Death of a Crabby Cook (18 page)

“No . . . I came in through the back door and headed for the kitchen. That's when someone pulled that cloth bag over
my
head. I tried to wrestle with him but I couldn't see. He knocked me down and bound me with that tape and shoved me into the closet.”

“At least he didn't hurt Basil,” Aunt Abby said. She headed for the kitchen, Basil at her feet. “I think we could all use a glass of wine.”

When we got there, I noticed a recipe card lying on the floor near where I'd found Aunt Abby. It must have blown off the counter at some point. I bent down and picked it up, flipped it over, and read the words scrawled in black marker.

“Remember the rat? Next time it'll be you.”

“Oh dear God!” Aunt Abby said, spotting the message in my hand. She looked up at me.

Dillon blinked, then ran to his bedroom. He returned moments later, looking relieved. “Ratty's fine.”

I shook my head. This was all my fault. If I hadn't been sticking my nose into these murders, Aunt Abby and Dillon wouldn't have been attacked. And if I hadn't dawdled so long in the parking lot with Jake or at the restaurant with Livvy, I might have been here in time to deal with the intruder. I could feel tears forming and blinked several times to keep them at bay.

“What's taking Jake so long?” I said to myself.

“You called Jake?” my aunt Abby asked.

“Yes,” I said. “After I got your phone call. I was worried. I couldn't get through to the police, so I asked him to come.”

Aunt Abby looked puzzled. “What phone call?”

“The one you made about thirty minutes ago. You didn't say anything when I answered and when I called back, you still didn't answer, so I had a feeling you were in trouble.”

“I didn't make any phone call,” my aunt said. “Not after I talked to Dillon and he told me he was headed home.”

“But you had to have made that call,” I said. “Who else would it have been?”

Aunt Abby ran into the kitchen. I followed her and found her digging through her purse.

“What is it, Aunt Abby?” I asked.

“My cell phone,” she answered, withdrawing her hand from her purse. “It was in here.”

“Uh-oh,” Dillon said. He reached into his pockets. His
hands came out empty. “My phone's gone too. Whoever attacked us took our cell phones.”

I shuddered. Why would someone do that?

Where had that call—the one I thought was from Aunt Abby—actually come from?

And who had made it?

The doorbell rang, startling all of us. Basil barked. I jumped. Aunt Abby let out a little scream. And Dillon ran back to the closet, got in, and closed the door.

“That's Jake!” I said, rushing out of the room. At least I hoped it was Jake, I thought as I neared the front door. I slowed down and switched on the hall light, calling out, “Who's there?”

“It's me. Are you all right?”

I looked through the peephole and was relieved to find it was indeed Jake. I yanked open the door and pulled him inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Basil wagged his tail.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Jake said, eyeing me. He took me in his arms—and I let him. It felt good to be held.

“Thank God you're here! Someone broke into the house. . . .” I led him into the kitchen, where Aunt Abby was waiting with the large knife in her hand.

“It's okay, Aunt Abby. You can put the knife down.”

Aunt Abby lowered the weapon and set it on the island counter, then plopped onto a stool, looking exhausted.

“Dillon!” I called. “You can come out now. It's just Jake.”

The closet door creaked open. An eyeball appeared in the crack. The eyeball scanned the area; then the door opened the rest of the way and out stepped Dillon.

“What's going on?” Jake asked, glancing around at the three of us.

I explained what I'd found when I'd arrived and showed him the note. Aunt Abby filled in the rest of the details. Dillon said nothing. Instead he helped himself to some leftover snickerdoodles Aunt Abby had brought home from her food bus.

“You called the cops, I assume,” he said to me.

“I tried, but all I got was a recorded message, so I gave up. That's why I called you.”

Jake pulled out his cell phone. I figured he was going to call 9-1-1, but he withdrew a business card from another pocket and tapped in a seven-digit number.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

He didn't answer me. Instead, he said into the phone, “Yeah, Detective Shelton? This is Jake Miller. I'm . . . friends with Abigail Warner. . . .”

He paused, listening, then continued. “Right. I'm over at Mrs. Warner's house. Someone broke into her place a while ago and tied her up and threatened her. Can you send somebody over?”

I watched Jake's face as he listened to the detective, trying to read his reaction to Shelton's response, but other than the tight eyebrows, Jake's expression masked his emotions.

As soon as he hung up the phone, I asked, “What did he say?”

“He's coming over with a couple of crime techs. Said to stay put, keep the doors locked, and not touch anything.”

Dillon swallowed the bite of cookie in his mouth, nearly choking on it, before managing to say, “I'm outta here.” He mumbled something more through the remaining crumbs, but I couldn't make out his words.

Jake shot him a look. “Shelton's going to know you were here, Dillon. You're part of this. You can't go running off again.”

“Oh no?” Dillon said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Watch me.”

“Dillon!” Aunt Abby cried. “What should I tell Detective Shelton?”

“Tell him I was here, but then I left and you don't know where I went,” Dillon said. “Tell him I'm doing my own investigation since they obviously can't seem to solve these murders and want to pin it on you and me. Tell him to go—”

“Dillon! Watch your language,” Aunt Abby said. In spite of everything that had happened, my aunt still believed in good manners, even from her grown son.

“Later, dudes,” Dillon said. He gathered a handful of snickerdoodles, stuffed them in his jacket pockets, and ducked out the back door. I heard his little motor scooter buzz off into the night.

Aunt Abby glanced at me, then Jake. She threw up her hands in defeat. “Don't look at me like that. I tried. He had no choice. They have a warrant for him.”

Jake and I said nothing, but we both understood. The only problem was, when we eventually told the detective what had happened—including the part about Dillon—would we be accused of aiding and abetting a wanted criminal?

Aunt Abby prepared some coffee and arranged the
remaining snickerdoodles on a fancy plate. Jake looked around the room for clues about the intruder, being careful not to touch anything. I sat on a stool, pulled out my notebook, and jotted down what had happened.

Ten minutes later there was a loud knock on the front door. Basil ran to the door and barked loudly.

“That was quick,” Aunt Abby said. She checked her lipstick in the toaster reflection, fluffed her curly hair, and said, “I'll get it.”

I didn't want her to answer the door alone in case it wasn't the detective, so I followed her. Jake was right behind us. Aunt Abby peeked through the peephole, then turned to us and said, “Remember, we don't know where Dillon is.” With a last tug at her jersey top in an attempt to straighten it, she opened the door to Detective Shelton and two officers wearing white overalls and latex gloves.

I felt like part of a welcoming committee, standing there with Jake and my aunt.

“Oh, Detective Shelton!” Aunt Abby said. “I'm so glad you're here. It was horrible!”

For a moment there, I thought she was going to throw herself into the detective's arms.

And then it dawned on me. My aunt actually had a crush on Detective Shelton!

“Ms. Warner,” the detective said, nodding in respect. “Ms. Burnett. Counselor,” he said to me and Jake.

Jake started to say something but then just shut his mouth.

“Come in, come in,” Aunt Abby said, opening the door wider. Once the cops were inside the entryway, she led them to the kitchen, where the plate of
snickerdoodles sat on the island counter waiting for them. “Would you like some coffee? I just made it. And these snickerdoodles are homemade. My secret ingredient is nutmeg.”

I stared at my aunt. She was blathering on as if these guys were party guests instead of police officers.

“No, thanks,” Detective Shelton said curtly. He turned to the crime techs. “Look around, guys. See what you can find.”

The two men immediately went to work, taking notes, snapping pictures, and examining the duct tape that had bound my aunt and nephew, along with the flour sacks.

The detective sat down on a stool at the counter and pulled out his notebook. “All right, Ms. Warner, tell me exactly what happened.”

Aunt Abby poured coffee and brought the cups to the island counter. She set one near the detective and kept the other, then took a seat. Jake and I remained standing—and coffeeless—nearby.

“Well, I was in the kitchen,” she began, “testing a new recipe for a seafood casserole made with crab instead of tuna—my secret ingredient. Anyway. I thought I heard Di . . . Someone come in the back door. I'd left it unlocked in case, uh, Darcy came home and forgot her key. Anyway. I called out and no one answered, so I kept working, and that's when someone came up from behind me and pulled that bag over my head.”

“Did you get a look at him?” the detective asked. “Male or female? Height? Hair color? Anything?”

Aunt Abby shook her head and nudged the plate of cookies closer to the detective. “Like I said, whoever it was surprised me from behind, so I never saw him. I was
so startled and disoriented. Before I could think straight, he grabbed my wrists and taped them behind me and jerked me over to that kitchen chair there and taped up my ankles.”

She pointed to a chair at the small kitchen table located in the nearby nook. The detective looked at it, then nodded to one of the officers, indicating he wanted it checked out. Unfortunately, I had righted the chair after freeing my aunt. Hopefully any fingerprints the suspect might have left weren't smeared by my own hands.

The detective jotted down a note. “Then what?”

“Well,” Aunt Abby continued, “after he tied me to the chair, naturally I started screaming. So he lifted up the bag partway and taped my mouth shut.” The scrap of tape still lay on the floor where I'd dropped it after removing it from my aunt's mouth.

The detective continued his questioning. “Did the intruder say anything to you? Threaten you? Tell you to be quiet? Anything like that?”

“No, nothing. Not a word. At one point I heard him walk away and I thought he was leaving, but he must have heard Dillon—” Aunt Abby clapped a hand over her mouth. Did she really expect to keep Dillon's presence a secret from the detective?

“Your son was here?” the detective asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“It's all right, Aunt Abby,” I said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You have to tell him everything. It's obvious you weren't the only one attacked.” I turned to the detective. “Yes, Dillon was here. He . . . happened to arrive soon after the intruder broke in. But the attacker surprised him too.”

“Where is your son now, Ms. Warner?” the detective asked, looking around.

Jake answered for my aunt. “I'm afraid he's gone, Detective.”

Detective Shelton frowned as he turned to Aunt Abby. “Any idea where he is?”

We all shook our heads.

The detective sighed. “All right, why don't you tell me what happened next, Ms. Warner?”

Jake and I shared a quick glance.

“Well,” she continued, “like Darcy said, Dillon happened to drop by out of the blue. I would have told him you were looking for him, Detective, but at that moment, I couldn't say anything because my mouth was taped shut. Anyway, the guy did the same thing to Dillon—put a bag over his head, tied him up, and shut him in the hall closet.”

The detective alerted one of the techs, nodding toward the closet.

“Did he take anything? Did he hurt you in any way?” Detective Shelton asked.

“I don't think he stole anything, but he left this note. Darcy found it on the floor.” She handed over the message written in black marker:
“Remember the rat? Next time it'll be you.”
She shivered.

“I think that note was meant for me, Detective,” I said. “He probably thinks I live here. I'm just glad he didn't harm my aunt or Dillon.”

“What's the reference to the rat?” the detective asked.

“Dillon has a pet rat. I think he was referring to that.”

“And why do you think he's after you, Ms. Burnett?”

I dug into my purse and pulled out the note that had been left on my windshield earlier, then handed it to the detective. “Because of this.”

He held it by the corner and unfolded it with his pen. If he was trying to save any fingerprints, it was probably too late for that. He read the note aloud: “
Mind your own business or you might find a little rodent meat in your next potpie.”

“Why didn't you call me about this?” Detective Shelton asked.

“I was going to . . . but I got distracted.”

The detective shook his head. “Why do you think he threatened you?”

“Isn't it obvious, Detective?” Jake said. “Because she's trying to save her aunt and her nephew by solving these murders.”

Detective Shelton looked at Jake. “And what is your role in all of this?”

“I told you, he's helping us,” I answered for him. “Besides, he's right. I found out something that might be connected to the murder of Boris Obregar.”

The detective eyed me. “Like what?”

“I think Boris was part of some illegal business.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I followed that guy from the Meat Wagon—Tripp—and found out he's printing up all kinds of documents in an old abandoned warehouse. I think he heard my phone ring and figured out I was spying on him, so he put that note on my windshield to scare me off. And to make sure I got the message, he came to Aunt Abby's and threatened her.”

The detective clicked his pen. “Anything else?”

“Aren't you going to arrest Tripp?” I asked, surprised at his nonchalant response.

“We'll check him out,” he said, rising from the stool.

“But look what he did to my aunt! She could have been killed!”

“We don't know it was him yet,” Detective Shelton said. “I'll know more when my guys get this stuff back to forensics. Meanwhile, lock your doors and quit following possible murder suspects to empty warehouses. Leave that to us.”

I was too stunned to reply.

“Oh, and one more thing,” the detective said to Aunt Abby. “You mentioned your son was here but you said you don't know where he went?”

Aunt Abby looked at the plate of cookies. “That's right. He took off without telling us where he was going.”

The detective had the hint of a smile on his face. I knew he knew she knew.

“When you see him again, tell him I want to talk to him. The longer he stays hidden, the harder it's going to be for him.”

Aunt Abby bit her lip. “Oh! I almost forgot. The intruder took our cell phones! Maybe you can you trace them and find out where he is?”

“You mean track them,” the detective corrected her. “Have you installed any antitheft apps on it?”

“No,” Aunt Abby said.

I had a feeling Dillon hadn't either, since he didn't want to take the chance of someone finding him through his cell phone.

“You might be able to find it through your GPS,” the
detective said, “unless it's an old phone or it's been disabled or it's turned off. You could also try the Find My iPhone app using a friend's phone. That sometimes works. But again, if the thief is tech savvy, he can make it hard to find.”

Finding Aunt Abby and Dillon's phones was just another piece of the puzzle. The thief had used my aunt's phone to lure me to the house, where Aunt Abby and Dillon were tied up, so it had probably served its purpose.

But that led to the question: If it was me the intruder was after, why had he left before I'd arrived?