And Then There Were Crumbs--A Cookie House Mystery

by Eve Calder

  “Briefly,” Kate said, wincing at the memory. “Apparently, he wanted to buy the place. What did he do for a living?”

  “He called himself an ‘entrepreneur,’” Maxi said, carefully pouring coffee into two tiny china cups. “Which, for him, meant making lots of noise and throwing around lots of money. Bought up blocks of property cheap, cheap, cheap. Then he would either build something and sell it off quick or flip the land. The locals used to call him Lord Stewart Lord. But only behind his back.”

  “Because it would have ticked him off?” Kate asked.

  “Because he would have loved it,” Maxi said, shaking her head. “He craved attention, that one. Good or bad. And it was usually bad.”

  “Yeah, he seemed like a real charmer. So what do you know about him?”

  “Not much,” Maxi said. “He was originally from London, of course. You could hear it in his voice. Just like you hear a tiny bit of Santiago de Cuba in mine,” she said, smiling. “He became a big shot in South Florida after the hurricanes a few years ago. Blew in with cash when people were so desperate. He made a fortune.”

  “So basically a total slimeball?”

  “He wanted downtown Coral Cay,” she said quietly.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it,” Maxi said. “Every bit. He had some kind of big plan to ‘re-energize downtown,’” she said, forming air quotes with her hands. “The rumor was he really wanted to level it to expand the resort area. More hotels. Condos, casinos, maybe even a private airport. Is it horrible to think that it’s not so bad he’s gone?” She quickly crossed herself.

  Kate took a sip of the inky black liquid in her cup. Hot and bitter, it numbed her tongue.

  “Oh, corazón, no! You can’t drink it like that. It needs sugar,” Maxi said, laughing as she ladled a few teaspoons of large brown crystals into the cup.

  Oliver, on the alert, raised his head.

  “Lots of sugar—and a little coconut cream,” she said dropping two large spoonfuls of white fluff into the steaming liquid. “Now try it.”

  “Ooooh, that is good. I could seriously get used to this.”

  “It’s addictive,” Maxi said with a grin. “And super good with chocolate, too.”

  “You’re a bad influence,” Kate said, surreptitiously slipping another cookie to Oliver and grabbing a third for herself. “Like I don’t have enough chocolate in my life. Another caffeine-laced delivery system is all I need. So what did Stewart Lord want with the Cookie House? It doesn’t seem like his kind of place.”

  “He thought it was the weak link,” Maxi said, settling back into her rocker. “Because of Sam. Lord figured if he could get one piece of property downtown, he could collect the rest. Like that board game. The one with the candy-colored money.”

  “Monopoly? But why would Hepplewhite be the weak link? I mean, the place is a little run-down. Outside, anyway. But he does a good business.”

  Maxi shook her head, frowning. “Not the bakery so much as Sam himself. When Cookie died, he changed. I think he kind of gave up.”

  “Cookie was his wife?”

  “Yeah. The Cookie House was their dream. Retire to a beach town. Open a bakery. And just enjoy the heck out of life. And that’s exactly what they did. Ay, I wish you could have seen it then. The place was known for its desserts. Even the resorts bought stuff there.”

  “Desserts? Hepplewhite sold desserts?”

  “That was Cookie,” Maxi said. “Her real name was Ginger. She was magic. She did all kinds of cakes and tarts and pastries. So good! She really knew her pastry. And she absolutely charmed the customers. Sam baked the breads and kept the books. The place was a landmark. Everyone who visited Coral Cay stopped at the Cookie House.”

  “Those must have been her things I found,” Kate said. “Packed away in the storeroom. Boxes of pastry-baking tools and books.”

  Maxi nodded. “She died three years ago. And it was like the light went out of Sam. He couldn’t bring himself to make her sweets. And he didn’t want to see someone else doing it, either. It hurt too much.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t sell the place and leave.”

  “The Cookie House is the one piece of her he has left. He’s not about to give it up.”

  Maxi took a long sip of coffee. “Have you seen the stained-glass window upstairs?”

  “In the bathroom? The red flower?”

  “It’s a ginger flower. When they first bought the shop, Sam and Cookie lived over the store. And Sam had that installed as a surprise for her.”

  “That is seriously romantic.”

  Maxi giggled. “I know, right? You’d never know it to look at mi padrino, but he’s a real sweetheart.”

  “So what’s with the metal detector on the beach?”

  Maxi smiled. “That’s easy. The two of them used to love beachcombing together. Do that alone and you look like a lonely old man.”

  “But carry a metal detector and you’re a treasure hunter.”

  Maxi nodded.

  Kate shook her head. “I had no idea.”

  She looked down. Oliver was dozing. With a little smile on his face.

  As Maxi refilled their cups, a police cruiser sped down the street, stopping in front of the Cookie House. Kyle Hardy climbed out of the car, straightened his belt, and marched purposefully toward the bakery.

  Alarmed, Kate glanced over at Maxi, who paused mid-pour.

  “Maybe I better get back,” Kate said, rising.

  “I’ll go with you,” Maxi added quickly.

  With Oliver at their heels, the two crossed the front lawn.

  “You wait here,” Kate said to Oliver, pointing at a bench on the bakery’s front porch. “We’ll be right back.”

  “Where is she, Sam?” Hardy was asking when they walked through the front door. Hands on hips, he turned sharply when he saw Kate. “Ms. McGuire, we need to talk.”

  “Don’t be a donkey, Kyle. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “Nothing to do with what?” Kate asked.

  “Those cinnamon pastries that Stewart Lord got here,” Hardy said. “You’re a pastry chef. Did you make them?”

  Kate started to answer.

  But Hepplewhite cut her off. “I made them. They were for me. A snack. For the beach.”

  “Don’t give me that, Sam. I know you don’t make pastries. And this one,” Hardy said, jerking his thumb at Kate, “that’s her specialty. Why are you covering for her?”

  “I made them, Kyle,” Hepplewhite insisted. “Used scraps from the morning’s bread dough. She doesn’t bake here. Just minds the counter. And that’s what she did all morning. Never even came into the kitchen when I was baking them.”

  “What about when you were icing them?” Hardy asked harshly.

  Hepplewhite shook his head. “I was in the kitchen alone. Only came out when Lord showed up and started raising Cain. Brought the rolls with me and sent her out.”

  Hardy exhaled, looking back and forth between the baker and Kate. “Whose idea was it to give the rolls to Stewart Lord?”

  “His idea,” Hepplewhite said. “Lord’s.”

  Kate nodded. “I was listening from the kitchen. Lord was awful. He goaded Mr. Hepplewhite into giving him the rolls. But what difference does it make?”

  “Is that true, Sam?”

  Hepplewhite nodded. “I packed ’em up and handed ’em over. Didn’t even charge the double-dealin’ snake.”

  “Think about this very carefully, Sam,” Hardy pronounced sternly, planting his hands on his hips. “Your statement is that you made the rolls, you iced the rolls, and you were the only one who came near the rolls. And you were the one who packaged them and gave them to Stewart Lord?”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying, Kyle.”

  “But why does this matter?” Maxi asked. “The man had a heart attack down the street. Why does it matter who gave him sweet rolls first?”

  “Stewart Lord didn’t have a heart attack,” Hardy said, reaching for the
handcuffs on his belt. “Steward Lord was poisoned. And the poison was in those cinnamon rolls.”

  He stepped toward the baker, deftly spun the old man around, and cuffed his hands neatly behind his back.

  Hepplewhite’s eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open as his shoulders sagged. He knew what was coming but could only shake his head mutely.

  “Samuel Hepplewhite, I’m arresting you for the murder of Stewart Lord. You have the right to remain silent.”

  Chapter 8

  “Kyle! You don’t have to handcuff Sam!” Maxi said, confronting the baby-faced officer. “You know him. He’s not going to run.”

  “Procedure, Mrs. Más-Buchanan,” Kyle said briskly. “He may have had a good reason, but he killed a man.”

  “But he didn’t,” Maxi insisted. “You know him. You know he didn’t do it.”

  “That’s not what the evidence says. And we have to follow the evidence. You’re married to an assistant state attorney. You of all people know that,” he said, marching a mute Sam Hepplewhite out to the squad car.

  Maxi and Kate followed them down the walkway. Oliver hopped off the bench and trotted after them. The breeze had picked up, and Kate could smell ozone on the salt air. Off in the distance, she glimpsed dark clouds. A storm was coming.

  “Your evidence is wrong,” Sam rasped. “I didn’t do it!”

  “I’m gonna lock up the place, Sam,” Kyle said quietly when they reached the curb. “Where’re the keys?”

  “My pocket,” Sam replied, his voice like gravel.

  “Sam, don’t worry about a thing!” Maxi called, running up to Sam. “We’ll get you a lawyer. And I’ll meet you at the station.”

  Hepplewhite nodded.

  Kyle gently retrieved a ring of keys from the baker’s baggy jeans pocket, tucked him into the car, and firmly shut the door.

  Oliver, sitting on his haunches on the grass near the curb, watched the car and whined softly. The little noises went up in pitch at the end. A question?

  Kate saw Kyle fish something out of the front seat and sprint past her back up the walk. When he got to the porch, he shut the door firmly and locked it. Then he peeled off strips of yellow and black, pasting them across the doorframe.

  Crime scene tape.

  Kate looked at the police car and saw Hepplewhite’s face collapse. The baker crumbled forward in his seat. She was afraid he might have fainted.

  She bounded up the walkway behind the cop.

  “Kyle, is that really necessary?” Kate asked quietly. “This is going to kill Sam. And his business. Look at him. You’re hurting him.”

  He turned and stared at her. His face was bright pink, his crew cut like mown straw.

  “You want to confess, Little Miss Pastry Chef? Because I don’t for one minute believe you’re innocent. As sure as I’m standing here, you had a hand in this.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t even know Steward Lord.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. Here’s what I do know: It was you, or it was Sam. Or maybe it was the two of you together. Maybe you lured a lonely old guy into doing your dirty work for you. Right now, as of this minute, I have enough evidence to haul him in and close the bakery. But don’t get too comfortable. With any luck, I’ll be back for you soon.”

  “Isn’t this the part where you tell me not to leave town?” Kate said deadpan.

  “I was kinda hoping you would,” he said, looking at her through slitted eyes before lowering the Ray-Bans back onto his face. “Because that would give me probable cause to arrest you, too.”

  Kyle Hardy turned his back on Kate, strode to the edge of the porch, planted his feet, and put his hands on his hips. “This place is a crime scene,” he announced loudly to no one in particular. “Until our investigators are done with it, no one goes in or out. The Cookie House is closed until further notice!”

  Chapter 9

  As the squad car crawled away from the curb, Kate’s eyes followed it down the street. When she finally turned back and faced the front door of the Cookie House, bandaged in yellow and black tape, another thought struck: She was homeless.

  All of the belongings that were most dear to her—from her toothbrush to her recipe journals—were locked in that upstairs room. All she had were the clothes on her back.

  As if reading her mind, Oliver was standing next to her, his shoulder to her leg. He leaned against her and looked up. She reached down and stroked his soft, silky flank.

  Across the yard, Maxi was pacing with a cell phone to her ear. She gestured with her left hand as she spoke. Kate couldn’t hear the words. But whatever the florist was saying, she was emphatic.

  She clicked off, fast-walking toward Kate and Oliver.

  “One of the few places I can sometimes get a signal,” Maxi explained with a shrug. “I think it’s the tree.”

  “More bad news?” Kate asked tentatively.

  “No, I called Peter. Mi amor is an assistant state attorney. And he likes Sam. He’s calling in a lawyer he knows to meet mi padrino at the police station. Still, I want to be there, too. Want to ride with me?”

  “Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Kate said, remembering the steaming wreck that was now her most valuable worldly possession.

  Three hours later, they were still sitting in the lobby of the Coral Cay police department. Kate was just happy she wasn’t in an interrogation room. But she could feel Kyle Hardy’s laser gaze every time he walked into the room.

  With its stucco façade and terra-cotta tile roof, the Coral Cay police station could have passed for a smaller, slightly more worn guesthouse. Which it kind of was, Kate reasoned.

  No one would let her or Maxi speak with Sam. Or even tell them what was happening. But they knew Sam’s lawyer was with him. Somewhere in the bowels of the building.

  Kate remembered the notebook full of her work references from his kitchen. Sam didn’t care if she could bake. But it mattered to him that she was honest. Someone planning a murder wouldn’t care. A killer would just as soon have someone who was a little shady to take the blame.

  And she remembered something else. The look of relief on Sam’s face when he came into the bakery after the robbery. At that point, he hadn’t known if anything had been taken from his shop. Only that she was OK. And he’d stayed in the bakery that night—and come in early the next—just so she’d feel safe.

  Whatever else was going on, Kate was rock-solid certain of one thing: Sam Hepplewhite was no killer.

  Chapter 10

  Maxi plunked the paper cup of cold coffee decisively on the worn wooden table. “We need to see Sam,” she said. “He needs to know that we’re here. That we’re on his side.”

  Kate nodded. But she half-expected to hear that Sam couldn’t—or wouldn’t—have visitors.

  “Given the fact that Kyle seems to believe I’m involved, it might be better if you asked about us visiting Sam,” she reasoned.

  “That bobo!” Maxi said. To Kate’s puzzled expression, she added, “He’s a moron.”

  Maxi stepped up to the glass partition, drew herself up to her full height, and smiled brightly. “Hi, Ray, we’re here to see Sam Hepplewhite. We’ve already cleared it with his lawyer.”

  “Hey, Maxi,” the cop behind the desk greeted her cheerfully. He pulled out a clipboard and ran his finger down the list. “Yup, you’re good to go. Sam’s lawyer put you on the visitors list. Along with someone named Kate McGuire. She here, too?”

  “Yes—that’s me.”

  A few minutes later, they were seated on folding chairs in front of Sam’s cell. And Kate now understood why people called jails ‘graybar motels.’ Everything was, indeed, gray. The walls, the ceiling, the floors. The bars. And Sam.

  Steel shelves that served as benches lined three walls. And there was a stainless-steel commode shoehorned into one corner.

  Sam, in a faded navy jumpsuit, sat alone in the cell on the far-left bench. Near the bars. Farthest from the toilet.

  As if he was waiting for a ri
de home, Kate thought. Had they told him he didn’t make bail? That he’d be staying until the trial? Or longer?

  “Hey, Sam, we just wanted to stop by and see if there’s anything we can bring you,” Maxi said brightly.

  “Nope. I’m fine.”

  “Oh sure, you say that now. But tonight I’m making spicy fricasé de pollo, fluffy rice, and fried plantains. How about I bring you some of that for an early lunch tomorrow?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Don’t need it. ’Sposed to get three squares here.”

  “What about a few of your things?” Maxi said gently. “A couple of books? Maybe your shaving kit?”

  Sam shook his head again. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t think it’s allowed, anyway.”

  Kate noticed the old baker never made eye contact. He seemed to be addressing a spot on a far wall instead of them.

  “They shut down the Cookie House,” Kate said quietly.

  Sam’s eyes went wide. He looked at her for the first time. Like he actually saw her. “No,” he mouthed.

  Kate nodded. “They declared it a crime scene. Kyle won’t tell us anything, other than it’s closed for now.”

  “Kyle is a damned—” Sam said before he caught himself. “He can’t. That’s the only part of her I…” Then he stopped again, looking down.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said finally. “What good would that do?”

  “We know that,” Maxi said soothingly. “And the whole town’s going to know it, too.”

  “Not that lawyer of mine,” Sam spat. “Wants to tell the world I’m nuttier than a fruitcake.”

  Whatever ailed Sam Hepplewhite, his mind was in perfect working order. Clearly, though, the rest of him had given up—body and soul. He didn’t care what he ate. Or how he looked. Or even if he had a few belongings to brighten his cell. And the only thing that did matter to him was swathed in crime scene tape.

  “What if we could keep the bakery up and running?” Kate said. It popped out of her mouth before she even realized she’d said it. “Just until you get out.”