Bun for Your Life (14 page)

“I'm all for supporting libraries.” We left the restaurant and walked to his truck. Again, he helped me in. We rode home in silence, except for the jazz station he was playing that sounded more like a cacophony than real music. I was tired, and since the silence didn't seem to bother him, I didn't feel compelled to talk. I probably would've fallen asleep if I hadn't been interrupted by the chirping of my cell phone, which meant I had an incoming text. It was either Olivia, Emily, or my mother wanting details of my date.

“Excuse me,” I said to Sean as I pulled my phone out of my purse. I was so proud that I still had it with me and hadn't lost it again. I was more than a little surprised that the text was from Brian.

Surely Lola wasn't peering over his shoulder as he texted his ex-wife. I began reading.

Hey there. What's up with you and the detective? You guys seeing each other? I thought by the way he looked at you the other night in your apartment he was interested in you.

No!! We are not seeing each other! I bid on him via Olivia at the library's bachelor auction to raise money. We went on our date tonight. I don't plan on seeing him again. He is not any way near interested in me! We have nothing in common.

He's definitely interested. He's giving off vibes. He seems like a cool guy, but don't let him break your heart. You know the type: Great looking, but unable to make a commitment, always holding back, until he's more and more detached, then one day, he disappears and you're left with a crushed heart. You deserve better.

I laughed out loud. Sean glanced over, but didn't comment. I looked back down at my phone and typed.

What?? Who are you, Dr. Phil? We're not dating!!!!!

I felt a little guilty that Brian and I were discussing Sean right in front of him, so to speak, but he seemed oblivious. Interested in me. Yeah, right.

Moll, I know you're hurt because I'm marrying Lola. I don't want you to get involved with just anyone. Gotta go. Be careful!

“Are you crazy?” I stared at my phone in disbelief.

Sean looked over in my direction again. “Are you asking me that question?”

I smiled at him. “Sorry, no. I was talking to a friend of mine. I don't mean to be rude, I'm done. I actually hate when people do this, and here I am, doing it.”

“No problem.”

I didn't know whether to think Brian was sweet to worry about me, or if I should feel incredibly condescended to, for the second time that night. Did he think I couldn't live without him? That I couldn't manage my own love life? If I had a love life, I'd be in total control of it, that's for sure. Did he think I was some kind of pushover? It was all a moot point anyway. Not only was I not interested in Detective Sean Corsino, he was definitely not interested in me. Vibes, indeed!

We pulled in front of Dottie's house, and again, Sean helped me out of the truck. I couldn't help enjoy the feel of him so close by. We walked around to the side of the house, stopping in front of the doors that led up to our apartments. I had the silly urge to ask, “Your place or mine?” but something told me he wouldn't find it amusing.

“Thanks for the nice time. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he said.

“Thanks, you too.”

“Thank you.” He turned toward his door and unlocked it as I unlocked mine. He paused, one foot inside, one foot out. “One more thing.”

I turned toward him. “What?”

“Stay out of police business.” He stepped all the way in and his door clicked closed.

So much for a good-night kiss. Not that I wanted one. He was so not my type.

*  *  *

“I'm sorry to do this to you, Liv, but I need to step out for an hour or so in a few.” I plopped down in one of our booths and leaned the broom against the table and stifled a yawn. I'd been baking since four in the morning.

She smiled as she flipped the sign in our window from CLOSED to OPEN. “Another date with the handsome detective?”

“Nooo. I don't think I'll be seeing him again. I'm going to go see Bobby Crandall.”

She slid into the booth across from me, her smile gone. “Maybe you would be seeing Detective Corsino again if you hadn't grilled him about Trey and Blake. I didn't know you were so obsessed with Calista's murder.”

I rolled my eyes at her. I had called her right after my date with Sean two days ago had ended and had given her all the details. Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. “I didn't grill him. I gave him information. That had nothing to do with the fact I'm not seeing him again. We aren't compatible.”

“Not compatible? The man's gorgeous. That could make it more exciting, you know. I mean the fact you're not totally compatible. Now you've messed up any chance for a future with him.”

I didn't reply. There wasn't any future between us to mess up. I thought about him losing his wife, and my heart squeezed thinking of how awful that had to have been for him.

“Fine, if you don't want to talk about it. Don't forget we have Enid's talk at the bookstore the day after tomorrow. Seven o'clock,” Olivia reminded me.

“I won't forget. I'm not obsessed with Calista's murder. I want it solved and I'm trying to help. He should have arrested someone by now.”

Olivia laughed. “It's not
Law & Order
, Moll. Wait. Did you say Bobby Crandall? What are you seeing him for?”

I didn't get a chance to answer. The door opened and two older, nicely dressed women walked in.

“Good morning.” Olivia got up and greeted them. “Welcome to Bread and Batter.”

“Hello, there,” one of the women replied. “We're on a tour of the wine country nearby. It's just so beautiful this time of year. Of course, we don't drink a lot, we come for the scenery and to get out with other people. The bus driver parked behind Wegmans and gave us two hours to shop, or walk around town. We're from Buffalo; we live at the Briarwood Complex. It's for senior citizens.”

“Corn sakes, get to the point, Annabelle,” the other woman said, elbowing her. “These girls don't care about all that.”

“Oh, yes,” the one named Annabelle twittered. “I'm sorry. We heard a murder happened here.” She looked around the floor. “We've never been at an actual murder site. It was the woman who discovered an apple, wasn't it? Now where exactly was the body found?”

The other woman peered down at the floor, too. “I don't see any bloodstains. You girls did an excellent job of cleaning up. Why, you could eat off this floor.”

Good grief. We'd gone from Calista being murdered by one of our doughnuts and T-shirts to being murdered right here in the bakery. I slid out of the booth and waltzed past Olivia to the back of the bakery. “They're all yours,” I whispered.

*  *  *

“Hi, Molly. Decided it's time for a trade-in?”

I looked at the gleaming new cars parked behind Bobby Crandall. The black Mustang convertible was gorgeous, but my car was only two years old, and anyway, I loved it. “Hi, Bobby. No, but I do need a favor. Do you have an office we can talk in?”

If he was surprised at my request, he didn't show it. “Sure. Come on.”

We ended up in a utilitarian office (I use the term “office” loosely) with mustard yellow walls and a green carpet. The only things in it were two chairs and a gray metal desk with some papers and a computer on it. I sat on one of the uncomfortable, barely padded metal chairs. Maybe they were designed to be uncomfortable so people would be inclined to hurry up and sign for their cars just so they could get up from the chair.

“If you don't want a car, why are you here? I'll give you a good trade on your Prius. I saw you eyeing the Mustang.” He winked at me. “Want to take a ride? I'm sure you want our discussion to remain private.”

My first impulse was to say no, but I decided if I sat in this depressing excuse for a room for any length of time, I'd become depressed myself. Maudlin, at the very least. “That's a good idea. Grab the keys and let's go.”

A few seconds later, I was behind the wheel of the Mustang. Black with a black interior. I breathed deeply. I love the smell of a brand-new car. I eyed my Prius a few feet away and felt a twinge of guilt for looking at another car. Like I was cheating. I turned the key and the V8 engine rumbled to life. Bobby Crandall was no idiot. He probably figured that right now I was thinking about how to trade in the Prius, get the Mustang, and keep my car payment the same. He'd be right.

“Take Dublin and we'll come back on Miller,” he instructed.

I nodded and pulled out of the dealership's driveway. I knew exactly where he wanted me to go. I cracked the window and let in the cold air. I was smitten already. Totally in love. (With the Mustang. Not Bobby.)

“What did you need to talk to me about?”

I kept my eyes on the road. “You did a story about Bread and Batter and the fact that one of our doughnuts and a T-shirt were used to . . . um . . . kill Calista. Well, the doughnut was used, allegedly; I don't know why she was strangled with the T-shirt, since she was already dead.”

“Yep. I did. It was really popular, I got lots of great emails on it. Do you have a problem with something I wrote? I wrote it in a positive light as far as Bread and Batter is concerned.”

“No, Bobby, not at all. I read it. You did a great job. I need you to do another article.”

“You do? Another one on Bread and Batter?”

I shook my head. “Trey Hamilton is a major suspect in Calista's murder.”

“He is? I haven't heard that. That new detective said he's still interviewing people and processing the crime scene.”

“Maybe not a major suspect,” I said, backpedaling, “but the detective has talked to him.”

“He had to talk to him. Trey's the one who found her and called the police. Why would he call the police if he killed her? Wouldn't that be stupid? I think Blake Ellsworth's the killer. Everyone does.”

Obviously, Bobby wasn't the
Law & Order
aficionado I am. “So I've heard. But I don't think Blake is the biggest suspect right now. Trey made claims he can prove that the Calista Sugar Pink was really on his land, which had allegedly been stolen from his family way back when, meaning the new apple would really belong to him.

“I want you to interview him and find out what proof he has. Don't let him point you to an article from the eighteen hundreds, either. I don't want accusations, I want proof.”

“What article from the eighteen hundreds?”

I rolled up to a stop at a stop sign. We were surrounded by hibernating cornfields. I shifted to park. “I found an article from back then about Calista's ancestors being accused of paying off the town surveyor, who was related to them in some distant fashion, to map two acres of Hamilton land as Danforth land. I need to see if it's true.”

“Why?”

There was no one coming up behind me, so I stayed put and tried to put my thoughts together. “If he does have proof, that means he might be the murderer. How can you sleep knowing there's a killer among us? It's our duty as citizens to help the police. Detective Corsino needs our help.”

He looked at me dubiously. “I don't think he needs our help. I've heard him on the news. He sounds like he's got everything under control. He's from New York; I'm sure he's got a lot of experience. Why would he need us?”

Bobby was proving to be a harder sell than I had originally expected. I tried a different tactic. “Tell Trey you want to do a human interest story on him. Ask him what he was talking about when he told the Jandellas he had proof the Calista Sugar Pink belonged to him.

“Your research for the article could help me . . . I mean Detective Corsino, either clear Trey's name or nail him as the murderer. You could uncover something the detective missed. You could be hailed as a hero.”

Bobby frowned. “I don't know. Suppose Trey is the killer? I don't want to rile him up.”

“You don't have to rile him up.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. No cars yet. “Be sympathetic. Listen to him. Even if he is the killer, if he knows you're on his side, he won't murder you.”

He made a face at me. “Gee, Molly, thanks for the reassurance. I don't know. Why are you so interested in this? Can't you just leave it to the police?”

“There are things I can't tell you, Bobby.” I thought it best to leave it like that instead of going into too many details.

His eyes grew large. “Molly, are you working undercover? Don't tell me you're with the FBI or something, and the
bakery is just a front. Is Olivia an agent, too?”

“No, I'm not working undercover,” I replied. “Neither is Olivia.”

“You are! I can tell by the look on your face. You might want to work on being less transparent. Don't worry, I won't say a word.” He winked at me. “Your secret is safe. Tell Olivia I won't say anything about her being with the FBI, either.”

“Bobby, we are not with the FBI, or any other law enforcement organization.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” He gave another exaggerated wink. “If you say so. I still won't tell anyone. You have my word.”

Oh, brother. “Thank you.” I'd make Bobby understand the truth once this was all behind us. “One other thing. I don't want you to actually print the story.”

He frowned as he stared at me. “Let me get this straight. You want me to waste my time getting Trey to talk to me, telling him I'm doing a human interest story, getting the story, and then not print the story?”

“You got it.”

“I can't do that.”

I frowned at him. “Why not?”

“It's not ethical.”

I burst out laughing before I could stop myself. “Ethical? You're a car salesman. You're worried about ethics?”

Bobby looked chagrined, then angry. “I happen to love my job, Molly. I believe in the cars I'm selling. It's a myth that all car dealers are ruthless hustlers. I respect my customers and resent what you just said. I could be missing making sales right now.”

I felt instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, Bobby. You're right. I shouldn't have said that. Please, accept my apology.”

“Accepted. I still don't think I want to pretend to do a story. What do I say when Trey asks where it is?”

“Tell him your editor cut it due to space constraints. Then bring the story to me.” I let him think it over as I looked over the various gauges and played with the display screen.

“All right. I'll do it. But only because you and Olivia are with the FBI.”

“We are not with. . . . Never mind. Thanks, Bobby.” I reached in the back and pulled my purse to the front. I dug until I found a pen, then a piece of paper, so I could rip off a piece. I scribbled my name and number. “Call me when the story's ready.”