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

Amber Alert was issued. Then the toll gate operators were issued a warning and a picture of the missing child in hopes that they could stop an abduction at the gate.
    “Oh my god! The turnpike!” Tasha nearly leapt out of her seat.
    I put my hand on her shoulder and pressed her back into the chair. “I’m sure they issued an Amber Alert the moment you called 911.”
    “Yes, ma’am, they did.” The officer’s brown gaze was warm with concern, and it seemed to calm Tasha. “Please, finish your story. You were texting a coworker around three P.M. , and when you looked up your son was gone?”
    “Yes.” Tears welled in her eyes again. “I looked up and he was gone. Just . . . gone.”
    “Please try to remember exactly what you did.”
    “I jumped up and called his name.” She took in a ragged breath and blew it back out as if to collect her thoughts. “I looked around. I thought he might have been distracted by a bug or a small creature. You know how big the park is, and there aren’t many trees.”
    The Third Street Park was a full city block of meadow. There were soccer goals at one end of the field and a small playground set with swings, slide, and jungle gym at the other. My brothers and sisters and I had played in that park all the time when we were young. It was only half a mile away—far enough to create the illusion we were away from parental influence and yet close enough that when my brother Richard fell and broke his arm, Tim was able to run and tell Mom within five minutes.
    A wide open field, it wasn’t likely a boy Kip’s size and age could hide from his mom. Not that Kip would hide. His Asperger’s meant he hated surprises and therefore hated to play hide-and-seek. I used to feel sad that Kip never played the classic childhood game. But right now I was thankful we could rule out that he was simply hiding from his mother.
    “Have you had a fight lately?” Officer Bright asked.
    “Only the usual mother-son things,” Tasha answered, her fingers cupping the bowl of the brandy, warming it and throwing the scent into the air.
    “Such as?”
    “We always struggle with his transition times.”
    “Transition times?”
    “When Kip focuses on something it is difficult to make him put it away when it’s bath time or dinnertime or time for church . . . transitions.” Tasha’s voice broke.
    “I see. And did you fight before you went to the park?”
    “Are you implying that Kip ran away?” Her voice rose two octaves. “Because he would not. He’s ten and he has an autism spectrum disorder. For crying out loud—I’ve had the same car for nine years because he throws a fit if anything changes. The last thing he’d do is run away.”
    “Okay, all right, my job is to explore all possible avenues.” Officer Bright’s tone was deep and mellow and seemed to dampen Tasha’s anxiety whenever he spoke.
    The man was good. I’d have to give him that.
    “Did you check the house?” he asked. “Kip may have come home.”
    “Oh my god, no!” Tasha jumped up, shoved the brandy glass in my hands, and rushed up the stairs calling Kip’s name. We all held our collective breath, as if the sound of our breathing would mask a response. We could hear her opening and closing doors.
    “Kip? Kip!”
    “I doubt he’s here, Bright,” Tim said, his jaw tight. “But I’ll get my shoes on and start looking.”
    When Tim put on his shoes, I went into action, handing Grandma Ruth the brandy glass. “I’ll check the basement.”
    “I’ll check the carriage house.” Phyllis jumped up to help.
    “I’ll stay here near the phone,” Grandma Ruth said and tossed down the last of the brandy.
    I rushed into the kitchen and yanked the basement door open. “Kip? Kip, are you down here?” I hurried down the stairs into the cold darkness. The fact that the basement light was not on was not a good sign. Kip was not a fan of the dark.
    I reached for the dimmer switch and rotated it, illuminating the