Murder With Sprinkles: A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 11

by Point, Rosie A.

  Murder With Sprinkles

  A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 11

  Rosie A. Point

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  More for you…

  Thank you, Reader!

  Copyright Rosie A. Point 2020.

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  Created with Vellum

  1

  “Did you just ask for a murder cake?” Bee was incredulous. A smattering of gasps and murmurs traveled through the crowd in front of the food truck.

  “A mud cake! Like chocolate?” the customer replied, aghast. “Why on earth would you think I asked for a murder cake?”

  “Recency bias,” Bee said. “Trust me, if you’d been through what we’ve been through in the last few months, you’d hear ominous signs everywhere too.”

  “We don’t have any chocolate cakes today.” I stepped up next to Bee before she terrified our first customer of the day. The line behind her stretched through Prattlebark Village’s town square and down the sidewalk. It was a great turnout, but the customers shifted in line, looking over their shoulders every now and again.

  It was odd.

  We’d sold our cakes in two small towns across the country and stopped in many others during our road trip, and I’d never seen people this… scared? Were they scared? Or was it something else? It was the first time I’d visited Vermont, so I couldn’t say that this wasn’t normal behavior.

  “Oh,” said the customer, a young woman with her hair held back in a net—a cafeteria lady at the local school, picking up something to snack on before work? “Then what do you have that’s good?”

  “Everything you desire.” Bee was deadpan.

  I nudged her gently, putting up a smile. “We’ve just arrived in town,” I explained, “and we’re waiting for our check-in time at the Oaken Branch Guesthouse. We thought we’d open up shop to see if anyone was interested.”

  “Well, we’re definitely interested,” the woman whispered. “We all are. As long as you don’t…” She pressed her lips together and jolted on the spot, glancing over her shoulder. She broke into an awkward smile. “We haven’t had any baked goods in town in a long time.”

  “You don’t have a bakery?” Bee asked.

  “No,” she breathed. “We have restaurants, but not bakeries.”

  “Oh OK.” I beamed at her. “Good thing we’re here then. We have our special Sprinkle Cake in stock.” I gestured to the glass cases. “And some crème donuts and choc-chip cookies. We’ll have more in treats once we’re all settled in.”

  “So you’re staying,” the customer whispered.

  “Yeah.” Bee tightened the straps of her apron. “Are you OK?”

  “Fine, thank you. I’ll take the Sprinkle Cake slice.” She placed a few bills on the counter, and I rang up her order while Bee delivered its sweet goodness into a pastel pink and green striped box. She handed it over.

  The customer thanked us, left us the change, then scuttled off.

  “That was weird,” Bee said. “She looked ready to jump out of her skin.”

  “You shouted at her about a murder cake.”

  “Fair point, but have you noticed that everyone else around here seems awfully—”

  “Jumpy,” I put in. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “I wonder why?”

  Another customer had arrived, so we set aside our mild concern and fell into the rhythm of serving the good people of Prattlebark Village. It was amazing how different every town was, and how the locals acted and spoke in unique ways.

  I was excited about being in Vermont, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I missed the friends we’d made along the way. This new town was gorgeous, though. And I was sure we’d make as many friends here.

  Prattlebark Village was in a valley, surrounded by thick forest, a stream running right through it. The sidewalks were paved with slabs of stone, and the buildings in the center of town were an eclectic mix of colors, with signs hanging from their eaves denoting what each store sold.

  Our customers formed two lines, and we served them with smiles. Still, people acted strangely, from construction workers in their work gear to mothers with children in tow. All of them kept looking around like they expected someone to materialize and… what? I had no idea.

  “Thank you for your patronage,” I said, handing over another box. “Please come again. We’ll be parked out here all week.”

  “Oh no you won’t!” A voice rasped from the left of the truck, and a woman approached, wearing a pants suit, her hair done in immaculate curls that didn’t budge in the fall breeze.

  At the sight of her, the lady at the front of the queue let out a tiny squeak and dropped her box of cake. She turned and literally fled the scene as if she’d been caught stealing. The rest of the people in the lines spotted the newcomer and hurried off in different directions. Within seconds, the front of the truck was a wasteland of boxes and squashed cakes covered in sprinkles and frosting.

  The curly-haired, pants-suited woman strode through the wreckage, her heels gritting on the stone of the town square.

  She stopped in front of the window, her lips so thin they were mere lines above her chin.

  “What are you, the devil?” Bee asked. “I’ve never seen a reaction like that before, and I was a police officer.”

  “You? You must be in your eighties,” the woman said, smacking her lips. Purple lipstick? Bold choice.

  Bee rolled up her sleeves.

  I put a hand on her arm to stop what would undoubtedly become a food fight. Enough cake had been wasted today.

  “May we help you?” I asked the woman. Honestly, the way she’d cleared out the town square, I was surprised she wasn’t leaking sulfur-scented fumes.

  “Yes,” she snapped. “You can pack up your eyesore of a truck and get the heck out of my town.”

  “Your town?” Bee countered. “Who are you?”

  “Gillian McKene,” she replied. “Wife of the mayor. Restauranteur. You’re right down the road from my business, and I highly doubt you’ve gone down to the health department’s offices and applied for a permit to sell confectionary here.”

  “And why would you doubt that?” Bee asked.

  “Because sweets are prohibited in this town.” Gillian’s vicious smile showed tiny, perfectly square teeth. “Without the appropriate permits. No candies. No trick or treating, and no selling donuts.” She slapped a hand down on the truck’s counter, eyes shining.

  “All right,” Bee laughed. “All right, where are the cameras?”

  Gillian’s gleam faded. “Excuse me?”

  “Seriously, there’s got to be someone recording this. That was an Oscar worthy performance. No wait, that’s not right. Is there an award for overdramatic acting?” Bee smirked at Gillian.

  “We didn’t know special candy-selling permits were required,” I said, putting up my hands. We only had the regular one for selling food. “It was an innocent mistake. We’ll go right down to the health department offices on
ce we’ve checked in at the guesthouse.”

  “There are no innocent mistakes,” Gillian snapped, pointing a finger at Bee and then at me. “And you can bet that you won’t be getting any permits soon, if I have anything to say about it.” She sniffed. “And I always have a lot to say about it. This is my town, and you are not welcome here.” She turned on her heel and clopped off before we could say another word.

  “Well,” I sighed. “That’s a good start to the week.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ruby,” Bee said. “We’ll show her. Get those permits and camp out here for the next month. There’s no sweeter revenge than success.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Worry twisted my gut, but I dismissed it. This was just another obstacle we’d overcome. And hey, if we couldn’t get the permit, we’d head out to the next town, right?

  2

  After the excitement—and that was putting it mildly—of the previous afternoon, I'd been concerned that everyone in Prattlebark Village would be as jumpy and mean as Gillian, the mayor's wife.

  A night spent at the Oaken Branch Guesthouse had cured me of that worry.

  The owner, Jules Hoag, had welcomed us with a smile, a cup of coffee and some cider donuts.

  Now, sitting at the little dresser in my room on the first floor, I couldn't help but smile at my nerves from the previous day. I had a gorgeous view of the surrounding forest, and breakfast would be served in exactly fifteen minutes, out on the terrace that overlooked the creek. It felt almost as if I was hidden in a hobbit hole from Lord of the Rings, about to embark on some grand adventure.

  Granted, that adventure would be to head down to the health department’s offices and acquire the permit we needed to sell our specialty Sprinkle Cake.

  A knock rat-tatted at the heavy wooden door to my bedroom.

  “Who's there?” I called—better to be safe than sorry. If our travels across the country had taught me anything, it was that you never knew who was capable of murderer. Depressing, but true.

  “It's Freddie Kruger,” Bee's reply was muffled and dry.

  “Very funny.” I got up and opened the door for her.

  She wore a thick sweater and a pair of boots.

  “It's not that cold,” I said. “You're dressed for the dead of winter.”

  “It's fall,” she replied. “Besides, they're saying there might be scattered thunderstorms later.”

  “Who's saying that?”

  “The weatherman.” Bee nodded to the nook where a TV sat on a wheeled TV stand. “Seriously, Ruby, you need to keep abreast of things. It's my new resolution to stay up to date ever since that witch harassed us about permits yesterday.”

  “Resolution? It's almost Halloween,” I replied. “Not 2021.”

  “It's never too late to start a resolution.” Bee tapped her chin. “Hmm. Or too early? We're almost into the next year.”

  “Breakfast,” I prompted. We'd easily get sucked down the wormhole of light banter if we continued, and my stomach grumbled for the delights Vermont had to offer.

  We exited into the hallway with its tall ceilings and long shadows, and hurried into the dining area, guided by the smells of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and maple syrup. The guests that had arrived for breakfast early sat inside, rubbing their hands together and admiring the view of the creek and forest through the sliding doors that led to the terrace.

  “Come on,” Bee said. “Let's sit outside.”

  “I thought there were going to be scattered thunderstorms?”

  “Yes, well, that's the thing.” Bee offered me a gap-toothed smiled. “They're scattered.” She pointed at the patchwork of gray clouds outside. “There's plenty of blue sky if you look for it.”

  “That might be the wisest thing you've ever said.”

  “Apart from never eating yellow sn—?”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Jules, the owner, arrived. She was in her forties, with streaks of gray in her bushy brown hair. Today, she wore a deep red apron printed with the logo for the Oaken Branch Guesthouse on the front pocket. “Did you get a good night's sleep?”

  “It was fantastic, thank you,” I said.

  “Smells amazing in here,” Bee replied. “What's cooking?”

  “Fried eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, biscuits and gravy, waffles, pancakes and maple syrup.”

  “Wow! My mouth's watering.” I rubbed my hands together.

  “We're going to sit out on the terrace,” Bee said. “Could we get some coffees to warm up?”

  “Oh... uh, sure,” Jules said, glancing toward the sliding door. “Are you sure you want to sit out there? It's cold this morning and Stormy said there might be a thunderstorm later.”

  “Stormy?” I frowned.

  “Stormy Winters,” Jules and Bee said, in unison.

  I blinked. Bee didn't usually say things in unison with anyone except for me.

  “He's the weatherman,” Jules sighed. “Dreamboat if ever I saw one. You should watch the six o' clock news.”

  “We'll sit outside,” Bee said. “I haven't heard any ominous rumbling of thunder yet.”

  Again, Jules' gaze wandered to the sliding door. She swallowed. “Sure, all right. Whatever suits you best. I'll send one of the servers out to check on you in a sec. Bring you those coffees.”

  “Thanks.” I led the charge, sliding the door open and shivering at the cool breeze that greeted me. It tugged at the sleeves of my sweater—a thinner knit than Bee's.

  “Told you it was nippy.” Bee took a seat at one of the tables closest to the terrace's wooden balustrade.

  The guesthouse was seated on a stretch of land above the creek. A short walk down the rocky decline would take guests to the banks of that streaming, clear water, and afford them a view of the tall trees beyond, most of them with leaves turned shades of yellow and red, some of them just starting to fall from the branches.

  “What a view,” I said, taking a seat opposite Bee at the rough wooden table with its quaint, bench chairs. “It almost makes up for it being too cold out here.”

  “It's brisk,” Bee admitted. “But what better way to wake up than with a cup of coffee and some fall chill. This must be the most beautiful town we've been to. The mountains...” Bee trailed off gesturing to the mountains that surrounded the valley, covered in trees.

  “I don't know,” I said. “I still think about the ocean view in Maine. We were there this time last year.”

  “I spoke to Sam the other day,” Bee said. “Everything's going great at the Oceanside. Apparently, they've elected a new mayor and he's trying to outlaw Halloween competitions after last year's vandalism. Something about cleaning up rotting pumpkins?”

  I laughed. “Never a dull moment in Carmel Springs.”

  “We can attest to that,” Bee nodded.

  “I was thinking that—” I cut off, my throat closing.

  “Ruby? What's wrong?” Bee grabbed my arm. “Ruby?”

  I lifted a finger and pointed down at the creek. “Bee, tell me I'm just seeing things. Is that... tell me that's a plastic bag caught on the branches down there.” But my stomach sank.

  The creek was pristine and clear, yes, but along the bank, slightly raised on one side, was the remnants of an old tree that had fallen over. Its branches hung in the water, and hooked on them was a jacket sleeve, a hand poking from the end of it.

  Not again. This can't be happening again.

  Bee got up and walked to the staircase that led onto the decline. “Come on,” she said. “Let's go see. It might just be someone's Halloween decoration.”

  “Out here?” I joined her. “This guesthouse is pretty isolated.”

  “I'm sure there are other properties that border the creek. Besides, it was windy yesterday. Probably just a decoration that blew away.”

  “Bee.”

  But she grabbed my arm before I could complain anymore and led me down the stairs toward the thing in the water.

  Oh please, let it just be a thing and nothing else.

&nb
sp; But we reached the spot where the branches had caught the jacket and my hopes dissolved. It was a body, all right, the body of a woman.

  “We need to call the police,” I said, turning back to the inn and waving frantically at the server who'd just brought out our coffees.

  “This isn't good,” Bee said. “This isn't... oh boy.”

  “I know. Another dead body.”

  “No, it's not that,” Bee whispered. “Ruby, look. That hair. The jacket.” She exhaled. “It's Gillian McKene. The mayor's wife.”

  3

  “So much for enjoying our stay here,” Bee said, her arms folded as she sat at our table.

  Our view of the creek and forest was marred by a forensic tent and covers that had been set up to shield viewers from what was going on down there—a removal of the body of the mayor's wife.

  “Don't worry, Bee,” I said. “We've been through worse. I'm sure the people here won't jump to any conclusions.”

  “Listen to you! You used to be the one who was worried about what other people would think. Now, you're cool as a cucumber. What's that about?”

  “Let's just say, I've learned my lesson. Everything turned out all right the last time something like this happened, and the time before that.”

  “It's that Hanson.” Bee said. “He's calmed you down.”

  “Bee.” I hadn't spoken to Jamie Hanson, the handsome ex-detective who'd helped us solve a few cases, in over a week now. Occasionally, he'd surprise me with a catch-up call, but it was difficult. We'd left him behind in Muffin, the last town we'd visited, and I had to admit that, even though I had a bad history with romance, I did miss him. A lot.