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

by Denise Swanson

  “He’s my dad,” Poppy admitted, then changed the subject. “What about the fire? Any clues as to who was after our cupcake tycoon?”

  “If it were a true arsonist, there would be a signature, but this guy couldn’t even figure out how to disconnect the smoke alarm, so I doubt he’s an honest-to-goodness pyro.” Coop pressed his lips together. “Especially since the fire was probably set to cover up the attempted murder, or maybe finish the job.” He frowned. “The police crime lab is going to send me the results of their analysis and maybe something will turn up, but I wouldn’t hold my breath on that possibility.”

  “That’s too bad.” Poppy grimaced. “A lot of folks, Dev included, are counting on the profits of this weekend to keep their businesses in the black.”

  Before Coop could reply, a pretty woman with shiny brown hair burst into the room and demanded, “What’s this about the dime store burning down and Kizzy almost dead? Do we have to call off the contest?”

  Once Poppy and Coop had explained the situation and the attractive brunette had been introduced as Ronni Ksiazak, B & B owner, Coop took his leave. As he drove back into town, two thoughts were chasing each other in his head. One, Shadow Bend sure had a lot of fine-looking women. And two, how could he help the three he’d just met find a killer?

  CHAPTER 14

  Once Coop left, taking his distractingly handsome face with him, I could once again focus on what was important—my business. After a few calls from various reporters, I ignored the ringing of the store’s phone. But as I finished cleaning up, my cell started buzzing with IDs I didn’t recognize. How had the media gotten that number?

  I turned my cell phone to mute, put a sign in the window indicating the cupcake exhibition had been relocated to Gossip Central, and locked the entrance. The two crime scene investigators had finished with the stairway and assured me that they would secure the dime store when they were through processing the second story, so I went upstairs to give the back exit key to the techs.

  As I handed it over, I remembered Kizzy’s request to use that door and dutifully reported my conversation with the cupcake tycoon, ending with, “Which might mean that even though I instructed Ms. Cutler not to leave the exit unlocked, she very well could have done so, and the assailant could have come in that way.” I tapped my chin, considering the recent events. “Especially if he or she had been following Ms. Cutler and looking for an opportunity to do her harm.”

  The female tech seemed to be in charge, and as she pocketed the key, she said, “I’ll go down with you right now and dust that area.” She pursed her lips. “If I remember correctly, we have your prints on file, but we’ll have to get Ms. Cutler’s. Anyone else use that door?”

  “Not recently.” I ran through the past few days in my mind. “My staff usually comes through the front entrance and I haven’t had any deliveries since Wednesday.” I paused, then added, “My cleaning lady was here last night and she would have wiped down the knob with an antibacterial cleanser, as well as the metal around it.”

  “Well, that’s a break we don’t usually get.” The tech beamed. “I’ll get Ms. Cutler’s prints and we should be good to go.”

  “Any idea when I can reopen the store?” Since the tech and I were apparently now pals, I figured it didn’t hurt to ask for a more specific time than the chief had been willing to divulge.

  “We should be done in another hour, two at the most, so say four thirty.” The tech shrugged apologetically. “But there will be fingerprint powder all over and it can be a little hard to remove.”

  “I know.” I rolled my eyes, then asked, “But you’re only going to be dusting the upstairs and the back exit, correct?”

  “Yes.” The tech glanced around. “In a public place like a store, there’s not much use processing an area unless we know for certain the suspect is likely to have done more than pass through it.”

  “So the first floor, the dime store itself, will be untouched?” I wanted to make sure I understood what I’d be facing.

  “Right.” The tech raised her brow. “As I just said, public areas have too much trace to sort out what is evidence and what isn’t.”

  I thanked the tech—for what, I wasn’t sure—then left her to her work. After putting the cash drawer in the safe, I grabbed my purse from the desk, edged around the woman who had opened the back door and was busy dusting the knob, and walked to my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I pulled out my cell and Binged trauma scene remediation services. I found a company based in Kansas City that specialized in fingerprint powder removal, punched in their number, and a few minutes later had a promise that someone would be at my store by five o’clock.

  The cupcake crowd would be occupied over at Gossip Central from three until six for the exhibition and the tasting of the finalists’ first round of treats. I knew I should at least show my face at the event before going home, but I was determined not to stay long. If I just popped in and out, I’d still have a couple of free hours to spend with Gran. Having resolved the matter to my satisfaction, I put my car in gear and headed over to Poppy’s club.

  I was getting used to the packed parking lots and the crowds, and the money they were spending at the local businesses made it worth the hassle. After double-parking behind Ronni’s car, and ignoring yet another call from the media regarding the fire, I entered Gossip Central. I spent a few minutes greeting people, then headed up to the Hayloft to see the cupcakes.

  As I made my way into the center of the room, I was transfixed by the gorgeous display of yumminess in front of me. The contestants had outdone themselves. From the blue velvet cupcakes frosted with almond icing and decorated with tiny candy pearls that resembled bubbles to the pale orange honey ginger delicacies, I was amazed by the competitors’ creativity. Each little temptation had a three-by-four-inch card providing the cupcake’s name and creator.

  After admiring all the entries, I turned my attention to the two flavors that appealed to me the most. The Caribbean breeze cupcake was a coconut and rum concoction with a cute little fondant palm tree planted in the whipped cream icing. The sugar cookie cupcakes had teeny-tiny star-shaped sugar cookies nestled in the swirled buttercream frosting. I itched to nab one of the delectable treats, but there were too many witnesses for me to get away with the crime.

  Instead, I stepped away from the cupcakes and worked my way toward the exit. Twenty minutes of socializing seemed sufficient, so I said my farewells, hopped into my car, and drove home. It had been a while since I’d spent any real time with Gran, and the whole point of my quitting my job in the city and buying the dime store was to be around more often.

  Having Dad out of prison and living close by in the garage apartment had lessened my apprehensions about leaving my grandmother alone, but I still felt it was my responsibility to make sure she was okay. After all, when Dad had been sent to prison and Mom had dumped me on Birdie’s front step, Gran had taken care of me, so I wanted to be the one to take care of her now.

  It took me a while to battle the drivers cruising around Gossip Central’s lot looking for parking spaces and get back out onto the road, but I finally turned the Z4 into our long driveway. We lived on the edge of town on the ten remaining acres of the property my ancestors had settled in the eighteen sixties. Premature deaths, a few generations of only children, and lots of relatives moving away meant that Dad, Gran, and I were the last Sinclairs in Shadow Bend.

  When my grandfather died fifteen years ago, and my father declined to become a farmer, Gran had begun selling off the land surrounding the old homestead to pay taxes and support herself. Inch by inch, my heritage had vanished before I was old enough to realize what it meant, so now I cherished the acreage we had left.

  I slowed to gaze at my favorite spot, the duck pond. When Dad had been released from the penitentiary, we had his welcome-home party there. Next along my way was our small orchard. The William’s Pride apples wouldn’t be read
y for a few more weeks, but once they were, Gran would bake one of her famous pies and make the rest into the best apple butter north of the Mason-Dixon Line. As I drove the final quarter mile through the white fir and blue spruce lining either side of the lane, I felt myself relax. Gran and this place were my refuge. Only here could I let down my guard and feel at peace.

  I found my father and grandmother in the kitchen. Before Dad’s return, I would have sworn that Birdie was more of a Jack Daniel’s type of gal, but having him home seemed to have calmed her and they’d grown into the habit of having afternoon tea together.

  Another change from what I was accustomed to was that Gran now used the delicate china cups and saucers adorned with violets and wisps of curling ivy that she’d previously saved for special occasions. After kissing them both on the cheek, I took down one of the cups and turned up the heat under the copper teakettle, then filled the acorn-shaped infuser with my favorite Prince of Wales tea leaves.

  As I prepared my tea, I said to Gran, “I’m surprised you aren’t at Gossip Central, looking at the cupcakes.”

  “At my age, there are fewer and fewer things that I’m willing to stand in line for.” Gran shrugged. “It’s not as if I’ve never seen a fancy dessert before. I’ve probably baked more cupcakes than all those contestants combined.”

  “True,” I agreed, then added, “And I’m sure yours taste much better.”

  “Darn tooting they do.” Gran nodded, then asked, “Everything okay at the store? Kern told me all about the smoke . . . uh . . . smoke . . .” She trailed off, her face getting red.

  “Detector,” I supplied. Her doctor had said it was best to supply the word she couldn’t recall, rather than let her become stressed.

  “Right.” She shook her finger at me. “And don’t you look so worried. Lord a’ mercy. Just because I misplaced something or can’t come up with a word once in a while doesn’t mean I’m senile. Now that my baby boy is back here where he should be, I can concentrate again.”

  Gran’s memory issues had improved dramatically with Dad’s return, but she still had trouble coming up with the exact word she wanted. And she wasn’t happy that I insisted she keep taking her medication and continue seeing the gerontologist.

  “The police are dusting the upstairs for prints, and even though the first-round exhibition had to be moved to Poppy’s club, we can reopen on schedule.” I sat at the old wooden table and waited for the water to boil. “The fire chief was able to get the cupcake displays out of the exhibit room for me, and he drove them over to Gossip Central.”

  “That was nice of him,” Kern commented. “I guess since he’s new in town, he wants to make a good impression on the business community.”

  “That must be it,” I agreed quickly. “It’s hard to be the new guy on the block, especially since everyone liked the previous chief.”

  I certainly wasn’t telling my grandmother and father what I suspected Coop’s real motives were in helping me. Neither of them needed to know about my love life. Dad and I were trying to adjust to our new relationship. To him, I was still the sixteen-year-old that I’d been when he went away. And as for me, I wasn’t used to having a father around. Gran had encouraged my independence; Dad not so much.

  “Kern tells me that cupcake woman was there when the fire started,” Birdie said. “Holy crap on a cracker! She seems to be having a real bad run of luck since coming back to Shadow Bend.” Gran folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “I doubt she’ll want to do this contest again.”

  “You’re probably right.” I hesitated, then realized that both Gran and Dad would soon hear that the police suspected someone was trying to kill Kizzy, and said, “Actually, the cops don’t think it’s bad luck. They believe that she might be the target of a murderer.”

  “Sweet baby Jesus!” Birdie got up and snatched the whistling teakettle from the stove. As she poured the boiling water over the infuser in my cup, she asked, “So the car in the church parking lot almost hitting Kizzy last night after the dinner and the poor little gal’s death the night before, none of that was . . . uh . . .”

  “A coincidence?” I waited for Gran to nod, then shook my head. “Nope. At least, that’s the police’s current theory and I agree.”

  “I wonder if they know about Kizzy’s big fight with Annalee Paulson,” Gran mused.

  “The cupcake queen fought with the TV star judge?” I asked, wanting to make sure that I was clear on what Gran was saying. “When was that? At the dinner?”

  “Don’t be silly. They didn’t fight here in Shadow Bend.” Gran flicked me an irritated glance. “On television. Kizzy was a guest on Annalee’s program last fall.”

  “What happened?” Evidently, the cupcake tycoon had made more enemies than a bacon-eating cat sitting in a tree surrounded by a yard full of dogs. Not that I was surprised. Having experienced her “gratitude” when I’d saved her life, I had firsthand knowledge that Kizzy wasn’t the easiest person to be around.

  “Well, you know that Sugar and Spice is a live show?” Gran asked.

  Even though I had no idea, I nodded since agreeing would speed up Gran’s explanation. The last thing I wanted was to have her go off on a tangent and forget what she’d been about to tell me.

  “Kizzy and Annalee were doing a segment on the show where Kizzy was demonstrating how to bake her original cupcake—the one that made her famous,” Gran explained. “And as they chitchatted, Annalee remarked at how amazing the whole cupcake fad was and how lucky Kizzy was to have started her company at just the right time to cash in on the craze.”

  “That sounds like an innocent enough comment.” Dad tipped his head.

  “Exactly what I thought,” Gran agreed. “But Kizzy’s face turned as red as one of my blue-ribbon-winning tomatoes and she said it wasn’t luck—it was her fantastic business plan. She also claimed that she had started the cupcake trend and all the other companies stole her brainchild.”

  “Ego much?” I snickered. Kizzy was certainly self-confident.

  “Annalee snapped back that Kizzy’s business was far from the first to offer upscale cupcakes.” Gran smirked. “Then she reeled off the names of half a dozen companies that were doing it before Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes started.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Kizzy threw her spoon in the mixing bowl,” Gran continued. “The batter splattered all over Annalee’s chest and into her hair.”

  “Oh. Oh.” I had no idea what the television star’s temperament was like, but I’d bet no matter how nice she was, being covered in raw cupcake in front of an audience would bring out her inner bitch.

  “Then Kizzy laughed and said something about the batter improving Annalee’s appearance.” Gran crossed her arms. “So Annalee dumped the bowl of frosting on Kizzy’s head. They went to commercial, and when the show came back on, Kizzy was gone and Annalee was demonstrating how to bake a pie,” Gran ended her story. “But they must have made up since Kizzy invited her to be a judge.”

  “I suppose,” I agreed, then tuned out Gran and Dad’s discussion as to which of the two women was justified and which had acted badly. As they debated the issue, I looked around. There was nothing HGTV worthy in this room, but everything reminded me of Gran and the home she had given me as an abandoned teenager. It was here at this table, drinking from these cups, that she’d broken all the bad news since we’d lived together. I sighed. Maybe now with Dad back we could have some good news instead.

  But apparently not today.

  My father and Gran had run the topic of whether Kizzy or Annalee was at fault into the ground and now Dad fiddled with his spoon, then without looking at me said, “There was a letter from your mother in the mail.”

  “Oh?” I tried to think of something else to say, but every response that flitted through my mind was snarky, and from the expression on Dad’s face, sarcasm wasn’t what he was hoping for fro
m me.

  “Evidently, there are a few people in Shadow Bend that she still keeps in touch with, and one of them told her I was out of prison.”

  “Really?” I was surprised to hear that my mother was in contact with anyone from town. Gran and I only heard from her once or twice a year—mostly at Christmas, but occasionally she’d remember my birthday—and that was only a scrawled signature on a preprinted greeting card. “I wonder who her informative little friends are.”

  “Hell’s bells! It’s probably someone as shallow as Yvette.” Birdie flipped her long gray braid over her shoulder and got to her feet. “Or someone who wants to stir up trouble for you or Kern.”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “But what trouble could my mother cause us?”

  My mother was on husband number four, or maybe five. I’d lost track. The only way I ever figured out she had divorced and remarried again was when her last name changed on the return address label on the cards she sent. I paused, trying to remember her latest surname, but drew a blank. It had been something vaguely familiar, not that I spent a lot of time thinking about it.

  “Mom.” Kern blew out a breath. “Yvette isn’t the villain you make her out to be.”

  “Of course not, dear.” Birdie patted her son’s hand, then rolled her eyes at me. “No one could expect her to stand by you when you were falsely accused or stick around and raise her daughter.”

  “Mother,” Kern sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “Not everyone is as strong as you are.” He shook his head. “Yvette’s just . . .” He shrugged and threw up his hands. “Just more easily broken.”

  “That’s—” I closed my mouth. I hadn’t exactly been my father’s staunchest supporter, either. What could I say? My only excuse was that I had been a teenager when it all happened and incredibly immature. Plus, no one had bothered to tell me the whole story.

  “What was in the letter?” Birdie’s pale blue eyes sparked with resentment.

  My father flinched and I smiled inwardly. “Yes, Dad, what did Mom write?” I was glad that for once Gran’s pissed-off Pekinese look wasn’t directed at me.