Murder Takes the Cake

A Sullivan Investigations Mystery

Murder with a Whiskey Chaser

Murder Takes the Cake

Evelyn David

Book Two

Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©2007 Evelyn David

Photo Credit - ©James Steidl at Dreamstime.com

Discover other titles by Evelyn David at http://www.evelyndavid.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Carol and Evelyn Edelman, my remarkable parents, with love and gratitude.

-Marian

For my grandmothers, Minnie Ellen Massey and Betty Yandell Dossett, two of the strongest women I've ever known. In tough times (and they were mostly all tough times) they did the best they could with whatever they had at hand. I can only hope I inherited their determination, perseverance, and generosity of spirit. -Rhonda

Acknowledgements

Murder Takes the Cake was a collaborative effort, and we don't just mean by the two authors. If it were not for the encouragement, support, and generosity of family and friends, this second book in the Sullivan Investigations series would not exist.

Merci beaucoup to Robert Diforio, an exceptional agent. Bob gave us hope at a time when we had very little. He believed in our book and us, and suggested the creation of Evelyn David, the name.

Special thanks go to: Carole Johnson for her help as a beta reader; Marilyn Meredith, Maggie Barbieri, & Susan McBride–our Stiletto Gang sisters; the New York Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America; the CozyArmChair Yahoo internet group; Rhonda's co-workers at the Oklahoma Department of Mines; the dozens of Irish Wolfhound owners who've written us; and the wonderful readers who've supported Evelyn David and the Sullivan Investigations series.

And finally to our families: The Dossetts: David, Betty, and Terry; and The Bordens: John, Charles, Rebecca, Sam, Jessica, Dan, and Maggie, you made the path to this book that much easier to navigate and the satisfaction that much greater to enjoy.

With love and thanks.

Prologue

As usual the newspaper was filled with little of substance, but reading it helped pass the time. It had taken four hours, but the body on the bed was finally unmoving. The label on the box clearly claimed the consumer of the product would eagerly eat their fill, then crawl away to die in some out-of-the-way corner. It hadn't happened that way. The 'no odor' guarantee would be irrelevant under the circumstances.

The nosebleed was unfortunate, but perhaps not unexpected. Not with the aspirin mixed in with the warfarin and the history of stomach ulcers and heart problems. Still, next time maybe a mixture of warfarin and nitroglycerin might be just as effective and raise fewer suspicions. So many choices. It was difficult to balance performance and efficiency. One had to consider both.

For instance most would use scissors to clip the interesting bit from the newspaper, but a finely honed knife was more aesthetically pleasing. The feel of the carved handle, the shine of the steel, made the knife a more attractive choice, even if the blade tore the paper a little. Two sets of parallel slices and the clipping was lifted from the page, then folded and tucked away for future use. Ghosts from the past could always be exorcised.

Chapter 1

Now that's certainly odd. Somebody's got a casket for sale. Doesn't say if it's new or used. Last night I also saw a couple advertised online. Why do you suppose that all these–

Odd or not–should you be here? I thought you had a doctor's appointment. Mac Sullivan started to set the box of Xerox paper he was carrying down on the newly refinished hardwood floor of his office reception area, but thought better of it when he saw his secretary's steely glare.

Julianna Jarrett, aka JJ, stared at him, but continued cutting holes in his newspaper, wielding the large scissors in her hand so fast he stayed a few feet back from her desk. Mac knew she'd accumulated quite a pile of clippings over the last six weeks since Sullivan and Company had solved three murders associated with a nearby college campus. Some of the clippings were about the murders; some were leads on possible detective jobs for the fledgling agency.

The doctor's appointment was yesterday and don't put that box down in here. JJ waved the scissors at him and then pointed towards his office. This room is almost perfect and I don't want a raggedy cardboard box ruining the effect. Put it in the other room for now and I'll shelve the paper in the storage cabinet later.

Mac hid a smile, happy she was recovered enough from her gunshot wound to be back at work and ordering him around. The 'Campus Killer' had almost had four victims instead of three. The bullet had only broken a couple of JJ's ribs, but the young assistant had ended up spending almost a week in the hospital after an infection set in.

I'll unpack the box. I can't afford any more medical bills. He continued talking as he proceeded into the back room that served as his private office. Dropping, the heavy box, he added, You're not supposed to be lifting anything.

That was just until my ribs healed. They're healed.

Still, I'll unpack the paper. He walked back into the reception area. But first I need to pick up Whiskey at the kennel. Do you want me to swing through the Golden Arches on my way back? Whiskey will probably demand a Happy Meal or two anyway for putting up with the grooming.

Sure. But make mine a salad. She grinned. I'll eat Whiskey's fries. They're not good for dogs.

Mac chuckled and headed for the door. Okay, but you'll have to explain that to Whiskey yourself.

Hey, you didn't say anything about the new ceiling fan.

Mac turned and looked up. With its large dark wooden blades and ornate brass hardware, the fixture looked like something right out of Casablanca. He had to admit that JJ had, almost single-handedly and without any cash to speak of, managed to turn his dilapidated office into something striking. Stark white walls, dark wooden floors, black metal furniture that looked better than it had in the 1940s when it was new, and a large green leafy something in the corner by the window. Any moment he expected her to start making him wear a fedora and trench coat.

Almost perfect? He remembered her earlier words and took another glance at the ceiling fan, wondering what was coming next. Twenty-two years old, about five-foot-five with short black hair, and a drill sergeant attitude, JJ was very good at bartering his services for goods and supplies she deemed vital to getting his new office up to her standards. He hadn't minded the missing person's case and the security system analysis jobs he'd done in exchange for paint and refinishing work, but he'd hated the courier job that had provided them with new fixtures for the small bathroom in back. He'd worried the plumber's mob connections meant he was going to be transporting stolen goods or drug money. Instead he'd had to drive a pair of six-year-old twin boys from D.C. to Miami and deliver them safely to the plumber's ex-wife. He'd have been better off being a drug mule. Besides being spoiled, the boys had a tendency to get carsick every 100 miles or so. Even his Irish wolfhound, Whiskey, had been the victim of projectile vomiting back-splash. When he and his four-footed partner had finally dragged themselves and his friend Jeff's 'much worse-for-the-wear' cab back into town, Mac had warned JJ–no more jobs involving anyone under five feet tall. Some work just wasn't dignified enough for an ex-D.C. police detective.

It's November, we don't really need a fan, he protested, hoping to avoid whatever barter she'd committed him to.

JJ gave him an incredulous look, the same kind Whiskey gave him when he drove by her favorite fast food place without stopping.

What am I going to have to do to pay for that fan?

No barter this time. A real detective job. JJ smiled. How do you feel about tracking down some runaway turkeys?

***

So your Thanksgiving dinner is also an engagement party? Rachel balanced the receiver between her head and shoulder while she thumbed through the O'Herlihy funeral home invoices with her left hand and worked the electronic adding machine with her right hand.

We're going to have a more formal party next month. This is sort of a get-to-know the in-laws kind of thing. Bridget is supposed to drive down from Boston tomorrow. Joshua and his parents are going to arrive a day later and stay through Thanksgiving Day.

How many are you cooking for? Rachel continued working as she listened to her boss's wife, Kathleen O'Herlihy, chatter on about her holiday plans and her daughter Bridget's upcoming wedding. Kathleen had invited her to Thanksgiving, but Rachel was holding out hope that her own son, Sam, would change his mind and forgo a skiing trip to Aspen with his new girlfriend to spend the holiday at home with his mom.

Besides my four kids and Jeff, there's the Lasky family–Joshua, his father and new wife, and an uncle. Not sure the uncle is coming. I've also invited Mac Sullivan and JJ Jarrett. Not sure either of those two is coming. JJ gave me a maybe, which has gotten my baby boy Sean talking about new clothes and a haircut, thank God. Mac made some noise that could be taken for a yes, but I think maybe he's upset I asked him to leave Whiskey at home. I can't have an Irish wolfhound wandering around here with all those strangers. And Joshua claims to have this dog allergy.…

So that's twenty. I'm missing four. Damn! Rachel stared at the adding machine tape.

What? I don't think it's that many. Fifteen or sixteen tops. No, wait! You're right. I forgot. The best man may show up, along with a couple of bridesmaids. And I don't care what you say; I'm setting places for you and Sam. I need to buy another turkey and maybe a ham. But the Laskys don't eat ham. Maybe fish. What kind of fish do you think?

Salmon? Kathleen, I wasn't–

That's okay. I know you're busy. Thanks for listening to me. I've got to make another run to the grocery store.

Rachel shook her head, accidently dislodging the phone receiver. It dropped to the desk, clipping the edge of the adding machine as it bounced towards the floor. She grabbed it in mid-air. Wait, Kathleen. I can't come and I didn't mean.…

The sound of a dial tone stopped her from offering an explanation about the headcount. She wasn't commenting on Kathleen's guest list, but on Jeff O'Herlihy's casket inventory. At least four top-of-the-line caskets were missing. Value? She checked her numbers again. About $20,000. Jeff was not going to be happy about the missing caskets or the growing number of guests crowded around his Thanksgiving table.

***

Live turkeys or frozen ones? Mac frowned at JJ. It didn't sound like much of a case. Have I mentioned we should be aiming for jobs that pay actual cash?

Live turkeys. And there's money with this one.

There were a lot of turkeys in the nation's capital, but very few with actual feathers. Live turkeys? Are you sure? In D.C.?

They were the backup team for the guys headed to the White House to get pardons.

Why would someone pay to find them? He laughed. Especially, if they were the second string. My fee would be more than what they are worth.

It's not only turkeys that are missing.

JJ, do you want those fries some time today? Let's hear the whole story, but make it quick.

The turkey farmer's employee, stock truck, and wife are all missing.

And?

And the contents of his savings account–$400,000 and change. He'd just sold some land. Needed the money to invest in some spin-off business.

A turkey spin-off business? What? Gobbles in a Can?

JJ narrowed her eyes and remained silent.

Okay. Missing employee, truck, wife, turkeys, and money. What's our client the most interested in finding?

JJ grinned. The money of course. And the turkeys…but only if you find them before Thanksgiving, which means a rush job. He didn't seem too broken-up about the wife or the truck.

Must have been an old truck. Mac sighed. Okay. We'll do it. Give Edgar a call. He's been wanting to get his hands dirty on a job. He won't admit it, but I think since Elinor's sudden death, he's been lonely. Tell him to interview the farmer, neighbors, anyone who knew the wife, and any acquaintances of the hired hand. He can do it over the phone.

So we're officially taking the case? He's offering a turkey and 5% of whatever we recover.

Yeah, we'll take it. The cash, not the turkey. Something already smells funny.

You're still thinking about the turkeys.

Mac chuckled. Besides them. If you're running off with the boss's wife and a whole lot of money, why bother to haul around a load of smelly birds? Tell Edgar to make sure the two disappearances aren't just a coincidence. And get the farmer to sign a contract.

They both turned as the bells on the office door jingled.

A tall woman with red hair and an even redder leather bomber jacket walked in.

Uncle Mac! Surprise!

Bridget! Mac wasn't too surprised to see his goddaughter. He knew she was coming home this week for the holiday and to work on wedding plans. Plus, Jeff had mentioned the Thanksgiving dinner invitation again to him the day before, trying to get him to humor Kathleen and leave Whiskey at a kennel for the occasion. Now it appeared Bridget had been given the mission. The issue of abandoning his dog for the day aside, he'd really rather stay home with a six-pack of beer, take-out from his favorite pizza place, and a football game on his new flat screen television. Whiskey and I are a team. I'm not leaving her behind even for a plateful of your mother's candied sweet potatoes.

Good to see you too. Bridget gave him a hug. You don't have to come to dinner. I'll eat your share of sweet potatoes. And pumpkin pie. But I do need something from you.

What?

You can't tell my father.

I already don't like the sound of this.

Someone is trying to kill me.

Chapter 2

You mean besides your sister Maura, who swears that jacket you're wearing belongs.… Mac laughed, then sobered as he caught sight of his goddaughter's face. The dark circles under her eyes and pale cheeks told him this was no joke and there wouldn't be a punch line to follow. He moved quickly to Bridget's side and put his arm around her shoulders. Hey, it's going to be okay. Let's go into my office and we'll figure this out.

He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to JJ. Would you pick up Whiskey for me? Stop and buy her lunch and get whatever you want too.

JJ nodded, grabbed her backpack, and left without asking the questions Mac could see she clearly wanted to ask.

He and Bridget went into the back room, transformed by JJ during the last week into a warm and inviting office with a painted black desk and matching leather chair. Placed opposite to the desk were two wooden side chairs. A dark green futon sofa, often sprinkled with dog hair, was centered on one wall.

Want some coffee? Mac fiddled with a machine on the walnut credenza behind his desk. JJ traded some computer work for one of these new-fangled coffee makers that grinds the beans, brews them, and I think plays the national anthem of Colombia when it fills the cup. I think I've figured out how to work it.

No, thanks, Bridget sat on the edge of one of the chairs and looked at her godfather defiantly. I know I've got this reputation of being a little…uh…out there. And I've made a few bad choices that didn't turn out so well–the story about the 'shake-a-snake' preacher for one. Although in my defense, who would have thought he would have kept his snakes in the trunk of his car. And maybe going undercover at that vampire club wasn't the wisest decision.

Still hanging garlic around your apartment? Mac laughed, remembering the one time he visited Bridget's place after her 'accidental outing' as a reporter and the batty group's half-hearted threats of revenge.

No. And I'm not crazy or being paranoid, no matter what Josh says.

Mac held up his hands to ward off the attack. Hey, I'm not the one who said you were, or at least you're no crazier than the rest of your family. He grinned. Why don't you tell me what this is all about? Start from the beginning. Who's Josh? Have you checked his incisors?

Uncle Mac! I'm serious.

Sorry. Mac did know who Josh was. He'd heard plenty about him from Jeff–so far nothing good. Of course his old friend was a tad prejudiced where his daughters were concerned. Bridget's Boston fiancé was no exception. According to Jeff, the guy was, too rich, too smooth, too concerned about appearances, and had way too much influence over his daughter.

Bridget shrugged off her jacket and eased back in the chair.

Why do you think someone is trying to kill you now? Did you max out your credit cards? Is Josh already married?

No and no! Will you stop and just let me tell you?

Okay. Shoot!

Uncle Mac!

He held up his hands. I'm trying to lighten the mood. First, let me get my sunglasses, Ms. Bling. That boulder on your finger is creating a glare off these white walls.

Bridget face got almost as red as her hair. She glanced down at the 2.5-carat solitaire sparkling on her left finger. I don't think it's a blood diamond or anything. I mean it was Josh's mother's engagement ring, maybe even his grandmother's, so back then it wasn't financing wars or anything.

Nah. No wars. Back then it was just whether you thought eight-year-olds should be mining carbon for rich ladies fingers.

Bridget looked stricken. I hadn't thought of that.

She stared at the stone, and then rubbed it on her shirt. The facets sparkled in the light. I think it's too big,

She paused then looked up with a cocky grin. Mom insists size always matters. I told her I agreed with her but that we weren't just talking about jewelry.

Mac threw back his head and roared, Sweet Jesus, Bridget, did Kathleen….

Yeah, Mom didn't laugh nearly as hard as Dad. What can I say? She's always been such a Catholic girls' school goody-goody. Anyway, Josh wants me to wear it and…. She exhaled a loud sigh.

Yeah, Bridget, we all have to make sacrifices in life. Mac grinned.

The young reporter huffed. Maybe I need to let my fingers do the walking. You're not the only detective in town. Bridget crossed her arms over her chest, ring finger tucked under. And you're probably not even the best.

Yep, I'm definitely out of the top ten. But you won't find anyone cheaper. Mac smiled. And besides kid, you know I love you, so talk!

It started with a margarita, made with tequila, Grand Marnier, and rat poison.

***

Rachel pushed open the wooden door to the basement storeroom and flipped on the light. The harsh glare from the fluorescent fixture revealed walls lined floor-to-ceiling with steel shelving holding the O'Herlihy Funeral Home supply of caskets. The mortuary was prepared to handle the aftermath of the St. Valentine's Day massacre judging by the number of coffins Jeff, the owner, had stockpiled.

Please, she whispered to herself at she eyed the coffins on the top shelf. Let Jeff have stored the missing merchandise at floor level.

Rachel began comparing the invoices on her clipboard to the numbers hanging off the tags of each casket. Damn, she muttered, as a quick glance confirmed the lower shelves held the more economical final resting places for customers of O'Herlihy's Funeral Home. Obviously, Jeff shelved the more expensive merchandise on the higher shelves, figuring they were bought less frequently than the more accessible caskets on the lower sills. She was going to have to climb and she hated ladders.

Rachel dragged the portable stepladder from the corner over to the far wall. Double-checking the ladder's locking mechanism, she gingerly climbed up until her head almost touched the ceiling. After thirty minutes of climbing up and down, shuffling the ladder around the room, and checking the individual casket tag, the problem was clear. One Persian Bronze casket with a champagne velvet interior, adjustable bed, and continuously welded bottom, wholesaling for $2500, was nowhere to be seen. Nor could she find a $3500 Venetian Bronze casket and worst of all–two $7000 solid mahogany oversized caskets with all the bells and whistles were missing.

Rachel checked her watch, and then climbed down the ladder. It was time to switch funeral home hats. At 2 P.M., bookkeeper extraordinaire Rachel Brenner needed to change into Rachel Brenner, make-up artist to the stars, or at least the local celebrities of Washington, D.C. In just the two months since Rachel had joined O'Herlihys, word had gotten around that she could transform the faces of even the plainest corpses into beautiful visions reminiscent, or better, of their glory days of life.

That was her challenge for the afternoon. Jeff had prepped the body. It was now up to her to style the hair and do the final makeup for Martha Martinelli, a recently deceased local radio talk-show host. Martha, whose unexpected passing would be mourned by her seven sisters, five nieces, and six nephews, had a face ideally suited for the radio airwaves, but not so much for in person close-ups. Rachel clicked off the light and headed down the hall towards the prep room. Time to make magic so Martha's last sign-off was her best.

***

I'm really doing you a favor, JJ announced as she popped a ketchup-laden fry into her mouth. There are 210 calories in this small bag of fries. That's probably a quarter of your daily intake.

Whiskey growled.

No, that's not right. What do you weigh…about 125 pounds, right? She looked expectantly at her furry companion.

The dog snorted, then started to stand as the assistant reached for another handful of the fried delicacies. Whiskey settled back down on the car seat when JJ dropped the pile on the paper bag between them. The twosome was sitting in the Golden Arches parking lot on Rockville Pike enjoying a Happy Meal and Southwest Salad with chicken.

Let me see. I read somewhere that you should feed a dog 290 calories for every 15 pounds he…

The wolfhound looked up and nudged JJ's hand.

Okay, for every 15 pounds she weighs. So…. JJ closed her eyes to concentrate. Whiskey snuggled her head under the young woman's arm to delicately snatch some of the chicken strips from the salad, then slid back across the seat. She spit out the lettuce that unfortunately was on top of the meat.

So 125 pounds divided by 15 is…eight and some change times 290, JJ paused trying to do the math in her head. Hey, you've got to eat almost…almost 2500 calories a day to keep your girlish figure.

Whiskey polished off the last chicken morsel.

Of course that should include a lot of protein, which fries definitely are not. JJ reached for the last handful and dipped them in the mound of ketchup heaped in the middle of the burger wrapper. She popped them in her mouth, and then licked the salty remnants from her fingers.

Okay, let's go check out some missing turkeys. JJ threw all the garbage in the McDonald's bag, dug the keys out of her jeans pocket, and started the car. The 15-year old Toyota Camry, whose blue color had long been forgotten, was now part of the O'Herlihy Funeral Home fleet, taken in trade for the lovely sendoff Jeff had arranged for Zachary Matthias Fuller, an old friend of his father. Fuller, who'd owned a luncheonette on Capitol Hill, was forced into early and unhappy retirement at the age of 87, when skyrocketing rents and the gentrified need for yet more java stands pushed him out. For the past three weeks, the car had been on permanent loan to Mac, who had lent it to his assistant during her recovery.

Since Mac is busy with Bridget, I think we should go out to the turkey farm. She turned left and headed for the Beltway. Let's check out the scene of the crime. And if the guy seems legit, we'll get him to sign a contract.

Whiskey inched across the seat and put her