Creepy Cake Murder

by Rosie A. Point

  And last night, there had been an argument between Franny and one of Theresa’s relations, her brother.

  “Uh oh,” Bee said, as she poured another cup of coffee and handed it over to Millie, “looks like Ruby’s getting in the zone.”

  “Thinking of following the trail?” Millie asked. “Heaven knows, the more you hinder Jones, the happier we all are. The minute he solves a case, he becomes insufferable. Wants to run for the office of police chief. Mayor Jacobsen is at his wit’s end with the man.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not really my place.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, I might know a little something extra regarding Theresa’s untimely demise.” Millie’s bright blue eyes shifted. She scanned the waiting crowds, checking for eavesdroppers. “Apparently, Franny’s nephew was arrested this morning. Not sure what for, but it’s a little suspicious, don’t you think, that he would be arrested right after his aunt’s sworn enemy is found washed up on the beach? Shawn Clark,” Millie continued, “You saw him last night, remember? At the stalls? The mayor was chasing him.”

  “Interesting.” Bee tapped her chin.

  Jones had finished interviewing the folks closest to the beach and marched off now, casting one last furious glance at the truck. He disappeared into the blue crime scene tent on the beach.

  I fell into silence, my gaze stuck on the blue forensic tent and my thoughts whirring with possibilities and questions.

  Just who had killed Theresa Michaud? Surely, one cookie wasn’t enough to spark a homicide? It was none of our business anyway.

  “For once,” I said, “we’re not actively involved in a case. I say we stay out of it. It’s better this way.”

  Bee let out a disappointed huff. “If that’s what you really want.”

  “Well,” Millie put in, “if you ladies are thinking of looking into it, you know where to get your information.” She turned to leave, but paused, looking back over her multi-colored, glittery wing. “And just so you know, I mean, if you dears are curious, Theresa Michaud’s house is right next door to Franklin’s, just off Main Street. You can’t miss it.”

  And then she was gone, and I was left with an itch to find out more that I really shouldn’t have had.

  6

  At noon, Bee and I called it a day on the truck. Nobody was buying any treats or coffees as most were too nauseated at the sight of the forensic tent to even consider eating. A sign of a healthy mind, in my opinion. Who could eat at a time like this?

  Theresa was dead, and we’d had a front row seat, basically.

  “This is amazing,” Bee said, chomping down on a powder donut and sprinkling confectioner’s sugar all over her lap and the passenger seat.

  “How can you eat?” I asked. “And how is it you’re so messy while you’re eating?”

  “I’m nervous eating. It’s the third body that’s shown up in Carmel Springs in the last month and a half. Do you mind if a woman sates her nerves and fears on a few donuts.”

  Donuts, I had established, were Bee’s favorite treat. That and hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows. “You know, you’d swear you were a cop.”

  Bee froze, mid-chew, sugar coating her lips. She coughed and a little puff of white dust erupted from between her lips. “Why do you say that?”

  “The donuts?”

  “Oh. Oh right,” she replied, and gave an awkward laugh. “I’ll clean it, by the way.” She gestured to the mess on the passenger seat.

  “I know you will.” I smiled at my friend. She was strange and fun to be around. Wasn’t that the best combination one could find in life? Someone who kept interesting conversation alive but was trustworthy and loyal.

  I parked the food truck in front of the Oceanside Guesthouse, privately looking forward to a long bath to ease the knots of tension from my shoulders. Whenever Detective Jones was around, my insides hurt a little. I’d half-expected him to come charging over and question us.

  “Yum,” Bee said, finishing off the last of her donut. She got out of the truck and proceeded to dust off her seat.

  I exited too, taking a deep breath of the fresh ocean air. It soothed me a little, and the nerves and nausea had abated somewhat—I had never been good with all things icky. That had been one of the reasons I’d left my job as investigative journalist behind. I’d seen far too many dark and depraved things. Now, was the time for sweets and candies and comfort and success.

  A banging came from the front of the guesthouse.

  Sam stood on the porch, desperately tugging at the end of a roll of orange and black crepe streamers that had gotten caught in the door. “—no, no, no,” she said under her breath. “No. No!”

  “Sam?” I hurried over. “What’s going on?”

  The owner of the guesthouse gave another great tug and the crepe paper tore in half. She stumbled and nearly fell backward but steadied herself on the railing. “No,” she said, meeting my gaze, her dark hair in total disarray.

  Samantha was big on first appearances. She kept her guesthouse and herself neat at all times, and she wasn’t silly either.

  “What’s going on?” I walked to the door, opened it, and removed the rolls of crepe, bringing them out to her. “You know, you could have just fetched—”

  “I know that.” She snatched them from me. Her bottom lip quivered, and her anger dissolved. “Oh, Ruby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just so frustrated.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” Bee had finally finished dusting the donut sugar out of the truck. She came up the steps, frowning. “Wait a second, this isn’t right.” She peered around. “What happened to your Jack-O-Lanterns?”

  My eyes widened. I’d been so concerned about Sam, I hadn’t even noticed that most of her decorations were just… gone. “And the spooky ghost! The skeleton. The mummy? Where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam wailed. “And that’s why I’m so upset. I woke up this morning and they were just gone, and it’s a disaster. A total disaster. I’m supposed to have everyone over tomorrow for my Halloween party and banquet. I invited the mayor, for heaven’s sake, and the head of the party and decorations committee. One look at this place, and they’ll rule me out of the competition for good.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said. “We’ll help you fix this.”

  “Yeah!” Bee put up a sugar dust tipped finger. “We’ll go to the General Store and get more decorations.”

  “That’s really sweet, guys, but it’s no use. There’s no way Old Man Lester’s place will have anything I can use. I have to face facts. It’s over. Over before it even began.” Sam hung her head, dropping the rolls of black and orange streamers to the porch.

  Trouble danced out of one of the windows, leaped and attacked the rolling paper.

  “Don’t say that, Sam,” I said. “Come on. We’re going to find a way to make it happen. Right, Bee?”

  “Right. We’ll go out there and see if we can get you some new decorations. You go make yourself a cup of tea and have a cookie. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Are you sure?” Sam asked, the first glimmer of hope appearing in her gaze.

  “Positive,” I said.

  And with that, Bee and I set off into town, walking the long road toward the General Store in Main Street, clutching our coats to ourselves. It was better to walk—I’d had too cupcakes this morning and about five cups of coffee with half-and-half. Working off the calories was a must.

  “Poor Sam.” I tucked my hands into the pockets of my puffy, pink coat. The wind tugged at my shoulder-length hair, brushing it back from my ears.

  “I wonder who did it.”

  “What? The murder?”

  “No,” Bee said, “the decorations. Someone had to have stolen them. They can’t have just vanished into thin air. Perhaps, it’s one of the other folks in town who wants to win the competition?”

  We turned the corner, and my heart skipped a beat, cutting off what I’d been about to say. Franklin’s house was
up ahead, and that meant that Theresa’s place would be next to it. I nudged Bee, gesturing toward Franklin’s done up Halloween house. “Remember what Millie said?”

  Bee’s eyes lit up. “Hmmm. But which house is it?”

  We had slowed significantly—anyone who peeked out of the houses on the suburban street, flanked as it was by sidewalk, wrought iron lamps, and trees shedding their golden-brown leaves, would think us strange. Or suspicious.

  On one side of Franklin’s house sat another that was done up in Halloween style, with a pumpkin head knocker of all things. And on the other…

  An old house that looked as if it had seen better days. A smashed pumpkin lay on its side in a garden that surely hadn’t been watered in weeks. The windows bore drawn curtains, the door needed a swipe of polish, and the porch stairs looked like the kind that would creak.

  An battered mailbox had been perched on the crumbling brick wall. Michaud was printed across it in bold letters.

  “Well,” Bee whispered. “I guess we have our answer.”

  “What happened to the place? It looks like it hasn’t been lived in in months. Or years.”

  “Smashed pumpkin, though. And look at the mailbox. See how it’s on its side with the wooden pole still sticking out of its end? Splintered too. Looks like someone vandalized the place,” Bee said.

  A door slammed further down the street and spurred us into action. We hurried off, me occasionally glancing back at Theresa’s house.

  If it had been vandalized, then who had done it? And why?

  7

  The inside of the General Store was neatly decorated, the only hints of spider webs were the fake ones Old Man Lester had put up in the corners in celebration of Halloween. The aisles were stocked with all the necessities and even a few imported and specialty items I wouldn’t have expected to find in a small town like Carmel Springs.

  It was a sign of a business owner who cared for himself, his business and the people of the town, and I admired that. It was nice that Old Man Lester, crotchety and strange as he was, cared about his customers.

  “All right,” Bee said. “Now, let’s see if there’s anything we can find.”

  We grabbed a shopping cart from the front of the store and pushed it down the hall, me pushing, Bee walking and stopping as we searched the shelves for Halloween décor. We entered the aisle containing stationery and found the last vestiges of decorations there.

  A single plastic Jack-O-Lantern, more orange and black crepe, and a set of creepy, blood red candles.

  “Oh wow,” I said. “Sam wasn’t kidding. There’s nothing here. What are we going to do?”

  Bee shook her head. “It’s not looking good.”

  “We can’t give up. We promised Sam we’d come back with something.” I paced forward toward the section that held the stationery, frowning. Card, pens, scissors, glue, glitter. There were all sorts of things we could use to make home-made decorations. But would that be enough?

  “What are you thinking?” Bee asked.

  “Two things,” I said, putting up my fingers. “That we create something with these supplies, that we make something with pumpkins, if Old Man Lester still has some in stock, and that we bake creepy cookies and varnish them.”

  “Varnish them?”

  “You know, cover them in polish so that they don’t spoil. We can bake all sorts of crazy things and hang them up around the place.”

  “Oh!” Bee exclaimed, lifting a finger. “We could turn Sam’s Guesthouse into a real life witch’s house. You know, from that old fairytale, Hansel and Gretel? That Brothers Grimm story.”

  “You know, it’s a big task, but if we focus, we might be able to get the whole place ready. We have the rest of the afternoon and the whole of tomorrow until the evening,” I said, excitement bubbling in my stomach.

  This would be a great way to take our minds off the whole ‘murder’ thing. And to make Sam happy. Apparently, there was a cash prize for the winner of the Halloween decoration competition. Likely, Sam wanted to use that to revamp the guesthouse and make the place even better. More comfortable.

  She’d been such a lovely host, support and friend, that I was more than happy to help her out.

  Quickly, we hurried into the fruit and veg aisle. But it was empty of pumpkins—that was to be expected on Halloween.

  “What now?” Bee asked, shifting the items around in our cart.

  “These,” I said, lifting a melon and tapping against its thick shell. “They’ll be difficult to carve, but if we’re careful, we can make a few lanterns, and paint them orange. They’ll look sort of spooky and cute.”

  “You’re a natural at this.” Bee grinned at me, and we started loading melons into our cart, stacking them carefully so they wouldn’t disturb our other items.

  “OK, so I think we—”

  The intercom blared and crackled overhead, and a stern voice sounded throughout the store. A woman who’d been sniffing the cantaloupes and knocking them with her knuckles let out a squeal and dropped one.

  “Attention shoppers,” the voice said. “Attention all shoppers. This is Lester, and I am interrupting your shopping experience to let you know that there has been a murder in Carmel Springs. Theresa Michaud has been killed. You have been warned.”

  The cantaloupe lady let out another squeal. She dropped her handbasket and skedaddled out of the fruits section back toward the front of the store. The door clapped shut a second later, the bell tinkling frantically.

  “Good heavens,” Bee said, “what an announcement to make.”

  “I heard Old Man Lester did that type of thing.” I paused, holding a melon in both hands and squeezing gently. “I wonder… do you think he might know something?”

  “About what? Decorations?”

  “No. What happened to Theresa. Maybe, he knows something we don’t. After all, the store is sort of hub. A lot of information probably comes through these doors.”

  “Good idea,” Bee said, her eyebrows rising. She was suddenly animated, likely at the thought of something as exciting as investigating another murder. What was it with her and that? She seemed so experienced too—during the last investigation, she had taken photos of the crime scene and made deductions I surely wouldn’t have.

  I placed the last melon in the cart and we hurried to the front of the store.

  Old Man Lester stood behind the counter, frowning at the cash register.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to be merry. “We heard your announcement.”

  Old Man Lester shifted, his gray eyebrows crinkling over deep brown eyes. “You’re them bakers. From the truck.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You helped solve that murder of the lobsterman,” he said.

  “Correct again,” I said, trying to be jovial. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” He sniffed, staring at us. “You going to pay for that stuff?”

  “Sure are.” I helped Bee unload our goods onto the counter and Lester did the relevant calculations using an old calculator. He tapped the amount into his register, and I paid, my pulse racing a little. What if he didn’t want to talk to us about what had happened? He didn’t seem all that friendly.

  “Do you know anything about what happened to Theresa?” Bee was impatient at the best of times—she didn’t beat around the bush when it came to asking questions.

  Old Man Lester froze, his hand extended and holding my change. “No. But I got something that might interest you two ladies.”

  “Oh?” Bee and I exchanged a glance. “What is it?”

  “Follow me.” Old Man Lester shuffled out from behind the counter and marched down one of the aisles until he reached a door. We followed him into an office that had little to no ventilation and a single chair and desk. An open laptop sat atop it.

  Lester beckoned for us to gather around. “See here? This is where I view all my surveillance footage from the store. And if I go back two days ago…” He clicked and tapped away on the keys, his gn
arled fingers spry. “Watch this.”

  Gray surveillance footage opened on the screen. “That’s Theresa, see? The one with the gray-blonde hair?” He tapped on the screen, and white bloomed underneath his fingertip. “And watch, here she comes.”

  Another woman entered. She wore her hair dark and short, but was relatively tall herself. She stopped the minute she spotted Theresa standing in front of the counter.

  “Who’s that?” It was difficult to identify anyone out of costume, especially if I hadn’t met them before.

  “That’s Francesca Clark,” Lester said, pressing his finger to the screen again. “Watch ‘em fight.”

  “Fight?” The word had barely left my mouth when chaos erupted on the screen.

  Franny launched herself at the blonde, short Theresa. The fight was insane, women clawing at each other, their faces masks of anger. Finally, Old Man Lester appeared on screen and managed to separate them. Franny fled. Theresa remained, her hair inexplicable, standing up at odd angles.

  “There you have it,” Lester said. “Now, some might not think that’s evidence, but I sure do. If anyone wanted to see Theresa dead, it was Franny.”

  “Did they usually fight like this?”

  “Nope. First time I seen it,” Lester said. “You mark my words, it was that Franny. She hated Theresa’s guts and everybody knew it.” He sniffed. “I’m only surprised the cops ain’t arrested her yet.”

  8

  “They’ll be here any second!” Sam squeaked, her makeup staring to run. Tonight, Sam had chosen to be not a knight, but a witch, and her tall, pointy hat was skew atop her head. Her dark hair was curled, and she’d pasted a wart on the end of her nose. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh.”

  “It’s OK, Sam,” I said. “The place looks great.”