Death by Scones

by Jennifer Fischetto

  An hour later, a woman in her midforties stepped inside. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low bun, and she wore a taupe-colored pantsuit and matching colored pumps. She gave me a curt smile before an officer ushered her toward the restroom. I thought I knew everyone in Danger Cove, but I'd never seen her before.

  I poured a refill into Officer Fred Fields' cup and asked, "Who's she?"

  "That's Catherine Cooper, the medical examiner."

  Well that explained it. I'd had no reason to meet her before today. When my folks had died, Grams and Uncle Doug, Amber's father, had handled everything. I'd only spoken to one cop, Detective Ohlsen. And I didn't see him in the bakery today.

  Fred lifted the last bite of his cinnamon muffin. "This is delicious, Riley. Thank you."

  I smiled and set the coffeepot back onto its burner. Fred had a huge sweet tooth but not for chocolate, and he was a regular here. I could always count on him coming in every day. The time usually varied, but he hadn't missed a day in as long as I could remember.

  And it showed. His middle had expanded over the years. With his dark hair and longish face, he reminded me of Fred Flintstone. Whenever I saw him, I expected him to shout, "Yabba dabba do!" Of course, then I'd giggle to myself, and he'd wonder what was so funny. But right now, I wasn't laughing.

  Amber appeared outside at the door, but the officer standing guard wouldn't let her through. I was surprised they allowed me to stay in here. She stomped her foot and pointed wildly, but the officer just stood there with his arms across his chest, not caring about her plights.

  She huffed, turned away, and took several steps down Main Street but still remained clearly in front of the bakery.

  Within seconds a buzzing sounded, and I realized it was my phone. I searched under the counter, on a small shelf, and saw it seated between a pack of Wrigley's gum and a chewed-up yellow pencil. So that was where I'd stashed you. I pulled it out. The buzzing was a text from Amber.

  What's going on?

  I glanced over to her, and she impatiently pointed to her cell. I hadn't been allowed to fill Amber in yet. Fred had asked me not to call Grams earlier. Something about not causing a panic. I couldn't imagine that it appeared as if everything were normal with a cop outside my door and a small army of patrol cars parked along the street. But if the cops wanted to pretend Danger Cove wasn't a small town with a gossip track record to match, they could be my guest.

  With my back to Fred, I replied: Nathan Dearborn is dead in the bathroom. Go home. Call you later.

  I then turned off the phone and slipped it into my dress pocket. I had no intention of discussing this via text. She'd have to wait until later.

  After a few more seconds, she rapped on the window. Fred, I, and even the officer at the door, stared at her. She must have realized she wasn't going to get any further answers, because she sulked off. I hated ignoring her like that, but there were more pressing matters. Like the dead man in my toilet. She'd be fine.

  Finally Detective Lester Marshall walked around the corner from the restroom and stopped in front of us. He'd been down the hall with Nathan since he first arrived. Whenever someone complained about the Danger Cove police force, it was always about Lester Marshall.

  He was a big guy, stocky, with dark hair and a ruddy complexion. He had a pen and notepad in one hand. With the other hand, he gestured first to me, then to one of the tables. "Join me."

  Fred gave me a sympathetic nod. Geesh, how bad was this detective?

  I stepped around the counter and over to a table. The chair's spindly legs scraped against the linoleum as I pulled it out, causing goose bumps to spread along my arms. I sat down and folded my hands in my lap.

  Lester sat across from me and stared at his notebook. "Tell me what happened," he said without looking up.

  I explained the morning, from the strange e-mail to the crowd of samplers to finding Nathan Dearborn in the bathroom.

  He nodded into his book and then flipped it shut and pushed it into a jacket pocket. "Well, according to our medical examiner, it looks like a simple case of allergies."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Mr. Dearborn was allergic to something, probably nuts, ate them when you served them, and died."

  "I didn't serve anything with nuts."

  He frowned and finally looked into my eyes. "I'm sure it was just a mistake. There is no need to feel guilty. It will be ruled an accident." Then he stood up and began to walk away.

  I jumped to my feet and followed him. "No, you don't understand. I did not serve anything with nuts because this bakery is one hundred percent nut and peanut free."

  He condescendingly patted my arm, offered a half smile, and continued back to the bathroom.

  No, no, no, he couldn't just walk away. Panic started to fill me again. It was mild, not as strong as seeing feet under a stall, but it made my head spin with crazy thoughts. If the police thought I was careless with nuts in a bakery that proudly advertised it never used nuts, what would that mean for our reputation? Customers wouldn't trust us anymore. We'd be ruined. I'd lose the bakery, and Grams would lose her house. We'd become homeless and desolate, begging for change on Danger Cove streets. And what about all my clothes? It'd taken me years to acquire all of the pieces. I couldn't drag my wardrobe around with me while sleeping on benches at the pier and rummaging through Dumpsters.

  I blinked and refocused on Grams' wall of fame. Riley, get a grip. That's not going to happen. In all practicality though, I couldn't be responsible for a man's death. Was it possible Joe accidentally cooked something with nuts? How was that even likely, with no nuts in the building?

  I glanced to Fred, who was finishing the last of his coffee.

  "I didn't serve nuts," I whispered.

  "I know, Riley," he said, but he didn't sound convincing.

  I went back to the table and slumped into the chair. There had to be another explanation for all of this. Maybe the ME was wrong? Perhaps after an autopsy, she'd find another reason, the real reason, for Nathan's death.

  After they'd carried his body out in a black zippered bag and all of the police had left, I just stood there frozen by the front door for the second time today. I heard footsteps but didn't turn to them. The next thing I knew, Tara was wrapping me in a hug.

  "I heard. I'm so sorry. What the hell happened?" she asked.

  I shook my head, not knowing where to begin. This day was ruined. I doubted anyone was going to buy cupcakes at a crime scene. My happy reopening had become a nightmare.

  "Let's get out of here," I said.

  * * *

  I threw my purse onto the kitchen counter in Grams' house, kicked off my heels, and collapsed in one of the chairs at the table.

  Tara followed closely. She opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and took down a bottle of tequila. "Don't even think about giving me a look. It's five o'clock somewhere."

  I had no intention of disagreeing.

  Tara grabbed an ice tray from the freezer and pineapple juice. "This will do," she said, then plopped, poured, and stirred us drinks.

  "What sign do you think Nathan Dearborn was?" I asked.

  Tara swallowed a mouthful of her beverage and defiantly shook her head. "Nope, no talk of what happened today, and definitely no talk of astrology. You know that stuff makes my head spin."

  That was only because she didn't believe in it. Okay, I had to admit, I wasn't 100 percent sure I believed all of it either, but it was pretty interesting. I'd only recently gotten into it. Aunt Bernie had introduced me to sun, moon, and rising signs. She owned a small occult shop in town. It sold incense, crystals, candles, herbs, and various other items. She did really well during tourist season, and during the off-season, her income mostly came from reading tarot cards to a select clientele in the back room of her shop. I didn't believe in those newspaper horoscopes, but I loved knowing, and even guessing, a person's zodiac sign because it helped me to know them. Plus, it calmed me for some reason.

  "We are going to drink and
forget," Tara said.

  I sighed and felt the heaviness of the day in every muscle. "I need to talk about it, Tara. I've left Grams several messages, and she still hasn't gotten back to me. What's going to happen to the bakery?"

  After Tara had rescued me, I'd sat in her car, called Grams, and cried for twenty minutes. I'd needed to release the fear of it all. The whole time Tara laid an arm around my shoulders, as best as she could from her position behind the wheel, and told me it was going to be okay. Then I sucked back my tears, and she drove me home.

  Tara set down her glass a bit more sharply than she'd probably intended. The sound made me jerk, and she grimaced. "Nothing's going to happen. Everything will be exactly as it should be tomorrow morning."

  I checked her face for her tell. Her left eye twitched when she lied. But there were no sudden movements. "You really believe that?"

  "Of course. Riley, no one gave two hoots about Nathan Dearborn. I'm sorry to say that, but it's true, and you know it. He walled himself up in that house, and no one knew him."

  That wasn't true. Mrs. Hendrickson had. There had to be others too. But I didn't have the energy to explain all of this to Tara now.

  She raised her glass. "Come on. If this makes you feel better then… To Nathan, may your soul rest in peace. Bottoms up."

  Before she got the cup to her mouth, I raised mine and clinked it against hers. It wasn't ideal, but it would do for the moment.

  The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it, assuming it was Amber wanting all the details. But when I opened the door, buff, bronze Duncan Pickles stared back at me. His coiffed blond hair stood perfectly still as a gentle breeze wrapped itself around my legs.

  "Hi. Tara's in the kitchen. I'll get her." I started to turn to call for her.

  "Actually, I'm here to talk to you," he said.

  That was odd. "What about?"

  Then I remembered the red velvet box in his dresser. Was he looking for ideas on the best way to pop the question and wanted my input? Any other day, I would've let him know proposing to Tara wasn't a good idea, but right now I couldn't even think about it.

  "Cinnamon Sugar Bakery is known for their nut-free desserts. My readers would like to know when that changed, and if you planned on announcing it."

  He wanted a story. My body tensed. How did he learn the cause of death so fast? Did he have a source at the police station?

  Tara came up behind me and shrieked in my ear. "You're doing a story on her?"

  "It's my job. It's not personal," he said, not looking at her. "Riley, what about the nuts?"

  "Of course it's personal. She's my best friend, and you're…you. Riley has nothing to say to you. And you need to get out of here and never come back."

  He opened his mouth to say something, but Tara pushed past me and charged toward him. At first he held his ground, but then she growled, and he turned around and darted to his car as if his shoes were on fire. He jerked open his door and slid into the driver seat of his brown sedan.

  A silver car pulled up and parked behind him. It was Jared. My day just got a drop better.

  "And another thing—you're lousy in bed," Tara shouted.

  Ouch! I suspected she told that lie because she was scared about the possible ring. Jared stepped from his car and walked up the walkway, his brows raised. He still wore the dark jeans from this morning, but he'd changed into a white-and-blue striped short-sleeve shirt. His stride was rhythmic and full of confidence. When he reached the door, he offered a half smile. "Is she always so friendly?"

  He was a fair, friendly, and calm Libra. Some of the panic and tension eased away, and I laughed. "You know how she gets. Super protective about the people she loves."

  Although I was certain part of her reaction had to do with the fear behind that red velvet box. Once Tara felt a guy was getting too serious, she always managed to push him away. Usually not literally though.

  Jared frowned and looked over his shoulder. "Who was that? Was he bothering you?"

  "That was a reporter from the Danger Cove Chronicles. I'm fine now. Glad to see you though. I'm assuming you heard."

  Jared pulled me in for a hug. "Yep. The teachers were talking about it."

  I laid my cheek against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Maybe everything would be okay. Nathan probably died of something else, something completely unrelated to the bakery. And we still didn't even know if he had allergies. It was all going to work itself out. It just had to.

  Tara stepped back inside. "I need to be getting to class. Will you be all right?"

  "I'll be fine," I said, reluctantly stepping out of Jared's embrace.

  "And she has me if she's not," Jared said with a lopsided grin.

  Tara patted his shoulder. "I'm glad you're back. Can't wait to catch up."

  I'd texted her about his return right after he'd left that morning. If felt like a week ago already.

  She walked into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. When she got back to the door, she pulled me in for a tight squeeze. "You call me if you need anything, understood?" Before I got a chance to answer, she turned to Jared and stuck her finger in his face. "And you take care of my girl while I'm gone."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She smirked, headed out, and shut the door behind her.

  "Now what?" he asked.

  "Tara made drinks. They're heavy on the alcohol."

  "I bet they are. How about some food to go with our intoxication?"

  Jared ordered a pizza from his family's restaurant, Gino's Pizzeria. While we waited for it, we sat on the sofa in the living room, and I filled him in on everything that had happened at the bakery.

  "We don't use anything with nuts in our bakery. I didn't accidentally serve nuts," I said for the umpteenth time that day.

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed. "I know you didn't."

  His words should've filled me with relief, but they didn't. "Maybe it was something else, like a milk or wheat allergy." Surely I couldn't be responsible for lactose intolerance.

  He frowned. "I don't think you can die from either of those, but I'm not sure."

  It hadn't sounded right to me either. I buried my face into my hands. "I just can't believe this is happening. On my first day too." I realized what I'd said and looked up quickly. "Oh, that sounds bad. I don't mean to make this about me. A poor man is dead."

  The doorbell rang, and Jared rose to answer it. "I didn't know much about the man, and from what I've heard, most people didn't, so it's understandable to not feel a big sense of loss."

  I shut my eyes for a second and thought about the theater-loving man Mrs. Hendrickson had described compared to the disheveled one that walked into the bakery. I still had no clue what his cryptic question had meant, and now I'd never find out.

  I heard Jared laughing with the delivery guy at the door—probably one of his brothers. I got up, went into the kitchen, and grabbed the rest of the alcohol, paper plates, and napkins. By the time I got back to the living room, Jared was already by the stairs. I loved that I didn't have to ask or remind him. If we were alone, we always hung in our spot.

  He stepped aside and allowed me to take the lead, and we walked upstairs and into my bedroom. I set my items on top of my light-blue, distressed, and stenciled dresser, then pushed aside the sheer white curtain at my side windows. I lifted the pane higher and stepped out onto the roof that covered the kitchen. When Grams and Gramps had first bought this house, the kitchen had needed to be remodeled. They'd ended up extending it a few feet out, and the builders had set the roof so it wasn't too steep. It wasn't exactly flat, but as long as you were conscious of your position, it could be quite comfortable.

  Jared handed me the pizza and the other items and joined me. We scooted to the edge, just past the branches of my neighbor's ginormous maple tree, to where we could see part of Two Mile Beach. Danger Cove's shoreline was naturally broken up into sections by rock formations and the marina. From our vantage point, the sunlight made the sand glisten. I bet it wou
ld've been warm under my toes. Any other day I'd walk over and see for myself. Luscious waves crashed onto the shimmering sand. They appeared almost angry. Maybe nature reacted to death too.

  After Mom and Dad had died, I'd sat out here all the time. It was my private space in the world, where I could be alone and stare at the water. No one would bother me and ask me how I was doing or if I was okay. I knew they meant well, but after a while those questions had left me frustrated. No, I wasn't okay, and there was nothing anyone could do to make it okay. And when Grams had gotten on my case about grades or chores, and rightfully so, I'd escape for a bit.

  When things had settled down and became more normal and routine, I'd used our neighbor's maple to sneak out. The closest branch hung a good five feet from the roof, but back then I hadn't cared if I jumped and missed. I'd been brave or reckless. Didn't most kids think they were invincible? I never missed though, and it left me with a feeling of power and control—something sorely missing from my life then. Now it looked ten miles away, and the only way I'd consider jumping toward it was if my life depended on it.

  Jared pulled a slice of mushroom and sausage pizza out of the box, laid it on a plate, and handed it to me. "Do you want to talk about it more?"

  I stared at the greasy cheese and shook my head. "Not now. I just want to relax." Tara had been right. I needed to clear my head. "Tell me all about you. Why are you back?"

  "Believe it or not, I'd had enough."

  I widened my eyes, mostly because I bit into my slice, and the cheese was so hot I had to swish it around my mouth or suffer third-degree burns.

  "The auditions, the competition, the rejections. It wears you out," he said and bit into his slice as if his mouth was made of steel. He didn't look upset though. Jared had always been a meticulous planner. He hadn't liked leaving things up to chance. So when he planned to move to New York, straight out of college, to pursue a career on Broadway, everyone thought he'd gone temporarily insane. There was no predictability with an acting career. It was mostly luck.