The Christmas Cookie Killer (30 page)

“Is this . . . What was the name Mom said? Jimmy Crowe?”

Sam shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t know. I never laid eyes on the fella before.”

More voices sounded nearby. A couple of uniformed offi-

cers carrying flashlights came into the alley from the backyard of the Simmons house, followed by Phyllis, Carolyn, and Eve.

With all those lights, the alley was brightly illuminated. Phyllis hurried over to Mike, who holstered his gun. He identified himself to the Weatherford officers and told them briefly what had happened. They hauled the suspect to his feet, and one of them said, “We’ll find out who he is. Don’t go anywhere, Deputy.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mike assured them. “I’ll be

around.” Then he turned to his mother, who hugged him

tightly.

“Are you all right?” Phyllis asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Banged up a little, but it’s nothing to worry about . . . thanks to Mr. Fletcher. I wouldn’t have caught the guy without his help.”

Phyllis let go of Mike and turned to Sam, hugging him, too.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

244 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Sam looked embarrassed as he said, “All I did was wallop

the fella with a garbage can.”

Mike extended a hand. “Well, I appreciate it.”

“So do I,” Phyllis said as Mike and Sam shook hands.

Then Mike nodded toward the street and said, “Let’s go talk to the officers. And Mom . . . I want to hear all about Jimmy Crowe.”

Detective Isabel Largo didn’t seem too happy about being taken away from her family on Christmas Eve, and Phyllis couldn’t blame her for that. She listened patiently as Phyllis explained for the third time about Jimmy Crowe and his connection to the case. She had already told Mike all about it, and then the two officers who had Crowe in custody in the backseat of their car.

Crowe had had his driver’s license on him, so he hadn’t bothered trying to deny who he was.

Phyllis felt a little like she was betraying the confidence of Frank Simmons and Juliette Yorke, but now that Crowe’s involvement was out in the open, she didn’t see any point in keeping what she knew a secret. Anyway, it was all hearsay. Detective Largo would have to confirm everything with Randall. What was more important, at least in the short run, was that the police would now have to consider Crowe a suspect in Agnes’s murder.

He had broken into the house once—tonight, through the rear door—and he certainly could have done it before that, like on the previous Saturday, when Agnes was killed.

The problem, Phyllis thought, was that Crowe really had no connection to the thing she had figured out earlier this evening.

She still didn’t know how
that
fit in, if indeed it did.

But maybe Crowe would confess to killing Agnes, and all of that would be moot. Phyllis hoped it would turn out that way.

When Phyllis was through telling Detective Largo what she THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
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knew, the woman closed her notebook and stood up. “I’ll go talk to Crowe now,” she said. She gave Phyllis a stern look and added,

“You really should have come to me and told me about this before now.”

“I didn’t know if any of it was even true,” Phyllis said.

“Neither do I . . . but I plan on finding out.”

When Detective Largo had left the house, Phyllis looked

over at Mike and asked, “Did I really do wrong?”

“Well . . . you should have told me about it, anyway.”

“I was afraid the information might wind up hurting Ran-

dall, and I was already convinced that he didn’t kill Agnes. Besides, I don’t like to betray confidences.” Phyllis paused. “Will this make the police consider Crowe a suspect in Agnes’s murder, or will they just use it to make their case against Randall stronger?”

Mike shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. That’ll be up to Detective Largo and Chief Whitmire and the district attorney, I suppose. I’ll say this, though . . . After tangling with the guy, I don’t have a big problem with the theory that he might have strangled Miz Simmons.”

There was a major problem with that theory, as Detective

Largo explained when she came back into the house a half hour or so later. “Crowe’s not talking about what happened tonight,”

she said. “He claims he was never inside the house. He doesn’t have a good explanation for what he was doing in the backyard or why he ran, but he’s going to try to brazen his way through that part of it, anyway. I’m hoping we’ll find some fingerprints or other evidence to put him inside the house. When I asked him about last Saturday, however, he was more than willing to talk.”

“Let me guess,” Mike said. “He has an alibi for the time of Mrs. Simmons’s murder.”

246 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Detective Largo nodded. “And a pretty strong one at that.

He was locked up in the Dallas County jail. He was picked up on some outstanding warrants that morning and didn’t bond out until after six o’clock Saturday evening. I called Dallas and checked on that myself, and his story holds up.”

“So he couldn’t have killed Miz Simmons.”

“Not a chance,” Detective Largo said.

Phyllis knew what that old expression about having the wind knocked out of your sails meant. That was exactly the way she felt now. Once Jimmy Crowe had been caught breaking into the Simmons house, she was sure that he would turn out to be guilty of the murder, too. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.

So she was almost back where she had started, with the possibility that either Randall Simmons or someone from the neighborhood had committed the crime.

Except . . .

She knew something now that she hadn’t known before.

She didn’t know what it all meant, mind you. She didn’t even know whether it was connected to Agnes’s murder.

But someone had lied to her, and she wanted to know why.

Until she knew that, she wasn’t going to say anything to Mike or to Detective Largo. The chance that she might ruin an innocent person’s life was too great. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything.

Either way, she was going to find out.

“Well, after all that excitement, sitting and watching a movie on TV is going to seem pretty tame,” Carolyn said after Mike, Detective Largo, and the rest of the police were gone, taking Jimmy Crowe with them. The drug dealer/loan shark/burglar was going to be spending this Christmas in jail.

“Actually, I can’t watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
right now,”

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
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Phyllis said. “There’s something else I have to do. I have to go out for a while.”

Carolyn and Eve stared at her in surprise. “On Christmas

Eve
?” Carolyn asked.

Phyllis nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

“If you need something else for dinner tomorrow, you’re

too late. All the stores will be closed.”

“This isn’t for dinner,” Phyllis said. She looked at Sam.

“Would you mind coming with me?”

“Figured I would,” he replied without hesitation.

“Well, this has just been the
oddest
Christmas Eve ever,”

Eve commented.

Phyllis couldn’t argue with that. She was afraid that the odd part wasn’t over yet, either.

She and Sam got their coats, and as she shrugged into hers, she froze momentarily and then gave a shake of her head. Now that the dam in her brain was broken, more facts were pouring through. Another possible connection between two things she had seen, several days apart, jumped out at her. Again, they might not mean anything, but the coincidences were piling up.

When they did that, chances were that they
weren’t
coincidences at all.

Sam suggested that they take his pickup, and Phyllis agreed.

As they stepped outside, he said, “I figured from the way you looked a while ago, you had some things to think about on the way to wherever we’re goin’, so it’s best I handle the drivin’.”

“Thank you, Sam. You’ve come to know me pretty well,

haven’t you?”

“Well enough to know you’ve figured out who killed Agnes

Simmons,” he said.

“No, not necessarily. But I have some questions that need to be answered.”

248 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“Tonight? On Christmas Eve?”

Phyllis nodded. “I don’t think I could sleep or enjoy Christmas without knowing the truth.”

As Sam started the truck’s engine, he asked, “You reckon

we’d better call Mike and ask him to meet us wherever we’re goin’? I’d hate to ruin the evenin’ for him more than it’s already been ruined, but if we’re goin’ to see a killer . . .”

“I’m sure I’m wrong about everything,” Phyllis said. “There has to be an explanation for the things I saw. I’m not going to ruin someone’s life just because I’m confused about a few things.”

Sam hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I reckon I trust you.

You usually know what you’re doin’.”

Phyllis hoped that Sam’s trust was justified. But more than anything else right now, she hoped that she was just a crazy old woman who had leaped to some false conclusions.

“Look at that,” Sam said as he pointed to a wet spot on the windshield. “It’s finally started to snow.”

As he flicked the headlights on, Phyllis saw that was true.

Big fluffy snowflakes were visible as they swirled down grace-fully through the cones of light.

“Where to?” Sam asked.

“The church,” Phyllis said. “The parsonage, actually.”

Sam looked over at her in surprise and said, “The parsonage?”

Phyllis nodded. “That’s right. I have to ask Dwight about something.”

After a moment, Sam nodded and put the pickup in gear.

They drove off into the lightly falling snow.

It took only a few minutes to reach the church and the parsonage. The office building and the sanctuary were dark, of course, except for the spotlights that illuminated the cross on the front of the church and the manger scene on the lawn, and THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 249

those were set up on timers. Quite a few lights were burning inside the parsonage, however, including strings of brightly colored bulbs on the tree that was visible through the picture window. The curtains were drawn back so that the Christmas tree could be seen from the street.

Sam parked in the driveway. As he and Phyllis got out of the pickup, Phyllis noted that the snow was falling more heavily now, but as Carolyn had predicted, it seemed to be melting as soon as it hit the ground. The temperature just wasn’t quite cold enough for the flakes to freeze. Still, it made a beautiful evening that much lovelier. The snowfall and the Christmas lights and the manger scene all combined to create a tableau that looked like it ought to be on a picture postcard.

But as always, ugliness could be lurking behind beauty. It was wise to never forget that, Phyllis thought, depressing, but wise.

“I hope you know what you’re doin’,” Sam said quietly as

they went up to the door.

“I hope I don’t,” Phyllis said.

Then she rang the doorbell.

She supposed that Dwight and Jada weren’t expecting any

company this late in the evening on Christmas Eve. It took several moments for someone to come to the door. When it finally swung back, Dwight stood there with a puzzled look on his face, peering out at them through the glass of the storm door, which he opened immediately.

“Phyllis, Sam,” he said, “I didn’t expect to see you again until Sunday. What can I do for you?”

“I need to ask you some questions, Dwight,” Phyllis said.

“Sure, come on in—”

“Actually, I was thinking maybe we could talk out here,” she suggested.

That puzzled Dwight even more, if his deepening frown

250 •
LIVIA J. WASHBURN

was any indication of his reaction. “I guess so. Let me get my coat.” He looked past Phyllis and Sam and added, “Hey, it’s snowing.”

“This won’t take long,” Phyllis said.

Dwight closed the storm door and took a step back to get

his coat from the hall closet. Jada must have asked him who was there, because he turned and called loudly enough for them to hear through the glass, “Phyllis Newsom and Sam Fletcher need to talk to me for a minute.”

Phyllis heard Jada’s response. “Them again?”

Dwight didn’t say anything to that. He shrugged into his

coat, stepped outside, and closed both doors behind him. “Now, what’s this about?” he asked, and the faint note of impatience in his voice indicated that even his easygoing nature found this intrusion on Christmas Eve to be a little irritating.

“I just need to know a couple of things,” Phyllis said.

“Shoot.”

“Are you having an affair with Vickie Kimbrough?”

Phyllis had all her attention fixed on Dwight’s face, which she could see plainly in the glow that spilled over from the spotlights on the manger scene, but she assumed that Sam was staring at her in surprise.

Dwight wasn’t. He stiffened, his eyes opening wider, but he didn’t seem terribly shocked by the question.

“What in the world makes you think that?” he asked.

Instead of answering, Phyllis pointed out, “You’re not denying it.”

“Why should I bother denying something so ridiculous? I’m a happily married man.” Definite anger roughened Dwight’s voice as he went on, “I’m Vickie’s pastor, not her lover. Why would you even ask such a question, Phyllis?”

“Earlier today you had a bit of pink fuzz on your coat, a coat THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 251

you hadn’t worn since Monday, you said. On Monday, Vickie was wearing a pink sweater with the same sort of fuzz on it. A piece of it could have easily gotten stuck on your coat if you were, say, hugging her.”

Dwight’s eyes narrowed. “That’s observant of you, but hardly conclusive of anything. There could be dozens of fuzzy pink sweaters in Weatherford. Maybe even hundreds. For all you know, my own wife could have one.”

Phyllis shook her head and said, “With her red hair, Jada would never wear a pink sweater.”

“That still doesn’t mean anything,” Dwight said as he