Bake Offed, page 12
“I’ll speak to her before I leave today. She’s on my schedule.” Roy crunched down on a piece of his energy bar.
“Perry told me that Cynthia always put herself in the spotlight at book club meetings. She did that last night at the bar when she talked about the murder a year ago. She must have told the book club about it too. A staged murder during dinner, followed by a real murder later that night is quite a story. It’s a mystery book club, so the members would have pressed her for details about what she saw and heard.”
Roy laughed. “She wasn’t at the hotel for the murder mystery dinner. Perry Macon and his wife were. They’d have seen Cynthia if she’d been there.”
“So she lied last night.” Val shouldn’t have been surprised. “People who heard her didn’t know it was a lie. She might have attracted the attention of someone who didn’t want the truth about that old murder to come out.”
“Obviously.” Roy drummed his fingers on the desk. “I don’t understand your interest in this case. We got to know each other when you were sleuthing because your grandfather was a suspect in a murder. The next time I ran into you, you were trying to solve a murder that took place in your backyard.”
“When the victim was dressed just like me.”
“So you had a personal reason. Why do you care about the death in a hotel of a woman you’d just met?”
A valid question. Val went for the easy answer. “I’d like to help my grandfather locate his keepsake recipe box, which Cynthia supposedly had.”
“What if I told you we found the recipe box in her room after all? Would you forget Cynthia’s death and enjoy the fest’s made-up murders?”
“Definitely not.” It took Val a moment to figure out why she was so invested in explaining Cynthia’s death. “Because of the kettle. Without that kettle, I’d have slept well, learned of Cynthia’s death in the morning, and given it little thought. But the whistle called me to the scene and made me part of it. Call me a ham, but I can’t step out of the scene until the curtain comes down.”
Roy smiled with his lips pressed together. “I will bring the curtain down. Don’t ask me to reenact the crime, like you did once before. With an unsolved murder from a year ago and a suspicious death from yesterday, I’d like you to stay in the wings or, better yet, in the audience.”
As an audience member, was Val allowed to hiss? She resisted asking that question. “I will remain offstage. Now it’s time for me to exit left.”
He applauded her exit.
He’d like nothing better than to close two murder cases at once. That left her and Granddad to solve the mystery of the ring and the recipe box. She went to the lobby to find Granddad and give him the news.
Chapter 12
Granddad was on a sofa in the lobby, jotting in the small spiral notebook he always carried in his shirt pocket. He patted the cushion next to him. “Have a seat. Where have you been?”
“Talking to Roy.” She plopped onto the sofa and told him what the detective had said.
When she finished, Granddad folded his arms. “He hasn’t done squat about my recipe box.”
“Your sign offering a reward for information might get some results. What’s the reward?”
“A gift certificate to Dorothy’s bookshop.”
A win-win for him on two fronts. He wouldn’t just get information but also curry favor with his lady friend. Val pointed to his spiral pad. “What have you been scribbling?”
“Notes on what Eric Reddish, the bartender, told me. He was helpful . . . until he got hostile.”
Val turned to look at the thirty-something man behind the bar. With his brawny build, butch-cut hair, and impassive face, Eric could double as a bouncer. Easier to imagine him hostile than helpful. “Roy said Cynthia had alcohol and sedatives in her system. If her drink was spiked last night, the bartender was in the best position to do that. It’s got to be harder for the person next to you at the bar to tamper with your drink without your noticing.”
“It wouldn’t have been hard last night. Eric said Cynthia swiveled her seat to talk to the people at the tables. She had her back to the bar a lot of the time. Unless she was cradling her drink, it was sitting there within reach of the people who sat beside her.”
Val glanced at the U-shaped bar. With Cynthia’s seat in the middle of it, someone spiking her drink risked being seen by the people along the sides. “Using her poison ring, Cynthia might have gotten away with nonchalantly spiking a drink. I’m not sure anyone else could have done it without attracting notice. But let’s assume someone did. We know Dave saved a seat for her next to him, left for awhile, and came back. So he had the opportunity to tamper with her drink. Did the bartender remember him?”
“Yup. He said Dave left the bar before ten, came back around eleven, and was still there when the bartender left for home at twenty minutes past midnight.”
“Did Eric remember anyone else who sat near Cynthia?”
“Not by name, but he described people I recognized.” Granddad glanced at his notes. “The journalist Greer stuck around awhile after Dave gave her his seat. And Willow moved over to the seat next to Cynthia’s for a short time.”
Val frowned. “Willow told us she didn’t sit next to her stepmother.” What else had she lied about?
“She didn’t start out next to Cynthia.” Granddad glanced at his notes. “At first there was a young guy between them. He didn’t stay long.”
“Guess he didn’t like being sandwiched between a granny and a goth.”
“Can’t blame him. One of them never shut up, and the other never opened her mouth. Eric said Willow stared at her phone the whole time she was at the bar. A couple came in and asked her to slide over so they could sit together. That put her next to Cynthia, but when the couple left, Willow went back to the other seat.”
“So Cynthia had an empty seat on one side. Was Greer still on Cynthia’s other side?”
Granddad shrugged. “Eric didn’t keep track of when she left. A lot of folks piled into the bar when the movie let out around ten thirty. One of them was Birdie, and she sat next to Cynthia.”
Val was amazed. “Birdie told me all kinds of things about Cynthia this morning and never mentioned being in the bar with her.”
“They probably didn’t have a conversation. Cynthia was so out of it by then that she tried to pay her bar tab with her room key card. Then it took her a while to fish her credit card out of her bag.”
Val straightened up. “Maybe she left that key card on the bar.” Who could have picked it up and used it later? “Did Eric say anything about Trisha moving near Cynthia?”
“Nope. And I won’t get any more information from him ’cause I got on his bad side. Soon as I asked if he’d heard Cynthia talk about the murder a year ago, he clammed up and didn’t come near me again. Too bad. I’d like to find out who was there to hear what she said.”
“If there’s any connection between Cynthia’s death and the one a year ago, Roy will uncover it. He said Cynthia wasn’t here when that murder happened.” But the bartender wouldn’t have known that. Val studied the man behind the bar. “I wonder why Eric reacted that way to your question about the old murder.”
“He coulda been tending bar the night that murder happened. I ordered a beer when I first sat down. After he brought it, we were shootin’ the breeze, and I asked how long he’d worked here. Year and a half.” Granddad glanced sideways toward the bar. “Greer’s still sitting at the bar. She came in just before I asked Eric about the old murder. She looked amused when he shut me down. I’ll try to catch her at the reception and find out why.”
Val glanced at her watch. “I want to change out of these clothes and freshen up before the reception.”
As she stood up, a middle-aged woman tentatively approached Granddad. “I read the sign you posted about your recipe box. I saw something after the presentations at the bake-off last night that could help you locate it. Of course, I don’t know if it will, but if you have some time now, I’ll explain.”
Val was sure Granddad would tell her whatever news the woman gave him. “See you at the reception, Granddad.”
* * *
The reception was underway when Val arrived. A partition between two meeting rooms had been rolled back. Small standing-height tables had replaced the rows of chairs in the center, and the chairs now lined the back and one side wall. Along the opposite side wall was a buffet of cheese and fruits. Fest goers helped themselves to the food while servers poured wine at the front of the room.
Val scanned the attendees. Dozens of them wore “detective” hats, part of their costume for the Best Dressed Detective contest that would follow the reception. Aside from the Miss Marple hats and deerstalker caps, there were bowlers, cloches, fedoras, and even bonnets appropriate for a Jane Austen sleuth. Some wore costumes without hats. Harrison in a tuxedo held a wineglass in one hand and a monocle in the other, an aristocratic sleuth from head to toe.
Like Val, a third of the attendees wore casual clothes. She noticed Dave Proctor at a table with the two women who’d recognized him from a soap opera. She suspected he was scoping them out as possible restaurant investors, now that he’d lost Cynthia as a backer. Maybe he would succeed in turning lemons into lemonade this weekend.
Val finally spotted Birdie in the buffet line and darted across the room toward her. “Hi, Birdie. Have you enjoyed your day?”
The small woman nodded vigorously, making the feathers on her hat quiver. “Very much. And I went by the hospitality room twice to neaten up the display.”
“Thank you. I forgot to do that.” Val came up with a roundabout way to worm information from Birdie about the woman she’d seen last night. “I met Cynthia’s stepdaughter, Willow, today and was struck by how tall she is. Was the woman you saw in the corridor last night also tall?”
“Everyone looks tall to me . . . even you.” Birdie scanned the room. “The tables where we’re supposed to stand and eat weren’t made for petite women like us.”
“I hate those tables too.” Val refused to be sidetracked. “Do you remember if the woman in the corridor had short or long hair?”
“She had no hair.” Birdie laughed. “I surprised you with that, didn’t I? I mean that she had no hair showing. She had a black turban on her head, like you see on women getting facials in a spa.”
“A turban. That’s unusual in a hotel that doesn’t have a spa.” Trisha could have stuffed her ponytail under a turban, though it would have had a bump in the back. Val glanced at the front of the room and saw her queuing up for wine in her jeans, sweatshirt, and baseball cap. “Birdie, did you notice what kind of clothes the woman in the hall was wearing?”
The older woman acted as if she hadn’t heard the question and turned her attention to the buffet table. “This is such a nice spread. All the different cheeses and fruits.”
Val sighed. Birdie had all different ways of dodging questions. Maybe wine would loosen her tongue. “I’m going to get a glass of wine. Would you like a drink?”
“My wine’s already at one of those tables.” Birdie waved her hand in the direction of the tall tables.
Val wasn’t sure which table she meant, but it shouldn’t be hard to find her once she reclaimed it.
On the way for wine, Val stopped for a quick chat with Jordan. He confirmed Willow’s story. He’d seen a woman with long dark hair and face piercings take the up elevator from the third floor around 11:45 last night.
As Val waited her turn for wine, Bethany came into the room, wearing a dress imprinted with bright green and blue peacock feathers. She’d dressed as Mrs. Peacock to promote the evening’s events—mystery board games and the Clue movie.
Val motioned to her. “Do you want me to get you a glass of wine?”
“I’ll grab one after I make the rounds of the tables. I’d like to get feedback about the fest and remind people about tonight’s activities.”
Val fully intended to forget them. She’d seen the movie, and playing murder mystery board games didn’t appeal to her, especially when she had a real murder plot to ponder. “Granddad and I are going to eat dinner in the restaurant here. I’ll text you when I know what time. Hope you can join us.”
“Okey-doke.” Bethany plunged into the crowd.
Val spotted Greer coming into the reception with Granddad close behind. After he caught up with her, they sat down in the chairs along the wall and talked. With the line for drinks getting longer, Val decided to save Granddad the trouble of queuing up. She’d get two glasses, one white and one red, and drink whichever he didn’t want.
By the time she had both glasses in hand, Greer had left Granddad.
Val hurried over to him and held out the glasses. “Red or white?” After he took the red, she sat down in the chair the journalist had vacated. “What did Greer have to say?”
“She explained why the bartender was peeved at me. He was tending bar the night the murder happened a year ago. He didn’t like being reminded of it. She got a kick out of the way he shut me down. He did the same thing to her last night when she asked him about that murder, but she was more persistent than I was.”
“Pushiness goes with the territory when you’re a journalist. Did she say anything else about that case?”
“There was a murder mystery dinner show and, after it, some hotel guests went to the bar. One couple got real loud. The husband had drunk a lot and accused his wife of taking up with her former boyfriend. She said he was insanely jealous. They were still arguing when they went up to their room. Later a fire was reported in their room. Husband dead, wife fled.” Granddad sipped his wine.
Though Val was used to his meandering before he got to the point of his story, she hated being kept in suspense. She nudged him along. “And the wife was suspected, but there wasn’t enough evidence to try her. That doesn’t explain Eric’s negativity when you asked him about the murder.”
“The police interviewed everybody the couple went near. Folks in the bar heard them arguing about the wife’s ex-boyfriend. His name was Eric.”
Val’s jaw dropped. “The bartender was the boyfriend?”
“No, but he came in for some heavy questioning. The police never located Eric, the ex. The wife said he was a figment of her hubby’s jealous imagination.”
“Roy seems to think—or hope—there’s a connection between that murder and Cynthia’s death. I don’t see it. The bartender couldn’t have been involved in Cynthia’s death. He was at the bar when she left at 11:15, and he was there an hour later, when I went down to the lobby to report the kettle whistling.”
“Tending bar’s a good alibi.” Granddad pointed toward the door. “See the woman coming in now? She’s the one who wanted a reward for telling me about the recipe box.”
“What did she say?”
“After the bake-off presentations ended, when everyone was milling around the table at the front, she saw Trisha with the recipe box in her hand. That’s all. The woman didn’t see her pull it out from under the table or walk away with it.”
“Not an eyewitness to the crime. Maybe someone else will come forward.”
“I sure hope so.” Granddad handed Val his half-empty wineglass. “I’ll get us cheese and fruit. How about you find us a table so we don’t have to balance the food on our laps?”
With a wineglass in each hand, Val searched the room for Birdie and spotted her at a table with Perry Macon. No point in trying to coax her for more details about the woman in the hall last night. Perry would probably scorn amateur sleuthing, as he had this morning, and make Birdie less likely to share what she knew. Besides, Val and Granddad would barely be able to squeeze in at the small table with two other people.
But they’d fit at the table next to Birdie’s, where Claire stood alone. Val wended her way toward her former classmate and waved as she passed Birdie and Perry. Instead of waving back, Birdie clutched the edge of the table, grimaced, and dropped to the floor, taking her wineglass with her.
Chapter 13
A lump formed in Val’s throat as she stared at Birdie on the floor with her eyes closed and her hat askew. Leaving the two wineglasses on the table, Val knelt down next to the older woman.
“Birdie! Birdie!” No response. “Someone call 911,” Val yelled over the din in the room.
“I’ll call,” Claire responded.
Perry crouched on the other side of Birdie and put his fingers on her wrist. “Her heart’s beating. Slowly.”
Birdie’s eyes flickered open. She groaned and closed them.
Perry pointed under the table where there was a purse with a chain strap. “Look in there for her phone. Her son’s number must be in it. His name’s Jim.”
Val picked up the purse. A foot away from it, Birdie’s glass lay on its side, still in one piece after the carpet cushioned its impact. Red wine bled into the gray rug. Val unsnapped the bag’s clasp, took out Birdie’s iPhone, and said, “Hey, Siri. Call Jim.”
When Siri responded, “Calling Jim,” Val stood up and handed Perry the phone.
She fished her own phone from her shoulder bag and texted Roy, asking him to come to the room because of an emergency.
People from nearby tables clustered around Birdie. A hotel staffer excused his way through the group. He bent down to pick up the wineglass.
“Don’t touch the glass!” Two women in the group around Birdie shouted in unison.
The staffer backed off, looking askance, apparently unaware that clue hunters surrounded him.
“It could be evidence,” Jordan explained to him and dropped down by Birdie. “I can give CPR if she needs it.”
Val looked around for Granddad. He was still going through the buffet, apparently unaware that someone had hit the floor.
Claire peered down at Birdie. “The 911 dispatcher said the first responders are coming. I hope she’s okay. Is she a friend of yours?”
“No, we were thrown together as hospitality room volunteers. She and Cynthia knew each other well.”
Claire’s eyebrows rose. “Cynthia’s the woman with the poison ring who died last night?”
