Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery)

by Linda O. Johnston

  Biscuit continued to wag her tail in a cheerful but pleading way. I couldn’t resist. I took a cookie and broke it in half, putting one part on the counter near the display case for the future and handing the other to my clearly delighted dog.

  That was when the bell over the door rang. When I looked up, a large man stood there. By large, I mean not only tall but rotund; his belt outlined a protruding gut covered by a white knit shirt tucked into beige jeans.

  “Carrie?”

  Since he asked with one accented word, he confirmed my initial assumption. This was Chef Manfred Indor.

  “Yes. You’re Manfred, right?” I didn’t need to confine my own speech.

  “Right.” He moved farther into the store, not looking at me but everywhere else. As he got close to Biscuit, he bent and patted her head. Only then did he deign to stand straight and regard me with cool, dark eyes. “Nice store. I like dogs.”

  Ah, good. We might actually have a conversation, especially since he’d again graduated to multiple words.

  “Great,” I said. “I do want to talk mostly about this part—the Barkery—since the former owner of Icing on the Cake left me a lot of great recipes for people baked goods. I take it that you’d be okay coming up with ideas for more dog treats.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind going outside to talk?” A few tables and chairs were already set up on the patio there, as they’d been on the night of the grand opening.

  “Fine.”

  I made myself forbear from groaning. After all, even when he used single syllables he was being responsive to what I asked.

  I unhooked the end of Biscuit’s leash from her crate. She might as well enjoy being outside with us.

  When we were on the patio, I motioned for Manfred to take a seat on a chair at one of the round wrought-iron tables. I hoped the frilly, decorative chairs were strong enough to hold him. They should be, since they too were iron. When Manfred lowered himself onto one, he seemed to hold his breath as if he also had some concerns about the chair’s endurance, but in a minute he was planted there, nodding a little.

  The temperature was warm. It was late spring here in the San Bernardino Mountains, which meant that the weather could be anything from winter-icy to summer-hot. Today was a fair compromise in between. At least I felt good in my green Barkery and Biscuits T-shirt and slim jeans. I wondered, though, whether my large companion would be comfortable here. He wasn’t complaining, and until he did, in a single word or more, I wouldn’t suggest that we move.

  “So,” I said, “I’d really love to enlist your help with new and exciting recipes, more on an occasional basis—for a negotiated pay rate per creation—rather than anything regular right now. As I mentioned, I’m just starting out and don’t have funds available to hire anyone besides my two current assistants.”

  I watched his dark, bushy brows lower into a straight line over those watchful eyes. His hair was of the same blackness, short but kinked into waves.

  “Okay. I am working now. But I always like to create new foods.”

  “I was glad to hear that you already have a new job.” And now I had to be careful with what I said. I truly was looking for new and exciting treats to serve here. But of course my main reason for talking to Manfred was to learn if he’d been angry enough about Myra’s firing him to do anything about it.

  Like kill her.

  “Yes. Two jobs.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Two restaurants at Lake Arrowhead.”

  That was a San Bernardino Mountains town not far from here, with a lake, of course, and some nice residential areas. A fun town to visit.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “But I’ll bet you have to do some juggling to prepare food for two different places.” I tried to sound a little dejected, which I was. Would he have time to do anything for the Barkery? Even though that wasn’t the primary reason I’d asked him here, my interest in it was genuine.

  “Yes. But I am good at planning my time. I can help you too. And my partner also cooks, so he will assist me.”

  “That’s great!” I smiled at him. Now it was time for what I really wanted to talk about. “I know you used to work at the Knobcone Heights Resort, in the restaurant there. My brother Neal told me, though, that—”

  “Yes, the bitch fired me.” Those dark eyes turned stormy, and his thick hands clenched into fists on the table. “For no reason except that I didn’t follow her stupid, uncreative instructions.” But then he stared straight at me and grinned, revealing perfect teeth whose whiteness seemed emphasized by the swarthiness of his skin. “I hated her. Yes. Did I kill her? No.” He leaned toward me over the round glass surface of the small table. “Did you?”

  His outright brazenness startled me. But then I laughed. “No.” My turn to use a single word.

  “That’s why I’m here, right? So you can figure it out? I know the cops are after you. They’re after me too, but I think I got them to see the truth. Not me.”

  “Not me either. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk a bit about the time you might have to develop new recipes for me.”

  Because the other part of the conversation was over. Could Manfred be lying? Yes. On the other hand, he seemed intuitive and intelligent as well as somewhat bearlike. I’d keep him in mind as a possible suspect in case I needed to point to others.

  But did I think he was guilty?

  No.

  Several hours later I was sitting across from someone else, at a very different table, with Biscuit again at my feet.

  Billi had called to confirm our short get-together soon after I’d returned from my shift at the clinic. Dinah was enjoying some additional baking this afternoon; she’d been fine holding down the fort at both shops during my shift. I was happy to be at Cuppa-Joe’s now, sitting on my favorite patio with Biscuit at my feet.

  Billi was dressed casually in a silvery workout top and pants—not surprisingly, since she’d come from the Robust Retreat not Mountaintop Rescue. Her fitness club and spa were not far from Cuppa-Joe’s or my shops, just down California Street on one edge of the town square and onto Peak Road. Although she said she always brought her dogs Fanny and Flip to the shelter with her, she’d left them at her spa today.

  We both nursed our caffeine-laced drinks and smiled at each other. “So your shops are doing okay?” she asked. Her dark hair with its golden highlights was pulled tightly into a ponytail at the back of her head, accentuating the perfect oval shape of her lovely face. If looks were the main criterion, Billi definitely deserved to be a member of one of the town’s most elite families.

  “They’re doing great,” I said. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve brought along some treats for you to take to your shelter.”

  Kit had waited on us a few minutes ago, but now my dear friend Irma came over to say hi. “Everything okay here?” she asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” Billi assured her, and I nodded in agreement.

  Irma smiled and told us to let someone know if we needed anything else, then walked off.

  Then Billi turned back to me. “And on the other front—I mean, about Myra. City Council hasn’t met since her death, but we do stay in touch. I keep hearing rumbles from my fellow members about irritation that the cops haven’t yet solved the murder. Some of it, I think, is to appease Les Ethman since he’s one of us, but he seems cool about it—cooler than some of the others, at least. Are you still … ?” Her voice trailed off.

  “Am I still the number one suspect?” I sighed and took a sip of my latte. “I’m not aware of anyone that the cops are looking at more strongly. I don’t even know much about evidence, what they’ve got or what they’re looking for, except for a suspicious dog leash and, apparently, a dog biscuit from my Barkery. Wish I did know more—including that they were zeroing in on someone else.”

  “Me too.” Billi’s turn to take a sip. “Having a position of some authority in this town should come with a magic wand that we can wave and hav
e everything that needs to be resolved get that way fast. And without hurting people who don’t deserve it.”

  I smiled at her. “It means a lot that you believe in me, Billi.”

  “It means a lot that you’re such a great animal person, Carrie. Such a great person in general. I’m sorry you’re going through this, and if I see any way to help, believe me, I’ll do so.”

  “Finding the actual killer would help a lot.” I kept irony in my tone. I knew Billi couldn’t do it any more than I could, even with her seat on City Council.

  “Yeah,” she said, “it would.” She paused. “We don’t know each other extremely well, but—well, I get the impression, especially from your efficiency in running both new businesses while having a job, that you get things done when you need to. So … who do you think killed Myra? I assume you’ve been thinking about it, maybe looking into it.”

  “Yes, I have,” I told her. “But so far, I’ve got suspicions but nothing to prove who it was.”

  “I have a feeling,” she said, looking straight at me with her gorgeous brown eyes and even lovelier smile, “that you will.”

  I could only hope she was right.

  TWENTY-TWO

  BUT OVER THE COURSE of the next week, although I thought a lot about finding Myra’s killer, I didn’t do it, or even try. I didn’t accuse anyone of murder, or talk to people—much—about what had happened, or even consider where else to look for evidence.

  That was partly because the cops left me alone. Not even any visits to the Barkery by either of my dear detective buddies. And as long as I wasn’t being harassed into a state of fear and anxiety, I allowed myself to ignore the situation. Almost.

  I couldn’t keep my thoughts completely away from it. I was waiting for the next proverbial shoe to drop. If someone else had been arrested the news around here would be full of it. Knobcone Heights had its own small newspaper and radio and TV stations, and none of them said anything new about the murder during that week.

  In the meantime, my life got into a routine.

  Very early each morning, I’d rise and put Biscuit briefly into the yard or take her for a short walk. Then we’d go to the shops. There, I’d start baking, usually for Icing first and then the Barkery.

  Once things were in the oven, I’d gather dog treats that were threatening to go stale and put them in two boxes. The smaller one was for the vet clinic, and the larger for Mountaintop Rescue.

  Of course, I made sure we’d prepared extra treats so we always had some to give away.

  While I was doing this, my scheduled helper for the day would arrive—or the one primed to be earliest on days they both came. She’d help me finish the baking, and as she finished I’d complete packing up treats from the prior day that could be given away, both from the Barkery and also from Icing, since the people from the homeless shelter down the mountains sent couriers every few days.

  And then we were ready for customers to start arriving. Some days a lot came early. Some days only a few showed up. I didn’t yet know what made the difference but was aware that my promotion needed to be increased. I pondered that along with … well, whether I’d remain out of jail long enough to put any ideas into effect.

  Because my time at the clinic was nearly always in the afternoon, I’d sometimes send Dinah or Judy there with the appropriate treats during their mid-morning breaks. Sometimes I’d bring treats in the afternoons. And on my way to the clinic those days, I’d time it whenever possible so I could pop over to Mountaintop Rescue, to fit with Billi’s schedule. She was usually there around one p.m., on her own break from her spa, and it was always fun to see her and to get her insight on her day—and mine.

  And to see the animals her shelter had rescued.

  Mountaintop Rescue wasn’t a large facility, but it was well designed and well maintained. The dog kennels were separated by metal fencing that was actually attractive, with rows of decorative circles adorning the top. The surfaces were all a smooth cement that could be cleaned easily, with slightly raised platforms at the rear where soft bedding and toys were placed. The kennels were cleaned often.

  Inside the kennels were a lot of really wonderful-looking dogs of all sizes and breed backgrounds. Cats, too, kept in a different area. Their histories, to the extent known, as well as their health records since arriving at the shelter were recorded on cards that visitors could read at the front of their enclosures.

  I’d dropped in before, of course. None of the dogs there now looked familiar from my earlier visits, which was a good thing. That meant the ones who’d been there before had been adopted.

  When she could, Billi accompanied me on my walk through the facility. The lovely, trim spa owner was always dressed for her other profession, and she inevitably had a smile on her face. And she always asked me, “See anyone you’d like to adopt to be Biscuit’s best friend?”

  Since I always brought Biscuit to daycare while I worked at the clinic I inevitably had her with me, but she waited for me in the shelter’s office. And as much as I loved dogs and hated to see these guys staring hopefully at me, with my new routine I had to say no. At least for the foreseeable future.

  But I didn’t mind Billi’s asking. I was here as much to enjoy her company as I was to see the animals—and yes, I visited the equally posh cat house too, each time.

  I’d realized that Brenda’s leaving town, despite its wonderful effect of making me the owner of the two bakeries, had left a gap in my life since we’d been such close friends. Now it appeared that, thanks to my shops and even the adversity of being considered a suspect in Myra’s murder, I was developing a new friendship that I was finding highly enjoyable. I’d nurture it by getting together with Billi as often as possible, even for short amounts of time.

  When I finished my visit at the shelter, I’d go on to my shift at the vet clinic on the appropriate days.

  Even after his vague comment about returning to Knobcone Heights that week, Jack Loroco had called to postponed his visit further, so I figured that he and his company had no interest in my recipes after all. That was a good thing, at least for now. I still wanted to perfect them. And I might decide to keep them all my own, despite giving up the possibility of profit earned by selling them.

  And as far as seeing Jack again?

  Well, one of the good things going on now was that Reed and I were getting along just fine whenever I saw him at the veterinary hospital. Sometimes I helped him out with a patient or two and sometimes I worked only with Arvie or another of the vets, but I’d always get to see Reed long enough to say hi. Usually a very warm hi.

  And he asked me out for dinner again next weekend.

  Then there was Neal. He’d been pleased with his brief, almost spontaneous outing the other night, but additional scheduled boating or hiking expeditions were sparse. When I asked him about it, he expressed both frustration and hope. But at least I got to see my brother most evenings when he got off work, and he filled me in on how things had gone that day—and what he’d overheard about the investigation into Myra’s death, since her relatives weren’t shy about discussing the enigma.

  He knew that my suspicions mostly rested on Harris or Elise. He didn’t disagree—but neither did he come home with any clue or conversation that I could take to the detectives to get them on the right track, and away from me.

  At least for now, they weren’t hounding me.

  But I wasn’t surprised when that changed.

  It started with a report on the local evening news.

  Maybe it was because the media themselves were pressing for answers. Maybe the Ethmans were pushing for an arrest—possibly because it looked good to be a squeaky wheel, even if one of them was the guilty party. Or more than one of them.

  Whatever it was, I sat up straight on my living room couch when I saw Myra’s picture pop up at the top of the eleven o’clock news that Monday night.

  Had they solved her murder? Arrested a suspect?

  Was it all over, at least from my persp
ective?

  Unfortunately, no.

  And whoever had instigated it, the message was clear.

  The anchor for the late-night news stared solemnly into the camera and intoned, “More than two weeks have passed since the murder of Knobcone Heights resident Myra Ethman, and the authorities have not yet come forth with an arrest in the case.”

  This obvious statement was followed by an interview with the town’s police chief, Loretta Jonas—whom I hadn’t yet met. I suspected that was a good thing, although perhaps she was more reasonable than the detectives reporting to her.

  It must have been a slow news night for the station to focus on a case that was growing cold—or maybe, as I’d been suspecting, an Ethman had pushed for more answers. The Knobcone Heights Resort was advertised often on the station, so maybe the powers-that-be there felt they owed it to whoever held those purse strings to keep the story in front of the public until it was resolved.

  But I was just guessing—as much as I was guessing about who was guilty.

  And was this going to be enough of a thorn in the police chief’s side that she’d push her detectives to start getting even more in-your-face with their suspects again? Or maybe just their top suspects—and as far as I knew, I was still among them.

  Maybe the topmost one.

  I was, unfortunately, right about that.

  The next day, Tuesday, started off like all the others: an early morning Biscuit walk, then baking for both shops, an assistant’s arrival—Dinah today—followed by her break late morning and waiting on customers who seemed to arrive in both shops at the same time. My own “break” that afternoon consisted of a shift at the vet clinic. All the same as ever. All just fine. Although I kept watch for a detective to pop in at the shops, neither of them did.

  Until they both did, after Dinah had gone home for the day.

  I was just about to close up. I’d finished waiting on my last customers in Icing, so I started there. But I moved too slowly. Just as I started toward the door, key in hand to lock it, it opened.