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

by Denise Swanson

  “Nothing much,” Kern mumbled. “She wished me well and hoped that I could forgive her for running away.” Red stained his fair complexion and he added half under his breath, “And, uh, she might drop by for a visit next time she’s traveling in the Midwest.”

  “Next time?” I asked. She hadn’t come to see me once since taking off. “She’s been in this area before, but never came by here?”

  “That’s what the note said.” Kern stood, clearly wanting to end the conversation about his ex-wife’s actions. “You know, every time God closes one door, he opens another one.”

  “Too bad it’s usually hell going down the hallway between them,” I muttered.

  “I’m going to take a nap. I’ll see you at the store at six.” He reached for a cookie, stuffed it into his mouth, and hurried out of the back door.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I commented. Gran was quiet, so I got up and rummaged in the fridge. My empty stomach reminded me that I hadn’t had lunch. “Do you think Mom really will show up here?”

  “Who knows? That woman doesn’t know shit from Shinola, so whatever she does will cause a problem.” Gran pushed me out of the way and reached for a Tupperware container. “How about a chicken salad sandwich and coleslaw?”

  “Great.” I cleared the teacups from the table and put them in the sink.

  “Have you heard from Jake lately?” Gran’s tone was casual, but I could feel her stare. “It’s been a while since Tony’s talked to him.”

  Tony Del Vecchio was Jake’s great-uncle and Gran’s high school sweetheart. Because he was a couple years older than Birdie and she wouldn’t marry him until she finished school, he enlisted in the marines after he graduated. Then, near the end of the Korean War, Tony was reported MIA, and Gran married someone else.

  Gran had never shared her reasons for marrying so soon after Tony went missing, and I hadn’t had the heart to pry the information from her even if I could. I was just happy that she and Tony had rekindled their friendship and were seeing each other again after all those years.

  Previously, although our properties shared a border and Tony had purchased all the land we had sold off, Gran and Tony had avoided each other. Even after both their spouses died, they hadn’t reconnected. It was only when Gran needed to ask for help from Tony’s nephew, the U.S. Marshal, that they had gotten back together again.

  “Not since last Tuesday,” I answered Gran’s question about Jake.

  “I hope he’s okay.” Gran’s brow wrinkled. “I bet that ex-wife isn’t really in any danger at all. She probably made all this up.”

  “I doubt she could fool the entire U.S. Marshal Service.” I took a bite of the sandwich Gran slid in front of me, nearly moaning with the mayonnaise goodness of her homemade chicken salad.

  “They could all be in cahoots with her.”

  “And why would they be?” I asked before forking coleslaw into my mouth.

  “Because they don’t want Jake to quit being a marshal.” Gran turned on the faucet.

  “So they allowed a serial killer to escape and staged a kidnapping?” I knew I shouldn’t have told Gran that just before Meg had been kidnapped, Jake had resigned his job and intended to manage Tony’s cattle ranch. “That’s a little far-fetched.”

  “It’s amazing what people will do to someone whose past they’ve shared.” Gran squirted dish soap into the sink and plunged her hands into the water.

  “Still . . .” I trailed off. I had been about to argue Gran’s premise, but then it dawned on me. Maybe it was someone who shared a past relationship with Kizzy who was trying to kill her. Actually, that made sense. The attempts on her life had all started when she returned to Shadow Bend. I chewed thoughtfully. Who from Kizzy’s history in the town still held a grudge after all these years?

  CHAPTER 15

  When Gran finished the dishes, she decided that she would take a nap, too, and retired to her bedroom. With Dad and Birdie resting, I decided to give Chief Kincaid a call. I wanted to see what he thought about my idea that Kizzy’s past had come back to bite her in the butt now that she had returned to town. And I hoped that he would tell me what area of investigation the police were pursuing.

  The dispatcher put me on hold, and as I waited for the chief to pick up, I ate the rest of my lunch. I had time to wash my plate and pop the top on a can of Diet Coke before he came on the line.

  “Chief Kincaid,” he announced with an exasperated sigh.

  “Dev Sinclair here,” I informed him. He sounded as if he was in a bad mood, but I resisted the urge to hang up. Channeling my inner financial consultant, I put a smile in my voice and said smoothly, “I’ve been thinking about the attempts on Kizzy Cutler’s life.”

  “You and everyone else,” Chief Kincaid muttered.

  “I was wondering if you had considered the possibility that someone from Kizzy’s past has a grudge against her because of an act she committed before moving away from Shadow Bend.”

  “Naturally,” Chief Kincaid snapped. “We aren’t the Barney Fifes some people assume we are just because we work in a small town.”

  Ouch! “I never meant to imply your department was anything but competent.” Who had been getting on the chief’s last nerve? He and I usually had a cordial relationship, but apparently this time I’d caught him at a bad moment. “However, it occurred to me that since I’ve been around Kizzy quite a bit and have seen her in situations the police might not be privy to, I might be able to give you some suggestions as to who to question.”

  “Of course you do.” The chief’s tone was sarcastic. “Such as?”

  “Well—”

  “Hold on a second,” Chief Kincaid ordered, then said to someone who had apparently barged into his office, “Get the hell out of here. What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you reporters understand?”

  Damn! Now I understood the chief’s irritation. I knew that someone had leaked the attempted murders to the press because in the last couple of hours, I had been bombarded with calls regarding the fire, but I hadn’t realized how that attention would affect the police department. I’d been able to fob off the journalists by pleading ignorance or just not answering the phone, but that wasn’t an option for Chief Kincaid.

  While I sympathized with his position and I understood that media interest about the attempted murder wasn’t good news for the cops, it was worse for the businesses that had invested in the Cupcake Weekend. If the attendees decided they didn’t want to risk being in a town with a killer running loose, this evening’s and tomorrow’s events would flop. And if the events bombed, all the money the committee members had spent to purchase extra merchandise and hire additional personnel would be flushed down the toilet.

  As the chief continued to yell at the reporter who had invaded his office, then laid into the dispatcher for allowing the journalist to get past her desk, I thought about the risk to my bottom line. The more I fretted about going into the red, the angrier I got. By the time the chief got back to me and I recounted the conversation between Harlee and Kizzy, I was just about as angry as he was.

  It didn’t help my frame of mind that Chief Kincaid curtly thanked me for the information, then, dismissing my theory, said, “The conversation you quoted sounds to me like Harlee’s attitude was that whatever happened between her and Kizzy was too long ago to matter anymore. You said she seemed sad, not vindictive.”

  “Perhaps she was both distressed and bitter,” I suggested, barely able to keep the snarl out of my voice. When the chief didn’t respond, I let the matter drop and asked, “Did you have any luck finding out what was in the package that was delivered the night Fallon died?”

  “No,” Chief Kincaid snapped. “No one at the B and B could identify any item that wasn’t there before they left for dinner.”

  “How odd.” I thought back to the phone call from Fallon that we had all overheard at the Golden Drago
n. “Fallon definitely said the delivery person had finally arrived, but because of the funny taste in her mouth and headache she wasn’t coming to dinner.”

  “That’s correct,” Chief Kincaid confirmed. “We’ve talked to everyone there and they’ve corroborated your account.”

  “Was the delivery company able to give you any idea what they had transported?” I asked. “Surely they had a record of who sent it.”

  “None of the companies that cover Shadow Bend had any deliveries scheduled for the B and B on Thursday.” Chief Kincaid paused. Then, before I could think of another question, he added, “And, yes, my officers have been canvassing the neighborhood of the B and B, trying to find anyone who might have seen the vehicle or driver at the guesthouse during the time the victim was there alone.”

  “Too bad that all the homes along that stretch are so large and on such big lots,” I commented. “It would be hard for anyone to see next door to them. Your only real hope would be the people across the street in that big Gothic revival house.”

  “According to Veronica Ksiazak,” the chief sighed, “the folks who bought that place left town to avoid the Cupcake Weekend crowds.”

  “Well, double damn it to hell!” I was getting more and more frustrated. “Any chance they didn’t get out of Dodge until Friday morning?”

  “We won’t know until they get back.” Chief Kincaid sounded as dejected as I felt. “Since they’re relatively new in town, we can’t find anyone who has a cell number for them, so we have no way of reaching them. Unlike in those stupid crime shows on television, the phone company doesn’t really just turn over people’s numbers to us without a court order. And considering this is a holiday weekend, there’s no way I can find a judge before Monday willing to issue one.”

  “That’s too bad,” I commiserated, then decided to try one more time to get him to take my theory seriously. “I still think that this has something to do with Kizzy’s past, and even if Harlee isn’t holding a grudge, she might know someone who is.”

  “When I can free up an officer, I’ll check that idea out.” Chief Kincaid’s tone made it clear that in his opinion our little chat was over. “We’ve asked Ms. Cutler if there is anyone from her years in Shadow Bend that might wish her harm, and she has assured us that she was very popular. She says that everyone loved her.”

  Certain that he was about to hang up, I hurried to mention Russell Neumann’s problem with how the prize money might be awarded, Kizzy’s hints that Reverend GB’s recipe might not be original, and Q’s hairstyle issue with the cupcake queen. I summarized all the conversations that I’d overheard, ending with, “Also, the blogger and the television star both had a feud going with Kizzy.”

  “Which apparently was resolved since she invited them to judge the contest and they accepted,” Chief Kincaid said, refuting my conclusion.

  “How about the two contestants?” I asked. “The one’s husband is upset that the cash might not be given in a lump sum, and the other is ticked off because Kizzy thinks he stole his recipe.”

  “Neither of which would require instant action,” the chief countered. “Maybe once the contest is won and the money really isn’t paid out as was promised or if the contestant is kicked out for plagiarism, but neither party has any reason to act against Kizzy yet.”

  “How about the camera guy and his sister?” I asked. “Their problem with Kizzy seems fairly urgent.”

  “I’ll certainly keep in mind all you’ve told me,” the chief said when I paused for breath. Then before I could say anything more, he added, “But we already have a suspect who we’ll be taking into custody as soon as we finish gathering a few pieces of additional evidence.”

  “Who?” I demanded, wondering why he hadn’t just told me that to begin with.

  “No comment,” Chief Kincaid said, and immediately hung up.

  “Damn!” Why was I not reassured? I could understand that the chief wouldn’t want to advertise whom they were about to nab, but he didn’t sound as if he truly believed they were on the verge of wrapping up the case. If anything, he’d sounded as though he was lying through his teeth. They might have a suspect, but I’d bet my Chloé Paddington leather satchel that they were far from making an arrest.

  As I contemplated that conclusion, I stewed over the fact that the bad guy had chosen to set a fire in my store. If it weren’t for that, I’d be inclined to let the cops do their job. It was clear Chief Kincaid didn’t want my help. But trying to burn down my shop had been a serious miscalculation on the killer’s part. He or she could have had just the cops to deal with, but then the murderer threatened my family’s livelihood. And I definitely wasn’t going to take that lying down.

  I’d figured out whodunit three times before, and I could do it again. I certainly wouldn’t get in the police’s way, but being present for so much of the cupcake contest events meant that I had a better chance of discovering what was really happening in Kizzy’s world than the cops did. So if I solved the case before Chief Kincaid, oh, well. He’d just have to accept it.

  I briefly considered getting a pad of paper and a pen to outline my investigative strategy, but quickly realized that I had nothing to write down. My only lead was Harlee and I was fairly sure that I wouldn’t forget my intention to question her.

  Checking the kitchen clock, I saw that I had forty-five minutes until I needed to meet the trauma scene remediation company at the dime store, so I decided to swing by Forever Used and see if I could persuade Harlee to talk about Kizzy’s past.

  I didn’t want to have to waste time parking and then moving my car, so I left the Z4 in the tiny lot behind my store and hiked over to Harlee’s shop. She had leased the empty building located between Brewfully Yours and City Hall. It had previously been inhabited by a supermarket that had moved out to a strip mall on the edge of town to be closer to the new subdivisions, and the spot had been empty for a couple of years. All the merchants had been happy when we found out that it had been rented. Any business that would bring in more foot traffic to the square was good for all of us.

  Forever Used occupied over seven hundred and fifty square feet of retail space, and as I entered the shop, I noticed that like I had with my store, Harlee had kept the vintage feeling of the structure. The wooden floors and original beadboard ceilings gave an impression of Old World elegance.

  There were several customers browsing through the clothing racks, and a few more were wandering among the shelves. Scanning the shop, I saw that all four fitting rooms were full and Harlee and her clerk were both busy. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to try and chat with the consignment store owner. Still, I was already there, so I decided to glance through the offerings and hope the place would clear out before I had to leave to open up my shop for the trauma scene remediation company.

  There was a trio of large glass jewelry cases, and I peered into the one nearest the cash register, surprised at what was available. A set of four Chanel vintage gold-tone bangles caught my eye, but when I saw they were priced at five hundred and ninety-five dollars, I quickly diverted my glance to the next piece. The David Yurman sterling-and-gold necklace was a thousand bucks, so I moved on to the second display case.

  There, I fell in love with a pair of Stephen Dweck blue agate and quartz drop earrings, and even though they were a bargain at three hundred dollars, they were out of my price range. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about dropping that kind of cash on something that caught my fancy, but both my circumstances and priorities had changed. When I was still working as a financial consultant, I often told my friends that I liked to keep my money where I could see it—dangling from my ears or hanging off my back. Now, while I could still view my dough, it was in the form of merchandise lining the racks of my store.

  The crowd inside Forever Used had thinned, but Harlee continued to be occupied with helping one of the remaining customers, so I drifted over to the shelv
es of designer purses. Handbags had always been one of my weaknesses, especially those that came in any shade of pink, and I found an absolutely fabulous Carlos Falchi Fatto a Mano strawberry metallic snake-print clutch. Next to the clutch was an even cuter Gianni Versace rose crocodile-embossed leather shoulder bag. I loved the Medusa head and chain strap, but even previously owned, both purses were ridiculously expensive, and I reluctantly walked away from them.

  Harlee was ringing up the last shopper’s purchases as her clerk lovingly wrapped each item in cream tissue paper and reverently placed them in a black-and-white shopping bag with FOREVER USED written in silver script across the front, so I stepped over to one of the clothing racks. Lucky for my wallet, most of the clothes were way too small for me. Sizes 2, 4, and 6 were well represented, and there were quite a few 8s, but the double digits were sparse and anything over a 10 was nearly nonexistent.

  I was turning away when I spotted a Gucci dark brown leather jacket that might fit me. It had three silver-and-tortoise-trimmed Gucci engraved buttons down the front, faux flap pockets, and a silver-tone Gucci crest on one pocket. Before I could drool on the luscious jacket, I heard Harlee thank the woman at the register.

  I moved toward Harlee as she said good-bye to her clerk and added, “See you tomorrow at ten.”

  When the teenager left, I strolled over to the counter and said to Harlee, “Hi.” I waved my hand at the shop’s interior. “Looks as if sales have been brisk. The dime store is doing well, too.”

  “Yeah. It’s been incredible.” Harlee glanced around, then scooted out from behind the register and hung the closed sign on the front window. “I have to admit I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about the whole Cupcake Weekend, but between the items I sold from the fashion show last night and the increased foot traffic and awareness of the shop, I’ll be in the black for the first time since I opened my doors.”