Nine

When I returned to my shops, my mind was spinning and I needed to stabilize it.

Time for me to bake. And for an ideal distraction, I could come up with another treat we could sell in the shop.

And could I sell the recipe to VimPets? Would they be interested any longer? What if Jack was found guilty in Wanda’s murder? Or even if he wasn’t, what would the company executives think about Jack surviving and continuing his work, when Wanda didn’t?

Especially that one exec she’d hinted was her lover?

Darn. I had to stop thinking about all that—my remote connection to it, everything—and start baking.

I walked into my shops via the Barkery door since I had Biscuit with me. Dinah was behind the counter waiting on some customers, so I just waved to her, closed Biscuit into her roomy crate, and headed straight for the kitchen. I immediately washed my hands and dug into some of the ingredients I had in mind.

I’d bought some pure, unsweetened applesauce a day or so before that I wanted to try out in a recipe, along with pumpkin. My mind had been baking the treats before my hands put them together, and I figured they might even be healthy and low-fat enough to try out on some dogs at the clinic who had tummy issues like irritable bowel, as Arvie had suggested. I’d learned that both of these main ingredients were beneficial to dogs with that kind of illness, so why not put them together—along with other ingredients that were considered healthful? I would double check with Reed or Arvie before promoting them as medically healthy treats, of course.

But first, I had to actually bake some—which I did after adding wheat flour and water and a few other ingredients to the applesauce, then rolling the dough into small balls that I squashed before placing in the oven … and after I ate a little bit just to make sure things tasted okay. Which they did. Much more than okay. I could hardly wait till the treats were ready and I could give a couple to Biscuit to try out. She was nice and healthy, and I always liked giving her treats that should help keep her that way.

“Hey, what are you making?” Vicky had just entered the kitchen from Icing. My expert scheduler had her nose in the air, as if sniffing the aroma of my new Barkery treats, and a large smile on her face beneath her glasses.

“A surprise,” I told her.

I couldn’t read the odd expression that suddenly covered her face. “Is that a good idea on a day like this?”

“What do you mean?”

She drew closer but stayed across from me, on the Icing side of the baking utility counter. “It sounds to me like this town has received all the surprises it can handle today.”

“You mean something besides the murder?”

Her dark eyebrows shot upward. “Isn’t that enough of a surprise?”

Vicky had been a new employee of mine when the last murder occurred. She and I hadn’t discussed it much, so I didn’t really know what she was thinking. In fact, I’d tried not to discuss the murder much with any of my assistants—except for Janelle, who of course was deeply involved, and Dinah, who’d wanted some details since she liked to write. But scheduler Vicky and chef Frida? Not so much. Sure, they all lived in the town and undoubtedly had opinions—and feelings—about the situation, and I knew no one wanted murders to occur here, but why did Vicky sound so emotional?

Easy enough to find out, I hoped. I asked.

“What have you heard?”

Her eyes teared up behind her glasses and her mouth molded into a frown. “That lady who came in here wanting some of our recipes for VimPets, right? She’s the one who was killed?”

I nodded. I wasn’t about to tell Vicky my opinion of that lady, which didn’t really matter. I didn’t have to like or respect Wanda to still feel awful that she was dead. Murdered. Here in my town—where some friends of mine were likely murder suspects.

“That’s right,” I said softly. “It’s another terrible situation.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” said a voice from behind me. Janelle had entered the kitchen. “I just don’t get it. I like this town a lot, but I guess it can be dangerous to live here.”

I turned and shot her a wry smile. “In more ways than one,” I said—to the former murder suspect.

“I was waiting on a customer and couldn’t answer the phone when Neal called me back,” Janelle said. “I assume he’s heard about the situation by now anyway.”

“Probably.” I knew for sure, then, where I would meet Reed for dinner that night—and not just because I wanted to make sure my brother knew about this latest sad incident in the town we’d both adopted not long ago. The resort would be an interesting place to learn how word had gotten out about Wanda’s death, and maybe I could figure out some other potential suspects, too.

Which gave me another thought. “How did you hear what happened, Vicky?”

“Some of our regular customers came in talking about Wanda being found apparently murdered,” she replied.

A buzzer sounded from the dog biscuit oven, signaling that time was up and my new dog treats should be done.

And a bell sounded from outside the kitchen, indicating that someone had entered one of the shops—most likely Icing, judging by the location of the sound.

Vicky and Janelle looked at one another, as if challenging each other about who should take care of the customer.

“Why don’t both of you go find out who’s come in and how much help they need?” I asked, grabbing oven mitts and turning toward the oven. “I’ll let these cool, then bring some into the Barkery to be given out as samples. See you in a few.”

I was glad when both complied with my wishes, even though I hadn’t exactly phrased it as an order. Maybe they both wanted to go into the shops anyway to continue gossiping about the apparent murder.

But I doubted Janelle would find that a fun pastime—not after having been a suspect herself in a similar situation. I knew I wasn’t thrilled about hearing of another murder, especially since I’d met the victim and seemed to know the most likely suspects, too.

As soon as I removed the tray of baked treats from the oven and put it on the counter to cool, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket.

Time to call Reed to firm up our evening plans.

 

Accompanied by Hugo, Reed picked Biscuit and me up at my stores at six thirty, after we closed. Tonight, he wore dressy jeans—an oxymoron, yes, but they looked crisp and new. He also had on a plaid button-down shirt.

I wore a cotton shirt, too, over my beige Barkery and Icing knit shirt, to look a little dressier. My slacks were deep green.

“I suspect I know what our main topic of discussion will be tonight,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat once the dogs and I were situated in his car. “Same as everyone’s. Rumors are being shouted all over the place.”

“About Wanda’s murder?” I surmised.

“What else? And, Carrie, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Too much.” He hadn’t started driving yet, and now, beneath the illumination of the streetlight above us, he looked at me, his deep brown eyes clearly worried but his expression firm. “I know I said before that you might not be able to solve this one—but my fear is that you will solve it—and get hurt, or worse. I’d really, really like for you to stay out of it this time.”

I sighed. “I could promise you that, and I’d really like to stay out of it—but I’ve already got a good idea who the main suspects will be. They’re both friends, so that’s a promise I’d probably break. So—”

“So no promises. I get it. But I thought I’d try. I’m just worried about you. You keep putting yourself in danger.”

We subsequently drove to the resort in silence. He stopped his car just before turning into the resort’s parking lot and looked over at me, his expression so sad that I had an urge to kiss it away. Or even make that promise for him … but, yeah, even if I meant it right now, I couldn’t guarantee I’d feel the same as the investigation went forward.

Especially if Billi became the police’s main suspect. If Jack was considered more of a suspect, I wouldn’t like it, but I might not fight for him. It was different with Billi, though. I considered her a really good friend. Yet … well, I couldn’t completely dump the idea that she could have actually done it. Not that I believed Billi would harm me. But to protect herself … ?

Heck, she wasn’t the killer. And I’d be careful. I’d learned to be careful.

For the moment, I chose to ignore the fact that I had indeed been in a bit of danger before.

I exited Reed’s car the same time he did, and we both opened the back doors to extract our dogs. I held Biscuit’s leash in one hand and my purse in the other as I walked toward the front of the car. As Reed and I met up, he looked down at me, then up again to scan the car-filled parking lot, and then he bent to kiss me.

What? If someone had been around to see us, would he have skipped the kiss? “Hey,” I said. “Are you—”

He interrupted me by putting his arms around me, drawing me close, and giving me an even longer, sexier kiss—even as I heard people chattering behind us.

As the kiss ended and we pulled away from each other, I couldn’t help laughing. “So much for hiding what you were doing.”

We both started walking forward, our dogs sniffing the paving. “Who said I was hiding?” he asked. “Maybe I wanted an audience.”

I laughed all the harder.

We were soon at the resort’s entrance, and Reed held the door open for me. “Is a visit to the bar first okay with you?”

“Make it second,” I said. “I want to see if Neal is on duty.”

I quickly headed past all the offices along the nearest wall of the posh and crowded lobby, glancing at the people who stood in groups having conversations or seated in attractive chairs, either facing the multiple fireplaces or staring up at the television sets that hung at intervals from the slanted ceiling.

At the reception area, I caught Neal leaving his post, having just finished straightening up the main desk. “Hey, Neal,” I said. “Are you—”

“Good timing, sis,” he said, interrupting me. “I was just going to call to see if you could come here this evening. Hi, Reed,” he added belatedly.

“Well, here I am,” I responded. “But—”

“But come with me,” he again interrupted. “Just you.” He looked apologetically toward Reed, then back at me again. “We need to go into Elise’s office.”

“But—” I began again.

“I’ll validate your parking ticket—Reed’s?—if you do. I can’t always, you know, but I can tonight, if … ”

If I complied. And since parking at the resort wasn’t cheap, whatever validation Neal could provide tonight was welcome.

Besides, I was curious. Why did Elise want to talk to me?

Elise Ethman Hainner, the resort manager and Neal’s boss, was a member of the elite Ethman family that owned the Knobcone Heights Resort. Her husband, Walt Hainner, was a well-respected contractor in the area.

But why were we going into Elise’s office?

“Okay.” I knew my tone sounded a little hesitant, and I aimed my gaze at Reed. “I’ll meet you in the bar in a little while.”

“Want me to take Biscuit?”

“Sure,” I said. Even though that would limit Neal’s ability to play with his Bug for a short while, I figured that whatever was going on, I’d probably prefer not having the distraction of my dog with me.

My bro looked good, as always, as I strode beside his six-foot frame the short distance to the main resort office. Tonight he wore a deep blue shirt tucked into matching blue pants, professional without being all dressed up. He stopped in front of a door I knew was the resort’s primary office, even though it had no sign on it.

Elise’s office.

I heard voices from inside. Sure enough, when Neal knocked, then opened the door without waiting for a response, I immediately saw the crowd that was gathered inside, standing in the middle of the nicely furnished but compact room, talking. Well, not much of a crowd, I guessed—but it consisted of most of the Ethman family living in this area: Elise Ethman Hainner, her brother Harris Ethman—the pet store owner—and their parents, Trask and Susan Ethman, plus Les Ethman, a City Councilman who was also my friend.

I walked inside, with Neal behind me.

I didn’t see Elise’s husband, Walt Hainner, but of course he was only an Ethman by marriage.

What were they all doing here? And why did they want to talk to me?

Suddenly, I wished I was in the bar with Reed and the dogs, sipping on a glass of wine. Or maybe the feeling wasn’t really so sudden.

Harris was the first to approach me, his hands out as if in sympathy. Why? “Hi, Carrie. How are you?”

Harris and I had only recently become friends of sorts. His wife, Myra, had been dead set against me opening my Barkery—“dead” being the operative word. I’d been the primary suspect in her murder for a while, so I hadn’t really had the chance to express my sympathy to Harris then. But I had, subsequently, and we’d become cordial enough to send customers to each other’s stores.

As was usually the case when I saw him, Harris wore a Knob Hill Pet Emporium shirt. He was of moderate height, with narrow shoulders, dark hair, and a hint of beard. He looked like a normal human being, not necessarily royalty, despite how his family was viewed here in Knobcone Heights. And as always, his eyes turned down at the corners, which was a common Ethman trait. He wasn’t especially tall or especially thin, but now that I’d gotten to know him a little better, he seemed like a nice-enough guy.

It had been his wife who’d been most upset about my Barkery, or so I chose to believe now.

I put my hands out, too, and we engaged in a mutual shake.

“I guess you’ve heard the latest news,” he began as his family members started drawing closer, tucking us in the middle. I supposed they all wanted to hear what I would say, although I didn’t know why.

“You mean about Wanda Addler?”

“Yes. You know, don’t you, that she came to the Emporium a few times recently? I gathered that she was taking over representing VimPets from Jack—but then he came in, too. Do you know what was going on there?”

“Not really,” I said quickly. And I didn’t.

“Do you think Mr. Loroco had something to do with Wanda’s death?” That was Susan Ethman. Was Harris’s mother concerned that her son was going to become a suspect in the murder?

Should he become a suspect in the murder? Is that why I was here—because his family wanted to know my take on what had happened, and because they wanted to make it clear what a wonderful and innocent person Harris was?

They hadn’t confronted me when I’d considered him a potential suspect in his wife’s murder. But if I’d zeroed in on him more then, maybe they would have.

I turned to face Susan. She was short and definitely looked like a senior—a well-to-do senior. There were lines and ridges in her face, but her light brown hair was immaculately styled. She wore a lavender dress that flattered her thin figure and matching, low-heeled shoes. I suspected both were from designers that charged as much for their names as for their stylishness.

“Honestly?” I began. “I don’t have an opinion about what happened to Ms. Addler. I met her only recently, and, yes, she worked with Jack Loroco, so he knew her better, I suppose, than anyone else here in Knobcone Heights. But we’re all aware that whoever knows someone the best isn’t necessarily their killer.” I looked over Susan’s shoulder and grinned at Harris. His smile back at me was wry, but he appeared accepting of what I said.

“And despite her skills in having figured out what happened those two times before,” my friend Les, the Councilman, said, moving to my side, “that doesn’t mean she should or will get involved this time. Right, Carrie?”

“Right, Les,” I agreed. But when I looked him straight in the eye I could see his amusement—and, possibly, his assumption that no matter what I said, I would somehow get involved.

Maybe I was already, not just because I happened to know Jack Loroco probably better than most other people in Knobcone Heights did. I didn’t think he’d done it—even though I really had no knowledge yet about how Wanda had died, or what the murder weapon was or anything like that.

I suspected I’d find out, intentionally or not.

And, if necessary, I would use my knowledge—and the little bit of skill I’d developed the first two times—to make sure that Billi Matlock was treated fairly, even after her not-so-pleasant meeting in public with the murder victim.

I considered this meeting very interesting, though. Were the Ethmans sounding me out only for my interest in the case and what I suspected?

Or was this a backhanded warning that their entire privileged and connected family would be watching me?

Were they, like Reed, telling me to stay out of it?

Well, maybe I would. And maybe I wouldn’t.

We’d all have to just wait and see.