Wined, Dined and Dead: A Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery

by Stacey Alabaster

  We all jumped a mile into the air when the back door opened and a large man with bright red hair came barreling into the kitchen, holding a backpack.

  "Oh my gosh!" I cried out, holding my hand over my chest. "Bronson, you scared the heck out of me!"

  Lolly was awake and screaming again.

  Bronson, my apprentice baker, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at all of us. "What on earth are you all doing here?"

  I shook my head. "What are YOU doing here in the dead of night?" I asked in disbelief. Did he always just come into the bakery after hours to hang out like this? I was starting to wonder if I should get the key back from him if I couldn't trust him with it.

  "It's four am," Bronson said, slightly amused. "This is the time I start my shift."

  "Oh." I was a little put back in my place. "I see. Wait… What? It's already four am?"

  "Yeah. You don't know that?" Bronson shook his head as he looked around at all of us. "Again, I have to ask, what exactly is going on here?" He stopped when he saw the dry erase board and what I had written. "List of murder suspects."

  Bronson raised both his eyebrows. "Well, I wish I could just turn around and leave right now, but I really need to get started on the dough or we won't have anything to sell when we open."

  "It's okay," I said to Bronson. A little flustered, I picked up the dry erase board and Pippa scooped up Lolly. "We'll get out of your hair."

  I could see the seconds ticking on the clock as we raced into the front of the bakery and flicked on the lights, suddenly surround by purple. "Right!" I declared, while Lolly screamed so loud behind me that she threatened to drown me out. "What did you find out about Paul, Marcello? Is that even his real name?"

  Bronson must have turned on the mixer in the kitchen because suddenly I wasn't just competing with a baby; I was competing with factory level kitchen mixing equipment as well.

  "What did you say?" Marcello asked, screaming over the noise.

  "I said, WAS THAT EVEN HIS REAL NAME?"

  "Whose real name?" Marcello screamed back.

  For crying out loud. I couldn't deal with this.

  I was just about to scream back at the top of my lungs when the mixer suddenly went quite. Taking a deep, calming breath, I tried again. "Marcello. What did you find out from the frat guys?"

  "Well, his name really is Paul, for one thing," Marcello said, settling down on top of a table. "I mean, was Paul, I suppose I should say," he added, his voice growing sad.

  "It was?" Pippa asked quietly. "So what was with all the fake identification then?"

  Marcello cleared his throat. "Apparently, Paul was not quite legal drinking age nor serving age, which meant that he couldn't work in a restaurant like Scott's which has a bar and serves wine. Like he was doing with our table. Paul was seventeen when he started working at Scott's and it was only just his birthday last month."

  "Oh my goodness, so he only just turned eighteen?" I said. "Somehow this makes it even worse."

  Marcello kept talking. He'd somehow managed to gather quite a bit of information from the frat house before he'd taken all his clothes off. "Yep. He was a smart kid, in college early, but he was paying for it all himself so he desperately needed a job. One of the guys in the house helped him out with a fake ID so that he could get a job in a bar or restaurant."

  "I wonder if Scott knew," Pippa said quietly.

  I shook my head. "No, Scott took Paul for his word. He wouldn't have employed an underage kid to serve drinks if he had known."

  Pippa raised an eyebrow. "You're suddenly very keen to defend Scott."

  "I just don't think he knew, okay."

  We were all silent for a moment, but in the background I could hear the clock ticking. "Did you get the name of the guy who made the fake ID?" I asked Marcello.

  He shook his head. "Nope. It was around this time that I got sprung. Sorry. Still, that's something good to go off, right?"

  I shrugged. "So, he had a fake ID to get a job to pay his student debts. It's hardly a crime worth killing over, is it?" I threw my hands up and looked at the ceiling. "It's almost four-thirty, Pippa. The sun will be up soon and we’ll lose our chance at solving this case and getting the money."

  "Did you find out anything else, Marcello?" Pippa asked hopefully. "Anything at all that might help us? Before you had to streak?"

  I stomped away, back out to the kitchen. "Well, if we don't get this cash, you'll have to pay for that carpet you ruined out of your own pocket," I said under my breath.

  I shook my head. Less than four hours before the local newscast.

  "Maybe it is better to just leave this to the police," I muttered, pacing back and forth.

  Bronson stopped the mixer. "What was that?"

  "Nothing," I said, trying to smile. "How is the prep coming along, anyway?"

  Bronson shrugged. "Got a fair bit to do today. Are we still making the heart-shaped cookies?"

  I groaned when I remembered it was Valentine's Day. "Yes. We are." I sighed heavily. "But I'm not going to be able to help till after eight." I shook my head and, changing my mind, grabbed an apron. "You know what, screw it. I will help out right now."

  I grabbed a giant bag of flour and dragged it over the counter, dumping it into the mixer while Bronson supervised.

  "Aren't you, umm, supposed to be solving a murder mystery?" Bronson asked me while I stared into the mixer, watching the flour mix with the butter and eggs. It was calming, hypnotic. For just a minute, it made me forget everything that was happening.

  I turned it off once the dough was mixed—didn't want to overdo it. "Not anymore," I said, shaking my head as I dusted the bench with flour, then turned the bowl over to drop the giant ball of dough on to it. "We should get about a hundred heart-shaped cookies out of this," I said. "Pass me a rolling pin."

  Bronson looked a little unsure as he fetched the wooden pin from the drawer and handed it to me. "Did you already find out who did it?" he asked.

  I began flattening the dough, putting all my strength into it. After a few minutes, I'd almost broken a sweat. "Nope," I finally answered. "But I think it's better to leave these things to the police, don't you?"

  Bronson shrugged while he turned the tap on and poured me a glass of water. "You look exhausted, by the way, Rachael," he said as he handed it to me. I gulped the water down.

  "I haven't slept." I slammed the glass down on the counter.

  Bronson made a 'yikes' face. "I go to bed at nine every night so that I'm well rested before I start my shifts," he said. "I can't imagine working here with no sleep at all."

  I dropped the rolling pin. "Yeah, well, I was kind of on a deadline." I quickly explained everything to Bronson, hitting the high points—waiter dead, newscaster at crime scene, restaurant closed—without giving away too much regarding Paul. Not that we really knew all that much. "So, the owner was going to pay us ten grand, cash, if we could wrap it all up before the start of the day." I shook my head and wiped my brow. "But it's not possible. And besides, even though the cash would have come in handy, it's not like I'm desperate for it. We've been doing well here lately, business has been good, and today is going to be a super busy day. Valentine's Day is when we turn a huge profit."

  Bronson's face had gradually turned into a giant frown. "But don't you want to find out what happened to Paul?" he asked quietly.

  I looked away. "Of course I do," I said softly. "But the police are the best people to do that, aren't they?" I looked up at Bronson like he had all the answers.

  Bronson shook his head. "I dunno, Rach. They haven't always been the best in the past."

  I bit my lip and looked down at the dough that was already drying out. "Jackson was right, though. I was rushing the case, and that can't be good."

  Pippa suddenly came running in through the doors screaming at the top of her lungs.

  "What on Earth is going on?" I asked, pushing past Bronson to get to her. "And why are you dripping wet?"

  "Okay, Rach...don't be ma
d...but..." Pippa shook her head like a dog that had just gotten out of the bath, covering me in droplets of water. "But Marcello was fiddling with one of the water pipes in the front...you know, the one that connects to the coffee machine..."

  "Oh no," I said slowly, shaking my head as I gripped Pippa by the shoulders. "No, no, don't tell me..."

  Pippa just stared back at me, her face in shock. "It burst, Rachael. The front of the bakery is completely flooded."

  Please, please tell me this is some kind of practical joke.

  Maybe if I could just get out there quick enough, I could salvage things. I could correct Marcello's mistake before it became a complete disaster...

  I ran out and saw that the carpet was already ruined. In fact, everything was a soggy, horrible mess.

  On the other side of the glass windows stood Marcello, holding a rescued Lolly in his arms. This time he wasn't shrugging in a 'whoops, did I do that?' way like he usually did when he screwed up. This time his face was white in the barely rising sun, and he mouthed the words, "Rachael, I'm so sorry."

  I turned my back on him. Sorry was not going to cut it this time, not even close.

  Pippa's face was white and stony as well, but I could barely even look at her either. Couldn't she have kept control of her husband for ten minutes while I was gone?

  "Rach?" Pippa asked, while I treaded through the soggy carpet.

  "Looks like we are going to be closed for Valentine’s. And for the foreseeable future."

  Cripes. It looked like we were going to need that money after all.

  Chapter 7

  Bronson hadn't complained much about being sent back home to bed. He was only twenty and seeing as he was being paid either way, an unexpected day off was a bonus. "Sweet," he'd said, grabbing his knapsack and throwing his small cap off. "Good luck, Rach."

  I looked down at the huge mountain of dough. Dough that was never going to get turned into heart-shaped cookies.

  Scott was right about one thing—this was one of the absolute worst days to be closed if you sold food or flowers. We'd already pre-packaged chocolates and macaroons in heart shapes and compiled them into gift bags, ready to do a big Valentine's trade.

  But the worst thing wasn't just closing for the day. The worst thing was that the carpets in our seating area were totally ruined and it wasn't just one day of profits we were going to lose. It could be weeks.

  "How much do you think it's going to cost to fix the carpets?" Pippa asked once we had escaped the mess. It was too early to even call a plumber, not that it would have done much good at that stage.

  I shook my head. "I think we'll be better off just ripping them up and using the floorboards."

  "What about the insurance?" Pippa asked. "Will that cover the damage?"

  I just looked at her. I had no idea how to say, ‘I'm not sure that the insurance covers complete stupidity.’

  "I'm not sure." I reached into my pocket to get the keys. "Let's just lock up and get out of here. We really need that ten K now, Pippa, if we didn't need it before."

  Pippa hurried after me. "You can take my share as well, to cover the damage..."

  I didn't respond. Half of me wanted to tell her not to be silly, and the other half wanted to accept the offer. We had to get moving, either way.

  Marcello had been banished back to the house. The time had just passed 4:45 am and the sun was peeking up over the horizon. Unfortunately, one street over from our bakery there was a lake. Well, I shouldn't say unfortunately. Usually, it's a very pleasant view and sometimes I liked to take a stroll along it before or after work.

  But on Valentine's Day, it was a source of annoyance for me. It seemed as though every happy couple in Belldale was up at the crack of dawn, hand in hand, wandering down to the lake to watch the sunrise together.

  "Maybe we should take a different route," I commented as we reached the car.

  "Looks like there's a lot of people in love," Pippa mused.

  "I didn't even realize people were up and about at this time," I said, climbing into the car.

  "I think it's only days like this that couples get up this early to watch the sun come up," Pippa pointed out with a laugh as she pulled her seatbelt on. Then she suddenly turned a little sad. "Maybe I should be at home with my husband."

  I was quiet for a moment. "Maybe I should be at home with my boyfriend."

  I was still ignoring the texts in my phone. Kenneth had given up after about 3:00 am and probably just gone to bed, but I still knew there were a half-dozen unanswered texts in there, and they were burning a hole in my pocket. It was probably the guilt.

  Well, guilt was going to have to wait a few hours.

  I started the car and began to back out of the parking lot.

  "Where are we even going?" Pippa asked, clutching onto the dash for support as I backed out way too fast. Luckily, I missed hitting the happy couple walking past on the sidewalk.

  It was a very good question. I'd just about been ready to give up on the case, but now that I was desperate to solve it—and within three hours, too—adrenaline suddenly kicked in. I knew exactly what we needed to do.

  "We're going to pay a little visit to the local news station," I said with my eyebrows raised. "We need to buy ourselves some extra time."

  "The trick is to act confident, like you belong," I said after I had parked my car a block away, well out of site of the local television studio.

  "The trick to what?"

  "To being accepted," I said. "And we've got to be accepted into the doors of this station if we are ever going to stop Tyson McCall from running that story."

  "Hi there," I said brightly. "I'm Rachael Robinson and this is my associate, Pippa."

  The security guard looked me up and down before interrupting me by putting his hand up. "I don't recognize you."

  I'd actually been there before. I did an audition for a reality show. I was supposed to star on a baking show to find the country's best baker. Of course, it had turned into a murder mystery when one of the judges had been killed, and I never got cast in the end.

  Probably for the best. Who needs fleeting fame, anyway? I had a flooded bakery and troubled romance to my name. That was way better.

  Pippa and I looked at each other. We'd rehearsed the lie we were about to tell several times while we were still in the car.

  "Oh. We're here to film a lifestyle section," I said. "Me and my colleague here. She's my assistant."

  The guard gave me a skeptical look. "What is the segment about?" he asked wearily.

  "It's a baking segment," I said. Better to stick a little to the truth. That was the best way to tell a lie—keep as many details as possible close to the truth so they are easy to remember. "Seeing as it's Valentine's Day," I said as though it was only obvious why we would be there. "We're showing the viewers at home how to bake the best, most spectacular Valentine's desserts to ensure the most romantic day they've ever had in their lives." Okay. I'd maybe pushed it a little bit with that one.

  Pippa and I both stood perfectly still, wondering if he was going to buy what we were selling and let us in. "I...I don't know ladies. Your name is not down on the list of guests or presenters today..."

  I still remembered one of the producer’s names from the last time I'd been there and knew—or I least, hoped I knew—how to play it.

  I crossed my arms.

  "Justin is going to be seriously peeved if we are not in there on time for hair and wardrobe," I said. "You know how he gets when people are late."

  It worked. Thank goodness.

  The security guard nodded quickly. "You're right about that. Okay, you can go in," he said, stepping back and letting us through the back stage door. "You'd really better hurry up, though. Everyone else is already in hair and makeup!"

  "See?" I whispered to Pippa as we raced into the darkness of the studio. "You've just got to act like you know what you’re talking about."

  Pippa laughed as she hurried along beside me. It was chilly in th
e air conditioning and by that point, we were both running on adrenaline—it certainly wasn't sleep—so she seemed to almost be shaking when she spoke. "But where to now?" she asked.

  "You heard the security guard. Everyone is in hair and makeup, so I guess that is where we’re going to find Tyson McCall."

  We kept our heads down, trying not to get caught, as I felt my way through the dimness, trying to remember the way to hair and makeup. "I think it's right over—"

  And I'd almost made it too. But of course, my old pal made an appearance, jumping out of the darkness with his earpiece and clipboard in place.

  "Rachael?" Justin almost dropped his clipboard. He looked just like I remembered him—thin as a rake but still toned, with spiky black hair. "I can't believe it's you. What are you doing here?"

  He reached out and gave me a huge hug, embracing me with his bony frame.

  "Don't tell me you finally got a job in television after your disastrous audition here last year?" Justin asked me in shock as he placed a hand over his heart like my being on television really was the most surprising news that anyone could ever have conceived.

  "Not exactly." I lowered my voice as I looked around. "To tell you the truth, I'm looking for someone. I don't suppose you could help me out, for old time's sake?"

  Justin let out a little laugh. "Sure. So, tell me who you are stalking."

  "Tyson McCall."

  This time Justin's laugh was loud and shrill. "Wow. Isn't he a little old for you, Rachael? Not to mention a little, umm...high maintenance."

  "What can I say?" I replied. "That's how I like my men."

  Justin shook his head. "Well, he's not my type, but I suppose he is handsome enough for an old dude. But I'm sorry to say that I haven't seen him so far this morning." He must have seen the look of worry on my face because he placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry though, Rach. I'm sure you'll get to catch a look at your crush."

  "I was hoping to talk to him actually," I said anxiously. "Maybe slip him my number?" I caught Pippa shaking her head over Justin's shoulder. "Can you help me out?"

  "Umm, well, if you're really that desperate, Rach...." He looked around. "Oh, here's the next best thing!" he cried out as a tall, immaculately dressed and made-up woman with sleek red hair walked past. "This is his co-anchor, Bianca," he said, pulling her over towards us. "Bianca, I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Rachael Robinson."