The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer Read online

  “It seems like these things always hit too close to home,” Phyllis said with a sigh. Eve knew that as well as anyone, since she’d had her own run-in with murder, nasty business that had landed both her and Phyllis behind bars for a while.

  “Well, if you want to talk about it anytime, I’d be glad to listen. I’m no detective like you are, but my ear is always available.”

  “Thanks,” Phyllis said. Eve’s attitude was a little puzzling. She had never taken that much of an interest in the cases Phyllis investigated unless they affected her personally.

  Interrupting her thoughts, Carolyn came into the kitchen and said, “I wouldn’t expect Sam to be down anytime soon, the way he’s sawing logs up there. I could hear him out in the hall when I passed his room.”

  Phyllis smiled and said, “I’ll cook some bacon. That smell always has amazing rejuvenating powers where Sam is concerned.”

  Carolyn sat down at the table with her cup of coffee and asked, “Have you decided what your first column is going to be about?”

  The question sounded casual, but Phyllis suspected that it wasn’t. A few months earlier, she had won a recipe contest sponsored by their favorite magazine, A Taste of Texas, and the editor had surprised her by asking her to write a monthly column featuring a new recipe. The deadline was looming, and Phyllis knew she had to come up with something soon.

  “I was thinking about combining a couple of things I like,” she said, then hesitated. Over the years, she had gotten into the habit of being rather closemouthed about recipe ideas around Carolyn, since they were usually competing in one contest or another. Phyllis didn’t think for a second that Carolyn would actually steal one of her recipes, but just knowing what Phyllis was considering might give her an advantage in making her own plans.

  This time, however, there was no competition involved. Indeed, Carolyn had seemed to be nothing but pleased and supportive about Phyllis’s column.

  “Combinations are usually a good idea,” Carolyn said now. “As long as you don’t try to combine things that really don’t go together. Those oddball mixtures are usually awful.”

  Phyllis wasn’t so sure about that. How were you supposed to know what went together well if you didn’t try them out?

  But she let that go and said, “I think these will be just fine. I’m going to make some baklava macarons and see how they turn out.”

  “Oh, that does sound good,” Eve said.

  “Yes, it does,” Carolyn agreed. “If I can give you a hand, just let me know.” She paused, then added, “You wouldn’t even have to mention me in the magazine.”

  Phyllis took a sip of coffee to keep from laughing. Eve wasn’t that restrained. She smiled sweetly and asked, “How’s the fishing, dear?”

  “Fishing?” Carolyn frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Phyllis didn’t know if Eve’s pointed comment had really gone over Carolyn’s head, or if Carolyn just chose to pretend not to understand. Either way, the conversation had gone far enough. She stood up and headed for the cabinet to get out a frying pan and start on that bacon.

  • • •

  As Phyllis had predicted, about ten minutes after the smell of frying bacon filled the big old house, Sam walked into the kitchen in his bathrobe. By that time, Carolyn had mixed up some blueberry muffins and had them in the oven, and the aroma in the kitchen was even more delicious.

  As the four friends sat around the table eating, Carolyn asked, “Are you and Sam going to start investigating this morning, Phyllis?”

  “I imagine we’ll wait to hear from Mr. D’Angelo’s office,” Phyllis said. “We’re supposed to go by there sometime today to sign those statements we gave Chief Whitmire last night, and he’ll be talking to Nate this morning, too. It’s possible Mr. D’Angelo may think the police don’t have a strong enough case to charge Nate, so the whole thing could turn out to be moot.”

  Carolyn frowned and said, “But what about that cloud of suspicion you mentioned last night? If the real killer isn’t caught, some people will always believe that Nate shot his father-in-law.”

  “I suppose that’s true. I’m not sure the general public will ever hear enough about the case to form such an opinion, though.”

  “Are you joking?” Carolyn asked. “A murder at a Christmas parade, a runaway Santa Claus sleigh, and who happens to be on hand to stop it and save lives? You two!” She shook her head. “I’ll bet the story is all over the Internet already. Those—what do you call ’em?—fan sites will be buzzing about this.”

  Phyllis frowned. She hadn’t thought about that. As far-fetched as it seemed to her, as difficult as it was for her to believe, she knew there were true-crime websites devoted to the cases she had solved. She didn’t have any connection to any of them, and she scrupulously avoided commenting on them, no matter how outlandish they got, but she knew they were out there.

  And she knew Carolyn was right: Barney McCrory’s murder would be prime blog fodder.

  Sam said, “Nobody who knows Nate very well would ever think he was a murderer. He was always a good kid, and grew up to be a good man.”

  “You know that,” Carolyn said, “and the rest of us will certainly take your word for it. But what about everybody who doesn’t know him? He’s going to be the prime suspect in everyone’s mind, Sam. There’s no getting around that.”

  Sam grimaced and shrugged. He knew there was no point in arguing with Carolyn, especially when she was right.

  After breakfast, once they had cleaned up the dishes and gotten dressed, Sam fed his Dalmatian, Buck, who had been part of the family since Sam had adopted him several months earlier. Phyllis went to the computer in the living room and turned on the monitor. She checked her e-mail—nothing important, not even a message from a Nigerian prince—and then opened one of the true-crime websites in her browser. She didn’t want to admit it to Carolyn, but she had bookmarked several of them.

  She winced as she saw the title of the first post: WEATHERFORD, MURDER CAPITAL OF TEXAS—AND PHYLLIS NEWSOM’S HOMETOWN. There was a picture of the big crowd gathered on the courthouse lawn for the previous year’s Christmas-tree lighting, since it had never taken place this year.

  The person who had posted the story had included a photograph of Barney McCrory, too. It had been taken somewhere outside, probably on his ranch, and Phyllis thought it made him look like the Marlboro Man. Of course, there was no mention of that, since not many members of the Internet generation would even be aware of who the Marlboro Man was.

  There was a picture of Clay Loomis, too: a professional portrait showing his sleek, silver-haired good looks and plenty of white teeth bared in a politician’s smile. The story explained that he was the local official who’d been playing Santa Claus in the parade.

  Not only that, but there were also pictures of attractive young women in elf costumes that were even skimpier and more suggestive than the ones the cheerleaders had actually been wearing. The story made it sound as if the women in the photos were the high school girls who had been on the carriage, even though they really weren’t.

  As she skimmed through the story, Phyllis had to admit that despite its overall sleazy tone, the basic facts as presented by the website were correct. She clicked on the bookmarks again and went to another site.

  This one was more restrained, although one of the commenters on the post had written in all caps, NEVER GO TO THE OPERA WITH PHYLLIS NEWSOM! She wasn’t sure what that meant. She hadn’t been to the opera in years. She didn’t even like opera.

  Then she frowned and said, “Ohhhh,” as the light dawned. The idea was ridiculous, of course. She went to plenty of places where murders never took place.

  Sam came into the room behind her and she gave a little guilty start, as if she’d been looking at something she shouldn’t. She started to close the browser, then decided not to. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

>   “Carolyn was right, eh?” Sam said. “The story’s already out there?”

  “Yes, but there’s really not much about Nate and Allyson.” She let out a ladylike little snort. “They’re too busy making snide comments about how dangerous it is to be around me.”

  “Maybe I’d better keep that in mind,” Sam drawled. “These days, I spend more time around you than anybody else, so I reckon I’m in the most danger.”

  “Don’t be—” She was going to say ridiculous, but then she turned and saw that he was grinning. “You’re just giving me the business.”

  “Maybe.” He grew more serious as he came to stand beside her. “Did you see anything that gave you ideas?”

  “Unfortunately, no. There’s nothing in-depth in any of the stories. We need to sit down with Nate and Allyson again, maybe with Mr. D’Angelo there, and go over everything they can tell us about Mr. McCrory and his business. There has to be something somewhere to justify someone taking a shot at him.”

  “Unless it was just a random shooter,” Sam said.

  “If that were true, isn’t it more likely he would have kept shooting? Maniacs like that generally don’t stop with one shot.”

  “That’s true. The way the whole thing played out makes it look like he was just after Barney. When he made his first shot, that was the end of it.”

  Phyllis frowned. She said, “How do we know it was his first shot?”

  “Well, nobody else was hurt . . .”

  “Maybe his first shot missed. Maybe his first two or three shots. The police need to go over that carriage very carefully and look for bullet holes. I wonder what happened to it.”

  “My guess is that the cops impounded it. It’ll be in the police garage. I don’t see what some extra shots would prove, though.”

  Phyllis sighed.

  “Neither do I,” she admitted. “The case has barely gotten started, and I’m already grasping at straws.”

  “You’re gatherin’ information and considerin’ possibilities,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t call that graspin’ at straws.”

  “Maybe not, but—”

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her.

  “You expectin’ anybody?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Phyllis replied with a frown. She turned off the computer monitor and stood up. A glance out the living-room window showed her an unmarked van parked at the curb in front of the house. The van might not have any words written on it, but the presence of a small dish antenna attached to the vehicle’s roof was a dead giveaway.

  The TV people had arrived—and they were just about the last people Phyllis wanted to see.

  Chapter 8

  Sam had come up beside Phyllis to peer through the window. He muttered, “I don’t like the looks of that.”

  “Maybe if we just ignore them, they’ll go away,” she suggested.

  “Maybe,” Sam said dubiously, “but I doubt it. Anyway, there’ll just be some more along later.”

  The doorbell rang again. Carolyn came up the hall from the kitchen and said, “Goodness, isn’t someone going to answer that?” She started toward the door herself.

  Phyllis waved her back and said in resignation, “I’ve got it.”

  She opened the door to find three people standing on her porch: two burly men in Windbreakers and blue jeans, one carrying a video camera and the other some sort of equipment Phyllis didn’t recognize, and a young woman with artfully tousled chestnut hair and perfect makeup. She held a microphone and wore a blue blazer and a scandalously short skirt that showed off sleek, nylon-clad legs.

  “Mrs. Newsom,” she said quickly, without any preamble, “I’m Felicity Prosper from Inside Beat. I’m sure you’ve seen our program. What can you tell us about this latest murder case you’re investigating? Have you zeroed in on the killer yet?”

  “I’m sorry,” Phyllis began, “I really can’t comment—”

  “You are Phyllis Newsom, aren’t you?” the young woman went on. “Texas’s Elderly Angel of Death?”

  That question left Phyllis so shocked, she couldn’t find any words. While she was standing there speechless, Sam moved up behind her, rested a hand on her shoulder, and said through the screen door, “Listen here. You folks just get on out of here. You’ve got no business comin’ around and upsettin’ people—”

  “You’re Sam Fletcher,” Felicity Prosper said. “Mrs. Newsom’s friend.” Her tone of voice put a leer in the word. “What’s it like to be romantically involved with a woman who catches killers for a living?”

  Phyllis finally found her voice again. She burst out, “I don’t catch killers for a living. I’m a retired schoolteacher!”

  “A retired schoolteacher who’s responsible for nearly a dozen murderers being behind bars, even though the incompetent authorities in this town had no idea they were guilty,” Felicity Prosper went on smoothly. Phyllis wondered crazily how the woman could talk so fast without ever stopping to take a breath. “That’s true, isn’t it? In every one of those cases, the police arrested the wrong person and claimed that he or she was the killer. Including one of your very best friends.”

  The torrent of words threatened to overwhelm Phyllis. She thought about slamming the door in Felicity’s face, but before she could do that, Sam said angrily, “I’ve seen that Inside Beat show of yours, miss. It’s pure trash. Nothin’ but sordid celebrity gossip and the most lurid crimes you can dig up. Well, there’s nothin’ for you to see here. Nothin’!”

  Sam stepped back, bringing Phyllis with him, and took care of slamming the door. In fact, he slammed it so hard, it shivered in its frame.

  “Dang,” Sam muttered. “Hope I didn’t knock anything outa line.”

  “Good grief,” Carolyn said from behind them. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry, Sam.”

  “I just hate to see those . . . those buzzards peckin’ around in the tragedy of a good man’s death.”

  The doorbell rang again. Phyllis’s only response was to reach up and turn the dead bolt, making sure it was closed. Then she went back into the living room and pulled the curtains shut over the picture window.

  Felicity Prosper gave up trying to wear out the doorbell after a while and went back to the van, trailed by the two men, who hadn’t said a word. A few minutes later the phone rang, and when Phyllis answered, the first thing she heard was the young woman’s voice saying, “Mrs. Newsom, if you’d just give me an interview—”

  Phyllis thumbed the button to end the call. It went against the grain for her to hang up on someone—her generation had been raised to be polite—but she didn’t want to talk to the tabloid-TV reporter.

  A few minutes later Felicity was back on the porch, ringing the bell.

  “Would it do any good to call the police?” Eve asked. She had joined Phyllis, Sam, and Carolyn in the living room.

  “I’m sure the police could tell them to get off the property,” Phyllis said, “but then they’d just sit out there in their van. That’s not against the law.”

  “Maybe it should be,” Carolyn said. “It ought to be illegal to harass law-abiding citizens in their own homes.”

  “It’s the information age,” Sam said, “and information wants to be free. Or so all the anarchists will tell you. That’s not what the young lady and her associates are after, though.”

  “What do you think they want?” Phyllis asked.

  “Ratings.” Sam rubbed his right thumb against the fingertips of that hand. “Money. Moolah.”

  Phyllis had to laugh.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard anybody use that word in ages,” she said. “Thank you, Sam. You’ve lightened the mood.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t reckon it’ll take Miss Short Skirt out there long to darken it again.”

  Phyllis raised an eyebrow and said, “You noticed the skirt, did you?”

&nbs
p; “Hard not to. My bones may creak, but my eyes still work pretty good.”

  It was a long morning. Felicity Prosper went back and forth from the porch to the van, ringing the doorbell each time, and she called on the phone at least half a dozen times. Phyllis let both of them ring.

  Finally, though, on one of those calls, the phone displayed the name of the law firm where Jimmy D’Angelo had his practice. That one Phyllis answered right away.

  “Good morning,” D’Angelo said.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Phyllis told him.

  “Oh? What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a reporter from some tabloid TV show camped out on my front porch. She wants to talk to me about Mr. McCrory’s murder.” Phyllis paused. “She called me Texas’s Elderly Angel of Death.”

  D’Angelo made a noise on the other end of the connection. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to be sympathetic—or trying not to laugh.

  But he managed to sound properly outraged as he said, “That’s terrible. I can try to get a restraining order against them. It might not be easy, though. I’m sure the show has plenty of lawyers on retainer, ready to start yelling about the freedom of the press.”

  Phyllis sighed and said, “I wouldn’t waste any time and energy on that. This reporter is persistent, and I’m sure there’ll be others. I’m just going to try to ignore them.”

  “You can always say no comment, no matter what they ask you,” D’Angelo said. “Do you think you can get out without them following you?”

  “It’s doubtful, but I can try. Do you want to see me?”

  “You and Sam. I’ve got those statements for you to sign. Also, Nate Hollingsworth was here earlier. I think it would be worthwhile for all of us to sit down with him and his wife to talk about the case. They’re supposed to be here at two this afternoon. Can you and Sam make that?”

  “We’ll be there,” Phyllis promised. “We may have a TV crew in tow, but we’ll be there.”

  • • •

  Felicity Prosper and her cohorts must have taken a break for lunch, because their van disappeared from the curb in the middle of the day. Phyllis hoped they would be gone until after she and Sam left for Jimmy D’Angelo’s office. She didn’t want the TV people following them there. That would tip them off that D’Angelo was involved and might lead them straight to Nate and Allyson.