Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  My best friend, Kennedy Kapoor, who both laughed at and applauded my decision, called nearly every day as well. Of all my old friends in the city, Kennedy was the person I missed most. We’d met during our freshman year at Columbia where Kennedy had crossed the pond, so to speak, to study journalism. The daughter of an English baroness and an attorney of Indian descent, Kennedy not only had an exotic look to her, but a killer English accent as well. And she’d been positively obsessed by the fact that my mom had once been a fashion model.

  “Ellie Montague’s your mother?” she had cried the day my parents came to visit me at school. Kennedy was angry I’d never told her. Honestly, it had never occurred to me.

  “Good gracious, wasn’t she, like, Vogue’s model of the year?”

  “Twice,” I had told her. “In the eighties. Clearly she’s hoping for a third cover.” This I remarked noting Mom’s perfectly airbrushed makeup, her high-collar button-down designer blouse opened to her cleavage, and her long, billowy Ralph Lauren skirt. Normal parents didn’t dress like my mom. Both Kennedy and I burst out laughing. However, neither Kennedy nor I were laughing seven years later when she came to me, admitting that she had a shopping addiction.

  Kennedy was a struggling journalist who liked to shop and dress like a supermodel. She had ten credit cards, all of which were maxed out. That was the night Kennedy and I had a little heart-to-heart. I gave her a lecture, made her a spreadsheet, and held a Cutting of the Credit Cards ceremony for her. Then, after she purged her wallet, I convinced her to let me manage her financial affairs.

  Keeping Kennedy on a budget had put quite a strain on our friendship. We struggled through a few hard years, but it was all worth it. Kennedy was now a highly sought-after celebrity publicist and influence blogger with a killer financial portfolio. Her conversations were always hilarious and enlightening. Every week Kennedy was dating someone new. Surprisingly, she never mentioned Jeffery Plank, or his tart of a girlfriend, Mia Long.

  * * *

  As the snow and ice melted, exposing a landscape of rolling sand dunes, greening hills, budding trees, and early spring flowers, the Beacon Bakeshop was coming together. The industrial kitchen with its stainless-steel counters, industrial mixers, freezer, fridge, proofing oven, cutting board, bakery racks, trays, stove, and double ovens was up and running. The display cases and open shelving were put in, as was the coffee counter and espresso machine. The cute black-topped tables and red-backed chairs would be arriving soon, and the red awning was yet to be installed. My dream was coming together, and it looked marvelous.

  Betty Vanhoosen dropped by every week to see how things were progressing. Betty, a sixty-year-old real estate diva and town gossip, was not opposed to dragging a friend or two from the town along with her. The phrase, “Oooo, I smell something good,” always preceded her as she rounded the bakery counter and popped into the kitchen. Wellington, who was banned from the kitchen for sanitary reasons, seldom barked when Betty and her friends came. He loved the attention, and I found that I liked Betty’s company as well. Besides, Betty and whoever accompanied her that day were always willing to sample my latest pastry. I was still working out my menu.

  “These lemon tarts are delicious. I think the bakeshop looks fabulous, dear. I heard you hired Mike Skinner’s cousin. I’m glad you’re giving her a chance. When does Dylan start? When are you planning on training the staff? Don’t wait too long. Opening day is just around the corner.”

  Betty always shot out six or seven questions at a time. Once, after having learned from Rory that the lighthouse was supposedly haunted, I tried to get Betty to admit what she knew.

  “Haunted, you say?” Her face blanched. “Oh, that’s an old wives’ tale. Isn’t that right, Ginger?”

  The Ginger she was addressing was Ginger Brooks, a friendly, capable woman in her early forties who owned Harbor Scoops, the town’s famous ice cream shop. At the mention of my haunted lighthouse, Ginger’s eyes went wide as she gave a slight shiver. Betty, noticing it, waved it off as a head freeze. “That’ll be from all the ice cream,” she informed me. “Ginger’s been trying out new flavors all morning.” Then, before Ginger could answer, Betty launched in with, “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you? Rory’s a strange sort. What do you suppose he’s getting up to in that cabin of his? Don’t you find it odd that he just disappears? He’s the ghost, if you ask me. Hey, are you planning on serving milk shakes too? I thought I saw the Oberland Dairy truck here this morning. They’ve the best ice cream, isn’t that right, Ginger?”

  Ginger nodded, raising a brow as she did so. “Oberland ice cream is the secret to my success. Been ordering from them for years. Please don’t tell me you’re going to sell ice cream as well?” Her pleasantness deflated with the possibility.

  I was quick to assure her that I wasn’t, but I would have a few flavors on hand for the occasional pie à la mode request.

  Betty, thinking otherwise, added, “Last summer I was addicted to Ginger’s peanut butter cup overload. So yummy! Nobody could fault you for serving up a scoop every now and then. That’s a good move for a beachside café. You’d be amazed at what I can see from my office window.”

  And that’s how that conversation went. Betty Vanhoosen, plump, platinum blond, and wrapped from head to toe in cotton candy colors, was an expert at deflection. It was probably why she was such a successful real estate agent.

  As much as I hated to admit it, one of the best decisions I’d made was taking Uber driver Mike’s advice. At the end of April, I’d given his cousin a call and hired her on the spot. Dylan Dykstra was a five-foot-two powerfully built force of nature. Her exterior was tough—from the boots on her feet, to her ripped jeans and pink camo T-shirt, to the piercings on her ears and nose—but I found her to be confident and friendly. Sure, she was sassy, a bit edgy as well, but her take-on-the-world-or-be-damned attitude was just the thing I needed. Dylan had rich brown hair that fell below her shoulders and soulful brown eyes. However, it was her passion for baking that sealed the deal. Dylan was full of great ideas, and her previous baking experience was a welcome bonus.

  Dylan had been helping me ready the bakery and peruse through a stack of applications when I got a call from Kennedy. It wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Guess what?” she said the moment I answered the phone. I had no idea what had her so excited at eleven thirty in the morning. “I’m coming to Beacon Harbor for your grand opening!”

  “What? You’re carving time out of your busy schedule for me?” I was joking.

  “I wouldn’t miss your opening day for the world, Linds. Besides, as your friend, I’ve put myself in charge of publicity. I’ve already contacted all the local radio stations, papers, and dining guides. I’ve just launched your website last night, though I’ll need more photos once you’re up and running. And I’ve been blogging about The Beacon Bakeshop & Café nonstop. I’m creating quite the buzz, and not only in Michigan.”

  “That’s amazing!” I said, and flashed Dylan a thumbs-up. “However, we might be a little short staffed. If you’re here, I’m going to put you to work. Would you rather bus tables or work the register?”

  “Definitely the register. I may not have your knack for numbers, but I can swipe a charge card faster than a bored mommy with a trust fund.”

  CHAPTER 7

  T hings were moving fast. Our menu was nearly finalized, boxes and bags ordered, and additional help hired. Opening day was swiftly approaching. I didn’t think anything could dampen Kennedy’s good news, until Wellington started barking out the window.

  “Oh, God. Brace yourself,” Dylan warned, staring over the empty display case she’d been cleaning. I was at the espresso machine trying to master a latte.

  “That’s Fiona Dickel,” she said, pointing with her rag. “Town downer and proverbial turd in the punch bowl. Fiona winters in Arizona. That’s why we love winter. She must have finally read the paper.”

  I looked out the window and spied a wild-haired redhead in he
r late fifties wearing a billowing plaid cape and mud-splattered knee-boots. She was hiking up the walkway. I took Wellington by the collar and escorted him through the door to our living quarters. “Dang, you’re harsh,” I remarked, grinning. Dylan was no pushover.

  “Well, I’m not the newcomer, am I?” She set down her rag, took her latte, and smiled at the lopsided heart in the froth. “Getting better. It actually resembles a heart and not a weird blob. A few more lattes and you’ll be a pro. Hey, bet you a fiver you’ll be loving winter too when that witch makes her way up here. By the way, did you remember to lock the door?”

  I hadn’t. No sooner had Dylan asked the question when the door burst open, welcoming a gust of wind and a riled-looking woman.

  Dylan, obviously familiar with the intruder, addressed the woman as she stormed up to the counter. “Here for a job, Fiona? Sorry. All our positions have been filled. But you can leave your application with us.” Dylan’s smile was sarcastic.

  “I’m not here for a job, you . . . insufferable ingrate! Did you have something to do with this . . . this travesty?” She glared at Dylan, oozing hatred. “How fitting you’d wheedle your way in here.”

  “Excuse me?” I walked to the counter, placing myself between the two women. Dylan, carrying a bit of a chip on her shoulder, was like a territorial pit bull. She was a dream in the kitchen, but I had the feeling she’d defend the bakery with her life. Fiona was purely obnoxious, but I was used to dealing with unpleasant people. The first rule was to hold your position and offer kindness. Although I could feel my inner New Yorker rearing her ugly head, I held her down and forced a smile. “If you have a complaint, it should be addressed to me, not my assistant baker.”

  The cold, rust-colored eyes shot to me. “Oh, I have a complaint.”

  “We’re not even open,” I reminded her. “And before you judge us, why don’t you try one of our donuts? It’s one of our opening day specials. We call it our Traverse City Cherry Delight.”

  “I’m not here for a G-damn donut!” she cried, turning as red as her hair. “I’m here because you’ve debased my lighthouse! You’ve turned it into a . . . a horror show!” Her finger pointed at me.

  Down, down, girl, I told my inner New Yorker. But what did she mean by her lighthouse? I looked at the woman. “Sorry? Your lighthouse?”

  “It’s a historical landmark!” Her red cheeks quivered as she talked. “Nobody should own a historical landmark. I’m president of the Beacon Point Lighthouse Preservation Society.”

  “Which is basically just you now, right, Fi?” Dylan smirked at the woman and took another sip of her latte.

  “There’s seven of us and we’re growing every day, thank you very much. When the government decided to sell the lighthouse, we had no idea it was going to be cheapened with your disgusting donuts and garish awning!”

  “ ‘Disgusting?’ ” Now the woman was just asking for it. “I’m sorry, but I bought this lighthouse with cash. The contract was legitimate, and I have all the proper permits.” I forced a smile and held out a small tray of freshly made donuts filled with a combo of tart cherry jelly and light butter cream. They were topped with a delicious cherry glaze. “Why don’t you try one of these before you insult it?”

  It was a small batch. There were only a dozen of our latest cherry delights on the tray, which Dylan’s cousin, Mike (who now spent most of his time at the marina), and her boyfriend, Carl, were coming over to sample. I was planning on taking a few over to Rory as well. Fiona, clearly torn, reached across the counter and took one. She sniffed it, made a face, and then threw it at the bakery case with surprising violence. “This is my official warning, ladies. I’m here to make sure this . . . this bakery of yours doesn’t succeed.”

  I could handle a lot of things, but smashing a beautifully prepared, fresh-out-of-the-fryer donut wasn’t one of them. My patience with this woman had just run out.

  “Oh, great!” I cried. “Is that supposed to be a shot across our bow?” I was glaring at her, my full-blown Lindsey-tude rearing her ugly head. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong lighthouse for a fight, missy. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a . . . a delicious donut smashed against my bakery case to get me to tuck tail and run. I’ve invested six months of my life into this bakery. I’ve made incredible improvements here, more than you and your friends ever did. I love this lighthouse. I can’t wait to share it with the public—not as a crumbling old relic from the past, but as a vibrant destination—a place to come, eat good food, and celebrate life. Yes, I’ve turned it in to a bakery café, but that’s a heck of a better transition for a lighthouse than demolition and condos. Like it or not, I’m here, and I’m staying.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Fiona huffed, spat on my polished floor, then turned on her heels and marched out the door.

  “And good riddance to you, Dickel,” Dylan called after her.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and slapped it on top of the defiled bakery case. “I now see why winters are so attractive. That was a perfectly good donut.” I shook my head in dismay, picked up a rag, and walked around the counter.

  Poor Fiona, I thought, gingerly wiping up the remains of the donut. I respected her anger, but she was a day late and a dollar short. And now she was up against the influence of Kennedy Kapoor.

  And Kennedy Kapoor had ten million followers on YouTube.

  CHAPTER 8

  Kennedy, having created quite a buzz about my lighthouse bakery, swept into town five days before our grand opening on a wave of expensive perfume and unflappable optimism. Dylan and I had been in the kitchen as usual, this time making bread dough like two madwomen.

  I had decided early on that the Beacon Bakeshop would open at 7 a.m. offering specialty coffee drinks, freshly made donuts, sweet rolls, muffins, a coffee cake of the day or two, and a few varieties of mini quiches. Those would fill out our bakery cases. Any extra baking would be reserved for special orders. After the breakfast rush, we’d restock the cases with lunch fare. I planned on having a variety of premade sandwiches available for the panini grill as well as a standard list of deli sandwiches made on one of our homemade breads. Each sandwich would come with a side of potato salad or fresh veggies and dill dip, with a choice of cookie or brownie. On the sweeter side, along with the morning leftovers, cookies, and brownies, there’d be a couple of fresh-baked pies and two varieties of cake, all to be sold by the slice for afternoon tea or coffee on the beach. The bakery would close at three in the afternoon.

  Since the donuts and sweet rolls needed to be made fresh each morning, Dylan had talked me into par-baking our bread for the week. Par-baking was a method where the bread would be made, proofed, and baked as normal. However, just before the crust started turning golden brown the loaves would be pulled from the oven. They’d be cooled, wrapped in an airtight container, and frozen. All we would need do when a loaf was needed was to remove it from the freezer, thaw it, and bake in the oven at the normal temperature for about fifteen minutes, giving it a fresh-baked taste and a golden-brown finish. The last bakery Dylan had worked for had gotten all their frozen par-baked bread from a supplier. She swore the result was just as good as the original method, plus it cut down on waste and production time. I’d give it a try.

  Therefore, when Kennedy burst into the bakeshop, Dylan and I were in the back, our hands sticky with bread dough.

  “Linds, darling, I’m here!” At the sound of her melodic English lilt, Wellington popped up beside the decorative lighthouse in the café (his new favorite place to sleep) and could be heard howling and grunting with excitement. “Welly!” Kennedy cried, greeting her old friend. She then exclaimed, “Oh, Linds! This place is fabulous!”

  I pulled Dylan with me from the kitchen to meet her. After a round of hugs, squeals, and introductions, Kennedy took a step back. “You’re wearing a pink camo T-shirt?” Her pretty face pinched into a frown.

  It was a bit of a joke. Dylan had bought it for me after I had adm
ired hers. The swirling shades of pink on our women’s-cut V-neck tee were supposed to mimic jungle camo. I think they looked cute and were now our unofficial baking uniform.

  “It’s my lucky baking shirt,” I told Kennedy. “Dylan and I wear them when we want to hide out in the kitchen and power-bake.”

  Kennedy laughed. “I suppose you blend right in with all the pink frosting. However, out here in the bakery you’d stand out like a pig in a dog pound. So posh! I love all the red diner wear on the open shelving, and the lighthouse motif is spot-on. Your customers are going to love it. The six-foot lighthouse next to the bakery counter is genius.” She couldn’t resist touching the eye-catching piece.

  “That’s our mascot,” I said, admiring our wooden lighthouse. “Mr. Beacon. He draws the eye the moment you walk through the door.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, her sleek, long black hair echoing the motion. Kennedy looked nothing short of spectacular in her butter-yellow sundress and cute strappy sandals. It complemented her flawless, light mocha skin. “No,” she said again. “Wellington is your mascot. Mr. Beacon, or whatever you call it, is a posh accent piece. Tomorrow I’m going to be taking some shots of the lighthouse and café for the website and your social media pages. I want to do an entire spread on Wellington. People just adore Welly.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I told her, giving Wellington a loving pat on the head. I then talked her through all the old Beacon Point Lighthouse memorabilia hanging on the white-painted shiplap wall. The white walls, the polished oak floor, and the black marble countertops made the remarkable nautical history of the old lighthouse stand out. The bright red dishes and bakery boxes brought a contrasting splash of color.

  After Kennedy was settled in one of the lighthouse guestrooms, Dylan and I brought her up to the lantern room, where we all shared a bottle of wine over a spectacular Lake Michigan sunset.