Creepy Cake Murder

by Rosie A. Point

Bee mumbled under her breath but bustled out of the side of truck. The passenger side door slammed a second later.

  I cleaned up the counter, shut the side window of the truck then made my way to the front too. We took a slow drive through town, past the cleaning committee members and volunteers getting rid of the last of the streamers and stalls, and toward the doctor’s practice near the small cove that flanked Carmel Springs.

  We parked outside, and I guided Bee out of the truck and into the reception area. The doctor’s practice was the same as any other I’d been in, magazines, chairs that were likely saturated with enough germs to infect a small village, and a water cooler that had been well-used.

  But the reception desk was empty.

  “You go sit down over there, Bee.”

  For once, my elderly baking partner didn’t argue. She tottered over and sat down, dabbing at her nose and eyes, sneezing and generally feeling sorry for herself.

  I leaned over the edge of the reception desk, frowning. “Hello? Is anyone here? I have a sick friend who needs some help.”

  “One moment please!” a frantic male voice called out. “Ouch, oof.” A clatter of noise came from the door behind the reception area. It opened and a blond man with an exceptional ascot came out. “Hi there,” he said, tossing his hair back. “Sorry. There’s usually two receptionists out here to man the desk, but since Emmaline when and got herself fired…”

  “Emmaline? What is that, a drain cleaner?” Bee called.

  “She’s rude when she’s sick,” I said, by way of apologies. “Emmaline’s a lovely name.”

  “Well, Emmaline wasn’t a lovely person, so what does that matter?” The receptionist didn’t have a nametag on, but his attitude told me all I needed to know about him. He didn’t like his job, and the easier I made this the better.

  But something strange had sounded in my mind. A bell had rung. Emmaline. That was a seriously unique name. Who did it belong too? I’d heard it somewhere this weekend. But where?

  “Emmaline,” I said.

  “No, I’m Warwick.” The receptionist pointed at his chest. “Warwick.” He drew the name out slowly.

  “But who’s Emmaline?” I asked.

  “Drain cleaner,” Bee chirped. “Now, can I please have an appointment? I’m only dying of typhoid fever over here.”

  “Don’t be abrasive, Bee,” I said.

  “Like drain cleaner?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, um, Warwick, do you have any availability for her to see a doctor? We’re kind of desperate.”

  “Oh sure,” Warwick said, and sat down in his chair, tapping on the screen. “Let me see what I can do for you.”

  “Faster, please.” Bee sneezed.

  “I can squeeze you in to see the doctor in like… fifteen minutes?” Warwick sighed. “Sorry, things have been so tough ever since Emmaline got fired.”

  “Fired,” I said.

  “Yeah, she was so crazy. Like… so erratic. And I caught her stealing from the vending machine. Can you believe that?” Warwick flicked his hair back. “Totally out of control. When the doctor found out she’d been doctoring the books as well, that was it for her. But she was fired like, last week, and it was such short notice that we haven’t found anyone to replace her yet.”

  Bee let out a terrific sneeze, one so destructive that Warwick actually jolted on the spot.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You OK, Bee?”

  She gave me a deathly stare.

  “Right. So, you were saying?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just that we need a new receptionist. You wouldn’t happen to be interested, would you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  Warwick shrugged. “Worth a shot. You can wait over there for the doctor, by the way. He’ll be with you, shortly.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and strode over to join Bee. I sat down next to her, balancing my chin in my palm. There was just something about that name that rang a bell. Who was it? Where had I heard it before?

  Emmaline. Who are you?

  It was silly. What did the receptionist matter? She had nothing to do with anything, after all.

  15

  “Now, you stay curled up right there in front of the fire. You heard what the doctor said, Bee, lots of rest and fluids.”

  “Doctor’s a hack,” Bee insisted. “I’m fine.” But she still didn’t try getting up from where I’d placed her next to the fireplace in the Oceanside Guesthouse. Trouble had opted to curl up right on top of her feet, and Bee had been given a small side table on which to place her water and pills. She sneezed and dabbed, sneezed and dabbed. “Really, I’m fit as a fiddle. I’ll be on the truck by tomorrow morning. I’m just having allergies, is all.”

  “What did the doctor say was wrong?” Sam asked, as she trooped out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of chicken soup. She’d started making it the minute she’d heard the news that Bee was ill.

  That news had come on gossip-wings from the folks who’d nearly gotten infected by flu cakes this morning on the truck. “Just the flu,” I said. “She just needs to rest and drink water. I mean, it’s usual at this time of year, isn’t it? Especially for people with weak immune systems.”

  “My immune system takes offense to that.” Bee’s complaint was barely audible.

  Sam set down the chicken soup on the side table. “There you go. Eat it all up, Bee, it will help you feel better. Ooh, I’ll get you a soda to go with it on the side.”

  I followed Sam into the kitchen, my curiosity drawing me along. I’d been in the kitchen once before, to bake cupcakes for a wedding that had never taken place—due to the fact that the bride had died before it could. The rush of baking back then had blurred out most of the details.

  The kitchen was lovely and spacious, with granite topped counters, wooden cupboards, and a spectacular view of the ocean through a back window that was next to the rear exit of the building.

  Sam paused at the sink and washed her hands. “Better to be safe than sorry,” she said. “Let me get that soda for Bee. Goodness, it’s such a pity she’s ill. I know it sounds silly, but I hope the other guests don’t catch it.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound silly at all.” But perhaps my next question would. It would seem out of the blue, surely. “Sam, I wondered if you could help me with something.”

  “Of course, anything.” Sam extracted two sodas from the fridge and smiled at me.

  “Right, so I was wondering if you could tell me if you know of anyone named Emmaline? It rings a bell but I don’t know who that is?”

  “Oh, sure, that’s—”

  The bang of someone thundering across the back porch interrupted Sam, and a dark figure rushed past the window.

  “What was that?” I asked. “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam replied, pale in the face.

  “Wait here. I’ll check it out.” I hurried through to the living room, where Bee had already fallen asleep, and then toward the glass sliding doors that let out onto the back porch. The door was locked tight. I opened it and peered out. My eyes widened.

  All the furniture on the back porch had been slashed and hacked apart. The bang had clearly come from the sofa, which had been thrown onto its side. The back of the guesthouse had been trashed.

  Sam came out and let out a shocked cry. “No! Why? Who would do this?”

  I could only shake my head. I had no idea.

  “So, you’re telling me that you just happened to be here when this stuff was torn apart?” Detective Jones asked, clicking his ballpoint again and again, as if that would somehow change what had happened. Or maybe, he hoped it would magic me away.

  No luck there, for either of us.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I said, trying to remain calm. It had been a long morning, what with Bee’s illness and then the vandalism. None of what had happened made any sense to me, but my gut told me that it had something to do with the case.

  Just what it was, however, I wasn’t sure. And
mentioning that to Jones would only send him into a fit of rage or the like.

  The detective stood in the center of the living room, occasionally glancing out at the mess in the back of the guesthouse. Other officers combed over it, but it didn’t seem like they’d have a ‘solve’ any time soon.

  “You saw a dark figure,” Jones said, without writing it down. “You expect me to believe that.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, offering up a prayer for strength. “I don’t expect anything from you, detective.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out as an insult, but there it was.

  Bee, who had either been asleep or feigning it, cracked an eyelid. “Ah. He’s back. The rotten apple of my eye. The hobbit out of the Shire. The one and only detective with the worst case-solving record in Carmel Springs.”

  “Don’t try my patience,” Jones said, pointing at her. “I’ll arrest you.”

  Bee sneezed into a tissue. “You’d have better luck arresting a mountain lion.”

  Jones grimaced and took a step away from her. “You didn’t tell me she was sick.”

  “Oh, right, I forget that updating you about my friend’s health is on the list of conversation priorities between us.”

  “That’s the sarcasm I like to here,” Bee said.

  “Look.” I put up a hand. “I’ve given you my statement. There’s not much more for me to tell you, detective. I don’t know who did it, but whoever they were, they clearly wanted to get back at Sam for some reason.”

  “You leave the deductions to me,” Jones growled then stamped off toward the back of the Oceanside.

  I lowered myself into an armchair across from Bee, shaking my head.

  “You know, I never get tired of seeing that man,” Bee croaked. “He’s truly the light of my life.”

  I managed a laugh, but Bee didn’t seem to note that it was mirthless. Her eyes had already drooped closed again, leaving me to consider the strange vandalism and the clues, or lack thereof, that I had left. If only I could figure out how all these strange occurrences were connected.

  16

  There wasn’t much for me to do with Bee sick and no food to serve on the truck. Sam had already closed up the guesthouse for the afternoon, the police were gone, and the alarm company was on its way out to install a system for Sam.

  I tucked my hands into my pockets and opted for a long walk past the pier and along the beach. There were plenty of quaint homes, stores, and even a library that overlooked the ocean—rocks or sand, neither mattered. The view was still gorgeous.

  The afternoon had come, but the sun, while bright, didn’t do much to warm me up. The wind was biting and my ears stung.

  What’s the answer?

  Franny? Shawn? Or even Gregory?

  Once again, I had no evidence. Ridiculous. I couldn’t do anything without actual evidence. Franny had hated Theresa and Shawn was clearly a problem child.

  I slowed, scanning the street. I had reached the end of the long street, where it circled up and around back into town. The last building on the right was different from the others. The sign on the front was slightly dilapidated, but still clear.

  The Helping Hands Soup Kitchen.

  That was nice. I hadn’t known there was an initiative in town like that. Bee and I could help out too, and we would. Perhaps, we could deliver a few cakes or cookies to the soup kitchen to hand out to the homeless?

  I sat down on the bench across from the soup kitchen, trying to gather my thoughts. But it was no use. The questions I’d had earlier had slipped from my grasp, and I hadn’t had any answers.

  Emmaline.

  Shawn?

  Wait a second, Shawn! The young man strolled down the street toward the soup kitchen, the collar of his dark pleather jacket popped. He stared directly ahead, not breaking focus. He dipped into the soup kitchen.

  What was that about?

  He’s hungry. Maybe that’s why he tried to break into the Chowder Hut. And that made me kinda sad. The poor dude clearly had no job, and if he wasn’t staying with his aunt, Franny, then where did he live? Heavens, I couldn’t be feeling sorry for him now. What if he was the murderer?

  The thought prompted me to my feet.

  I hesitated for only a second—there was no Bee to run in headfirst here and take the heat for me. I was on my own. I headed across the street and entered the soup kitchen. The tables were mostly empty, apart from one where Shawn now sat, bent over a tray that held a slice of bread and a bowl of soup.

  He dipped the bread into the bowl, hungrily, and ate, his fingers shaking.

  Guilt wracked me. Something wasn’t wright with this picture. The guy had been arrested twice since he’d come to Carmel Springs, and now, he was in a soup kitchen, clearly starved. And so young too. Where had I been at nineteen? In a better position, for sure, with a good education and a future ahead of me.

  I rounded the table and sat down across from Shawn.

  The makeup wearing teen froze. He lowered his spoon slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “What?” he repeated.

  “I think we got off to a rough start.”

  “You tackled me to the ground and called the cops. You’re a snitch.”

  “No, I’m a concerned citizen,” I said, slowly. “My name is Ruby Holmes, and I—”

  “I don’t care what your name is. You’re just like the rest of them.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Shawn brushed his pitch black hair back from his pale forehead. “The rest of the people in this town. My aunt, that stupid detective, the mayor. Y’all think that I’m some kind of bad guy or murderer, but you don’t know me.”

  Another wave of guilt beset me.

  “None of you care what I have to say,” he continued, “so why don’t you save me some time and leave before you say something that’s going to annoy me.”

  “You didn’t murder Theresa, did you?” It was more of a statement than a question. I hadn’t had a chance to speak to Shawn. I hadn’t done my due diligence, but then he hadn’t exactly been approachable, and Halloween had been so busy.

  Shawn glared at me. “Duh. Of course, I didn’t, but I’m just the easy target, aren’t I? That detective wants to believe it’s me. It will look real neat if they can pin a murder on me instead of just petty offenses.”

  That did sound like a distinctly ‘Jones’ move to make. He wanted everything easy, and while that probably wasn’t true for his partner, it still didn’t fill me with faith that Jones was any closer to solving the mystery than I was.

  “You know,” Shawn said, dipping his spoon into his soup and lifting it to his lips, “if you give me some money, I’ll tell you what I saw.”

  “What you saw?”

  “Yeah, the day before the murder.”

  I blinked. “I can’t give you any money,” I said, “that wouldn’t be right. But what if I gave you cupcakes or food?”

  Shawn licked his lips, glancing down at the tepid soup in front of him.

  “What do you say?”

  “Yeah, OK. I guess.” He ate the last of his bread, slowly. “I think I know who did it for real.”

  “Who? How?”

  Shawn paused for effect. “It was Emmaline.”

  “What? Who’s Emmaline?” My insides had gone icy cold with a certainty that I was about to find out something that would blow my mind, that would, perhaps, change everything. “Shawn?”

  “Emmaline is the wife of the guy who lives next-door. You know that guy, the one who threw the massive Halloween party?”

  It took a minute for the information to click home. “Franklin? Franklin Smith?”

  “That’s right. So, I think it was his wife ‘cos the day before Theresa was murdered, I was hanging out on the roof of my aunt’s house, great place to scope out kitchens. People leave their curtains open a lot, and I can see what they’re cooking or what they bring home to eat.”

  I could barely keep track of his words.
Emmaline was Franklin’s wife. Franklin who had been set on winning the Halloween decorating competition. And Emmaline who had been fired from her job for stealing. Money. They didn’t have money.

  “So, basically,” Shawn continued, “I was on the roof, right? And I saw Theresa out front. She had this whole amazing setup of Halloween decorations, but the neighbor didn’t seem to like that. Emmaline and Theresa got into a fight, because Theresa caught the other woman stealing her decorations.”

  Decorations. Halloween party. Competition. Cash prize.

  The truth struck me between the eyes. I scraped my chair back. “I have to go,” I said. “Now.”

  “Hey, but what about my cookies?”

  “Come by the Oceanside later. I’ll give you as many cakes and cookies as you want, Shawn.” And with that, I sprinted from the soup kitchen, drawing my cellphone from my pocket as I went.

  17

  “You’re lying,” Jones said, down the line. “I don’t believe it for a second. Why wouldn’t Shawn have told us that? He’s just misleading you because he wants money from you.” Each sentence was emphasized harshly.

  “Look, just get to Franklin Smith’s house. Emmaline’s the murderer. I’m sure of it.”

  “This had better not be a false lead. I put you in jail once already, I’d be more than happy to do it again.”

  I hung up, rather than rising to the taunt. Besides, I needed all my energy and focus on what was ahead. I rounded the corner and entered the street just off Main, where Franklin’s house was located. It was still decorated in style for Halloween, basically overflowing with decorations, some of which I didn’t’ doubt had belonged to Theresa.

  Or to Sam for that matter. She’d lost all her decorations overnight. A part of me had assumed that it had been Shawn who had vandalized her place for the sake of it, but from what he’d told me, it seemed that he had been after food more than anything else.

  It had to have been Emmaline.

  I reached the front of the house and stopped, my heart pounding in my throat. Was it so simple? Could it be?