Devil's Food Cake (8 page)

The kitchen was still crowded with staff when Sadie pushed through the doors. Andy and Gayle were on folding chairs in one corner, talking, and he patted her hand. Sadie stood by the door for a few seconds, not sure what to do, before spying the two cake boxes still on the counter. She picked up one of the boxes and headed for the outside door, all the while wishing she could just turn off her brain. There were plenty of people in the world who could shrug their shoulders and carry on with their lives amid tragedies such as this—why wasn’t she one of them? Why couldn’t she just worry about herself instead of wanting to see such a big picture? Life would be far simpler if she could.

Sadie transferred the cake box to one hand and pulled on the door twice before remembering that Pete had ordered all the exits and entrances locked. She turned the heavy dead bolt and made a mental note to make sure Andy locked the door behind them when she and Gayle were ready to leave for good.

Moments later she was in the darkened parking lot again and replaying the last conversation she’d had with the photographer. Had she missed anything? Were there inflections that may have said things she didn’t hear?

The snow was coming down harder now and she ducked her head, glad that the evening was over and she didn’t have to worry about what the snow was doing to her hair. When she smelled cigarette smoke, she looked up and froze as a tremor ran down her spine. When the photographer had made his getaway, she’d realized how secluded the back lot was. Suddenly she felt very vulnerable.

Sadie squinted in the faint glow from the exterior lights, finally picking out the shape of a person leaning against her car. Sadie’s heart abruptly began racing within her chest. Fear wasn’t something that came easily for her, but finding herself alone in a parking lot with a stranger—and armed with only a devil’s food cake—was a precarious circumstance.

The tall, lanky body pushed itself away from Sadie’s car and flicked a cigarette, the red ember twirling through the air before sizzling upon the snow-covered blacktop.

“Sadie Hoffmiller,” the person said—and not just any person, but the female voice that Sadie recognized from the cryptic message on her cell phone. Ms. Jane herself.

Tina’s Turtle Cookies

1 cup all-purpose flour

1⁄3 cup cocoa powder

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

1⁄2 cup butter, softened

2⁄3 cup sugar

1 large egg, separated, plus 1 egg white

2 tablespoons milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup pecans, chopped fine

14 soft caramel candies, unwrapped

3 tablespoons heavy cream

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper or silpat liners. Combine flour, cocoa, and salt in a bowl. Set aside. In a large bowl, beat butter and sugar with an electric mixer on medium-high speed until fluffy. Add egg yolk, milk, and vanilla. Mix until incorporated. Reduce mixer speed to low and add flour mixture until just combined. Refrigerate dough until firm, at least 1 hour.

Whisk the 2 egg whites in another bowl until frothy. Place chopped pecans in another bowl. Roll dough into 1-inch balls, dip in egg whites, then roll in pecans. Place balls 2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets. Using a teaspoon measuring spoon, make an indentation in the center of each ball. Bake 10 to 12 minutes until set, switching and rotating sheets halfway through baking.

While cookies are baking, microwave caramels and cream in a bowl, 1 to 2 minutes, stirring every 30 seconds until smooth. Once cookies are removed from oven, fill each indentation with 1⁄2 to 1 teaspoon caramel mixture. Cool 5 minutes, then transfer cookies to wire rack and cool completely.

Makes 3 dozen cookies.

Chapter 9

Can I help you?” Sadie asked, intimidated by the circumstances of this introduction but trying to play it cool. She squinted through the snow, reaching for visual recognition that would make this exchange a lot less creepy.

By the time the woman was within ten feet of her, Sadie was feeling less threatened and more confused. Ms. Jane’s picture accompanied every one of her advice columns—a picture of a fine-featured, sweet-faced blonde with a shoulder-length bob. But the woman standing in front of Sadie was at least six feet tall, with black hair combed flat to the front and sides of her head. Her hair was spiked at the crown and tipped with bright red—if the light of the parking lot wasn’t creating some kind of optical illusion. Aside from the strange but trendy hair, the woman had a lean face and large, dark eyes. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except for red lipstick that seemed a bit too much on her otherwise ordinary face. Despite the lipstick, there was a mannish quality to the woman’s features. Sadie wasn’t sure she was beautiful, exactly, but there was definitely a striking quality both to her features and the way she held herself with impenetrable confidence.

“
And
you were at the dinner tonight?” the woman mused, half her mouth pulling up in a sticky red smile. “You’ve just made my job a lot easier.”

“And you are?” Sadie finally asked, trying to equalize the dueling impressions of this woman in her mind.

“Jane Seeley,” the woman said, smiling. “I know. I look nothing like my picture.”

Sadie shook her head, “No, you don’t.”

Jane shrugged. “It was a joke.”

“What was a joke?” Sadie said, trying to keep up. Did she mean she was joking when she claimed to be Jane? But the voice matched.

“The picture,” Jane explained. “I’d been writing freelance for the paper, covering everything from junior high basketball to the increase in eastern religious practices in the rural areas of Colorado. Everyone at the
Post
knew me by name, but I’d never met any of them thanks to e-mail and telephones and I couldn’t seem to crack into anything but bit pieces. So, on a whim, I submitted the Ms. Jane column idea—and included a picture of my half-sister, Becca. She was far more the ‘look at me and sigh’ girl in my family. I meant the whole Ms. Jane thing to be a little tongue-in-cheek but I couldn’t help but wonder if being a blonde bombshell would help my chances. What do you know they snapped it up and printed the first one before I had a chance to explain. After that, they felt it would be unprofessional to swap the picture so it stayed. But it’s all good. I can be plain Jane and she can be beautiful Becca as long as it’s my words people read.”

“Oh,” Sadie said. Plain was not the word she would use to describe this woman. Intimidating, maybe. They were silent for a moment while Sadie tried to decide whether or not she believed the story. She wondered if it would be rude to ask for ID.

“I’m glad to meet you in person,” Jane said. “Did you get my message?”

Sadie didn’t answer the question directly. “How did you get my cell number?” She looked from Jane to her car and then back again. “And how did you know that was my car?”

“The same way I get everything else—Google.”

Sadie was stunned silent. Her cell number and car information were available through Google?

Jane laughed softly. “About three years ago you headed up a fund-raiser for a youth orchestra. You put your cell number on the flier that they attached to the website for people to download. It was a few pages into the search results so it’s pretty buried, but, well, digging is what I do.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder toward Sadie’s car. “I had your license plate number on file from when we spoke last fall. I always do backgrounds on my sources.”

Even
scarier,
Sadie thought.

“I’m hurt you didn’t recognize my voice, though” Jane said, putting a hand to her chest and pulling her mouth down in a pout. “Most people do.”

“We only talked a few times,” Sadie said. She was uncomfortable with Jane’s assumed familiarity. And that was saying something since Sadie generally made friends with, well, everyone.

“You called me almost two hours ago,” Sadie said, getting back to the point. “Why?”

Jane shrugged. “You’re the only person I know in Garrison. I thought I’d ask about Thom Mortenson and whether you knew him when he lived here. Did you, by the way?”

“Not very well,” she said carefully. “But I thought you were meeting with Mr. Ogreski, not Thom?”

“News travels fast,” Jane said, dropping her chin so she was looking down on Sadie in a way that made her want to fix her hair or adjust her dress. “I
was
going to meet with Mr. Ogreski, and now I’m trying to figure out who kept him from our appointment.” Jane looked at Sadie intently. “How did you know I was meeting with Mr. Ogreski? I didn’t think he’d told anyone, not even Thom.”

Why did Sadie feel like she was being set up for something and needed to defend herself? “I heard some police officers talking,” she said simply. “You know Mr. Ogreski’s dead, right?”

Jane gave a dismissive wave to the comment, her blue fingernail polish catching what little light there was. The flash of color was unexpected, like tiny bolts of blue lightning. Jane fixed Sadie with a piercing look. “Were you actually in there when Mr. Ogreski was shot?”

Sadie felt a shiver run through her at the directness of Jane’s questions. “I was there,” she finally said. “Did you really have a meeting scheduled with him?”

“At nine-thirty,” Jane said with a nod and a frown. “I arrived early and thought I’d catch the end of the lecture. I made it into the parking lot before the police closed it off, but imagine my surprise when I learned my contact had been killed. Blasted cops wouldn’t let me inside the building.”

“I believe they were comparing reporters to piranhas.” She hoped to put off Jane without taking the blame for it.

Instead of defending herself, Jane snapped her teeth together twice and smiled even wider. She looked past Sadie toward the door behind her. “Is that the kitchen? Is the door unlocked?”

Sadie looked over her shoulder to verify they were talking about the same door. Then she turned back to Jane. “What are you doing out here?” Sadie asked, cutting to the chase. “Why find me?”

“You’re Sadie Hoffmiller,” Jane said evenly. “I read about what happened in England, and I know from talking to you before that you have an eye for detail. I’ve got to find another way to get the information I need for my story. You could help me.”

Sadie wasn’t sure whether to feel offended or flattered to be seen as a source of help and information. Maybe a little of both was appropriate. There had been some articles here and there about the events in Devonshire, but it had been two months ago and wasn’t big news in America like it had been in the United Kingdom. People didn’t talk about it much anymore, which was fine by Sadie. She didn’t want bad things to happen around her. She didn’t like the idea of people getting hurt or murdered.

“Well, you’re welcome to come to my house and talk with me in about half an hour,” Sadie offered, curious enough about Jane to be willing to put up with her a little longer, but on her terms, not Jane’s. “I’m just leaving.”

“I was hoping you could help me get inside,” Jane said with a conspiratorial smile.

Sadie shook her head before Jane finished. “You know I can’t do that,” she said, looking up at the reporter—a reporter who knew the rules about things like this. “It’s a crime scene. No one in or out without permission from the police.” Except Sadie, it seemed. Pete had planned to write her a note for her to leave the hotel, but he’d never given it to her. Besides, there wasn’t a cop at the back door to check for permission anyway.

“I only want to look around and get a visual for the article I need to write. Have they arrested anyone or made noises about who they think would do something like this?”

Sadie shook her head. “No.”

Jane glanced at the back door. “Please let me in,” she said, but it was more a demand than a request. “I came all the way from Denver to talk to Mr. Ogreski and everyone is treating me like any other stringer hungry for a story. Besides, I’ve already got the story—or most of it anyway—that’s not the problem. What I want to understand is why it ended like this.”

Sadie felt the familiar surge of excitement course through her. Jane had a story
before
the shooting! And she’d had a meeting no one was supposed to know about with the man who was now dead on the hotel stage.

Go home,
a voice said in her mind. It sounded a lot like Pete’s voice, which may have been why it was so easy for Sadie to push it away. “What do you mean, you’ve got the story?”