Dying For a Cupcake: A Devereaux's Dime Store Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  CHAPTER 5

  With Fallon’s death and the subsequent police investigation, the cupcake contest had gotten off to a rough start, but at least the weather was cooperating. July in Missouri could be a scorcher, so I was relieved that the thermometer on the Savings and Guaranty read a pleasant eighty-two degrees. The reasonable temperature was fortunate, since most of the townspeople and a good number of visitors were gathered in the village square. And that many people pressed together on a hot day would have been a recipe for disaster, not dessert.

  The square was the heart of Shadow Bend. The businesses that were lucky enough to be located on the four blocks that edged the town common would have a huge advantage over any establishments that weren’t in direct sight of the cupcake tourists. Thank goodness, my store was front and center. Little’s Tea Room, Brewfully Yours, and the bakery—which of course was selling Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes—would also benefit from the increased foot traffic.

  My favorite part of the square was the gazebo. With its intricately carved arches that linked the eight white cast-iron columns, it was like a scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I could see why Kizzy had chosen it for the competition kickoff. It presented the perfect photo op for a company introducing a cupcake line called the Flavors of Your Life.

  Speaking of the cupcake queen, where was she? The opening ceremony, followed by a luncheon for the contestants, judges, media, and committee members, was supposed to start at noon. It was now ten after twelve and I could hear the crowd getting restless. People were shifting from foot to foot and looking at their watches. Maybe Kizzy had forgotten that in a small town, being tardy wasn’t considered fashionably late, but incredibly rude, and it often wasn’t tolerated.

  Had something happened since this morning? I hadn’t heard from Ronni since leaving the B & B. After hurrying home, I’d taken a quick shower, filled in Gran and my father about Fallon’s death, then rushed to the dime store. Since then, Dad, Hannah, and I had been busy with customers and I hadn’t had time to check my cell. Fishing it from the pocket of my jeans, I saw that I hadn’t missed any calls or texts.

  Just as I was about to phone Ronni to see if there was a problem, Kizzy and her entourage swept through the crowd and climbed the steps to the gazebo. A portable sound system had been installed, and once they were all assembled, Kizzy spoke into the microphone.

  “Welcome to the Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcake Weekend. Before we get started, I have a sad announcement to make. My beloved assistant, Fallon Littlefield, passed away suddenly last night. Although I’m heartbroken and begged my business partner to call off the competition, Lee convinced me that because Fallon had worked so hard to make this event a success, she wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint all of you. Fallon had no family, and in order to save the trees that would be used to make her casket and because embalming fluid contains harmful chemicals such as formaldehyde, methanol, and ethanol, which are not good for the environment, she wanted to be cremated. A private memorial service will be held when we return to Chicago.” Kizzy paused, wiping away a tear. “After considering all of Fallon’s wishes, it is with a heavy heart that I have agreed to go forward with the competition. We will be dedicating the contest to her memory.”

  Wow! Kizzy was good. Even though I knew the truth, she almost had me blubbering. I edged closer to the pavilion and peered at Lee Kimbrough, who was standing behind her partner. She was in the shadow, so I couldn’t see her expression, but her posture was tense and she had her arms folded tightly across her chest. It looked to me as if everything wasn’t hunky-dory in cupcake land.

  After introducing the contestants, Kizzy waited for the applause to die down, then said, “Now please give a warm welcome to our esteemed celebrity judges.” She gestured to a trio standing next to her, then put a hand on the shoulder of a woman dressed in an exquisite blue-and-white polka-dot sheath. “Thomasina Giancarlo is an award-winning pastry chef originally from Naples, Italy, and the owner of Something Sweeter Restaurant in Kansas City.”

  As Kizzy went on and on about Thomasina’s accomplishments, I studied the tiny woman. I found it odd that someone who wore a size 2 was a pastry chef. Didn’t she eat her own confections? Where did all the calories go? The only things large about her were her breasts and lips. From a certain angle, she looked like a blow-up doll.

  I returned my attention to the gazebo when Kizzy turned to the imposing woman next to Thomasina and said, “Next, we have Annalee Paulson. Annalee is the star of Sugar and Spice, the hit baking show on KCMTV.”

  The local television station ran mostly reruns with an occasional cooking program and farm report to provide variety. I hadn’t seen Sugar and Spice, but I knew my grandmother was a fan. Gran and her friend Frieda were somewhere in the crowd, and although I hadn’t spotted them, I was sure that if she knew that Annalee was a judge, Gran was doubtlessly in the front row.

  Kizzy paused as the audience finished clapping for Annalee, then indicated a handsome African-American man, and said, “Last, but not least, we have Vance Buddy. Mr. Buddy is a renowned cookbook author, blogger, and winner of the prestigious New York Centennial Best Cookbook of 2013 Award.”

  Vance resembled a thirtyish Denzel Washington and I could hear some of the women next to me murmuring that he could bake their bread anytime. I had to agree that I wouldn’t kick him out of my kitchen, either.

  As I was fantasizing about his buns, a girl standing next to me with the words BUTTERCREAM IS MY FAVORITE ACCESSORY embroidered on her pink T-shirt giggled and said, “I’m surprised Kizzy chose Vance as one of the judges.”

  I turned in time to see the teen’s male companion roll his eyes, then paste an interested look on his face and ask, “Why are you surprised, Liza? It sounds like the guy has the creds to pick a winner.”

  “Because of what Vance wrote about her cupcakes on his blog.”

  “You read his blog?” the boyfriend asked, then muttered, “That explains a lot.”

  “Sure.” Liza giggled again. “He always posts pictures of himself shirtless, eating whatever he’s writing about. And, man, that dude is ripped.”

  “So, what did Mr. Centerfold say about the chick’s cupcakes?”

  “He said that the cake was dense and dry, like its creator, and the frosting was as bland as the company had grown to be in recent years.”

  The boyfriend cracked up. When he got his breath, he said, “Maybe the cupcake chick didn’t see the blog.”

  “Oh, Kizzy saw it all right.” Liza crossed her arms. “She sued Vance for defamation or libel or whatever. But he took down the blog, so the case never went to court.”

  “So they made up.” The boyfriend shrugged, clearly bored with the conversation. “Maybe she asked him to be a judge to mend fences.”

  “Highly unlikely.” Liza snickered. “Vance lost a lot of followers over his removal of that blog. His readers felt that he’d caved in and given up his First Amendment rights.”

  “Tragic.” The boyfriend slung his arm around Liza’s shoulders and the couple sauntered off.

  I turned my attention back to the gazebo. Kizzy had just begun her closing remarks, thanking everyone and reminding them of all the planned activities, when the tornado siren started blaring. Both she and the audience froze. It was a beautiful day without a cloud in the sky. There were no warm and cold or dry and moist air masses to collide. In fact, no sign of any kind of storm at all. Kizzy said something to Lee, who threw her hands in the air.

  Even though there was no indication of a twister, I was a little surprised that no one ran for cover. Everyone just stood their ground, gazing upward and babbling to their neighbor. This went on for several seconds, and I had just decided to try to herd as many people as I could persuade to come with me toward the city hall’s shelter, when the siren abruptly stopped.

  A moment later, Mayor Geoffrey Eggers pushed his way to the front of the gazebo, waving his cell pho
ne in the air like a victory baton. At well over six feet six and weighing in at a mere hundred and seventy pounds, Eggers resembled a stick figure drawn by a kindergartener. Albeit a stick figure with scraggly eyebrows and a beaklike nose, wearing a thousand-dollar designer suit.

  His honor tended to get petulant if he felt he wasn’t being given his mayoral due, so Ronni had included him on the Cupcake Weekend committee. The best I could say about his contribution to the event was that he hadn’t gotten in our way, which considering his usual modus operandi was a small miracle in itself.

  Eggers grabbed the mike, and said, “Sorry, folks. Everything is fine. Our siren seems to have malfunctioned. There is no tornado.”

  Kizzy wrestled the microphone back from the mayor and announced, “The official luncheon, which is invitation only, will began in twenty minutes at the Ksiazak B and B. Afterward the contestants will be taken a tour of the kitchen facilities at the Todd Cooking School and be given time to make a practice batch of their entries. Tonight is the fashion show sponsored by Forever Used. Tickets for that event are for sale at the consignment shop and at Devereaux’s Dime Store.”

  With that parting message, Kizzy and the rest of the group on the pavilion descended the steps and trooped toward a waiting minibus that would transport them to the various venues. I watched as they boarded the shuttle, noting that while Kizzy was the first one to embark, her partner, Lee, was the last. Was Lee deliberately keeping her distance from Kizzy or just in charge of rounding up the stragglers? Considering that Kizzy had painted Lee as the bad guy in her touching little speech about carrying on despite Fallon’s death, I suspected it was probably the former.

  Once the bus pulled away, I hurried to the dime store to help my father and Hannah serve all the customers I hoped would migrate from the square into the store. After slipping around the back of the building, I entered the storage room, where I took a second to refasten my ponytail and put on some lip gloss before heading into the store.

  Finished with my minimal primping, I walked onto the sales floor and grinned. I was thrilled to see that the place was packed, and my heart swelled with pride. Regardless of my mood, the minute I walked into my shop, its old-fashioned charm made me smile. This store held some of the best memories of my childhood. My mom buying me a chocolate ice-cream cone from the soda fountain. Dad taking me for penny candy after church on Sunday. And Gran giving me a bottle of her favorite perfume, Evening in Paris, when I turned twelve to welcome me into the female sisterhood.

  Seeing the dime store in all its vintage glory, bustling with customers, I knew I had made the right decision in buying it. When the Thornbee sisters, age ninety-one, had put the five-and-dime on the market, I was commuting to Kansas City every day for my job as a financial consultant at Stramp Investments. Making a six-figure salary was nice, an hour on the road each way not so much. So between Gran’s doctor advising me that I needed to spend more time with her and my love for the store, I immediately put in an offer for the shop. The thought of the business being converted into one of the chain dollar stores and Gran having to go into an assisted-living facility had galvanized me into action.

  The Thornbee twins’ grandfather built the dime store when Shadow Bend was no more than a stagecoach stop, and the town had lost enough of its heritage when so much of the farmland and orchards had become housing developments for Kansas City commuters. Now instead of fresh fruit and fields of corn or soybeans, we had cookie-cutter houses, a fancy golf course, and a country club.

  The excited voices of my customers drew me back from my reverie. There was no acoustical tile or cork matting to mute their lively conversations. Instead, the old tin ceiling and hardwood floors amplified the sound of people socializing with their neighbors and friends. Although I had doubled the interior space, installed Wi-Fi, and added the basket business, I had tried to keep the character of the original five-and-dime intact.

  Noting that Hannah was behind the soda fountain and Dad was handling the register, I proceeded to the candy counter. I used the few minutes it took people to notice that I was there to study my father. Kern Sinclair was tall and lean, and held himself as erect as an army general.

  Although I had inherited his height, I had gotten my mother’s more voluptuous body type. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been blessed with her willpower and never had been able to stick to her eight-hundred-calorie diet plan. My hair was a combination of Mom’s blond and Dad’s auburn color, but now that my father had a few strands of gray, our shades were closer than when he was a young man.

  There were lines in my dad’s face that hadn’t been there before he went to prison, but all in all, I was relieved that he seemed to be adjusting well to his sudden freedom. From the expression in his bright green eyes as he chatted with the woman buying a pair of cupcake flip-flops and a Cupcake Weekend T-shirt, I suspected that he enjoyed working in the store and that he might become my permanent employee. How I felt about that possibility was still up for debate.

  The shoppers finally noticed me and suddenly there was a line at the candy counter. For the next hour, I worked steadily, packing chocolate confections into little white pasteboard boxes. But as a young woman wavered between a hand-dipped hazelnut crunch truffle and this month’s signature candy, a bonbon containing macadamia nuts, Cointreau, and white chocolate, I glanced over at Hannah as she filled soda fountain orders.

  I would miss the quirky teenager when she left next month for college. Hannah’s way of dressing fooled a lot of people into underestimating the girl, but I had come to recognize that she wasn’t weird, just a limited edition.

  Today Hannah wore an extremely tiny cream miniskirt trimmed in leather and chains, a teal tank that was cinched from her bustline to her hip and laced up the back, and plum leather wedge-heeled sneakers. Most adults figured anyone who sported such outrageous outfits was too bizarre to be perceptive. This assumption was a serious miscalculation on their part.

  The line at the candy case had dwindled to a mother, daughter, and granddaughter trio, and as the young girl made her selections, I listened to the two older women discussing Fallon’s death.

  “I heard that they have no idea what caused that girl from the cupcake company to drop dead.” The grandmother, busy pulling her short shorts from the crack of her butt, didn’t bother to lower her voice. “One of the EMTs’ wives told me she was throwing up something fierce. Then suddenly she just keeled over, went stiff as a board, and started twitching and jerking like she was dancing the Watusi.”

  “A young woman like that, it was probably a drug overdose.” The daughter flipped her bottle-blond curls over her shoulder and adjusted her halter top to display more cleavage. “I read an article in a magazine while I was waiting for my hair appointment and it listed all the symptoms of what they call club drugs.”

  “Well, not that I wish that poor girl any ill will, but I sure hope that it was the drugs.” The grandmother shivered theatrically and pulled at the ruffles around the bottom of her cropped T-shirt. “I heard that she might have eaten something that had gone bad.”

  Shoot! I shot a startled look at the two women as I folded the top of the pink-and-brown-striped bag and secured it with a gold foil seal. Gossip that Fallon had consumed a toxic substance was all we needed. I debated correcting the women, but since I had no idea what the true cause of death was, I kept out of the discussion.

  Instead, I handed the package to the granddaughter, and said, “Thank you. Please come again.”

  When the little girl smiled, I noticed she wore a jewel-encrusted gold grill across her teeth.

  As the three generations of bimbos walked away, I heard the daughter state, “Food poisoning wouldn’t be too bad. We can just be careful what we eat. But I heard that it might be something catching, like that flu that was going around last winter. If it’s something contagious, maybe we should leave town before we’re exposed to it.”

  Crap! Rumors of a
disease were worse than ones of food poisoning.

  The initial rush of customers had ebbed, so I started straightening displays and returning misplaced merchandise to its proper shelf. As I worked, I wondered if Chief Kincaid had figured out what happened to Fallon. I suspected that unless it was fairly obvious, it would take the lab a while to run the tests. In the meantime, the tittle-tattle could ruin the Cupcake Weekend.

  I had been relieved when Kizzy announced that the luncheon was still going to take place at Ronni’s. I’d been afraid that the police might have declared the B & B off-limits until they figured out what had caused Fallon’s death. Evidently, the cops had been able to collect whatever evidence there was to gather, and hadn’t had to cordon off the guesthouse, which was a good sign. Now if they would just announce that Fallon had died of natural causes, we could all relax.

  Around three, I decided Dad and Hannah could handle the store on their own and headed to the B & B to find out if Ronni had any news to share regarding Fallon’s death. I knew the luncheon would be over, but maybe there would be some food left. I hadn’t had time for breakfast, and while my father and Hannah had taken lunch breaks, I hadn’t and was starving. I only hoped that whatever the police had concluded about the young woman’s demise didn’t ruin my appetite.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Ksiazak B & B was on one of those narrow, not-quite-two-lane streets, common in the older parts of Shadow Bend. As I was approaching the guesthouse, a Swift Action Delivery truck appeared out of nowhere and hurtled toward me, nearly sideswiping my little Z4. At first, I was too shocked to react, but then words regarding the marital status of the driver’s mother and what he could do to himself in the privacy of his own bedroom burst from my mouth like steam from a boiling teakettle.

  Shakily, I pulled into the nearest parking spot and tried to calm my racing heart. I was so going to report that guy to his company. I hadn’t gotten the license number of the van, but how many Swift Action deliverymen could there be servicing our little town?