by Darci Hannah
CHAPTER 17
“What’s going on here?” I demanded, marching up to the first person in uniform I could find. The crime scene tape around the lawn was bad enough, but now a small team of hazmat-suited investigators had invaded my café. One man was snapping pictures while three others wandered the recently cleaned bakery looking for evidence. The officer I confronted was in traditional police blues and a cap, watching the proceedings with mild detachment while nibbling a cookie.
At the sound of my voice, the officer turned and raised the cookie in greeting. “Ms. Bakewell, I presume?”
I’d been expecting a man. The officer confronting me now was a middle-aged woman, thickset and slightly shorter than me. Her dyed-blond hair had been pulled off her face, revealing penetrating brown eyes under a fringe of wispy bangs. Her unsmiling face was highly intimidating.
Shocked, angered, and slightly confused, I pointed at the chocolate-chip cookie in her hand. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be poisoned or something?”
“Interesting that you mentioned poison.” The officer set her cookie on a napkin and hit me with a probing gaze. In that moment I was longing for the kind smile of Officer Tuck.
However, unwise as it might be, my Linds-itude flared. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“Sergeant Stacy Murdock. No, we have not met. Haven’t had a need to meet, until now.”
If I had met Sergeant Murdock at a New York City gala, I would have been impressed as heck by her. Here was a woman in her forties with a tough-as-nails air who’d risen through the ranks of a very demanding profession. That takes a hefty combination of brains, brawn, and pluck. However, meeting her now—on the wrong side of the police crime scene tape—all I felt was a heart-pounding brand of dread. Women were tough, especially when annoyed by another woman. I had the feeling that Sergeant Stacy Murdock had been dragged away from a long-needed vacation on my account. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d been eating one of my cookies. For the life of me I couldn’t tell if she liked or hated it. I took a deep breath and tried another tactic.
“I’m sorry. This is all new to me. It was our opening day, and now I find my bakery is filled with. . . .” I waved a hand at the white-suited workers.
“This is called investigating the scene of the crime, Ms. Bakewell. A woman who was known to you was murdered on the premises this morning. You offered poison as a possible murder weapon. I find that very interesting.”
Good job, Linds, I screamed at myself while consciously softening my tone. “I was being impertinent,” I apologized. “I’ve just come from the police station, where I was questioned by Officer McAllister. He said that you were at the hospital talking to Jeffery Plank, Mia’s . . . I mean, the victim’s boyfriend. I also learned that the suspected cause of death was poison, most likely cyanide.”
Sargent Murdock, guarded, calculating, tilted her head as she narrowed her gaze. “He told you all that, did he?”
“He did,” I said defensively, thinking of the sweet, utterly scrumptious Officer Tuck. “Because he knows as well as I do that I didn’t murder that woman.”
“Really?” Her tone oozed cynical intrigue. “And what would bring him to that conclusion?”
“My honest plea of innocence as well as the fact that it would be a terrible business decision. The mere fact that I’ve sunk a lot of cash into this old lighthouse—have worked my tail off decorating, baking, hiring good people, and marketing for opening day—should tell you that I’d never sabotage my dream bakery by murdering one of my customers.”
A corner of her unadorned mouth lifted slightly. “Does it? Rumor is, money’s not really an issue with you. For all I know, this whole lighthouse bakery endeavor could be the perfect setup to murder your rival.”
My jaw dropped. “Rival? That woman was hardly my rival.”
“I’m well aware of your relationship with the deceased.”
“Good!” I snapped. “Because if Jeffery didn’t tell you at the hospital, I’ll tell you now. I moved here to wash my hands of them both.”
Without creasing her deadpan face, Sergeant Murdock added, “Just like you washed away all the evidence from your bakery cases, floors, and counters?”
“Wah, wah . . . what?” I stuttered as my stomach quivered with a painful ache. I looked at my bakery. Earlier this morning, Mia and Fiona had done their utmost to trash it, smashing donuts against the cases and spilling coffee everywhere. Dylan and her nervous energy, bless her, had made it presentable again—in the hopes that we could reopen for lunch. Was that a crime? According to the look on the sergeant’s face, it very well might be.
“Your bakery. It’s been cleaned,” she repeated. “Tampering with a crime scene is a federal offense.”
“But . . . but we didn’t know this was a crime scene when we straightened up the place. This is a bakery. Cleanliness is just as important to us as creating delectable baked goods. The café and bakery counters were filthy, thanks to Mia Long and her friends. Mia started it, but Fiona Dickel and her protesters were happy to jump in and lend a hand. They vandalized my bakery on opening day! This is a place of business, after all. Once Mia was whisked away by the ambulance, we thought we might be able to reopen for lunch,” I explained.
“Really? Well, that is optimistic of you.” Sergeant Murdock was obviously going to expound on that thought when she was pulled away by one of the men collecting evidence. A moment later she returned. “Your bakery’s remarkably clean. We’re going to be taking your trash as evidence. And since you live on the same premises as your place of business, we’re going to need to search your home as well.”
“Fine,” I replied stoically. “I’ve nothing to hide. Anything else?”
“Actually, yes.” She paused and held up her hand. “I want to know how you baked such a perfect cookie. The flavor’s extraordinary, and you’ve managed to get the right amount of crunch and chewiness in every bite. I’ve heard that your donuts are good too.”
“They are,” I told her. “And I assure you, Mia Long didn’t die from eating them.”
“They need a warrant, Linds!” Kennedy, blocking the door with her body, glared at me. She was also blocking Wellington, who had no idea what the excitement was all about but felt he should jump in with a series of earth-shattering barks. “That’s the law,” she added above the noise.
“I know the law,” I soothed, trying to calm her down. “But they don’t need a warrant if I agree to let them search, which I am.”
“Really? Do you think that’s wise?” Kennedy eyed the sergeant and her team as if they were a band of pesky teenagers. “Without consulting a lawyer? They think you’re a murderer!”
“But I’m not. Wellington, down!” With my dog under control, I stepped back, allowing Murdock access to my cozy lighthouse home.
Kennedy, Wellington, and I stayed outside while the police snooped around, looking for God only knew what. If they were indeed on the lookout for cyanide, they were going to be disappointed.
“What if someone is trying to frame you?” Kennedy offered, casting a nervous sideways glance at the lighthouse. “What if they planted a bottle of, you know, that poison stuff in your house?”
“Cyanide, you mean?” It was a troubling thought. “Very few people enter my house. Besides, if there was a bottle of cyanide, I doubt it would have my fingerprints on it. Without my fingerprints, they couldn’t link me to the crime.” As I spoke, I noticed the frightened way Kennedy was looking at me.
“How do you know so much about cyanide and crime scenes?” she asked. “You didn’t . . . have anything to do with Mia’s death, did you?”
“What?” I cried, looking at her. Wellington, hearing the excited tone of my voice, lifted his head. He’d been drinking lake water, which now dripped from his droopy jowls as he pranced back to where we stood. “You know I didn’t kill Mia. Why would I?”
Behind the flawless tawny skin, I thought I saw her blanch. “Right,” she was quick to add. “I was just making sure that y
ou still despise Jeffery. I mean, if you still have feelings for him . . . ?”
“Stop right there.” I held up a hand. I’d known Kennedy a long time. She wasn’t one to beat around the bush, like she was doing now. I could tell there was something she wasn’t telling me. I then recalled the way she had looked when she had burst into the bakery kitchen, running after Wellington with Officer Cutie Pie fast on her heels. She’d been upset; she was on the verge of an apology. The very memory caused a twinge of dread. “Look,” I told her. “We need to talk. But not here, and not while scary Sergeant Murdock is searching my home for evidence.”
CHAPTER 18
After a long morning of baking, the excitement of opening day, and the real sorrow and horror of murder, I was zonked. I wanted nothing more than to shower, crawl beneath my covers, and sleep for an entire day but couldn’t. Kennedy had a secret to tell me, and we were going to talk.
Sergeant Murdock and her team had left the lighthouse after performing a thorough search of the bakery, living quarters, and grounds. The sergeant, far from being warm and friendly, said very little about her findings. What she did tell me was that I wasn’t to leave town and that the bakery would remain closed until further notice. Before she left, however, she asked to purchase a dozen cookies.
“For my kids,” she stated gruffly, taking the bag off the counter. “Not much of a baker myself.”
“Because you’re too busy fighting crime and busting up bodies in Beacon Harbor, right?”
Sergeant Murdock stared at me a moment with her unsmiling eyes, then left the bakery. I gave a slight shiver, locked the bakery door after her, and sought the comfort of my cozy lighthouse kitchen.
I had one more task left, and that was to play hardball with Kennedy, wooing her with a comforting meal and taking her off guard with a bottle of good wine. And I knew just the meal to make her. Wellington, a slave to his belly, was fed first, primarily to stop the drooling and the pleading eyes. Once he was happily gobbling his kibble, I opened my fridge and began pulling out my ammunition—a pound of fresh chicken breasts, a pound of large white mushrooms, butter, onion, garlic, potatoes, and a bottle of dry Marsala wine. I was going to make one of Kennedy’s favorite meals, my dad’s famous Chicken Marsala over garlic mashed red potatoes. It was one of the few meals Mom really went to town on at home, forgetting all her strict dietary rules and enjoying the delicious crispy chicken smothered with mushrooms sautéed in plenty of butter and Marsala wine sauce. As for the garlic mashed potatoes, they were simply to die for. Kennedy, who idolized my mom, shared her enthusiasm for the dish.
“Whatcha making?” she asked, sauntering into the kitchen in designer jeans and a cute billowy-sleeved top.
“Your favorite. While I get things ready, why don’t you uncork that bottle of pinot grigio I picked up in Traverse City?”
“Chicken Marsala—and a bottle of pinot? It wasn’t exactly a successful grand opening, but I’m willing to celebrate.” Kennedy grabbed the corkscrew and grinned, totally misunderstanding the meaning of the meal, which was fine by me. “As a New Yorker from London,” she began, uncorking the wine, “who vacations regularly in France, it’s hard to admit, but these local wines are quite good.” She poured two glasses and was about to plop down at my kitchen table when I stopped her.
“Before you get too comfortable, mind helping me with the mushrooms? It’s been a long day, and I’d love the help.”
“No problem. I’m famished. I’ll do anything if it’ll help get the food on the table faster.”
As Kennedy washed and sliced mushrooms, I started on the tiny red potatoes, washing them, cutting them in half and putting them in a pot of salted water. While the potatoes were cooking on the stove, and a bulb of garlic was roasting in the oven, I turned my attention to the chicken breasts. The key to a delicious Chicken Marsala is a tender, crisp, flavorful chicken breast. For this I liked to cut the plump breasts in half, tenderize them a bit with a mallet, then season each thin cutlet with salt, pepper, and dried garlic. Before the breasts went into the hot pan with melted butter, I liberally sprinkled each with flour then shook off the excess. The frying chicken smelled heavenly. Once browned and perfectly cooked, I removed them to a warm oven and began sautéing the mushrooms Kennedy had prepared. As the mushrooms cooked, I added two cloves of roasted garlic, a tablespoon of finely chopped onion, a tablespoon of tomato paste, and a cup of Marsala wine. As the wine cooked off and the mushroom sauce began to reduce, I added the last few spices, oregano, and a little freshly chopped parsley. All that was left to do was to mash the potatoes using butter, half-and-half, another two cloves of roasted garlic, and salt and pepper.
“Smells amazing, Linds!” Kennedy exclaimed, waving the essence of the meal toward her nose. She was nearly drooling like my dog as her eyes held to the two plates of crisp chicken cutlets slathered in savory Marsala mushroom sauce over garlic mashed potatoes. I had no sooner placed them on the table than Wellington lifted his head. His silky black ears perked just before letting out an earth-shattering bark. Sensing the arrival of a friend, he rushed the door with his tail wagging like a flag.
“Am I interrupting?” Rory asked, walking into the kitchen. The look of concern on his face was genuine. I hadn’t seen him since I’d been taken down to the police station for questioning.
“Please join us,” I said, welcoming him to take a seat at the table. “Kennedy and I are just about to eat dinner. I’ve made plenty.”
My plan had been to get Kennedy to tell me her secret. However, with Rory there I wasn’t sure that was a great idea. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust Rory. In fact, I perhaps trusted him a bit too much. He was ex-military, had served his country, was totally hunky, and was a genuinely good guy. Sure, he was a bit reclusive and secretive about his comings and goings, but all this I chalked up to his writing process. I mean, the guy was working on a military spy thriller or something. I’m sure he needed his privacy. No, I trusted Rory. It was more the fact that he had seen Kennedy’s working side—her pushy promoter persona—and he hadn’t liked it one bit. He might judge her harshly were she to reveal that she might have goaded Mia and Jeffery the moment she’d spotted them outside the bakery. Or maybe she hadn’t. I honestly didn’t know what she had done.
Hungry, tired, exchanging pleasantries, we all attacked the food on our plates with zeal, each of us mindful of digging too deeply into the morning’s debacle or the matter of murder. Then, having eaten half his meal, Rory suddenly set down his fork.
“I never imagined it would be so dangerous living next to you,” he stated, looking squarely at me.
The moment the comment had been spoken, my mouth went instantly dry. I swallowed painfully before apologizing. “Again, I’m terribly sorry. But I really had nothing to do with Mia’s death.”
The intense look on Rory’s face melted. “I know that. What I meant was, this meal. It’s one of the top five meals I’ve ever had. Is everything you make delicious?”
“Pretty much,” Kennedy answered, leaning on her elbows. “And please indulge us, what were the other four meals that topped this?”
Rory took the challenge. “The fresh-caught king salmon I landed and cooked on the banks of the Kenai River in Alaska. Steaks fresh from an elk I tracked for three days in the mountains of Wyoming. Walleye pulled from Lake Wabatongushi in Canada . . .”
“Good gracious!” Kennedy exclaimed. “Those are all wild meats—all animals you killed!”
Rory stared her down, ticking his fourth finger, while adding defiantly, “My mother’s lasagna, and now Lindsey’s chicken and mushroom dish.”
“Chicken Marsala,” Kennedy corrected, casting me a grin. “It’s one of my very favorite meals. I know I came off a bit overreaching today, Rory dear, and I do apologize. Perhaps we can repair some of that damage out of our love for this meal.”
“Great idea,” I said, refilling their wineglasses. The meal had fortified my nerves, and I was feeling courageous. “We were all a bit on edge a
t the news of Mia’s death. Which brings me to this afternoon—right at the point when we learned that Mia had died en route to the hospital. You came bursting into the kitchen, Kennedy, looking distraught and ready to apologize for something, but you never got the chance.”
Kennedy, ready to take a sip of wine, stilled and set the glass back on the table. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows drew closer in consternation as her gaze held mine. “I, um . . . about that. I was probably overreacting.”
“Undoubtedly.” Rory shot her a stern, military look. “I’ve only just met you, but even I knew that you’ve been acting wonky all day. Your behavior, it’s been suspicious from the start—the guerilla marketing routine, dressing up Wellington and parading him around the town under the guise of drumming up business.”
“Because I was drumming up business!” Kennedy glared back at him.
“True, but you were also up to something else. Nobody acts so crass and pushy without being up to something.”
“Kennedy does,” I added, coming to her defense. I was shocked and a little disturbed that Rory was going after her. However, he had been there too. He had seen her burst into the kitchen looking panicked. I never thought he’d suspect her of foul play.
Taking matters into my own hands, I said very gently, “Kennedy, you know something about Mia’s murder. We both know that you do, so now’s the time to talk. Look, you’re among friends here. We’re not going to judge you, but we do need to know what you were going to tell me.”
“He’s going to judge me!” She jabbed an expensively manicured finger at Rory. “He’s been judging me since I got here.”
“Because you stick out like a sore thumb.”
“She does too!” Kennedy tilted her head in my direction.
“In a good way!” Rory defended, continuing to stare her down like the poor elk he’d shot in Wyoming.
