the chief had already returned. Instead of the man he expected to see, an elderly woman with jet black hair approached. She placed a tall cake on the end of the desk and called out, “Yoohoo, Chief Benedict?”
As if there were many places in this building to hide.
“He’s not here!” Blake called.
The woman walked toward him, smiling a wrinkly, false-toothed grin. “Oh, you must be Blake Pierce.”
“I am.” It was a small town. He imagined everyone knew who he was and what he’d been accused of.
“I knew your mother,” the crone said. “Haven’t seen her for years.”
“Small world.”
“Not really,” she said, shaking her head.
Blake shifted his head and looked at the cake sitting on the chief’s desk. After three days of bologna, water, and white bread, he was dying for something tasty. “What kind of cake is that?”
“Caramel,” she said.
His favorite. His mother wasn’t much of a cook, but she’d been a decent enough baker. She’d made caramel cake for every holiday. “You could sneak me a piece,” he said with a smile.
She smiled coyly. “Oh, should I? It doesn’t seem right.” Her head cocked to one side. “But you know, your mother gave me that recipe, not long before she left town. Maybe it would be okay if I let you try it out.”
She walked back to the outer room, was out of sight for a moment, then returned with a paper plate and plastic fork. She cut the cake with a long knife she’d brought with her. If he could get his hands on that knife…
With the plate balanced carefully in fragile, veiny hands she returned to him. It was difficult for her to lean down far enough to make use of the opening in the bottom of the cell, but she managed.
Blake didn’t stop thinking of ways to get hold of her knife, but those thoughts took a back seat to his desire for that cake.
The old woman walked back into the outer room, as Blake took the cake and sat on the edge of his cot. He smelled it. Touched the icing with his tongue and almost melted in pleasure. Finally, something with flavor!
The old woman pulled a chair around and placed it where she could sit and watch him eat. Unfortunately she was too far away from him to grab, but he’d worry about that after he ate.
Using the plastic fork, he dug in. God, it was a good cake. Just like his mother’s. He took one bite and then another, and then another, and as he ate he forgot all about escape. For now.
When he looked up, he was surprised to see that the old woman’s smile was gone. “I don’t bake much anymore,” she said. “My oven is always broken, and no one wants me to bake. For today, Ginger made an exception and allowed me to use her oven. I thought it was quite nice of her.”
“This is fantastic,” he said. “Just like my mother’s.”
The woman pursed her lips. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
The accusation came out of nowhere; he hadn’t been expecting it. His initial response was a grunt.
“You can tell me,” she said. “My mind isn’t what it used to be, and I know I won’t live out the year. Who’s going to believe me, even if I tell? I can’t say I blame you. Wanda Bolton could be a bitch.”
“Her death was a tragic accident.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Blake shrugged his shoulders, then licked the crumbs that were left on his plate. “She shouldn’t have nagged me so much.”
“Yes, it’s surely all her own fault.” His visitor leaned forward. “You didn’t even ask my name.”
What difference did it make? Again, he shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m Frannie Smith. For several years I was mayor, but then as I said my mind began to fail me and I thought it best to resign. Lucky for me, this has been a good day. It’s one I want to remember.” Then she smiled again and said, “Why don’t you slide that paper plate out to me so I can dispose of it. We wouldn’t want Chief Benedict to know that I’ve been feeding you unapproved food.”
He did as she asked, hoping she’d move close enough to the bars that he could reach out and snag her thin, fragile arm. Unfortunately, she used the toe of her foot to snag the edge of the plate and slide it closer.
When that was done she took a garbage bag from her purse, dropped the plate and fork inside, and