Pumpkin Roll (30 page)

“Um,” Sadie wasn’t sure how to answer that.

Gayle saved her. “You’re in the paper, sweetheart. I think you’d better stop leaving town.”

If only being
in
town wasn’t just as uncomfortable. “I know,” Sadie said for the sake of manners and time, though she had hoped the
Denver Post
wouldn’t have anything about her yet. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a hurry and need some information.”

“Okay,” Gayle said, not sounding offended; she was such a good friend. “What can I help you with?”

“Remember when Darrin used to train those hunting dogs?”

“Darn flea bags,” Gayle said, and Sadie could picture her shuddering at the reminder. It was a testament to a mother’s love that she’d allowed one dog, let alone the eight Darrin had at one time.

“He used a whistle to train them, right?”

“Yeah,” Gayle said. “It was downright creepy the way he’d blow into that silver straw and the dogs would stop in their tracks.”

“Aren’t there dog whistles that actually cause pain to the dogs?”

“Sure,” Gayle said. “But Darrin never used those. They’re illegal in some states, and you don’t really need them except in extreme behavioral issues, which we never had. Why are you asking about dog whistles?”

“Long story,” Sadie said. “But you’ve never seen anyone use that kind of whistle then—the mean ones?”

“No,” Gayle said.

“I’m wondering if that kind of whistle could make a dog go kind of nuts—you know, act all weird and not obey commands, things like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Gayle said. “I don’t know.”

“Would Darrin know?” Last Sadie had heard, he was still raising hunting dogs down in Durango. His full-time job was as an investment banker; the dogs were more of a hobby.

“I’m sure he would,” Gayle said. “Would you like his number?”

Sadie had reached the front porch of the house and paused to dig the key out of her pocket. “Actually, could you call him and ask, then call me back? I’ve got a whole list of other things I need to do.”

“You betcha,” Gayle said. She loved to be involved; heck, she’d probably come to Boston if Sadie asked.

Holding the phone with one hand, Sadie fumbled with the key only to realize the door was unlocked. Again. It wasn’t pulled all the way closed either. Sadie stared at it as a familiar cold chill rushed down her spine.

“Sadie?” Gayle said on the phone.

“Thanks,” Sadie said, distracted from the phone call as she stood on the porch, the memory of locking the door when she left distinct in her mind. “I appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Gayle said. “I’ll call you after I talk to Darrin.”

Sadie slid the phone back into her pocket before reaching out and pushing on the door. It swung open easily on its hinges, and she took in the details as she stepped inside. Everything looked fine until she reached the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks. Every cupboard was open and every drawer pulled out. The kitchen chairs, which had been around the table when she left, were pushed up against the counter, seats facing in. That stupid gauzy ghost she’d ripped off the front door and stuffed behind the couch was hanging from the curtain rod on the back door. Chills crept up her back as she took it all in.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said out loud as she calculated how long she’d been gone. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. She remained very still and considered what this latest event told her. Mrs. Wapple hadn’t done it— she was in the hospital. She hadn’t done last night’s door slamming either. Sadie crossed her off the list. Mr. Forsberk, who had only recently become a consideration, couldn’t have done this either—she’d been standing in his living room talking to him about his dog. That left Gabrielle, but what would she be trying to scare Sadie away from now?

“Knock, knock,” she heard from behind her. She turned in time to see Jane step over the threshold of the open front door. Her hair was spiked to perfection, her face was bright, her mood elevated, and her eyes eager. “Okay, Sadie, Sadie, detective lady, where do we start?”

Chapter 26

Jane,” Sadie said. “Um, I didn’t expect you.”

“You need to get over your issues with asking for help,” she said, stopping between the kitchen and living room, where she leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see the cupboards and drawers from where she was, and Sadie debated whether to find a way to keep her in the living room or let her come all the way into the kitchen. Sadie felt like she was back to square one, at least in regard to the strange things happening at the house.

“And we need to bang this out, right?” Jane said.

“Bang what out?” Sadie asked.

“Solving the mystery. We need to find whoever’s behind all this, clear your name, and stamp a big ol’
solved
on this case.”

“That would be nice,” Sadie said, accepting the fact that Jane was here and there was no way to shake her. But was that really such a bad thing? “How did you know where I was?”

“It’s nine thirty in the morning—where else would you be? Where are Pete and the kids?”

That’s right, Jane didn’t know they’d left last night. “Distracted,” Sadie answered. “I’m on my own with this.”

“Well, not on your own, per se,” Jane said, grinning broadly. “You’ve got me. I knew you’d pick up the scent, though, so it’s a good thing I showed up, right?”

Sadie couldn’t help but smile back, impressed despite herself with how determined Jane was to be a part of this and how certain she was that Sadie wouldn’t be able to let it rest. Sadie thought back to how she’d tried to leave Jane out in Portland and what Shawn had said about Jane looking up to her. Sadie decided to stop being so hard on Jane. And, the fact was, Sadie didn’t know where to go from here. Without Pete to bounce her ideas off of, she could really use a partner on this.

“I don’t think I could let it go even if I wanted to. It’s apparently what I do now.”

Jane nodded in agreement. “So, where do we start?” she asked, clapping her hands and rubbing them together.

Sadie looked into the kitchen. “Well, you better have a look at this.” She walked to the front of the table and Jane followed her into the kitchen, stopping in almost the same place Sadie had been.

“Whoa,” she said with a laugh, looking around. “It’s like something straight out of the
Sixth Sense.
”

“The sixth what?”

“A movie, came out in the late 90s—one of Shyamalan’s thrillers. You had to have seen it. Bruce Willis? ‘I see dead people’?”

“I prefer musicals,” Sadie said, looking at the cupboards again. “Not ghost stories.”

“‘Well, you best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner— you’re in one.’”

Sadie recognized the line from
Pirates of the Caribbean. S
he’d seen every movie Johnny Depp had ever made—even
Edward Scissorhands.
What could she say, she had a vice. “It can’t be ghosts,” Sadie said, but even she heard the plea in her tone. Was she starting to fall for this? She shook her head; it was ridiculous.

She stepped forward and started putting the chairs back around the table. Jane stepped in and helped close the drawers and cabinets.

“I’m not ready to go that direction,” Sadie said. “And I need to clean up the kitchen so if you want to sit, I’ll keep my hands busy and fill you in on the details.”

“Oh, do tell,” Jane said before collapsing in a kitchen chair and putting her feet up on the table, ankles crossed.

“No shoes on the table,” Sadie said automatically. Jane did as she was told, and Sadie pushed up her sleeves and then told Jane what had happened while she chipped petrified beans out of the slow cooker and mourned the dried-out, over-risen cinnamon twists. Hopefully the whoopie pies she planned to make would work out a little better; she’d certainly be more vigilant this time.

By the time she’d told Jane the whole story, she had the kitchen straightened and the ingredients for the whoopie pies set out on the counter. She’d experimented with traditional recipes for whoopie pies after her last trip to Boston; the kids had loved the filled cakes that were as big as the palm of their hands. Once home, she’d been disappointed with her attempts to replicate the treats until she broke one of her cardinal baking rules and used a cake mix-based recipe. It turned out to be the winner, making perfectly moist yet dense cakes that supported the thick cream filling perfectly and simple enough that Sadie didn’t need to reference her Little Black Recipe Book, currently at the hotel. Lucky for Sadie, Heather was well-stocked on cake mixes and had everything else she needed for the traditional Amish dessert Sadie felt would only improve her chances of getting information from Pennsylvanian-born Mr. Forsberk. Perhaps the sugar content combined with the invitation of nostalgic feelings of his youth would help him trust her with whatever he was holding back.

“Okay then,” Jane said when Sadie finished explaining. She didn’t ask about the baking paraphernalia arranged on the counter. “Where do we start?”

“Well,” Sadie said as she ripped open the cake mix box and pulled out the plastic interior bag so that she could cut the corner rather than tear it, which was high risk for inferior pourability. “Shawn has found some landlord information from Mrs. Wapple’s former residence. I told him I didn’t need it, but now I think it would be a good idea to get a more full-bodied view of the family. The landlord might have some important details.”

“Agreed,” Jane said with a nod. “What else?”

Sadie poured the cake mix into a mixing bowl and added the pudding mix, water, eggs, and oil. “Mr. Forsberk, the guy with the dead dog, was poking around outside last night. I already talked to him, but he’s not giving up his reasons easily—hence the whoopie pies. He used to work at Radio Shack, and yesterday was the two-week anniversary of his dog’s death, which he believes was caused by a spell cast by Mrs. Wapple.”

“The plot thickens,” Jane said, her grin betraying how intrigued she was.

“Like roux in a soup,” Sadie said. She turned on the hand mixer, so they didn’t talk for the next two minutes as she whipped the ingredients into a thick batter. It was important to mix cake mixes according to the directions in order to ensure positive results, and since this one said to mix it for two minutes, that’s exactly what Sadie did. While it mixed, Sadie realized that Heather would be home soon. She looked at the clock and frowned. It was 10:10. If Heather’s flight landed at 11:14 and Pete had to be to the Jamaica Plain police department by noon then Heather would be home in just over an hour. Sadie turned up the speed of the mixer. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Heather, but she felt horrible about what had happened and didn’t know how to explain it. It would be nice to put off the potentially negative confrontation until she was more prepared.

“Anything else?” Jane asked as soon as Sadie shut off the mixer. “Anyone else we should dig into?”

Sadie immediately thought of Pete. Even though she’d been trying not to think about it, it was forefront in her mind. Telling Jane was out of the question, but the information weighed heavily on Sadie. There was a connection between Mr. Nutson’s case and this one . . . somewhere. Could she find it without Jane’s help?

“Sadie?”

Sadie looked at Jane, realizing she’d drifted away from their conversation. “Oh, sorry. I think that’s about it—just Gabrielle and Mr. Forsberk.”

“You’re sure there isn’t anyone else that should be a person of interest in this case? We may as well dig up all the answers.”

Sadie looked away, not liking the intent look on Jane’s face or the way it triggered Sadie’s guilt at withholding information. “That’s everyone,” she said, pulling out a cookie sheet to bake the little round cakes on. She hoped Jane wouldn’t keep pushing; her determination to keep what she knew to herself was fragile.

“I used to date a guy who worked at Radio Shack,” Jane said from the table while Sadie’s back was still toward her. “I bet I could sweet-talk him into digging up some info for me about Mr. Forsberk.”

“That would be great,” Sadie said, looking over her shoulder to smile at her partner, a smile that had a lot to do with the fact that Jane had stopped tempting Sadie to confess what she knew about Pete. “Your connections are amazing.”