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

by Denise Swanson

  Once I climbed out of my Z4, the server who’d unlocked the garage door for me let me in through the delivery entrance. She hurried back to work, but I detoured into Poppy’s office to put her receipt-wrapped Visa under the fake flowers in the high-heel-shaped vase on the desk. After texting Poppy to tell her that her credit card was in our usual hiding spot, I wound my way through a long hallway and pushed open a pair of metal swinging doors into the club’s central area. The noise hit me like a tsunami, and I paused, letting my ears adjust to the sound, before stepping into the room.

  Poppy was behind the bar, mixing up drinks and serving customers, and I waved at her as I worked my way forward to the middle of the room. The place was bursting at the seams, and it took me a good ten minutes to get from the entrance to the center of the dance floor. Locating Ronni, Winnie, Kizzy, and Lee took even longer.

  The quartet had claimed one of the smaller lounges Poppy converted from the original stalls. Its theme was nineteen fifties and early sixties beauty salon. Seating was the old-fashioned, chrome-domed hair-dryer chairs, which seemed apropos for someone like Kizzy, who dressed to match those decades. The tables were Art Deco manicure stations, and the posters on the wall featured ads for Gayla bobby pins, Max Factor lipstick, and Jewel invisible nylon hair nets.

  After greeting everyone, I claimed the only empty seat, and said, “That’s quite a crowd out there. Every single parking spot is taken.”

  “The Cupcake Weekend is even more successful than we had hoped.” Ronni grinned. “My B and B is full, the Cattlemen’s Motel has their no-vacancy sign lit up, and I’ve heard some of the people in town have even rented out rooms.”

  “Terrific!” I was thrilled that Shadow Bend was getting such an infusion of cash. “My store has been packed all day, too.”

  “I’m not at all surprised.” Kizzy tilted her head back and drained the remaining liquid from her martini glass. “Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes have become an American icon. Everyone is anxious to be a part of the new line and be able to say they were present when the winning flavor was selected.”

  “Of course.” Ronni nodded. “I knew this promo would do well, just not this well.”

  “Then you underestimated the appeal of my cupcakes,” Kizzy said, dismissing Ronni.

  “Before we go on, don’t you have something to say to Devereaux?” Lee asked her partner.

  Kizzy remained silent until Lee tapped her arm; then she bared her teeth in a false smile and said, “Ah, yes. Thank you for pushing me out of the way of that car.” Before I could respond, she added, “Although a simple shouted warning would have been sufficient and prevented the destruction of one of my favorite dresses.”

  “You’re welcome and I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what the proper reply was, so I decided to use them both. “I guess I leaped before I thought.”

  “Yes.” Kizzy nodded. “You did.” She held out her empty glass and said to no one in particular, “I’d like another, but drier this time with Bombay Sapphire gin and two olives.”

  “I’ll get it.” Lee rose to her feet. “Anyone else want a refill?”

  Ronni and Winnie both ordered frozen margaritas, so I volunteered to help Lee carry the drinks. As we made our way out of the lounge and across the dance floor, I excused myself to use the restroom, telling Lee I’d meet her at the bar.

  There was a line snaking out of the ladies’ room, and I briefly considered using the men’s bathroom, which appeared to be empty, but stopped when I spotted Q and her brother a few feet away. They were having an intense conversation, so I drifted over and ducked behind a partition. I wasn’t certain why I had decided to eavesdrop on them, but if I had learned one thing as a financial consultant, it was that knowledge was power. With Fallon’s poisoning, the hit-and-run that almost wiped out the cupcake queen, Russell Neumann’s blackmail scheme, and Reverend GB’s possible recipe plagiarism, there was no doubt in my mind that something odd was going on. And I was pretty darn sure I needed to keep on top of it.

  Q was crying so hard that I had to lean forward to make out what she was saying between her sobs. Finally, she wiped at her tears and said, “Kizzy claimed that I had ruined her hair and that she looked ridiculous. She threatened to get me fired if you don’t arrange to reshoot her segment, so I had to try to stop her.”

  “Why are you just telling me this now?” Dirk demanded. “We did that piece with her Thursday afternoon. Is that the reason for your emergency visit to your shrink?”

  “Yeah,” Q admitted. “But after I talked to my therapist, I thought I could handle Kizzy’s demands myself.”

  “Why were you doing Kizzy Cutler’s hair in the first place?” Dirk asked. “You aren’t supposed to work on anyone that isn’t in front of the camera.”

  “She made me,” Q whined. “She said that since she was taping an interview for the program, I had to do her hair and makeup.” Q hiccupped. “Kizzy said it was in her contract with the network.”

  “Shit!” Dirk exploded. “I pulled a lot of strings to get you this job. What in the hell did you do to that bitch’s hair to upset her?”

  “Nothing,” Q said. “I mean, something, but it looked good even though I had never done a French twist before. Who in this day and age wears that style?”

  “Hell if I know.” Dirk was quiet, then said, “There’s no way Merry is going to be willing to redo that interview. She’s one of the most hard-assed of the channel’s hosts.” He sighed. “And I doubt there’s any way I could edit a new interview into the existing one.”

  “You can’t let them fire me, Dirk,” Q sobbed. “If I don’t have this job, Mom and Dad will make me go back into the nuthouse.”

  “There’s just no way to fix the spot, baby sis. There are too many shots with both Merry and Kizzy in the same frame.” Dirk’s voice hardened. “Which means we may have to come up with a plan B.”

  “One of your plan Bs is what got me sent to the loony bin in the first place,” Q wailed, then changed her tone and teased, “On the other hand, before that incident, I did enjoy a good plan B.”

  I blinked and eased away from the duo. Now, that sounded scary. How had Q tried to stop Kizzy? Could it have been with a speeding car? I needed to tell Chief Kincaid about this conversation tomorrow when I stopped by the cop shop to sign my statement.

  While I had been eavesdropping on Q and Dirk, the line for the bathroom had dwindled, and fifteen minutes later, I joined Lee at the bar. She was still waiting her turn to be served, but it was too noisy to talk, so I used the time to look around. It was nice to see so many people having a good time. I waved to a few of our tablemates from dinner and noticed that Dirk was filming the event for the Dessert Channel. I wondered if the television exposure would bring in more customers to Poppy’s club and hoped that the dime store would get some TV footage, too.

  Lee had gotten Kizzy’s martini and the margaritas for Winnie and Ronni, but since I was still waiting for my order, she asked for a tray and headed back to the lounge. I had requested a bottle of wine and two glasses, figuring that at some point Poppy would take a break and join us, and that she’d need a drink.

  I had just stepped away from the bar when I spotted Harlee and shouted, “Over here!”

  She signaled that she’d heard me, and I waited for her to make her way to where I was standing. Once she joined me, I led her through the crowd toward the Beauty Parlor.

  “If I’d known it was going to be this much of a madhouse, I wouldn’t have let you talk me into coming,” Harlee said as we stepped into the relative quiet of the lounge.

  “Really?” Kizzy stood and faced Harlee. “I remember when you and I both used to love a loud party.” She raised a brow. “The crazier the better.”

  “People change.” Harlee’s voice was even, but her posture was rigid.

  “Possibly.” Kizzy shrugged. “But, in my experience, not very often.” She sank back do
wn and gestured to the chair next to her. “Have a seat.

  I watched as Harlee reluctantly sat next to the cupcake tycoon. Harlee had mentioned going to school with Kizzy, but Kizzy’s comments made it sound as if they had been close friends.

  “You and I have so much to catch up on.” Kizzy took Harlee’s hand. “Lee will get you a drink while we talk about old times.”

  I glanced at Lee. If they were business partners, why did she allow Kizzy to order her around? In her interactions with other people, Lee hadn’t struck me as spineless or easily intimidated.

  “I’d love a glass of wine.” Harlee quickly removed her fingers from Kizzy’s grasp and reached for her purse. “Preferably Chilean cabernet sauvignon, but any red wine will do.”

  “The bar’s swamped right now, but I have a bottle of Australian Shiraz and an extra glass.” I held out the wine for her inspection. “Lee and I just spent nearly half an hour trying to get served.”

  “Sounds fine to me.” Harlee took the glass offered her and held it out for me to pour. “Thanks, Dev.” She took a sip. “I needed that.”

  “Now, what have you been up to since high school?” Kizzy leaned forward, an enigmatic expression on her face. “I was shocked to see your name on the Cupcake Weekend committee. I had no idea you had moved back to Shadow Bend. And why open a consignment shop of all things?”

  “After you left town, I joined the army.” Harlee’s tone was cool, but little waves rippled across the wine in her glass, indicating that her hand was shaking. “I guess you and I both changed our mind about what we wanted to be when we grew up.”

  “Yes. I realized that college wasn’t for me.” Kizzy sat back. “I wanted to run my own business. It took me a while to convince a backer that people would pay big bucks for designer cupcakes, but once I found the right person and he tasted my amazing recipes”—Kizzy smiled triumphantly—“the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Yes.” Harlee took another gulp of wine. “History.” She stared into her glass. “It’s strange how often history gets rewritten.”

  “Sometimes the best thing we can do is forget the past and move on.” Kizzy put her fingers on Harlee’s knee and squeezed. “For everyone.”

  “You asked why a consignment shop,” Harlee said. “It’s because I like to see items that have perhaps had an unhappy past get a chance for a fresh start with a new owner that will treasure them.”

  There was a definite undertone present in the exchange between Harlee and Kizzy. I sensed that there was another, more significant meaning to all of their words. Clearly, the high school pals had had a falling-out. I wondered what had happened to make them go their separate ways and lose touch for such a long time.

  Ronni and Winnie distracted me with a question about tomorrow’s schedule, and I turned my attention to them. The three of us huddled together, discussing the logistics of transporting the finalists’ first-round cupcakes to my second floor. We decided to use pairs of couriers so that no one could be accused of tampering with the finished products before the judges evaluated them.

  When Winnie went off on a tangent about how we should trust everybody to act in an honorable manner rather than fear the worst, I glanced over at the other women. Kizzy and Harlee were speaking in low voices, and Lee was watching them both, a wary expression on her face.

  Having finished with the details for Saturday’s plan, I got up and sat next to Harlee. Kizzy had gone to the restroom—one task she couldn’t ask Lee to do for her—and Lee was on her cell phone. Harlee had finished her Shiraz and accepted another when I waved the wine bottle at her.

  As she finished the refill in one gulp, I asked, “Drowning your sorrows?”

  “Nope.” Harlee held out her empty glass for more. “Just taking the little buggers for a little dip in the pool.”

  “I’m guessing that Kizzy is why you’ve been avoiding the various activities since she arrived in town,” I said as I poured.

  “Yep. I was home when you came by my place last night, I just didn’t answer the door, and I ignored all of Ronni’s messages.” Harlee swirled the wine in her glass. “Considering how we parted twenty years ago, it seemed the easiest way to handle the situation. But your point about needing to show my face to ensure goodwill for my business was well taken.” She sipped. “Kizzy will leave on Sunday, but I plan to be in Shadow Bend for the rest of my life.”

  “I take it, back in the day, you two were close friends?” I asked.

  “We were besties.” Harlee’s eyes were sad. “Inseparable. We thought we’d go to the same college, marry our high school boyfriends, and live next door to each other.” She sighed. “We had that fatal combination of hubris and a sense of immortality. We believed we could do no wrong and that nothing we did would affect us.”

  “Typical teenagers,” I commented, then asked, “So, what happened between you two?” Yes, I knew I was prying, but she had aroused my curiosity. Had Kizzy let the teenage Harlee down the way Noah had me during our high school years? Not having been in school at the same time they were, I had no idea what had happened between them.

  “It’s not important now. Too much water has passed under that particular bridge for it to matter anymore.” Harlee reached for her purse and dug out her wallet. “How much do I owe you for the wine?”

  “It’s on me.” I waved her offer away. I was feeling flush with all the extra money from the Cupcake Weekend in my bank account and cash register. “You can buy the drinks the next time the Saturday Night Prayer Circle gets together.”

  “Thanks.” Harlee stood up, then squinted at my hands and said, “Nice scrapes. Who’s your exterior decorator?”

  Evidently, Harlee hadn’t heard about the hit-and-run, so I explained what had happened after the dinner.

  Harlee shook her head. “Somehow, no matter what the situation, other people always get hurt and Kizzy always comes out unscathed.” She sighed, then said, “I’m going to go and mingle, since that’s why I came to the party to begin with. See you tomorrow.”

  A moment later, when Harlee and Kizzy passed each other in the lounge’s doorway, I noticed that neither spoke. It was almost as if all of the good times they’d shared had been completely erased by whatever had happened that ended the friendship. What in the world had caused that kind of rift? I thought about losing either of my best friends and shuddered. Poppy and Boone were vital to my sanity.

  Kizzy took Harlee’s recently vacated seat, glanced at her watch, and asked, “How much longer do you think we need to stay?”

  I checked the time and said, “Probably only another few minutes. I think most people will start to drift away soon after midnight. Remember, most small-town folks are early to bed and early to rise.”

  “Good.” Kizzy leaned her head against the back of the chair. “It’s been an exhausting day, and having that police chief tell me he thinks that Fallon was murdered and that I was the intended victim of the poison was the buttercream on the cupcake.”

  CHAPTER 11

  When I arrived home after the party, the windows in my father’s apartment over the garage were dark and only the night-light above the stove lit my way down the hall. As soon as I reached my room, I stripped off my clothes, washed my face, and fell into bed.

  The next thing I knew, my alarm was buzzing and it was six the next morning. I’d been too tired the night before to think much about Kizzy’s dramatic announcement, but now that I was rested, her words played over and over again in my mind as I showered, got dressed, and headed to the police station.

  Although I had speculated that someone might be targeting the cupcake queen, it was an entirely different matter to hear that the cops agreed with me. And Kizzy’s utter refusal to discuss the situation was beyond frustrating. She ignored my suggestion that a killer running loose in Shadow Bend could drive all the attendees out of town, and she didn’t seem to understand my concern that th
e contest might be ruined.

  Instead of answering my questions regarding exactly what Chief Kincaid had said to her, Kizzy had gotten to her feet, summoned Lee, and left Gossip Central. I wasn’t used to being summarily dismissed like that, and it irked me to no end that I couldn’t lash out at her. Next time, there was a good possibility that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.

  Unfortunately, the chief wasn’t at the PD when I arrived, so I couldn’t try to pry any info out of him or tell him about the discussion I had overheard between Dirk and Q. Instead, after I signed my statement regarding last night’s hit-and-run, I was forced to write him a note outlining the siblings’ conversation. I had briefly considered holding on to that tidbit in order to have some intel to trade for information the police had discovered, but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to do that. What if Q was the one trying to kill Kizzy and her next attempt was successful?

  Frustrated, I left the station and drove to work. As I entered the dime store, I mentally ran through the day’s agenda. The store would close up at three, rather than four, which was its usual Saturday closing time. It would reopen in the evening to take advantage of the crowds that I anticipated would gather in the town square for the cookout starting at six and the fireworks show scheduled for nine thirty.

  In our frantic planning for the Cupcake Weekend, we had nearly forgotten that Saturday was the Fourth of July. The mayor had hastily arranged for a pyrotechnic spectacular to be staged so that no one would accuse our community of being unpatriotic. In his estimation, the fact that the late-night event gave him a chance to make yet another speech was a bonus. Still, he hadn’t insisted on singing the “Star-Spangled Banner” in his horrendously off-key tenor, so we were counting that narrow escape as one in the win column.

  As I walked through my shop, putting on the lights and readying the cash register for customers, I thought about how to persuade Chief Kincaid to share exactly why he thought Kizzy might be in danger. Did I have anything else to trade? I vaguely recalled something flitting through my mind right before I dropped off to sleep. What had it been?