I overheard a bit of her conversation. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just see how things pan out here for the moment. I’ll see what happens tonight.” She lowered her voice. “But if they don’t, then I will take you up on the offer. Yes. I understand. I will let you know by tomorrow. I will know by then.”
She hung up and fixed a smile to her face before she flounced back through the door, picking up a slice of ham and cheese on a cracker and happily munching on it, though she seemed slightly distracted and didn’t quite concentrate on the rest of us even when we spoke to her.
“Time for dinner!” I said, clapping my hands. The only non-bakery guest we had invited was Marcello, Pippa’s husband, as Pippa had invited him as her date. And because he had technically worked at the bakery for a short period of time, I counted him as an honorary member of staff. He was certainly family to me anyway. It would have been rude not to invite him.
“Babysitter was late,” he said, giving Pippa a kiss before he sat at the table. Great. We were all seated and ready for dinner. Wait a moment. No, we weren’t. Someone was still missing. I counted seven heads. There were eight of us.
I stood up and walked toward the kitchen, pushing the door open. I found Blake with his head buried in the oven. “What on earth are you doing?”
“This needs a clean,” he said, turning around with a brush in his hand.
He was being particularly anti-social that evening. Cleaning, during a party?
“Blake, are you going to join us?” I asked in exasperation. “Put that brush down! This is supposed to be a bonding exercise, remember? We are getting to know each other as people—friends—instead of just bosses and employees.”
He nodded and put the brush down with a little reluctance, wiping his hands clean on his apron. I could still smell the chemical scent of the cleaning product filling the room.
Blake kind of crept back in the dining area and sat down, struggling to make small talk with Bronson about a football game that had been on TV the night before. I hadn’t realized Blake was so awkward in social situations. It made me giggle a little and I had to hide my amusement so that he wouldn’t leave and hide himself away in the kitchen again, scrubbing away at the oven.
“Rogan, I think I need a refill on this cup,” Simona said, holding up her empty glass and waiting expectantly. Rogan stood up.
“Come on, Rogan,” I said, pulling out a chair for him and telling him to sit back down. “Simona is more than capable of filling her own wine glass.”
I didn’t like the way that Simona was still treating him like he was the hired help, rather than one of us, there to enjoy the party. I debated whether I ought to pull her aside and tell her to quit it or not.
But as soon as a few rounds of wine had been drunk, people started to settle in and enjoy themselves. Blake had somehow made his way next to Simona’s chair and she was giving him grief about how much gel he used in his hair. When he responded with only a glare, Simona threw her head back and laughed, telling him not to be so serious.
I quickly glanced over at Blake to see how he had taken the comment. For a moment, offense flashed across his face like lightning, but he took another sip of his drink and laughed heartily. “I suppose I can be a little serious,” he said before smiling up at Simona.
Simona leaned forward and ran her hand through his hair, while my jaw dropped open a little. “It’s the hair. I think that makes you look even more serious. So jet black. Have you ever thought of doing something different with it?”
Blake laughed and looked down at his cup. Was that a blush? “I’ve had this style for a while now.”
I excused myself to look for some more napkins in the storage closet.
“Did you see the way the two of them were flirting?” I asked Pippa a minute later when she joined me. She closed the door behind us so the others couldn’t hear our conversation.
Pippa shrugged. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
I shook my head. “No of course not.”
Well, not of the two of them, specifically.
Maybe I was a little jealous to see new love sprouting like that. It wasn’t even a new love that I was feeling wistful for. I had an old love on my mind that evening. Detective Jackson Whitaker. Partly because there had been a story in the newspaper that morning about a case in a town two hours north, at a place called Mornington. Jackson’s weary face was plastered next to the text detailing the entire story of a case that was dragging on and on without much hope of the police getting any fresh leads. Or ever solving it. I’d stared at his face and felt sympathy for him, of course, but also a longing that he would come back to Belldale. At one stage, I had thought the two of us were going to end up together. That he was, perhaps, the love of my life.
But that was all so long ago now. Jackson had been away, working this endless case for more than six months, and I was sure that when he got back to town, things would be the same as they’d been before he left. You see, my own detective work didn’t just cause a conflict with my running a bakery. It also caused a conflict with my having a love life, especially when that love life involved a police detective. Jackson and I had to keep our distance from each other. It got too messy.
I opened the door a crack to see into the dining room, spying on everyone to see how well they were all getting on. Simona was leaning even closer to Blake and whispering something into his ear. Yep. This time, he definitely blushed.
I raised an eyebrow at Pippa. “Looks like someone is suddenly happy to be working here.”
“Come on!” I called everyone, getting ready to flip off the last light switch. I took a quick head count. We were finally ready to head to Star Bar and for this night to really kick off. “Are we all accounted for?”
I frowned and kept the final light on while I double-checked. Only seven heads. “No…someone is missing,” I said, glancing around and seeing there was a light on in the kitchen. I groaned a little and threw Simona a look. “Don’t tell me you sent Rogan into the kitchen to clean up.”
I saw Bronson suppress a little laugh. They clearly thought it was funny to make Rogan stay back and work while we all went out and had fun.
“Well, I am going to get him,” I said, stomping through the dim bakery to get to the kitchen. “He is not missing out on the rest of the night!”
As I approached the door, I thought it was strange that I couldn’t hear the noise of the dishwasher, or any water running, or any pots and pans clunking together. If he wasn’t cleaning, what was he doing in there?
Maybe he wasn’t there after all. Maybe he had decided to just leave and go home without saying good-bye to any of us. In a way, I wouldn’t have blamed him.
I opened the door and gasped.
Rogan was there, all right. At least, his dead body was.
2
I had heard police sirens many times in my life. Mostly in the past three years. More times than I could remember. Dozens and dozens. Part of me had grown numb to the sound.
But this time, it cut right to the bone. Because the only people at the party that night were people that I personally knew. Some of them I worked with, some of them I loved—they were my nearest and dearest in Belldale.
And there was one truth that crept up and punched me in the gut: one of them was the killer.
I held my breath and waited for the last cop car to pull up. For just a second, I thought that maybe Jackson would step out of the car. But of course, he was still sequestered in Mornington. I shook my head. Wistful thinking struck again. However, it was still a familiar face, one of his colleagues, Aaron, who made a beeline for me.
“Rachael,” he said, taking his hat off before he spoke to me. I’d assumed he was going to ask about what had happened inside—had I seen anything? Heard anything suspicious? Where had I been at the time of the death?—but instead, he turned the conversation toward a more personal subject.
“I spoke to Detective Whitaker earlier,” he said, taking a heavy breath. “He asked about you.�
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I tried not to appear too flustered. “He is still in Mornington, right?” I asked, as though I hadn’t devoured the entire news article and also looked the story up online afterward to get any extra details, or clues about how much longer Jackson might be away.
Aaron nodded. “Still working on the case. Some are a little harder to crack than others.”
He was telling me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Aaron said, returning the hat to his head and returning to a more somber state.
I nodded, brought back to reality by what had happened. I couldn’t believe this. Not Rogan. I shook my head and looked around at all the people I thought I knew and trusted. How could any of them do this? I glanced over at Simona, who was huddled, shivering, with Blake’s arms around her.
Bronson and Laura were sharing a cigarette on the lawn, whispering to each other.
Pippa ran up to me, her eyes wide and wild. “I can’t believe this, Rachael…” She was jumping up and down to save herself from the cold. “Did you see anything suspicious in the kitchen while you were cleaning up?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing. But I wasn’t the only person who’d been in the kitchen before Rogan was killed,” I hurried to add. Pippa had been in there. Blake had been in there, with his head in the oven.
She nodded and replied quickly, “Of course. I, uh, I think the police are done with us for the time being. Do you need a lift home?”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ve already arranged a ride.”
I watched her drive away and then watched as Aaron stepped into the scene of the crime, taking notes on his pad. Did Jackson really want to hear from me? Or had he just been politely inquiring about me? It would be foolish to read too much into what Aaron had said. It had been months since we’d even spoken on the phone, let alone seen each other in the flesh.
My housemate Sue’s car pulled up. I’d called her to ask if she could give me a lift home and she’d arrived even quicker than I’d expected. Thank goodness. I could see her trademark polka dot dress through the window.
Simona shot me a strange little glare as I hopped into the warm car. “So, I suppose the trip to the bar is cancelled?”
“I just can’t believe that someone I know so well could have done this,” I said, while Sue brewed a pot of peppermint tea. The smell was calming and I managed to stop pacing and take a seat at the kitchen table while the tea was being poured. Not exactly the evening I’d had in mind when I’d been planning it.
“Who do you think did it?” Sue asked quietly as she handed me the cup, which had ‘happiness is a cup of tea’ written on it in gold cursive.
“None of them,” I said, shaking my head while I tried to take a sip. “I can’t believe it was any of them, Sue.” I was in denial. Firm detail. There had to be another explanation. I just needed to get a clear head so I could figure out what it was.
But she was blunt with me. “Rach, it had to have been. There were only eight people in your bakery tonight. And one of them didn’t walk out of there alive.”
“But…” I started to interject.
“Was there any sign of a forced entry in the back?” Sue cut in. She was trying to make me see reason. Her voice was steady, but firm. She wasn’t going to let me slide any further into denial. It could be dangerous.
I shook my head. “No,” I had to admit. There had been no sign of a break-in. No smashed glass, and the door had not been broken nor the lock picked.
I took the final sip of my tea and stewed on it for a bit longer.
I had never had any trouble closing out a case before—at least that was one thing I could console myself with. To be frank, I usually did a better job of solving murder mysteries than the local police force.
Not only was I confident that I could get the case wrapped up quickly, I was confident that I could even perhaps find an alternative explanation for what had happened. Worst case scenario, it would take a few weeks. But I was planning to have the whole thing solved and put to bed within a matter of days.
And good thing too. This kind of scandal hanging over a business could do it serious harm. We were already in a fragile state after the merger and this could shatter us if it wasn’t quickly taken care of.
I glanced up at Sue. “I suppose everyone at that party had a motive to kill Rogan,” I had to admit. “So, I just have to figure out which of my closest friends actually did it.”
And maybe when I figured that out, it would be time to get out of Belldale for good.
3
Pippa looked far too happy for a person who had just experienced a traumatic event the night before. She was practically bouncing down her driveway, her still-purple hair in little knots on her head like tufts of cotton candy.
But I soon found out the reason for the glimmer in her eye was the fact that she had a juicy piece of gossip. She opened the door.
“Apparently, Simona was spotted on Franklin Street this morning, buying coffee.”
I shook my head and started the engine as she climbed in to my car. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I had no idea why this was apparently so interesting. Did I care where Simona purchased coffee? No.
Pippa was still jiggling. “That cafe is right across the road from Blake’s house. He lives on Franklin Street.”
I shook my head and laughed, just a little. “You know far too much about the people we work with,” I started to say, as though that was a negative thing. I stopped. Hang on. That might actually be a good thing in this case. The people we worked with were our suspects. Who better to investigate them than the people who knew them the best? I had a feeling this was going to be another case where I outsmarted the Belldale police.
Pippa and I were on a mission that day. We couldn’t work at the bakery because it was a crime scene. But we still had work to do, so we headed back to my house to do it. At her house were Marcello and Pippa’s almost two-year-old, Lolly. I loved them both, but it was hard to concentrate with both of them around. Sue was out for the day, working at her art gallery, so we would have quiet and space to work on the mystery.
Pippa paused as she walked past Sue’s room and glanced inside at the green walls, looking wistful. “Remember when this was my room?” she mused, glancing in.
I nodded and felt the nostalgia flood my bones for a moment. “How long did we live together?” I pondered, as I came and stood in the doorway next to her.
“Gosh, ten years, if you count college, and the years that I spent sleeping on your sofa…maybe more than that.”
I nodded. Pippa and I had first met when we were just ten years old. Aside from family, I had known her longer than anyone else in my life. We hadn’t just been friends, we’d been colleagues, roommates, and practically sisters.
We wandered back to the kitchen. Pippa and I had always made a great pair when it came to detective work. We were good at balancing each other out. While I always took the more down to earth, sensible approach, Pippa was great at coming up with the more imaginative angles that I had missed or couldn’t see. If there was any way possible that someone else—not one of us—could have killed Rogan, then she would be able to see it.
I wrote down the names of everyone who had been at the bakery, apart from Rogan. That left seven names. Marcello, Pippa, Rachael, Blake, Simona, Bronson, and Laura.
“Well, we can cross two names off the list right away,” I said. For this, I didn’t need Pippa’s help and I took out a marker, ready to cross out the two non-starters.
Pippa frowned and looked confused. “We can?”
“Yes, you and I,” I said, shaking my head as I leaned forward to put lines through both our names.
But she didn’t agree with me right away, like I thought she would. Instead, she just shrugged, while I worked my way down the rest of the list. “I won’t cross out Laura’s name just yet, but with her wrist, it’s highly unlikely.” I pondered over it. Laura also hadn’t left her seat all night. If she had killed Rogan, it would have
been something of a miracle.
“And what about Marcello?” Pippa said. “You can cross his name off as well.” She pointed to his name and stood back, waiting. Looking at me expectantly.
There was an awkward tension. The marker suddenly felt slightly slippery in my hand. “The only people we can be sure of are the two of us. Because we each know that we didn’t do it.”
“I know that Marcello didn’t do it.” Pippa crossed her arms.
There was a tense feeling in the air for a moment and I was ready to get rid of it.
“Fine, yes.” I leaned forward and put a line through Marcello’s name, but it was a thinner line than the other two.
“Well, that only leaves us with four suspects then,” I said, taking a step back as I looked over the list. If I took Laura’s name away, that only left three. Seemed like far too small a pool.
Pippa tapped her nail against the page. “Any of the four could have done it,” she pointed out. “No one was thrilled about the merger. And Rogan was the one at the center of the tension.”
I nodded. Simona, Bronson, Laura, even Blake, all had a reason to get rid of Rogan.
Pippa was actually right—Marcello had the least motive of anyone. No reason to kill Rogan, actually. I didn’t think they’d even met till that night. When Pippa left the room for a moment to get a drink of water, I considered making the line through Marcello’s line thicker, blacking it out entirely, and raised my marker. But then I paused, and put the pen away.
“Closed due to emergency,” the sign said as I pinned it up to the front of the window. I sighed and stood back, wondering how long the sign would have to stay in the window.
I heard a slightly familiar voice calling my name, one that I hadn’t heard in a few months. I frowned and spun around, shaking my head and trying to place the voice as I searched the crowd.
“Oh,” I said, seeing the woman with the long golden hair approaching. This was a blast from the past indeed.
A Fatal Finale Page 2
