Murder Gone A-Rye (A Baker's Treat Mystery) by Nancy J. Parra Page A

her muffin in her hand. “As I was saying last night before we got interrupted by Tasha and her sweet kid, no one is as untarnished as Homer Everett appeared to be. There are secrets there, and I intend to uncover them.”
    “Grandma, you need to let sleeping dogs lie. Have you learned nothing from Lois’s death?”
    “Huh, what good investigative journalist lets secrets deadly enough to kill alone?” Grandma Ruth shook her carrot-top hair. “Nope. I fully intend to poke that dog with a stick.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Aunt Phyllis, talk to Grandma.”
    “Why?” she asked. “I’m all for uncovering the truth. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a boil is to lance it and let the bad stuff ooze out.”
    “Eww—stop with the nasty metaphors,” I said. “I’m baking here.”
    “Fine, let’s just say that it’s clear whatever I stumbled on is worthy of murder, and as long as the bad guys made me a suspect then I have the right to investigate further.” Grandma snagged another apple fritter.
    “Let’s make this simple.” I put my hands on my hips. “Where were you when Lois was murdered? Please tell me you have an alibi. It’s all you need, right?”
    “My alibi or lack thereof does not matter.” Grandma popped the apple fritter in her mouth and kept talking. “I believe that Lois was murdered because she knew things about the mysterious murder of Homer’s best pal, Champ Rogers.”
    “Wait, I’m confused—I thought Champ disappeared.” I scooted in closer and put my elbows on the table, cradling my chin.
    “Oh, yes. Well, he was reported missing, Homer organized a countywide search for his best friend. Eventually Champ was found dead in a picnic area near the lake. It was a big mystery. He was shot in the back of the head at close range, but the murder weapon was never found.” Grandma reached for another apple fritter. “I investigated as best I could, but things weren’t as easy back then as they are now.”
    “I remember how scared everyone was that a killer was on the loose.” Phyllis cut another bite with her fork. “Mayor Everett demanded that the killer be found and brought to justice. It seemed that the more he stormed and fussed, the colder the investigation got. After a few months and no further murders, people went about their lives and forgot about it.”
    “Except for Paul Abernathy,” Grandma Ruth said with her mouth full. “He was the doctor who did the autopsy. He spent the rest of his life going over the details of the case, but without a murder weapon or fingerprints there was little he could deduce.”
    “I remember.” Phyllis took a sip of her coffee. “He would visit all the suspects once a year on the anniversary of the murder and ask questions.”
    “How long did he do that?” I asked.
    “Nearly thirty years,” Phyllis said. “I think he hoped someone would come clean on their death bed. But whoever did it took the deed to their grave with them.”
    “So they hoped,” Grandma said, stopping long enough to wash down her fritters with the dregs of her coffee. She put down her empty cup and slid it toward me. “More, dear.”
    I got up and went to the large silver pot that I used for catering, but which mostly hung out in the bakery kitchen ready for any member of my oversized family to visit. I pushed the spigot down, and the rich dark liquid poured out, filling the room with the fragrance of organic coffee. “Let me guess, you found something no one else could find on Champ’s murder.”
    “Of course I did.” Grandma sat back, her eyes shining with pride. “I found the murder weapon.”
    I turned quickly, sloshing the coffee. “What do you mean you found the murder weapon?”
    “We’re pretty certain we found it. Right, Ruth?” Phyllis asked, leaning toward Grandma.
    “There are too many coincidences if it isn’t the right one,” Grandma said, spitting crumbs.
    “Okay, you two. Where is the mystery murder weapon and what does it have to do with