The Case of the Waffling Warrants

by Rosie A. Point

  I chose not to reply. My tongue was barbed and tasted of coffee this morning. And I just didn’t get it. Josie had been meeting with Brick, betraying her friend Tina and shutting her out. Bridget had been pushing Tina for money. Mandy was apparently Tina’s bestest friend in the world. There had to be an answer that made sense.

  My brain felt like a sodden sponge.

  “Mind getting out there and pouring coffees, Charlie?” Lauren asked, gently.

  “Yeah. Right, of course. Sorry.” I grabbed a full coffee pot and pushed out of the swinging kitchen doors. The guests were seated at their tables, chatting pleasantly, except for one. Opal stood beside Mandy’s table, her arms folded and her face a thunderhead.

  Uh oh. What’s that about?

  I made my way over, trying not to be obvious about it, stopping to fill coffee mugs on the fly.

  “—think you’re something special now. You’re going to fail, just like you did before,” Opal growled.

  Mandy offered her an arrogant grin in return. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you well, Opal. You’ve aged about ten years in the last ten seconds.”

  “How dare you! You horrible little witch. You think that—”

  “Everything all right here?” I asked, stopping next to their table.

  Opal didn’t reply.

  “Everything’s perfect, thank you. Though, I could use some coffee.” Mandy was the cat that got the cream this morning. She wore a long black dress, modestly cut, and was practically purring as she shifted her mug toward the edge of the table. “Opal was telling me how excited she is about my new acquisition.”

  “I was doing no such thing.”

  “Acquisition?” I asked.

  “Why yes. I’m taking over The Bread Factory. Mrs. Rogers sold it to me because she’s struggling to keep up with the cost of running the place, and I was more than happy to help her. The poor woman didn’t even charge me that much for it.” Mandy sighed.

  I blinked, trying to absorb that information into the brain sponge upstairs. Mandy had bought The Bread Factory. That was… good? Bad? Suspicious. I wasn’t even sure anymore.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Opal put in, touching two fingers to my forearm. “Mandy’s last business failed. Isn’t that right, Mandy? You failed in business. That’s the reason you returned to Gossip.”

  “I returned to Gossip because of Mr. Tindell’s passing,” Mandy replied, sharply. “It had nothing to do with business.”

  “So why not come for the funeral and then leave afterward?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Mandy said, her gaze flickering my way. “But for reference, if you must know, Mr. Tindell was a family friend and his death reminded me of what I’m missing out on here. A life with my family and friends.”

  “Liar.” Opal rolled up the sleeves of her cotton shirt. “You’re a liar.”

  “OK, that’s enough,” I said, finally bringing myself to the present. “Come on, break it up. People are trying to enjoy their breakfasts.”

  “How dare you talk to me like that!” Opal spun toward me.

  She was right. I’d forgotten my “sweet maid” filter thanks to exhaustion. Also “how dare you” was Opal’s favorite phrase.

  “You,” Opal said, pointing a finger in the vicinity of my chest, “will not talk to me like that. You’re just a lowly maid. I’ll report you to your boss.”

  I considered my options. If I grabbed this woman’s finger and twisted it I’d get in a lot of trouble. But would the satisfaction of teaching her a very visceral lesson outweigh the costs? Probably.

  “There’s no need to get angry,” I said.

  Opal puffed up, extending her height so she towered over me.

  Note to self. Don’t tell an angry woman not to get angry.

  “You little—”

  A throat cleared, and Opal froze. She looked past me, and the fury drained from her face. She shrank back to her normal size, putting up a helpless smile and rearranging her ginger curls. “Oh, hello, Detective. I didn’t see you there.”

  Detective? Not this guy again. I turned toward the dining room’s archway, and there he was. Detective Goode with his lanyard around his neck.

  He nodded to me. “Have a minute, Miss Smith?”

  This is going to be bad.

  25

  Detective Goode led the way, another point that annoyed me, and stopped in front of the library door. “Can we talk in here?” he asked, gesturing to it.

  “Sure. Why not? We can talk anywhere you want.”

  “Good.”

  I gritted my teeth. I’d walked right into that one. Either Goode was incredibly annoying or I was tired or it was a combination of both.

  We entered my favorite spot in the inn and the detective took a seat in an armchair, gesturing for me to do the same. Cocoa Puff had planted himself on the arm of one of the chairs, so I chose that one, and stroked him, his fur soft and warm. I’d brought the coffee pot in with me, so I shoved it onto the coffee table.

  Deep breaths. Don’t attack an officer of the law. Sheesh, what is with me today? Why does this guy bother me so much?

  “What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

  “We’ve gone over what you saw at the police station on the day of Tina’s death,” Detective Goode said, “but there are some discrepancies between your account and Officer Miller’s. I wanted to clarify a few things.”

  “OK. What discrepancies?”

  “Timing. Whether you signed in or not. Things that were said. That kind of thing.”

  I glared at him. “You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with this. I arrived after Tina had been killed. Surely, your medical examiner would know that?”

  Detective Goode had a great poker face. “Are you going to cooperate with my questions, Miss Smith?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s begin. I’d like you to walk me through exactly what happened. From start to finish. The more detail you give, the better.”

  “Is this an interrogation?” I asked. “You haven’t read me my rights. If I’m under arrest, I want a lawyer.”

  “Why would you assume that?” Goode’s smile was wry. “Miss Smith, I’m talking to you because you’re a witness. There’s no other reason. I need to get my timeline straight.”

  “Then you think Officer Miller is lying?”

  “Let’s start from the top.” Detective Goode’s continuing grin sent my blood pressure through the roof.

  But I had no choice. I had to cooperate. If I didn’t, it would make things worse for me.

  Thankfully, Detective Goode hadn’t kept me for too long. He’d made me recount my statement, asked me a few questions, then thanked me for my time, all with that frustrating grin on his handsome face.

  No. Not handsome. Annoying.

  Lauren and I finished up the breakfast service without much trouble. Mandy and Opal had retreated to their corners, and the food had gone down as well as it always did. Eggs, bacon, sausages, biscuits and gravy, grits, but with nothing sweet afterward because of the flour shortage. The chef had refused to even consider using the flour we’d found upstairs. I didn’t blame her.

  I removed the last of the plates from an empty table then entered the kitchen through the swinging doors.

  “I don’t care, Billy.” Lauren clutched her phone to her ear. “I want the number. Give me the number. Billy, I swear, if you don’t give me the number I’m going to come down there and make your life miserable. Do not mess with a pregnant woman.”

  I washed off the plates while the argument continued and stacked them in the dishwasher. Everyone was in a foul mood today. A dark cloud hanging over the inn?

  “Good. Yeah, I’ve got a pen.” Lauren snatched one up from next to her recipe book and wrote down something at the top of the page. It had to be serious if she was willing to desecrate her recipe book like this. “Got it. Yeah, yeah. Bye!” She hung up and practically tossed her phone aside. “Finally!”

 
“What’s that?” I asked.

  “That is the address of the Gossip Stoneground Flour Mill,” Lauren said. “They’re the ones who supply Billy, and since Billy’s the one who supplies me, he didn’t want to give out their details. Apparently, the number is top secret but he caved on giving me the address. Now, I get to go down there and give them a piece of my mind about not supplying him with any flour.” Lauren clutched her head and let out a breath.

  “Lauren? Are you OK?”

  “Fine,” she said, running a shaking hand through her bright red hair. “I’m fine. I’m just not good with all this stress. Josie’s been acting strange lately, and the whole affair thing with Brick got under my skin, and the flour… One of the many joys I have is making cupcakes for everybody, and I can’t even do that.”

  “Here. Sit down.” I guided her to a chair then fetched her a glass of ice cold water. “You work too hard, Laur. You need to take some time for yourself. Relax.”

  “What I need to do is go down there and ask them what they think they’re doing,” Lauren said. “Selling out all the flour to someone else. Crazy.” She sipped her water.

  “No. Let me do it. Trust me, I could use the escape from the inn.” And the escape from my thoughts. It was true that the best ideas came in the shower or moments before one fell asleep. When you were completely distracted.

  And since I’d been on the brink of falling into a dead coma all morning, I was liable to come up with the next great invention. Or make a deduction about the case that would help us work out who’d killed Tina.

  Gun. Bars. Officer Miller wasn’t at his post. Not Bridget? Maybe Bridget. If not, then who? How did they get back in? Why? Mandy’s bought the bakery. Mrs. Rogers?

  The disconnected thoughts drifted through my mind, and I shook my head to clear it.

  “Seriously. let me handle this.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Lauren asked. “You’ve got so much on your plate already, and I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re the one who has a lot on her plate. I’ll take care of the supplier, find out what’s going on, and press them for an answer on when you’ll get another shipment of flour.”

  “You’re a hero, Charlie.”

  I wanted to swell with pride, but I didn’t have it in me. So far, I wasn’t a hero. I was a two-bit sleuth without a clue. And there was still a murderer on the loose.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said, stripping off my apron. “Tell Georgina I’ll catch up with her when I’m back, OK? And that I took the Mini-Cooper again.” And then I was off. Hopefully, to solve at least one of the mysteries the inn had cooked up for me.

  26

  The Gossip Stoneground Flour Mill was situated on the outskirts of town, along the river that ran past it. A brick building bearing the name of the mill in bold print across its side, it looked inviting for a place that made flour. And it was bigger than I’d expected.

  I parked my grandmother’s Mini-Cooper in an open spot in front of the doors and stifled a yawn. This would be a nice break from the investigation and the constant mental torture about who might’ve done what.

  In essence, my suspect list had been reduced to zero, and I needed to figure out who had bought a gun and suppressor recently. But calling the gun shop in the neighboring town would likely raise suspicions since Detective Goode would’ve looked into that line of investigation already.

  The last thing I needed was another visit from the detective.

  I opened the cutesy wooden door of the mill, painted forest green, and found the reception area empty except for a young woman with a round face who sat behind a desk bearing the mill’s signage. The reception area was carpeted, the brick walls exposed.

  “Hello there,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you today?”

  “I’m here to lodge a complaint and talk to the owner of the mill. Or the manager. Whoever’s here.”

  “Oh! Oh, OK. I’m sorry about the complaint. I-I, uh, give me a second. I’ll get the manager for you.” The receptionist pushed up from the desk and hurried through a back door.

  I waited, circling the room and checking out the pictures on the walls—images from the original establishment of the mill as well as pictures of the staff in action.

  The door opened, and the receptionist returned, wringing her hands. She was followed by a lanky gentleman with a bushy mustache. He wore an apron and a plaid shirt.

  “I hear you have a complaint, ma’am?”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, extending a hand. “My name is Charlotte Smith. I’m from the Gossip Inn. You might’ve heard of it?”

  “I have. Milton Bragg.” He had a firm handshake, dry as the flour he milled. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Our chef usually gets flour from her supplier, Billy.”

  “Oh sure, I know Billy. He’s a buyer of ours.”

  “Right,” I continued, “except Billy doesn’t have any flour. He’s told us that you’re refusing to sell to him.”

  “It’s not so much that we’re refusing to sell to him,” Milton replied, “it’s more that we don’t have flour to sell at the moment. We’re in the process of packaging more, so the flour supply should be back to normal next week.” He removed a card from the pocket of his shirt and handed it over. “You can reach me here and buy directly from us if you want to get around your issues with Billy.”

  “Billy’s not the issue per se. It’s that there’s no flour this week. What happened?”

  Milton cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “We, uh, well, that was the owner’s decision.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We had a woman come in and convince the owner of the mill to give her our current flour stock. She was offering to pay way above the usual rate. Way above. And he went for it. I didn’t have a say, unfortunately, in the deal.” Frustration laced his words.

  “A woman,” I said. “Do you know what her name was?”

  “Jonas or something, right, Shelly?”

  The receptionist nodded from behind the desk, sitting straight-backed and paying keen attention to our conversation.

  “Jonas. Her last name was Jonas.” As in Brick Jonas? Brick’s not married.

  “That was the name she gave. I think,” Milton said. “Like I said, I wasn’t involved in the deal. My part comes in filling the demand that we didn’t meet.”

  “What did she look like, if I may ask?” A sneaking suspicion had descended upon me. Suddenly, my brain didn’t feel as spongy and waterlogged.

  “Dark hair?” Milton asked.

  “She had dark hair,” the receptionist put in, “and she was short, kind of plump. Really grumpy. Uh, yeah.”

  Josie. That’s Josie. I know a grumpy, plump, dark haired Josie when I hear her. “Was she wearing an apron by chance?”

  “Yeah. An apron with a smiling cartoon cake on the front.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate the information.” And headed for the exit, a fire officially lit under my booty.

  “Is that all?” Milton called. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you. This conversation has been exceedingly helpful.”

  I darted toward my grandmother’s Mini-Cooper, my mind focused on the facts. Josie had bought all the flour, and Josie would have known where to store it. In the attic at the Gossip Inn. But why use Brick’s last name? And why buy the flour in the first place?

  I had a hunch. I just had to check that I was right.

  27

  I burst through the front door of The Little Cake Shop, drawing shocked cries from the customers in the line in front of me.

  “Good heavens.” Mrs. Stilt, a local librarian, clasped her pearls to her throat. “Is there any need for that? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “We’re not in the library any more, grandma.” That had come from Archer, her grandson, who stood beside her, texting.

  I ignored them and strode to the
front of the line, zeroing in on the barista closest to me. She caught my eye and paled. I must’ve looked a sight, hair sticking up at odd ends, tired, and the whites of my eyes showing.

  “Hi,” I said, practically barking it out.

  She spilled cream from a pitcher, murmured under her breath and started mopping it up with napkins. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but there’s a line.”

  “A line?” Which line had I crossed this time? “Oh wait. Oh, you mean a queue? No, no, I’m not here for coffee. I want to know if Josie’s around.”

  “Of course. She’s in the office. But she’s requested that nobody disturb her. I’m afraid no one’s allowed back there.”

  I ignored the instruction and rounded the counter.

  “Miss! Excuse me, Miss? You can’t go back there. You can’t—”

  I burst through the office door, and Josie jumped at her desk, her hand flying to her throat. Her shock morphed into rage, immediately.

  “Who do you think you are, barging into my office like this?” she growled, rising from her seat. “I can have you arrested. I’ll call Officer Miller, right now and—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I swung the door shut in the face of the barista, who’d chased after me to no avail.

  “What?” That got her attention. “What are you talking about, you crazy freak?”

  “Officer Miller. He let you into the holding cell area after the last visitor, didn’t he?” I posed the question in an icy tone. “He let you in, and then you shot Tina through the bars in cold blood.”

  Josie went white as fondant. “She was sh-shot?”

  “Yeah, she was shot. And you know that she was shot because you did it,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Josie Jonas?”

  Josie jerked back a single step at the use of the name. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t shoot Tina.”

  “But you were trying to put her out of business,” I said, keeping the pressure up. “You bought all the supplies of flour from the mill that supplied her bakery.” It was a wild guess, but the way Josie recoiled told me it was true. “And you used Brick’s last name to hide your identity. Isn’t that right?”