At six a.m. the next morning, I woke to the incessant ring of my telephone. I rolled off the couch, smacked my knee on the coffee table, then lurched into the kitchen, almost tearing the phone off the wall when I answered.
Only one person would call me this early—a time-zone challenged woman from Wisconsin.
“Hello, Mother.”
She didn’t waste time with niceties. “Why are the police asking me about your aunt? What have you done to her?”
“I haven’t done anything!” That sounded too much like my childhood mantra, so I assumed a grownup voice and asked, “Why do you ask?”
“A Detective Bowers called.” She paused. “He was very polite.” If Charles Manson had shown up at my parent’s door, a swastika clearly carved in his forehead but uttering please and thank you, Mom would have given him the benefit of the doubt.
That was a dirty trick, calling my mother. I’d let Bowers know what I thought of him next time I saw him, but for now, I needed to focus on damage control. What bits of information had he wheedled out of my sweet, unsuspecting mother with his manipulative manners and false charm?
“What did he want to know?”
“Nothing important, but that’s not the point. He was the—” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “police.”
Mother loves the police. She cries when anything in uniform passes during a parade—even the scouts—but her experiences so far have been limited to admiration from afar.
I repeated my question for the third time, taking the roundabout way.
“Martin Bowers is a friend of mine.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. Martin is a nice name.”
“So, what did the two of you chat about?”
She immediately responded. Chatting was something upstanding people did with neighbors and family. Chatting didn’t have nefarious connotations.
“This and that. Nothing worthwhile that I can see. He wanted to know about the bust-up between your aunt and Elvira Doud, but that’s old news.”
“She married. She’s Elvira Jenkins now.”
“How nice.”
Elvira. Auntie had known the victim well enough to have a bust-up, the little liar. Worse, Bowers knew she knew. The bright side, I supposed, was that I knew he knew she knew.
“Bust-up? There was a bust-up?”
“Everyone knows about that! The entire town had bets on who’d lose the first tooth. Those girls were sturdy country girls, and when you steal someone’s boyfriend using their own Lemon Blueberry Buckle recipe, well, Elvira was just asking for it.”
Lemon Blueberry Buckle. Elvira won the Blue-Ribbon Babes competition with a Lemon Blueberry Buckle recipe. Once I started breathing again, I repeated it back. The whole scenario sounded unbelievably stupid.
“Elvira Jenkins, I mean Doud, stole Auntie’s Lemon Blueberry Buckle recipe and used it to steal her boyfriend? That sounds like a bad Debbie Reynolds’ film.”
“Debbie Reynolds didn’t make a bad film. And then that nice man, Martin, asked me if your aunt kept in contact with Elvira over the years.”
I noted that he was no longer the police.
“I debated over telling him about the letters,” she continued, “but it’s really not fair to hold things back from an officer of the law.”
“Letters?” I whispered, clutching the counter for support.
“Oh, you know. Just nasty things that Gertie needed to get off her chest. Eighteen-year-old girls are so unstable, what with hormones.” She whispered the last word. “Though it would have been better if she had burned them instead of mailing them. I don’t know how many made it through after Elvira left Loon Lake. The post office forwarded them for a while, but then they started coming back, unopened. How long does a forwarding order last?”
“So, Aunt Gertrude drove Elvira out of Loon Lake with a campaign of harassment?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Silly? I thought it was a pretty practical conclusion.
“She left for love. She followed what’s-his-name after he joined the Army, or Navy, or some branch of service. The boyfriend. They all called him by some nickname that didn’t make sense to me. Of course, I never did get most jokes.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
I gave her a minute to scan her memory banks.
“You never told me,” she said. “Why did Martin call me in the first place?”
I’d been hoping that Mom had forgotten that little point. I wished I could lie to my mother, but it seemed cruel to keep her out of the picture, especially if Auntie was about to be hauled in for murder.
“Elvira may have died.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It might have been murder.”
There was a pause. “Did Gertie do it?”
“Mother!”
“It’s better to face these things. If you went to Mass once in a while—”
There was a rustle from the direction of my bedroom. “Auntie’s awake. Do you want to speak to her?”
“Just tell her I’m setting the prayer chain in motion. I don’t know what Father Jakius is going to say. I’ve still got him praying for you.”
I heard my mother yell “Albert!” as she hung up the receiver, which coincided with Auntie’s morning descent on my kitchen.
Why hadn’t Bowers mentioned the murder to my mother? What reason had he given for his phone call? My mother was an innocent; she’d never question why a police officer would be calling her about someone she knew. Or at least she would be too polite to voice her question out loud.
Auntie shuffled into the room in her bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Even though she resembled an oversized four-year-old, I decided it was time to have a grownup conversation.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Hmmm.”
While Auntie set about making coffee, I pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, sat down, and crossed my arms.
“You forgot to mention to Bowers that you knew the victim. Knew her really, really well.”
“Elvira? I told you. That was a long time ago.”
“There is a big difference between I haven’t seen the victim in years and Who??? You deliberately mislead the police.” Lied to would have been a better word, but there are some things you can’t say to your aunt, though that boundary of respect was crumbling fast.
I jumped up and paced the kitchen floor. “And what about the Lemon Blueberry Buckle? She won the Blue-Ribbon Baking competition with your recipe. You want to tell me that didn’t make you mad enough to kill her?”
“Not my recipe, I can assure you. Did you see the face Heather Ozu made when she tried it? If Elvira had stuck to my recipe, that little host would have gone to Heaven.”
“Instead, Elvira’s the one who took a trip to the Pearly Gates.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and leaned my face close to hers. “Hate letters aren’t nothing.”
She shrugged my hand off. “Oh, those. A childish thing to do, but I was only seventeen at the time. Maybe eighteen.”
“What did you say in them?”
“It’s embarrassing. I’m sure I used a few naughty words. And I think I mentioned that I’d like to stab her eyes out. Or kill her. I can’t remember which one.”
I stared at my aunt in her voluminous, high-necked white nightgown, with her long, graying hair hanging down her back in a single braid. Her pink, fuzzy slippers. Except for the slippers, she could have stepped out of a wholesome television program, like The Waltons. Was this woman capable of carrying out her threats decades later? Was Mom right? Did Gertie do it?
She pointed at my kitchen clock. “Don’t you have to get ready for Penny?”
I couldn’t bring myself to ask Auntie if she had done away with her rival. Mother always told me that the state of ignorance, though not bliss, was still a pretty nice place to hang out in. In this instance, I agreed. And I was a coward. Instead, I showered and then picked out a nice top to go with my jeans. Today was dress shopping day. Though it might not be my idea of a good time, it was an important part of the wedding ritual.
When my friend arrived with a big goofy grin on her face, I invited her in with the girlish giggles and enthusiasm I felt the occasion warranted. Then I noticed the gigantic binder in her hand and considered changing into military khakis, because my dear friend had come prepared to divide and conquer.
Penny had armed herself with cutout pictures of dress styles and swatches of her favorite colors, all neatly laid out in an album. This was going to be a long day.
“Who’s that?” She wiggled her fingers at Petey’s cage, which still sat on my coffee table.
“Petey. I’m, er, pet sitting.”
“What a cutie! You’re a big cutie, Petey.”
She made a few kissy noises. Petey rewarded her with a snap at her fingers. She took a step back and gave him her sternest look, which had all the severity of a miffed kitten. I wasn’t fooled. Penny grew up on a farm where everyone—human or animal—was expected to earn its keep. Frugal by necessity, farmers couldn’t afford pity for problem pets.
“I wonder if he would taste like chicken?” she wondered aloud.
“No eating the guest,” I said. Then I asked Auntie, “What are you going to do while I’m gone?” It wasn’t a pleasant request for information but a demand, like asking a criminal to check in with her parole officer. Penny gave me a surprised look that said I shouldn’t talk to my elders in that tone, but Penny didn’t know Aunt Gertrude like I did.
“Browse online with your computer. Maybe send some emails. Read a bit. What I usually do when I’m at home in Loon Lake.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?” Penny had already made the offer several times.
I seconded the motion. “I could keep an eye on you that way.”
“This should be girl time for the two of you. After all, once Penny is married, you’ll hardly see anything of each other.”
Auntie let that depressing thought hang in the air, and I made a silent vow to forget my worries and have a good time today. I didn’t have to keep that promise for long. I’d just secured my seatbelt buckle when Penny poked my arm, hard.
“Ow, Miss Boneyfingers. That hurt!”
“When were you going to tell me about the murder?”
“You’ve known all this time?” First, I felt a wave of relief; then I felt guilty, because the relief came because I hoped the topic of murder would kill Penny’s mood for dress shopping.
“It’s all over the paper. And the television news.” Her blue eyes widened with excitement, and she clutched my arm. “Holy moly. Did you actually see the body?”
“I threw up right next to it.” I said this with the same misplaced pride that one might have when announcing a celebrity sighting.
“That must have been awful.” Her shoulders shook with a shiver. “Did you want to talk about it? Are you up for shopping?”
Here was my shot at getting out my commitment, but what kind of friend would I be if I accepted her offer?
“No,” I said, with a forced smile. “This is your day. We’ll talk about it after we try on dresses.”
“Are you sure?”
I was dying to share my news but, convinced that my motives were selfish, I kept my mouth shut. Unfortunately, since murder was on my mind, all my efforts to produce that giggling, joyous atmosphere that follows bridal parties like a happy cloud fell flat.
At Patsy’s Prima Donnas, the only Wolf Creek bridal shop, I was forced to squeeze into a floor-length spandex dress in ocean blue. The color reminded me of Blue-Ribbon Babes and murder. For a moment, I was lost in memories of Elvira Jenkins lying dead on a rubber kitchen mat. Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the three-way mirror and gasped in horror.
“I didn’t know I had bulges.” I turned side to side. “How did I get a bulge there?”
Penny handed me a billowy off-white jacket that covered up the sore spots, so I didn’t go into apoplexy when she added the dress to her list of favorites.
The bride-to-be wasn’t having as much luck.
Penny has an adorable figure, so the fault didn’t lie with the model. Her first choice, an angular style designed by a local seamstress, made her look as if she could cut a sheet of paper with her elbows.
“Maybe it’s too modern,” she sighed, frowning over her reflection in the mirror.
A tight silk number with fitted lace sleeves that draped at the ends made her resemble an angelic Morticia from The Addams Family¸ and a gauzy white dress with a black bow made her look like a present. A black-and-white present for a funeral. Like Elvira Jenkins’ funeral.
Determined to push away thoughts about death, I grabbed a gown of fluff and feathers from the nearest rack and told her to give it a shot. Her lack of enthusiasm was justified when she stepped out from behind the dressing room curtain.
“You’d better stay away from my house until I get rid of the cockatoo.”
“Ha-ha. It may be a joke to you, but you’re not the one everyone’s going to be staring at,” Penny said. Her shoulders drooped. “This was supposed to be fun.”
I attempted to lighten the mood with a jolly laugh. “Everyone has bad hair days. You’re having a bad dress day.” I escorted her back behind the curtain. While she changed into her street clothes, I slid my stretchy blue dress onto the return rack. “A good dose of chocolate will fix everything. We’ll grab a shake from the Ice Cream Palace and take it to the park.”
I really hate shopping, and I wasn’t above bribery. “I’m buying. And while we’re there, you make a list of everything you’re looking for in a dream dress.”
Penny pulled open the curtain. “I already have a list, silly. It’s in the front section of my binder.”
I pointed to the deadly elbow dress. “And that style made it to the favorites?”
“I was experimenting. I thought I could surprise Kemper with something unexpected.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe even shock him.”
“If you come down the aisle looking like Big Bird’s relative, he’ll certainly be surprised.”
After an eye-roll to show my humor wasn’t appreciated, she trotted out to let the owner know we would be back.
It started to drizzle, so we skipped the park and opted for U Behave. One thousand calories later, we sat on the empty counter in my shop, feeling the burn of ice cream eaten at breakneck speed. At least I felt that way. Penny had gotten a small, fat-free yogurt, citing a wedding dress diet.
The ice cream almost took the edge off the depression that came from sitting in the vast wasteland of my store. Maybe Auntie was right. I should branch out and sell treats and leashes and those ridiculous cubic zirconia-studded collars on the side. And maybe I could think of satisfied clients and hang photos of their pets up on the walls. Okay. I had one satisfied client who was more like a friend. She had a shih tzu named Cake, who I might be able to disguise and pass off as several small breeds. Or would that be illegal, as in false advertising?
“Enough about my problem.” Penny scraped up the last bite of yogurt. “Let’s talk about yours.”
Intending to give her a rough draft, I didn’t stop until Penny had heard every grisly detail. She listened with full attention, hands folded neatly in her lap, and when I finished, she poked me in the ribs.
“I can’t believe you waited this long to tell me! We’re supposed to be best friends.”
“It was your moment,” I said, repeating Auntie’s phrase. “I didn’t want to spoil the wedding glow with news of a corpse. I thought I could hide it from you for a little while.”
“Fat chance.”
Penny slipped out of the room and returned with The Wolf Creek Gazette. Today’s front-page photo was the one of Bowers and me taken on my front stoop last night along with the story of how we were working together on the investigation.
“He’s still handsome as ever,” Penny said with a grin, but my focus wasn’t on him. My upper lip was drawn back and my eyes squinted shut against the camera’s flashbulb, but Bowers looked perfectly handsome, as if he had posed for the shot.
“How can they turn this stuff around so fast?” I moaned. “Bowers is going to kill me. But it’s not my fault. If he hadn’t come by to question Auntie—”
Penny gasped. “Question your poor aunt? Why?” Penny put a hand to her mouth and half closed her eyes in thought. “You said Elvira Jenkins was from Loon Lake. I wonder if she had anything to do with the old Jenkins Farm out on Hart Road.”
“There’s an old Jenkins Farm?”
My family lived in town; Becky’s family farm was on the rural outskirts, but still. I knew the Oberweis family raised goats and sheep. The Kruger’s had a dairy farm, and I knew the old gentleman with the corn field. His name wasn’t Jenkins. Loon Lake wasn’t big enough to hide an entire farm from me.
“How did I not know this?”
“Everyone in Loon Lake calls it the Crawley’s Place, but my grandfather was friends with old man Jenkins. We always thought of it as his property, even after he passed on.”
I felt better. I knew the Crawley Place.
“The point is Bowers questioned her, and she pretended she didn’t know Elvira. Why would Auntie lie about it?”
“Older people forget things all the time. I have an uncle who calls me Whatsyerface.”
“You mean my aunt forgot her entire youth? Give me a break. She fought with the victim over some man.”
“How romantic,” Penny cooed. “Poor thing. She must be so shaken up from losing a friend. You’ve got to look out for her.”
“It would help if she told me the truth. First, Auntie says she doesn’t know the woman, but it turns out she went to school with her. Small oversight due to an aging memory, right? Like maybe Elvira was the quiet kid in the back of the room who never talked, the one nobody remembers? And then I find out the two of them fought the fight of the century, which included Lemon Blueberry Buckle, serial hate letters, and betting between the townsfolk over who would win.”
“Hate letters? Lemon Blueberry Buckle?” Penny gave a nervous giggle. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“Let’s just say it was one of those days that Auntie wouldn’t likely forget.”
“The two of them made up a long time ago, I’m sure.”
Penny sounded more hopeful than certain. She hates it when people hold grudges, or sulk. I tried to soften my response.
“Um, maybe they didn’t get the chance, because Elvira moved away not long after. But you have to at least agree that Auntie would remember her sparring partner.”
“It’s been over fifty years,” Penny reasoned. “While high school doesn’t seem that long ago to us, maybe your aunt really did forget. She’s been married and widowed since then and raised three boys. Anyway, the answer always lies with the victim, right?”
“I know zilch about Elvira Jenkins.”
Penny licked the back of her spoon several times, which reminded me of Chauncey licking his empty food bowl, hoping for one last morsel. I handed her the remains of my shake.
“It’s just a dribble. Not even a hundred calories worth.”
She only hesitated two seconds before grabbing my cup.
“The thing that worries me is how quickly Bowers found the connection between Auntie and Elvira Jenkins and that he found it worth asking about. Then, like an idiot, she lied to him, which wasn’t smart. It will only make him more interested than he already is.”
Penny waggled her spoon at me. “Or she just forgot about Elvira. It may be that simple.”
“Whatever her reason, Bowers is now focused on Auntie’s connection to a murder victim. I don’t like it.”
“I’m sure he was just tying up loose ends.”
“No.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that at all.” I remembered the way he kept studying her and thought of the way a dog reacts when you wave a tennis ball in front of his face. His gaze locks onto it. You could dance a jig and holler his name over and over, but his attention would stay riveted on the toy. That’s how Bowers looked. Like he had a new toy that he wanted to rip to pieces.
I clutched Penny’s arm. “Bowers wants to rip my aunt to pieces!”
Penny cocked her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I’m sure you’re wrong about that, but it is kind of nerve-wracking to know that the police are interested in your aunt. Because some of them—not Bowers, of course—might not give your aunt the benefit of the doubt.”
“Gutierrez.” The name shot out in a whisper of reverence and fear. “That woman doesn’t like me. And she’s the one who interviewed Auntie right after we found the body. They were in a different room, so I have no idea what my aunt might have said.” I slammed my fist into my open palm. “She should have had an attorney! They might have tricked her into incriminating herself. How else would Bowers have found out about Auntie’s previous relationship with Elvira?”
“I thought you said Bowers and Gutierrez were competing for the same promotion. Why would they help each other out?”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “What if they were willing to work together to solve the murder? What if they were ordered to? The news outlets have been making a huge deal out of the story.”
“True. It’s got something for everyone. Murder. Celebrities. Baking.”
“What if there’s pressure on the police to come up with a culprit? What if my aunt is the easiest target?”
Penny gasped. “Oh, my gosh. She could go to prison.” She turned an unusually serious gaze on me. Unusual for the typically upbeat Penny, that is. “Frances, you can’t let that happen.”
I rubbed my temples to fight off a growing headache. “How can I help my aunt if she keeps lying to me?”
“Well, what do you know about Elvira Jenkins?”
“It’s easier to list what I don’t know. I don’t know who benefits from her will; I don’t even know if she had anything to leave. Maybe the house and bank accounts are in her husband’s name.”
“So, she had a husband? That’s good information.”
“I don’t know if she had enemies, or if she was the best loved woman in Fountain Hills, or in Loon Lake, if the crime is related to her past. The only thing I do know is that Auntie knows more than she’s telling.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like there’s anything left to hold back.”
“Which makes it worse. What evil thoughts lurk in Auntie’s brain? She lied about knowing the victim, and she lied about their fight.” I snorted. “Did I mention the fight involved a Lemon Blueberry Buckle recipe? Doesn’t that sound like a bad Debbie Reynolds film?”
“Debbie Reynolds didn’t make a bad film.”
No wonder Penny got along so well with my mother.
“What other little surprises could there be?”
Penny made loud sucking noises as she pulled the last bits of shake through the straw. “Your aunt is a sweetie. She wouldn’t kill anyone. You need to forget about her and concentrate on the real suspects. For instance, the other contestants might have resented her winning the prize.”
“Kill someone to be Blue-Ribbon Queen?”
Two thousand dollars wasn’t anything to sneeze at, at least not for me, but would anyone permanently eliminate the competition for that amount? And though I hadn’t heard of the show until Auntie invited me to the premiere, there might be bakers out there who considered an appearance on cable television a serious honor. I considered the mentality of someone who labored over recipes, trying to get just the right mix of spices and texture, all for a blue satin ribbon. It suggested a touch of insanity.
“And you said she fought with the host.”
“But that’s the kind of spontaneous thing that makes you whip out a gun and kill someone right then and there. By the time you lured someone to meet you and kept the appointment, you’d probably be back to your senses and just toss around a few insults.” I snapped my fingers, certain I had a brilliant idea. “Now if one of the sponsors killed her because they thought they’d lose sales….”
Penny giggled. “Kind of a warning against anyone else who might downplay their products.”
“Yeah. It’s a stupid idea. The damage was done.”
“But what if one of the sponsors pulled out of future shows? Wouldn’t the producers be mad?”
“Back out within an hour of the show’s airing? It could happen.”
Penny hopped off the counter and dropped our empty containers in a plastic trash can. I didn’t have any products, posters or paraphernalia in my shop, but I did have a trash can.
“Okay, smarty-pants. Think back to that night. I bet you can come up with at least three suspects.” Penny put her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her palm.
“There’s always the husband. He was there for the taping. In books, they always suspect the husband. If she has a son or a daughter-in-law or vise-versa, they might not have gotten along with her, but they would be used to her. Why suddenly snap that night?”
“You’d be surprised at how trying a man’s mother can be,” Penny muttered. “Sometimes it seems that nothing’s good enough for her little boy.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience?”
Penny made a face. “Forget the family members, especially the husband. That would be too much if someone she loved killed her. I mean, think about it. You stand up before God and your family and promise to love each other forever, and then the very man you would trust with your life kills you?” She clenched and unclenched her hands. “The person you starved yourself for so you could look good in your wedding dress murders you? The person you eat pizza with every Friday night even though you hate pizza? The person you—”
“Penny, calm down. You’ve got sweat on your upper lip.”
She gave a nervous giggle.
“Are you okay? That was quite a rant, and it sounded a teeny bit personal. Has Kemper done something stupid?”
“It’s just the breach of trust. I can feel it more, now that we’ve made a commitment.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “I’m sure I can think of non-relative suspects. There’s the host, Heather. She was awfully mad. Elvira just stomped onto the set and took over the show. I almost felt sorry for her. Maybe she snapped.” I raised my index finger. “And maybe there was a representative of Scotch Girl Flour there that night, or a Cocolite rep. Or maybe Elvira threatened to get a page fired or something. She sounded kind of bossy.”
“It’s too bad Elvira didn’t have a pet,” Penny mused.
“Funny you should say that.” I made a face. “Bowers left me the victim’s bird. You’ve actually met Petey, the cockatoo. I’ve got to take care of him until the husband is able to take him back. Petey was on the scene when Elvira Jenkins was killed.”
Penny’s chin slid off her hand. “Oh my gosh! Who is the murderer?” Of my puzzled look, Penny demanded, “You asked the bird who killed her, didn’t you?”
“The bird told me nothing. Anyway, I’m through with pet readings. Remember what happened last time?”
“Frances! You can’t deny your natural gift. And it’s your duty to ask the bird!”
Gift. That’s how Penny saw being assaulted by messages ranging from My bowl’s empty to There’s a murderer in the house! Not to mention the headaches, the hallucinations, and having no quiet time of my own.
“I already tried,” I muttered.
“And?”
“A dismal failure. The only thing I learned was that Petey has a thing about cats. Big surprise, coming from a bird. Besides. I was warned to stay away from the investigation.”
On cue, Bowers strolled up to the front door. He was on duty because he was wearing a sports coat, but he must not have had any important interviews, because he also wore jeans. As I unlocked the door and let him in, Penny grinned at me from behind the counter and then skittered back into the Prickly Pear like a coward.
He glanced around my empty store and smirked. “I thought I’d wait until the crowds died down.”
“Ha-ha.” I put on my best angry face: eyes narrowed lips pursed in disapproval. Then I unpursed my lips. I didn’t want expression lines. “Why are you calling my mother? That’s below the belt.”
“I’m investigating a crime. No one is off limits, not even mothers.”
“And now you’re here to hassle me about my aunt. I’ve got nothing to say.”
He leaned against the counter. “Now that you bring her up, tell me how long ago she decided to come visit you.”
The question took me by surprise. “Since I can’t read her mind, I don’t know when she decided, but she let me know three weeks ago.”
He blanched when I mentioned mind reading. It crossed my mind that a little peek inside his head might let me know how seriously he considered Auntie a suspect.
Maybe last night hadn’t worked because I was distracted by the conversation between Bowers and Auntie. It was worth another shot.
I looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. The last time I had a peek, it was unintentional. Maybe this time I could control it. Seeing inside Bower’s head might be exciting. Or disappointing. He was an attractive man. What if he thought I was one step below chopped liver? Or what if he only tolerated me because he wanted information for the case? I relaxed and tried to imagine the information highway between his thoughts and mine, hoping that something would come my way.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“About what?”
“You were making faces.”
Drat! “One day, I’m going to learn to control my expressions, and then you’ll never know.”
“Sure, I would.”
That surprised me. “How?”
He actually blushed. “Because it kind of… tickled.”
I probably shouldn’t have thrown my head back and laughed so hard that every filling showed. Bowers pressed his lips into a thin line of disapproval and narrowed his eyes.
“It would be an assault on an officer. I could arrest you.”
The thought of Bowers and me and handcuffs brought up a response that no good—or even average but trying to be good—Catholic girl should have, and I pushed the image away.
“If you’re looking at premeditation, you’re out of your mind. My aunt didn’t even know the woman lived here. They hadn’t even spoken since—” I thought of Auntie’s little missives. “For a long time.”
“You mean since your aunt’s letter campaign of hate against the victim. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your mother said she was going to call you as soon as we hung up.”
Deciding this conversation could only get ugly—for Auntie—I set my jaw and clammed up.
“You might want to ask yourself a question, Frankie,” Bowers said as he opened the door to leave. “Why did Elvira Jenkins invite your aunt to Wolf Creek?”
“How do you know she did? The invitation was from the Baking Channel.”
“Each invite had a numbered code on it. Your aunt’s number was a three. That means the Baking Channel got her name from contestant number three, Elvira Jenkins.”
“Oh.”
“And then you have to ask, why did your Aunt Gertrude come?”
“That was two questions.”
“But they were good ones,” he said, and then he shut the door.