To Catch a Treat (6 page)

I wanted to say no but was curious what she was up to. It didn't sound as if she wanted to order a drink right away. In fact, I still hadn't gotten to order mine.

“All right.” I got off and moved toward Reed, who was still nearby.

Instead of sitting down, Delma put her leashed dog on the floor, then edged up to the bar and grabbed a bottle of beer that was in front of Tim. She picked up a knife that happened to be on the counter, maybe because the people on the other side of me had been eating some appetizers, including hummus to be spread on pita bread. She started banging the knife loudly against the bottle, drawing a scowl from Tim. But instead of backing off, she started shouting.

“Welcome, everyone!” she called. Conversations immediately started to drop off, and she repeated, with less noisy interruption, “Welcome, everyone! In case you don't know, we're here to celebrate tonight. My friend Janelle has been reunited with her stolen dog, Go. So if you don't already have a drink, it's time to get one so we can toast them both.”

“Let's do it!” said a man who'd apparently followed Delma and her dog and was now edging his way around Reed. He wasn't carrying a drink, though, so I assumed he'd not been here much longer than me.

“Hey, can we get some drinks out here?” Delma demanded of one of the nearest bartenders.

“Absolutely.” The guy waved the small notebook in which he apparently jotted orders. “If you want something quick, make it wine or beer.”

“I think we were here first,” I said, moving so that Delma was somewhat behind me.

“You certainly were,” Delma acknowledged. “We'll hold the toast until after everyone's got something.”

That took another five minutes, even as the other bartenders started focusing on serving the bar's new guests. I soon had a glass of imported Shiraz, and Reed had a locally brewed beer.

“This situation is really something, don't you think?” asked the guy who'd followed Delma. He looked at me with laughing green eyes in a face that appeared mid-forties. His hairline must have rolled back a bit, since his wavy brown hair was combed slightly forward in front, and his facial features were well-defined. A nice-looking fellow. But was he flirting with me? I didn't want him to, even if Reed hadn't been here.

“It is,” I replied to him. “And as a dog lover I'm really happy for Janelle.” I paused. “Do you know her?”

“No, but I heard of the situation. My name's Garvy Grant, by the way. I'm a visitor here in Knobcone Heights. Great place—especially this kind of party.”

Janelle had reached the bar, with Go leashed beside her. Rather than ordering anything, or waiting for Delma to get everyone joined in a toast, Janelle approached Ada and grabbed her shoulder.

“Did you do this? Did you steal Go, then leave him as a stray outside a shelter to protect yourself? He could have been hurt. He could have died, you miserable b—”

“You're wrong.” Ada's face had gone ashen enough to be nearly as white as her hair. “I'd never hurt a dog. I swear.”

“You go ahead and swear,” Janelle said. My new assistant still wore the T-shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes she'd had on all day at my shops. What looked different was the rage on her otherwise attractive face. “I'll swear right back. Did you steal him to ransom him? I know your parents still support you, but I've heard you're spending more than they give you. If I ever find even the slightest shred of evidence that you did this to me, to Go, I'll make you sorry, no matter who your family is.”

With that, and still not waiting for Delma to say anything more, Janelle knelt, hugged her black Lab, then stood again and strode back out of the bar.

No one got in her way.

For a few moments, everyone seemed stunned. At least there were no further conversations. But then the crowd started roaring as people regained their breaths and began to talk once more, even louder.

“Why did she do that?” Ada asked, her shrill voice audible even despite the increasing loudness.

“Let's get out of here,” Tim said without answering.

I glanced at Reed.

“Let's just take our drinks out on the back patio,” he said.

It sounded like a good idea to me. I'd hoped to order some snacks, but not now.

Neal joined us on the patio a short while later. “What happened?” he demanded. “Some of the guests were telling us at the reception desk about a really nasty time in the bar … with Janelle.”

I told him how Janelle, instead of hosting her party, had come in and immediately confronted Ada. “She apparently feels sure Ada had something to do with Go's disappearance,” I finished.

“Maybe so,” Neal said. “But acting like that, especially when she's already found her dog … ”

“Let's just hope that was the end of it,” I said.

But I couldn't be sure that was the case.

And I knew it wasn't when I learned early the next day that Ada Arnist's body had been found around dawn, in the lake near the resort.

Rumor had it she'd been murdered.

eight

When I first heard
about Ada that morning, I'd already been at my shops for a couple of hours, baking. Dinah was with me, and Vicky was due later. I'd thought about inviting Janelle to come in for an early cooking lesson, but luckily I'd decided she should wait to start work until the next day.

It was nearly seven o'clock, opening time. Dinah had just pulled some of Brenda's wildly popular red velvet cupcakes out of Icing's oven, and I was about to put a tray of pumpkin and yam biscuits into the Barkery's oven, when my cell phone rang. I put the tray back down on the counter between the two halves of the kitchen and pulled my phone from my pocket. It was Neal.

“Open the back door, Carrie,” he said without responding to my initial hello. “I'm right outside.” Something in his tone told me I'd better do what he'd commanded, right away.

I quickly headed for the rear door and opened it. Neal burst in.

“What's going on?” I demanded. I knew something was wrong. First, Neal seldom got up this early, and even if he did, he almost never came to my shops then. Second, his complexion was strange. This time of year, mid-summer, he was almost always tan, and he'd looked handsomely tan as recently as last night. But now he appeared ashen, his skin nearly as light as his blond hair.

“You didn't hear, I guess.” His voice was raspy and emotional.

“Hear what?”

“Ada Arnist? She was apparently murdered last night.”

“What! No, wait. Let's go into the Barkery and sit down.” I was concerned that if he didn't sit he'd fall over. He appeared that unsteady.

“I want to hear, too,” Dinah said. “I'll still be able to keep an eye on what we're baking.”

I didn't take time to object or tell her to open the shops on time or anything else. I just followed Neal through the door into the Barkery.

Since we weren't open yet, Biscuit was loose there. She immediately bounded over toward her Uncle Neal and perched herself against his leg. “Not now, Bug,” Neal croaked, gently pushing her off as he lowered himself into a chair.

That was another sign of how upset Neal was. He always acted like the champion and good friend of his “Bug.”

I kind of gathered where this was going. Of course it was horrible if there'd been a murder in Knobcone Heights, especially after the murder of Myra Ethman only a couple of months ago. But to see Neal this upset over someone I wasn't sure he knew very well didn't ring true.

Unless … the killer was Neal's new squeeze, Janelle.

It certainly couldn't involve Neal himself. Could it? My heart stopped its racing. In fact, it felt for a moment as if it had stopped altogether. I quickly lowered myself into a seat near my brother.

He surely wouldn't do such a thing, even to someone arguing with a woman he was attracted to.

Dinah joined us at the table. The expression on her young face was solemn and interested. “Do they know what happened?” she asked. I wanted to hug her for asking exactly what I wanted to know.

“No. At least I don't think so.” Neal rubbed his face with one of his large hands. “From what I heard, one of the guests at the resort went out early to see the sunrise off our beach, started walking, and … found her. She was face down in the water, and it was too late to save her. There was some bruising on her, around her throat, or at least that's the rumor so far. The cops are still there conducting their investigation.”

“You didn't go to work this early, did you?” I asked, knowing that the answer had to be no.

“No, but if you want to know how I learned about it, Gwen called me. She's on breakfast shift at the restaurant today. She thought I'd want to know.”

That was intriguing. I suspected that if Gwen still had some interest in Neal, or wanted him to think so, she might have been delighted to let him know that his current main squeeze may have gotten herself into trouble. Real trouble. Like murder?

Or was I just letting my imagination run wild after having helped to solve the town's other recent murder?

I needed more information. “Why would Gwen think that?” I leaned forward across the table, trying to settle Neal's wandering gaze on something—me. What was he really thinking?

“The police who're at the resort started asking people questions already. So far, apparently no one saw anything, at least nobody who's come forward yet, not even any boaters, so they think it happened pretty late.” Neal briefly aimed his blue eyes at me. “Some of the people the cops are talking to were apparently at the bar last night and heard Janelle arguing with Ada. They started gossiping about it at breakfast in the restaurant, and some cop must have overheard.”

Or the cops were informed by someone who could easily eavesdrop on those breakfast conversations. Someone like a nearly invisible server.

Someone like Gwen.

“Then the police are focusing on Janelle as a suspect?” I'd seen and heard that argument, too.

Neal shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe.” He finally looked me straight in the eye. “Probably yes. That's what Gwen hinted at.”

“And that's why she called you.” I didn't make it a question. “Maybe we should discuss your non-relationship with Gwen one of these days.” As my brother opened his mouth, clearly to protest, I lifted my hands to stave it off. “You can tell me in your own good time, but in any event, she might not have been thrilled that you found someone else to date recently. Could she be somehow trying to throw Janelle under the bus?”

Or you
, I wondered. At least Neal hadn't suggested that he was a suspect, as I'd feared, but that didn't mean he wasn't one—or that Gwen wasn't trying to make him one, too, out of vindictiveness.

“I don't know the situation,” Dinah said, “but who's Gwen?”

“Someone I was sort of dating before,” Neal said.

“Then she could be making some of this up to get back at you?” Dinah's eyes gleamed. I recalled how much she liked to write fiction in her spare time. Was she hatching a plot in her own mind? Or was she being astute about what was really happening?

“Has Gwen suggested to the cops that you might have killed that woman to impress Janelle?” Dinah continued.

Had I even told Dinah that Janelle was Neal's new romantic interest? I didn't recall, but if not, she'd clearly guessed.

“What!” Neal looked and sounded shocked. He skyrocketed to his feet, scaring Biscuit enough that she rose from where she'd been lying on the tile floor, skidding on her paws before dashing toward me and leaping onto my lap.

Apparently that last possibility hadn't crossed my brother's mind before. Either that or he'd been taking acting lessons. I would never anticipate that he could feign such a reaction.

“Neal would never do such a thing,” I told my employee firmly. Or so I hoped. And believed. “Anyway, aren't there some things in the oven that you need to tend to?” There actually were, plus I knew she'd get the unspoken message: not to make up things about my brother.

Even if I'd thought of them, too.

The look Dinah leveled on me said a lot, like she was reading my mind. When she'd left the room, I said to Neal, “You need to consider that the police might wonder the same kinds of things. I can vouch for your being home last night, so it all should be fine.”

But what I could also vouch for was that he had come home a bit later than I had. And could I swear he'd been home all night?

At least Biscuit hadn't barked, as she sometimes did if she heard Neal moving around in the middle of the night. I could
almost
swear to it.

But I hoped I wouldn't have to. And that neither Neal nor Janelle would be actual suspects.

Despite how much I feared otherwise.

Vicky arrived in the early afternoon. I again felt relieved that Janelle wasn't at the shop today. No matter how much I wanted to talk to her, or at least get her assurance that she'd had nothing to do with what had happened to Ada, her absence was a whole lot better than her presence when, mid-morning, my shops received some visitors who weren't customers.

Not that Detective Wayne Crunoll couldn't have just needed some treats from the Barkery—he and his wife owned two dachshund mixes, Magnum and Blade. But he had used them as excuses a few times to drop in and quiz me about the last murder that had occurred in this town. He'd also come without his dogs several times. Cops didn't really need excuses, did they? Assuming it wasn't an official search or interrogation.

His superior officer, Detective Bridget Morana, certainly didn't worry about it. I knew she owned a cat named Butterball, whom she brought to the vet clinic now and then. She occasionally bought some human treats from Icing on the Cake.

But when they walked through the Icing door this time, I saw that neither had a pet with them. They both wore dark suits, which confirmed to me that they were on duty. Bridget was the older and more experienced one, a middle-aged woman with a professional-looking cap of light brown hair and bushy, somewhat darker eyebrows on a face that, at this moment at least, held no expression yet still managed to stab me with apprehension.

Wayne, who reported to her, looked even younger than Neal; he was in his mid-twenties, perhaps. His hair was dark and short, his face pudgy, his light brown eyes gleaming and smug—as if he'd known he'd wind up back at my shops to ask questions, no matter that the last situation he'd heckled me about had been resolved.

Still, I didn't know for sure why they had come. I assumed they were looking into Ada's murder, since they were detectives and had investigated the last murder in town. But even so, what would have brought them to my shops?

I tamped down my speculations about Neal and even about Janelle. Good thing I was the one currently staffing Icing, since I didn't want them confronting Dinah, and certainly not Vicky. My assistants were both in the Barkery now.

The bell that always rang when someone came in the door had given me the impression of a death knell—although the death it harbingered was more my peace of mind than anything else. From what I'd heard, Ada was already deceased.

Drawing my eyes away from the detectives for the moment, I finished waiting on the only customers in the shop: a woman with a toddler attempting to exit his stroller. “May I give your little guy a butter cookie?” I asked. “And would you like one, too?”

The woman agreed to both with a smile. She appeared happy as she paid and left Icing with a box of cupcakes.

Then I looked again at my visitors, who both took a few steps forward to face me across the counter. “Hi,” I said, feigning cheerfulness. “What kinds of sweets are you looking for today?”

“Not sweets,” Bridget corrected, crossing her arms as she regarded me. “We're looking for information.”

“I can't guarantee I have any of that,” I said. “Cupcakes are a better bet. I've just gotten some of our favorites, red velvet, out of the oven.” I gestured toward them in the glass-fronted case as if I were a TV hostess on a game show. “Or would you prefer scones?”

“We'd prefer your telling us what you heard last night at the Knobcone Heights Resort bar.” Wayne's voice was flat yet insistent. His arms were crossed, too.

They clearly wanted to be in control.

“Oh, the usual,” I began. “There were a lot of people there. And a celebration was going on.”

“Yes, tell us about that,” Bridget said.

I leaned forward slightly against the counter, buying myself a little time. Without thinking about it, I'd boxed myself into a corner of sorts by mentioning the celebration—since it had gone woefully awry. And its existence had led, at least somewhat, to the verbal altercation between Ada and Janelle.

Well, heck. I had no intention of obstructing justice, whatever justice might be in this situation. Maybe by telling what little I knew I might even be able to protect Neal a bit, help him keep his distance from the events.

“The celebration was about a dog,” I said, then stopped. They could ask me questions, and those questions might tell me how much they knew.

“Which is why you're involved.” I didn't like Wayne's smirk but couldn't do anything about it.

“Exactly,” I admitted.

“So tell us about that dog,” he prompted.

“It's a happy story about a really pretty black Lab.” I smiled back at him but said nothing else.

“And what happened to that black Lab?” Wayne's tone no longer sounded as pleasant.

Well, what the heck. That part of the story was the good part.

I took a deep breath, then briefly told them how I had inadvertently, yet happily, reunited Janelle with her dog Go—or so it appeared—while visiting Mountaintop Rescue. “She was absolutely thrilled, and the interaction between her and the dog made me feel certain he was the pup who'd been stolen from her,” I said. Almost certain, at least.

“By Ada Arnist?” Bridget asked in a pleasant tone. Her smile wasn't a smirk, but I still didn't trust it.

“I have no idea,” I said. “It seemed like an amazing coincidence that Janelle would have come so far away to try to deal with her pain about losing the dog, only to find him here. I have no explanation for it.” And I wouldn't speculate, not to these two.

“But you were there at that celebration when Ms. Blaystone confronted Ms. Arnist, weren't you?”

“Well … yes.” I stared around them, hoping for a customer or two to walk in the door. I really didn't want to talk about this part of the story. But for the moment, Icing's only visitors were these two. Maybe I could somehow get Dinah or Vicky to come in here—but even if ESP worked, which I completely doubted, I really didn't want them involved.

“And what was your impression of that conversation?” pressed Bridget.

“I didn't understand it.” I realized I probably sounded grumpy and continued more calmly. “In any case, if I said anything at all about it now, it would be speculation, and that won't help you figure out what happened, will it? You couldn't use it against anyone you decide to accuse of the murder.”