Cocoa Conviction
A Mission Inn-possible Cozy Mystery Book 3
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
More for you…
Thank you, Reader!
Also by Rosie A. Point
Copyright Rosie A. Point 2020.
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1
“I will call the police!” The woman’s voice traveled from the dining room and into the kitchen, right through the porthole windows in the cutesy doors. That voice, so shrill and loud, pierced right through my calm. My usually steady hand jerked, and I splotched a bit of chocolate frosting onto the countertop.
“Oh dear.” Lauren, the chef at the Gossip Inn, my grandmother’s establishment, wiped her flour-coated hands on her apron and went over to the porthole windows in the doors. “Oh dear, I wonder what’s going on out there?”
“You’d think everyone would be in a good mood. It’s Easter! It’s the time of chocolate and new life and family and church and stuff,” I replied, brandishing a chocolate cupcake, now half-iced. I’d made them myself, with Lauren’s direction of course, and I was proud of that achievement. I’d gone from tracking down arms dealers and spies, kicking their butts and interrogating them to baking cupcakes in my grandmother’s kitchen while wearing luridly floral-themed dresses.
“You’re going to pay for this!” The same woman shouting again.
I huffed out a sigh and put down my half-frosted cupcake on a tray. I’d already prepared two dozen others for the guests who were gathered in the dining area waiting for their brunch time snacks—coffee, tea, soda, and cupcakes, depending on what took their fancy.
“I think they’re just hangry,” Lauren replied. “You know, hungry-angry.”
“They’re about to be chastised instead.”
“I would go out there, but I have to watch my cake. If this one flops, I have no idea what I’m going to donate to the Easter Festival.” Lauren’s face had grown a little chubbier over the past two months—she was pregnant and only just starting to show, at least physically. Her mood swings had been… intense. Just yesterday, she’d threatened me with a peeler for daring to wash the potatoes before she peeled them. Didn’t make any sense to me, but whatever.
“I’ll go,” I said.
Another yell rang out, followed by a low growl.
“What was that?”
“I can’t see,” Lauren said, peering out of the circular window again. “They’re in a big group around one of the center tables.”
I rolled my eyes at the silliness, grabbed my trays of cupcakes and strode out into the dining area.
The gathering of guests stood, as Lauren had said, around a central table. I set my cupcake trays down on a table next to the antique breakfront.
“What’s going on here?” I called.
No one paid me any mind. The guests were either glued to the source of the disturbance or seated at their tables, watching in awe. I elbowed my way through the crowd—no one could ever accuse me of being a people-person—and found the source of the problem.
A woman, her blonde hair cut into a severe bob, stood across from a man—bushy gray beard and beady dark eyes.
The man, I recognized. The man just so happened to be Bob Bolton, a long-term resident at the inn. He’d been here for just over two months, and he’d driven me crazy every morning since his arrival with his insane requests and his equally mad complaints about the service. He’d even talked smack about Lauren’s cooking and that was ridiculous.
I’d traveled all over the world and tasted quite a few dishes—even if they were in strange scenarios, like the time I’d had to get into the good graces of the head of Ukrainian terrorist cell—but none of them compared to Lauren’s home-style cooking.
“What’s going on here?” I repeated.
The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “You!” She pointed a manicured fingernail. “You work here, don’t you?”
“That’s correct. Ma’am.” The last part was belated. I had to maintain my meek and mild cover, but the more the guests annoyed me, the harder that became. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem.”
Shoot, I was drawing a blank on her name. I’d helped check every guest into their rooms and I’d done the cleaning. When had she arrived? I wracked my brain, narrowing my eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” the woman snapped.
Malone! Mr. and Mrs. Malone and their little kid, Chrissy. Trinity, that’s her name. Trinity Malone! “If you could please elaborate, Mrs. Malone.” Someone jostled me, and I cleared my throat. “Everyone except Mrs. Malone and Mr. Bolton, please return to your seats. There are cupcakes on the table at the front of the room. Help yourselves.”
The crowd grumbled but cleared at the mention of sweet treats, and gave me the opportunity to survey the situation.
Mrs. Malone stood directly across from Bob. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she gripped her napkin in one hand, using it, occasionally to dab furiously beneath her eyes and then nose. Not crying… allergies?
Bob had his arms folded and wore his usual sour expression.
“He’s trying to kill me,” Mrs. Malone announced.
“Could you please keep your voice down, ma’am?”
“He’s trying to kill me and you and this ridiculous inn will be liable for the damages when he manages to do it,” she continued.
“That’s a pretty serious accusation to make.” I’d already decided to entertain this. Between being babysat by Agent Smulder—sent by the NSIB, my agency, to ensure I stayed in line and didn’t get discovered by the murderous rogue spy on my tail—and frosting cupcakes in the kitchen, there wasn’t too much excitement to be had in Gossip, of late.
“It’s true!” Mrs. Malone cried.
“This is ridiculous.” Bob’s gravelly tone cut through the tension. “I don’t even know this woman. Why would I want her dead?”
“You complained about the noise our daughter was making last night,” Mrs. Malone said.
Right. Of course. Gamma, my grandmother, though no one was allowed to know it, had put the Malones in the room right next to Bob’s. The Gossip Inn was full to capacity thanks to the Easter festival coming up, and there hadn’t been much choice for latecomers.
“She was screeching,” Bob said.
“She was playing!”
“That doesn’t change the fact that she was screeching. You need to learn how to control your child. It’s not up to the rest of us to teach you how to be a good parent.”
Oof. That’s gotta sting.
“It’s not up to you to tell me how to raise my child.”
“Ma
ybe if you were doing a better job,” Bob said, “we wouldn’t have to.”
“Are you hearing this?” Mrs. Malone turned on me, the silk scarf she’d strung around her neck fluttering. “Can you believe it? It’s proof. He wants to get rid of me.”
“In what way?” I asked. “What proof do you have that Mr. Bolton is actually trying to harm you or your family?”
“Jerry!” Mrs. Malone shouted and clicked her fingers.
My confusion was short-lived—a short, stubby guy came forward, gripping a cat under one arm. He stopped two feet away, holding the cat out at arms’ length.
Wait a second…
“That’s Sherlock,” I said. “That’s a cat from the Kitten Foster Care Center!” The one that my grandmother had opened under a month ago and equipped with everything that the kittens would need to be raised to the point where they could be adopted. Sherlock, the calico kitten who was a week or two away from his adoption age was one of them.
“Yes, that kitten was put in my room this morning.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “The door to the center is locked at all times. And only three people have the key.” They were me, Lauren and Gamma. And none of us were careless about leaving the door that led from the inn to the center open.
“Well, it must be possible,” Mrs. Malone replied, and dabbed her face again, the glittering rings on her fingers catching the morning sunlight. “And I am deathly allergic to cats! I just know it was him. He’s trying to—”
I walked past her and took Sherlock from Jerry, who had been holding the cat in one hand. Sherlock, thankfully, was pretty docile. He immediately curled up in my arms and started purring. “Mrs. Malone, there’s no proof that Mr. Bolton let the cat out or slipped it into your room. Please return to your table and sit down. I assure you, this won’t happen again.” Though, we’d have to figure out how little Sherlock had gotten free. “And Mr. Bolton. Uh… yeah, there are cupcakes over there.”
Mrs. Malone opened and shut her mouth several times, her blue eyes glittering like hard candies. Finally, she marched back to her table. Her husband followed suit.
I didn’t bother checking on Bob. He’d only blame me for something or the other. Instead, I walked Sherlock back to the thick wooden door that led from the inn to the section of it that had once been the museum and was now the newly renovated kitten center.
I extracted a thick, bronze key from the front pocket of my apron and inserted it into the lock. The door clacked open and I entered, shutting it hurriedly behind me.
The rooms in here had been separated according to the age and healthcare needs of the kittens, but the main area was a free-for-all of kittens between the ages of 9 to 12 weeks. I put Sherlock down and he pitter-pattered off to one of the cat trees in the corner, completely unfazed by all the fuss.
The interior of the room was just as secure as always, and there were two helpers here on their shifts, looking after the kittens. All the windows and exterior doors were shut.
Which begged the question… just how had Sherlock gotten out?
2
After the guests had finished their cupcakes, it took them about a half an hour to filter out of the dining area and go upstairs or out the front door to explore Gossip. The town’s Easter festival was just on the horizon, and the kitchen smelled of baking and chocolate and all things delicious.
I’d spent a lot of my spare time, when I wasn’t cleaning, dusting or lamenting the horrible outfits I had to wear, jogging between the trees and on the unstable terrain near the ravine that ran past the inn. Helped me keep the weight off. Barely. I couldn’t resist Lauren’s cooking.
Especially not right now.
I bent in front of the oven, holding a dishtowel behind my back—having abandoned my dish-drying duties—and peeked at the slowly rising cake. Her second attempt today. She’d ducked out to the store to pick up some confectioner’s sugar and had left me in charge.
Knowing her hormones, if I messed this up I would pay for it.
“How much longer?” I muttered, and checked the instruction list she’d left me on the countertop.
Cake must come out at 12:15. Take it out with oven mitts on. Don’t burn your hands. Let it cool before you remove it from the cake tin.
Now, the only trouble was, how did one remove a cake from a cake tin? Turn it upside down and wiggle it around?
I’d only baked cupcakes and muffins so far and those I’d just sort of… popped out of the tray with a butter knife.
“It can’t be that.” I mimed a knife going into a tray. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you losing it, Charlotte?” The warm, chocolate-melting voice came from the kitchen’s back entrance. The one that let out into the lush garden, now full of spring blooms.
I snapped upright and found Brian Smulder, my agent babysitter, currently undercover as the inn’s gardener, staring at me, one eyebrow raised.
My stomach did a little flip. So what if he was handsome? There were plenty of handsome men in the world. It didn’t make a difference to me that he just so happened to be tall, dark-haired, and had a strong jawline. He looked, um, OK in the gardening overalls, marked here or there with grass stains or soil.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“And good afternoon to you too.” He walked to the dining area’s doors, checked that no one was still in the other room, then circled to the archway at the other end of the kitchen and poked his head out into the hall.
“All clear?” Sarcasm dripped from my voice. We didn’t usually chat about anything that could compromise our covers during the day.
We preferred nightly meetings in the library where we’d liaise with Special Agent in Charge Grant, our boss. He was the one who gave us updates on where my ex-husband, Kyle Turner was, and how close he might be to finding me. And attacking me. Potentially killing me.
That was what happened when one exposed their partner as a rogue spy working for arms dealers and terrorist groups.
Smulder stopped next to the oven and checked out the cake. “It smells amazing in here.”
He was too close to me, so I took a step back. “Yes. It’s nice.” Over the past few months since the last murder had happened in Gossip, things had grown tense and awkward between Smulder and I. I didn’t know or understand why, and I didn’t want to.
Maybe it was both of our frustrations—neither of us had expected to come here. I’d thought that the NSIB would find Kyle within weeks and the need for me to hideout would be over. Smulder being here was to ensure I didn’t blow my cover by investigating any more murders.
If I was found, it would compromise not only me, but my retired spy grandmother and the inn itself. And I would have to go underground.
“What do you want, Brian?” I asked. “You don’t usually come into the kitchen at this time of the day.” He ate lunch with the rest of the inn’s guests at 1 pm, albeit outside on the back step on a tray.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Can’t it wait until tonight?” I checked my watch. The cake had to come out in five minutes.
“No. It can’t. Look… I don’t know if you’re doing this because you think it’s funny, but it’s not. I don’t like practical jokes.”
“Huh?” Had he lost his senses? What on earth was he talking about?
Smulder’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Not even a little bit.”
He reached into the top pocket of his overalls, withdrew a piece of paper then handed it to me. I unfolded it and scanned the page.
Dear Brian,
I can’t stop thinking about you. You have a gorgeous smile. I just thought you should know.
Yours sincerely,
Your secret admirer.
I snorted and reread the letter. My snort turned into a giggle as I handed it back.
“This isn’t from you?” Smulder tucked the note away again.
“From me?” My laughter die
d. “Excuse me, in what world would I write you a letter like that?”
“I figured—”
“You figured very wrong,” I replied. “I don’t have time for children’s games, Brian. And I am not the secret admirer type. But it is so hilarious that you have one.” I laughed. “Brian’s attracted the attention of one of the local ladies. I wonder if it’s one of the guests.” The thought of Brian dating a guest was beyond strange. “You’re going to make that lucky lady very happy. You’ve been totally domesticated by the whole working in the greenhouse thing.”
Brian had actually gone pink. It was the first time I’d seen him embarrassed. “That’s enough,” he replied. “I thought you were playing a prank on me. That’s all.”
“But it’s not a prank. This woman’s love for you is very real.” I pressed a hand to his chest where he’d hidden the letter, struggling not to burst out laughing again. This was exactly the type of thing we would have teased each other about when we’d been partners back in the day. I kind of missed it. “You can’t deny that—”
“Charlotte!” Lauren’s usually jolly voice whip-cracked through the kitchen. She bustled in, carrying brown paper bags from the grocery store. “It’s 12:17 pm.”
“Shoot!” I grabbed the mitts and removed the cake from the oven. I put it down on the countertop and gave Lauren a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”
She heaved the bags onto the counter then fisted her hips. “I think you should go check on Georgina in the foster center. I haven’t seen her around the inn all day.” That was Lauren’s excuse for getting me out of the kitchen and away from her cake.
Cocoa Conviction (A Mission Inn-possible Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 1
