Murder & Marble Cake Read online

  “What do you mean?” Rachel exclaimed. “Look, you said yourself that call records prove there was a crank call to my house around seven a.m. that day. Right? And you know it lasted about three minutes. More than enough for the killer to sneak in, kill Arthur, and leave me standing there. That right there is proof I didn’t do it!”

  “Actually, that doesn’t prove a thing,” the sheriff said. “All it proves is that someone—let’s assume Bobby Lee—called your house. The call was between seven oh eight and seven twelve a.m. That’s also the same timeframe as the murder. Now you could have paid Bobby Lee to call you. You could have picked the phone up, left it hanging there, and sneaked out to kill Arthur. That way, you have an alibi, weak as it is. But Bobby Lee put two and two together, tried to blackmail you. Whaddaya know, suddenly, bam. He’s dead.”

  Rachel’s mouth hung open. Put that way, she could see a case mounting against her. A very strong one at that. “OK, I can see how it looks. You believe me though, right? You believe that I didn’t kill Arthur?” Rachel asked. For some reason, the answer was important to her. She was in hot water anyway, but she didn’t want to be in Scott’s bad books as well.

  Scott gave her another look she couldn’t read, before getting up and leaving the room.

  The clang of the door behind him was her only answer.

  *****

  Chapter 16

  A Clink In The Dark

  It was dark by the time Rachel headed back home. Jay had offered her another night under his and Emily’s roof, but Rachel had refused. She didn’t feel comfortable taking their hospitality anymore, and she had a feeling Jay didn’t feel completely comfortable giving it either.

  Scott—still in his Sheriff Tanner avatar—escorted her home, staying silent throughout the car ride. So Rachel felt pretty miserable as she entered the dark house, with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. In an effort to make herself feel better, she turned on every light in the house and spent some time cleaning up the kitchen. The forensics team had actually done a pretty good job with the cleanup, but Rachel wondered if she’d ever get over the knowledge that a body had once lain in her kitchen. For that matter, would her customers ever get over it?

  Realistically, Rachel realized, the case might take months to solve, and she’d have to open her bakery before then. What if the town boycotted her cakes? She had to find some way to stay afloat.

  She sighed and decided to take her mind off her worries the only way she knew how—baking. But even that didn’t help her calm down. She had an entire tin of blueberry muffins in the oven in no time, working mechanically at measuring, mixing, and garnishing. But her mind kept drifting, jumping from Bobby Lee, to Arthur, to Scott.

  At about eleven, she’d had enough. She switched off the lights and headed to bed, deciding that all her thoughts could wait for a night. She was halfway up the stairs when a sudden thought struck her—Aunt Rose’s study! She’d completely forgotten that she meant to explore it. She rushed back down and entered the study, only to find that the lightbulb had burned out. Grumbling, she went and retrieved a flashlight and moved to the desk.

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” she said to herself. “I’ll see the study the way Emily saw it.”

  Aunt Rose had owned an old-fashioned desk with claw feet and more drawers than a brush had bristles. A metal filing cabinet stood next to the desk, and Rachel went through it first, reasoning that anything important would probably be kept there. An hour’s search later, Rachel found nothing. The files were mostly related to vendor payments and planned improvements to the bakery. Moving on, Rachel began to open up every drawer in the desk. This was what Emily had been hunting through anyway.

  One desk drawer held an assortment of pins, cables, hair ties, and stationery. Another, surprisingly, held a half-finished bottle of whisky. Rachel grinned, wondering if her aunt had enjoyed the occasional drink while doing taxes or paperwork. A third drawer held paperweights, rocks and seashells. There were six drawers in all, and Rachel looked through every one of them without finding a single valuable.

  Frustrated, she plopped down on her aunt's chair and wondered what to do next. Maybe the desk had a hidden drawer? In that case, she’d have to strip the entire thing, and she was a little too tired to do it that night. Idly, she took out one of the rocks from the third drawer and began tossing it from one hand to another as she thought. Arrested by a sudden thought, she paused and stared at the drawer.

  All the rocks were different shapes and sizes. They were more pebbles than rocks, really, seemingly collected from the beach nearby. Only one rock was bigger than the others and a rougher shape. Rachel picked it up, and it felt far lighter than it looked.

  “Well, I think I remember you, Mr. Rock,” Rachel said out loud. “Weren’t you the rock my aunt stored her spare key in for the longest time? Let’s see . . .” She turned it upside down, and sure enough, there was a slot at the bottom. It opened out and revealed a key.

  Rachel felt her heart jump. A clue! This was surely a clue! But what did the key lead to? It didn’t have a keychain or any helpful identifying features. There was a small chit folded inside the rock too, but all it said was, “109,” leaving Rachel confused as ever.

  Still, it was something, and although Rachel didn’t quite know how yet, she had a feeling this key was connected to Arthur’s death somehow. But how? Had Arthur known about this key? He’d certainly never mentioned it to her. More importantly, had Emily known about this key? Rachel thought so. This was most definitely what Emily had been looking for that night. Why?

  There was a clang outside, and Rachel jumped. She jerked her head toward the window, in time to see a shadow cross it. Fear leaped up inside her like a living animal. Her aunt's study window overlooked a thin alley that only housed garbage cans. Who could be out there at this hour?

  “Hey!” Rachel gave a yell and stuck her head out the window, deciding that confrontation was better than fear. “Hey! I’m calling the police! Get out of here! Hey!”

  The shadows were far too dark for her to make out who it was, but her heart hammered as she saw a figure creep out from behind the garbage cans and run-crawl out of the alley. Whoever it was, she’d scared them as much as they’d scared her.

  Whoever it was? No, it was obvious who this was. The killer had come creeping by again, only Rachel had interrupted him or her. Fear dissolved and anger exploded through her system. This wretch had single-handedly ruined her life, not to mention Arthur’s. She wasn’t going to sit around like a ninny while he or she ran free. Running out of the room, Rachel grabbed a kitchen knife and swung into the alley. She yelled out again, screaming threats and curses at the vanished figure.

  The alley was dark and empty, with no sign of life. Rachel sighed, as her adrenaline began to wear off. The killer had vanished, and she was just making a fool of herself. She kicked an empty can of beans to the side of the alley, then, thinking better of it, picked it up to place it in the trash.

  Idly, she shone her flashlight around the alley, wondering what the killer had been looking for. A sudden glint of gold buried behind a trash can caught her attention. Bending down, she picked something up and quickly slipped it into her pocket as flashing blue lights shone over her face.

  The sheriff was here, but she wasn’t planning on sharing what she’d just found.

  *****

  Chapter 17

  Clues!

  “So,” Scott said, stepping out of his car. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here this late?”

  “Me?” Rachel shrugged. “Nothing . . . just . . . taking in some fresh air.”

  “Don’t play cute, Rachel,” Scott sounded irritated. “I got a call that some lunatic was screaming out here and waving a kitchen knife. That lunatic, it seems, is you.”

  Rachel gulped and tried to hide the knife behind her back. Scott shook his head in disbelief.

  “You’re unbelievable,” he said. “Why don’t you just walk around with a sign saying “Arrest me�
��? Do you know how bad this looks?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Rachel protested. “The killer came back. He or she was skulking around this alley, and I tried to go after them.”

  Scott raised a single eyebrow, and cocked his head to the side. “Really?”

  “Really!” she exclaimed. “Look here, do you see how the trash cans are disturbed? The killer was clearly looking for something, and my yelling spooked him.”

  “Or her,” Scott said.

  “Or her,” Rachel agreed. Though she no longer believed it was a “her.”

  Scott frowned, his eyes searching her face. He whipped off his hat with one hand and ran the other through his messy black hair. Rachel resisted an urge to reach out and smooth his hair for him.

  “OK,” Scott said. “Your story’s noted. I’m going to stay out here for a while, and maybe have Deputy Lou take turns looking out all night. Will that make you feel safer?”

  “Very much,” Rachel said, “Weren’t you already planning to have a patrol here?”

  “I did have one,” Scott said. “I was the patrol. Till I got called to a different part of town. Crank call.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?” Rachel asked. “I mean, we know who has a history of making crank calls.”

  “The killer.” Scott nodded. “I was halfway there when I realized. I’ll be more careful in the future. But one thing’s certain, he must want something from this alley if he was so desperate to have me out of the way.”

  “I guess you better have your forensics team look it over then,” Rachel said.

  “I could do that.” Scott nodded. “Or you could show me what you slipped into your pocket right before I got here.”

  Rachel’s face gave her away instantly—all the blood rushed to her cheeks—and she was pretty sure a neon sign saying “Liar” was shining above her head.

  “I was planning to give it to you,” she said.

  “No you weren’t,” Scott shot back. “Mind telling me why?”

  She rubbed her nose awkwardly. “Because . . . because I thought maybe it was yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pulled the object out of her pocket, and held it out to him in the palm of her hand. It was a football ring, and etched upon it was: “Class of ninety-four. Go Panthers!”

  “That’s you, right?” she asked. “I mean, you were on the football team back then.”

  “Sure, and so were a dozen others,” Scott said.

  “Prove it isn’t yours,” Rachel said. “Show me your ring.”

  “It’s almost comical that you think I’m a murderer, Rachel,” Scott said. “And then, you expect me to believe your innocence even though you’ve been caught lying more than once.”

  She blushed again, and had to admit he was right. It wasn’t until later that she realized he’d avoided the subject of proving it wasn’t his own ring.

  “Anyway thanks for picking it up, Rachel. Now it’s nearly useless as far as courtroom evidence is concerned.”

  A rush of guilt flooded through her. Scott was right, she shouldn’t have done that. Yet another mistake.

  “But doesn’t this make your job easier?” she asked. “If you know whose ring this is, you can arrest them.”

  “Last I checked, losing a ring doesn’t make you a murderer.” Even as he said this, Scott took the ring from her and bagged it in a little ziplock bag. “This is probably going to be useless. But I’ll keep it anyway. A little souvenir.”

  “Aren’t you at least going to try and find out who it belongs to?” Rachel asked.

  “I think I already know,” Scott said.

  “Who!” she exclaimed.

  “Arthur,” Scott replied. “He was on the team, remember? He could have used this alley while coming to your back door.”

  “He was on the team, but so was Jay. So was Paul. So was Jackson,” Rachel said. “It could be any of you.”

  Scott sighed, and raised his eyes to the sky. “Go to sleep, Rachel. It’s way too late for me to be standing out here debating which of my former teammates killed Arthur.”

  “Sure, it’s way more convenient for you to believe I did it,” Rachel snapped. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Scott said. “Next time, if you find any evidence at all, point it out to me as fast as possible, OK? At least that way your fingerprints won’t be all over it and I’ll have a decent chance of a judge accepting it in court.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Oh, and keep quiet about finding this,” Scott said.

  She stared at him, surprised, and he continued, “I mean, you and I know it isn’t admissible in court anymore, but the killer doesn’t.”

  “That’s . . . pretty smart of you,” Rachel said grudgingly.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I try to use my brain once in awhile. Keeps it from rusting.”

  He escorted her back in the house, and it wasn’t until he’d gone that Rachel suddenly remembered the other object in her pocket, one that Scott might well consider evidence: her aunt’s key.

  *****

  Chapter 18

  Whispers At The Funeral

  Arthur’s funeral took place on a sunny Californian morning. It was a death as seemingly perfect as his life had been. The funeral grounds overlooked the ocean, and a steady ocean breeze floated like jazz music over the heads of those gathered around his grave.

  Rachel noticed Audrey sniffing into a handkerchief while two older couples, Audrey’s parents and Arthur’s, consoled her. Next to her, Jackson Wyatt stood with a group of men in dark suits, all with their heads bowed and their faces somber. Rachel felt a prickle of interest as she realized that this was the football team of ninety-four. Paul stood toward the back of the group, as did Jay and Scott. She tried to catch the sheriff’s eye, but his gaze was focused on Arthur’s grave. There was a particularly steely intensity in his eyes, as though he were making a secret promise to Arthur to catch the killer soon.

  The family held a reception afterward in Arthur’s childhood home. Rachel felt sorrow for his parents and Audrey as she wandered through the large two-story home. Photos of Arthur hung all around the house. He had clearly been the pride and joy of his parents. As the others gathered in the living room drinking coffee and sampling finger foods, Rachel slipped upstairs, suddenly eager to get away from the crowd. Nobody noticed her; the front door was wide open and people spilled out of it onto the large front lawn. Rachel smoothed down her dark, sheath dress, wincing at the too-loud clicking of her heels.

  Arthur’s childhood room was the second door on the left. It was obvious by the posters of cars and football players on the walls that the décor hadn’t been updated since the nineties. The door was open and even though her conscience attacked her a little, Rachel ignored it and slipped inside.

  The room smelled of dust and carpet cleaner, but it was a fine, sunny place for a boy to grow up, with a small balcony looking out onto the edge of a forest. She stood in the center of it all, and took it in: a twin bed, a closet that was locked, football trophies, and academic medals all arranged on the surface of a dresser. She moved closer to the dresser and gave a little exclamation. In one corner, a little behind some of the trophies, was a blank space. It wasn’t the blank space she was interested in, so much as the pattern of dust that had settled around it in concentric circles. Obviously, until very recently, a ring had been present on this table.

  She gave a little jump as footsteps approached, and fearful of being caught, moved to the balcony, closing the door behind her. She heard the click of heels on wood, and then a muffled sound of someone crying. Peeking out, she saw Lacey sitting on the edge of Arthur’s old bed, crying into a handkerchief.

  “Lacey?” Rachel stepped out, and Lacey gave a little shriek. “It’s OK, I was just . . .”

  “Sneaking around?” Lacey accused.

  “Just getting some air,” Rachel said. “I didn’t have the strength to face the crowd.”

  “Neither did I,” Lacey agreed.
Her nose was red and her eyes puffy, with a little makeup smudged on the side.

  Rachel sat next to her, and draped an arm over the woman’s shoulders. “This is hard on you.”

  “I didn’t realize until now that he’s gone. Like really gone,” Lacey said. “I have so many memories of him, but they feel like they’re from a different life. Things are so different now—I’m so different now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said, feeling a little awkward.

  “It’s OK.” Lacey sniffed again. “I guess I needed to cry it out. The last few days I was just focused on me and Paul. The sheriff’s allegations were so horrible!”

  “So you mentioned.” Rachel winced as she remembered their last conversation, and Lacey’s accusation.

  “We used to do homework in this room.” Lacey grinned. “Well, we hardly ever concentrated on the work, really. Young love is a funny thing. The memory of it colors the rest of your life.”

  “Why did you break up?” Rachel asked.

  “I didn’t. Arthur did,” Lacey said. She shrugged. “It ran its course, what can I say? That’s how the teenage heart works. You fall in love, then you fall out. For men, it’s like growing a beard, it just happens, and you can’t explain it.”

  “But you didn’t stop loving him, did you?” Rachel said.

  “No.” Lacey sniffed. “I couldn’t. I still can’t. I don’t mean that I’m not in love with Paul, or that I’d ever cheat, but . . . there’s always been this part of me. It’s a part that comes out at three a.m. sometimes, when it’s been a bad day. It’s a part of me that goes onto Arthur’s Facebook page and imagines his life, and imagines how different mine would be if he’d kept me a part of it.” She looked up at Rachel. “I guess you think I’m pathetic.”

  “I don’t,” Rachel said. “I still stalk my ex’s social media sometimes. I mean . . . it’s irresistible, right? You go on, and check out what he’s doing and marvel that he’s managed to survive just fine without you. You compare your life with his and try to figure out ways in which you’ve won the game.”