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Yes, the most wonderful time…

Matilda said, “I grew up eating Bredahl pastries. They’re the absolute best in the entire state. That pecan custard coffee cake? Oh myGod.”

“I know.”

Someone who spoke my language. Dollops of creamy custard filled pastry, topped with rich butter streusel and loads of pecans. Pecan custard coffee cake was the first food I could remember eating as a child. While I was incarcerated, Bredahl donated thousands of cookies and pastries to Chippewa Falls County Jail, and I wanted to make sure we continued to do so.

We smiled at each other, and for the first time in a very long time, I started to relax.

Matilda said, “I realize this is probably painful, and that you’ve been through it many, many times, but can you tell me in your own words what happened that night?”

Chapter Five

Yes, I had been through the story of how I came to be blamed for Tom Peyton’s murder many, many times. Maybe a thousand times by then. Easily.

I said, “There isn’t a lot to tell. I was working late at the bakery—in the administrative offices, I mean. Not in the actual bakery.”

“Right. You were assistant VP to Tom Peyton, who was the company vice president and second-in-command to the director, your sister Astrid?”

“That’s right.”

I’d worked in the bakery, though. Astrid thought it was important that I know every facet of the company, understood the contribution every employee made, the role they played in our success. And that there be at least the perception that I was working my way up through the ranks. So, I’d worked in shipping, in customer service, and even in the bakery. Frankly, I’d enjoyed working in the bakery a lot more than my titular role as assistant VP.

“Yes. Anyway, it was late. I was supposed to meet—” I changed what I’d been about to say. “I thought I would stop by Tom’s office on the way out. We’d had a-a run-in earlier because I’d missed a managers’ meeting that morning.”

I’d chosen a few more hours in bed with Raleigh over sitting through another never-ending meeting, listening to Tom recite the same script over and over again while he talked over his department heads.

“You wanted to make peace with Mr. Peyton.”

“Well, I’d already apologized. And I’d spoken to Astrid. It was sorted, but I wanted to…” I gave a short laugh, admitted, “Tom and I didn’t like each other. He thought I was a pampered rich kid who got the job because my family owned the company. I thought he was shortsighted, inflexible, and arrogant. But back then, I used to dread the idea that I had disappointed someone or let them down. Even someone like Tom. So, I thought I’d just stop by and say goodnight.”

Initially, it had been hard to talk about this—finding Tom dead—but I’d been through it so many times, had to relive it, retell it, again and again. I said unemotionally, “I knocked on Tom’s door. He didn’t answer. But I could see the lights on under the door, so I knew he was still there. I opened the door. He was lying on the floor in front of his desk.”

I didn’t have to close my eyes to see it all again: Tom lying face up, staring blankly into space, the gun a few inches from his outstretched fingers. He had been shot in the chest, but there was blood in his mustache. Blood everywhere. I could still smell the burnt sweet-plastic smell of a recently fired weapon, the coppery bite of blood, and the ghostly whisper of Le Labo Santal 33…

Matilda’s blue eyes were dark with sympathy. “That must have been such a shock.”

I nodded. It had been unbelievable.

“Did you call for security?”

“No, I called—I called the police.”

I had called Raleigh. But he hadn’t picked up. He’d been in the middle of sorting out a domestic disturbance. So, I’d phoned NCPD and they’d dispatched two officers.

Matilda asked delicately, “Did you, er, try to render aid?”

I shook my head. That had been one of the things that made me look bad. “I could see he was dead. The amount of blood. The way his face looked.” I shuddered. “Plus…”

“Plus?”

I admitted, “I didn’t know how. I never had any lifesaving training beyond watching a fifteen-minute demonstration in my high school gym. I don’t know how to do CPR. I mean, that’s terrible, I know. But it’s the truth. It just didn’t occur to me. I could see he was dead and so I was thinking in terms of not disturbing the crime scene.”

She looked thoughtful. “At the time you said you believed Peyton had committed suicide.”

“Yes. It’s not like I was applying my little gray cells. The gun was right next to his hand and we were the only two left in the building. I assumed it was suicide because anything else seemed unbelievable. I mean, suicide was unbelievable enough.”

Matilda seemed to turn it over in her mind. “Yeah, that makes sense.”