by Darci Hannah
“What?” I cried, feeling a welling of outrage. I wasn’t even at half-blown New Yorker and the poor man flinched. Rory, Kennedy, and Dylan were staring at me, urging me with their eyes to tone it down. The young officer, after all, was only doing his duty. Still, it rankled. “But I’ve already told you everything!”
McAllister’s gold-dusted brows furrowed, causing his handsome, boyish features to look either displeased or embarrassed, it was hard to tell which. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bakewell, I truly am, but you didn’t tell us that Mia Long was having an affair with your fiancé, Jeffery Plank.”
“Ex-fiancé,” I corrected.
McAllister cleared his throat. “Right. I understand that you caught them in the act, so to speak. She died on your property, Ms. Bakewell. Mia Long ate one of your donuts. You have motive and opportunity. Do you see how this might look bad for you?”
Unfortunately, I did. And, unbelievably, my day had just gone from bad to a whole new level of horrible.
* * *
I didn’t love being a suspect in Mia’s death, but I respected the process. The Beacon Harbor Police Station was less than a mile away from the bakeshop, which, under normal circumstances, was a comfort. It was a relatively modern building sitting at the end of Waterfront Drive, just off Main Street. And the officer questioning me wasn’t hard on the eyes at all, either. Tuck—that’s what he asked me to call him—was only trying to do his job. Surprisingly, he’d been on the force for five years, was twenty-eight (pushing the boundaries of my creeper zone but not entirely out of the question), loved water sports, snow skiing, and baked goods, and had never dealt with a suspected homicide before. I told him I hadn’t either, right after I told him that I didn’t kill Mia Long. In fact, after a bout of small talk, I answered all the young officer’s questions. I had also made it quite clear that Mia and Jeffery were a big part of the reason I had left a successful career in New York to come to Beacon Harbor. I had never wanted to see Jeffery or Mia again. When they had shown up at my bakeshop during the grand opening, I had gotten the shock of my life.
“I expect that’s so,” Tuck said. He sat back and took a sip of his coffee. I’d been offered coffee as well but was already buzzing with caffeine and nerves. I felt that if I had one more sip I’d explode with a full-blown case of the jitters. Trembling hands during questioning might give the wrong impression. “So,” he began, looking adorably perplexed with his furrowed brow and his slightly parted lips. What the heck was wrong with me? The guy was still in his twenties . . . and trying to puzzle out whether or not I’d just murdered Jeffery’s lover. My God, maybe I had? She’d been in my shop eating one of my donuts! I took a deep breath and tried to smile. My mother could smile and look sexy on command. It wasn’t a skill I’d inherited. From all accounts, my fake smile was making him even more suspicious. I bit my lip instead.
Tuck, blowing a hard breath, leaned on his elbows. “Why were they at your bakery?”
That was the question. I honestly had no idea and told him as much. “Look,” I said, “as far as I know, I’ve done nothing to upset them. Jeffery had Mia, his restaurant, and the sweet red Jaguar F-Type convertible I’d given him for his fortieth birthday.”
“What?” Officer Cutie Pie nearly choked on his coffee. “You gave that dude an F-Type convertible?” He gave me a wide, blue-eyed stare. “That’s, like, a super-expensive car.”
“I thought I was in love,” I explained. “And Jeffery had always wanted that car. I was fortunate enough to be able to give it to him. Even when I called off our engagement, I let him keep the car. I think I just wanted a clean break, you know?”
“Sweet merciful Jesus.” Cutie Pie’s eyes were as wide as pop cans. “I heard you had money, but how much money can a baker make?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I told him honestly. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not doing this for the money. It’s my dream. It came bubbling to the surface the moment I broke it off with Jeffery. By the way, did Jeffery say why he and Mia were here in the first place?”
Tuck shrugged. “I haven’t spoken with Mr. Plank. The Sarge talked with him at the hospital. Sergeant Murdock’s the one who wanted you brought in for further questioning. My understanding is that Mr. Plank is very shaken up by the death of Mia Long. He’s also claiming that you had something to do with it.”
“Oh well, he can just stand in line then, because Fiona Dickel is claiming I murdered the Beacon Harbor Lighthouse! Great,” I said. “Everyone’s pointing a finger at me, simply because I converted an old lighthouse into a bakeshop and sell donuts and baked goods. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but everyone was eating my donuts. Mia’s the only person, as far as I know, who actually died. Spoiler alert,” I said, my voice escalating, “it’s not from eating one of my donuts!”
Officer Tuck McAllister, having been blessed with the same fair skin as me, turned the color of a beet. “I know,” he uttered, looking at his hands. “But . . . the woman died all the same.”
I lowered my voice and reminded myself to remain calm. “She was a pastry chef who was no stranger to eating baked goods, so we can rule out allergies and anaphylactic shock. Do we know if she had a medical condition? Did anyone ask Jeffery if she was taking any drugs?”
Officer Tuck shook his head. “I honestly don’t know the answers to those questions. However, I have been told that the medical examiner’s ordered a full toxicology report. We’ll have to wait until that comes back before we know what, if anything, Ms. Long was taking. However, the ER doctor has been interviewed. He’s told us that he believes Ms. Long’s death is linked to acute cyanide poisoning.”
“What?” I had never expected to hear that. “But that’s impossible. I don’t own cyanide, nor would I have it anywhere near my bakery. Look, I made all the dough for those donuts. I made all the frostings, and fillings, and hand-filled each one of them. I can assure you, with absolute certainty, that there isn’t a speck of cyanide in my baked goods!”
He blushed. “Of course. I had one of your donuts. But still, according to the ER doctor she had all the signs. The autopsy is expected to confirm the ER doctor’s report. I’m sorry, Lindsey, but she died from something she ate. And she was eating your donuts.”
CHAPTER 16
I left the police station with my heart pounding in my ears and my head swirling with the possibility that Mia had been poisoned by eating one of my donuts. I had refused Tuck’s offer to drive me back to the lighthouse. I wanted to walk. I needed to feel the warm air on my face. I needed to feel the welcoming rays of the sun. I needed to walk on sidewalks teeming with humanity and clear my head.
It sounded odd, counterintuitive even, but for a city girl the deepest solitude can often be found walking in the press of a rush hour crowd. So many bodies moving in the same direction instilled a primal sense of belonging, and yet the mere fact that everyone moving around you is a stranger provides an oddly comforting form of isolation. There was never a lack of humanity filling the streets and sidewalks of New York City. The same could never be said of Beacon Harbor. However, the summer tourists had finally arrived, and although it wasn’t exactly a rush hour crowd, the town had come to life with fresh, happy faces. Those tourists who weren’t at the beach worshiping the warm sun were in town, strolling up and down the sidewalks with a definite lack of purpose. No one was in a hurry, and that was just fine with me. It was exactly what the merchants of Beacon Harbor had been waiting for all winter.
I was seeking solace in anonymity, but Beacon Harbor was a small town, and a nosy one. When I passed by Harbor Scoops, Ginger Brooks popped out, her face contorted in a look of concern.
“Lindsey, are you okay? I’ve been so worried. Is that woman going to be alright?”
I didn’t know what to say. I just shook my head and kept walking, noting with dismay that some of the tourists were still carrying the flyers that Kennedy had passed around.
“Hey!” A young man in form-fitting shorts and a souvenir T-shirt raised his arm in
greeting as I came around a corner. The lighthouse was in sight, but little good it did me. My solitude had been shattered by a friendly couple. “Heard someone went into a sugar coma on your lawn,” he said, and smiled at his girlfriend. She was wearing a short, flouncy sundress making my flour-dusted jeans and frosting-smudged shirt feel old and dirty by comparison.
I must have stared at them too long without answering. The woman, being a bit more tactful, asked, “Did you make the blueberry coffee cake? It was delicious. I’m still thinking about it.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved to be focusing on something other than death. “Tomorrow I’m making a cherry pecan coffee cake. I think you’ll like that one too.”
The man frowned. “Ma’am, I don’t think you’re going to be open tomorrow. Your bakery’s been roped off with crime scene tape. The lady from the Book Nook said she heard that the cops are closing you down.”
“What? That’s . . .” I was going to say ridiculous but peered around the man instead. Sure enough, across the street and down past the public beach was my newly remodeled lighthouse, blocked off from the public by a perimeter of cop cars and yellow crime scene tape. I swore under my breath.
“I guess that’s a pass on cherry coffee cake tomorrow,” the man remarked as I stormed off.
I had every intention of returning to the lighthouse, until I came upon the Harbor Realty building. Was I even allowed back on the premises if it was a crime scene? I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do, but hopefully Betty would.
Betty Vanhoosen’s building was an impressively remodeled turn-of-the-century, two-story storefront now serving as the town’s largest, and only, real estate office. Like Betty, the furnishings were bright and cheerful. The pale-yellow walls were full of colorful pictures of the town’s most prestigious lakefront dwellings. The couch in the waiting room was large and floral. I walked over to the cottage-white desk and asked Paige if her boss was in.
“Heard what happened this morning at the bakeshop. Can’t believe that Dickel woman was protesting your bakery and throwing donuts! I used to think she was funny, but now it’s just sad. Betty was supposed to bring me a donut, but never got the chance. If I ever see Fiona in here again, I’m giving her a piece of my mind!” Paige, a very competent young woman in her midtwenties, made a menacing face before dialing Betty’s extension. “Mrs. Vanhoosen, Lindsey Bakewell’s here to see you.” She replaced the receiver and added, “I was going to trot on over for lunch, purely to see Beacon Harbor’s favorite mystery man making coffee. Is Rory one of your employees now?” She obviously thought it amusing.
“I wish,” I said, and attempted a grin, though I wasn’t really feeling it. “He’ll deny it, but the man does know his way around an espresso machine. He’s just helping out for the day. Sorry you missed him.”
Betty’s office took up the entire second floor. It was a welcoming space with a smattering of comfortable seating for tired clients, a box of toys for fidgety kids, and a small table to have a snack on, or sign contracts. Betty’s large desk faced the room and was adjacent to a wall of windows that overlooked the harbor. It was a spectacular view, of which Betty was fully aware.
“Lindsey, my goodness! Come in! Come in!” Betty shot around her desk and pulled me to a chair. “I’ve been watching the events since I got here. I saw young McAllister whisk you away to the police station and now they’ve cordoned off your bakeshop! What’s happened?”
“You saw all that from here?” I glanced out the window. No wonder Betty knew everything and everybody. She not only had an unobstructed view of the harbor, including my lighthouse at the far end of the public beach, but also much of the town as well.
“After the commotion at your bakeshop, the rest of my day’s been boring by comparison.” She gave a careless wave of her hand. “The moment they whisked that rude little woman off in the ambulance, I was questioned by the police. Me! As if I had anything to do with it! I told the officer that everything was going just fine until that woman and her friends showed up and started stealing donuts off people’s plates. The nerve!”
“It was odd behavior,” I agreed, and sat back in the comfy chair. “I never expected it. I don’t know why she came all the way to Beacon Harbor, and worse yet—”
“Oooo, don’t tell me!” Betty’s normally pleasant, round face took on the troubling taint of dark satisfaction. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“How . . . how do you know that?”
“Why else would McAllister take you down to the station for questioning? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, dear, but she had it coming. This is Beacon Harbor. We don’t suffer fools or outright malicious behavior. Serves her right if she choked on one of the donuts she stole. You’ve worked so hard on that old lighthouse. She and her friends had no right to make a scene like that.”
“Yes, but Betty, she’s dead.” I gave her a hard, face-slapping look and repeated, “Dead! And worst of all, they think I had something to do with it.”
My look and words were enough to rattle her mother-hen emotions. “What?” she said, wrinkling her pert little nose in distaste. “They think you murdered that woman? You were behind the counter the whole time. Did you tell McAllister that?”
“That’s the trouble. Officer McAllister said they think Mia died from eating something poisonous, but the only thing she ate were my donuts.”
Betty frowned. “Well, we all ate your donuts . . . except for Fiona. She was throwing them. She was also questioned by the police. You don’t suppose she had anything to do with that woman’s death, do you?”
“It makes no sense. Fiona didn’t know Mia. Besides, they were virtually on the same team, both having wanted to close me down, which, by the way, they have.” I looked at Betty and suddenly felt the impending weight I’d been holding at bay all morning crumble. It was oppressive. My eyes stung with the threat of tears. Embarrassed, I covered my face with my hands. “Oh, why did I have to throw away a fabulous career and open an ill-fated bakery? Why couldn’t I have just stayed in New York City and concentrated on making money, like normal people do?”
Betty, who was the age of my mother yet had the comforting roundness of my grandmother, sat beside me and removed my hands. “Because, dear, you’re needed here in Beacon Harbor. Did you ever think of that? That old lighthouse needed you. That poor place sat empty for years, rotting on the beach like an abandoned boat. And look at it now! It’s the jewel on the lake it was always meant to be. And, better yet, it’s now the home of your scrumptious baked goods. You cannot deny that your wonderful donuts and baked goods made a lot of people happy this morning. Why, the whole town is abuzz about how yummy everything tasted. Also—and here’s another important point—you gave Dylan another chance to use her talent.”
It was kind of Betty to say so, but I couldn’t take all the credit. “Dylan could get a job anywhere . . . with her talent.” I hiccoughed.
Betty offered a kind smile and leaned across her desk. “She doesn’t like to talk about it, but Dylan has had her challenges. Her parents were alcoholics, she struggled with depression, and she was quite the wild child in her teens. She even dropped out of high school.”
“What? I didn’t know that.” I sniffled. “I guess I never asked, and she never offered. But it hardly makes a difference now.”
Betty smiled and patted my hand. “You’re giving her a chance. You’re making a difference in her life because you can. Her cousin, Mike, needed a leg up too. Money can be so tight around here in the off-season. He works several jobs to make ends meet.”
I took a tissue from her desk and wiped my nose. “Uber driver being one of them?”
“Indeed. He’s our local jack-of-all-trades. But my point is, when the Village Bakery went out of business, that poor girl was cleaning hotel rooms and cottages until you came along. You made her a baker once again.”
“I . . . I did do that,” I said, and dried my eyes.
“And what about Rory Campbell?” she continued. “
He barely said boo to anyone until you and Wellington moved next door. So handsome, and so reclusive. You had him working at your bakeshop this morning making lattes! If that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”
The thought of Rory working like a fiend and pulling shots of espresso made me smile.
Betty cocked her head. “Dear, I don’t mean to be pesky, but when was the last time you’ve eaten? You look a bit pale and gaunt. Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten to eat?”
“I tried to eat,” I protested, remembering the delicious plate of eggs I’d made and lost to Wellington.
“You know what the trouble is with your generation?”
I shrugged. “We worry too much?”
“No. Yoga pants. They’re mainstream fashion. You have to be a thin little twig to wear them. It promotes unhealthy eating habits, like skipping meals.” As Betty talked, she picked up the phone. “Harbor Hoagies is just across the street. You must try their tuna salad sub with extra black olives. I won’t hear no for an answer.” Before I could protest, Paige was out the door heading for the sub shop to pick up Betty’s order.
Honestly, it felt good to have a quiet place to think while the lighthouse grounds teemed with police and crime scene investigators. It was also a relief to be in the company of a new friend who had my best interest in mind.
Lunch ended when a middle-aged couple came in, asking about available beachfront properties. I thanked Betty for the sandwich and left her office, feeling much better for having eaten it.
I looked across the street at my lighthouse. Betty was right. Beacon Harbor needed me, now more than ever. I was still shaken by the thought of Mia’s death, but I wasn’t about to take the fall for her murder. Not this street-savvy, New York City girl. I took a deep breath and stepped into the sunshine.
