Black and Blueberry Die (A Fresh-Baked Mystery Book 11) Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE FRESH-BAKED MYSTERIES

  “Engaging . . . a cozy distinguished by its appealing characters and mouthwatering recipes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This is a great cozy to get you into the holiday spirit—because even though there’s a murderer on the loose, there’s lots of holiday cheer (and some yummy-sounding recipes at the end of this book).”

  —AnnArbor.com

  “[A] fun and captivating read . . . full of holiday cheer, mystery, murder, delicious treats, endearing characters, and evil villains . . . a cute and grippingly good read.”

  —Examiner.com

  “[Livia J. Washburn] has cooked up another fine mystery with plenty of suspects . . . a fun read . . . great characters with snappy dialogue, a prime location, a wonderful whodunit. Mix together and you have another fantastic cozy from Livia Washburn. Her books always leave me smiling and anxiously waiting for another trip to visit Phyllis and her friends.”

  —Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

  “This mystery is nicely crafted, with a believable ending. The camaraderie of the Fresh-Baked Mystery series’ cast of retired schoolteachers who share a home is endearing. Phyllis is an intelligent and keen sleuth who can bake a mean funnel cake. Delicious recipes are included!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  continued . . .

  “The whodunit is fun and the recipes [are] mouthwatering.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Washburn has a refreshing way with words and knows how to tell an exciting story.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Delightful, [with a] realistic small-town vibe [and a] vibrant narrative . . . A Peach of a Murder runs the full range of emotions, so be prepared to laugh and cry with this one!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Christmas and murder. It’s a combination that doesn’t seem to go together, yet Washburn pulls it off in a delightfully entertaining manner.”

  —Armchair Interviews

  “A clever, intriguing contemporary cozy.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “I loved it! . . . Definitely for people who just love a good mystery.”

  —Once Upon a Twilight

  Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries

  A Peach of a Murder

  Murder by the Slice

  The Christmas Cookie Killer

  Killer Crab Cakes

  The Pumpkin Muffin Murder

  The Gingerbread Bump-off

  Wedding Cake Killer

  The Fatal Funnel Cake

  Trick or Deadly Treat

  The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer

  Black and

  Blueberry

  Die

  A Fresh Baked Mystery

  Livia J. Washburn

  Fire Star Press

  Black and Blueberry Die

  Copyright© 2016 Livia J. Washburn

  Published by Fire Star Press

  www.firestarpress.com

  This book is an original publication of Fire Star Press.

  First Printing, September 2016

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Dedicated to my husband, James, and my daughters, Joanna and Shayna, for helping keep me sane. (Hush you three, snickering is rude!) And to the memory of my parents, Paul and Naomi Washburn, who ran Paul’s Beauty Shop for many years before Mom went back to school to get a teaching degree. Those memories of growing up in a beauty shop are fond ones.

  Chapter 1

  Phyllis Newsom fanned herself with the church bulletin from that morning’s service and said, “Can you believe that people used to live without air conditioning?”

  Sam Fletcher stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He was wearing a Texas Rangers t-shirt and blue jean shorts and his feet were bare. Next to Sam’s chair on the porch lay Buck, the Dalmatian he had rescued from the local animal shelter. Buck’s chin rested on his front paws, a picture of contentment since he was with his human.

  “I thought you were fond of the good ol’ days,” Sam said to Phyllis with a smile on his craggy face. “You’re always talkin’ about ’em.”

  “I suppose I am...but there’s no need to be fanatical about these things.”

  Phyllis wore sandals, capri pants, and a short-sleeved, lightweight blouse. Her mother never would have dressed like that on the Sabbath and probably would have disapproved of the outfit on her daughter. But as far as Phyllis was concerned, this was perfectly fine attire for a warm September Sunday afternoon at home. She was a grown woman, too, she reminded herself. Quite a few decades beyond being a grown woman, in fact.

  “When’s the fella comin’ to fix the A/C?” Sam asked.

  “He said he’d be here sometime tomorrow.”

  “Mornin’ or afternoon?”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” Phyllis repeated. “That’s as much as he could narrow it down. And I got the feeling he thought I should be grateful he’d be here that soon.”

  “How busy can he be this late in the season?”

  “It’s still warm enough to need the air conditioner, isn’t it? It won’t really cool off much until next month, and I suspect we’ll still be running the air conditioner even then.”

  “Heater in the mornin’, air conditioner in the afternoon, that’s Texas for you,” Sam said. “Speakin’ of that, when I was growin’ up, we had a gas furnace for the winter and window units for the summer. Swamp coolers, at that. I think I was nearly grown before my folks ever bought an air conditioner with freon in it.”

  Phyllis leaned her head toward the house and said, “That’s the way it was here when Kenny and I moved in, until we got it all replaced with the central unit.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad when it’s fixed. You get used to things.”

  “That’s true,” Phyllis said.

  For example, she was used to Sam’s company. It was hard to believe that only a few years earlier, she didn’t even know him, let alone consider him her best friend. She hadn’t been sure about renting him a room here in this big old house on a tree-shaded side street in Weatherford, Texas. Now she knew it was one of the best decisions she’d ever made.

  The front door opened and Carolyn Wilbarger came out onto the porch carrying a tray with a pitcher and several glasses on it. Condensation heavily beaded the sides of the pitcher, which was full of ice and a pale yellow liquid.

  “Fresh lemonade,” Carolyn announced.

  Sam grinned and said, “That sounds mighty good. You’re next thing to an angel right now, Carolyn.”

  “I thought you two might need some cooling off.”

  Sam’s grin widened as he asked in a mischievious tone, “Why, whatever do you mean by that, Miz Wilbarger?”

  Carolyn ignored the question. She placed the tray on a small plastic table between the rocking chairs where Phyllis and Sam sat, filled one of the glasses with cold lemonade, and thrust it into Sam’s hand.

  “Here. Just drink that.”

&nbs
p; Sam took a swallow, licked his lips, and nodded appreciatively. “Tart but sorta sweet, too. Hits the spot, that’s for sure.”

  Carolyn poured lemonade into the other two glasses, handed one to Phyllis, and then sat down with her glass in one of the other rocking chairs.

  “At least there’s a nice breeze out here,” she said. “It’s like an oven in that kitchen.” She laughed. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I certainly do,” Phyllis said. “By the way, I got an email from Eve this morning.”

  Their friend Eve Turner, who also rented a room here, had sold a novel the previous year, and now there was talk about turning it into a movie, which meant Eve had had to go to California to discuss the deal.

  “Is she all right?” Carolyn rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t imagine her on the loose out there in Hollywood. Well, actually, I can imagine. That’s the trouble.”

  “She’s fine,” Phyllis said. “She should be back later this week if everything goes as planned.”

  “They still gettin’ ready to make that movie outta her book?” Sam asked.

  “Who knows? She says nothing is ever settled in Hollywood until all the contracts are signed, and even then you can’t be sure. But I think she’s having a fine time just talking to the studio executives about it and having them make a fuss over her.”

  “Yes, she’d enjoy that,” Carolyn said. “Mark my words, she’ll wind up married to some big-shot Hollywood producer.”

  Sam scratched his jaw and said, “Who do you think they’ll get to play me?”

  “Tom Baxter in the book isn’t you,” Phyllis said. “None of those characters are us. They’re just very loosely inspired by us.”

  “Loosely inspired, my hind foot,” Carolyn said. “A bunch of retired schoolteachers sharing a house and solving murders in a small Texas town. How much closer to reality could it be?”

  “I was thinkin’ maybe Sam Elliott,” Sam went on. “On account of us havin’ the same first name and all. Not to mention the rugged good looks.”

  Phyllis sat up straighter and placed her half-full glass of lemonade on the table. She had spotted a police car coming down the street. A sheriff’s department car, actually, and now it eased to a stop at the curb in front of the yard.

  “Mike’s here,” Carolyn announced unnecessarily. She stood up. “I’ll go get another glass.”

  “He may not have time for lemonade,” Phyllis said.

  “Everybody has time for lemonade on a hot afternoon, even a deputy sheriff.”

  With that declaration, Carolyn disappeared into the house.

  Phyllis’s son Mike got out of the car and came up the walk. He wore his deputy’s uniform. Phyllis didn’t know if he was on his way to work or was already on duty. Either way he probably wouldn’t be able to stay long, but she was glad to see him anyway.

  “Hi, Mom, hi, Sam,” he said as he stopped with one foot on the first of the three steps leading up to the porch. “Why are you sitting out here?”

  “Can’t people enjoy a pleasant Sunday afternoon?” Phyllis said.

  “A/C conked out,” Sam said.

  “Have you got somebody coming to fix it?”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow,” Phyllis said.

  Mike nodded. “Okay. But if it gets too hot, you know you can come stay with us. It’s usually...Never mind.”

  Sam nodded toward Mike and said to Phyllis, “He was about to say it’s usually old people who die from gettin’ overheated, I’ll bet.”

  Phyllis ignored that and said, “You looked a little worried about something before you even knew our air conditioner was out, Mike. Is something wrong?”

  Her son’s face was solemn now, but even though something appeared to be bothering him, he seemed reluctant to share it. After a moment, he said, “This was probably a bad idea.”

  “Coming to see your mother is never a bad idea.”

  Mike took a deep breath and said, “It is when you’re coming to ask her to get mixed up in a murder case.”

  ••●••

  “You remember Danny Jackson,” Mike said a short time later. He was sitting in one of the rockers with his own glass of lemonade. Carolyn had been right about that.

  “Of course,” Phyllis said. “I was sorry to hear about what happened. It was really hard to believe.”

  “I went over to Fort Worth this morning to talk to him. They’re still holding him in the jail there. He should have been transferred to the penitentiary in Huntsville by now, but there’s some sort of hold-up in the paperwork.”

  “Got to have all the right papers and tell the computers exactly what they want to hear,” Sam said. “Otherwise you can’t get anything done this day and age.”

  “Well, in this case bureaucracy may have actually accomplished something good, even if it was by accident, because Danny had a chance to call me and tell me he wanted to talk to me.” Mike frowned. “I hadn’t seen him in four or five years. We’re friends on Facebook, but we hadn’t actually talked...Anyway, I didn’t think it would be a very good idea, a sheriff’s deputy visiting a convicted murderer in jail, but he sounded really desperate. And then he played the eighty yard run card.”

  “The eighty yard run card?” Sam repeated.

  Mike nodded. “Final game of the season my senior year. We were playing Stephenville, and whoever won would be district champs. The score was tied late in the game, and we had the ball on our own nineteen yard line. It was third and eleven, and we couldn’t try to throw for a first down because our quarterback had a rubber band for an arm. So he hands the ball to me on a sweep, and Danny, who’s playing right tackle, makes the best block you’ll ever see in your life. Takes out their defensive end and two linebackers. I got outside, juked the defensive back who came up, and realized that not only was I going to get the first down, if I could get past the safety I had a clear shot down the sideline.” Mike shrugged. “So I ran over him and was off to the races.”

  “I remember that game,” Phyllis said. “It was one of the most exciting things I ever saw.”

  “But you were on your nineteen, you said...” Sam commented.

  “Yeah, the DB I put a move on finally caught up to me and brought me down at the Stephenville one. Our quarterback snuck in on the next play, and that was the game. But I never would have gone for eighty and basically won the game if it hadn’t been for Danny’s block.”

  “I understood a little of that,” Carolyn said. “You’re saying you owed this man a debt.”

  “A big one. Because that was the night I finally got up the courage to ask Sarah to go out with me, and...well...”

  “And now you’re married and have a beautiful son and of course you feel grateful to Danny for whatever small part he might have played in you and Sarah getting together,” Phyllis said. “But still, he killed his wife.”

  “That’s just it, Mom,” Mike said. “I’m not convinced he did.”

  Chapter 2

  Phyllis was telling the truth when she said she remembered Danny Jackson. It would have been hard for her to forget the boy who had been her son’s best friend all the way through junior high and high school. Danny and Mike had set at Phyllis’s own kitchen table many times eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or hot dogs or bowls of ice cream. She had driven them to football practice and Little League games and Boy Scout meetings. They had set in the living room watching sports on TV with Kenny, Mike’s dad and Phyllis’s late husband. Danny’s dad wasn’t in the picture—Phyllis didn’t know the details and hadn’t had any reason to pry into the boy’s home life—so Kenny had, at times, been like a surrogate father to him. To tell the truth, Phyllis remembered all of it vividly, more so than many of the things that had happened recently.

  Of course, time had passed and best friends or not, the lives of the two young men had taken different courses. Mike had gone to college, majored in criminal justice, and become a sheriff’s deputy. Danny had gone to college, too, but only for a year before enlistin
g in the Army. He’d been deployed somewhere overseas but hadn’t seen any combat as far as Phyllis knew. After two “hitches”—Phyllis supposed they still called them that—he had returned to civilian life, gotten married to a girl he had dated while he was in college, and settled down in Fort Worth, evidently happy and ready to get on with his life.

  Phyllis heard about those things in passing from Mike, but she remembered them well enough she’d been shocked when she heard, some months earlier, that Danny had been arrested for the murder of his wife.

  “You know how when something bad happens, people always say they never knew it was coming?” Mike said.

  “They used to say that,” Sam responded. “Now most folks say, ‘Oh, yeah, I always knew he was crazy and was gonna snap one of these days.’”

  Mike shrugged and nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s true. It does seem like we have more obviously crazy and violent people these days. But in Danny and Roxanne’s case it was more of a surprise. They seemed happy. I saw the pictures both of them posted on Facebook. They were always doing things together and looked like they were in love.”

  With her usual cynicism, Carolyn said, “Married couples get in the habit of looking like they’re in love. It makes things simpler and easier that way, whether it’s true or not.”

  “I guess. I’m sure Danny and Roxanne had their problems. But if anybody had told me he was going to kill her, especially like...that...I would have said they were nuts.”

  “She was beaten to death, wasn’t she?” Phyllis asked quietly.

  Mike nodded. “Blunt force trauma. In fact, it was bad enough that, well, they had a little trouble identifying her.”

  Carolyn leaned forward in her rocking chair and asked, “Were the authorities absolutely certain it was her who was killed? I mean, could it have been some other woman about the same age and shape and size...?”