Trick or Deadly Treat (9 page)

Sam winced. D'Angelo's words called up a mental image of Hank Baxter striking his wife in the head and killing her, and Sam didn't like it.

“The receptionist nearly loses it but holds herself together enough to call 911. It only takes a few minutes for the cops and the paramedics to get there. The receptionist has run back outside because she's afraid the killer may still be in the building. That's a pretty smart thing to do. But the cops go through the place and find that it's empty except for the body. They also find the drug cabinet smashed open and rifled.”

“Well, there you go,” Sam said. “Some addict broke in to steal drugs, thinkin' that the office would be empty for lunch. Susan Baxter caught him at it, and he killed her.”

“Yeah, but the police say that's just a frame job, that the killer tried to make it look like robbery, mostly because they found a really fresh fingerprint on the cabinet, and it belongs to Hank Baxter. Not only that, they located a witness who saw Hank going into his wife's office and then leaving a short time later.”

Sam shook his head and said, “Hank was her husband, and a doctor, to boot. Why would there be anything incriminating about his fingerprints bein' on that cabinet?”

“As a matter of fact, he has an explanation for why the print was there,” D'Angelo said. “He claims he went by there to pick up samples of some meds because he wanted to try them in his practice.”

“Human medicine?” Sam asked with a frown.

“You'd be surprised how many drugs that we think of as medications for humans are also used in veterinary practice, and not just antibiotics like amoxicillin,” D'Angelo said. “At least, I was surprised when Hank explained it to me. They call it prescribing off-list.”

“But the police don't believe him.”

“Of course not. She was alone in the office when he got there. She was alone when he left. Nobody saw her again until the receptionist found her body. There was a history of violent disagreements between the two of them . . .” D'Angelo's beefy shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “As far as the police are concerned, that was plenty for an arrest warrant.”

“What about the murder weapon?” Sam asked.

“Nobody's turned it up yet. At least, nobody's admitting it. That detective, Latimer, is a cagey one. He'll keep his cards close to his vest as much as he can.”

Sam found himself liking Jimmy D'Angelo more than he had at first. The lawyer seemed to be a plainspoken sort, which Sam appreciated.

“So Hank doesn't have an alibi,” he mused.

“Not really,” D'Angelo agreed. “He got back to the vet clinic shortly after his wife's body was discovered, so he can't argue that he didn't have time to kill her. He did.”

Sam thought about where the vet clinic was located and how far it was to the medical district along Santa Fe Drive,
where Susan Baxter's office was. The geography and the timing didn't favor Hank Baxter, or at least didn't rule him out.

D'Angelo went on. “The official theory is that the Drs. Baxter argued again, and this time Hank blew his top, grabbed something, and hit his wife hard enough to kill her. At this point the evidence is all circumstantial . . . but guys have been convicted on circumstantial evidence before.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “So what about it, Sam? I can call you Sam, right?”

“Sure. What are you askin' me? Do I think Hank's capable of doin' that?”

“Exactly.”

Sam tilted his head to the side for a second, then shook it slowly. “I don't think so. But I can't prove it. I, uh, haven't really known him that long.”

D'Angelo frowned and asked, “Just how long have you known Hank Baxter?”

“Almost a week and a half.” Sam added, “But you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats animals, and Hank fixed up my dog's busted leg. He's a good man. I know it.”

D'Angelo drew in a deep breath and blew it out in a sound of anger and frustration. “I thought you were a potential character witness, Mr. Fletcher. That's the only reason I discussed the case so openly. But I'd look like a fool if I put you on the stand.” He pressed his palms on the desk. “I think we're done here.”

Sam got to his feet and nodded. “Sorry if I caused any trouble,” he said.

“No trouble. Just keep everything I told you to yourself, all right?”

“Sure.”

D'Angelo cocked his head and said, “Not that it really matters, I guess. The whole story will come out soon enough anyway. Sullivan's a grandstander. Likes to try his cases in the press when he thinks he can get away with it. The cops may be sitting on the details now, but in a day or two the DA will have a press conference and spill everything. He's too much in love with the sound of his own voice not to.”

“For what it's worth,” Sam said, “I agree with you about that.”

D'Angelo grinned. He said, “Not really a big fan of our illustrious district attorney, are you?”

Sam thought about Phyllis sitting behind bars in a jail cell and shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Not a big fan at all.”

H
is visit to Jimmy D'Angelo's office had been a waste of time, Sam thought as he drove away from the square. He had learned some details of the case that he hadn't known before, but as D'Angelo had pointed out, it was likely that those details would become common knowledge in a few days anyway.

Even with an arrest already made, surely the police would check out any other evidence in the case, like the other fingerprints found in Susan Baxter's office. If they came up with a print belonging to a known burglar, or some druggie who had broken into doctors' offices before to steal drugs, that ought to be enough to convince them that their theory about Hank was wrong. At the very least, it would create reasonable doubt.

But what if the cops were right and the drug theft was an attempt to cover up someone else's involvement in Susan Baxter's murder?

Who else had a reason for wanting Susan dead?

That was an interesting question, Sam thought. He wasn't
quite sure how to go about answering it, but it was something to consider.

When he got back to the house, Phyllis was busy with her casserole, so Sam let Buck out into the backyard and sat on the porch for a while and watched the Dalmatian. Buck started to dig a hole, and Sam called to him, “Hey, there, Buck. Don't do that! You'll get your paws all muddy. Phyllis probably doesn't want holes in her backyard, either. Come here.”

Buck came up on the porch. Sam picked up a piece of thick rope they had been using as a tug-of-war toy. Buck clamped his jaw on it and started pulling. He growled, although it wasn't a serious one.

Phyllis came onto the porch, sat down in the other rocking chair, and said, “Well, my casserole is in the oven. I hope it turns out all right.”

Sam chuckled and said, “Since when did you ever cook anything that didn't turn out all right?”

“Oh, I've had my share of culinary fiascos,” she told him.

“Not since I've been livin' here.”

“Yes, well, I cooked for many, many years before you moved in.”

“I reckon that's true.”

After a moment of silence, Phyllis said, “You seem pretty distracted today, Sam. What have you been up to?” Quickly, she added, “Of course, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. What you do is your own business.”

“No, that's all right,” Sam said. “I'm sort of in over my head on something. This business about Hank Baxter has got me bumfuzzled. I know you said you didn't want anything to do with it—”

“That doesn't mean you can't talk to me about whatever's bothering you. I'm always willing to listen to whatever you have to say.”

Sam knew he could trust Phyllis more than just about anybody else in the world. Jimmy D'Angelo had asked him not to say anything about what they had discussed, but then the lawyer had added that it probably wouldn't matter anyway. Phyllis might not want to investigate the Baxter case, but surely she wouldn't mind talking about it.

“I went out to Hank Baxter's vet clinic this morning, and then I went to see his lawyer this afternoon.”

“How did you find out who his lawyer is?”

“Well . . . I called Mike and he found out for me.”

That rueful admission brought a chuckle from Phyllis. She said, “I know exactly how you're feeling, Sam. I've been there. You want to prove that your friend is innocent.”

“You saw the way he took care of Buck. Do you think a man like that could commit murder?”

“I'd like to think that he couldn't,” Phyllis said, “but it's hard to be certain about these things.” She paused. “What did you find out?”

“Well, for one thing, Susan Baxter has a sister, and she's not much more friendly than Susan was. Not that I like to speak ill of the dead . . .”

“But it's a fact,” Phyllis said. “Susan wasn't very friendly with her husband, at least from what we saw of her.”

“The sister's name is Meredith Carlyle,” Sam went on. “She was out at the clinic readin' the riot act to Holly and Tommy and tellin' them how things are gonna be. She plans on goin' to court and tryin' to take over complete control of the clinic so she can sell it.”

“Could that be a motive for murder?” Phyllis asked.

Sam drew in a breath and said, “You know, I never even thought about that. That tells you I'm not really cut out for this sort of thing. But it seems to me like a mighty flimsy excuse for killin' somebody, especially your own sister. Sure, the vet clinic might be worth something, especially if you also throw in the sister's practice, but Ms. Carlyle and her husband looked like they're pretty well-to-do already. I just don't see it.”

“That's what you're trying to do, though, isn't it?” Phyllis asked. “Find out who else might have a motive for wanting Susan Baxter dead?”

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “That thought sure crossed my mind.”

“What about Dr. Baxter's lawyer? Did he tell you anything?”

“Yeah, I sort of made it sound like Hank and I are old friends, so he told me some of the details the cops haven't made public yet.” Sam went over everything D'Angelo had told him about the case, then concluded by saying, “He had in mind puttin' me on the stand as a character witness for Hank, but when he found out we haven't really known each other that long, he changed his mind. He was a mite peeved with me, too.”

“You may be too honest and honorable to be a detective, Sam,” she said. “Sometimes you have to fool people to get them to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You're on the right track, though. From what you told me, it doesn't sound like there's any evidence to prove that Hank Baxter didn't kill his wife. So the only way to clear his name and keep him from being convicted is to find out who else had a motive and see if there's any evidence pointing to them.”

“Yeah, that made sense to me, too, but I don't know who else might fit that description.”

“What about Kyle Woods?”

Sam frowned and said, “Who?”

“Remember when Carolyn and I went out to the clinic last week to talk to Dr. Baxter about bringing the doggie treats to the Halloween party?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Well, while we were there, a man drove up to see Dr. Baxter, and he seemed angry about something. His name was Kyle Woods. He breeds prizewinning golden retrievers.”

Sam snapped his fingers as a memory came back to him. “That dog-breedin' website you were lookin' at,” he said. “That was for this fella Woods's outfit, wasn't it?”

“That's right.”

“But even if Woods had some sort of grudge, it was against Hank, not Susan Baxter.”

“And Hank was arrested for murder, wasn't he? That sounds like pretty good payback for a grudge.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “You're sayin' maybe Woods was mad enough at Hank that he killed Susan to get back at him?”

“If he followed Hank to Susan's office, and if he knew about all the trouble between the two of them, he might think that if he killed Susan, the police would automatically suspect Hank. In fact,” Phyllis said, “I'd be very curious about the identity of that witness they found who placed Hank on the scene around the time Susan was killed.”

Sam realized that his heart was beating faster. Phyllis was right. The theory she had just laid out about Kyle Woods made sense. It was incomplete—they didn't know why Woods had
been angry with Hank Baxter that day last week—and they had no proof of anything, but nothing they knew invalidated it, either.

“Maybe I can find out,” Sam said. “I think I need to find out more about Kyle Woods, too.”

“Not a bad idea. It's where I'd start, anyway.”

“I appreciate the help, Phyllis.” Sam frowned again. “Say, you were checkin' up on Woods last week, before Susan was murdered. Why were you doin' that? Were you really thinkin' about gettin' a dog from him someday?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. The thing of it is, I can't really tell you why I went to the trouble of looking up his website. I'd seen the name of his company on his truck, and I was curious, that's all. Like I told you, he seemed angry with Dr. Baxter, and I just wondered what it was all about.”

“Sounds to me like you were gettin' ready in case something happened.”

“You mean in case there was some sort of trouble?”

“Like a murder,” Sam said.

“Oh, don't be—you think I go around looking for potential murderers?”

“You know the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared. And the way things have been goin' the past few years, shoot, nobody would blame you for thinkin' that way.”

“Well, that's not what I had in mind at all,” Phyllis declared, and she sounded certain about it.

But judging by the look on her face, Sam thought, she might be asking herself just how sure of that she was.

*   *   *

It was late enough in the afternoon that Sam said he wasn't going to try to do any more investigating. He needed to mull everything over, he told Phyllis before he went upstairs to his room.

Phyllis went into the kitchen and found Carolyn there. Carolyn drew in a deep breath and said, “That casserole smells wonderful. Like an award winner, if you ask me.”

“We can hope so,” Phyllis said.

“What's in it again?”

“Chicken, onions, navy beans, corn, and seasonings, with a spicy cheddar cornbread top,” Phyllis said. “What are you going to put in your breakfast casserole?”

“I'm leaning toward making it more of a quiche, with bacon in the crust, and spinach, onion, and artichoke in the filler.”

“Oh, my,” Phyllis said. “That sounds tasty.”

“I think we both have an excellent chance,” Carolyn said as Phyllis opened the oven door a little to check on her casserole. Satisfied that it was cooking fine and didn't need any attention at the moment, she eased the door shut.

“I did a little fine-tuning on the recipe,” she said. “I'd better go make a note of that on the file before I forget.”

On the computer in the living room, she called up the file and made her revisions on it. Eve was watching one of those judge shows where people argued with one another over small-claims cases, and Carolyn joined her on the sofa. Phyllis mentally tuned out the sound of the TV, and when she was finished changing the casserole recipe, she acted on impulse and did a search on the name
Meredith Carlyle.

She wasn't sure of the spelling of either name, but her first guess proved to be right. The first link in the list took her to a
story in the society section of the newspaper that included a picture of Meredith Carlyle and her sister, noted surgeon Dr. Susan Baxter, along with their respective spouses, insurance executive Jack Carlyle and local veterinarian Dr. Henry Baxter. The story was several years old, and either the Baxters had been getting along better then or else they were good at putting up a front, because they were all smiles in their fancy getups, as were the Carlyles.

The gathering was a fund-raiser for the local animal shelter. Phyllis wondered if Hank Baxter had had something to do with that. It seemed likely.

The search led her to other stories about Jack Carlyle and his business interests, which seemed quite successful as Sam had said, but not much about Meredith. Phyllis moved on to stories about Susan Baxter. She had been a well-regarded general surgeon. Phyllis didn't understand all the medical references in the stories she read, but she knew enough to realize that Susan had garnered a sterling reputation at a relatively young age.

Doctors like that were often recruited to practice at bigger hospitals. Phyllis wondered if that could have been part of the cause for the trouble between Susan and Hank. Maybe she'd had a chance to move up to a position that offered more money and prestige, and Hank didn't want her to take it because he didn't want to leave his veterinary practice in Weatherford.

She wasn't supposed to be looking for reasons for Hank Baxter to have killed his wife, Phyllis reminded herself. In fact, she wasn't supposed to be investigating this case at all.

But old habits were hard to break, and besides, it was important to Sam. Anyway, she thought, she was just doing a
little background research online. It wasn't like she was going out and questioning suspects as she had done in the past.

Sam was, though. She hoped he would be careful. All it took to spook a killer was a feeling that someone was closing in on him, and then he was liable to strike out in an attempt to protect his deadly secret. Phyllis had seen it happen before. On several occasions, she and Sam had both found themselves in danger because of her investigations.

Maybe it wouldn't count as breaking her promise to Mike if she just gave Sam a discreet hand . . . strictly in the interest of finding out the truth as quickly as possible, of course.

To do that meant finding out who else had a reason for wanting Susan Baxter dead, or who hated Hank enough to kill Susan in order to frame him for the murder. That was all they had to find out.

Yes, Phyllis thought wryly. That was all.

Meredith Carlyle might be a good place to start. She ought to know whether or not her sister had had any enemies . . .

“Phyllis,” Carolyn said, “what about your casserole?”

Phyllis's head jerked up. The casserole! She had gotten so involved in her research into the case and her own thoughts that she had forgotten all about it. She didn't smell anything burning, but she muttered, “Oh, good grief!” and jumped up from the computer anyway, turning off the monitor as she did so. She hurried toward the kitchen.

Murder could certainly wreak havoc with cooking!