“Welcome to the Knock ’em Dead podcast.”
“Where murder and muffins meet!”
“I’m Hollis.”
“And I’ve got cake,” Daisy said. “To celebrate!”
I eyeballed her. “What are we celebrating?”
She thought about it for a second, then brightened. “Cake! We’re celebrating cake.”
“So we’re having cake to celebrate having cake.”
She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Can you think of a better reason?”
Actually, no, I couldn’t. And the cake was gorgeous. Bright yellow, cooked in an embellished mold, shiny with glaze, dusted with powdered sugar, and smelling sugary and warm, like sunshine on a platter. My mouth watered. “Well, slice her up, then.”
She pulled out a knife and a couple of plates and began cutting the cake. “Speaking of slicing, do you have any murders for us?”
“Yes, but not the sliced kind. More like the poisoned kind. You ever hear of Jane Stanford?”
We were getting much better at this. Smoother. We still didn’t sound like reporters, exactly, but I was proud of our progress. In fact, it may have been a good thing that we didn’t sound like reporters. We were conversational. And at least we could get through our opener without debate now.
“Like, Stanford University?” she asked.
“Yep. Jane Stanford’s death was most definitely a poisoning, but after a jury ruled it that way, another doctor came in, did an autopsy, and had the official cause of death changed to heart attack. But there was definitely strychnine in her system, and someone had tried to poison her just a few weeks before, so it was clearly a poisoning, not a heart attack. So did someone pay off the doctor to lie? Who killed Jane Stanford and why has remained a mystery ever since.”
“Whoa,” Daisy said. “I had no idea. Who do you think did it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There was only one person who was with her both times.”
“Mmm-hmm, the husband. It’s always the husband.” Instinctively, we both leaned over to look out my front window. Mike and his buddies were running around inside giant inflatable balls, smashing into each other and knocking each other over.
“What exactly is he doing?” I whispered.
“They’re calling it life-sized soccer, but it looks more like demolition derby to me. Just as long as nobody gets hurt, I don’t care. They can knock themselves silly. Probably wouldn’t be able to tell much difference, especially with Spencer.” She leaned toward the mic. “Cut that, just in case he listens.”
“You sure you don’t want to be the technical department?”
Her eyes grew round. “Cake?” She pushed a plate at me. The inside looked even better than the outside. This was Daisy’s entirely effective way of changing the subject.
“Jane Stanford’s husband was already long gone at the time of her death,” I said. “The person who was with her both times was her personal assistant, Bertha Berner. She didn’t have much in the way of motive, but she definitely had the means. I’ll get into a lot more details.”
“Ah,” Daisy said around a mouthful of cake. “When in doubt, go with the personal assistant. It’s always the assistant.”
“I thought you just said it was always the husband.”
“Except when there’s an assistant. Speaking of, when should we talk to Kermit Hoopsick again? I still think he could be the one who murdered Coach Farley.”
“Cut!” I said. “You can’t level an accusation like that on the show. You have to use words like ‘allegedly’ and ‘supposed.’ And tomorrow. I thought we could talk to him tomorrow.”
“Good plan,” she said. “This case is getting cold. We need to warm it up. It’s been a week.” She leaned toward her mic. “Which reminds me, I think it’s time for my baking tip of the week. To make my cakes moist, I use brown sugar instead of white sugar, and I also use sour cream instead of milk, and put in two extra tablespoons of oil. Enjoy!”
I stared at my forkful of cake. “That’s a lot of calories,” I said.
She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “It’s cake. You’re expecting it to be diet friendly?”
“No, but when you spell it all out like that, it makes it seem—”
“Delicious?”
“Well, yes, definitely but—”
My front door opened, making both of us jump. “Daisy?” Mike had stuck his head inside. “We’ve got a situation.”
Daisy yanked off her headphones and tossed them onto the table. “Oh, cheese and crackers, one of the kids got stuck in a bubble, didn’t they?”
He hesitated, seemed to weigh his words. “Yeah. I, uh—can’t get him out.”
We both leaned forward again, to see Lucas’s feet wriggling excitedly in the air out of the top of an inflatable bubble, and Mudd, Ed, and Spencer standing by his feet, arguing about the best way to extract him. We could hear Lucas’s giggles.
She sighed. “Why is it always Lucas? Press pause, Hollis.”
I stared at the app. “I don’t know how to press pause.”
“Well, then finish the Stanford story, because I have to rescue my kid from my husband’s brainiac friends.”
She stormed outside while I clicked around, looking for a pause button. Instead, I just ended up stopping the recording altogether. “A minisode,” I said to myself, and then followed her out.
I wasn’t three steps across the lawn when I saw Brooks.
He had parked his car at the curb and was heading toward me. I groaned. “They called you?”
He looked confused, then noticed the scene in Daisy’s yard. Daisy had one foot planted on the inflatable and was tugging Lucas’s feet with all her might, hopping along as the only movement she could seem to get was the ball turning.
“No, it looks like they have that under control,” he said.
The ball caught the downside of a little hill and took Daisy with it as it rolled to the curb. Lucas shrieked with hilarity. “I’m not so sure about that,” I said.
“Regardless, I’m here to see you.”
I noticed then that he was not wearing his uniform, but instead a stiff-looking pair of jeans with a pale green polo shirt. His hair was combed neatly, as if he’d paid it close attention. “What’s going on?” I asked warily. “I haven’t followed Paulie all day.” Because I plan to follow him tonight, I didn’t finish. There were just some things Brooks didn’t need to know.
“I’m not here about that, either,” he said.
“Okay. Then…why are you here?
He scratched one bicep, and then crossed his arms, tipped his chin up. His face was flushed—was he sweating? I fought the urge to grin. Why was he so darn cute?
“I’m here to ask you to dinner. Off the record. To make up for the one at FastNHotz.”
“You’re asking off the record, or dinner will be off the record?”
“Uh, both, I guess,” he said. He’d put product in his hair. And I was pretty sure he was wearing cologne.
“Why?”
He looked like he didn’t know how to answer that, which was fair because I didn’t know why I’d asked.
“What I meant to say was, where?”
“I was thinking Chinese,” he said. “Unless you don’t like Chinese food.”
“I do.” And I hadn’t had it since moving to Parkwood. An egg roll sounded as good as that cake inside. “When? Now? I don’t think I can—”
“No, I was thinking maybe Saturday.”
I chewed my bottom lip. Daisy had extracted Lucas, who was sweaty and breathless with laughter, but now Jake had jammed himself inside one upside down and was walking himself around the yard on his hands.
“And the why is because I don’t like the way we ended at FastNHotz the other day. I feel kinda like I owe you.” He spread his hands across his chest. “I’m not a bad guy, Hollis. I don’t like you thinking I am.”
“Mike Mueller, you’re in so much trouble,” Daisy seethed, rushing off to stop Willow from getting into a ball.
“And this is to talk about the case?” I asked. “Off the record, like you said, of course.”
He thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah, sure. If that’s what you want.”
Every cell in my body told me this was a bad idea. Having dinner with the enemy could only end with the enemy learning my battle plans and adjusting his troops accordingly.
At the same time, this was Brooks we were talking about—there were no battle plans to be found there. Even if the chief had some—and I doubted he did, beyond keep her out of my hair—Brooks was way too open to hide them from me successfully. Besides, he didn’t necessarily feel like the enemy. Not anymore.
I could learn a lot about the case.
I could learn something that would help me break it wide open.
I could report that I had an anonymous source and break the case wide open and establish myself—and the Knock ‘em Dead podcast—as a serious news outlet. A podcast to be reckoned with.
“I’ll pay for myself,” I said.
He looked a little crestfallen at that idea, but quickly recovered. “Okay. Seven?”
“I’ll be here.” And then for reasons I didn’t understand, I held my hand out.
Warily, he took it and shook it.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, then.”