Free The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer by Livia J. Washburn Page A

shot?”
    â€œWell, nobody else was hurt . . .”
    â€œMaybe his first shot missed. Maybe his first two or three shots. The police need to go over that carriage very carefully and look for bullet holes. I wonder what happened to it.”
    â€œMy guess is that the cops impounded it. It’ll be in the police garage. I don’t see what some extra shots would prove, though.”
    Phyllis sighed.
    â€œNeither do I,” she admitted. “The case has barely gotten started, and I’m already grasping at straws.”
    â€œYou’re gatherin’ information and considerin’ possibilities,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t call that graspin’ at straws.”
    â€œMaybe not, but—”
    The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her.
    â€œYou expectin’ anybody?” Sam asked.
    â€œNo,” Phyllis replied with a frown. She turned off the computer monitor and stood up. A glance out the living-room window showed her an unmarked van parked at the curb in front of the house. The van might not have any words written on it, but the presence of a small dish antenna attached to the vehicle’s roof was a dead giveaway.
    The TV people had arrived—and they were just about the last people Phyllis wanted to see.

Chapter 8

    S am had come up beside Phyllis to peer through the window. He muttered, “I don’t like the looks of that.”
    â€œMaybe if we just ignore them, they’ll go away,” she suggested.
    â€œMaybe,” Sam said dubiously, “but I doubt it. Anyway, there’ll just be some more along later.”
    The doorbell rang again. Carolyn came up the hall from the kitchen and said, “Goodness, isn’t someone going to answer that?” She started toward the door herself.
    Phyllis waved her back and said in resignation, “I’ve got it.”
    She opened the door to find three people standing on her porch: two burly men in Windbreakers and blue jeans, one carrying a video camera and the other some sort of equipment Phyllis didn’t recognize, and a young woman with artfully tousled chestnut hair and perfect makeup. She held a microphone and wore a blue blazer and a scandalously short skirt that showed off sleek, nylon-clad legs.
    â€œMrs. Newsom,” she said quickly, without any preamble, “I’m Felicity Prosper from
Inside Beat
. I’m sure you’ve seen our program. What can you tell us about this latest murder case you’re investigating? Have you zeroed in on the killer yet?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Phyllis began, “I really can’t comment—”
    â€œYou
are
Phyllis Newsom, aren’t you?” the young woman went on. “Texas’s Elderly Angel of Death?”
    That question left Phyllis so shocked, she couldn’t find any words. While she was standing there speechless, Sam moved up behind her, rested a hand on her shoulder, and said through the screen door, “Listen here. You folks just get on out of here. You’ve got no business comin’ around and upsettin’ people—”
    â€œYou’re Sam Fletcher,” Felicity Prosper said. “Mrs. Newsom’s
friend
.” Her tone of voice put a leer in the word. “What’s it like to be romantically involved with a woman who catches killers for a living?”
    Phyllis finally found her voice again. She burst out, “I don’t catch killers for a living. I’m a retired schoolteacher!”
    â€œA retired schoolteacher who’s responsible for nearly a dozen murderers being behind bars, even though the incompetent authorities in this town had no idea they were guilty,” Felicity Prosper went on smoothly. Phyllis wondered crazily how the woman could talk so fast without ever stopping to take a breath. “That’s true, isn’t it? In every one of those cases, the police arrested the wrong person and claimed that he or she was the killer. Including