Marzipan and Murder

by Rosie A. Point

  Marzipan and Murder

  A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 2

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  More for you…

  Thank you, Reader!

  Also by Rosie A. Point

  Copyright Rosie A. Point 2019.

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  Created with Vellum

  1

  “I know who you are,” the woman, her gray hair piled in ringlets atop her head, paused, clutching a few dollars in her fist. “You’re the one who solved Owen’s murder case.”

  It was hardly the opener to a conversation I would’ve expected from one of my customers. But I’d had plenty of questions and chats like it in the week Bee and I had spent in Carmel Springs, Maine, baking up a storm and serving people out of the side of my candy-striped food truck.

  The small town had already surprised me. And not just with its sumptuous lobster rolls.

  “I’m Ruby.” I brushed my palms off on my cutesy striped apron and presented a hand through the side window of the truck. “Ruby Holmes.”

  “Of the Sherlock variety?” The woman showed me a white-toothed grin. She was chubby around the cheeks and waist and wore a long flowery coat over a cream blouse.

  “Not quite,” I replied. “But it’s nice to meet you, um…?”

  “Oh, how rude of me. Sorry,” she said, “I’m Mary-Lynn. Mary-Lynn Miller, but everyone calls me Millie, and you’re welcome to as well.” She took a step back, her boots gritting on the tarmac and admired the truck. “A few of the ladies in my knitting circle were gossiping about your truck the other day, and I had to come down and see what all the fuss was about. I hope you don’t mind?”

  Bee rose from where she’d been crouching, keeping an eye on this week’s treat—vanilla-caramel cupcakes. We planned on injecting them with a delicious caramel filling once they were cool and topping them with a matching frosting.

  “Oh!” Millie gave a sharp cry. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “That’s because I didn’t want you to,” Bee replied, evenly.

  “This is Bee, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bee, by the way,” Millie said. “You know, I’m somewhat of a baker myself.”

  “Is that why you’ve come to the truck?” I asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

  The sun was bright, the ocean choppy, the wind cold, and it was a perfect day for a baked treat and a cup of hot coffee, but the food truck hadn’t exactly been doing that well of late. In fact, Bee and I had discussed packing up and moving on to the next town.

  After the murder the week before, people’s enthusiasm for our treats, cupcakes, cookies, donuts and more, had dwindled sufficiently. I theorized that was because the detective in town had taken it upon himself to confiscate our truck and surreptitiously blame me for the murder.

  The opinion had remained. Even though I’d helped put the real murderer behind bars.

  Millie had taken a few steps back. She didn’t answer my question but disappeared around the side of the truck.

  “And I thought I was strange,” Bee whispered.

  At sixty-years-old, single, and tight-lipped about her mysterious past, my partner in baking was the epitome of strange. And I definitely liked that. I wasn’t the most normal myself. Having a keen eye and a difficult past did that to a lady.

  Millie reappeared in front of the truck, patting her hair, icy blue eyes darting from left to right. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Not at all what the lady’s said it would be.”

  “What did they say it would be?” Oh heavens, did I want to know what the local gossip crew thought about the food truck? Would it break my heart and speed my exit from this small town and into the next one? I hadn’t felt quite this out of place before and, given my history, that said a lot.

  “Hmm, well.” Millie wriggled her nose. “That it had been trashed and was dilapidated. And that the food here was old or stale.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders drooped. It was no wonder our customer base had dropped off the side of a cliff. Good heavens, it was already past 10 am and Millie was our first customer of the morning.

  On our first day on the truck, we’d been packed and run ragged. The comparison was stark and, frankly, gut-wrenching. I really loved the atmosphere in the town, the scent of the ocean, the smiles of the locals, even if they weren’t always directed at us… but if the business didn’t pick up soon, we’d have no choice but to leave.

  “Don’t worry about them, dear,” Millie said, flapping her hands at me. “They don’t have enquiring or particularly sharp minds. But I do.”

  “How so?” Bee asked, as she brought the cupcakes from the oven and delivered them to the metal countertop.

  “Why, I’m here, aren’t I?” Millie turned in a circle, waving her arms over herself, flamboyantly. “Here to save the day.”

  “How?”

  “I’m the editor of the local newspaper,” Millie said. “I have some degree of control over what’s published and when. Maybe, I’ll get one of the food critics to come down and have a taste.”

  “Assuming they don’t drop dead, that’s a great idea.”

  I nudged Bee, but she only flashed another of her gap-toothed smiles.

  “She’s kidding,” I said. “It was a reference to—”

  Again, Millie flapped her hands. “Oh, I know, I know.” She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I thought, perhaps, I could—”

  A yell rang out, and Millie paused, frowning.

  We all leaned forward, tracking the source of the cry, and my pulse raced. Not another murder, surely?

  But no, it was two women, storming up the street. As they drew level with the truck, their voices drifted over. One of the women wore her hair platinum blonde and long, and I exchanged a glance with Bee.

  It was Honey Wilson, one of the newest guests at the Oceanside Guesthouse, Sam’s quaint place that had been our impromptu home for the past week. Honey was loud, girly, and obnoxious. A strange combination for a woman so small.

  She stopped next to one of the benches that overlooked the sandy beach below, stomping a foot and glaring at the other lady who accompanied her. Tall, redheaded, and wearing a pants suit and a severe frown. She towered over Honey.

  “—think I’m going to do that, you’re crazy,” Honey said. “I’m telling you, I’m not going to sacrifice my special day for your idiot ideas.”

  “Oof,” Millie said, leaning one arm on the truck’s counter as she watched the blowout.

  “Who’s the redhead?” Bee asked. “Haven’t seen her around.”

  “No idea,” Millie replied. “She must be from out of town.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I know everyone and everything that happens in Carmel Springs.” Millie’s confidence shone through the words.

  “Shush.” I lifted my finger to my lips.

  The argument had reached its peak. “—can’t help you if you won’t let me, Ms. Wilson.”

  “Then I won’t let you.”

  “You can’t seriously mean that
. I came all the way from L.A. for this. You hired me to—”

  “Enough.” Honey put up a hand, bobbing her head at the other woman. “I’m done. And so are you.” She turned on her stiletto heel and pranced off up the street, her high ponytail swinging back and forth in a very ‘Marsha, Marsha’ fashion.

  The redhead lingered. She whispered something then marched away in the opposite direction.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Millie said. “And it’s upped my appetite too. May I have the, hmmm, the caramel vanilla cupcake?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, true joy spinning through my stomach. A new customer and may even a new friend. It was a good start to the day for the food truck, arguments aside.

  2

  “What do you think we should do, Bee?” I asked as we took our seats at the table in the Oceanside Guesthouse’s warm open plan dining area. Once again, Sam had started a fire and logs crackled and popped behind the grate.

  “What do you mean?” Bee asked.

  “Oh, you know, the truck. Maybe you were right last week. We should have left after the whole investigation ended.” I sighed and looked around.

  The living room was empty but would soon fill with people coming to enjoy their breakfasts. Sam was such a whiz when it came to cooking. She’d taken to preparing five meals a day, including snacks for guests, and we were here for almost every one of them.

  How could we resist?

  “I don’t know,” Bee said.

  “You don’t? You were the one who suggested it.”

  “Yes, I was.” Bee scanned the living room as well, her hazel eyes bright. “But now that we’ve been here for a while, I’m not as sure. From a business perspective, of course, it would be better to move on, but that would be like giving up.”

  Oh heavens, that didn’t help much. But at least, Bee was honest. I could trust her to be blunt about her feelings.

  “Maybe we should stay for a few days?”

  “Maybe,” Bee said. “Let’s see if that Millie woman comes back today. We could talk to her about the rumors she’s heard, perhaps even get her to publish a piece in the local newspaper about the truck?”

  “I’m not sure I have the funds to pay for a sponsored message. We haven’t exactly been flush with customers the past little—”

  The swinging doors to the guesthouse’s kitchen opened, and Sam, the owner, emerged. She smiled and came over. “Good morning,” she sang. “How did you sleep?”

  “Fantastic, as usual, Sam, thank you,” I replied.

  “Your guesthouse is so comfortable,” Bee added. “How could we not be well-rested on feather pillows?”

  “Have you been using your fireplaces?” Sam asked. “It’s been cold the past few evenings.”

  “I did,” Bee said. “I was toasty warm all night.”

  Samantha was such a sweetheart, she was another reason I’d be sad to leave Carmel Springs when we did decide to go. That and her adorable cat, Trouble, who’d taken a liking to me. He was stretched out on the mat a few paces back from the fireplace, his eyes half-open as he dozed, purring loudly.

  “What’s on the menu for breakfast today?” I asked, checking that we were on time. Only five minutes to go until breakfast time was officially on.

  “I’ve got fried eggs and bacon, Eggs Benedict, or omelets for you to choose from. I’ll also be serving a breakfast starter of fruit parfait with fresh yogurt and granola. There will also be oatmeal if you’d like to skip out of any of the above.”

  “Wow.” My mouth was already watering. “That sounds amazing.”

  “I can’t wait to taste it.”

  “We’ll just wait for the other guests to come down, shall we?” Sam wrung her hands. She was always concerned about whether we were settled or not. Partly, I figured, because she had inherited this little guesthouse from her grandmother. And she was just a nice person. Another thing I appreciated.

  One could never put a price on kindness and respect.

  We waited for the other guests to arrive.

  Sam had a lovely habit of encouraging people to talk over breakfast. On Sundays, she would push all the square tables in the dining area together, so we’d all be forced to eat and talk. Bee wasn’t the biggest fan of that kind of thing, but I liked it. The different personalities intrigued me.

  A clatter of footsteps on the wooden staircase announced the arrival of some of the others. And a good thing too. I was about ready to eat my place setting.

  A young woman entered, and I did a double-take. It was Honey, the same blonde who we’d witnessed arguing the day before. She was in tears, wiping a finger beneath either eye as she took her place on the far side of the table.

  I turned in my seat, searching for her fiancé, William, on the stairs, but he hadn’t come down yet. All in all, there were currently six guests, including Bee and me. Where were they? Had something happened?

  Honey sniffled and hiccupped.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, scooching my chair out.

  Honey’s bottom lip quivered.

  “Oh dear,” Sam whispered. “Oh dear. Oh no. What’s the matter? Was it the cocoa? Did Mirabelle forget to refill your sugar pot?” The fact that she thought a sugar pot was a crying matter was both sweet and naïve.

  Honey shook her head. “I just—I—” She dissolved in a puddle of tears.

  Bee shifted, clearing her throat. “Well. That’s uncomfortable,” she murmured.

  “Let me handle this,” I whispered to my friend.

  “Rather you than me.” Bee didn’t trust easily. But she didn’t panic either when serious things happened. I liked to think that my friend’s strengths filled in the spots occupied by my shortcomings and vice versa.

  I joined Honey at the head of the table and placed a hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, I’m not all right,” Honey said. “Everything is an utter disaster. I’m smudging my makeup, William hasn’t even hugged me yet this morning, and I don’t have anyone to cater my wedding.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “My wedding organizer was useless, so I had to fire her, and why I had to have my wedding in such a disgusting, pitiful little small town is beyond me. This is not fair. It’s not fair!”

  I took a breath. Disgusting small town? That was hardly how I would’ve described Carmel Springs. Sure, I hadn’t had the best experiences here either, but it wasn’t disgusting. It was quaint, and most of the people were lovely.

  It seemed to me that Honey was either expecting too much or something else entirely. She struck me as the type who wanted a ceremony fit for a princess.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, withdrawing my hand from her arm.

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” she snapped, clicking her manicured nails together. “It wasn’t you who chose this place to—” Her eyes widened, and it was quite shocking—the dark eye shadow kind of made her look like a stunned raccoon. “Wait a second! I know who you are.”

  “Oh?” I glanced at Bee, who shook her head. “You do?”

  “You’re the woman who owns that silly little food truck.”

  “Uh.”

  “You cook! You bake! You can cater my wedding!”

  “Oh boy,” Bee said.

  “I don’t know if I’m the best person for that,” I said, carefully. “We only do desserts.”

  “That’s fine! I need a series of cupcakes for the wedding. I want a cupcake tower instead of a cake. You can do that, right? I mean, it’s simple enough for you to handle. I know you’re not gourmet or anything…”

  “We specialize in gourmet cupcakes.” I lifted my chin.

  “Perfect. You’ll do it then. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you well. Above your rate,” Honey said. “Name the price and it’s yours, just please, please help me. The wedding is next week.”

  “That’s awfully short notice,” I said, timidly.

  “Please?”

  We hadn’t had any business at all the past while and hel
ping Honey might give us more credibility in town. After all, from what I’d heard, the groom had a lot of family in Carmel Springs. If we did pull this off, we might benefit from more than just the price Honey was willing to meet.

  Bee nodded at me.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ll do it.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Honey squealed and clapped her hands. “Wonderful.”

  “What’s going on?” William, her husband, had appeared at the foot of the stairs. The other two guests stood behind him. His brother, Richard, who was his twin and looked almost exactly like William, from the dark hair to the eyes and strong, sharp nose, scowled at Honey.

  Jessie, her Maid of Honor, who might have been a carbon copy of Honey, except for the fact that she wore her hair short and brown, rushed to the bride’s side. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”

  “Did I ruin my makeup?” Honey wailed and dove for the compact in her purse.

  I returned to my seat next to Bee.

  “Looks like it’s going to be an interesting day,” Bee whispered.

  “At least we’ll get paid,” I replied, but a knot of tension curled up in my belly. Who knew what this week would bring?

  3

  After the breakfast—fruit parfait and Eggs Benedict for me—Bee and I retired to our bedrooms to discuss what had happened. We’d been planning on attending the local museum and finding out more about the history in Carmel Springs, but the prospect of a new job took precedence.

  “What do you think?” I asked, shutting my bedroom door. “Did I make the right decision?”

  “Don’t be so unsure of yourself, Ruby,” Bee said, in a tone that was half cold and halfway motherly. “Really, you’re almost forty-years-old. You shouldn’t doubt yourself as much as you do.”