Page 20 of Macaron Massacre
“You heard the woman, Noah,” I say as we bounce to our feet. “There’s work to do.”
His phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks at the screen.
“Forensics wants to speak with me. It looks as if the report just came in.”
“Perfect! You do that. I’ll get my head together and figure out how to go about the investigation from my end.” Every feel-good emotion under the sun attacks me at once as I leap onto him with a hard embrace. “Oh, Noah, it feels as if we’re back in business. I can’t tell you how miserable it was denying myself something I wanted more than anything in the world.”
We pull apart, and he presses those sad evergreen eyes over mine.
“I know exactly how that feels, Lot. Hopefully, this time next year we’ll be having an entirely different conversation. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be planning that family I’m hoping we’ll have someday.”
I give a little shrug. “Stranger things have happened. But in the meantime, we’ve got a killer to bring to justice. Partners?” I thrust my hand forward, and he shakes it.
“Partners.” He brings my hand to his lips and lands a sweet kiss over the back. “You’ll always be my partner in every single way. Now let’s go catch a killer.”
“Ten bucks says I catch them first.”
“Ten bucks says you do.”
Chapter 8
It turns out, Gloria Dallas’ personal assistant of twenty years is now serving down at the Ashford County Courthouse as a secretary for the honorable Judge McDonough.
And to think I gleaned all of that within five minutes in my tiny office as soon as I got back to the bakery. I scooped up a variety of cookies—my infamous macarons included—and hightailed it to the Ashford County Courthouse just like that.
Typically, I would have invited Keelie to join in on the fun, but seeing that weeks ago I hinted to Everett about a private date in his chambers and have yet to make good on that promise, I decided it’s best I fly solo on this one.
The courthouse is a typical colonial throwback. Inside, it’s decorated with oversized dark chocolate doors that mimic the design of a Hershey’s Bar with rows of elongated rectangles carved into the enormous doors themselves.
When I went digging for information on Gloria, the first thing that popped up was her dried up fashion career—Dallas Designs. Unfortunately, for her, she didn’t get too far in the world of couture, but she did pretty well, considering how competitive the fashion market can be.
In fact, I thought I recognized a few pieces from my mother’s wardrobe. Wouldn’t that be ironic? My mother prancing around in a Gloria Dallas original?
But I’m not here for Gloria. The woman I’m here to see is Trisha Lawrence.
I head past the main arteries of the courthouse and even manage to acquire a friendly nod from one of the security guards. Lord knows I’ve been down here enough to be on a first name basis with everyone who works in the building. I offer him a chocolate covered pretzel cookie before proceeding further.
When you’re in the crime solving business, you need every single soul on your side. Not that I’m not normally congenial and friendly, but I figure it’s best to go out of my way and make a few buddies anywhere I can. You never know when you might need them to trust you enough to spill a secret or two. And that’s where my cookies come in—or as I like to call to them, weapons of trust-building, secret-spilling destruction.
My mother always told me that people are like a garden. You need to water relationships with attention in an effort to keep them alive and healthy. And here I am to water—or in my case, feed. Who knows how many more cases will lead me back to the mean marbled halls of justice?
I’m still tickled pink that Nell all but gave me a directive to carry on with my crime solving ways. In a sense, it made me feel official, like some caped crusader whose sole goal in life is to tackle the bad guys. Although, it’s still up for debate whether or not whoever killed Rich Dallas was a bad guy. Gloria and her daughters acted as if they wanted to erect a statue to them.
A plaque on the wall readsJudge McDonough, and I follow the arrow down the hall.
Geez, this is the exact way to Everett’s chambers. It looks like I’m getting dangerously close to Mr. Sexy himself. I know for a fact he’s got an entire afternoon of cases, and I don’t dare bother him. I’ll just hang around until he’s through. But what I wouldn’t do to see him performing, live and in person, as he sits on his throne.
The last time I had a chance to witness his judicial glory, I was the defendant and he wisely chose to side with me.
A middle-aged woman sits behind a granite counter, pecking away at her keyboard, her glasses reflecting blue from the screen. I head over, and, sure enough, her nameplate readsTrisha Lawrence.
“Hello!” I call out in a cheery voice. “I’m here from the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, and I come bearing sweet treats for one and all!” I chirp as I thrust the box of goodies her way. “Choose whichever you like. Heck, take two or three.”
“Ooh, thank you.” She rises from her seat and makes her selection. Trisha is a tall woman, slender, gaunt features, with a few too many wrinkles as if she put in her time sun worshipping in her youth. Her hair is salt and pepper, with the salt winning out, and it’s short and trimmed neatly around her face. “Where is this delectable bakery of yours? I always like to patronize the businesses kind enough to donate to our staff.”
You mean there are others like me? I’d best warn Everett because I’m positive they’re up to no good.
“Honey Hollow,” I say, marveling at what a perfect segue that was.