The Case of the Waffling Warrants

by Rosie A. Point

And how well had Tina and Mandy known each other?

  I walked to the swinging kitchen doors with their porthole windows and peered out at the dining area.

  Folks had already gathered at their tables in anticipation of their meals. Soft light from the chandeliers overhead gave the room a warm appearance for dinner.

  Mandy sat at a table close to the window, its curtains now closed, sipping from a glass of water. I had gone out earlier to ensure the guests had the drinks they needed.

  “Say, Laur,” I said.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “What do you know about Mandy Gilmore?”

  “Mandy… hmm. She’s a regular old Gossip resident. Likes all the same things we do. Gossiping, food, and more gossiping.” Lauren’s temper flare over the flour had dissipated. She gave me one of her usual sweet smiles. “At least, she was a regular resident until she left.”

  “I heard about that. Any idea where she went when she left Gossip?”

  “Rumor has it that she went off to the big city. Dallas or Houston or somewhere to start her own business.”

  “What kind of business?” I asked.

  “That I don’t know, but it can’t have been successful if she’s back here so soon. She left like… a year ago, I think? I’m not sure of the timeline.”

  I fell silent, tightening my apron straps and considering it. Funny. A few years ago, the thought of apron straps and serving people who may or may not have been small town murderers would’ve been laughable.

  “I heard her talking to Detective Goode earlier today. About a funeral of some sort.”

  “Oh?” Lauren asked. “Maybe she was talking about Tina’s funeral.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “But the way she was talking kind of made it sound like Tina would be attending the funeral too. Has anyone died recently that you know of? Someone popular in town?”

  “Now, let me think.” Lauren opened the oven door and checked her lasagna a second time. “I guess Mr. Tindell died a week ago. Old age. He was well-liked in the community, but I don’t see why Tina or Mandy would’ve gone to the funeral.”

  “Interesting. Were Tina and Mandy friends?”

  “Oh yeah, I’d say so. They went to high school together.”

  “With Josie,” I said.

  “Yeah. With Josie,” Lauren replied. “They graduated the same year. I think Josie has an old yearbook lying around with their messages.”

  “So they were super close?”

  “Not super close, no. They weren’t best friends or anything, but they probably hung out? I don’t know. They’re older than me, so I’m not part of that crowd. I have my little family to spend time with.” Lauren smiled, flattening her apron over her pregnant belly. “And the ghost in the basement.”

  Oh boy. Don’t get sucked into that again. “OK. Thanks. I guess what I’m wondering is why Mandy would’ve visited Tina at the station because of Mr. Tindell’s death.”

  “I don’t know why. I don’t think she would have but…”

  “You don’t know for sure. Thanks, Lauren. Sorry for pressuring you about this stuff.”

  “No way, Charlie. Whatever I can do to help.”

  She meant apart from me accusing her sister of course. Never anger a pregnant lady with murder accusations leveraged at her siblings. And never dispute the existence of ghosts in her basement. Or touch her recipe book.

  There were a lot of “nevers” to take into account when it came to pregnant women. Not that I blamed Lauren. If I’d had what was effectively a parasite inside my body, feeding off everything I ate, I’d have been grumpy too.

  Good thing that parasite would end up being a cute baby like Tyke.

  “Lasagna’s ready!” Lauren called, triumphantly, and removed the dishes from the oven. She set them on the countertop to cool, while I lined up plates.

  We served a set menu based on what Lauren felt like serving every day, and it always went down a treat with the guests. But Lauren was careful to ask about allergies and dietary restrictions so that she considered everyone’s needs.

  “Are you going to be seeing your sister again soon?” I asked Lauren, as we dished up the slices of lasagna.

  “Oh, some time, I imagine. We’ve been busy lately, her with what happened at the bakery and me here. But whenever we catch up, it’s like we saw each other yesterday. That’s how it is with siblings, isn’t it?”

  “Josie’s at the bakery every day, right?”

  “Sure is. She’s a hard worker.”

  I made a mental note of it. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’d be back at the bakery. Josie had lied to me, and I wanted answers.

  11

  The following morning…

  * * *

  I parked my grandmother’s Mini-Cooper across the street from Josie’s bakery, the sign on the front door now reading “OPEN” in bold lettering. A line of hungry patrons extended from within the bakery and down the sidewalk outside. The door had been wedged open so they could queue without obstruction.

  Which was fascinating, really, because Tina’s bakery wasn’t doing as well.

  While The Bread Factory was open down the street, it had suffered a serious lack of leadership. Mrs. Rogers, who had taken over from her daughter, was struggling to keep up, and there were less and less folks going to get their bread from the bakery as a result.

  So, whether Josie had murdered Tina or not, she had directly benefited from her death.

  I opened my case notes on my phone and went through them, adding information here or there.

  Victim Name: Tina Rogers.

  Victim Detail: Baker. In legal trouble. Hired me to prove her innocence—accused of breaking into The Little Cake Shop owned by Josie Carlson.

  Cause of Death: Murder. Weapon unknown. Potentially poisoning. Confirmation required.

  Suspects

  Josie Carlson

  Mandy Gilmore

  Bridget Willows

  Evidence

  Glove embroidered specially for Tina found in Josie’s bakery.

  Brownie at crime scene.

  Mary Moosmin? This is the one who made the gloves.

  Links

  Josie owned a bakery. Brownie was found next to the victim’s hand.

  Tina’s glove was found in Josie’s bakery. Tina claimed the glove wasn’t hers.

  Someone who visited Tina must’ve killed her.

  Connection of Tina’s “crime” to the murder?

  Questions

  Who baked the brownies?

  Did the brownies contain poison?

  What was the cause of death?

  What did Officer Miller hear?

  Who was the owner of the glove found in Josie’s bakery if not Tina?

  What was Mandy talking about to Detective Goode? What funeral?

  Why did Mandy visit Tina?

  Why did Josie lie about visiting Tina?

  And why did Bridget Willows, head of the Gossip Sewing Club, visit Tina?

  I had so many questions and so few answers. Frustrating.

  “You won’t find out anything else sitting around here.” It was what my grandmother would’ve said to me. Gamma wanted to help with the case, and would, I’d bet my last waffle cupcake on it, but she had a kitten foster center to run and convert into a cat hotel. An ambitious endeavor.

  I got out of the car and headed across the street to the bakery.

  I squished past the folks queuing, ignoring the complaints about cutting the line, and moved to the front counter.

  Josie’s bakery helpers stood behind it, selling the glistening baked goods kept beneath the glass countertops, and making coffees to order.

  “Excuse me,” I said, waving at one of them. “Is Josie around?”

  “She’s in the office in the back,” the woman said, barely glancing up from the coffee machine.

  The office door was shut, but I moved around the side of the counter, ignoring a sharp look shot at me from a barista, and knocked on it.

  Silen
ce.

  I knocked again.

  “What?” Josie’s voice snapped from inside. “I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  I opened the door and entered a cramped office. A filing cabinet, desk, computer, and two chairs were squished into the tiny carpeted space with a single window on the back wall. The blinds hanging over it needed replacing. While cramped, it wasn’t dirty. Clearly, Josie cared about her business.

  But were times tough? The decor in here was in need of updating. The computer was straight out of the age of the dinosaurs.

  “What are you doing here?” Josie asked, glaring at me over the top of her computer screen. “I’m busy.”

  “I imagine you are,” I said, with a quick smile. “It’s packed out there. Business going great?”

  “Yes,” Josie replied, almost defiantly. “We were closed for a few days. People missed out on our food, so they want to get it while it’s hot.”

  “Seems like you’ve picked up new clientele.”

  “And so?” Josie blew out a breath. “Look, I’m not interested in playing games or answering questions. I have things to do. So, if you would get out of—”

  “You lied to me, Josie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lied to me.” I grabbed the rickety chair in front of her desk and pulled it out, then sat down. Channel Georgina. That’s the only way. “About Tina.”

  Josie’s expression froze, as if she was afraid to change it. A mask she’d put up for fear of being exposed?

  The more I looked at this case and all the evidence attached, the surer I became that Josie was involved. The murderer? Maybe. But there was a secret to be uncovered here.

  “What about Tina?” Josie asked.

  It was common, during interrogations, for the interrogator to become confrontational. Ask a question just like I had. Tell the suspect that they had lied. An innocent person would usually call out the confrontation. They would be outraged by the mere suggestion that they had done something wrong.

  And the guilty person?

  They would deflect. Or try to seem innocent. They wouldn’t point out the confrontation.

  I let Josie’s question hang in the air while I considered her.

  “What about Tina?” she repeated.

  No denial of the lie.

  “You told me that the last time you saw Tina was a few days ago. But I have it on good authority that you saw her on the morning of her death. That you visited her at the police station.”

  Josie whitened, but didn’t talk.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you saw her that morning?”

  “Well, uh. I didn’t realize I’d seen her that morning.” Josie forced a laugh. “I don’t keep track of who I talk to and when. As you can tell, I’m, uh, I’m a very busy woman.”

  And I’m Santa Claus. “Right. But wouldn’t you say that when you last saw Tina would be a memorable event? Not only had she been murdered but she was the one who broke into your bakery, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Josie said, squeaking around in her office chair. “I’m waiting for the cops to tell me whether that’s the case or not.”

  “OK. But you would remember, right?”

  “Look, I’m a busy woman,” Josie repeated, roughly this time. “And I’m sure Lauren wouldn’t appreciate you harassing me like this. I thought you were supposed to be helping figure out who broke into my bakery? What’s this got to do with whether Tina did it or not?”

  “Everything,” I said, rising from my seat. “What did you and Tina talk about at the police station?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Seriously. You don’t remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember,” Josie said. “It can’t have been important.”

  “You don’t remember talking to the woman who allegedly broke into your bakery, vandalized it, and stole from you?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  I stared at Josie for a hot minute, but she didn’t give me anything else.

  “I have work to do.” Josie tried for her usual bossy attitude, but it fell flat.

  “Right.” I nodded. “Enjoy your work.” And then I left.

  I wasn’t going to get anything else out of Josie today, and I had other leads to follow. Like where the brownies had come from, and why Officer Miller had let them get to Tina in the holding cell.

  12

  The Gossip Police Station was a single story building, the flag flying on the front lawn. It was pretty as a peach on the outside. White, with glass doors, and a view of the reception area inside, one would’ve been excused for thinking it was a nice place to be.

  I parked my grandmother’s Mini-Cooper in a space out front then exited into the morning sunshine. My goal was simple.

  Get in there, schmooze with Officer Miller to get him to tell me who had given Tina the brownies, and avoid Detective Goode’s notice at all costs.

  I couldn’t afford to get on his bad side on purpose.

  The whole “don’t leave town” spiel he’d given me had made it clear that I was a suspect, and though I didn’t necessarily have a cover to blow anymore because I was retired, I still didn’t want to draw attention to the inn in a negative light. Or my grandmother.

  A few people passed by on the sidewalk, recognized me, and greeted.

  I loved that about small towns. There was such a sense of community. A welcome and feeling of safety, even when there was a murderer on the loose.

  I walked up the front steps and headed into the reception area. The woman behind the worn wood desk looked up from her computer, dark half-moons under her eyes. She was washed out and pale, hair gray and frizzy. “Hello honey,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m looking for Officer Miller. Is he around?”

  “Sure, he is. I’ll call him out here for you.” The receptionist picked up the receiver on her desk phone and punched a few buttons. “Greg? Yeah, I’ve got a young lady here to see you. Sure. One sec.” She covered the receiver. “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Charlotte Smith.”

  “It’s Charlotte Smith. Would you—? Oh, great. OK.” She hung up the receiver. “He’ll be out in a sec.”

  “Thank you.” I backed away from the receptionist, leaving her to her work, and peered out of the glass front doors. Bathed in sunlight, a perfect Gossip day, with people going about their business in the streets with trees emerging from beds in the concrete, wrought iron benches and lampposts.

  Quiet.

  Nothing like my life had been once upon a time. The itch to keep busy would always be there, to be useful.

  “Miss Smith?” Officer Miller stopped next to me. “Is there a problem? Something you’d like to report?”

  There’s always a problem to fix in this town. “Would you mind stepping outdoors with me, please, Officer? I had a few questions. I’m kind of worried about something.” I put up my brightest smile and fluffed my short blonde hair—finally back to its natural color after an undercover stint last year.

  “Sure,” he said, cheeks pinking. “Sure, yeah. Sure. I can do that.”

  Another trick from my grandmother. Never be afraid to use your feminine wiles.

  We stepped out of the police station, and I led the way—down the steps, off to one side, onto the grass near the cute signboard bearing the name of the station.

  “What’s the problem, Miss Smith?” Officer Miller—in his early forties with a few gray hairs, a full head of dark hair, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken. He had a scar above his left eyebrow that was white against his tan skin.

  “I had a few questions about what happened to Tina Rogers.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That. Man, I’ve been hearing a lot about that lately. A lot more than I’d like to hear.”

  “Did you get in any trouble for what happened?”

  Officer Miller shrugged.

  “Look, I know this might be a little out there, but I need some help, Officer. You see, befo
re she died, Tina wanted me to figure out what happened at The Little Cake Shop. She told me that she was innocent and that someone had set her up.” Honesty felt like the best policy in this instance. Officer Miller was a cop—he could smell manure a mile off, the verbal kind only I hoped.

  “OK?”

  “I know that there were people who visited her that morning, and I sure don’t expect you to tell me who they were, but the brownies…”

  Officer Miller didn’t say anything. He ran a hand over his forehead, fingers feeling the scar.

  “How did they get into the holding cell?”

  “I’m not allowed to talk about murder cases,” Officer Miller said. “Or investigations.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m not asking because of the murder case. I’m doing private research into what happened at The Little Cake Shop.” Officer Miller would have every right to tell me to get lost, right about now. “And it’s for Tina’s mother. Mrs. Rogers. You know her, don’t you?”

  Officer Miller nodded. “Mrs. Rogers is friends with my mom.”

  “Right. OK. Look, it’s the only question I have, and I promise I won’t bother you with anything else.”

  Officer Miller’s feeling of the scar intensified. “I wish I could tell you,” he said. “I really do, but, yeah. I don’t know how the brownies got in there to her. I made everybody sign in, and I searched them.”

  I cast my mind back to how Miller had searched me. A quick pat down that hadn’t exactly been thorough. It would’ve been easy to smuggle in a small package, hidden under my shirt, pressed flat, even taped to my torso.

  “So, you have no idea who brought them in for her either?” I asked.

  The brownies might not have been poisoned, but they were an important part of the investigation. The fact was, someone wanted to give Tina baked goods, or Tina had asked for them, and with the bakery information flying around, it had to be relevant.

  “No. I don’t know. Sorry.” Officer Miller glanced at the station. “I should go.”

  “Thanks, Officer.” I offered him a grateful smile.“I appreciate the help.”

  “Sure,” he replied. “But a word of advice, Miss Smith?”