Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  He was in love with this coastal village, his adopted home. He loved the quaint streets and active downtown, the opera house and Town Park, the lighthouses and seagulls, the rocky shoreline, the deep blue of the ocean and the powerful crash of waves.

  He loved the people who came into his shop, villagers and tourists alike.

  But most of all, he loved Maggie Tremont.

  He’d known her casually for the better part of a decade, mostly due to her friendship with Candy Holliday. But he’d become completely entranced by her once they’d started working side by side at the bakery. It had been like a dance of sorts right from the beginning, and difficult for him to hold in his passion for her. He was taken not only by her physical beauty but also by her inner spirit, her contagious laugh, her seemingly endless energy, her quirky sense of humor, and her generally sunny disposition, which meshed so well with his own.

  He’d felt, right in those first few days, that he’d finally found his soul mate, his partner in life—and a partner in business as well.

  She’d been a fast learner and an eager student in the shop, absorbing all the nuances of the bakery business and finding ways to enhance revenue. She was wonderful with the customers, and had seemingly infinite patience when fulfilling their myriad requests. She always maintained a lighthearted disposition, even on the busiest, most stressful days. She kept things tidy, helped stock the shelves, and willingly worked beside him in the kitchen, eager to perfect her pastries, muffins, and pies. She’d even taken an interest in candy making, something new to his shop. She’d started simply enough, experimenting with chocolate-dipped blueberries and strawberries, and lately branched out, adding items like caramel crunches, chocolate truffles, and rich, creamy fudge. And she’d discovered a newly acquired love for making German-style pretzels, which they’d also added in a countertop display. They’d become a popular item with customers, and usually sold out quickly.

  Over the past couple of years, she’d become an invaluable addition, not only to the bakery, but to every aspect of his life. Getting married was the next obvious step in their relationship. The trip to the altar had been a long one, but that day was nearly here.

  He couldn’t be more excited. . . .

  Or more worried.

  Georg was not a worrier by nature. Rather than let problems fester, he preferred to face them straight on and take care of them before they got out of hand. Those that were out of his control he tried to deal with as best he could. That usually removed the need to worry.

  But this latest development was more than he could ever imagine. And he didn’t quite know what to do about it.

  He still couldn’t believe Julius was gone. It seemed so sudden, a cruel and abrupt end to their long friendship. They’d seen each other just last week, when they’d met for lunch at a little sandwich shop down by the docks overlooking the English River. It was a place geared more toward locals than tourists, with a decidedly maritime feel. Julius had loved the place, for he reveled in hearing the stories of his fellow diners, who were fishermen and dock workers, laborers and old salts of the sea, and always quick to bend his ear with tales of their adventures or those of their relatives and ancestors.

  That lunch had started out simply enough. Both he and Julius ordered the usual—lobster rolls with meat fresh from the boats, accompanied by homemade potato salad and fried pickles. They’d washed it all down with a good local beer. And they’d talked, as always, about many things—the upcoming wedding, of course, which had been their main topic, but they’d also chatted about the oncoming tourist season, new dining establishments in town, how some of the local businesses were faring, and, of course, the weather.

  But when Herr Georg had inquired about Julius’s recent activities and research, the conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

  Herr Georg still couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard—or what had happened next. Julius had said it was only a precaution, but had sworn the baker to secrecy, which Herr Georg had honored—so far. But he wondered if he was doing the right thing by keeping what he knew—and possessed—to himself. Especially after what had happened last night. He’d been tempted to go to the police, but so far he’d held back.

  He was not one given to indecision, but in this case, he was uncertain of the proper course of action. And it nagged at him.

  Julius had been somewhat reserved that day, and his moments of lightheartedness had seemed forced. At the time, Herr Georg had attributed Julius’s mood to simple pre-ceremony jitters. But he now knew that something else had been going on—something serious enough to result in Julius’s death.

  As he thought back over that day, Herr Georg wondered if he’d missed something. He tried to recall the details of their conversation but could remember only bits of it. Most had been left behind in the quick passage of the recent days, squeezed out by all the other thoughts on his mind. He’d done as Julius requested, and hadn’t heard from him since. He’d assumed they’d catch up at last night’s dinner party. But Julius never made it.

  And Herr Georg felt partly responsible.

  He’d been stunned to learn that one of the bottles of champagne he’d personally ordered had made its way from the inn to the museum, where it allegedly had been used as a murder weapon—and he’d told the police as much when they’d interviewed him last night, and again when he’d talked to them briefly this morning. There were too many questions he didn’t have answers to. How did the bottle get there? Why was it used for such an unthinkable purpose? Was it a random occurrence—the choice of bottles—or something with a more sinister purpose?

  There was a possibility, he knew, that the murderer had used a bottle of his champagne for a specific reason, but he had a hard time imagining what that might be. To blackmail him? To send a message of some sort? To delay or derail the wedding?

  During the sleepless night before, the baker had racked his brain to think of anyone he knew who would want to do any of those things—or murder Julius, for that matter. He’d considered a few remote possibilities, but none of them made much sense, and ultimately he came up empty-handed.

  So he tried a different approach. He worked out various scenarios in his head, trying to explain how the bottle might have made its way from the inn to the museum. As far as he could determine, there were only a few possibilities.

  One: Julius had taken the bottle over to the museum himself.

  It was certainly the most likely explanation, but Georg dismissed it almost at once. Julius wouldn’t have taken a bottle out of the case without asking first, and so far no one had indicated that he’d done so. No one had seen him around the inn yesterday; in fact, it seemed few people had seen him at all over the past few days.

  Besides, why would he have taken a bottle with him to the museum, especially if he was intent on doing research up in the archives? Julius was not a drinking man. He might have had a beer or a glass of wine now and then, but guzzling down a full bottle of champagne? That image seemed out of character for him.

  Two: Someone working at the inn could have taken it over there—someone who worked in the kitchen, perhaps. Herr Georg had heard word that morning that the police had already spent some time at the inn, questioning the staff, trying to figure out what had happened, but there was no word yet on whether they’d turned up anything, or anyone, interesting.

  Then there was the matter of the unconscious waiter, whom Maggie had discovered last night. What had happened to him? How did he wind up lying on the floor in that storage room? Herr Georg didn’t even know the waiter’s name, or if he might be linked somehow to the bottle’s disappearance from the inn. Had he seen something? Did he know who took it? Is that why he’d been knocked unconscious?

  Of course, the other possibility was that someone unconnected with the inn or the wedding—perhaps someone none of them knew—had crept in there, stolen the bottle without being seen, and used it to strike down Jul
ius, for whatever reason.

  The problem was, Georg knew, he himself was an obvious suspect. He’d had access to the bottles of champagne. He knew Julius and could get close to him easily. Georg could account for much of his time yesterday, but he’d run home for a while by himself in the afternoon, and he’d been in and out of the inn during the couple of hours prior to the party, seeing to preparations, before he’d settled in for the evening. Logistically, he easily could have made a trip to the museum during that time. So although he had a fairly strong alibi, he had what the police liked to call “opportunity.”

  Herr Georg didn’t like that word. He didn’t like the supposition that he’d contributed in any way to Julius’s death. He resented the suggestion, though, as was his way, he kept that thought to himself.

  But it worried him. And he knew he had to figure out what was going on, somehow, if he wanted to protect his reputation, his shop, his upcoming marriage, and everything he loved so dearly. But more than that, he simply wanted to find out why his friend had been murdered in the first place. It seemed the least he could do in Julius’s memory.

  He knew he had to face this problem as he had all the others in his life—straight on. So he’d decided to do a little snooping around, on his own, to see what he could find out.

  He’d told Maggie he wanted to work in the shop alone that morning, to make their wedding cake. The place would be closed to the public for another ten days or so as they finished preparations for the season. They still had some ordering to do, a few upgrades to complete, schedules to work on, and shelves to stock. But he’d set up everything in the kitchen. He was ready to go. He knew what he was going to bake and how long it would take him. And he planned to get started on it . . . soon.

  But right now he had another task on his mind. So, with his head full of a jumble of thoughts, he removed his apron, slipped into a spring jacket, grabbed his favorite green felt Tyrolean hat, complete with tall side feathers, from its spot on a clothes tree near his office desk, and locked up the shop before heading down the street.

  FIFTEEN

  The town seemed sleepy today, as if resting up before the busy season ahead, reserving its strength for the time when it would need it. During the summer the town took on a faster-paced, more festive atmosphere, but today it felt like any average coastal village in Maine on a warm spring day. Folks were running into and out of the hardware store and the beauty salon, which were across the street from each other, and dashing into the diner. Down along Ocean Avenue, the shops showed signs of waking up, with lights on inside and bodies moving around, making preparations, just as he was doing at the bakery. And more than a few, he noticed, already had OPEN signs in their windows.

  Herr Georg waved to people he knew, and smiled as warmly as he could, but he didn’t pause to talk to anyone. He wanted to get this over with, so he could move on to other things.

  The Lightkeeper’s Inn looked stately as always when glimpsed against the shimmering blue sea beyond. The inn’s staff was taking advantage of the improving weather, opening windows, airing out furniture, sweeping down the porch, and washing windows. A landscaper, whose name Georg thought was Mick Rilke, was out on the property, edging the flower beds and putting in carnations and marigolds along the walkways to add color as the crocuses and bulb plants began to fade and die off. Toward the rear of the building, another worker was hosing down shutters, which were leaned up against a whitewashed wall. Everyone looked busy.

  Hands in his pockets, trying to appear more casual than he felt, Herr Georg waved to a few folks as he climbed the steps to the porch and entered the inn through a side door. He headed straight for assistant innkeeper Alby Alcott’s office, halfway along the carpeted hallway he’d stepped into.

  Not surprisingly, Alby wasn’t in his office today; he was probably out overseeing the spring cleaning activities. Also missing was his receptionist, whose desk was abandoned. Georg hesitated for a few moments in the doorway, unsure whether to wait here or try to track Alby down somewhere else in the building or on the grounds. But he felt that was an uncertain quest, so he decided on another option.

  Turning on his heel, he headed farther along the hallway, toward the lobby. Again, Alby wasn’t behind the front desk, nor anywhere that Georg could see. So he turned right, toward the dining room and the kitchen at the back of the building.

  Georg knew the way; he’d been here often enough over the past week or so, and he’d eaten here more times than he could count. He walked with a certain confidence along the hallway past the dining room, which was nearly empty, since breakfast was over and the lunch crowd had yet to arrive. Only a few lingerers remained over cooling cups of coffee, reading the paper or engaged in low conversations.

  At the far end of the hall, Georg pushed through to the kitchen and took an immediate right, to a small warren of offices at one side. He stepped into the first one he came to, and here he actually found someone he was looking for.

  Colin Trevor Jones, the inn’s executive chef, was talking on the phone. When he looked up and saw the baker, he waved him in, motioning to a chair, before turning his attention back to the phone conversation.

  “So no one knows what happened to him?” Colin said into the phone after a few moments, his face showing his concern. “How is that possible? Wasn’t someone keeping tabs on him?” A pause. “Maybe he just went home.” He listened again, then said, “Yes, of course, we’ll watch out for him. I’ll let you know immediately if he shows up.”

  After a few last words, Colin hung up and looked over at the baker, his expression troubled, his thoughts still obviously on the phone conversation. “Herr Georg, good morning. What a surprise. I thought you’d be getting ready for the wedding this morning.”

  “Oh, I’ve been doing that,” the baker said, settling into a chair. “But I decided to step out for a little while. I hope I’m not interrupting, Colin. I know you probably have a lot to do this morning. But after the events of last night, I thought I should stop by and follow up. See how things are going here.”

  “Well.” Colin leaned back and ran a hand through his curly dark hair. “Things, as you probably can imagine, have been a little crazy. For some reason Oliver decided to turn everyone out today to clean the inn, while the police are in the middle of conducting their investigation. I told him it’s not a good idea but I couldn’t convince him otherwise. He’s just got his mind set on it, and says the police can do whatever they have to do while we do what we have to do. We had officers out here first thing this morning, quizzing our people. They spent two hours just here in the kitchen, talking to my staff.”

  “And have they learned anything valuable?” Georg asked, unable to contain his interest.

  Colin hesitated before he answered. “Well, of course, they haven’t shared their findings with any of us, at least not that I’ve heard. And I don’t expect they will anytime soon. But . . . well, it seems we’ve run into a bit of a snag.”

  Herr Georg leaned forward in his chair. “And what’s that?”

  “Well, it’s this young waiter we have here—Scotty Whitby.”

  “Whitby?”

  Colin nodded. “He’s the young man Maggie discovered last night, unconscious in the storeroom. He’s been working here for a year or two—nice kid, does a good job. I had hopes he’d stick around for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s gone,” Colin said, spreading his hands in a gesture of frustration. “After they found him unconscious in that storeroom, they took him to the hospital last night. He was supposed to be there overnight while they checked him out. But this morning he’s nowhere to be found. The police went to the hospital to see him but his bed was vacant. His clothes are gone. They’ve searched all over town for him, but can’t find him anywhere.”

  Colin pointed to the phone. “That was Oliver, asking if Scotty had turned up here in the kitchen. But I haven’t se
en him anywhere on the grounds this morning.”

  He paused, his concerned gaze shifting from the phone to the baker. “It appears that our unconscious waiter, who could be connected to that champagne bottle of yours, has disappeared.”

  SIXTEEN

  Porter Sykes.

  Oh, no, Candy thought. Not him.

  Scion of the Sykes family. Successful entrepreneur and real estate developer from Boston. And her largely unseen nemesis, who she knew was behind much of the chaos that had plagued the town over the past few years.

  She took a deep breath.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  She felt for a moment like a deer caught in oncoming headlights, unable to move, unable to speak. Her arms had gone numb and she heard a strange low buzzing sound in her ears. But she was able to blink, so she did that several times as she struggled to reclaim her thoughts. It was a momentarily difficult endeavor, since her mind seemed to have gone completely blank.

  She shifted and swept her gaze around the room.

  They were all looking at her, waiting for a response.

  Okay, keep cool, you can do this.

  Her eyes flicked from one face to another. She had to think of something to say right away. Something smart and appropriate, perhaps even witty. Something that wouldn’t dig her in any deeper. But at the moment she couldn’t think of anything like that, so she turned back to the phone and simply said, “Umm, hi?”

  Internally she winced, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. Fortunately, Porter spoke up to fill the awkward silence.