“And why is that?”
“Because of that.” I followed his nod toward the gas station. Paulie Henderson had emerged with a girl, each of them holding packages of mini doughnuts and bottles of chocolate milk. A before-school breakfast. The two of them were getting into her car.
“No!” I said, starting to walk faster, but it was useless. The car had started up and pulled away before I could even get out of the body shop lot.
“I’m sorry,” Brooks said, and something about the way he said it—or maybe the crease in his forehead—made me believe that he really was sorry. But that didn’t make the situation any better. “I’m just doing my job, Hollis, and protecting the investigation. Not to mention Chief Henderson is my boss. And I’m trying to keep you out of his sights, too. He knows you’re after his son. It’s not just your life he can make miserable. It’s mine, too. And I have to work for the guy.”
“Ah,” I said. “So this is about you.”
“It’s about letting the chief do his job.”
“It’s also about letting me do mine.” I didn’t wait for him to respond—just walked to my car, not even bothering to look at him again until he was in my rearview mirror.
Chapter 14
“Welcome to the Knock ’em Dead podcast.”
“Where murder and muffins meet!”
“I’m Hollis.”
“And I’ve got cake,” Daisy said. “To celebrate!”
I eyeballed her. “What are we celebrating?”
She thought about it for a second, then brightened. “Cake! We’re celebrating cake.”
“So we’re having cake to celebrate having cake.”
She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Can you think of a better reason?”
Actually, no, I couldn’t. And the cake was gorgeous. Bright yellow, cooked in an embellished mold, shiny with glaze, dusted with powdered sugar, and smelling sugary and warm, like sunshine on a platter. My mouth watered. “Well, slice her up, then.”
She pulled out a knife and a couple of plates and began cutting the cake. “Speaking of slicing, do you have any murders for us?”
“Yes, but not the sliced kind. More like the poisoned kind. You ever hear of Jane Stanford?”
We were getting much better at this. Smoother. We still didn’t sound like reporters, exactly, but I was proud of our progress. In fact, it may have been a good thing that we didn’t sound like reporters. We were conversational. And at least we could get through our opener without debate now.
“Like, Stanford University?” she asked.
“Yep. Jane Stanford’s death was most definitely a poisoning, but after a jury ruled it that way, another doctor came in, did an autopsy, and had the official cause of death changed to heart attack. But there was definitely strychnine in her system, and someone had tried to poison her just a few weeks before, so it was clearly a poisoning, not a heart attack. So did someone pay off the doctor to lie? Who killed Jane Stanford and why has remained a mystery ever since.”
“Whoa,” Daisy said. “I had no idea. Who do you think did it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There was only one person who was with her both times.”
“Mmm-hmm, the husband. It’s always the husband.” Instinctively, we both leaned over to look out my front window. Mike and his buddies were running around inside giant inflatable balls, smashing into each other and knocking each other over.
“What exactly is he doing?” I whispered.
“They’re calling it life-sized soccer, but it looks more like demolition derby to me. Just as long as nobody gets hurt, I don’t care. They can knock themselves silly. Probably wouldn’t be able to tell much difference, especially with Spencer.” She leaned toward the mic. “Cut that, just in case he listens.”
“You sure you don’t want to be the technical department?”
Her eyes grew round. “Cake?” She pushed a plate at me. The inside looked even better than the outside. This was Daisy’s entirely effective way of changing the subject.
“Jane Stanford’s husband was already long gone at the time of her death,” I said. “The person who was with her both times was her personal assistant, Bertha Berner. She didn’t have much in the way of motive, but she definitely had the means. I’ll get into a lot more details.”
“Ah,” Daisy said around a mouthful of cake. “When in doubt, go with the personal assistant. It’s always the assistant.”
“I thought you just said it was always the husband.”
“Except when there’s an assistant. Speaking of, when should we talk to Kermit Hoopsick again? I still think he could be the one who murdered Coach Farley.”
“Cut!” I said. “You can’t level an accusation like that on the show. You have to use words like ‘allegedly’ and ‘supposed.’ And tomorrow. I thought we could talk to him tomorrow.”
“Good plan,” she said. “This case is getting cold. We need to warm it up. It’s been a week.” She leaned toward her mic. “Which reminds me, I think it’s time for my baking tip of the week. To make my cakes moist, I use brown sugar instead of white sugar, and I also use sour cream instead of milk, and put in two extra tablespoons of oil. Enjoy!”
I stared at my forkful of cake. “That’s a lot of calories,” I said.
She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “It’s cake. You’re expecting it to be diet friendly?”
“No, but when you spell it all out like that, it makes it seem—”
“Delicious?”
“Well, yes, definitely but—”
My front door opened, making both of us jump. “Daisy?” Mike had stuck his head inside. “We’ve got a situation.”
Daisy yanked off her headphones and tossed them onto the table. “Oh, cheese and crackers, one of the kids got stuck in a bubble, didn’t they?”
He hesitated, seemed to weigh his words. “Yeah. I, uh—can’t get him out.”
We both leaned forward again, to see Lucas’s feet wriggling excitedly in the air out of the top of an inflatable bubble, and Mudd, Ed, and Spencer standing by his
