by Fiona Grace
Ali tightened her arms about her middle, suddenly feeling cold as she watched the beach transform from a place of lazy tranquility into a busy, high-octane crime scene. Everything seemed to be happening at once. A dozen or so CSIs hopped down from the van, swiftly dressing in white coveralls and blue plastic booties. Two muzzled German shepherds on leashes were escorted from the K-9 vehicle by their male handler, a tall man who seemed too casually dressed for the occasion, in cream chinos and a navy baseball cap. A white tent was put up around the body, and the CSIs took it in turns to lug their equipment inside—big, ominous, bulging black satchels. They moved rhythmically, like this was habitual, ordinary, just another day at the office. But for Ali, this was the craziest thing she’d ever experienced.
Just then, the female detective paced across the sand toward the huddle of witnesses. She was dressed head to toe in black—high-heeled black boots, black skinny jeans, black leather jacket—all of which seemed like an odd choice to Ali considering they were in the height of the California summer.
“Detective Elton,” the woman announced. Her voice was deep and husky. “Who was the first to find the body?”
The fisherman identified himself, raising his hand like a school child. He looked traumatized, with the hollow-eyed expression of a haunted man.
With a tip of the head, Detective Elton beckoned him to her. He broke from the huddle, scurrying to her obediently.
As Detective Elton set about taking down his statement, Ali checked her watch. Barely thirty minutes had passed since that piercing scream had broken the morning’s tranquility, but each minute had felt like an hour. She wondered how long she’d have to stay here. She needed to get to open the bakery; it would look bad for her business if she opened late on her second day. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her legs cramping. Without meaning to, she let out a deep yawn.
“Is there somewhere more important you need to be?” a sharp, chastising voice said.
Ali’s gaze snapped up. Detective Elton was glaring at her.
“No,” Ali said, guiltily. “Sorry.”
The detective narrowed her eyes. “Come here. I want to take your statement next.”
“M—me?” Ali stammered. “I don’t think I’ll be much help.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Detective Elton replied.
Ali gulped. Detective Elton was intimidating to say the least. She had the fierceness of a school principal, mixed with the appearance of a Gotham City baddie.
Tentatively, Ali left the relative comfort of the neon-clad power walkers and approached the detective. As she drew up in front of her, she realized they were in full view of the pier, which had begun winding up for the day. The food kiosks were selling waffles and fried donuts to visitors, who’d probably driven to the beach early for the peace and quiet of the morning, and were now crowded along the railings looking down at the unfolding horror beneath them. Ali felt scrutinized under their gazes. Judged. Even though she was an innocent bystander and they were the ones who’d chosen to gawk at a dead man over breakfast.
Ali was also aware of the audience forming outside the stores on the boardwalk. These were her neighbors, her peers, people she’d not yet even had a chance to properly meet. And now every one of them had a front row seat, watching on as the new girl from the bakery was questioned by the cops. Detective Elton couldn’t have chosen a more exposed location to take Ali’s statement if she’d tried. Ali wondered if that was the point.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Detective Elton said. “Name?”
“Allison Sweet.”
The detective raised a single eyebrow. “Sweet? Really?”
Ali felt her hackles rise. She was about to make a quip about having inherited the name from her father, but decided against it. Detective Elton didn’t seem like the kind of person who appreciated humor.
“Okay…” the detective said, sounding nonplussed. “Address?”
Ali pointed into the distance, to the bright blue door of her beachside bungalow.
“Over there,” she said.
The detective looked up from her notepad. She seemed just as unimpressed with this answer as she had with Ali’s name. Ali could tell she’d rubbed her the wrong way, though she had no idea why.
“Tell me what happened this morning,” Detective Elton said.
“I’ve no idea,” Ali replied. “He was dead when I got here.”
“What time was that?”
Ali shrugged. “Some time after dawn.”
Detective Elton’s brown eyes narrowed. “Can you be more precise?”
“Sixish? Sevenish? What time is it now? I think you guys arrived about fifteen minutes after me.”
Detective Elton snapped her notebook shut and glowered at Ali. “I think you ought to be taking this a bit more seriously. A man is dead under suspicious circumstances and—”
“—Suspicious?” Ali echoed. “You mean you think he was…” She lowered her voice. “…murdered?”
“The large blow to his head would suggest foul play, yes,” Detective Elton replied, thinly.
Ali felt queasy all of a sudden. This might well all be par for the course for the police, but for her, a pastry chef, murder was a whole other thing. To think a murderer was wandering the streets of Willow Bay. And she thought she’d been having bad luck…
“Did you know the deceased?” the detective asked.
Ali hesitated. Did their one short, shouty interaction count?
She decided it didn’t. It was probably unwise to tell the cops she and the dead guy had had a bust up less than half a day earlier.
She shook her head. “I’m pretty new around here. I’ve just opened a bakery, you see. In fact, yesterday was my first day. Hey, you should come by when you’re done here. For breakfast. You and the rest of the crime scene investigators. I’ll do a cop discount.” She smiled.
Detective Elton blinked at Ali, as if not sure what to make of her. Her face remained blank. Then she turned and walked away, without so much as a farewell.
Left standing in the middle of the beach alone, Ali looked left and right, not sure what she was supposed to do next. Then she spotted the male detective on his way over to her. He was short, almost boyish in his appearance, with a pug nose and round, button-like brown eyes. He reminded Ali of a Boy Scout in his crisp white button-up shirt.
“Miss Sweet?” he asked.
Ali nodded. “That’s right. I gave my statement to your partner.”
“Oh, it’s not about that,” he said, sounding almost sheepish. “I heard you’re offering a cop discount on breakfast today?”
“Yes!” Ali exclaimed. “Come by when you’re done. All of you. Coffee’s on the house.”
He opened his mouth to respond but didn’t get a chance, because Detective Elton shouted across the beach, “Callihan!”
“I’d better go,” Detective Callihan said, turning back to his crew. “Hey, everyone, free coffee at Seaside Sweets as soon as we are done here!”
“See you later,” Ali said, hopefully, as he scurried away. “I hope.”
If she couldn’t even entice a bunch of exhausted cops with free coffee, then her bakery was surely doomed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ali drummed her fingers nervously on the countertop. It had been a couple of hours since she’d been on the beach with the cops, and not a single customer had entered all morning.
She sunk her head into her hands, feeling demoralized. If she couldn’t even give away coffee then she really was screwed.
Just then, the bell over the door chimed and she glanced up to see preppy Boy Scout Detective Callihan entering. Filing in behind was a stream of crime scene investigators. They’d changed out of their protective white overalls, and were in beige police cargo pants and navy polo tops. As they crowded inside and took over the window seats, it took all of Ali’s self-control not to jump for joy.
“Detective Callihan,” she said, adopting a courteous tone to mask her fizzing
excitement. “You brought the troops.”
He flashed her a tired smile, and dimples appeared in his puppy-fat cheeks. “We’re desperate for caffeine.”
Ali noticed the purple bags beneath his eyes.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You must’ve woken at the crack of dawn. Are you all done down on the beach?”
He nodded. “It’s the crime scene cleaners’ turn.”
Ali tried not to imagine what that may involve, and busied herself prepping the coffee machine with fresh beans. It was a professional barista machine that she’d bought secondhand from a closing down café and hadn’t yet mastered.
“How many am I making?” she asked.
Detective Callihan used an index finger to count the array of men and women sitting shoulder to shoulder at the window tables. “Eleven.”
“And do you want pastries with your coffee?” Ali asked.
“Me?” the detective replied. “No, no. I don’t do carbs.” He patted his stomach.
Why doesn’t anybody do carbs anymore? Ali thought, desperately.
“But I’d better get something for that lot. It’s the least I can do. There aren’t many perks in their line of work.”
Ali felt a spark of excitement as Detective Callihan fished his credit card out of the pocket of his cargo pants.
“So, ten pastries?” she asked, hopefully.
“Better make it fifteen,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Some of them have large appetites.”
Ali gestured to the fridge display. “Take your pick.”
Detective Callihan bent down and peered at all the array of French pastries available, from chocolate eclairs to gold-dusted profiteroles, the mille-feuilles and canelés, and Ali’s personal favorite—a perfectly presented Croquembouche in their delicate crispy caramel netting.
“Em…” Detective Callihan said with uncertainty. “I don’t even know how to pronounce half of these.” He straightened up, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Maybe you should pick.”
“Sure,” Ali said.
She punched the sale into her mini card reader for the first time ever, her hands trembling slightly from excitement, then Detective Callihan tapped his card and the sale went through with a simple bleep that sounded as joyful to Ali’s ears as Santa’s sleigh bells to a kid on Christmas.
“Take a seat,” she said, outwardly keeping her composure despite her fluttering stomach. “I’ll bring them over.”
“Thanks,” Detective Callihan said.
He headed off to join the rest of his team.
As soon as he was gone, Ali turned and discreetly punched the air. She’d made a sale! Her first! Of course, she hadn’t actually made a profit, because she’d given away the coffee (her most expensive item) for free, but that was beside the point. She’d made a sale! And if the officers liked the pastries, maybe they’d come back for more another day. With their spouses. Their kids. Grandma, grandad, and the rest of the extended family…
Ali knew she was getting a little bit away with herself. She tried to rein in her excitement as she made the coffees and selected a range of pastries, presenting them beautifully on several plates. She brought the lot over to the table on a big tray, the crime scene investigators looking up as she approached.
“Croissants!” a woman with dyed red hair and a silver nose stud said eagerly.
The rather large man beside her licked his lips hungrily.
“Is this on you, boss?” he asked Detective Callihan through a big bushy brown beard.
The detective looked coy as he smiled his dimpled smile. “Yup.”
The investigators applauded.
They seemed like a jovial group, Ali thought. Which was impressive considering they earned their salaries by prodding dead bodies.
She began transferring the coffees off the tray to the customers on the first table. As she did, she couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the investigators on the next table over.
“His injuries are definitely consistent with a fall,” said one of the CSIs, a woman with glossy ginger hair.
“It wasn’t a fall,” a man with a shaved head countered. “For that kind of bruising, there needed to be some force behind it. It was a push.”
“That’s just conjecture,” the first woman replied, shaking her glossy ginger mane. “You can’t ascertain that from looking at the body. A slip from the pier could be equally plausible.”
“The head wound was a deliberate blow,” a third voice joined in with the fray, a young brunette with black-framed glasses. “The rest of the injuries were from the fall, or push, whichever you believe. But a blow came first.”
The ginger-haired woman folded her arms. “We’ll have to wait and see what the pathologist’s report says. All we can be sure of is that from the lividity and stage of rigor mortis, the death occurred yesterday evening.”
Evening, Ali thought, as she handed a steaming black coffee to the bright and expectant-looking dyed-red-haired woman.
Evening was a slightly vague time frame, open to interpretation. For Ali, evening was the time you ate dinner, so anywhere between six and ten. Which meant the victim may well have been killed when she was taking her solo pier stroll…
The realization hit Ali like a ton of bricks. She might’ve walked past the murderer! Heck, she might’ve been murdered herself if the timing had been slightly different! She’d just had a major brush with death!
Her legs went weak, and she stumbled, almost knocking the tray that was still half full of coffees and pastries.
Detective Callihan was out of his seat in a second, jumping to her aid so quickly the chair squeaked.
“Are you all right?” he asked, catching her by the elbow.
“I’m fine,” Ali replied, breathlessly. But she wasn’t. Her heart was going like a jackhammer. Her head felt light, like she was about to faint.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Detective Callihan suggested gently.
Ali nodded.
The CSI agents watched on with concern as Detective Callihan guided her away from the window. The feel of his fingers on her elbow was the only thing that actually felt real to Ali; the floor seemed to have turned to oatmeal.
He helped her over to a table, and she sank slowly into the seat. Nausea came to join her racing heart and spinning head.
“Let me fetch you some water,” Detective Callihan said.
But Ali shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you. I feel better now I’m sitting.”
Detective Callihan took the seat opposite her, peering at her like a doctor with a patient. “Are you sure? You’ve gone pale. Have you eaten today? It may be low blood sugar.”
“It’s not that,” Ali confessed. “I overheard your team talking. About how that man died. How they think someone pushed him from the pier. I realized how it could’ve been me because I was there.”
Detective Callihan’s face dropped. He looked suddenly mortified. He glanced over his shoulder at the CSIs chatting away and eating pastries.
“Please keep what you heard in the strictest of confidence,” he said, turning back to her with serious eyes. “I can’t stress this enough. If you tell anyone, it may jeopardize the entire investigation.”
“I won’t,” Ali told him. “I promise.”
He nodded curtly. “Thank you.” Then a line appeared between his brows. “Wait. Did you say you were there?”
Ali nodded. “Yesterday evening, after work. I went for a walk along the pier alone.”
At the same moment the words left her lips, the door swung open and in strode the black-clad Detective Elton.
The vibe in the bakery changed immediately. Silence descended.
The formidable woman stood in the doorway, assessing the scene through her sunglasses. She looked from Ali in her chair to Detective Callihan leaning toward her, his elbows on his knees. He immediately sat back. Then, as if on second thought, he stood and took a step away from Ali.
Ali couldn’t bear the tension.
> “Are you here for a free coffee?” she asked Detective Elton, hopefully.
Detective Elton pushed her sunglasses onto her head and peered down at her suspiciously.
“Did I just hear you say you were on the pier last night?” she asked in her smoky voice, ignoring the question.
Ali gulped and nodded.
Detective Elton made a shoo gesture to Detective Callihan. He obediently scurried away and joined the hushed CSIs in the window.
From the breast pocket of her leather biker jacket, Detective Elton removed a notebook and pen. “Tell me about last night,” she commanded.
Ali shifted uncomfortably. “I went for a walk after work,” she offered.
“Time?” Detective Elton asked.
“About seven,” Ali said.
“Reason?”
“Reason?” Ali echoed. “I guess I’d had a bad day and wanted a bit of alone time, you know? Some time to reflect. To look at the ocean and the moon and think about, you know, existence…”
Detective Elton looked up from her notebook, nonplussed. Clearly, she wasn’t a woman who spent much time pondering existence.
Ali squirmed in her seat.
“Why didn’t you mention this in your statement?” Detective Elton asked.
“It didn’t occur to me to,” Ali explained. “I didn’t know he’d been pushed from the pier back then.”
She shuddered, and her stomach churned with nausea all over again.
Suddenly furious, Detective Elton snapped her notebook shut and glared at Detective Callihan. He appeared even younger and more boyish shrinking back from her glare.
Ali suddenly realized what she’d done. When Detective Callihan had asked her to keep quiet, he’d meant from everyone—Detective Elton included. She’d just tattled on him by accident. By the look of Detective Elton’s furious expression, Ali had just landed him right in it.
Detective Elton’s cold gaze swept over the party of CSIs, from their half-drunk coffees, to the selection of prettily presented pastries.
“Everyone out,” she commanded.
They didn’t need telling twice. They were on their feet in a matter of seconds, filing for the door. Detective Callihan brought up the rear, looking extremely sheepish. Detective Elton stopped him with a hand.
