I turned to see her talking to Susan and pointing my way.
“I want her to leave. She came in here accusing and searching for excuses to call me a murderer. She’s obsessed with me. Wants to take over my life.” Carla paused long enough to sniff, wipe at her bangs, and then pointed again. “Get out of here! Get out of here!” She was edging toward hysteria.
There was no temptation to argue or defend myself. I wanted to do exactly what she asked.
Susan cast a glare at Branson, and he walked over from the person he was interviewing, took my arm, and leaned in close to whisper, “Probably a good idea. I’ll come get your statement when I’m done here, if that’s all right.”
“Sure.” I nodded and kept myself from looking over at Carla.
“You’ll be at the bookshop?”
“Yes. I’ll wait there.”
I kept my gaze on the ground, furiously avoiding anyone else’s inspection as I led Watson out of Black Bear Roaster. Probably for the last time.
“Bananas?” Katie took a bite of her lemon-and-lavender cupcake, sighed at the flavor, then returned her attention to me as I leaned on the counter. “Are we actually saying murder by banana? Is that a thing?”
It had been a few hours since Sally’s death, and the bookshop and bakery had been slammed with people gathering to share the latest gossip. Business hours had come and gone, and I hung up the Closed sign on the door but left it unlocked so Branson could come in when he was finished. Katie and I hadn’t had an opportunity to talk freely between the two of us.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think murder by banana would be a thing, but it looks like it. Unless it was just an accident.” I started to take a bite of my almond croissant, then ripped off a small piece and tossed it to Watson instead. “But that seems like too much of a coincidence, doesn’t it? Two deaths in Black Bear Roaster in just a few days?” I leaned closer, bugging my eyes toward Katie. “Two deaths by scones… I mean, come on. That can’t simply have happened randomly.”
Katie hummed as she chewed and considered. Finally she swallowed and shrugged. “Well, they say bananas are the fruit of wise men.” She lifted a finger. “And did you know that bananas don’t technically grow on trees. That those ‘trees’”—she used her fingers to make air quotes—“are actually just herbs. They’re in the same family as lilies and orchids.”
I stared at her, and then burst out with a sardonic laugh. “Oh good grief, I thought you actually had a theory about what was going on at Carla’s. What did you do this afternoon? Hop on Google between customers?”
She looked offended. “I would hope you know me better than that. You don’t think my knowledge only comes from a frantic Google search and then it just disappears within half an hour, do you? I’m a well-read, well-studied individual, who is capable of retention of knowledge.” She smirked.
I raised my hands in surrender, still chuckling. “All right, all right, I wasn’t trying to imply anything derogatory. But I was expecting an actual thought about the case at hand, not just bananas at large.”
“Fair enough.” Katie took another large bite of the cupcake, chewed, and had almost swallowed it all before she started speaking again. “Just one more interesting tidbit, if you don’t mind.”
Watson growled softly and shuffled over to the top of the stairs leading down to the bookshop.
I glanced his way and then turned back to Katie as I rubbed my temples. “I know you’ll probably explode if you don’t get it out, so go ahead.”
“That’s more than likely true, yes.” Katie finally swallowed the last of the cupcake and licked off lingering traces of icing from her lips. “Did you know that a banana is the fastest fruit to ever run a marathon?”
I blinked, and tried to decide if I’d heard her wrong, or if the exhaustion she had to feel from all the long hours was finally getting to her. “I’m sorry, did you just say that a banana ran a marathon? Do you sometimes use children’s picture books in place of Google?”
“And again with the insults.” Katie forced a serious expression, but the humor was evident in her tone. “It was a marathon in Barcelona where people dressed up as fruits and things. Patrick Wightman wore a banana costume when he ran the marathon in just under three hours. Officially making the banana the fastest fruit in long-distance running.”
“You know, if I find out that discussions like these are what lead to you solving murders before we police can, I think I’m going to turn in my badge.”
Katie and I looked over to see Branson turn from the stairway and head in our direction. He paused to pet Watson, who sidestepped him gracefully and trotted to his favorite table to nap under the window.
Branson narrowed his eyes at Watson’s retreat and then refocused on Katie and me as he joined us at the bakery counter. “Please tell me that I’m not going to have to do any research into racing fruit to solve Sally Apple’s death.”
“Only if you’re lucky.” Katie grinned at him, then motioned toward the picked-over remains of that morning’s baking. “Care for anything? The pecan pie bars are rather out of this world, if I do say so myself.”
“Goodness, no.” Branson’s gaze traveled between Katie’s empty plate and what was left of my almond croissant. “Got to hand it to you—you are two brave women eating pastries at a time like this.”
“Well, today is full of insults it seems.” Ignoring Branson’s request, she plated up one of the bars. “I make everything here myself. And I’m very careful about when I put poison into something to remember which batch is the lucky winner.” She slid the pastry toward him. “Now, as you fill us in, eat this in way of apology.”
He considered the offering and then shrugged. “You know, Katie, if insulting you results in being force-fed your delicacies, I’m going to have to come up with an exhaustive list of ways to be offensive.”
“Try it. Like I said, I remember where I put the poison.” She watched as Branson slid a fork into the pecan bar and turned back to the pastry case. “There’s only one of those left. I might as well make it none.”
As Katie got the final pecan pie bar, I leveled my stare on Branson. “I take it you’ve determined that Sally was murdered?”
Unlike Katie, Branson made certain to swallow before he spoke. “No, not exactly. Tests will have to be done on all of that, and from what Miss Morris relayed, Sally truly did have a severe allergy to bananas.”
“Obviously.” Katie snorted, crumbs flying.
Branson gave her a sidelong glare and then shook his head like he was about to laugh. “The thing is, if anaphylactic shock truly is what killed her, it’ll be a lot harder to prove that there was malicious intent than if she’d been poisoned.” His green gaze flicked to me and held. “I actually had you on my list for this afternoon before we were called in to Black Bear Roaster.”
“I was on your list?” Maybe I was reading into things, but I thought I caught the hint of the double entendre in his words.
Another flicker of a smile, though his words gave nothing else away. “Yes. I got the test results back on the first scone. You were right. It was poisoned.”
I sucked in a breath, and my heart began to race. Though I would never admit it to him or anyone else, it beat in excitement. “Eustace was poisoned?” I’d been right. Even with all the guilt and beginning to think I was crazy, I’d been right.
“Yes.” He nodded and then shrugged. “Kind of.”
I balked. “Kind of? How does someone kind of get poisoned?”
Branson took another bite of the pecan pie bar, chewed, swallowed, then looked to Katie. “Poison or not, this is exceptional.” Then he took another bite.
I swatted at him. “Knock it off.”
He chuckled, but still insisted on finishing the chewing and the swallowing before the speaking “Well… the scone was poisoned, but Eustace didn’t die from it. He truly did choke. The poison didn’t have any time to take effect at all. Though, it would’ve. Eustace would’ve had a pretty painful death wit
hin a day or so.”
Eustace had choked. Just like it seemed. Just like everyone had said.
But he’d also been poisoned, just like my gut told me—even though it made absolutely no sense. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. “Okay then, what does that make it? An accident or murder?”
He shrugged again. “Eustace Beaker died from choking; that was an accident. But someone out there is guilty of attempted murder.”
“So, just like with Sally Apple, maybe the bananas in the apple butter might have been accidental but resulted in an actual murder.” Katie took a large, rather emphatic bite of the pecan bar.
“Possibly.” He waffled his hand. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but still. We’re going to have to test all the jars of apple butter. Maybe there was a mix-up at the factory. It really could just be an accident.”
“An accident? You just told me that there was poison in Eustace’s scone. That’s not an accident, regardless of how he actually died. Someone was trying to kill him. You really think it’s a possibility that Sally just happened to die due to another scone within a couple of days?”
“Anything is a possibility.” He didn’t sound like he believed it. “Regardless, like you said, someone was trying to kill Eustace. That’s true whether Sally’s death was an accident or not. Although, I’m not placing money on her purse containing an EpiPen accidentally being misplaced behind the counter. Ergo, if Sally’s death wasn’t an accident, then I would imagine the two would have to be connected. That really would be too large of a coincidence to have two different murderers choose to use Carla’s scones in the same week. I just have to figure out who it is that had it out for Eustace. And we all know that list isn’t going to be short.”
“Any ideas on who might be near the top of that extensive list?” I couldn’t help myself.
“No, Fred. I just got the results an hour before the latest crisis you were a part of.” He held up his hand and smiled when I started to protest. “I was also planning on telling you this next part so I could prove what I promised. Especially considering I wouldn’t have tested the scone if it hadn’t been for you to begin with. As long as you’re not in the police’s way or committing crimes, I’m not going to stop you from snooping around. You were right, and you’ve more than helped before. I’m sure you will again.”
I wasn’t certain what to do with that. After a couple of days of increasing guilt and feeling like I was seeing shadows where there were none, that bit of validation and trust was overwhelming, and greatly needed. I simply nodded, slowly, taking it all in and not finding any other words to say.
“I will offer one… warning, I suppose.” His tone sounded questioning. “Maybe piece of advice would be a better phrase. I’d give Carla some space. I’m not sure if you really think she’s a suspect or not, but if things do start pointing to her in your mind, I’d rather you tell me and let us handle it. I don’t see Carla as a murderer, but with the way she’s feeling about you right now, a confrontation between the two of you might result in a rather ugly scene.”
I didn’t even have to consider. “I agree. Carla needs her space from me, and I plan on giving it to her.”
Branson’s eyebrows popped up, as if he’d been expecting an argument. “Okay, then. Great.” His expression grew nervous, which was unusual for Branson, and finally he glanced at Katie. “Would you mind plugging your ears or looking the other way or something. I’m going to ask Fred on another date, and I’d rather do that in private.”
Katie jumped, flushed, and then giggled. “You bet. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that the shop downstairs contains cookbooks. And goodness knows I don’t have enough recipes. I think I’ll go hunting.” She winked at me and made a show of scurrying around the counter and then out of the bakery.
My heart began to race for an entirely different reason. “Is this how you treat every murder investigation? With invitations to dinner?”
“Like there’s another choice with you involved.” He reached out and took hold of my arm lightly. “Would you go out with me again, maybe this weekend or something? We could try a restaurant that actually cooks our food for us this time. You know, something wacky and untraditional like that.”
I was on dangerous ground. Even though there’d been several months break between us going out before and the steakhouse, they were starting to add up. Soon there would be expectations, reasonably so. That meant I’d have to quit wondering about what I felt for Branson, quit wondering about what I felt for Leo. Quit wondering about what Leo and Katie felt for each other. I’d simply have to decide what I wanted. If anything.
Branson withdrew his hand and looked hurt. “Probably not a good sign that asking you out prompts a wave of stress so strong it nearly knocks me over.”
“No. I’m sorry.” That time I reached out and touched his arm. “I’d love to go to dinner. Again.” Sure enough, excitement and stress flared in equal measure. Maybe another dose of honesty would ease my nerves. “Just remember. I need to go slow. Very slow. I wasn’t planning on ever having a relationship again, and I’m not entirely sure if I want one.”
Those green eyes stared into mine, patiently, and I could swear, hopefully. And he waited.
“But… I’m not entirely sure that I don’t want one either.”
He smiled gently. “Slow works for me, Fred.” He leaned in, then pressed a very quick, very soft kiss to my lips and pulled back. “In the meantime, be careful snooping. If the same person who poisoned Eustace is responsible for Sally, then we’ve got someone who’s most definitely not afraid to stack up some bodies. Someone who seems to be capable of doing it stealthily too.”
After pigging out on Katie’s pastries, I went home and made Watson’s nightly baked chicken, and after a longing near-romance with the pasta in the cupboard, opted for baked fish for myself. The recipe I used was good enough, but it was still baked fish. Not overly satisfying, but guilt free. I’d never had a waifish figure, but having a bakery above my head, while delicious, hadn’t been helpful. There needed to be cuts somewhere.
After dinner, I studied my overstuffed armchair sitting near the fireplace. I could open all the windows and let in the cool May evening air to compensate for building a fire to make it cozy while I read. Any other night, that was exactly what I would do. It was one of the reasons I wasn’t sure I wanted another relationship. I enjoyed my time on my own—just Watson, me, and a good book. I was certain most people would think that sounded sad, but I didn’t. After Garrett’s and my divorce, spending my evenings reading was the epitome of freedom.
I couldn’t make myself do it. Couldn’t curl up in the comfortable armchair and get lost in a story. Not after having Sally Apple die in my arms just a few short hours before. My guilt over stressing out Carla’s grandfather and wondering if I was crazy for suspecting poison was gone, but in its place was a weighty sense of melancholy.
Watson was already curled up at the base of the armchair, ready for our nightly routine, but instead of slipping into pajamas, I put my boots back on and walked to the door, smacking my thigh. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go get ice cream.”
Yes, ice cream. I’d had baked fish, after all. I wasn’t a masochist.
Though there were several mom-and-pop ice cream parlors in downtown, one of the few chains Estes Park allowed was Dairy Queen, for whatever reason. And I was glad. There were moments like this where the taste of my Midwest childhood was required.
I ordered a large Oreo Blizzard. Seeing as I’d also scarfed down a salad alongside the baked fish, I had them put two servings of cookie dough in it, as well.
Watson got an empty cake cone and was beyond thrilled.
Holding Watson’s leash loosely in my hand and with a death grip on my Blizzard, we strolled up and down the river walk that ran behind the shops. The evening was in the low sixties, and my thick sweater had been more than enough. However, the ice cream was leaving me chilled, even if pleasantly satiated.
Coming into town had
been the right call. A few tourists strolled lazily along the river walk as well, offering a sense of camaraderie, and their quiet conversations were muffled by the comforting tumult of the river tumbling over boulders and rocks. The sky was cloudless and congested with stars over the peaks of the mountains that surrounded Estes. Despite the frequency of murderers, the town was a little haven.
With the Blizzard half gone, I paused our walk as we drew next to the parking lot once more and leaned on the railing that overlooked a particularly low point in the rushing river. With the quiet sounds of nature and the familiar ice cream of my childhood on my tongue, it was almost like my father was beside me. I often felt like that. Though I’m sure others would find the belief superstitious and flighty, I had no doubt Watson himself had been a gift from my father, so in a way, Dad was always with me. But more so in that moment.
He didn’t offer any words, but I could feel his wheels turning alongside mine. I easily recalled the nights as a kid that I listened to him go over the details of cases he was working on, either talking to himself, Mom, or my uncles when they visited. And when I was quite a bit older, him asking my advice and thoughts on things that had him stumped. Looking back, I’m sure there were all sorts of details he’d left out due to my age, gory details he wouldn’t have wanted his child to know of the world. At the time, though, I’d felt like I was his partner in crime. Or… his partner in solving crime.
I wondered what he would make of the double death by scones.
If he was there, he didn’t whisper any answers or offer any clues. Although, knowing him, he was enjoying watching his daughter mull it over.
As I finished the rest of the Blizzard, I didn’t come up with any answers either. The only thing I was certain of, was that the list of people who despised Eustace was long and rambling. I was willing to bet, if my brief impression of her was correct, that Sally Apple would be in the same predicament.
Finally, when the chill from the soft breeze combining with the ice cream became unpleasant, I decided I was being silly and we might as well return home. It was often the case that when I distracted myself with a book or busied myself with a task, things had a way of working themselves out in the back of my mind. Maybe that would happen with the windows open, the fire roaring, and a book on my lap.
Scornful Scones (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 5) Page 11
