“We’ll see about that,” Myra said. Then she looked at me. “This place is toast, Ms. Kennersly. And I don’t mean nice baked bread. I’ll make sure you’re out of business in no time.” She aimed an angry glance at her employee Neal and, finally, flounced out of my shop.
“I’ll bet her resort did a whole lot better this afternoon without her,” I said to no one in particular as her husband followed her. “But it’d have been even better if she’d stayed there and not come to my shops.”
“I get your point,” Les said. “Myra can be a little … off-putting at times.” His down-turned eyes looked particularly sad, and I felt a little sorry for the politician for having to put up with those family members.
“Off-putting doesn’t quite cover it,” I said. “Anyway, Barkery and Biscuits, you’re open now and you’re here to stay.” I twirled on my toes, raising my arms in salute to my store. Everyone clapped, and I took several exaggerated bows.
“Here, here.” That was a man I’d never seen before.
“Thanks,” I said.
“But what will you do if those nasty people try to make you go out of business?” That was a woman I recognized, with a Pekingese in her arms—a local, although I couldn’t remember her name offhand. “I mean, they’ve already threatened you. I love your stuff and so does little Phaedra here.” She gestured toward her pup.
“Thanks,” I said. “And don’t worry. They’re not the only ones who can threaten—and do something about it.” I smiled grimly. “Myra Ethman did enough damage today with her criticism, but she’d better stop. Immediately. She may not realize it, but I’ll do anything in my power to make sure that Barkery and Biscuits will survive, and that means finding a way to keep her quiet.”
Could I get her fired from the resort by telling her bosses what a jerk she was? Unlikely, since at least some of her bosses were other Ethmans. But I’d think of some way to make her stop insulting my shop and endangering my new business. I just didn’t know what it was yet.
I said goodbye to the rest of our guests, and then Judy, Dinah, Neal, and I—and even poor, sad Brenda—cleaned things up to prepare for tomorrow’s early morning baking.
I made it a point to have Judy and Dinah work in different areas—one in the Barkery and the other in Icing—since this evening was apparently not a good time to work on their truce. They’d started sniping at one another almost immediately when they began cleaning different parts of the kitchen.
Soon, we all were ready to go. I watched as my new assistants retrieved their purses from a closed cabinet at the kitchen’s rear; this was easier to get to than where I stashed my own purse in the small back office. Judy and Dinah left at the same time, acting amazingly civil toward one another now that their working day was finally over.
At the back door of the kitchen, which led out to our parking lot, I hugged Brenda once more before locking up. “You’re off down the hill tomorrow to go to your mother’s?”
“Tonight, actually.” Tears ran down Brenda’s cheeks. “But I’m going to miss it here. I’ll miss Icing on the Cake. I’ll miss you, Carrie.”
My eyes were filled too by then. “I’ll miss you too, Brenda.”
“I’ll be back to visit whenever I can,” she said. “And someday, maybe I’ll move back here.”
“You’re always welcome,” I said, realizing without even hearing her sobs that she was anticipating the loss of her mother in that “someday.”
And then everyone but Neal and Biscuit were gone. They piled into my old white Toyota and I headed toward the home we shared.
I’d set my alarm for four a.m. the next morning, and I came fully awake as it went off. Time to get up, shower, get dressed, then go to work baking all kinds of treats. As much as I’d miss Brenda, the Barkery and Icing were all mine now, and they were officially open for business today.
Biscuit was immediately at my side. I let her outside into the dog run, then went to wash my face. To keep my mind awake, I turned on the television in my bedroom, keeping the sound low so I wouldn’t wake Neal. He didn’t have to get up for another couple of hours.
I’d listened to newscasts before at this hour, but they were generally repeats of whatever had been broadcast at eleven p.m. the night before. Not today, though. There was a breaking news story. Curious, I stopped in front of the TV to hear what it was.
Someone had been murdered. I gasped as I saw a familiar face plastered on the screen.
It was Myra Ethman.
I didn’t like the woman, but still … she had a family. Friends. She’d be missed, I felt sure, even though she and I weren’t exactly buddies.
It was definitely a shame. In fact, I felt awful for everyone involved. Losing someone you cared about was always so hard.
But then my mind focused on the last thing I’d said about her threats to my business. In public. Right there in my Barkery.
Surely no one would think …
Well, I couldn’t be the only one she’d been nasty to. Certainly, she’d had friends and family. But she must also have had real enemies. The cops probably already had a suspect. I’d be fine.
But I nevertheless regretted my words: I’ll do anything in my power to make sure that Barkery and Biscuits will survive, and that means finding a way to keep her quiet.
FOUR
I HEARD BISCUIT BARK. I wasn’t sure how long I’d left her outside, but I hurried back down the hall and into the kitchen. I opened the door quickly, dashed onto the back patio and tweaked the end of the dog-run fence to open it and let her in, hoping she hadn’t disturbed the neighbors at this early hour. Or Neal, for that matter, although maybe talking to him would help my distressed state of mind.
Or not.
It was still dark outside. I had to get to my bakery/barkery right away and start creating the day’s products. My shift at the veterinary clinic wasn’t till late afternoon, and my assistants would both be at work long before that.
But despite all my attempts to focus on those things, on my life, my mind kept returning to what I’d heard on TV.
Myra was dead.
I hadn’t been particularly fond of her, but still …
I’d seen her yesterday. Argued with her. Said words, though not to her face, that could be interpreted as threatening.
I now regretted that. Even, surprisingly, felt some sorrow.
The news story had said murder. Did they have the culprit in custody? That hadn’t been clear, so my assumption was no.
If the cops were still looking … well, surely they wouldn’t consider me because of our disagreement. I hoped.
“This is terrible, girl,” I whispered to Biscuit, who now sat on the wood-grained kitchen floor looking up at me, waiting patiently for the treat I always gave her when she came inside after a bathroom outing. I knelt first and gave her a hug, as much for myself as for her. Then I rose and went to the area beside my metal sink, where I kept a cookie jar shaped like a doghouse on the multicolored stone counter.
I liked my kitchen. I liked my house. I wanted to stay here and let my concerns revolve solely around whether my new business venture would be successful. Yet as I led Biscuit back to my bedroom so I could get dressed, I half listened for my smartphone to ring. Or for a knock at the door.
Forty minutes later, though, I was in the kitchen of my shops. I’d driven Biscuit and me here from home and parked in the small lot behind the stores. I’d fed Biscuit breakfast at home before we left, and right now she was shut into the Barkery while I got things started in the kitchen. It was Sunday morning, and I’d asked Judy to arrive about an hour from now.
First things first. In the Icing section of the kitchen, I washed my hands carefully and started putting the ingredients together for scones, since they were often breakfast food. Blueberry scones this morning. Yum, my own favorite. I then placed the first batch on the cookie sheets, ready to bake. When I put them into the oven it was time to prepare some people-biscuits, also popular early in the day.
The
aroma of sweet pastry filled the air and I inhaled often as I worked, smiling, enjoying the smell and the feel of working in my own kitchen, ready to face my first real day as the owner of a retail business. Make them sweet and make them good. That was Brenda’s edict regarding Icing, and I would follow it.
And that was all I would think about. Could think about, since I had to concentrate. Or so I told myself, as my mind continued to return to that announcement on the TV news …
Over the next half hour, I focused on Icing’s products. I got a lot of breakfast goods baked first. I loved the aroma. I loved doing this—and especially looked forward to starting on the Barkery’s treats of the day.
Judy soon entered through the kitchen’s back door. I’d made sure that both she and Dinah still had the keys given to them by Brenda.
“Good morning,” I said, glad I sounded cheerful.
“Hi.” The older of my two assistants yawned. “I enjoyed my break from getting up this early while you were remodeling, and I was glad you had Dinah come in first yesterday morning. But I’m ready to go now.”
We baked, facing each other, for maybe ninety minutes, wearing aprons over our store-promoting shirts and jeans. It was getting close to seven a.m. by now—near opening time. Judy stayed on the Icing side of the long, narrow set of waist-high shelves that divided the two parts of the kitchen, and I moved over to the Barkery side. We concentrated on mixing our respective kinds of batter and cutting or forming them into the appropriate shapes for the treats we were making, washing our hands often.
When we were quiet, which was most of the time, my mind kept returning to that awful bit of news. Did Judy know? Probably not, or she’d have mentioned it.
Or she could have been like me, wishing on some level that, if she said nothing about it, it couldn’t possibly be true.
But she hadn’t argued with Myra. She might have known her, since most people in town were at least aware of the most elite families. And she’d at least seen her yesterday. But she might not care, at least not much.
We removed things from the ovens, and when they were cool we took them into the appropriate parts of the shops and arranged them in the glass-fronted display cases. I went into the Barkery the most, where I patted a still-loose Biscuit a lot before washing my hands again. One of the things I’d designed for the Barkery was an area for Biscuit, which featured a large crate with a removable top and a leash-hitch for my dog when she wasn’t inside the crate. I wanted Biscuit to be near me as much as possible during each business day.
Eventually we didn’t have much left to bake, but some of our ingredients were getting low—flour and milk, mostly. I didn’t want to leave, so I asked Judy to go to the nearest supermarket and pick some up, along with a few other items we’d need such as fresh apples, lemons, and yams.
“Sure.” Judy seemed happy for the break. From a locked desk drawer in the tiny rear office, I retrieved the special credit card I used now for purchases and handed it to her, and then she left. There would be time for her to brew coffee for Icing on her return. I went back to baking.
About five minutes later my phone rang. Had Judy forgotten something? Did she have some questions?
I pulled my phone from my pocket. Caller ID told me it wasn’t Judy but Neal. I’d thought his shift at the resort wasn’t supposed to start till the afternoon, and Neal hated to get up this early if he didn’t have to, unless it was for a tourist outing.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s—”
“The cops were here a little while ago, Carrie. I wasn’t exactly awake and … well, I am now. They want to talk to you about—”
He didn’t get to finish before I heard the banging from the other room, probably on Icing’s front door. “Police,” came the muffled voice. “Open up please, Ms. Kennersly.”
Biscuit barked. She was still locked by herself in the Barkery, running loose there rather than confined in her open-topped crate, and her presence made it impossible for me to pretend I wasn’t here.
“They’re here,” I rasped quietly back at Neal. “What did they tell you? What did you tell them?”
“Nothing much, either way. I only said I didn’t know for sure where you were, but probably at the bakery.”
Thanks a lot, I thought. But what else could he have done? “I’ll call you back later and let you know what happens.” And then I pushed the button to hang up.
I opened the door into Icing and maneuvered my way behind the display case. I stopped there for just a moment, beyond where I could be seen through the front door’s glass, trying to quiet my irregular breathing and slow my heart rate.
But another knock, which sounded much louder this time, only accelerated both. “Police!” The voice was curt now, not a request but a demand. “Open the door.”
Trembling, I obeyed.
I recognized one of the two people who stood there. Her name was Bridget Morana, and her cat’s name was Butterball. Butterball was a patient at the Knobcone Veterinary Clinic. I doubted she was here about her cat, though. She wore a light blouse and dark skirt and a frown on her middle-aged face.
“Hello, Carrie,” she said. “I’m Detective Bridget Morana of the Knobcone Heights PD. This is Detective Wayne Crunoll. I know you and I have met at the veterinary hospital, but Detective Crunoll and I are here to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
I didn’t think I had a choice. And by now, poor, ignored Biscuit was barking herself into a frenzy. “If you don’t mind, let’s go next door.”
Apparently they didn’t mind. After they stepped inside, I locked Icing’s outside door behind them and motioned for them to follow me through the shop and into the Barkery. Biscuit hurled herself toward me when I opened the inside door, and after removing my apron I knelt and hugged my furry friend.
I needed that probably even more than she did.
“Can we sit down?” That was Wayne Crunoll. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, his hair dark and short, with a hint of shadow on his pudgy face. Like his companion, he wore a white shirt, but his trousers were gray, not black like her skirt.
“Sure,” I said and rearranged the chairs around one of the small tables set on top of the bone decoration on the floor of the Barkery. We all sat down, including Biscuit by my feet. I looked at each of cops before they began, attempting to appear both friendly and oblivious. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“You had a party here yesterday?” Bridget began. Since she was older, I assumed she was the senior detective. Or maybe she was just starting the conversation off because we had a relationship of sorts—as tenuous as it was.
“I’m sorry if it got too loud.” I again attempted to seem naive. “Did some of my neighbors complain? I invited anyone interested to come, but—”
“Carrie, one of your guests from yesterday appears to be the victim of a homicide that occurred last night.” Bridget looked straight at me, her light brown eyes serious beneath straight, somewhat bushy eyebrows. Her hair was short and the same nondescript shade of brown as her brows.
I drew in my breath sharply, as if this was the first inkling I had of such a terrible occurrence. “Oh, no. Who? What happened?”
“We’re hoping you can help us figure it out,” she said, apparently responding only to my second question.
“Me? How?” Okay, maybe I was trying too hard to sound unaware. Or maybe I was reading skepticism in Wayne Crunoll’s too-blank stare.
“Did you have a … disagreement with someone at your party?” he asked.
“I assume, since you’re asking, that the … deceased person is Myra Ethman.” I swallowed, trying to interpret their expressions, but nothing changed on either of their faces; there was no acknowledgment of my brilliant deduction or anything. And I’d “guessed” Myra and not Harris, with whom I’d also argued, so they probably knew I’d heard something. I decided to continue, weighing my words. “She and I did snipe at each other a bit, yes. She wasn’t happy about my opening the Barkery.” I waved my hand toward th
e display case.
The gesture got Biscuit’s attention. She’d been lying at my feet, and now she stood and looked at me closely, wagging her tail as if she knew something was wrong and wanted to make it better for me.
If only she could.
“So you argued about it.” That was Bridget.
“I wouldn’t call it an argument,” I contradicted. “I tried to make her see reason, that my new business wouldn’t directly compete with the Emporium. They sell different kinds of food from what I make here.”
“Can you describe the whole discussion for us?” Bridget asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I’m a veterinary technician, as you know, and a new business owner. I have a feeling you’re asking me these questions because you want me to be a suspect in your investigation. I didn’t do anything to Myra. But I think I’d better stop answering your questions now.”
“Are you going to hire a lawyer?” Detective Crunoll sounded disgusted, but his expression remained blank.
“Do you advise me to exercise my legal rights?” I asked, then made myself smile. “In case you can’t guess, I sometimes watch cop shows on TV. But this is all new to me. I assume you’re just starting your investigation, and since you haven’t read me my Fifth Amendment rights, I’ll just wait and see for now. But let me repeat this. I didn’t harm Myra, not in any way. And I hope that if it was in fact a murder you figure out who did it really fast. And—”
The front door to the shop burst open. Biscuit stood up and leaped toward it, barking.
Neal barged in. “Don’t say anything, Carrie. I’ve met some lawyers at the resort and we’ll hire one for you. No way can they arrest you for just fighting back when that bitch insulted you.”
I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them I just looked at the ceiling. I knew my brother was trying to help—but had he given these cops motivation to arrest me right now?
Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) Page 4
