Dying for a Cupcake (20 page)

I casually got up and strolled toward the pawnshop’s front window. As I walked, I could see a car parked in the crook of the L-shaped lot, and the emblem on the grill of the vehicle was the Mercedes logo.

As I dug my phone out of my pocket, Poppy and Boone joined me. I jerked my head in the direction of the car and whispered to my friends, “Don’t look, but I think that’s Gwen’s Mercedes.”

Poppy pawed through her purse, pulled out a compact, and peered into it. “You’re right.”

Boone snatched the mirror from Poppy’s hand and added his confirmation, then said, “You’d better call the cops.”

Once I got through to Chief Kincaid and informed him of his suspect’s possible whereabouts, Poppy asked me, “But why would Gwen stick around with all the police presence?”

“She probably was watching from here to make sure that Kizzy carried the gift out with her,” I explained. “Then when the cops showed up, she couldn’t risk leaving and being seen.”

A split second later, several squad cars zipped into the parking lot. Now that there was no need to remain concealed from Gwen’s view, the three of us moved nearer, watching the cruisers surround the Mercedes. In retrospect, getting closer to Gwen was stupid. What if she’d had a gun? But at the time, we were all caught up in the excitement of catching the murderer.

A nanosecond later, car doors slammed and we heard Chief Kincaid’s voice amplified through a
megaphone. He ordered, “Gwendolyn Bourne, put your hands on your head and get out of the vehicle.”

He repeated the command several times and finally we saw Gwen emerge from the Mercedes. Poppy had been right about how bad she looked. I had never seen the socialite in public anything but Barbie-doll perfect before. Whatever had caused Gwen to snap had played hell with her appearance. She looked more like the Unabomber than a member of one of Shadow Bend’s wealthiest families. Gwen had always reminded me of an egg. I knew she was going to crack one day, just not when she was going to take that inevitable leap into the sizzling pan.

As Chief Kincaid put her in the backseat of the squad car, Gwen screamed, “I would have stopped after that poor girl died, but Kizzy just had to keep bragging about
her
wonderful, original cupcakes. That’s Marla’s recipe, not hers. She shouldn’t have been profiting from what she did to my sister.”

The whole time the chief tried to get Gwen seated in the cruiser, she continued to shout her justification in trying to kill the cupcake queen. I had never liked Gwen, but a part of me felt sorry for her. Kizzy had tormented Marla to death, and because of that earlier bullying, Marla’s little sister’s life was destroyed as well.

Still, instead of wreaking her revenge on Kizzy, Gwen had killed a girl who had barely been out of diapers when the incident took place. I sighed and shook my head. There really was no excuse for Gwen’s actions. Our past may influence who we are, but in the end, we’re responsible for who we become. Violence and vengeance never do work out the way the instigators plan. And it’s always the innocents who are caught in the crossfire.

F
rom the moment that I opened the dime store on Monday at noon, Gwen Bourne’s arrest, confession, and subsequent mental breakdown were the only topic of conversation. The rumor mill confirmed my speculation that when she took ownership of the family estate, Gwen had cleaned out the attic and found her sister’s diaries.

According to the grapevine, Marla had painstakingly chronicled each of Kizzy’s verbal assaults. A second journal had contained all of Marla’s original recipes, and once Gwen realized how her sister had really died and who was behind Marla’s suicide, she vowed to get revenge.

Gwen was claiming that she had only aimed to make Kizzy sick with Thursday evening’s poisoned delivery, not kill her. But then when Fallon died, and the cupcake queen went on with the weekend, Gwen’s rage grew. She had set off the tornado siren during the opening ceremonies because she couldn’t stand to see the whole town kowtowing to the woman who had bullied Marla to death, then stolen her recipe to become rich and famous.

With every failed attempt to kill Kizzy, and each of the cupcake queen’s public appearances, Gwen’s thirst for vengeance grew. Then when Kizzy hired a bodyguard, Gwen got desperate. Since the cupcake queen was no longer accessible, Gwen decided a bomb was the only way to finish her off for good. Gwen alleged that she never meant to hurt anyone else and only intended to detonate the bomb when she was sure Kizzy was alone in her room at the B & B. Her plan was to climb onto the suite’s balcony and wait until she saw Kizzy start to open the package before setting off the explosive.

As I collected money and bagged purchases, I learned from my customers that Gwen’s parents had hired a private plane, flown into Kansas City late last night, and were already in residence back in Shadow Bend. I also found out that Gwen was being held on Triple Creek Hospital’s locked psychiatric ward. Evidently, Mr. and Mrs. Bourne had hired a criminal attorney from California who was famous for getting wack-job celebrities off with a slap on their wrists. This was the same lawyer who while defending a strung-out superstar had stood up in open court and said, “If the lunatic has a fit, you must acquit.”

I overheard a lot of the gossip regarding Gwen from the Knittie Gritties—a club that met at my shop every Monday afternoon. As they knitted and pearled, they speculated about the details of Gwen’s crime spree. Some bigmouth at the PD had already spilled his guts and the whole town knew way too much about the case.

It was hard to do, but when the Gritties questioned me about my part in Gwen’s arrest, I kept quiet. Chief Kincaid had played fair and square with me, and I wanted to return the favor by not disclosing any facts that hadn’t already been leaked.

The chief had been grateful to me for the information that I had provided him that allowed the police to not only apprehend the killer, but also prevent another murder. He showed his appreciation by letting me know that the search warrant for Gwen’s house had turned up dieldrin—a chlorinated hydrocarbon insecticide—in her garage, and that the ME was certain it would be a match for the substance that poisoned Fallon.

They also found signs of bomb making. Then there were Gwen’s fingerprints on the bomb itself, as well as the dime store’s smoke detector and back doorknob. Chief Kincaid’s theory was that Gwen didn’t bother to wear gloves while she was assembling the explosives because she believed any fingerprints would be destroyed in the blast.

It was good to know that the police had physical proof. Gwen’s lawyer would probably get her confession thrown out on the grounds that she wasn’t rational at the time. But it would be hard to convince a jury she wasn’t guilty as each piece of solid evidence was uncovered.

Shortly before the store’s closing time, Lee dropped off the five-thousand-dollar check she’d promised me for solving the case. It was a shame that the Cupcake Weekend was technically over by the time that I figured out that Gwen was the killer or I could have collected twice that amount. Still, even after donating half to the animal shelter in Boone’s name, I had enough left to pay a couple of months of health insurance premiums for Dad and me, and Gran’s Part B Medicare.

After handing over the reward, Lee said, “Kizzy wanted me to thank you for saving her life. She had to return to Chicago early this morning for an important meeting, or she would have come by to express her gratitude in person.”

“My pleasure.” I took Lee’s statement regarding Kizzy’s appreciation with a grain of salt the size of Ayers Rock, but tried to sound gracious. “I understand that business comes first.”

“Speaking of business”—Lee dug a sheaf of papers from her purse—“Kizzy would like to offer your store exclusive distribution rights of Cutler’s Cupcakes for the Kansas City area.”

“Wow.” I was stunned at the generous gesture. Maybe Kizzy’s gratefulness
was
sincere. She certainly put her money where her mouth was. An exclusive distribution deal like that could be worth thousands of dollars. “That would be fantastic.”

“Great.” Lee smiled. “Look over the agreement and return it at your convenience.”

“Thanks.” I placed the contract on the shelf under the register, then asked, “How is Kizzy taking Gwen’s claim that the Cutthroats bullied Marla to death and that she stole the poor girl’s recipe?”

“As per her usual worldview—the one where she’s the center of the universe—Kizzy denies both accusations.” Lee shrugged. “She says it was all good-natured teasing, and although the recipe is somewhat similar, she made significant changes and improvements, so that it is no longer the cupcake with which Marla won the contest.”

“I wonder if the Bournes will try to sue.” I had no idea if a recipe could be copyrighted.

“Kizzy’s meeting today in Chicago is with our attorneys.” Lee leaned a hip against the counter. “My guess is we’ll offer a trade. No civil action against Gwen for the harm she caused to our company due to her interference with the Cupcake Weekend, and the Bournes sign away any claim to the recipe. I’ve also suggested that we donate a portion of the profits from the sales of that particular cupcake to an antibullying foundation.”

“Good idea.” I’d have to make sure everyone in Shadow Bend bought lots of that flavor when I started selling the cupcakes in my store.

“I’d better get going.” Lee turned to leave. “It’s a long drive back.”

As I walked her to the door, I said, “I’m curious about the fight you, Kizzy, and Fallon had Thursday night. Do you mind telling me what it was about?”

“Fallon wanted to work for me since she had had it with Kizzy.” Lee ran her fingers through her hair. “And when Kizzy found out, she felt betrayed by both of us. But Fallon was resigning as Kizzy’s assistant whether I hired her or not. I explained that at least this way she would still be available as Kizzy’s photo double, which was all Kizzy really cared about, so the matter was settled amicably.”

After saying good-bye to Lee, I locked the dime store’s front entrance and went into the back room to change into the clothes I’d brought with me from home that morning. Once I was dressed and my hair combed, I took out the bag of dinner stuff from the mini fridge, then headed to Coop’s apartment to make him the meal that I owed him. I had tried to talk Ronni into accompanying me since I thought she and the handsome firefighter would be a good match, but she’d claimed to be too busy.

After I rang Coop’s bell, I stared at my reflection in the window beside the door. Why had I dressed up so much? The flirty gray-and-white skirt paired with a sleeveless pink blouse looked too much as if I thought this was a date. What had I been thinking?

Coop showed me around his apartment, which was the typical bachelor pad. A king-size bed dominated the bedroom, a weight-lifting system took up most of
the living room, his refrigerator contained only beer and condiments, and his cupboards were practically bare. Fortunately, I didn’t need much equipment to fix our meal or we would’ve been out of luck.

We discussed the attempted bombing as I cooked, and I asked, “Did you hear how that bomb was made? I mean, how in the world did a small-town socialite figure out how to make an explosive device?”

“The Internet,” Coop answered. “It’s pretty damn simple to make a homemade bomb.”

“Seriously?” I placed the pan of lasagna in the preheated oven. I had prepared the dish that morning before opening the store at noon. Once it was baking, I turned my attention to the salad. “But where would she get the components?”

“It’s all fairly common stuff.” Coop attempted to snatch a cherry tomato from the bowl and I slapped his fingers away. “Glass jars, salt substitute with potassium chloride, instant cold packs with ammonium nitrate, sugar, coffee filters, water, tin can, a few plastic measuring cups, and a scale.”

“That’s it?” I was shocked.

“Pretty much.” Coop took two bottles from the fridge, twisted off the caps, and handed me one. “You just take the ammonium nitrate and—”

“Stop.” I held up my hand. “I really don’t want to know the exact recipe for making a bomb. If I have that knowledge, I might be tempted to use it the next time someone ticks me off.”

“Gotcha.” Coop took a slug of beer.

“Okay. Gwen figures out how to make the explosive part, but the detonator has to be more difficult. Right?”

“Not really.” Coop succeeded in snitching a crouton from the salad and grinned in victory. “A bomb can be
ignited using any simple electronic device. A digital watch, garage door opener, cell phone, kitchen timer, or even a nine-volt battery and Christmas lights.”

“Well, that’s disturbing.” I finished assembling the salad and moved on to the garlic bread. “I love technology and all, but the idea that any lunatic can put together a bomb in their garage using stuff from the grocery and hardware store sends chills up my spine.”

“Life is risky.” Coop moved closer. “That’s why we shouldn’t put off having a good time.” He stared into my eyes. “We need to kick the tires and start the fires.”

My mouth was suddenly dry. What do you say when a sizzling-hot guy tells you to leap into the flames with him? I so wished that Ronni had come with me. She and the hunky fire chief would make such a cute couple. Before I could come up with an answer to his challenge, “Torn Between Two Lovers” started playing from my skirt. Fishing my cell from my pocket, I edged away from Coop. He opened his mouth to object, but I made a face that dared him to comment.

When he held his hands up in surrender, I rushed into the bathroom. Closing the door, I swept my finger across the phone’s screen and demanded, “Jake? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His smooth baritone filled my ear. “Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. We caught the Doll Maker, but it took a couple of days to locate Meg. During that time, things were pretty hairy around here.”

“Is she all right?” I hoped the maniac who had kidnapped his ex-wife hadn’t harmed her. His MO was to carve his victim’s face and body into his twisted idea of the perfect woman.

“Meg wasn’t sliced up,” Jake assured me. “Evidently, he was saving that until he was able to capture me, too. He wanted to re-create Rodin’s
The Kiss
.”

“Yikes!” My heart sank, at the thought of both Jake being hurt and him being in an eternal embrace with his ex. Yes. I am that petty. And the irony of where I was and whom I was with wasn’t lost on me. Clearing my throat, I asked, “But the Doll Maker is back behind bars and Meg wasn’t hurt?”

“He’s locked away so tight this time even a search-and-rescue dog couldn’t find him.” Jake’s voice exuded satisfaction. “That freak will never see the light of day again.”

“Thank God!” I paused, then took the plunge and said, “Are you coming back to Shadow Bend soon?”

“I’m about three hours away,” Jake answered.

He murmured something, but it didn’t make sense, so I asked, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Jake’s tone was odd. “It was probably the radio. Look, it’ll be late by the time I get home. How about tomorrow I come by the dime store at closing time and take you to dinner?”

“Great,” I agreed. We said our good-byes and I wondered why Jake sounded so funny. And what radio show broadcast the words “You’re safe, honey. Go back to sleep?”