Cremas, Christmas Cookies, and Crooks Read online

  “I heard you seemed happy she was dead,” I blurted, panicking a little about how to get him to stay.

  He turned around slowly. “You did, huh? Who’d you hear that from? Becky?” He took a step closer to me.

  I refused to be intimidated, or at least to look that way, and stood my ground. “No, not Becky. It was some other kids.”

  “Oh yeah?” He took another step closer. “Who were they then?”

  I channeled my best tough-girl attitude. “I don’t know everybody in this town. They were some high school kids. They were talking in line about how nobody in school was really sad Ms. Underwood was dead but that Brett Wallace actually seemed happy. You’re Brett Wallace, aren’t you?”

  He smirked. “Yeah, I am. And yeah, I’m happy she’s dead too. She was a—”

  “Enough!” I held my hand up. I could see the word his mouth was starting to form, and I didn’t want to hear it. “You know, it’s going to make people suspicious if you go around telling people you’re happy she’s dead. They’re going to start thinking the police got the wrong person.”

  His face darkened. He took another step toward me, getting so close that he could touch me. “Are you saying you think I killed Veronica?”

  “I thought you said it didn’t bother you what I thought.” My heart pounded in my chest. I had met this boy less than five minutes ago, and here I was, accusing him of murder. Well, not in so many words, but that was what he thought I was doing.

  “That’s right, I don’t.”

  “I was saying that people might think that you killed her if you act happy about it.”

  “The cops didn’t think that.”

  “You talked to the cops?”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  I could only think of one reason why it was. “It is if I’m going to help Mrs. Crowsdale.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he looked me up and down. “I know who you are.”

  Of course he did. I’d introduced myself.

  “You’re that lady who solved those murders.”

  How on earth did he know that? But I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I am.”

  “So you think the cops screwed up.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You think the cops screwed up, and you think I killed her. That’s why you followed me out here and gave me that twenty.”

  “You dropped that twenty.”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “No, I didn’t. You said I did so you would have an excuse to talk to me.”

  He was smarter than I’d expected. I had to figure out a way to get things back on track.

  “Didn’t expect me to see through your little act, did you?” He took a step toward me. He was uncomfortably close. “I’m not that dumb. Just like I’m not dumb enough to go blabbing about killing Veronica to somebody who’s friends with the cops.” He smiled a sickening smile. “That wasn’t a confession, you know. Or was it? Good luck figuring it out.”

  A black Mercedes pulled up beside us, and its window rolled down. “Brett, sweetie, it’s time to go to your lacrosse lesson,” the blond woman inside said.

  “Looks like I gotta go.” He smirked at me again as he moved toward the car. He pulled the door open and slid inside. As the car started to roll away, he leaned out the window. “Lots of people had reasons to hate Veronica, you know. Not just me.”

  The car sped away.

  I stood there on the sidewalk, staring after it, trying to figure out what to make of Brett. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on about him. He definitely wanted people to think he was a tough guy, but something about him made me not so sure.

  Becky said he grabbed girls, but on the arm. She didn’t want to be alone with him, but she wasn’t afraid of him. He insinuated that he killed Veronica Underwood and then got in his mom’s car to go to a lacrosse lesson. It was a strange juxtaposition although, I supposed, not completely unheard of. And what was with him calling her by her first name? Was that him trying to be a cool, “rebellious” teenager? Or was there something more to it?

  I didn’t know, but I would need to find out if I was going to figure out if Brett was the murderer or, for that matter, if it was anyone other than Ann Crowsdale. And to do that, I’d have to see what else I could find out about Brett. And what evidence the police had against Ann.

  I realized I was freezing and turned to go back to the café and saw the one person who could help me figure out both of those things. Not that I wanted to talk to him, not about this, anyway. But I wouldn’t be able to avoid him. Detective Mike Stanton was walking into my café.

  Chapter 10

  MIKE SAW me walking toward the café and held the door open for me. “Hey, Franny! How’s it going? Aren’t you cold out here with no coat on?” He was in an unusually good mood.

  “Sure am! But I’m pretty good, Mike. How are you?”

  “You know what? I’m doing good. Wouldn’t have minded not losing half my weekend to a murder investigation, but at least we got it done without needing to call in civilian help!” He patted me on the back as I walked past him through the door. It almost made me feel bad about what I was going to say next.

  “The case has been the talk of the town the past few days. First the murder itself and then Ann Crowsdale being arrested for it.” I took a deep breath, knowing that he probably wouldn’t like my next comment, but not feeling that I really had much choice if I was going to get any information out of him. “I’m not sure which people are actually more upset about.”

  To my surprise, Mike wasn’t even fazed. “Yup, Underwood wasn’t very popular. I’ve never seen a person be so universally despised after four months in town.”

  “She just moved here?” The school secretaries had mentioned that she had just taken over as the drama teacher, but I didn’t realize she was new to town too.

  “Yup. Moved here from Providence over the summer. Apparently her getting hired on was pretty controversial.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Mike shrugged. “Political school system stuff. She was new to the school, new to the state, comes in and takes over the school’s drama department. People weren’t happy. That kind of thing happens in law enforcement all the time, but I guess it’s a big deal in the school system.” He drummed his fingers on the counter and stared up at the menu.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. Mike never looked at the menu. Even when he was in a good mood, he just came in and grunted at us, and we gave him large amounts of black coffee.

  Mike’s forehead wrinkled, and I looked from him to the menu. He broke into a grin. “I’m on my way home. At a normal time for a change. I thought I’d get Sandra something.” He stared at the menu for a few more seconds. “What do you think she’d want?”

  “Will she want something hot or cold?” I asked as I walked around the counter. I knew I wanted something hot. As soon as I was done helping Mike, I was making myself a hot cappuccino to get the chill out of my bones.

  “Something cold.” He smiled when I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “If I get her something hot, it’ll be cold by the time I get it home anyway. May as well get her something that will stay at the right temperature.”

  Well, at least that made some sense. “Sandra likes herbal tea, right?”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Chamomile, rooibos, hibiscus…”

  “Those are made-up words.”

  I shook my head. For a smart man, he had some major blind spots. “We have a new strawberry vanilla tea I bet she’ll like. I’ll make it extra strong so that it won’t get watered down if the ice is melted by the time she gets it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I was proud of our new herbal tea selection. We’d only recently graduated from ancient bags of grocery-store-brand black tea, and I’d put special care into selecting a variety of teas and tea blends to offer our customers. The strawberry was my new favorite. It was surprisingly delicious both hot and cold, th
ough I preferred it cold.

  I moved slowly preparing the tea, realizing that this was a prime opportunity to ask Mike some questions without making a big deal out of it.

  “People seem really shocked that Ann Crowsdale was arrested,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Yeah, well, they wouldn’t pay me to investigate crimes if the suspects were always obvious.”

  “True.” I fiddled with the hot water dispenser to buy myself some time. “I guess it was partly how quickly she was arrested that surprised people.”

  “Most murders are solved quickly. We’ve just had an unlucky run here lately with cases that weren’t so easy.”

  “It was easy to solve this one?”

  “Easier than some cases.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I started making Mike’s coffee without being asked. I would be stunned if he left my café without a large black coffee in hand even though it was nearly dinnertime. I sometimes suspected that he’d fall asleep instantly without a constant infusion of high doses of caffeine. I was also stalling for time. Mike, being Mike, wasn’t volunteering very much information. I started a fresh pot. Mike always liked coffee from a fresh pot. “You must have had some pretty good evidence.”

  “Enough to make an arrest.”

  “Everybody seems to think so highly of Ann. They’re really having trouble believing that she could have murdered someone.” I was fiddling with our cups and saucers while I waited for Mike’s coffee to brew but glanced over at him just in time to see him narrow his eyes at me.

  “What are you getting at, Fran?” He was suddenly using his stern cop voice instead of his genial old-friend voice.

  I sighed and rested my hands on the counter. “Do you ever wonder if you made a mistake, Mike? If you got the wrong person? I’m not saying you did, but when you arrest someone as universally loved as Ann for something as awful as murder, do you ever wonder if you got it wrong?”

  For a very long, very uncomfortable moment, he didn’t say anything. I felt the way I imagined suspects felt when he was interrogating them—very on the spot, very scrutinized, very judged. And then Mike’s face softened.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do. If the evidence had pointed to anyone but Ann, I would have been more than happy to follow it as far as I could.” He shook his head. “Sandra and Ann have been on the PTA together at the kids’ school for years, and Sandra can’t say enough good things about her. I would love to be wrong on this one. But the evidence—the evidence is too strong to ignore.”

  Mike’s coffee was ready, so I filled our biggest to-go cup to the brim and put the lid on. “Be careful. It’s hot.”

  “Do I owe you for Sandra’s drink?”

  “Nope. Police and fire eat and drink free.” It had been our café’s policy since my grandparents’ era.

  “Wives count?”

  “At least when you’re ordering for her.”

  Mike grinned. “What about cookies for the kids?”

  “You’re pushing it, Stanton,” I said with false annoyance. I filled up a bag with cookies anyway, including some I knew Mike and Sandra would like more than the kids.

  “Thanks, Franny. See you tomorrow. And Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas!” I called back as he made his way to the door.

  “Merry Christmas, Mike!” Sammy said, emerging from the back room with her coat on.

  Mike waved and returned the good wishes before he went out the door.

  “Headed out?” I asked Sammy.

  “Yup.”

  Before either of us could say anything, a woman with bleached blond hair walked up to the counter. “Excuse me.” She smiled. “It’s Sammy, right?”

  Sammy nodded.

  The woman smiled bigger and stuck her hand out. “I’m Cheryl.”

  “Hi, Cheryl,” Sammy said, shaking her hand. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No,” the woman said, still smiling. “I just wanted to introduce myself.” She turned around and walked out of the café. Sammy and I stared after her.

  “Do you know her?” I asked after a few seconds.

  “No,” Sammy said slowly. “But now that I think about it, she’s been here almost the whole day.”

  I thought back and realized that she had been lurking in one of the corners of the café most of the day. We had a few people who did that—spending hours hiding behind a laptop or lost in a book—so I hadn’t really thought much of it. As long as we weren’t so busy that we didn’t have any open tables, I never minded people setting up camp for the day. It was mostly locals who did it, but even during the off-season, we had a few tourists who would spend the day using our free Wi-Fi or enjoying one of our comfy chairs, so I hadn’t thought much of the fact that I didn’t recognize the woman.

  “How did she know my name?” Sammy asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe she overheard it?”

  “Maybe.” Sammy stared at the door. It was late enough in the year that the street was already dark.

  “Do you want to call Ryan to walk you home?”

  Sammy stared for a few more seconds then shook her head. “What would I tell him? Some lady introduced herself to me, and now I’m scared?”

  I had to admit it didn’t sound like a particularly scary encounter. But there had definitely been something odd about it.

  “Besides, he doesn’t get off work for another couple of hours.”

  I wanted to argue back that escorting an anxious citizen home seemed well within the bounds of on-duty police officer activities, but I knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Sammy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll be fine. She’s just a strange woman. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll see you tomorrow, Fran. Have a good night.”

  “Good night, Sammy,” I replied as she walked toward the door. Just before she pushed it open, I called out something else: “Call me when you get home.”

  Chapter 11

  SAMMY MADE it home safely and without anything else odd happening, but I still felt uneasy walking home myself. Fortunately, Matt and Latte met me halfway and walked me the rest of the way back to Matt’s house, where he had his specialty, spaghetti Bolognese, waiting for us. He’d learned to make polenta with shrimp on our Italian vacation, bringing his repertoire up to two whole dishes, but spaghetti with meat sauce was still his go-to meal.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Matt asked as I sat at the dinner table while he put the finishing touches on our dinner.

  “Nothing, really.” I scratched Latte’s head where it rested on my knee. With the other hand, I sipped from the generous glass of red wine beside my plate.

  “Nothing?”

  I looked up to see Matt looking at me incredulously instead of stirring the sauce as he should have been. “What?”

  “You’ve barely said two words to me. Either you’ve got something on your mind, or you’re mad at me for some reason. It’s not the spaghetti, is it? I thought about making polenta, but I’ve made it so many times since we got back from Italy—”

  “I’m not mad at you,” I said, cutting him off. I chose not to point out that the “so many times” he’d made polenta was actually only two. “I guess I’ve just been thinking.”

  “About?”

  I sighed.

  “You’ve been thinking about investigating that murder, haven’t you?”

  I nodded and made kissy faces at Latte.

  “Have you already started?”

  I scratched Latte’s head some more.

  “Franny?”

  I sighed again and turned around so I was looking at him. Latte wandered off to find one of his chew toys. “Yes, I already started.”

  “And?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know.”

  He was still staring at me, his back to the bubbling pot of sauce.

  “You’re going to get sauce on your jersey.”

  He jumped away from the stove as though I’d tol
d him he was on fire. A stain on his beloved New England Patriots football jersey would be earth shattering. He stripped it off, folded it neatly, and laid it over a chair. Unfortunately, he had a long-sleeved T-shirt on underneath it. Fortunately, it was a thermal shirt and on the snug side.

  Matt turned back to the stove and scooped a big pile of spaghetti onto each of our plates and then topped it with a generous ladleful of Bolognese sauce. My grandmother would have rolled over in her grave to see the sauce just dumped on top like that instead of being mixed in with the pasta, but I wasn’t going to complain about details when I had a good-looking man making me dinner.

  He brought the plates over to the table and set them down then went back to pull the garlic bread out of the oven. My mouth watered at the smell of it. He brought it over to the table and sat down then waited until I had put the first bite in my mouth to start back up with the questions.

  “You said you don’t know about the investigation. What don’t you know?”

  I swallowed my spaghetti. “This is really good, by the way.”

  “Franny.”

  I heaved a sigh and put my fork down. At least I knew there was plenty more on the stove if mine got cold. I started by telling him about the Crowsdales’ visit to the café and my talk with Becky then about my chat with Brett.

  “Wait, you followed a teenage boy out of Antonia’s to ask him if he murdered his teacher?” he asked around a mouthful of spaghetti.

  I stared at him for a second. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds creepy.”

  Matt laughed. Thankfully, he’d swallowed his food first. “Yeah, it kind of does, Franny.”

  “If anything, he’s the creepy one,” I retorted, realizing full well how weak a defense it sounded.

  He laughed again. “So do you think he did it?”

  I groaned and shifted in my seat. I grabbed a piece of garlic bread from the plate, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in my mouth. Finally, I answered. “That’s what I don’t really know. Part of me thinks yes. He argued with her, he obviously hated her, and Becky said he gets aggressive. She clearly thinks he’s capable of it. But something about him…” I tore off another piece of garlic bread and thought while I chewed it. “Either he did it, or he likes people thinking he could have.”