Murder by Devil's Food Page 4

  "That's just what I needed to hear!" Angie said.

  "I can't believe this. No leftovers? No new recipes for me to you help you taste test?" He shut the door and faced her, looking even more pathetic than usual.

  "There's Paavo's leftover chili."

  He grimaced.

  "It's good."

  "Even I can make chili," he said dismissively. "It's not your cooking."

  She pursed her lips, not sure how to comment. Her fledgling business had, in fact, taken over her life. But wasn't that the way with any start-up? You devoted yourself, heart and soul, to the enterprise, whatever it was.

  Even Connie was complaining more and more that Angie seemed to be doing a lot more business selling her custom cupcakes than Connie was doing with the fancy coffee, tea, and pastries in her tea room.

  At least, Angie thought, Paavo understood and supported her new business. The oven dinged and she took out a batch of cupcakes, tested them for doneness with a toothpick, then put in another batch.

  "You know what, Stan, I'd have more time to do my own cooking—and have you help with taste tests—if simply baking the cupcakes didn't take so long. I found I can't put two rows of cupcake pans in the oven at a time, because they don't rise properly. If you lived nearby, I could run over to your house and use your oven. And, the house next door is still for sale, you know."

  "Because of the price they're asking for it!" Stan lamented.

  "Your father would help you. Doesn't he always say you need to take on some responsibility? If you were a home owner, you'd have to be responsible."

  "I am responsible!" Stan sounded miffed. "Pretty much. Anyway, I hate to sound petty, Angie, but I don't see how letting you use my oven would help at all. Look at the time you spend doing this. How much can you charge for a cupcake, after all?"

  "If I had help it would go much faster. I could take bigger orders and that would increase profits."

  "Can't you get Connie to help?"

  "I tried once. It didn't work out. What about you?" she asked.

  "Surely, you jest," he said. "Anyway, didn't you say the body you found was a customer? Do you think there's any connection to your business?"

  "Of course not," she said.

  "But what if the murderer saw you?"

  "Gee, thanks, Stan. You're making me feel so much better."

  "Did you realize her heart had been cut out?" Stan asked. There was something definitely ghoulish in his question.

  Unable to take any more of this, she walked away from her green icing to make Stan a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. He was always obnoxious when hungry. "No. I didn't look that closely. All I saw was lots and lots of blood." She shut her eyes at the memory.

  "Oh, yum! I love those sandwiches for breakfast," he said.

  "I know you do," she said. Of course, he pretty much loved anything for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.

  "I can't help but suspect it was some kind of ritual killing," Stan added, following her to the cooktop as she heated butter in a pan. "I've heard that with some of these satanic cults, they keep people alive while they do horrible things to them. What if she was alive when they started to cut out the heart?" He lowered his voice. "Tha-thump, tha-thump."

  She threw a potholder at him. "Why in the world did I phone you for comfort!"

  "I can imagine all these ugly, evil people in robes standing around some poor young woman. It must have been so terrible for her—"

  "Enough already! You're scaring me now!" Her escapade in the churchyard had jangled her more than she'd realized. She toasted his sandwich and put it on a plate for him.

  Stan sat at the counter, took a bite of the food, and his eyes rolled with ecstasy as he chewed and swallowed. "Perfect," he said. "You know, if I was your husband, I wouldn't let you go out delivering cakes to strange people late at night unless I was with you. It's too scary out there right now. Stay home, Angie, give up this cupcake business." He glanced woefully at the refrigerator. She could almost hear his unspoken plea, Cook!

  "I can't stay home hiding under the bed every time someone is killed in a city this size," she said, as much to convince herself as Stan.

  The oven bell chimed.

  "Our cupcakes are ready," Stan chirped. "And not a minute too soon." He had already finished the sandwich, and grabbed a potholder to remove the tray from the oven.

  "Wait," she said. "We need to test them." She turned her back on him to find the box of toothpicks. It had gotten moved as she made his sandwich. But when she turned around again, he had taken out the pan and was already peeling a wrapper off a cupcake.

  "What are you doing?" she shrieked.

  "Testing, like you said." He took a bite. "Mmm, delicious! Did I ever tell you I love warm cupcakes?"

  o0o

  Paavo turned to the current batch of cases on his desk, each more boring than the one before it. Focus, he told himself. They weren't really dull. It was just that a much more interesting case was developing, and he wasn't involved. With most homicides, the pair of detectives first assigned would handle it from start to finish. Only when the team became stymied and there could be danger to the general public did Lt. Eastwood assign all his detectives to a task force to find the killer.

  So far, that hadn't happened with the Anna Gomez murder.

  If Lorraine Miller's death appeared to be connected, however, Paavo suspected Eastwood would go the task force route. At the moment, they couldn't be sure. It might be "just" a copycat. They were awaiting the results of the autopsy.

  Paavo forced himself back to his notes concerning a gunshot victim he and Yosh had investigated. They had arrested the perpetrator, and a plea-bargain was in the works. Case closed, except for writing out a long, tedious report.

  He could just imagine how Angie would tussle with an attorney at a plea-bargaining. The guy wouldn't know what hit him.

  He tried to focus on his report, but couldn't. The bureau was empty, and he stood up and paced, trying to work off these distractions.

  His eye caught his computer as a thought struck. Back at his desk, he began to search through old records and computer files of unsolved murders looking for one with a similar modus operandi to the Anna Gomez and Lorraine Miller cases—the removal of the victim's heart.

  It worked.

  A month ago a body had been found in an empty lot in Tiburon, a small town a bit north of the city in Marin County. A woman had been strangled and her heart half-cut from her body. The investigators concluded something interrupted the perpetrator because he, or she, hadn't completely removed the heart. Also, a paper bag filled with votive candles had been found beside the body.

  When no leads developed, it seemed the case had been pushed to the side. Apparently, the woman wasn't local, but seemed to be a street person from parts unknown. There wasn't a lot of community interest in finding her killer. Also, since most of Tiburon's income came from tourists, no one wanted to rock that particular boat by spreading word of the unsolved murder.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Connie was stunned to see Stan Bonnette enter her shop carrying trays filled with Angie's freshly baked brownies, cookies, doughnuts, and cupcakes. As he looked around the shop, Connie couldn't remember ever seeing him so awestruck. He even offered to help her with it.

  Connie asked him to bring a pot of tea to a couple at a table, but he must have found that too strenuous because immediately afterward he took the sandwich board Connie would use to announce sales, and wrote something about the delicious pastries, coffees, and teas inside, then set it up on the sidewalk outside the shop's entrance.

  Next, he moved a table and chair outside, piled an assortment of goodies on a plate, made himself a cappuccino, and then sat down in front of the shop and ate, a rapturous expression on his face with each bite he took.

  Connie didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  To her astonishment, something about the sandwich board write-up—or Stan's visceral enjoyment of the desserts—must have caught people's att
ention because the trickle of customers quickly became a flood.

  She hardly had time to offer assistance to her gift shop customers, but instead dealt with a constant parade of customers asking for tea or coffee. The problem quickly became that the coffee drinkers assumed she was set up like some of the fancier shops and began asking for a dollop of this, or a spritz of that, as she made the coffee. For a while, she tried to explain her limitations only to be met with complaints. Finally, she would nod pleasantly and then serve them all the same dark-roast coffee with either non-fat milk, half-and-half, or soy for those who were lactose intolerant. Period. None of the customers seemed to notice.

  Still, it was exhausting.

  She glanced over at Angie now and then, but Angie loved talking to the customers about her cupcakes and pastries. Amazingly, they often ended up buying several items rather than just the one treat they planned to eat then and there.

  Stan stayed outdoors.

  After two hours of making and serving coffee and tea, handling free refills, and working the cash register, not to mention keeping an eye on her gift shop customers, Connie began to glare at Stan, who seemed to decide his "help" consisted of taking in fresh air, eating, and working a book of crossword puzzles. Her glare extended to Angie. Ever since Angie realized people were willing to pay extra for "customized" cupcakes with silly little designs on them, she spent more and more time talking to customers about them.

  Connie, on the other hand, had turned into a barista. Somehow, she thought, it wasn't fair. She was, after all, the owner of the place. Okay, she knew she was in a funk, and she also knew it wasn't Angie's fault that her life was moving in a positive direction while her own was stuck in what she called the "DREGs"—the Daily Routine Everyday Grind.

  But while she didn't hold Angie responsible, she also didn't have to like it.

  At the same time, she realized Angie was trying to help, which was very sweet of her. The biggest irony was that Angie's effort to help her out ended up creating a successful business … for Angie.

  Connie should be happy for her, not irritated.

  Right then and there, Connie decided to stop being so negative about Angie. She put a big smile on her face as she finished serving the current line of coffee customers.

  As she mopped her brow and caught her breath, she glanced at Angie happily talking to a mother with a young child. They were trying to decide between a chocolate-orange cupcake with pistachio buttercream frosting, or an almond cupcake with salted caramel buttercream frosting. So far, the chocolate was winning. Connie was amazed that Angie never seemed to grow tired of talking to people. And she certainly didn't bother to see how Connie was doing.

  Connie's ire began to grow once more. For all Angie knew, she could have dropped dead face down in a sack of coffee beans.

  As if Angie would care. For her, Connie had all but ceased to exist. Connie had expected their friendship would suffer with the change in Angie's life. She just hadn't thought it would happen so soon. But now, why should Angie care about her anymore? Connie, her one-time best friend, would soon be no more than an afterthought. The idea made her teary-eyed.

  "Is it worth it to keep the gift shop part of your business open?" Stan asked after he stepped back inside with his empty cup and plate. He put them next to the cash register, reminding the put-upon Connie that she was also the tea room's dishwasher. "I heard the gift shop doesn't do all that much business."

  Connie's expression flipped from feeling sorry for herself to sheer fury. "Where did you hear such a thing?" she demanded, but immediately added, "As if I don't know."

  Stan backed up. "Oh...well, um, I'm sure I misunderstood. You're a real sport about this, that's what I meant to say."

  With each word he spoke, Connie's anger grew. "A sport? Is that what I am?"

  "Yes. Oh, I think that woman wants a refill of her coffee. She keeps looking over here and pointing at her cup. Free refills, you know."

  "Easy for you to say," Connie whispered. "You don't have to pay for these 'boutique' roasted coffee beans. I'm not using Chase and Sanborn, you know." With that, Connie pasted on a smile and served the customer. Then she returned to the cash register and called, "Angie."

  Angie didn't even look her way as she wrote down the phone number of the woman she was talking with.

  "Angie!" Connie said again.

  "One minute, Connie," Angie replied, still not facing her.

  "It's not that she's ignoring you, Connie," Stan said out of the side of his mouth. "She's busy."

  "Busy like a fox. Seems to me she's having a good time chatting with my customers about her stupid cupcakes while I do all the work."

  "Those pastries don't make themselves," Stan pointed out. "She does more than her share of work, if you ask me."

  "How hard can that be? I think she's taking advantage of my good nature." Hands on hips, she glared at Angie's back. "I'm going to talk to her right now."

  "Time for me to get going." Stan grabbed a doughnut to sustain him on the long drive across the city, and hurried out the door.

  Connie ignored him. "Angie," she called sweetly.

  Angie still wasn't paying any attention to her.

  "Angie!" Her voice was a little more strident. "We need to talk."

  "In a minute," Angie said quickly.

  Connie grew more irritated. "Angie, I mean it!"

  "Excuse me," Angie said sweetly to her newest customer. She grabbed Connie's arm and dragged her a few steps away from the cash register. "What is it? I was talking to someone!"

  Connie yanked her arm free. "I could use a little help here."

  Angie gawked. "What do you think I'm doing?"

  "I've not sure. Holding conversations about your business, it seems."

  "You're being silly. I'm working the pastry sales and you're serving coffee and tea. What's your problem?" Angie started to walk away.

  "How can you talk to me that way? I know what's going to happen. I can see it now." Connie felt tears threaten, which only angered her more. She wasn't one to confront people, but she felt pushed beyond her limit.

  Angie faced Connie again. "See what now?"

  "Nothing."

  "I give up." Angie waved her arms in exasperation. "I'm trying to help you, and if I'm selling a few dozen custom cupcakes on the side, what's the harm? It helps both of us, doesn't it? Oh, great! My customer just left. See what you did?"

  "What I did?" Connie was so irritated she could scarcely speak.

  Angie put her hands on her hips. "That's what I said!"

  "Well, I never—"

  Just then, the door burst open and Stan stepped into the shop. He was looking down at himself, at an empty coffee cup in one hand, a gritty and mangled doughnut in the other, and what looked like spilled coffee dripping off his shirt and slacks. "I tripped over the sandwich board," he said, "and …"

  At that point he looked up to see two angry, red-faced women staring at him.

  "I, uh …" He glanced longingly at the fresh doughnuts and espresso machine, but then dropped what he was holding into a wastebasket and grabbed some napkins to wipe off his hands and shirt. "I think I should just get going," he mumbled.

  Without a word, Angie and Connie both nodded.

  o0o

  Paavo drove over the Golden Gate Bridge traveling north along San Francisco Bay to the city of Tiburon.

  There, he entered the police department offices and asked to speak to a detective about the unsolved murder of the prior month. Since there had been very few murders in small, wealthy Tiburon, the desk clerk knew exactly what he was referring to. He brought Paavo to meet Officer Trent Bowdin.

  Officer Bowdin was in his late twenties, about six-four, with a blond crew cut, wide blue eyes, and a missionary-like squeaky clean demeanor.

  Paavo explained the case he was inquiring about. "I understand it remains unsolved," Paavo said.

  "Right," Bowdin replied. "The county has taken over jurisdiction—their detectives handle all the murde
r investigations. But we keep an eye out for anything that might help them."

  "What can you tell me about the victim?" Paavo asked.

  "Not much. Her name, we were told, was Joy Woolsey," Bowdin said. "We were working off a missing person's report that fit Woolsey to a T, even down to a heart-shaped tattoo on the right tricep, and a chipped front tooth. The problem was, when we went to talk to the girl who filed the report, she was gone. The address she'd given us was fake, probably her name was as well. We suspect the name Joy Woolsey isn't real either."

  "Why do you say that?" Paavo asked.

  "Because we found nothing more about her in any database," Bowdin replied. "There are some Joy Woolsey's in the country, but none match this girl's description."

  "Which is?"

  "Young—seventeen, eighteen or so. She looked like any runaway living on the streets. We ran prints, put out a report on her, but came up empty. It wouldn't be the first time a runaway changed her name. She had short blond hair, bleached almost white, blue eyes, stood five-foot seven, and her fingerprints weren't on record. Last time I checked, there were about a hundred thousand runaways who fit her general description."

  "I'm not surprised," Paavo said.

  "I can show you the spot where she was found, if you think that might help," Bowdin said.

  They drove to a vacant lot north of Tiburon's tourist area with restaurants whose decks extended over the bay, and a dock for the ferry to San Francisco.

  "She was lying right out there." Bowdin pointed to an area not far from the road. "Candles, short ones like you see in church, were in a bag next to her. We figured they were going to be used in a ritual but, for some reason, the killer just left them there."

  As Paavo studied the scene, he buttoned up his jacket and raised the collar. Cold air from the bay was cutting through him to the bone. He couldn't stop shivering and was surprised Bowdin wasn't reacting the same way.

  No homes or businesses were nearby. It was the sort of area that would be completely empty in the middle of the night.