scarf, I quickly wound it back around my neck before answering the door. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if I could borrow some—oh hello, Tavish, I didn’t know you were here,” she said innocently as he joined us in the kitchen.

  Sure, Mom. You didn’t see his rental car parked out front.

  “Hello, Claire,” Tavish said. “Lovely to see you again. Actually, I was just going. I still need to pack.”

  “Pack?” My mother’s plumped lips turned down in a pout. “You’re not leaving us so soon, are you?”

  “No, I just have to go to New York for a couple days to take care of some business.” Tavish gave me a gentle peck on the lips right in front of my mother and God and everyone. “I’ll see you Wednesday,” he said, his eyes lingering on my lips. “I’m really looking forward to my Danish layer birthday cake.” Tavish ruffled Gracie’s fur as he left. “’Bye, Gracie. Take good care of your mum until I get back.” He bounded down the back steps, whistling.

  “Tavish’s birthday is Wednesday?” Mom said. “Are you having a party for him?”

  So, of course, I then had to invite her as well. It’s called etiquette. The woman before me taught me well.

  Mom asked where I’d been all day, so I filled her in on our out-of-town adventures, relieved to inform her that suspicions now centered on Ronald Simms as the likely killer of both Kristi and Annabelle. I saw the relief in her eyes.

  “Imagine anyone thinking you could strangle those women,” she said. “Ludicrous. Why, you can’t even kill insects. Even as a child, you would always carry spiders and ants outside and set them free.”

  Was that a note of pride I heard in her voice?

  Just when I think I have my mom all figured out, she goes and says something like this. Between my parents, my dad was always the more emotional of the two—getting misty-eyed at Hallmark commercials, at his first sight of the Grand Canyon, and every time he listened to his beloved Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” He wept when his mother died. And when Atticus had to be put down. And the day I told them I had breast cancer. Mom, on the other hand, has always been more stoic (some might say cold) and is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve. That’s why I was shocked when I overheard her crying and ranting the night before my mastectomy. The three of us were going out to my favorite Racine restaurant for dinner that evening, and I’d arrived early and let myself in the house, unbeknownst to them.

  “I can’t believe tomorrow they’re going to cut my daughter’s breast off!” I heard Mom sob from their bedroom. “It’s barbaric!”

  I tiptoed to the end of the hallway to hear better, careful not to make a sound.

  “No,” Dad soothed her. “It’s necessary.”

  “It is not,” Mom yelled. “Teddie could have had a lumpectomy—the doctor said so.”

  “The doctor also said it was her choice,” Dad said evenly, “that it was up to Teddie to decide. This is her body and her decision, and we need to honor that and support that.”

  “I’m scared,” Mom said in a tremulous tone I’d never heard before.

  “I know you are,” Dad said. “I am too. But we need to be strong for our girl.”

  The sound of muffled crying followed.

  Blinking back tears, I tiptoed back down the hall. Quietly I made my way through the living room and into the kitchen. There I took a moment to compose myself. Then I loudly opened and shut the back door.

  “Hey, where are you guys?” I called out. “You ready? I’m starving.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After sifting together the flour, baking powder, and salt, I set them off to one side and began creaming the butter for the yellow cake that would be the foundation of Tavish’s Danish layer birthday cake. I added in the sugar in quarter-cup increments and creamed the butter and sugar together until the mixture was light and fluffy. Then I beat in the egg yolks one at a time, humming as I did so, and stirred in the vanilla extract. Next, I beat in the flour mixture a little at a time with the milk. In a separate bowl, I beat the egg whites until stiff peaks formed and gently folded them into the batter. After pouring the batter into the two greased and floured round cake pans, I slid the pans into the oven and set the timer.

  Gracie, who had been waiting patiently, having learned not to interrupt me while I did my meticulous measuring-and-mixing baker’s dance, sidled up to me, wagging her tail and staring up at me with a beseeching gaze.

  “Yes, Gracie-girl, you know I’m a sucker for those big eyes.” Opening her doggy-biscuit jar, I tossed her one of her favorite peanut-butter-flavored biscuits. She likes to have me throw it; that way she can pounce on it and play with it for a while. Gracie seized the biscuit and darted under the kitchen table.

  Pouring myself a cup of coffee and nibbling on my “biscuit”—a peanut-butter blossom Char had missed—I reflected on the events of the last couple of days. I had not been lying when I told Brady I had finished my sleuthing into Lake Potawatomi’s two murders. I had done what was necessary to discover and draw attention to another suspect—a much more plausible suspect than Tavish or me—and to hopefully end the speculation against us in the process. Now the ball was in the professionals’ court.

  Brady had talked to the chief of police in Gary, Indiana, and he said the moment he mentioned Ronald Simms’s name, the chief told him there had been complaints made over the years against the Realtor—ones of a sexual nature. Turns out Ron had served a year in the county jail after being charged a second time as a peeping tom. He was also currently the subject of an active investigation, the details of which the chief was not at liberty to discuss. Brady had mentioned the tight-lipped investigation to Char, who had then let it slip to me—confidentially, of course. When she told me about the current investigation in Gary, we looked at each other and said, “Kristi and Annabelle.”

  Tavish had left the day before for New York to meet with his publisher and lawyer to discuss the prospect of bringing legal charges against Ron Simms for maliciously suggesting in print that Tavish had strangled his ex-fiancée and his stalker Annabelle. However, he would be back in time for his birthday dinner tonight—a birthday dinner I was making.

  Meanwhile, as the professionals were focusing on the Realtor-slash-author, I had been focusing on my two favorite things: writing and baking. I called my editor to let her know there was a promising new suspect in the two murders, but she had more important things on her mind.

  “First, I received A Dash of Death and loved it,” Jane said. “Your readers will too. It is delightful. And speaking of readers …” She paused before adding excitedly, “Your books have been flying off the shelves
, ever since that whole Silk Strangler speculation went viral! We have already had to go back to print twice on Death by Danish and The Macaroon Murders. Now the powers that be want to rush A Dash of Death into production immediately so we can release it as soon as possible and capitalize on all that publicity. They’re over the moon and think it has a good chance to become a best seller.”

  I listened to Jane in a daze, unable to take it all in. A best seller? One of my books? “But what about the morality clause?”

  She snorted. “Sales trump morality. You, Theodora St. John, are Baker Street’s hottest author right now. You can bet Baker Street is going to ride that gravy train all the way to the bank, and so should you,” she advised. I heard the familiar rustle of a Hershey’s Kiss being unwrapped. After Jane finished the bite-sized chocolate, she said, “We’d like you to write a new Kate and Kallie mystery ASAP. Think you can get me a proposal and first chapter or even just the first few pages by the end of the week?”

  “This week?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I—I don’t know,” I said, taken aback. I had only just finished A Dash of Death and was looking forward to a breather, especially after the added stress of the two murders. I always took a break for a few weeks after finishing a book to relax and putter around the house and garden, spend time with friends and family, take fun day trips, and have a life again—a life not consumed by a looming book deadline. Besides, last night when Tavish had called me from New York, I had finally accepted his offer to show him more of my beautiful state. We planned to head up north to Door County Friday—just the two of us for a long weekend, returning Monday. “Let me check some things and I’ll get back to you soon,” I told her.

  “Soon, as in tomorrow?” Jane pressed. “It doesn’t even need to be a full-length proposal—just a short synopsis and the first few pages.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I hung up the phone, bemused by all that my editor had said. What a shock to find out that my first two books were enjoying a resurgence and attracting new readers—although I confess it didn’t sit well with me that most of those readers were simply curiosity seekers drawn to my books by online gossip.

  Who cares why they’re reading them, my pragmatic self pointed out. Don’t be so particular. At least they’re reading them. You’ll likely gain some new fans in the process, and that’s a good thing. As is that larger royalty check you’ll be receiving.

  As I thought about Jane’s request for a new Kate and Kallie mystery, I had to smile. Only this morning I had been scratching down ideas for the next adventure of my crime-solving duo. I was having trouble deciding on the title, however. As a genre writer, I usually come up with the title first and then write the story to fit, but this time I couldn’t make up my mind among three options. Time to call in the cavalry.

  I sent a group text to Char and Sharon:

  Me: Help. Which title do you like best for my next K&K mystery: Drowned in Dark Chocolate, Suffocating in Soufflé or Choking for Cherries Jubilee?

  Char: Suffocating in Soufflé. No contest.

  Sharon: That’s a tough one. I like the sound of Suffocating in Soufflé but you know how I love my dark chocolate. I say Drowned in Dark Chocolate.

  Me: Thanks, guys.

  Sharon: Hold on a minute there, Sparky. Is everything on track for tonight? Do you need us to come early to help?

  Me: No thanks, I’m good. Char and Brady are coming at five to do the decorations and Tavish won’t be here until six-thirty, so just make sure you’re here by six and park a block away.

  Sharon: Will do.

  The kitchen timer dinged. Must take the cake out of the oven. C-ya later.

  Removing the cake pans, I set them on the counter to cool. Then I checked my to-do list. I had invited Tavish over for dinner tonight for his birthday—a dinner he was expecting to be a romantic dinner for two but was actually going to be a surprise birthday party instead. I had tried going the romantic route, but my friends wouldn’t let me.

  “You’ve got plenty of time for romance on your trip, Ted,” Brady said. “No way are you depriving the rest of us of your fabulous Danish layer cake and that killer frosting.”

  “What Brady meant to say is that we would love to celebrate with the birthday boy as well,” Char said.

  “Yeah, that too,” Brady added.

  So it was decided that Brady, Char, Jim, Sharon, and my mother would all celebrate Tavish’s birthday with me tonight at a surprise birthday party at my house.

  In addition to the requested cake, the menu included Caprese salad, chicken marsala—one of Tavish’s favorite dishes, I had learned—mashed potatoes, and sautéed green beans almandine. Sharon and Jim were bringing the wine, Char and Brady were taking care of the decorations, and Mom had insisted on bringing an appetizer, which made me more than a little nervous, since my mother doesn’t cook.

  While the cakes and the almond-custard filling cooled, I made the raspberry filling, combining the sugar and cornstarch in a small pan and then adding in the thawed frozen raspberries and juice. Once the filling became thick and clear, I set it off to one side to cool completely. Then I began making the yummy buttercream frosting—my favorite—eager to get to the licking-the-bowl ritual I usually share with Brady. He’s a big bowl licker too. Whenever I make buttercream frosting, he has me save the remnants for him.

  * * *

  Dressing for the party a few hours later, I decided to wear the green batik dress with swirls of teal and fuchsia that I had worn on my first date with Tavish. Topping it off with my fuchsia silk scarf, I returned to the kitchen to discover my mother waiting for me, a proud grin on her face and a brown paper package resembling a pizza box in her hands.

  “Whatcha got there, Mom? A birthday present for Tavish?”

  “Of a sort,” she said. “It’s my appetizer contribution for tonight.”

  Oh no, I thought. Please don’t let it be one of her awful health-food snacks like tofu wrapped in kale or those terrible brown-rice cakes that taste like sawdust.

  “Thanks,” I said, casting a wary glance at the box. “So … did you make it?”

  Mom tinkled out a laugh. “Certainly not. You know I hate cooking and baking.” She peeped at me over her readers. “And you and I both know that I’m a terrible cook. However, I do excel at shopping.” She opened the package and set it on the counter with a flourish. “Voilà! For your dining pleasure, I present sausage rolls from England.”

  “Wow. That’s great,” I said, peering at the tan-colored pastry bites encompassing savory sausage meat. “Tavish will love them.” He had recently mentioned he was missing English food—including sausage rolls—and Mom must have heard and paid attention. “Where’d you find them?”

  “An online British specialty store. I ordered them Monday and asked for express shipping so they’d get here today.” She frowned. “I think they have to be nuked in the microwave or something before you serve them.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  I scanned the dining room one last time to make sure everything was all set. The antique walnut table gleamed with my grandmother’s sparkling crystal and china. The whimsical decorations were all in place—Char and Brady had woven Union Jack bunting through the arms of my bronze chandelier, strung a Happy Birthday banner across the buffet, tied a bouquet of colorful balloons to the back of Tavish’s chair, and filled my trifle bowl with musical blowout noisemakers—Brady’s offering. And Jim had set up a bar with wine and whiskey on the buffet.

  “Everything looks great,” Sharon said as her other half poured my mom a glass of Chardonnay. “Tavish is certainly going to be surprised. Although”—she frowned—“I hope he won’t be disappointed to find us all here—he said earlier how much he was looking forward to your romantic evening tonight.”

  “He’ll get his romantic evening on their getaway up north,” Brady said, grabbing a handful of cashews from the nut bowl on the sideboard. “A little delayed gr
atification is good for the soul.”

  Char arched an eyebrow at him. “Is it now? I’ll have to remember that.”

  Leaving my guests to talk quietly among themselves, I returned to the kitchen, where I stirred the chicken marsala simmering on the stove and checked that everything else was ready: Russet potatoes chopped and in a pot of water waiting to be boiled, check. Green beans washed and trimmed, ready to be sautéed, check. Sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil leaves on a platter in the fridge awaiting a last minute sprinkling of olive oil, check. Yeast rolls risen and ready to pop into the oven, check. Danish layer cake iced and decorated in the fridge, check.

  A noise behind me made me turn from the stove to see Brady with his head in the fridge. “I’m sorry, Brady. As I already told you, there’s no leftover frosting. I got stressed with all the preparation busyness and totally forgot to save the bowl scrapings for you. My bad.”

  Brady shut the refrigerator door and faced me. “I see how it is now,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Another man waltzes into your life and I get the boot. I never thought you would do that to me, Ted. I expected better of you, especially after all these years.”

  Gracie raced into the kitchen, barking, as a car pulled into the driveway. “Oh my gosh, he’s here!” My eyes flew to the clock above the sink. “Fifteen minutes early. Get back to the dining room,” I hissed to Brady, putting my finger to my lips, “and keep everyone quiet.”

  Brady crouched down so Tavish wouldn’t see his silhouette through the closed yet thin curtains and crab-walked quickly and stealthily out of the room.

  A car door slammed, and Gracie barked anew and wagged her tail. Moments later a brisk knock sounded at the back door. This is it. Don’t give it away. Tamping down my nerves, I arranged my features into a calm yet welcoming smile as I opened the door. “Happy birthday!” I said to a massive bouquet of yellow-and-pink roses, white tulips, and Stargazer lilies.