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

by Point, Rosie A.

  My best friend wasn't smirking, though. She was troubled. “I'm not sure I like it here,” she said. “It's beautiful, but it's cold.”

  “You were the one who said the brisk breeze was great for waking up.”

  “Not that type of cold,” Bee said, nodding toward the sliding door.

  I followed her gaze and found the owner of the guesthouse, Jules, glaring at us. Her brown eyes were narrowed, and she spoke out of the corner of her mouth to a man in chef's whites.

  Uh oh. Maybe we're not welcome here after all.

  Before I could ruminate on that pleasant thought, another woman came up the steps that led down to the creek's bank. She wore a smart button down shirt, a pair of black slacks that were pulled too high, and a lanyard that carried her identification.

  A detective. Oh boy.

  She halted next to our table, her lips tugged down at the corners. Her hair was fastened in a bun that was so tight it tugged at the roots of her dark hair. She was young, had to be in her twenties, but her eyes were bright green and keener than any I'd seen.

  “Good morning, ladies,” she said. “My name is Detective Snodgrass.”

  Bee stiffened, and I tapped a foot against her leg under the table. If she laughed now, we'd get off to a terrible start with this woman, and that would seriously hamper our chances of getting that permit to sell our baked goods.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Bee barely managed a grunt.

  “You're Ruby Holmes, correct? And Beatrice Pine?”

  “Bee,” she corrected. “Everyone calls me Bee.”

  “How do you know our names?” I asked.

  “I make it my job to know everything that goes on around here.” The corner of the detective's mouth lifted. “Prattlebarkian born and raised. Mind if I join you? I have a few questions.”

  “Sure.”

  Detective Snodgrass grabbed a chair and brought it over. She turned it so the back was facing us, then sat down, her arms draped across the back of it. “So, you found the body, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But anyone could've found it,” Bee replied. “Anyone who came out to eat on the terrace this morning. It was caught on some branches in the water.”

  “Sure, OK. But you were the ones who found it. You want to talk me through how that happened?”

  “It's pretty simple,” Bee said. “We came to sit down and have some breakfast and Ruby looked over and saw it.”

  “And then you went down to the water?” Snodgrass asked. “Why?”

  “Because we weren't sure what it was,” I put in, nervously. “We thought, well, we hoped that it was someone's Halloween decoration that got blown away or something.”

  “Halloween decoration.” Snodgrass's tone said she didn't buy that for one second. “Right. OK.”

  “Seriously. We wanted to make sure we didn't call the cops for nothing,” I said.

  Bee tapped her fingernails on the tabletop, impatiently. “What are you insinuating, detective? That we dumped the body then decided to meander down to the river's edge and admire our handiwork?”

  “Bee!”

  “I'm just trying to get all the details,” the detective replied, but her eyes were aflame with suspicion. “That's all.”

  “If you want to be suspicious of anyone,” Bee said, “it should be the owner of this place. This morning, she was mighty shifty about letting us come out here to eat. Isn't that right, Ruby?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “She did seem a little hesitant. But then, everyone in town has been jumpy since we arrived.”

  “Jumpy, huh?” Snodgrass tilted her head to one side, her black hair gleaming even under the darkening clouds.

  “Yes,” I said. “It's the first time we've been in a town where everyone's so tense.”

  “Tense.”

  “Yes.”

  Snodgrass remained silent and stared at me.

  I shifted. “Look, what do you want to know? We found the body and that's it. We don't know anything else.”

  “So,” the detective said, slowly, chewing on the word. “You didn't know the victim?”

  “We knew her. The mayor's wife. We ran into her yesterday.”

  “On your first day in Prattlebark Village.”

  “Yes,” Bee grunted. “What's your point?”

  “Just that for newcomers, you sure have had an exciting past few days,” the detective replied. “Isn't it true that you had an altercation with Gillian McKene, yesterday afternoon?”

  “Altercation's a strong word.” I put up a hand. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.”

  “Oh really? A strong word?” Snodgrass raised a jet-black eyebrow. “I have it on good authority that you had an all-out brawl with the victim. Over cakes.”

  “Your authority isn't very good, then,” Bee snapped. “Because we barely spoke to the woman. She stayed long enough to tell us that this was her town and that we couldn't sell cakes without a permit.”

  “I bet that made you angry,” Snodgrass said. “Being told what to do the minute you got into town.”

  “Yes,” Bee replied. “But that doesn't mean I'd kill her over it. Why would we when we can easily get a permit and move on with our lives?”

  “Have you gone to get a permit yet?”

  “No,” I said, quickly. “We haven't had the chance. We had to check-in at the guesthouse and it was already the afternoon. We were going to go this morning.”

  “And where were you last night?” Snodgrass asked. “What were you two doing?”

  “We had dinner here and then we went to bed,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

  “So, no one can vouch for where you were last night?” Snodgrass asked.

  “This is simply outrageous,” Bee thundered. “We haven't done anything.”

  “Except argue with a woman who turned up dead this morning.” The detective got up and swung the chair back into place at another of the tables. “Ladies, it was a pleasure talking to you.” She removed a small white card from her breast pocket and pressed it onto the table. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  Bee's breaths whistled through the gap between her two front teeth.

  “OK,” I said, lamely.

  Detective Snodgrass sauntered off. “Oh,” she said, looking over her shoulder at us. “And don't leave town.”

  4

  The health department offices were shut on a Tuesday—this town had a lot of weird rules and operating hours—so our trip to them had been a total bust. And it didn’t help that people glared at the food truck as we drove by.

  My worst nightmare had come true. We were pariahs in a strange town, and people were constantly whispering behind their hands, pointing, frowning, or shaking their heads.

  “You’d think we’d be used to this by now,” I muttered.

  “You were the one who said we should stay,” Bee said.

  “Are you angry with me for that?”

  “No, of course not.” Bee laughed. “I’m just thinking that you obviously saw something good in this place, and we shouldn’t give up on that feeling just because there’s been a negative turn of events.”

  “Murder is quite the negative turn of events.” I parked the food truck on a busy side street, where there were several stores bustling with activity. A few of the locals eyed our vehicle, but no one stopped to whisper or… throw things. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d been pelted with rotten tomatoes on the way to the health department offices this morning.

  “We’ll get through this,” Bee said. “Just like we get through everything else.”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve been the main suspects, though.”

  “The fact that we’ve been the main suspects at all is just depressing,” Bee sighed. “Who would’ve thought I, ex-police officer extraordinaire, would be going through something like this?”

  “I didn’t know there were police officers extraordinaire.”

  Bee smirked b
ut didn’t reply, and her smile faded as she watched the activity on the street. “No baking,” she said.

  “And no chance to get to know any of the locals.”

  “Even that owner of the guesthouse didn’t want anything to do with us.”

  I nodded. “What now?”

  “I say… hmm, I say we go grab something to eat at that diner. We’ll plan our next steps from there.” Bee nodded to the building on the corner—hopefully, it wasn’t the one that Gillian had owned, or this would make us look even worse.

  The diner was filled with light and the happy noises of people talking and eating. It had retro-style chairs covered in vinyl, and plastic-topped tables with a menu behind the back counter where the waitresses served coffee and put in orders to the chefs through a window.

  It smelled heavenly, like fresh roasted coffee beans and frying bacon, and Bee and I nabbed a seat in the back corner, ignoring beady-eyed glances from a few of the tables.

  I grabbed the laminated menu and scanned it. “I’m starved.” We hadn’t gotten to eat anything at the guesthouse after the body had been found. It had been organized chaos and most of the guests had retreated to their rooms after being questioned by the cops. Dead bodies tended to a put a damper on one’s appetite.

  A server appeared at our table, one hip popped and a sour expression on his face. “Welcome to the Diggin’ It Diner, what can I get for you?” He sounded super bored. Like our presence annoyed him.

  “I’ll take a BLT, a Sprite, and a slice of lemon meringue pie, please,” I said.

  “Burger and fries, chocolate pie, and a Coke.”

  “Sure, whatever.” He took our menus and walked off, not even bothering to jot down our orders on his notepad. Then again, he was probably an experienced server and could remember them all.

  “Does he hate us because of what happened to Gillian?” I whispered the question. “Or is that just how he is on the regular?”

  “No idea,” Bee replied. “And I can’t say I care. I’m just hoping our food arrives unscathed.”

  “Don’t even say that.” I shuddered.

  “Oh, I’m just kidding. Everything will be fine.” She waved a hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I need to freshen up.” I excused myself from the table and found the little sign that showed the way to the restrooms. Inside, I rested my palms on either side of the sink and forced myself to stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  You’re fine. Everything will be fine. This is just another town and just another unhappy coincidence. Seriously, are we murder magnets or something?

  Or was it that people were terrible? Maybe it was because we traveled so much, we’d started experiencing the stranger things about human nature.

  I splashed some water on my face then headed for the exit, my bootheels tapping on the tiles.

  The bathroom door opened, and a woman with bright pink hair entered, looking over her shoulder at the hall, her cheeks flush.

  “Careful,” I managed, as she bashed right into me.

  We fell over in a tangle of arms, legs, and shrieks.

  The woman pummeled me on the arm. “Get off me! Get off me!” She was high-pitched and panicked.

  I scrambled up, rubbing my arm. “Ouch, jeez. What was that for?”

  The woman sat on the bathroom floor, her legs straight in front of her. Just as her hair was pink, so too were her shorts, and her tight-fitting glittering tube top. She pouted and folded her arms. “You jumped on me.”

  “I did no such thing,” I replied. “You ran into me.”

  “Whatever.” The woman flicked her hair. “Whatever.” She sneaked a glance back at the bathroom door.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” She got up, teetering on pink stilettos. “I wanted to use the restroom in peace, but I can’t do that in this town.”

  “Why not?” My arm still stung from where she’d punched me, but I was curious. What a strange young woman.

  “Because I’m basically famous here,” she said, then paused, frowning. “Wait a second. I don’t know you. Who are you? Where are you from? Are you Gregory’s new fling?”

  “Huh? No,” I said. “No. I’m new to town. Staying at the Oaken Branch Guesthouse. Ruby Holmes.” I put out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Kinda, I guess.” She shook my hand. “Francescan Taupin. I can’t believe you don’t know me.”

  “Well, I do now, Francesca.”

  She withdrew her hand and pressed it to her chest. “It’s Francescan. Not Francesca.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” I’d figured I’d misheard her name. “Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.”

  “You sure will.” She strutted to the mirror and clipped open her purse. She fished around inside it and withdrew a tube of glittery pink lip gloss. Francescan paused and caught my eye. “What? Why are you still here?”

  “Uh… No reason.” I headed for the exit.

  “Freak,” Francescan muttered.

  That’s a little rich. The locals in Prattlebark Village were so far from what I’d expected, I was thrown off. Nothing in this town was normal. The only constant was the paranoia. What on earth was going on around here?

  5

  The following morning, we skipped breakfast at the guesthouse and drove out to the health department offices right away. The sooner we got the permit, the better. It would show we were playing by the rules, and that we planned on staying.

  Besides, there seemed to be a need for baked goods in this town. People had lined up for our Sprinkle Cakes, they'd just been afraid of, well, I had to assume they'd been afraid of getting caught in the act by Gillian.

  There couldn't be another reason why they were jumpy, right? It had to be that the mayor's wife, or perhaps the mayor himself, had a stranglehold on the town.

  “I'm so hungry,” Bee moaned. “And it's too early to be awake.”

  “Bee, it's 8 am.”

  “Too early.”

  My baking buddy was in no way a morning person—which was funny since most great bakers often had to rise early to make bread or cakes. “Well, we're here now and that's what matters. We're going to get this figured out.”

  I made to open the truck's door, but Bee stopped me with a hand on the arm.

  “Do you think this is a good idea, Ruby?” she asked. “We should lay low rather than drawing more attention to ourselves.”

  “I think that ship has sailed,” I said, feigning confidence. “Jules has been giving us the stink-eye for the past day and it seems like the others at the guesthouse are actively avoiding us.”

  “True. Yeah, you're right. Let's stick it to the man. Or the woman.”

  “Probably not a great idea to say that since we were the ones who found the woman floating face down in the creek,” I whispered.

  “Ha!” Bee clicked her fingers and pointed at me. “At least you've still got your sense of humor.”

  “I wasn't joking.”

  We got out of the car and headed onto the stone sidewalk. The street was empty, probably because the town council and health department offices were situated on the far end of town, away from the square, its bustling center with bookstores, antique shops, and fashion boutiques. Prattlebark Village had been described as a 'hidden gem' in a lush valley on the internet. So far, all we'd found was murder and paranoia.

  “This is it,” I said, pointing to the squat white building next to the town council offices. It wasn't demarcated with a sign to tell us what it was, but there were a few gleaming cars parked out front. The front door was oak and shut tight.

  “It looks dangerous,” Bee said, with a steely glint in her eye. “Like the door to some seedy underground poker den.”

  “At this point, I'm not sure you're far-off in that assumption.”

  “A small town with a seedy underbelly,” Bee announced. “It's like the start to a gritty, detective novel.”

  The thick wooden door opened, and a middle-aged woman wearing a purple pants sui
t emerged. She spotted us and gave a wave. “Good morning,” she called. “Are you ladies here on council business?”

  “Yes,” I said, right away. Gosh, at least this woman was smiling. “We're new in town and we're looking for a permit to sell baked goods in the town square.”

  The woman blinked. “Baked goods?”

  “Yes.” I gestured to the food truck over my shoulder. “I'm Ruby Holmes, and this is Bee, my baker. We're traveling cross country and stopping in small towns along the way to sell our stuff.”

  “What a unique way to travel and explore,” the woman said, her smile broadening. “Sara Robertson. Pleasure to meet you.”

  We shook hands. “It's a pleasure to see a friendly face.”

  “For once,” Bee added.

  “Oh no,” Sara said, brushing fingers through her short, curly brown hair. “You haven't had a good welcome? Why not?”

  Bee and I exchanged a glance. Did this woman not know what had happened yesterday? Surely, she’d heard about the murder. It had been all over the morning paper. And the evening news.

  “We had a run-in with Gillian McKene,” I said, cautiously. “She threatened us and told us that we weren’t allowed to sell confectionary in this town. And that we needed to get a permit.”

  “Oh heavens.”

  “Yeah, and then she was found in the creek yesterday…” I trailed off.

  “Right, of course,” Sara said, then crossed herself. “May she rest in peace. And I suppose our resident detective has already decided that you two are the culprits?”

  “How did you—?”

  “Detective Snodgrass is always accusing people of doing things they haven’t,” Sara replied, with a warm smile. “She tried to arrest my son once. Poor Junior nearly had a heart attack. He thought it would reflect poorly on his permanent record.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh nothing.” Sara waved a hand. “It was his Senior year, and he was accused of drinking at the prom, but he wasn’t, of course. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there, he’s already gone to college and gotten away from Snodgrass’ corrupt machinations.”

  “Corrupt?” I asked.

  “Everybody’s talking about it. So, wait, was she the one that told you about this baked goods permit?”