Murder Freshly Baked Page 11

“A cold nose to the palm of your hand, a short bark, even brushing up against your leg can bring you back before you suffer the full flashback. Service dogs can also turn on lights and safety-check a room, or turn on lights in a bedroom while you’re sleeping to pull you out of a flashback.”

  “A dog can do all that?” Amber glanced at Preston and smiled. “I might need to trade in my cat, Leo.”

  Preston decided at that point he needed to admit the two things that were worrying him more than anything else. “Zoey said there’s a grant, from the VA, to pay for the cost of the dog, but it seems to me someone might need those funds more than I do.”

  “You’re going to have to trust me when I say that it looks to me like you’re the best fit for Mocha.”

  “All right. But what if I’m not a good dog owner? What if I have a fit while driving and crash the car, injuring her? What if I forget and leave the door open and she runs off? What if—”

  “We could talk what-ifs for a long time, couldn’t we? I’ve read through your application, and it sounds like you have a good environment for a dog.”

  Preston thought about the Dawdy Haus and the Village. Both would probably be ideal for a dog.

  “As far as your symptoms and you possibly causing harm to Mocha, if I thought that was possible, let alone probable, I wouldn’t have asked your friend Zoey to have you come in.”

  Preston stared at the pictures on the wall in Tomas’s office, pictures of dogs and children, dogs and adults, dogs and veterans. He’d never even considered owning a pet. How could he? Until a year ago, he’d been living on the streets. A pet, a dog, would be one more step toward normal. And what if Mocha could help him? Preston fully believed God was healing the broken places in his heart and in his mind. But he understood it was a process. Was Mocha part of that process? Had God arranged things so that what had been impossible was now possible?

  Suddenly he knew he had to take that leap of faith. Not only did he have a strong conviction that it was the right thing to do, but he wanted to do it. He wanted to be well, completely well, and if Mocha could help with that, then who was he to argue?

  “I’ll do it.”

  Tomas’s smile was instantaneous. He slapped the folder down on the desk and stood. “All right. Let’s go meet Mocha.”

  Sixteen

  Amber walked into her home, breathed in the smell of sizzling vegetables, and dropped her purse and tablet on the coffee table. There was a time when she would have checked e-mails as soon as she walked into the house, especially when she’d been away from the Village for an afternoon. But that time was long gone. She understood now that if someone needed her, they would have texted or called. Any e-mails could wait, and she wanted to see her husband.

  Then there was the fear of finding another anonymous e-mail. Ack! That would ruin her appetite. Come to think of it, her appetite was already ruined, which was a rare event indeed.

  Tate stood in front of the stove, dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, stirring whatever was making that heavenly smell.

  “Look who’s home.”

  “Look who’s cooking.”

  Amber walked up to her husband, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek against his broad back. Home. To think a year ago she had barely known Tate Bowman. Now he was such an important part of her life that she didn’t feel whole and at rest unless they were together. How did something like that happen so quickly?

  And should she tell him about the second e-mail? But what good would it do? And if somehow the person found out, then she might be pushing them over the proverbial edge.

  “You haven’t even asked what I’m cooking.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it is. I can smell it, and I’m smitten.”

  He placed the spatula on the plate he’d been using to slice vegetables, lowered the heat under the pan, and turned to gather her in his arms. “Smitten with me? Or with stir-fried vegetables, rice, and smothered chicken breasts?”

  “Yes!” She raised her face to his and waited.

  When he kissed her, kissed her thoroughly, she wanted to suggest they forget the dinner preparation. Who needed food when you were in love? Then her stomach rumbled, protesting against the idea of skipping the chicken.

  “The lady of the house requires sustenance.” Tate ran his thumb over her bottom lip, kissed her once more—this time a short, sweet caress—and then handed her the spatula. “Stir that while I finish making the salad.”

  As she stirred, she briefly told him about Mocha, then about Preston’s flashback episode on the way to Fort Wayne.

  Tate frowned as he handed her a glass of iced tea. “Were you in danger?”

  “No. He somehow managed to pull to the side of the road as the flashback overcame him. I was more frightened about what was happening to him than the possibility of us having an accident.” She described how he’d gripped the wheel with both hands and how his expression had gone slack. “He slumped in a stupor as soon as the vehicle rolled to a stop. It was like watching someone have a seizure. It broke my heart, Tate.”

  “It’s a miracle neither of you were injured. I knew he has flashbacks, but I didn’t realize they affected his driving.”

  “I suppose he can’t choose when or where they happen.”

  “But this dog—Mocha—is supposed to help stop them?”

  “That’s what Tomas told us.”

  They sat at the table, and when Tate clasped her hand in his, Amber understood fully how much she had to be thankful for. Not only the fact that she and Preston hadn’t been hurt, but that she had a warm and loving husband waiting for her when she returned home. God had provided in so many ways, even as he was now providing for Preston, even as he had provided the meal they were about to eat.

  Surely he would also provide an answer to her latest dilemma.

  They bowed their heads. As usual, Tate’s simple but sincere prayer summed up all Amber was feeling—gratitude, love, and humbleness.

  He squeezed her hand when her head remained bowed. “Something worrying you?”

  Instead of answering that question, she began to tell him more about Preston and Mocha. “I wish you could have seen them. I was tempted to record it on my phone.”

  “I doubt Preston would want that shared.”

  “Maybe not.” Amber tried a bite of the smothered chicken. Delicious! Her man could cook.

  Cooking.

  Baking.

  Poison.

  Sweat broke out along her forehead and she reached for her glass of water. “At first he was hesitant, like a father with a new child, as if he was afraid he might break the dog or something. But Mocha is a sweetheart. She sat in front of him, patiently waiting for him to make the first move.”

  “And then?”

  “Then they focused on the commands Preston needed to learn. Tomas walked him through what training they had done, how Mocha is supposed to react if Preston has an episode, and gave him a list of to-dos and not-to-dos.”

  “Such as?”

  “Table scraps. That’s a big no-no.”

  Silence settled around them as Tate enjoyed the dinner, and Amber pushed her food around on her plate. She had taken another two bites—one of the smothered chicken and one of the stir-fried veggies—when her cell phone rang. At first she thought to ignore it, but then the house phone began ringing.

  “I’ll get that,” Tate said.

  “And I’ll find my cell.”

  They pushed back from the table simultaneously.

  Leo stared at them from his perch on the stool near the kitchen window. No doubt he couldn’t understand why they were abandoning a perfectly good meal, and he’d been unimpressed by the conversation about Preston’s dog.

  “Don’t even think about taking a bite,” Amber cautioned. The cat had never been one for table scraps, but if there were ever a meal to start him down that path it now sat on the table. Steam still rose from the chicken, and the smell was simply tantalizing.

  Walking backwa
rd, Amber kept her eyes on the cat, who showed his disinterest by raising a paw and commencing to clean his face. She darted into the living room, retrieved her cell, and was back in her seat in time to hear Tate’s end of his conversation.

  Georgia, he mouthed. “I’ll tell her. No, it’s good that you called. We’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  One glance at her phone’s screen told Amber that Pam was calling. This worried her even more than what she’d heard of Tate’s conversation. Pam was adamant about not interrupting Amber’s time off—she claimed that the newlyweds needed their time alone. Only a major emergency would have caused her to call.

  Tate began covering their plates and placing them in the microwave as Amber took the call. Even as she spoke to her assistant, Amber gathered her purse, her tablet, and a light jacket. “Call the police, not nine-one-one, but the administrative number. They’ll patch you through to the closest officer.”

  By the time she hung up, Tate had snagged the truck keys. This was one emergency she knew he wasn’t going to let her handle alone, and based on her history over the past year, that was probably a very wise decision.

  Seventeen

  Amber reminded herself to pray as they drove the short distance to the Village, parked, and walked to the bakery. Her natural inclination was to worry, but she was trying to change that. She was trying to mature in her faith, and now would be a good time to put that into practice.

  When they reached the parking lot, she saw a Shipshewana police cruiser had already pulled up outside. Apparently Gordon Avery’s shift had ended. Cherry Brookstone reached the bakery door at the same time they did. Cherry was young, thin, and muscular, and had long red hair to match her name. Her green eyes nearly twinkled into a smile—nearly, but not quite. Amber and Cherry had not always agreed on things, but after the last murder they seemed to have at least found a common ground of respect.

  Amber still thought Cherry was too young and too arrogant, but she admired her skills and her dedication to her job. As for what Cherry thought, well, who could tell? The woman hadn’t actually called and invited her for a cup of coffee. For some reason they seemed to stay just a few feet shy of an actual friendship.

  “A poison poet, huh?”

  “Apparently, though the poet part is a stretch. The last note left showed a real lack of creativity. It’s almost as if a teenager were writing it, based on the poor rhyming scheme—” Amber stopped short as she realized she was discussing the case with a police officer. She was doing exactly what the e-mail had told her not to do—if in fact both e-mails had come from the same person. And why wouldn’t they have? What were the odds of two crazies popping up at the same time?

  They stepped into the bakery.

  An older woman was seated in a chair that had been brought over from the restaurant and placed near the cash register. Georgia stood behind the counter, a scowl on her face. It flitted across Amber’s mind that Pam was right—Georgia had changed. But she couldn’t think of that right now. She had to focus on the crisis at hand.

  Pam squatted in front of the woman, attempting to calm her. The two other bakery employees were scurrying back and forth behind the counter, trying to fill orders despite the chaos. Most of the customers had stopped to stare at the woman in the chair, who was now wailing and moaning. For a moment, Amber gave in to the fear that the woman had been poisoned, but Pam had specifically said the pie hadn’t been cut.

  “Mrs. Webster, I need you to calm down.” Pam knelt in front of the woman with steel gray hair teased into a tall beehive hairdo. She fanned herself with a bakery brochure, pausing now and again to moan.

  Amber, Tate, and Cherry hustled toward the register.

  “I’ll fetch her a glass of water,” Tate said.

  “Ma’am, I’m Amber Bowman, and I’m the manager of the Village.”

  “If you’re the manager . . . oh. Oh, my.”

  “Are you hurt in any way?”

  “Hurt? Am I hurt? If you were doing your job this wouldn’t have . . . oh.” The woman put her head back and fanned her neck. “I could have been killed.”

  Her voice rose sharply as she pondered her near-death experience. Then the careening noise Amber had heard from the door began again.

  “She’s in shock.” Cherry pulled her radio off her belt. “I’ll call in the paramedics.”

  “No! Oh, no paramedics.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Mrs. Webster gathered all her energy and pulled herself together, sitting up straighter in the chair and leveling her gaze at Cherry. “Have you seen the way those young men drive? Haven’t I been through enough today?”

  “What exactly—”

  “It’s the horror of it, is all. I need a moment. Oh.”

  “I need you to calm down, ma’am. Otherwise procedures state that I need to call medical personnel to obtain a professional opinion.”

  Mrs. Webster was neither large nor small, and at least seventy years old, but she was astute. Amber noticed the way she cut her eyes to the right and the left, checking to see how big her audience was. Finally she leaned forward and spoke in a theatrical, hushed voice, meaning that everyone in the store could hear her. “You need to take my statement. There’s a murderer loose—”

  A collective gasp escaped from the crowd, and they seemed to simultaneously move back in one giant step, as if they needed to put some distance between themselves and the danger wrought by the poison poet. Mrs. Webster had made sure everyone around her knew what the note said.

  “The police can take your statement.” Pam stood and straightened her blouse, which was a warm yellow decorated with peacocks. “But there is no murderer loose. All we have is a pie with a note on it. No one has been hurt, officer.”

  Tate arrived with the glass of water and handed it to Mrs. Webster. She took a long, slow sip, returned the glass to Tate, and then focused her gaze on Cherry. “My name is Mrs. Irene Webster, and I found that . . . that dangerous pie and that awful note on a shelf over there.”

  She pointed to her right, nearly knocking the glass out of Tate’s hand in the process, then repeated her name and gave her address and phone number to Cherry. She was adamant that the officer have all of her contact information.

  “It was over there, and I almost purchased it without reading that note. I almost took it home.” She fluttered her eyelids as if the thought was too painful to entertain. “If I had, if I’d cut it and eaten a piece, I could be dead!”

  Cherry didn’t look up from the pad where she was writing down Mrs. Webster’s statement. “Where is the pie now?”

  “I have it,” Georgia said. It was the first time she’d spoken since Amber had walked through the door. The new hairdo and makeup disoriented Amber. She felt like she was talking to a stranger, not the woman she had known for years. “And before you upbraid me for moving it, I used a dish towel, not my hands. I don’t think I contaminated it in any way, unless I smudged some prints. I couldn’t just leave it out on the pie table, though.”

  Cherry and Amber stepped toward the counter.

  The note was on the same type of paper as the first, what looked to Amber like a piece of plain copier paper. It had been typed or printed from a computer. And the poetry was as bad as ever.

  Cyanide might be sickly sweet

  But put it into a treat you eat

  Next thing you know your adversary

  Will be gone and life will be merry

  “Her cadence is all wrong,” Amber muttered.

  “Cadence?” Cherry had taken a picture of the pie and the note with her phone. “What cadence?”

  “You know, the rhythm. She doesn’t have enough beats per line.”

  “It’s not a crime to be a bad poet,” Pam pointed out.

  “It should be.” Amber’s mind wasn’t completely on the bad rhyme. She was wondering if she’d received another e-mail. And why now? What had instigated this rash outbreak of threats?

  Cherry turned her back to them and spoke into her radio, which
seemed rather rude to Amber, but who was she to say? She was just trying to run a Village that was now being frequented by a bad poet with a taste for drama and poison.

  “I’m sorry I called and interrupted your evening,” Pam said.

  “No, I’m glad you did.” Amber turned to Georgia. “Are you all right?”

  Georgia waved away her concern and pulled on her apron, which did seem less snug around her middle. How much weight had the woman lost? “I’m tougher than whoever this twerp is. I just wish they would pick someone else’s bakery to mess with. Two times in one day is a bit too much excitement for me.”

  “I wish whoever is doing this would get some help—see a doctor or a shrink or a priest,” Pam said. “These sorts of things put people on edge, and we don’t need the bad publicity.”

  Amber bit her lip to keep from answering. How many people were in the room? A dozen? More? Was the person watching to see how she’d react? To see if she would mention the e-mails? Whoever it was must be on the property, because they knew she’d spoken with Hannah. Or maybe they’d only suspected it. They couldn’t have heard the conversation, since the two had been in the coffee shop alone.

  “Not to mention these situations tend to attract drama queens.” Pam offered this comment in a low aside that only Amber and Tate heard. Pam and Tate shared a smile that should have helped to lessen the tension, but Amber quickly stared at the floor.

  “Say, what’s wrong with you?” Pam’s voice was colored with concern. “You’re not acting like yourself. This person isn’t creeping you out, I hope. Because we are going to catch them, just like the last time. And when we do—”

  “Perhaps we could allow Cherry to do her work.”

  Pam’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

  Tate said, “I think Pam was trying to be encouraging.”

  “And I appreciate it. I only meant that maybe we should stay out of her way.”

  “Since when do we stay out of the way? What happened to the person who tracked down Owen’s killer?”

  Amber couldn’t speak, couldn’t push any of the words out, so instead she shook her head no. Pam was no longer watching the officer or the woman in the chair. She was staring at Amber as if she’d suddenly shown up in Amish clothing.