Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set 2

by Rosie A. Point

  I put down my coffee and cake, squinting out into the early afternoon. A young woman with dark hair sat on a bench under the gazebo, clasping her hands around her pregnant stomach, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking.

  “I know her,” I said. “That’s uh, what was her name? She’s staying at the Runaway Inn. She was worried about there being a murderer on the loose, what with her being pregnant and all.”

  “I don’t think anyone needs motivation to be concerned about killers roaming the streets,” Bee replied.

  “Gosh, what is her name? It’s eluding me now.” I wracked my brain, and a customer came up to the counter to be served in the interim. Bee took care of them while I kicked myself for the blind spot in my memory.

  “Becca!” I yelped. “That’s it. Becca Sherer.”

  “Good heavens. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Bee clutched her chest, and the customer, an elderly woman with puffy plum colored hair and bright blue eyes, did the same.

  “Dear, you can’t do that to women our age,” she said.

  “Our age?” Bee frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Simply that women of our age have to be careful of shocks like that. We’re prone to heart attacks and collapse.”

  “I am not prone to anything of the kind,” Bee replied. “Now, what was it you wanted? Rainbow cake? Or applesauce?”

  “That’s not funny,” the woman said, pruning up her lips.

  That was my cue to get out of here before things got out of hand. I probably should have stayed to mediate and disperse the tension, but I was too intrigued by Becca. Why was she crying in the park?

  What if something terrible had happened that we didn’t know about? Heavens, she was staying at the Runaway Inn, so she might’ve run into Mrs. Rickleston or witnessed something or…

  Don’t let your imagination run wild. She’s probably feeling hormonal.

  Regardless, I excused myself from Bee’s snippy conversation with the customer, brushed my hands off on my Bite-sized Bakery apron and headed off down the trail that wound past the duck pond and into the park.

  Muffin’s park was lovely—far better than the square of green that’d served as the park in the last town we’d visited, Carmel Springs—but the crying pregnant woman put a damper on the mood.

  I reached Becca just as she drew a tissue from her pocket and rubbed it beneath either eye. She’d smudged her mascara and looked up at me with eyes that would’ve suited a raccoon—black encircled in a pale face. “Hello,” she said. “Sorry, I was just leaving if you want to take the bench.”

  “No, that’s OK. I came to check whether you were all right. Mind if I join you?”

  She shook her head, her glossy brown hair dancing.

  I took a place next to her, the wooden slats of the bench creaking—boy, I really needed to cut back on the cake—and folded my hands in my lap. A quick glimpse of the truck told me Bee was still embroiled in her argument with the plum-haired customer.

  “Are you all right?” A dumb question, but I wasn’t sure how else to segue into the whole ‘crying, pregnant in the park’ thing.

  “I’m… well, I’ve been better,” Becca said, sniffling. “As I’m sure you can tell.” She brushed her fingers over her belly. “It’s the hormones.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, yes, and there are some other things that have happened. I just—look, I didn’t want to tell anyone this, but I just, I can’t keep it in anymore. I’m so tired of keeping quiet.”

  “What is it? You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” Apart from Bee, of course, if it was related to the case. And then Hanson. Probably Detective Wilkes if it was really serious. And Lucy too. She’d deserve to know.

  That was assuming it was about the murder in the first place.

  “I—well, I didn’t come here just to visit friends and family. I—” Tears spilled down Becca’s cheeks.

  “It’s OK.” I patted her on the arm. “It’s all right. I can get you some cake if that will make you feel better.” But it would have to be after Bee was done arguing with her new ‘friend.’ They were gesticulating at each other now.

  “No, that’s all right.” She finished sniveling and blew out a breath. “I came to Muffin because Drake asked me to.”

  “Drake? Drake, the celebrity?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He wanted me to join him on tour because I’m… well, he’s the father of my baby. I mean, he was.”

  Talk about a revelation. “But you said you weren’t a fan of Drake’s.”

  “I’m not. I never was. I didn’t like his music. We met through a friend of a friend, and he sort of romanced me and promised me that he was going to marry me. We wound up getting pregnant, and I told him that I didn’t want to marry him because, well, he’s just not the type to settle down.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Picking my jaw up off the grass was probably a good starting point.

  “I told Drake that I wanted to be a single mom, and that he could continue touring and doing what he loved. He didn’t have to get involved in the baby’s life.” She stroked her stomach again, flattening the floral-patterned cotton of her dress over it. “But he insisted that he wanted to know the kid, so I said that I’ll come along with him now that I’m in my final trimester. No flying, obviously. He’s touring in a tour bus.”

  “Right. But why?”

  “He’s given me a lot of money, basically, money that’s for the baby, and I just wanted him to know the child too. He seemed so excited about the idea of being a father.” She burst into tears. “And now he’s gone.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I tucked an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

  “It wasn’t like we loved each other, but he was still the father of my child.” She covered her face with both hands. “S-s-sorry. I’m an emotional wreck.”

  “Do you have family nearby?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t want anyone to know I was here because of Drake, especially not that Lucy girlfriend of his. She was so protective. Any time a woman got near Drake she’d have a fit. He told me about it, and that he was planning on breaking up with her because of it. He always gives women rings, you know? And he gave her one.”

  Uh oh. That’s not a good look for Lucy. A lover scorned?

  “Heavens, did he give you one?” I asked, after a moment.

  “Yes, he did,” Becca said. “But I threw it away a long time ago.”

  She’d thrown it away? That was one way of getting rid of a ring.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.” Becca broke eye contact.

  “Right, of course. Look, would you like to come to the food truck and have some cake? It might make you feel better.”

  “That’s a lovely offer, thank you,” Becca said, “but I have a lunch date with some of Drake’s friends. He asked them to take care of me, and, of course, there’s the will and the memorial service and so much to organize.” She rose and straightened her dress, carefully. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry things haven’t—”

  A shout rang out from the food truck, and I turned in time to see the plum-haired customer tossing a cup of cake at Bee.

  “I’d better go,” I said. “World War Bee is about to break out.”

  13

  “She’s lucky I was in a good mood,” Bee growled, as she stalked down the street toward our favorite café, the Nodding Frond. “I was right next to the soda machine. I could’ve lifted the nozzle and sprayed her.”

  I couldn’t take Bee seriously while she was still speckled in bits of rainbow cake and frosting. She’d managed to clean most of it off and had swapped out her apron, but I’d still insisted we close the food truck for the afternoon and come down to the café for a break.

  My friend was already angry. She wasn’t in the mood to serve anyone else, and who knew when another roving plum-haired woman might appear and start throwing confectionary.

&
nbsp; “I don’t understand how it escalated so quickly,” I said, half-heartedly. A part of me was caught up on the new details Becca had revealed to me in the park. Details that made things look a whole lot worse for Lucy.

  “She escalated it,” Bee said, flapping her hands. “She was angry at me because I didn’t like being told I was too old for… well, I can’t remember what she said, but I can’t stand it when people act like age is a problem.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Of course, it’s not, but some people honestly behave like I should be taken out into a pasture and shot.” Bee said it a little too loudly, and a passerby on the street gave her a terrified look and scurried off.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be shouting about shooting. You know, it’s a touchy subject at the moment.”

  “People are too sensitive,” Bee grumbled.

  The Nodding Frond calmed her down, though, and we took a cutesy table in the center of the room, immersing ourselves in the sounds of coffee burbling in the machine, the chatter of baristas and the smell of frying bacon. They had all-day breakfast at the Frond.

  Our waiter took our orders—a croissant for me and Eggs Benedict for Bee with two coffees—and we settled back into the comfy chairs. Bee finally relaxed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that it’s been a while since someone’s thrown food at me,” Bee laughed. “She had spirit, I’ll give her that.”

  “And you matched that spirit in kind,” I sighed. “It’s a miracle people still like us in this town.”

  “Sure they do,” Bee countered. “I’m only mean to delinquents, murderers and people who are downright rude. Everyone else is in my good books.”

  “For now,” I said, darkly.

  The waiter soon returned with our meals. Bee hummed her appreciation for her eggs, and I broke my croissant apart, sending buttery flakes into my dish. I spread jam and butter over the soft, bread and relished every bite.

  Life was about food and good times and learning new things. Maybe even meeting new people.

  But not keeping them. I can’t keep Jamie or anyone here as a friend. I have to leave.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said.

  “Uh oh. You’ve got that look in your eyes. The ‘deer in the headlights’ expression. Are you worrying about Jamie again?” Bee pointed her fork at me and twirled it. “Because that’s just silly, Rubes. You’ve got to learn to let go and live a little.”

  “This from the woman who was flinging rainbow cake around not a half an hour ago.”

  “She was the one who did the cake flinging, not me. Besides, I—”

  “Hello.” A woman with platinum blonde hair cut into a bob stopped next to our table. She twiddled her fingers against her black shirt, showing off long manicured fingernails done in leopard print.

  “Jennifer, right?” She was one of Lucy’s assistants from the nail salon. “How are you?”

  “It’s terrible,” Jennifer croaked—her voice was raspy and thick. “Terrible. I went to visit Lucy in the jail this morning and… she’s just so lonely and scared. I wanted to ask if you might be able to—WITCH!”

  The last word came out as a shout. Bee dropped her fork with a clatter. I jumped and grabbed at my throat. “What on earth? Jennifer?”

  The nail salon assistant glared out the front window of the Nodding Frond. “You witch!” She raised a finger and directed one of those magnificent leopard print nails at someone outside. “You stay right there. You! Stay! Right! There!” She ran for the exit.

  Bee and I both turned, watching her go.

  “Who is that?” I asked. “Who… oh my word! Bee! It’s Mrs. Rickleston.”

  The owner of the Runaway Inn had stopped halfway across the street, holding her shopping bags in one hand, and glared right back at Jennifer.

  The women were on a collision course.

  Mrs. Rickleston dropped her bags and rolled up her sleeves.

  Cars screeched to a halt and honked their horns.

  Jennifer’s hands balled into fists, pumping back and forth as she ran at the other woman.

  “Looks like we’re in for a show,” Bee said.

  She’d hardly gotten the words out when the pop came. Mrs. Rickleston jerked backward a step, listing to the left and bringing a hand to her shoulder. She lifted her palm and it took me a minute to register what had just happened.

  “It’s blood,” I said. “That’s blood.”

  Mrs. Rickleston’s hand was red, and crimson spread across her blue blouse, discoloring it. Jennifer fainted in the street. The cars stopped honking, their drivers going pale or scrambling their phones out to make the call that was now on everyone’s mind.

  “Hello, yes.” Bee was on her phone across from me. “Yes, I’m calling from the Nodding Frond in Muffin. A woman has just been shot. We need an ambulance, right away.”

  Mrs. Rickleston keeled over backward and landed on her shopping bags. Apples and lemons rolled across the street and came to rest on the black tar.

  14

  Later that afternoon…

  “I know I’ve said this a few times since we arrived in town, but I can’t believe this is happening.” Bee and I stood outside the Nodding Frond, our arms linked as Mrs. Rickleston was stretchered into the back of a waiting ambulance.

  She was alive, thank heavens. Alive and complaining as they wheeled her off.

  “Be careful there! You’re going to bump me. I’m going to lose even more blood if you don’t—” The ambulance’s white doors closed and clipped off her complaints.

  “At least we know she’s in good spirits,” I said.

  “The doctors won’t be when she arrives at the hospital.”

  I didn’t laugh, but only because of the seriousness of the situation. Mrs. Rickleston had been shot in broad daylight. The police swarmed the street, asking questions, checking buildings, directing people back here or there.

  It had to be the same shooter who’d killed Drake Haynes.

  Or was it?

  Then again, just how many murderous individuals could one small town hold? Our previous experiences told us plenty, but I was still suspicious.

  Why shoot Mrs. Rickleston? And where had the shot come from?

  Bee and I had already collected our things from inside the Nodding Frond and paid our bill—though we’d lost our appetites after the excitement. We slung our purses over our shoulders and set off down the road.

  Detective Wilkes was on the scene as usual and gave us a look as we passed him, both harried and annoyed. Maybe it was the fact that we’d witnessed what had happened—he was probably tired of us being involved.

  Regardless, we’d already given our statements and there wasn’t much else we could do, short of following the ambulance to the hospital. And even then, it was highly unlikely that the shooter would be wandering around, looking to exact his final revenge on Mrs. Rickleston.

  His or her final revenge. There’s no guarantee that it was a man who did it.

  Or was there a guarantee?

  I flung out a hand to catch Bee’s arm but smacked it into her nose instead.

  “What on earth!” Bee glared at me, rubbing her nose. “Is everyone in Muffin feeling particularly violent today?”

  “What? No. Sorry. I meant to grab your arm.”

  “You grabbed my nose.”

  “You were bending over!” I exclaimed.

  “I was scanning the surroundings. You never know where this murdering weirdo might be hiding.”

  “And yet,” I said, “you’re more than happy to insult them knowing full well they might be able to hear you.”

  “Aim a gun at me and you’ll rue the day,” Bee growled, shaking a fist at the unseen attacker. But no shots rang out, and the truth was, the attacker was probably blocks from here by now. And Bee was joking—using humor to help us deal with the horrible event we’d witnessed.

  “Why would anyone shoot Mrs. Ricklesto
n, though?” I asked. “I can’t figure it out. It must be connected to Drake’s death, right? And Lucy?”

  “Except Lucy’s in jail, so they can rule her out.”

  “Unless she’s working with an accomplice,” I replied. “But every visitation would be recorded. Every call. So that seems like a silly thought. How would she pull that off?”

  “She wouldn’t and she didn’t. There’s something very strange going on in Muffin. Now, are you going to tell me why you grabbed my nose? What was so important?”

  The lightbulb clicked back on in my brain. “The guy! The man!”

  “Very descriptive, Ruby. You should write a book.”

  “Oof, the man who I saw on the stage. What was his name? Bratte. Nathan Bratte. Remember when he was on the trail the other day? Running?”

  “He was with Mrs. Rickleston,” Bee said, nodding. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “So, bear with me here, but he’s clearly involved with the major players. He knew Lucy and Drake because he was Drake’s manager—”

  “And you saw him on stage holding something that may or may not have been a gun.”

  “Right. And he knew Mrs. Rickleston. He connects them both. Because, on the surface, Mrs. Rickleston and Drake don’t have a connection other than Lucy, who’s already locked up and probably didn’t orchestrate a second murder,” I said.

  “Then we have our next lead.” Bee’s gap-toothed smile was a welcome sight after everything that’d happened today.

  15

  Bee and I were hardly inconspicuous in the food truck, so we opted to walk over to the motel where Nathan Bratte and Drake had been staying. It was the Sleep Easy Motel, and it was small, rundown and probably had yellow mattresses and stained toilet bowls. Yeugh, not my kind of place.

  Not anyone’s kind of place if they could afford not to stay there. Or if they hadn’t been kicked out of the only other serviceable inn in Muffin—which just so happened to be right down the road. Talk about stiff competition.