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

by Denise Swanson

  “Let’s remember to do that.” I turned to go. “See you at six.”

  After leaving the B & B, I drove to the dime store and delivered the sandwiches and cookies to Dad and Hannah. The shop was busy and I took over at the register to give Dad a breather. Then once he returned, I manned the soda fountain so Hannah could have a rest. We had a nice steady stream of customers, and when we closed up at four, an hour earlier than our usual time, my cash drawer was stuffed with money, checks, and credit card receipts.

  Arriving home to change clothes, I found the place empty. I thought my father would be there, but he must have had after-work plans. I had no idea where he was or what those plans might be, as he and I hadn’t gotten back to the place in our relationship where we kept each other informed about our activities.

  Not that I thought we should return to that status. We were both adults and didn’t need to check in with each other. Still, I wondered where he was and if he was okay, since he didn’t leave the property much except to go to work.

  As always, he’d driven his own car to the store. While my mother had taken the family Lexus when she hightailed it out of town a few days after my father was convicted, my grandmother had made sure her son’s Grand Cherokee was ready for his return. I’d never realized that Gran hadn’t sold the fourteen-year-old Jeep, but when Dad came home and started driving the SUV, she’d informed me that she’d kept it tuned up and running, parked in an old barn sitting on the edge of our property.

  I knew that my grandmother had already gone to St. Saggy’s to set up for the dinner. She and her friend Frieda were members of the church’s Martha Society, a volunteer group that prepared the meals for the funerals and fund-raisers of the parish. Gran and the other ladies had been making side dishes and desserts for several days, but they would fry up the chicken just before the diners sat down to eat.

  Tonight’s dinner was limited to the cupcake competition participants and their guests, committee members and their plus ones, and the media. I wasn’t sure just how many to expect, but there would be at least fifty, maybe more. Dad had declined the offer to be my date for the St. Saggy’s event, saying that he wasn’t comfortable with attending community functions yet. Now I wondered if he’d had other plans all along. And if so, why he hadn’t just told me that.

  Realizing that my father’s social life was really none of my business, I hurried into my bedroom and stripped out of my work clothes. After a quick shower, I put on white cotton slacks, a navy striped top, and red strappy sandals. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I twisted my damp hair on top of my head, then applied concealer and ruby lipstick. I knew my outfit was a little on the “Hello, sailor” side, but tomorrow was the Fourth of July, so when better to break out the red, white, and blue?

  Having justified my fashion choice, at least to myself, I hopped into my car and headed back into town. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the church parking lot. Most of the spaces were taken, but I noticed the ones near what had once been a six-foot-tall fiberglass figure of Jesus were vacant.

  The statue had stood in front of St. Saggy’s for as long as I could remember, but several months ago, it had been struck by lightning. Like a pile of charcoal briquettes squirted with too much starter fluid, the sculpture had burst into flames. After the fire died down, all that was left was a blackened steel skeleton, a pile of ashes, and a brass memorial plaque that read IN MEMORY OF MY BELOVED HUSBAND, BLAISE FIAMMETTA. The irony of the dedication was not lost on me. I knew that in Italian, the word fiamma meant flame, so basically the stature had been erected to honor a man named Blaze Flame.

  Gran had told me that the burned effigy was affecting attendance at Sunday Mass and Father Flagg was frantically trying to raise money to replace Jesus. Unfortunately, the cost was prohibitive and few people were contributing to his pet project. He had been lobbying for the proceeds of tonight’s dinner to be deposited in the statue fund, but I didn’t know if the church’s finance committee had agreed.

  I had to admit, I understood why no one wanted to park near the twisted hunk of metal, but there were no other available spots. So averting my gaze from the disturbing image, I pulled the Z4 into an empty slot, got out of the car, and hurried past the unsettling steel carcass.

  The fellowship hall, a faded green aluminum pole building, was on the far side of the lot. It was divided into a trio of gathering rooms, with a long kitchen accessible to all three. The bare-bones structure was used for catechism classes, weddings, showers, and funeral luncheons, as well as the always-profitable bingo night.

  Pushing through the glass door, I noticed a poster pinned to the bulletin board on my right. It read LADIES, DON’T FORGET THE RUMMAGE SALE. IT’S A CHANCE TO GET RID OF ALL THOSE USELESS THINGS IN YOUR LIFE. BRING YOUR HUSBANDS.

  I was still snickering over the flyer when Poppy met me a few steps down the hall. She had on a slinky black chiffon tank with a pink scallop-hemmed skirt that barely covered her hoo-ha. As always, she was ethereally beautiful, but I wondered at her skimpy clothing choice, considering that we were in a church hall. However, as soon as she spoke, I understood her decision.

  “My sources tell me that Dad is planning on making an announcement here tonight.” Poppy twisted her mouth. “Just because I’m involved in the Cupcake Weekend, he has to try to ruin it.”

  Her voice had risen to a level that would soon attract attention, so I took her arm and tugged her into the nearby restroom. Thankfully, it was empty, and I turned the lock on the outer door so we wouldn’t be disturbed. It was time for some tough love.

  “Everything the chief does is not about you.” I stared at Poppy until her cheeks reddened. “I know the world of hurt you’re in because of your problems with him.” I held up my hand when she started to speak. “Maybe not the precise latitude and longitude, but I’m familiar with the coordinates. Even so, you need to get over your daddy issues.”

  “Sure. Now that your father has been exonerated, you think mine is innocent, too.” Poppy pouted. “You have no idea how evil my dad is.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” I crossed my arms. “Because you’ve never told me what happened between you two. I know you and your father have never agreed with each other on most fundamental issues, but something pretty serious had to have caused you to actually stop speaking to him.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” Poppy mimicked my pose, crossing her arms, leaning against the sink, and frowning. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what he’s up to right now.”

  “Fine.” I shook my head. “But seriously, girlfriend. Would your father really risk upsetting an event that’s benefiting the whole town just to get back at you?” I sighed. “You have to admit, he would never use his position as chief that way. He loves the police department too much to risk giving it that kind of black eye.”

  “Maybe,” Poppy admitted. “And truly, the last thing I want to do is hurt him.” She grimaced, then winked. “But if he doesn’t behave, it’s still on my list.”

  “I understand.” I had a few people on my own list that were one insult or nasty innuendo away from a punch in the face.

  “So, what do you think the chief’s going to say?” Poppy asked.

  “My guess is that he’s going to announce the cause of Fallon’s death.” I bit my lip. “There’s been a lot of gossip going around about what happened to her. Maybe this is his way of putting a stop to the rumors.”

  “Yeah.” Poppy nodded. “I’ve heard people speculating that it was everything from food poisoning to a deadly virus.” She paused. “But what if it was something like that rather than natural causes? Either contagion or contaminated chow would freak out the tourists.”

  “True.”

  “Do you have a strategy if it’s bad news?” Poppy asked. “I mean, you always have a plan, right?”

  “Not exactly a fully formed plan.” It appeared Poppy had stepped away from t
he edge of her emotional cliff, and was no longer about to publicly attack her father, so I unlocked the bathroom door and held it open for her. “But I do want to speak to the chief before he makes his big announcement. Is he here yet?”

  “Of course he is.” Poppy tugged the neckline of her tank a bit lower and the waist of her skirt a bit higher. “He arrived at precisely five fifty-nine and is now holding court at the head table.”

  “He’s sitting with Kizzy, Lee, and the judges?” I trailed Poppy down the corridor as she marched to the largest of the church hall’s three rooms, then pointed to the long table at the front.

  “Right next to the cupcake queen herself.” Poppy frowned. “And from what I saw before you got here, Ms. Kizzy was flirting with him.”

  “I take it your mom isn’t with the chief?” I asked, although I could plainly see Mrs. Kincaid wasn’t seated next to her husband.

  “No.” Poppy shook her head. “Dad’s in uniform, which means this is official business.” She jerked a thumb to the end of the head table. “Take a gander at the mayor. He’s super ticked off that Kizzy is ignoring him in favor of my father.”

  I glanced at Eggers. His face was twisted in a pout. Chief Kincaid and our esteemed mayor had a long-standing rivalry. When Eggers wrested control of the city council from the chief, they had begun voting down police department budget increases. Not one to be easily thwarted, Chief Kincaid applied for federal funds. And when the chief’s applications began to bring in money, he’d remodeled the station, held professional development classes for his personnel, and purchased up-to-date gear. Then he won the Powerball Lottery of grants and was able to buy his very own crime scene unit and mobile lab, as well as get his staff trained in their uses.

  His Honor had been beyond incensed that the chief had managed to get what he wanted without financing from the town treasury. I hid a smile. Geoffrey Eggers played the game of one-upmanship as if it were an Olympic sport, and now that the chief had muscled in on the mayor’s territory—sitting next to the visiting celebrity—I suspected that there might be fireworks rather than a gold medal at tonight’s dinner.

  Poppy nudged me. “Look at His Honor. He wants to get into Kizzy’s panties so bad he can hardly stand it.”

  “Like that would ever happen.” I was a hundred percent sure that when the cupcake tycoon hooked up with a guy, he was a lot richer and more important than a small-town politician. “The mayor is drooling up the wrong tree.”

  “Yep.” Poppy sniggered. “Kizzy already has one asshole in her underwear; she doesn’t need a second one.”

  It took me a second to get Poppy’s allusion, but when I did, I let out a loud bark of laughter. My BFF was sometimes a little vulgar, but she was always funny.

  “If you want to talk to my father before he makes his announcement, you’d better nab him now.” Poppy gestured to the rest of the tables. “It looks as if almost everyone is here, so the Marthas will probably start serving dinner soon.”

  “You’re right.” I hurried over to the chief and said, “Could I speak to you for a moment?” When he nodded, I added, “In private.”

  Chief Kincaid excused himself, silently stood, and followed me out into the corridor.

  Once I was sure we were alone, I asked, “Do you know why Fallon died yet?”

  “We know what didn’t cause her death, but unhappily, not what did.”

  “What wasn’t it?” I asked, then added, “I might have an idea.”

  “There wasn’t anything harmful in her stomach contents,” the chief answered. “And the autopsy and review of her medical records showed no disease or hidden condition that could explain her symptoms.”

  “So maybe my theory is viable,” I murmured half to myself, then asked, “Are there poisons that can be transmitted through the skin?”

  “Several.” Chief Kincaid hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Or something like dimethyl sulfoxide can be used to transfer the poison. It’s readily available for purchase to treat muscle injuries or arthritis and is a colorless liquid that dissolves both polar and nonpolar compounds. DMSO easily penetrates the skin.” He looked at me until I nodded my understanding, then added, “For many people, it causes a garlic-like taste in the mouth.”

  “Earlier on the night that she died, Fallon told Kizzy that she had a bad taste in her mouth,” I informed the chief. “I’d forgotten that part of her conversation. Did Kizzy or Lee mention that?”

  “No.” Chief Kincaid took a pen and small notebook from his breast pocket. “They just said she’d had a headache and was dizzy.”

  “They probably either forgot it like I did or didn’t think something like a bad taste in the mouth could be important,” I assured him.

  “I take it by these questions that you think Fallon was a victim of contact poison.” The chief glanced at his watch and frowned, clearly getting antsy about the passing time. “What besides that bad taste in her mouth steers you in that direction?”

  “Well . . .” I paused to run the scenario through my mind one more time. I definitely didn’t want to share some crackpot theory with Chief Kincaid and have him regard me as a total lunatic.

  “Ticktock, Devereaux.” The chief tapped the face of his Timex.

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But bear with me and let me tell you the whole story before you decide that I’ve watched one too many episodes of Murder, She Wrote.” I started with Fallon’s absence at the restaurant because she was waiting for a package and led the chief through my thought process, then asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think someone should have told me all this earlier today.” Chief Kincaid jotted a couple more notes, then made a phone call to his crime scene team.

  When he ended the call, I asked, “So, how long will it take the medical examiner to figure out if she was poisoned and by what substance?”

  “Without being able to narrow down what toxin to test for, it could take a while to figure it out.” Chief Kincaid’s mouth thinned. “Nearly anything can be lethal in the right amounts. Everyone who watches those fool CSI shows thinks that we can put the victim’s blood in a fancy machine and get an instant result. But poison disperses in the body and changes into other elements. Looking for poison, without specifically knowing which toxic substance the victim was administered, is like looking for an image in a mirror after the person has stepped away from the glass.”

  “Oh.” I slumped. I thought I’d given the police a solid lead, but instead, I’d given them no more than a whiff of smoke to follow.

  “Buck up, Dev.” Chief Kincaid patted my shoulder. “This is still more than we had before.”

  “Thanks.” I straightened. “Does that mean you’ll let me know what happens?”

  “I’ll think about it.” Chief Kincaid smiled. “But now, since you said that Ronni didn’t know what had happened to the package that was supposed to be delivered, I need to speak to Ms. Cutler and Ms. Kimbrough.”

  “Do you want me to go and ask them to step into the hallway?” I was hoping the chief would let me stay when he talked to Kizzy and Lee.

  “Yes.” Chief Kincaid nodded absently as he phoned another officer and directed him to find the service that had made the delivery to the B & B Thursday night, then said to me, “Once you tell Ms. Cutler and her partner to come out here, make sure no one follows them.” He inclined his head toward me. “And that includes you.”

  Damn! So much for the police sharing information with me. On the bright side, maybe they’d solve the case and I wouldn’t need to get involved.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chief Kincaid’s declaration that Fallon’s death was not due to food poisoning or anything contagious went a long way in calming the Cupcake Weekenders’ fears. If anyone but me noticed that he hadn’t ruled out murder, thankfully they didn’t mention it.

  Soon after making his announcement, the chief received a call that I
suspected was about Fallon’s case and hurried away. Having traded my one tidbit of info, I would need to come up with some fresh piece of evidence if I wanted Chief Kincaid to tell me about any new discoveries. I sure wished that I had a spy at the police station. Maybe it was time to make friends with one of the cops. It would have to be one of the female officers since I didn’t think either Noah or Jake would be too happy with me cozying up to one of the men.

  The mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken snapped me out of my reverie, and after poking my head into the kitchen to say hi to Gran and her friends, I slipped into the chair that Poppy had saved for me next to her. While Kizzy, Lee, Mayor Eggers, Winnie, the Dessert Channel host, and the judges had reserved seating up front, the rest of us were on our own and it was survival of the hungriest.

  The Marthas had set up six tables of eight, and as I placed my napkin in my lap, Poppy began the round of introductions. “Everyone, this is Devereaux Sinclair. She owns Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets, the location where the final judging will take place.”

  “Hi.” I nodded. “The store also has official Cupcake Weekend souvenir T-shirts and any odds and ends you might have forgotten to pack.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The man across from me grinned. “I’m GB O’Rourke, one of the finalists.” He winked. “The only rooster in the henhouse.”

  “Sounds like fun.” I couldn’t decide if GB looked more like a leprechaun or a palm tree. He was less than five feet tall and wore neon green pants that battled with his sunflower yellow sports jacket splashed with images of tropical leaves. His beard formed a red fringe around his chubby little face, and a pipe stem peeked from his breast pocket. All he lacked was a derby and a Celtic harp.

  “I’m GB’s wife, Millie.” The plump woman next to him waved. “We’re from Oswego, Illinois.”

  “Is that near Chicago?” I didn’t really care, but it seemed polite to ask.