Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  Not quite knowing what to say to that, Alexa smiled gently and nodded.

  “I told you yesterday, MacLaren,” Fred continued, “that Silvia and I were good friends. But we were more than that. I’m not afraid to let the world know that we were lovers.”

  At that bold announcement, my heart dropped into my stomach. Jack, unsmiling as well, stood back and cautioned me to do the same as Fred lifted the painting. We watched as he gingerly set it on a long counter that ran the length of the back wall. The potter turned to his friends.

  “I’m glad you brought this, MacLaren.”

  “Fred, I have to ask …” Jack looked at the potter with caution. “Have you seen this painting before?”

  “What?” He looked shocked. “Of course not. I sat for this last year. As much as I begged her to let me see it, Silvia just laughed and told me to be patient. She didn’t know then that she wouldn’t be alive to deliver it to me herself.” A sullen look crossed the potter’s face.

  “Fred, I’m cautioning you,” Jack said. “You might want to view this in private.”

  “Nonsense.” Fred was staring at the black cloth as if the painter herself stood before him. The poor man had no idea what he was in for. With a grin and a flourish, he yanked the cloth away, revealing Silvia’s parting gift.

  Alexa was the first to gasp. The shock on her face couldn’t have been manufactured.

  Jeffery let out a supplicating “Dude” and stared open-mouthed.

  Fred, poor Fred, stumbled backward and crashed into his potter’s wheel. “What the hell kind of sick joke is this, MacLaren?” he demanded. “That’s not what I sat for! That’s not Silvia’s work! She would never …”

  Fred, although in a full state of shock and denial, still had eyes, and they were telling him what his brain was unwilling to comprehend. While he backed away, Alexa and Jeffery came forward to study the exquisitely painted mockery. All three artists appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion at the same time, but it was Alexa who spoke first.

  “It’s her work, Fred. There are very few artists in the world who could replicate her style, and I highly doubt Officer MacLaren is one of them. This is an original.” She looked at her friend with palpable empathy. “Only I don’t understand why she did this.”

  Silence enveloped the studio as all eyes turned to the painting. My eyes were on the arts council members as they struggled to understand its meaning, or why the artist had targeted Fred for such a humiliation. Their behavior told me that the painting was unusual. Alexa and Jeffery were certainly aghast by it, but I had to wonder again if Fred hadn’t caught wind of it beforehand. After all, it didn’t require a membership in the Actors’ Guild to master a look of shock and anger. My eyes wandered the room, soaking up every detail until they settled on something very odd indeed. That’s when Fred threw back his head and started laughing.

  His laughter was loud and slightly unsteady. “The bitch,” he cried, still laughing so hard that his eyes were wet with tears. “The cruel old bitch. She meant to humiliate me in front of all my friends. But the joke’s on you, sweetheart. God love her,” he said, sobering up enough to stare at Alexa and Jeffery. “So haughty, so full of herself, so talented, so cruel, and yet it makes me love her even more.” And then Fred Beauchamp slumped onto his stool and burst into tears.

  Thirty-Four

  W hile Jack was dealing with the love-struck, tearful potter, I excused myself and went to inspect the back exit. I couldn’t believe it was just dangling there, suspended on the hand-painted keyholder alongside a set of car keys and a plethora of keys to other doors. It’s hard to miss a guest key from the Cherry Orchard Inn. The single silver key is unremarkable. The key ring, however, is a two-inch long oval with our logo printed on one side and the suite name on the other. It was the airy blue paint depicting the word Sailboat Suite that caught my eye.

  It was the missing key to Silvia’s room, and it just happened to be hanging on a hook in Fred’s pottery studio. I wasn’t exactly a trained professional, but I did know enough not to touch the key with my bare hands. I walked over to a box of tissues, pulled a few, and went to retrieve it.

  Jack was still trying to console Fred when I showed him what I’d found.

  “Jack—Officer MacLaren—this is a mistake.” Fred, clearly unnerved that he was going to be taken to the station for further questioning, added, “I’ve already told you that I had nothing to do with Silvia’s murder.”

  “But you have a key to her room,” I said, and wiggled the tissue.

  Jack, seeing the key for the first time, raised a ruddy brow. “Nice work. Where’d you find that?”

  “Near the back door, hanging with the other keys. It also works in the lock on the side door of the inn,” I informed them. “But Fred obviously already knows that, don’t you?”

  Fred, looking mortified, vehemently shook his head. “That’s not my key!”

  “Of course it’s not. It’s the key to Silvia’s old room.”

  “I know what it is,” he snapped. “But do you honestly think that the woman who did that”—he pointed to the painting—“would give me that?” Fred’s angry finger was now pointing at the key clutched in a wad of tissue.

  Jack pulled a ziplock bag from his pocket and handed it to me. I dropped the key in and zipped it up, feeling a little giddy with pride at having found the smoking gun, so to speak.

  “Mr. Beauchamp.” Jack addressed the distraught potter. “Sir, I don’t want to have to put you in cuffs, but I will. I need you to calm down. I have to take you back in for questioning.”

  Fred, still unstable, stared at his two friends. “That woman was nothing but trouble,” he spat. “We all knew it, and yet we let her walk all over us. For the greater good, my friends. Well, she sure showed us, didn’t she? The old bat got what she deserved.”

  Alexa, her aging face flushed with anger, looked horrified. “Shut your mouth, Fred. Shut your stinking mouth.”

  Jeffery the knot-artist just shook his head and uttered a deprecatory, “Dude.”

  Because Fred was a sensitive case—a little manic, a little angry, and in utter denial of having possessed the evidence I had found dangling on his keyholder—Jack called the station in Sturgeon Bay. He was instructed to take Fred there. Before he did, however, he thought it best to drop me off at the Cherry Cove police station.

  Once there, Jack left the manacled Fred in the back of the SUV for a minute to accompany me to my car. It might have had the feel of a first date if a murder suspect wasn’t leering at us through the tinted windows of the police SUV.

  “So,” Jack began, looking adorably nervous. “Um, I have to take Fred down to Sturgeon Bay, but I was thinking, you know, ah, since Inga has MacDuff and all, that you and I could grab a bite to eat somewhere for dinner?”

  Yes! Yes! Yes! my inner voice screamed. For Jack, however, my cool Chicago girl persona kicked in and chose sarcasm instead. “Geez. I don’t know. My baking schedule’s so crazy right now, you know … now that the inn’s been shut down due to murder.”

  Yet instead of grinning, Jack frowned. “But … you don’t really have to bake, right? Or are you asking me to put pressure on the Crime Scene Unit to okay the inn for business? In which case you really will be busy baking.” He was turning red and looked slightly confused.

  Jack MacLaren was nervous. Apparently, his super-heightened sarcasm meter didn’t work in such a state. “Yes.” I told him, grinning. “I will have dinner with you tonight. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me all summer.” This made him smile. “And about you putting the pressure on the Crime Scene Unit, we can discuss that over drinks.”

  The spark had come back to his eyes. “I’ll give you drinks and an appetizer,” he whispered flirtatiously. “After that, I’m going to demand your full attention.”

  “Mmm, I didn’t know you were so needy, Officer MacLaren. But I like it.�
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  Jack was about to reply when a muffled voice cried out from behind the tinted glass of the SUV, “Make an end to it, MacLaren! I haven’t got all day.”

  I left Jack to his duties and got in my car, smiling as I did so. I watched as he pulled out of the parking lot, heading for Sturgeon Bay with lights flashing. I was about to follow him as far as the road to the inn when a niggling thought popped into my head. Fred Beauchamp. Murderers were good liars. Crime shows on TV taught me that. And yet the malicious painting had unhinged him. I didn’t believe that had been an act; the man had truly flipped out. And the only possible explanation for that was because he’d never seen it before today. Then there was the matter of the key. The funny thing was, I’d assumed it was in Fred’s possession all along. He was, after all, the woman’s lover. So why the shock at seeing it there? Was that just an act? Or maybe, just maybe, Fred really didn’t know it was hanging with his other keys near the back door. It was just a hunch, but I thought it best to ask an impartial party just in case.

  Thirty-Five

  Edna Baker lived in a mid-century ranch house two blocks from town. Apart from a lawn overrun by gnomes, fairies, and ceramic toadstools and the dozen mature trees sprouting from rings of colorful begonias, I imagined it looked much the way it had when it was built. I walked up the flagstone walkway and peered through the screen door, giving a little knock as I called out for the owner. A moment later Edna popped into view and came marching down the hallway in a sack-cut sundress to let me in.

  “Whitney.” It was said without any hint of surprise. “I imagine this’ll be about the trophy.” Edna turned and beckoned me to follow as she marched along the hallway. “It’s like they say. Heavy is the hand that holds the great Gilded Cherry. Well, now with murder on your hands, I imagine it’s even heavier. Don’t worry. I’ve already made a spot for it on my mantle.”

  “This isn’t about the trophy,” I assured her, staring at the lonely, well-lit spot above the brick fireplace begging to be filled. “You heard it yourself. I’m no longer a suspect. Don’t worry, you’ll have your six months of cherry pie honors. What I’ve actually come to talk to you about is Silvia Lumiere and her relationship to your friends on the arts council.”

  I sat at Edna’s linoleum-topped dinette table drinking a delicious cup of Earl Grey and nibbling on homemade peanut butter cookies. “These are really yummy,” I remarked, and took another bite. “Did you make these special? Or is this a cookie you always have on hand?”

  “You millennials.” She peered over her half-moon glasses. “In my day the peanut butter cookie was a staple. We didn’t have seven kinds of baking chips and exotic nuts to throw in our batter. But we always had a jar of peanut butter on hand. People forget about these until they take a bite. I’m trying to bring ’em back. The world is advancing too fast. What it needs is a nostalgic cookie from a simpler time.” Then she grinned and confided, “Actually, I volunteered to bring a dessert to a couple of Silvia’s unveilings and didn’t have time to run to the store.”

  “I like it,” I told her, taking another sip of Earl Grey. I then set my cup back on its saucer. “But aren’t you afraid of serving them to someone with peanut allergies?”

  Edna’s wrinkles morphed into gullies. “Millennials!” she cried again. “Always have to ruin a good thing with allergies, or sensitivities, or … or some other nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense if contact with a peanut might kill someone.”

  “Well, who would ever think that a cherry scone would kill a person? But one did. Don’t sully my peanut butter cookies, Whitney, and I won’t sully your scones.”

  She had a point. But it wasn’t really the same thing. My scone had been used as a murder weapon, not an instigator of anaphylactic shock. However, there was no use arguing with Edna. Instead I told her that I was sorry and complimented her cookies once again.

  “Thank you,” she said in a distinctly self-righteous manner. “I have a whole giant Tupperware container full of ’em. You can take a dozen or so back with you when you leave. Just be sure to give one to Jenn.”

  “Will do. But she doesn’t have an allergy to peanuts.”

  Edna looked affronted until she saw that I was teasing. She let out a hoot of laughter that had the ring of a cackle. “Good one. Anyhow, I’ve got peanut butter cookies to spare. I made them for Fred’s unveiling.” She paused a moment, visibly upset by the reason the event had been canceled. She swallowed and forced a smile. “And I was really looking forward to that one, too.”

  I didn’t know much about Edna beside the glaring fact that she was the town’s busybody. Truthfully, I’d given her a wide berth on account that she was Gran’s frenemy. Although they traveled in the same circle of friends, Edna delighted in challenging Grandma Jenn and trying to get the best of her. I suspected it kept them on their toes and made them better at what they were, which was extraordinary older women. But for all Edna’s brash, blustery ways, I was touched by her feigned indifference over Silvia’s untimely death.

  “Edna,” I said softly. “I told you I was here to talk about Silvia and your friends from the arts council. You’re the only person in Cherry Cove I know who’s one of their members. What I really wanted to ask you about, however, is Fred Beauchamp.”

  Shock appeared on her perpetually intense face. “Fred? What’s he done?”

  “That’s the thing. We’re not sure yet, but we suspect he might be the person responsible for Silvia’s murder. Were you aware that he was having an affair with her?”

  “Oh, pah!” she spat, causing her double chin to quiver like Jell-O. “He was trying to have an affair with her. But everyone knew he was just after her money. Silvia saw right through him.”

  “But Silvia didn’t have any money.” The beady, bulldog-like eyes shot to mine in question. “I’m afraid it’s true. We learned that she was bankrupt. Her pricey apartment had been foreclosed right before she came to Cherry Cove.”

  “Well, that ain’t right. But I’m gonna be honest. I always sensed there was something of the flimflam about her.”

  “Well, I only learned of it yesterday. Do you think Fred suspected it as well?”

  Edna frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, thinking. “I doubt that he did. Fred’s nice-looking and all, and his pottery’s not bad, but deep down inside he’s an utterly self-centered chucklehead.”

  I smiled at her choice of words. “So, are you telling me that you don’t think he was in love with Silvia?”

  “He was in love with the idea of her,” Edna said, lifting the pretty china teapot in her meaty hand. As she refilled our cups, she added, “It’s the same kind of love an antique collector has for that one object he can’t afford.”

  “Obsession, you mean?”

  “Right!” Her head bobbed in approval. “Obsession, it was. Anyhow, Silvia played him like a nearsighted bull. Kept him on a short chain so she could tug him as she pleased.”

  As Edna talked of Silvia and Fred’s relationship, the odd painting sprang to mind once again. To the outsider it appeared cruel. But Fred, after his initial shock and anger, had laughed. Had it been Silvia’s way of letting him know that she was onto him? Or was it part of the twisted game they’d both been playing? “Edna, do you know if Fred had a key to Silvia’s room?”

  She shook her head. “She’d never go for that. Giving Fred a key would put him in control, and Silvia always had to have the upper hand on everyone, including yourself.”

  I thought a minute. “Could Fred have taken it?”

  “Not if he wanted to marry her. That man isn’t afraid of marriage. He’s looking for wife number five, I think. Anyhow, crossing a woman like Silvia would be akin to putting his own neck in the noose. She’d cut him out of her circle in an instant, and Fred needed her approval as much as any of them did.” Her eyes narrowed. “Hey. What’s all this about a room key, anyhow?”

 
“One of Silvia’s was missing. We found it in Fred’s pottery studio.”

  “Where? Inside one of his pots or buried in a lump of wet clay?”

  “No, nothing like that. It was just hanging there on his keyholder.”

  Her intense brown eyes narrowed. “Well, that doesn’t make sense. If Fred took her key he’d hide it better than that. Sounds like someone’s framing him.”

  I found it ironic that Edna had just uttered the one thing I’d been thinking. Somebody was framing Fred. I looked at her. “Could it be one of the arts council members?’

  She gave a curt shake of her curly gray head. “Doubtful. You could ask them yourself, of course, but I’ll spare ya the trouble. Even if one of them hated her, Silvia’s presence was too important. It was all about appearances with that lot, and Silvia made them look good. If MacLaren’s looking at Fred, well then, he’s barking up the wrong tree. If you ask me, you should be looking a little closer to home.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Not my Grandma Jenn?”

  “No, silly. Not your grandma. Try that hot-headed chef of yours. He and Silvia were at it like cats and dogs. Like cats and dogs, I tell ya.”

  “I know they were,” I said, truthfully. “Bob’s not a guy who’s easily upset. He’s cool-headed, but Silvia sure knew how to push his buttons.” I paused to drink more of the hot tea. I drained the cup and returned it to its saucer. “Okay, let’s say it was Bob. Why did Fred have Silvia’s extra key then? Bob wouldn’t need it to get into the building. He had his own key.”

  “Right. But he’s also clever,” Edna reminded me. “He’d try to throw suspicion on anyone else but himself. I’ll tell you one thing: if I were going to frame someone for Silvia’s murder besides yourself—and you’re the obvious choice—Fred would be my next choice. Silvia’s room key wouldn’t be hard to get if you already have carte blanche at the inn. Bob Bonaire has that, as well as a reason to want that old pain-in-the-ass dead. She criticized his steak, which was bad enough, but then she went after his signature fried perch. Even a man as evenly tempered as Mr. Bonaire has to draw the line somewhere.”