Deep Dish Lies Page 4

  “Civic duty? Like jury duty? Or civic duty like helping an old lady cross the street?” I challenged, so utterly drained from the past 24 hours that I didn’t care that I was sassing a police officer.

  “Somewhere in between,” Officer Barrow said reluctantly.

  “So I’m not legally bound to move forward with this investigation?” I pressed on, even though the answer was already obvious to me: they could try to persuade me to cooperate, but I really didn’t have to. I was the victim in this case, and all I wanted to do was go back to Buttercup Valley and forget this had ever happened. Forget I had ever looked into Marcus McCoy’s…I mean Briton’s…Caribbean blue eyes.

  “Don’t you want to press charges after your ordeal, Ms. Raymond?” Officer Melkin demanded, assuming a new tactic to force me to play his game.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I replied honestly. “I’m too overwhelmed right now. And sleep deprived. All I want is to get back home and run my business…” I trailed off, suddenly remembering that it was Sunday. Not just any ordinary Sunday, but Mother’s Day, one of the busiest days of the year. Lori would be beyond frantic by now and maybe hadn’t even opened the shoppe. Oh that Marcus! My baking empire could tumble like a house of cards if my shoppe closed its doors on such a busy holiday. “You know what? Maybe I will press charges,” I said hastily. “If you’ll let me call my sister in Washington so she can pick me up and take me home, then I’ll decide. You can’t keep me here indefinitely. I already told you everything I know, and I gave you a lead about a wanted criminal…”

  Officer Barrow sighed in defeat and admitted, “You’re right, Ms. Raymond. And you can make that call in just a second. But one more question first: did Marcus Briton give you any inclination of where he was headed from here?”

  “Yes, he said he was going to try to cross into Canada. And he wanted to take me with him,” I said emotionlessly, my heart shutting down and going into survival mode.

  “Canada,” Officer Barrow repeated. “Makes perfect sense. You’ve been an enormous help to us, Ms. Raymond. You’re free to go while we alert the Federal authorities. This looks like it’s just turned into an international manhunt.”

  ***

  Many hours later, I was sitting in Lori’s car, munching on an egg and cheese sandwich and sipping a mercifully strong cup of coffee. Lori glanced at me periodically from the steering wheel with tears in her eyes, unable to believe how close she had come to losing her sister.

  “They’ve got to catch that maniac! I want to throw him in prison myself after what he did to you!” Lori raved, slamming a manicured hand on the steering wheel and inadvertently honking the horn.

  “Calm down, Lori. As you can see, I’m totally fine. Exhausted, but fine.” I tried to convince her as I polished off the last bite of sandwich. “I’m more worried about the shoppe. Did you fill the Mother’s Day orders?”

  “No, I didn’t fill the Mother’s Day orders! I was worried sick about you. The shoppe should be the least of your concerns right now anyway, Becca.”

  “It’s my biggest concern. It’s my livelihood and my passion. Without it, who would I even be?”

  “Don’t get all philosophical on me right now. Just drink your coffee. And close your eyes. We’ve got a long drive still ahead.”

  I acquiesced and allowed myself the luxury of shutting my eyes and putting all my trust in my baby sister. The next time my eyes fluttered open, she was pulling up in front of my beloved home. The exterior looked shadowy and lonely in the darkness of night. For a moment, I remembered coming home to Dennis in our chic condo and that security blanket feeling, like no one in the world could ever hurt me. Little did I know that the very man who made me feel safe would be the one to strip me bare of my security and lead me to depend exclusively on myself.

  “Would you stay here tonight?” I asked Lori.

  “Of course I’m staying here tonight! We need to get you inside and into bed. And then tomorrow we can worry about the pie shoppe,” she said softly, picking the key out of the ignition and kissing me on the cheek.

  “I just hope tomorrow isn’t too late,” I said glumly, cringing as I pictured the disappointed faces of my loyal customers.

  ***

  Level-headed and refreshed the next morning, I sat at the front counter of the shoppe composing an email on my iPad. Surely my customers would understand that the only reason their Mother’s Day orders had been botched was because the baker had been abducted! And throwing in a voucher for a free slice of my Dreamy Banana Cream Pie would sweeten the pot. I sent the message off into cyberspace, holding my breath and mentally calculating how many bunches of bananas I would need to buy at the market to fulfill those free vouchers.

  As I stared at the screen, I was tempted to Google “Marcus Briton” and read the latest news. But did I really want to know if he had been caught and hauled back to the dungeon of San Quentin? As stressful as the abduction had been, it infused just a little taste of adventure into my life. Deep down maybe I wished for a man like Marcus to take me away…not with a knife to my throat pulse, though. The memory of his eyes haunted me as I picked up a roll of paper towels and sprayed some bleach cleaner onto the counter. Going about my everyday tasks in the shoppe was the best way to reclaim normalcy.

  As I was rubbing down the granite countertop, an all too familiar pair of eyes gazed at me from the front door. No, I must still be sleep deprived and literally haunted! It couldn’t be Marcus…

  The brazen owner of those baby blues confidently strode through the door and stood over me with an indecipherable expression. My heart slammed into my chest as I looked directly up into his eyes. The corners of his mouth upturned in some semblance of a grin as my jaw dropped to the floor.

  “I took a big risk by coming back here, Becca. But I had to see you again.” Desperation overtook his voice as I peered at him in continued shock.

  “What? What are you talking about?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “I still want you to come with me, but this time I’m not going to force you,” he said softly as his breath, scented with espresso and male sweetness, fanned my face.

  “The police are after you,” I blurted out. “They know who you really are…Marcus Briton, not Marcus McCoy…”

  “Good. Then you can know who I really am as well,” he replied on a heavy intonation of sadness.

  “How did you even get back here? Never mind. I don’t think I want to know. The police said you were a criminal mastermind and…”

  “Criminal mastermind?” He scoffed bitterly. “They’ve all got the same screw loose. If you would search for me on that fancy little machine of yours, then you would know who I really am, Becca.” He gestured towards the iPad, inviting me to discover the truth.

  Pretending not to understand, I blabbered, “I told them you were on your way to Canada.”

  “Perfect. Then they won’t be searching for me in Washington. That gives me a little more time to stall.”

  “The crime you were accused of…killing your wife…stabbing her. It’s not true, right?” I looked up at him hopefully, refusing to fathom that the man with the intense but tender gaze could have plunged a knife into the body of a woman who he promised to love forever.

  “What do you think? I think you can see I’m not capable of the crime. I’m a victim too. Find me online, Becca. Find out who I really am.” His tone was begging now, and I felt my fingers energetically move towards the touch screen.

  But instead of tapping in the letters of his name, I resumed coldly, “I should be calling the police right now. I have no idea whether or not you really committed the crime. But I do know that you kidnapped me. Cost me a significant amount of business, not to mention my mental health. You need to get out of here before I call the cops and get you arrested.”

  The words visibly stung him, but what did I truly know about this man? All I knew was the craziness that had transpired the previous day. He was charming, yes, but that didn’t mean a thing.

&nb
sp; “I’ll leave, Becca. But I’m going to take a huge leap of faith right now to tell you where I’m going. Or rather where I’m staying. Ten miles south of here, there’s a lavender farm. The farm is just outside Buttercup Valley, on the border of Crescent Falls. It’s called Organic Lavender Fields. Big, sprawling property owned by country bumpkins. They won’t recognize my face from the news. I don’t even think those folks own a TV.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the place. I’ve ordered ingredients from them for my Vanilla Lavender pie. But I wouldn’t be so quick to stereotype. Could get you in a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m already in a lot of trouble. Heck, maybe they will recognize my mug and turn me in. But that’s the chance I have to take. I hope you’ll come to me there, Becca.” Marcus’s eyes lowered to my lips, as I feared that he would kiss me. And feared that he wouldn’t. His lips parted sensually as mine instinctively did the same. But he just drank in the sight of my lips without making any contact. I puffed my breath out slowly, trying not to be devastated that he hadn’t kissed me.

  “Come to me so I can kiss you and show you the man I really am,” Marcus implored as I nodded uncertainly.

  “You should go now,” I murmured, taking a step back.

  “I am going now. And I hope this won’t be the last time I see you. I’ll be at the farm until tomorrow at midnight. If you don’t come to me by then, I’ll have to move on. It won’t be safe for me to stay in Washington. Soon enough, the cops will realize I’m not in Canada and start searching here again. So before they can find me…come to me, Becca.”

  Chapter 7

  I tried not to stare at the empty doorway as Marcus departed my shop, and an unseasonable draft blew in. Shaking my shoulders as though I could physically remove the impact of the man, I grabbed my purse and headed to the market. The simple act of shopping for fresh produce and dough ingredients would take my mind off that disturbing phantom of a man. Or at least I hoped it would.

  Arriving at the open air market five minutes later, I took a deep breath and tried again to compose myself. But Marcus’s voice and the sweet way he said my name just wouldn’t let me be at peace. Tightening my lips in silent self-fury, I hurled myself out of the car and over to a grocer selling organic apples. I grabbed a brown paper bag and stuffed it full of tart green apples for my new Glazed Sweetheart pie. Then I grabbed five dozen bananas and threw them with force into another bag. Mortified, I watched as the bag split open and the bananas tumbled onto the blacktop.

  “Easy there, miss! Now you’ve gone and bruised all those ripe bananas! You’ll still be paying for them!” The tawny haired merchant shouted more gruffly than I thought was necessary.

  Tempted to invite him to Deep Dish Delights just so I could throw a pie in his grimacing face, I merely smiled and picked up the bananas with as much dignity as I could muster. “Of course I’m going to buy them sir. Just ring me up. I’m in a rush.”

  Scowling, he weighed my apples on a scale and calculated my total on an old fashioned adding machine with receipt paper. “That’ll be $26,” he announced harshly.

  “Here you go.” I pieced together the exact change from my wallet and resisted the urge to throw the bills in his face. If the curmudgeon knew what I had gone through the day before, he might have had a little more sympathy.

  I hurried back to the shoppe, all the while Marcus’s plea for me to come to him replaying in my memory like an endless roll of film of the same photograph. Thinking of how appalled my sister---and any sane person---would be by the fact that I was entertaining any thoughts at all about my captor, I shoved the images aside for the umpteenth time and prepared to channel my energy into some serious baking.

  My mother, Susannah, had taught me to bake before I even started Kindergarten. As a tot, I delighted in licking the sugary batter off the electric egg beaters and decorating homemade cupcakes with sprinkles and fondant designs. She taught me the luxurious fruit strudel and chocolate layer cake recipes that her German-born mother had passed on to her as I eagerly served as apprentice all the way until high school graduation. Instead of going to culinary school and following my dream, I took the traditional route and worked a series of stale office jobs until my mother had a scare with a heart murmur. She recovered and started an exercise regimen, but the reality of losing her stayed fresh in my mind. In her living honor, I opened up Deep Dish Delights. I didn’t see her much anymore, but she was very proud of my pie shoppe and stopped by about once a month for a cup of tea and a taste of one of my latest creations.

  “Susannah’s Smooth Lemon Chiffon Pie,” I murmured to myself. “Great name for a new recipe.” I smiled as I pulled into the small parking lot of Deep Dish Delights, proud of myself for already redirecting my energy into my beloved business.

  I unlocked the front door, surprised that Lori hadn’t come in yet. But then again it was still early, as I had woken up at the crack of dawn. My sleep had been restless, peppered with nightmares I couldn’t remember and was sure I would want to forget. Unloading the grocery bags in the kitchen, I felt the iPad calling me to search for Marcus’s name, but I dismissed the impulse. Maybe this evening after closing time, I could take a peek at whatever information there was about him on the internet. For now, I had a whole lot of baking and (hopefully!) selling to do.

  ***

  “Don’t you think it’s time you headed home?” Lori asked me wearily later that evening, pointing to the wall clock that read 9:15 pm.

  “Not yet. I want to work on the books a little before I head home. But you go ahead…back to your place, I mean. You don’t need to babysit me for another night. I’ll be fine,” I persuaded, rubbing my temples despite my best efforts to appear perky.

  “Are you sure? Because I’d be glad to stay with you. You’re acting like nothing’s happened, Becca. Have you even spoken to Mom?”

  “No, but she doesn’t know about this, does she?” I asked, momentarily alarmed thinking of our mother’s weak heart.

  “No, I didn’t want to upset her when you were missing. She doesn’t know anything. But it wouldn’t hurt you to give her a call once in a while,” Lori said pertly as she settled disapproving eyes on my exhausted face.

  “Don’t hassle me right now, Lori. I’ll call her when I’m feeling calmer. Right now, she would hear the tension in my voice, and it would only freak her out. Now, come on, go on home!” I shooed her away, waving a gingham dish towel in her direction as she sighed.

  “Alright, I’m going. But I’m keeping my cell ringer on. Call me if you need ANYTHING! Promise?”

  “I promise, big sis,” I joked as she shook her head in a maternal way, and my heart melted, imagining her someday as a mother.

  “I promise,” I said softly as she nodded resolutely and drifted out the door.

  In earnest, I tried to work on the books, calculating my sales for the month of May and for the second fiscal quarter of the year. With the exception of my Mother’s Day mishap, sales were meaty, and momentarily I daydreamed about opening a second pie shoppe in a neighboring town. I’ll be a pie empress, I thought, building my own empire from graham cracker crust and mousse filling. After poring over my sales for a solid hour, I felt again inexorably drawn to my iPad to see just who Marcus Briton really was. The clock was ticking, and soon he would be leaving the Organic Lavender Fields for some unknown hideaway.

  Slowly, I walked to the front counter and pressed the power button on my iPad despite my misgivings. As the neon light of the screen flashed in my weary eyes, I felt as though I had just made an irreversible decision that would change my life forever. As I typed “Marcus Briton” into the Google search engine, this notion of destiny became even more potent.

  The first several articles that came up made my blood curdle. I clicked on one from the San Francisco Gazette and felt ill as I read the details of the murder.

  Marcus Briton has been sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole for the gruesome stabbing murder of his estranged wife, Caitlyn Bri
ton. The victim was stabbed more than 20 times in an attack so brutal it has left even seasoned homicide detectives in shock. A grand jury convicted Briton of the heinous crime after a grueling two weeks of testimony and evidence. Although the murder weapon was never found, the jury apparently found the circumstantial evidence of the case sufficient to convict Briton.

  I reread the last sentence, troubled by the tidbit about the knife not having been recovered. Sure, the spouse was usually the perpetrator when a violent murder like this was committed, but not always. Maybe Marcus was the exception. I scrolled down further and found the same article retold by different newspapers. Clicking onto the next page of results, I discovered an article from an independent news blog that sent my heart from palpitating to aching. Next to the article was a snapshot of Marcus in a white lab coat flanked by two beaming children.

  Pediatric resident physician Dr. Marcus Briton of Pacific Ocean Children’s Hospital has been convicted of murdering his wife, Caitlyn Briton. In the throes of a bitter divorce, Briton was found guilty of stabbing his soon to be ex-wife in a fit of rage over finances and possessions. The news comes as a shock to his colleagues at the hospital. Most people we interviewed refrained from commenting, but his mentor, Dr. Bill Townsend, pictured in the sidebar, issued this statement:

  “I’m in a state of shock right now. Marcus has been working under my supervision for the past two years since graduating with honors from Stanford Medical School. He’s one of the finest doctors---and men---I’ve ever known. I simply refuse to believe that he was responsible for this crime, and I hope he wins a retrial on appeal.”

  The candid support of the highly esteemed pediatrician Bill Townsend raises questions about the character of the convicted and further complicates a case that has inspired intense division on both sides…

  I swallowed hard, feeling a lump rise up in the base of my throat as I forced myself to read the rest of the article. In addition to the comment from Dr. Townsend, Marcus’s parents had issued impassioned statements proclaiming his innocence and dedication to the field of pediatric medicine. My heart softened at the knowledge that Marcus was a children’s doctor.