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

by Denise Swanson

  “Interesting.” Boone frowned, then used his thumb to smooth the line between his brows. “So the media was right about those three events being linked. I figured the reporters were jumping to conclusions.”

  “Not this time.” My stomach rumbled and I wished that I had asked Boone to pick up dinner on his way. Generally, there were leftover bakery items at the soda fountain, but the crowds had completely cleaned out both my food stock and all my cupcake-emblazoned items. Good thing I had fresh supplies coming first thing tomorrow. It had cost extra for Sunday delivery, but I’d decided to take the risk and placed a large order to replenish my empty shelves.

  “What are the police doing about the situation?” Boone asked.

  “My impression is that they don’t have any leads.” I recounted the conversations I’d had with Chief Kincaid and Harlee, ending with, “So my working theory is that someone from Kizzy’s past here in town is the killer, but the question is, what happened that would make someone hold a grudge for over twenty years?”

  “First, we need to find out who was in her class.” Boone whipped out his cell, and his thumbs flew as he sent a text. “I’m reaching out to my friend Jeffrey, who was in high school during that time. I just asked if he had the yearbook for Kizzy’s senior year.”

  Before I could tell Boone how brilliant he was, his friend texted back. Not only did he have the book, but Boone could pick it up tonight. Jeffrey had somewhere he had to be in twenty minutes, but if Boone didn’t make it to the house in time, Jeffrey would leave the yearbook in a plastic bag hanging from his doorknob.

  “Any other ideas about how to find out what happened back then?” I asked. “Do you think there’d be anything in the newspaper?”

  “There might have been.” Boone shrugged. “But the newspaper had a fire a few years ago, and since there were no digital files from back when Kizzy was in high school . . .”

  “There’s no way to search the old papers.” I completed his sentence, adding, “And due to lack of funds, the city council closed down the Shadow Bend Library, so even if the library had them, there’s no way now to find the old editions.” I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. “It’s doubtful that the library in the county seat would have archived issues of the Shadow Bend Banner, which makes the newspaper a dead end.”

  “So it seems.” Boone toyed with his cup. “Although I agree with you that the killer is probably someone from Kizzy’s past, I think we need to consider other possibilities. Let’s start with the girl who died. Tell me why you’re sure it was murder and why you think whatever happened to her was intended for her boss.”

  “First, Fallon strongly resembled a twenty-year-old Kizzy. Ronni mentioned to me that Kizzy hired the girl as much for that resemblance as her clerical skills. It seems that as Kizzy aged, Fallon’s picture was used on the cupcake packaging and promo material, not Kizzy’s. If someone remembered a young Kizzy, and the lighting was dim enough, they could easily mistake Fallon for her boss.”

  “And?” Boone waved his hand for me to go on.

  “Second, the ME has ruled out natural causes, and Fallon’s symptoms prior to her death are consistent with poisoning using DMSO, which is a substance that penetrates the skin.” When Boone raised an eyebrow, I added, “DMSO often causes a garliclike flavor sensation, and Fallon reported having a bad taste in her mouth.”

  “And?” Boone waved his hand again.

  “And three, Chief Kincaid said that none of the delivery services that cover Shadow Bend have any record of a package for anyone at the B and B’s address that evening.”

  “Okay.” Boone nodded. “I agree that it sounds as if Fallon was poisoned and it was intended for Kizzy, but the killer doesn’t have to be from Kizzy’s past. Someone who only knows Kizzy through her public persona might also mistake Fallon for her boss.”

  “Like one of the contestants.” I finished off my coffee. I told Boone about the conversations I overheard between GB O’Rourke and his wife, and Lauren Neumann and her husband.

  “Both good motives for murder,” Boone said. “You know, it could even be someone who recognized that Fallon wasn’t Kizzy but couldn’t think fast enough not to hand over the delivery.”

  “Like one of the judges or the cameraman and his sister.” I explained what I knew about those feuds. “Which leaves us with a lot of people who had a motive to try to kill Kizzy.”

  “Exactly.” Boone nodded. “We definitely need to look into them as suspects.” He narrowed his eyes. “And let’s not forget the business partner. From what you said she was never around when the attempts on Kizzy’s life were made, so we need to see if she has alibis for any of those times.”

  “True,” I conceded, then filled him in on Lee’s status as the police’s prime suspect and her request that I figure out who really committed the crimes. “So she offered me five thousand dollars to figure who really killed Fallon, ten if I do it before the end of the Cupcake Weekend. Of course, I’ll split it with you.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Boone shook his head. “I’m happy to help you.”

  “Thanks, but I insist.” Even though I needed the money and he didn’t, fair was fair.

  “Fine. You can donate my half to the animal shelter.” He paused until I nodded in agreement, then asked, “Do you believe Lee’s innocent?”

  “Possibly.” I shrugged. “Her explanation regarding her behavior with Kizzy was credible.”

  “Even if we eliminate the partner”—Boone took a slim gold pen and tiny leather-bound notepad from his shirt pocket—“Fallon could still be an intended victim, with Kizzy as victim number two.”

  “But why? From what I’ve heard, Fallon has no family and spent most of her time working. I’m fairly certain that any reason someone would try to kill her would have to do with Kizzy and/or the business.” I hated to admit that the possibility of both women being targeted by a killer hadn’t occurred to me. “Who would want both of them dead?”

  “I have no idea.” Boone frowned. “But we can’t rule it out.” He jotted something down. “We have a lot to investigate and not much time to do it before everyone leaves town, so since Kizzy is still an active target, we’ll concentrate on her.” He checked his watch. “Now I’d better get going so I can catch Jeffrey before he leaves. I want to ask him what he remembers about Ms. Kizzy.”

  I was hugging Boone good-bye when knocking on the front door startled us. After one final squeeze, I hurried to the entrance to see who was ignoring the closed sign. My irritation was replaced with a pleased tingle when I saw the fire chief grinning as he waved a pizza box and a six-pack of beer at me. He wore a pair of cutoff jeans with a crisp white T-shirt, and it was lucky that he’d brought food because he looked good enough to eat.

  CHAPTER 17

  I introduced Coop to Boone and watched my friend size up the new fire chief. I could almost hear the wheels turning behind Boone’s handsome face as he shook hands with the hunky firefighter. The man had come bearing gifts and out of uniform, so it was clear he wasn’t at my store in his official capacity. I knew Boone was wondering if Coop was offering Jake and Noah new competition for my affections.

  Boone’s smile worried me. He liked Jake, but he wasn’t at all sure that the deputy marshal would stick around long enough to make me happy. And the antagonism between Noah and Boone had a long history. It had started when Noah ran against Boone in the sixth-grade election for class president. There had been a brief cessation of their animosity in high school while Noah and I were dating, but the minute Noah dumped me, Boone’s aversion to Noah had resurfaced. For the next twelve years, the two men hadn’t bothered to hide their scorn for each other.

  Noah and Boone had agreed to a truce a few months ago when Boone was accused of murder and Noah had used his connections to help us find the real killer. But the armistice was tenuous at best, and it would take a lot more time for Boone to develop any true fr
iendship with Noah. People who have never lived in small towns have no idea how serious and lifelong a feud can be, and I knew Boone and Noah’s hostilities were far from permanently resolved.

  Which was why I was worried when I saw the speculative gleam in Boone’s eye and heard him chatting with Coop as if they’d been pals since kindergarten. Then when Boone laughed out loud and clapped the fire chief on the back after some remark that I had missed, I knew his matchmaking instinct was fully engaged.

  This was so not good. I liked Coop. Hell! If I was going to be completely honest with myself, I had to admit that I was attracted to him. But two hot guys in my life were enough. I had never had the intestinal fortitude to indulge in a one-night stand. And the idea of playing the field with numerous men wasn’t my style at all. So why had I opened the door and invited Coop inside?

  Self-reproach chewed at my conscience like a squirrel eating his last acorn during a long, hard winter. It wasn’t fair to either Jake or Noah to add a third man into the mix. They had grudgingly agreed to give me time to decide between the two of them, but not sample any eye candy that crossed my path. I had no viable excuse for allowing Coop even an inch into my life, let alone welcoming him and his pizza into my store.

  I felt my heart sink when Boone winked at me, then said to Coop, “Wish I could stick around for some of that delicious-smelling pie, but I have an appointment that I can’t miss.” He shook the chief’s hand, put Tsar in his carrier, grabbed the handle, and strolled to the door. With his hand on the knob, he added, “You two kids have a great time without me.”

  Once Boone was gone, Coop and I stared at each other for a long awkward moment. The silence throbbed with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Finally, I gathered my scattered wits and said, “Thank you for delivering those two cupcake stands to Gossip Central. Poppy told me they arrived just in time.”

  “No problem.” Coop made his way over to my worktable and put down the pizza box and six-pack. “Glad I could help you out.”

  “So, uh, I’m sort of surprised to see you here tonight.” My mouth was watering from the delicious odor of oregano and basil wafting from my workbench. If I made him leave, could I keep the food?

  “Yeah.” Coop shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Well, I was walking by the dime store and I saw that your light was on, so I thought maybe you were working late and hadn’t had time for supper.”

  “And you just happen to have a pizza on you?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Martello’s made a mistake.” Coop flipped open the lid. “I ordered a medium and they made up a large, so I thought I’d share.”

  “Why aren’t you in the square watching the fireworks?” I stepped closer, trying not to drool at the heavenly aroma of melting cheese.

  “Not my thing.” Coop picked up a slice and held it to my lips. “I’d much rather spend the time getting to know you better.”

  His natural tenor deepened into a baritone, sending a zing of awareness shooting south of the border. “Mmm.” I opened my mouth and took the bite he was offering, nearly swooning when the spicy flavor of the tomato sauce exploded on my taste buds. I savored the crunch of the thin, crispy crust and the umami of the mushrooms.

  “And I thought you might want to know what the crime techs discovered about the fire.” Coop fed me another morsel of paradise.

  Unable to talk with my mouth full, I nodded. Then, acknowledging to myself that I was letting him stay, I fetched dishes, napkins, and utensils from the soda fountain. He smiled in victory and took a seat, but his expression fell when I dragged my chair to the opposite side of the table, as far from him as possible.

  “If we sat closer together, I could keep feeding you.” His tone was husky. “This here pizza is slap-your-mama good.”

  “Thanks.” I ignored the seduction in his voice. “But feeding myself is a skill I mastered by age two. Besides, this way we can both eat.” Pushing the box toward him, I added, “And you can tell me all about the crime tech’s report without any distraction.”

  “Lord a’ mercy!” Coop chuckled—a low sound that was too sexy by far for my peace of mind. “You admit that you find me befuddlin’.”

  “I meant that I might sidetrack you.” I put a slice of pizza on my plate and cut off a piece with my knife. “Let’s hear what you got.”

  “No one eats pizza with a fork.” Coop rose from his chair, stretched his long, muscular torso across the tabletop, and plucked the offending utensil from my grasp. “Even Miss Edna Lou says it’s okay to use your fingers.”

  “Fine.” I agreed with him and Miss Edna Lou—whoever she was. I wasn’t sure why I had suddenly decided to behave so differently. Maybe his Southern accent brought out the Scarlet O’Hara in me.

  “Just relax.” He grinned. “No need to be so formal with a good ol’ country boy like me.”

  “Okay.” I picked up my piece of pizza, but before biting into it, I demanded, “Now tell me what the crime tech report said.”

  “All in good time.” Cooped twisted open a bottle and handed me a Dos Equis. When our fingers touched, his eyes flashed with a hotness that zoomed straight to my core. “Mixing business and dinner gives me indigestion.”

  “Seriously?” I glared at him. “That’s your best pickup line?”

  “That’s colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss.” Coop’s expression was hurt, but it turned determined and he said, “Besides, I’m just warming up.”

  Uh-oh. I hadn’t meant to challenge him. Backtracking, I held up my hands in surrender and said, “Sorry. I was only teasing.”

  “Me, too.” He scooped a bottle for himself from the carton, opened it, and took a long swig. “Believe me, real men don’t need pickup lines.”

  Since I agreed with him, I kept my mouth shut and did as he had suggested earlier—relaxed. We were having a casual bite to eat in my store, not a romantic supper in some candlelit restaurant. Just because he was handsome and charming and sweet didn’t mean I was going to fall for him. I wasn’t being disloyal to Noah or Jake. Coop was becoming a friend, nothing more.

  The warmth of his gaze, the powerful play of the muscles in his arms, and his overwhelming presence didn’t affect me in the least. At least that was what I told myself as we laughed and chatted our way through dinner.

  When we finished, I got up and started to clear away the debris. While I gathered up the rubbish, I said, “So, about that arson report . . .”

  “You’re real tore up about all this, aren’t you, darlin’?” Sighing, he followed me back to the soda fountain, picked up a towel, and cautioned, “It’s only their preliminary finding, but it appears the accelerant was hair spray.”

  “Which means the attacker was probably a woman.” I rinsed a soapy dish and handed it to him. “Some men may wear hair spray, but around here very few carry purses or have a bottle of Aqua Net in their pockets.”

  “Yep.” Coop dried the plate and placed it on the clean stack on the shelf. “Plus, it’s not a typical accelerant choice. A habitual arsonist generally uses gasoline, paint thinner, or kerosene.”

  “Do you think the fire was an afterthought?” I turned off the faucet.

  “Either that or the attempted murderer doesn’t know which end of a fork to scratch her head with.” Coop leaned a hip against the counter. “She obviously had no idea how to disconnect your alarm system. Heck, she might not even have realized the store would have a hardwired smoke detector until it went off.”

  “Great.” I folded my arms. “On the one hand, we’ve narrowed it down to women who hated Kizzy. On the other, the killer is a disorganized mess, which means it’ll be harder to catch her with logic.”

  “Put yourself in her shoes.” Coop stared at me, his inspection far too intense for my comfort. What was going through his mind? Finally, he said, “If you can’t use reasoning, you’ll have to use her impulsivity against her. How do you think the
attempt on the cupcake lady went down?”

  “Well.” I gazed at the ceiling. “My guess is that Kizzy propped open the exit while she brought in the stuff for the afternoon’s cupcake viewing and judging.” I peeked at Coop and saw him nodding. “The killer had been watching Kizzy, saw her opportunity, and sneaked inside.”

  “That seems to be the same idea the police have,” Coop said.

  “Then the murderer tiptoes up the stairs, finds Kizzy with her back to the office door, scoops up the trophy, which is maybe sitting in a box on the floor between them, and bashes Kizzy over the head.”

  “So far, so good,” Coop encouraged. “My source at the PD says that the trophy was wiped clean of prints, but there was a partial on the alarm and another on your back doorknob.”

  “Your informant wouldn’t happen to look like a pneumatic Barbie, would she?” I asked, picturing the skanky dispatcher that had tried to latch onto Jake. She’d been willing to give information to him on the basis of his good looks, and Coop was pretty much Jake’s equal in that department. “Or is Chief Kinkaid actually sharing?”

  Ignoring my question, Coop ordered, “Don’t get distracted with details. What do you think happened after Miss Kizzy was knocked out?”

  “Probably, the killer wasn’t sure if she was dead or not but didn’t want to get sprayed with more blood by hitting her again.” I chewed on my thumbnail. “There was a lot of blood when I found her.”

  “Yep. Head wounds usually bleed like a son of a gun,” Coop agreed. “The killer could have worried about getting splattered or she could be a tad squeamish. It’s one thing to bonk someone over the noggin once or poison them or run them over with a car, but it’s a lot more up close and personal if you have to hit them over and over again.” He paused, then added, “And for some reason, I’m picturing the killer as a woman who’s about half-preacher.”

  It took me a second to figure out Coop’s meaning; then I realized he was referring to a person who was publicly virtuous, but privately immoral. “True.” I hadn’t thought of the killer as being skittish, but Coop had a good point. “So instead of beating Kizzy with the trophy some more, the killer decides to finish her off by burning her to death.”