by Darci Hannah
“You didn’t get this from me,” the woman said, adding an arched brow for effect.
After locating Jeffery’s room, the three of us stood before his door. I knocked loud enough to wake the dead, which seemed to do very little. Then, right before I was about to knock again, I heard a muffled voice on the other side asking after our identities.
“Room service,” Kennedy offered. The devious nature of her grin was rewarded a moment later when Jeffery appeared, sleepy, bedraggled, and visibly angry.
“You’re not . . . room service!” Fuming with indignation, he backed into his room like a crab scrambling for cover on an exposed beach. “And, God in heaven, what is she doing here?” While Jeffery might have expected me to come pounding on his door, and while the sight of Dylan holding a rolling pin behind me confused him—not recognizing her from the bakeshop—the effect Kennedy had on him was on another level. She, after all, had led a group of animal rights protesters in a march outside his trendy restaurant. Although sporting a youthful crop-top, fashionable wide-leg pants, a floppy-brimmed hat, and four-inch designer heels, hers, apparently, was the face of destruction.
“No, we are not room service, darling.” Kennedy shot him a pitying look. “We’re old friends who have a bone to pick with you.”
“Yeah,” Dylan chimed in, slapping the rolling pin against the palm of her hand. “Though I’m not your friend. I’m the muscle.” Dylan was fit, but tiny. Jeffery might have smiled had his face not been so painfully contorted with incredulity.
“Mind if we come in?” I took the liberty of pushing past him before he could protest. Kennedy strode in behind me, her high heels clip-clopping on the hardwood floor of his pricy hotel room. Jeffery’s business might be in trouble, but he still traveled in style. Dylan, comfortable in jeans, sweatshirt, and a rolling pin, brought up the rear.
“God, I need a cup of coffee,” he uttered.
In a flash of compassion, I said, “We can make that happen. We may be angry, but we’re not sadists. Dylan, would you mind popping down to the hotel restaurant for a coffee? Do you still take yours with cream?”
As Jeffery nodded, Dylan protested, “Do you think it wise sending me away in the presence of a murderer?” As if wielding a sword, she pointed the rolling pin at Jeffery.
“Murderer?” he snapped. His arrogant gaze homed in on me. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m the murderer? You think I had something to do with . . . to do with . . . ?” His perpetual snobbery was swiftly toppled by destitution. “Oh God,” he moaned and covered his face with his hands.
As Dylan went for coffee, we sat Jeffery down in one of the room’s overstuffed chairs. He was clearly undone by Mia’s death, sobbing into a tissue like a giant, blubbering baby. The word murder had opened the floodgates, so to speak. I was sorry to admit that his current display of emotion was more than he’d ever shown to me.
“I’ve already talked to that police lady,” he whined, looking up from his tissue. “I don’t need to talk to you. You’re not the police. The only thing you have in common with Sergeant Whatsherface is that you both come on way too strong.”
Way too strong . . . like Sergeant Murdock? Why did that remark irk me so? I didn’t have time to give it much thought, however. Instead, I pulled up a chair and cast him a level gaze. “Look, we need to clear the air here.”
“Clear the air? Are you freakin’ kidding me?” His eyes blazed as spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “It doesn’t even make sense,” he spat. “You accuse me of murder when she was eating one of your donuts!” While Jeffery and I stared one another down, Kennedy gingerly took a seat at the end of the king-sized bed, careful not to touch the rumpled sheets. Jeffery looked up from his soiled tissue.
“She was eating my donuts,” I admitted. “But so was everyone else, for that matter. Besides, I couldn’t have killed her. That’s why I’m here. To tell you that I didn’t even know you and Mia were in Beacon Harbor.”
He sneered. “How typical of you, Lindsey! So smug in your own success that you can happily destroy the livelihood of others and sleep peacefully at night. Why wouldn’t we come to Beacon Harbor? It’s not like the whole world didn’t know that after our relationship ended and after you destroyed my career, you left town to open a charming lighthouse bakery. ‘Wall Street’s Golden Girl Follows Her Dream’,” he quoted. “How flipping fabulous for you! And how ignorant of you to think that we wouldn’t be here to give you a little taste of your own medicine. But then”—he paused for a dramatic breath and gasped—“you had to kill my Mia!”
He was about to cry into his tissue again when Kennedy stopped him. “Man up, you sniveling dolt! Didn’t you hear what Lindsey just said? She didn’t know you were coming, therefore she couldn’t have harmed Mia, even if she’d wanted to. Oh, sure, she could have come around the counter to strangle her. The way that crazy donut-smashing diva was acting, she deserved it. But our Lindsey showed an amazing amount of restraint, wouldn’t you say?”
“But she destroyed me!” he accused, shifting his gaze between us.
“And that’s what we’ve come to tell you,” I replied. “I just learned last night what Kennedy had done to your business. I had no idea Sizzle was in trouble, Jeffery. If you’ll remember, I blocked all your calls.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you like. It’s the truth. When I caught you and Mia together, I was so angry and embarrassed that all I wanted to do was bury my head in the sand and run away. I was so sad for us both, Jeffery. I had no inkling that you were so unhappy in our relationship that you would turn to your . . . your pastry chef for love. I felt so betrayed. I felt like an idiot! But I never wanted to destroy you.”
“She didn’t,” Kennedy added. “That was your own doing, Jeffery, boy, by making those insensitive remarks about cows on national television.”
“She’s right, I’m afraid. You started it.”
“And I finished it.” As Kennedy spoke, she elegantly crossed her legs. “You made two mistakes, darling. The first was that you broke my best friend’s heart. The second was making a fool of yourself on national television. I can honestly tell you that Lindsey had no idea what I was doing to you on her behalf.”
Jeffery sat in a near-catatonic state taking it all in. Then, suddenly, he snapped. Emitting a primal growl, he launched himself at Kennedy, aiming for her neck.
Thankfully, he never quite got ahold of his target. Kennedy, being a city girl, knew a thing or two about self-defense. I stood in stupefied horror watching as the two wrestled on the bed like some freakishly mismatched WWF spectacle—a fashion-forward influencer versus a metrosexual celebrity chef. I didn’t know what to do. Quite frankly, I didn’t feel that either one of them was capable of inflicting any real physical harm. Still, it was troubling. Kennedy was tenderizing Jeffery’s face with her rapid-fire hands; Jeffery had resorted to pinching. Thankfully a knock at the door grabbed my attention. It was Dylan, coffee in one hand and rolling pin in the other.
“I knew this would happen.” She shook her head while handing me the coffee. A moment later Jeffery was back in his chair holding on to the cup like a life raft, while Kennedy was safely back on the bed preening her rumpled ensemble like a caged tigress.
“Honestly,” I began, looking at Jeffery, “we didn’t come here to fight. We came here to question you about Mia’s death. Someone who knew she was coming to the Beacon Bakeshop poisoned her, which makes you the most likely suspect.”
“What about her?” Jeffery pointed an accusing finger at Kennedy.
“Poison, really?” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know I’m a woman, but that’s a little too cliché for me.”
I shot her a look imploring her to keep her mouth shut. Obviously, she ignored it.
“Besides,” she continued, “if I was going to snuff that little tart out, I certainly wouldn’t do it in my friend’s bakery. That would look bad for Lindsey, and I want Lindsey to sparkle and shine
. I want her to succeed, which leads us back to you.”
“The vengeful ex-lover,” Dylan added, because she couldn’t resist. “Were you growing tired of Mia too—just like you did with Lindsey? Poisoning her in the bakeshop would be the perfect foil.”
It was a moment before Jeffery’s jaw engaged. When it did, he cried, “No, I didn’t bump off my girlfriend! And why should I talk to you three? Clearly, you are all deranged.”
“If I appear a little deranged, it’s because somebody murdered Mia Long in my bakeshop, Jeffery, and I want answers!”
“And I want answers too. Your vicious friend ruined me, Lindsey! I’m bankrupt.” He threw up his hands in defeat, and for the first time since barging into his hotel room, I felt truly sorry for him.
Having worked in the world of finance, I knew that bankruptcy was the death knell of any business. That was bad enough. I couldn’t even imagine what it might mean for a rising celebrity chef. It would take a miracle to come back from such ruin. I suddenly realized that I just might be able to summon a little miracle of my own for him. I looked Jeffery square in the eye and asked, “Do you want a second chance?”
“A second chance? Ha! How can you offer me a second chance?”
“Not me,” I said. “Kennedy. She has the power to fix the little problem that you and she caused.”
“I do?” Apparently, in Kennedy’s world, once her opinion was known, there were no takesie-backsies. But this was our best bargaining chip, and for the sake of my bakery, I was going to use it.
“You do, Kennedy, but only if Jeffery is willing to cooperate.”
Jeffery offered a pathetic laugh. “Good try, but what can she do? Nobody is willing to touch me now. The damage has been done. Thanks to your friend, Plank It! is tanking at the bookstores. I’ll never get another book deal. And because she made my restaurant the laughingstock of New York City, I can’t even give my meals away.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you started insulting cows on national television!” I admonished. “Cows are not only intelligent animals, but they’re the darlings of the farmyard.” Being a city girl, I didn’t really know if this was true, but I didn’t care. I was trying to make a point.
“Gentle giants of the prairie, they are, with kindly souls and heart-melting gazes.” I looked to Dylan for support, thinking she’d know a bit more about cows than Kennedy or me. She nodded, urging me on. “They can’t help it if they taste amazing,” I continued. “And because they do, they should be treated with dignity and respect. Let’s start there. You answer our questions about Mia, and Kennedy will do a podcast with you from my bakery.”
Kennedy, embracing the idea, shot Jeffery a challenging look.
“You can humble yourself before millions on the internet,” I added enticingly. “You can apologize for the insensitive things you’ve said about cows. Kennedy can even help you rebrand yourself as an animal advocate, championing small farms that treat their animals humanely, and using only organically raised meats in your restaurant. I’m giving you the chance to make amends with the public and save your business. All you have to do is answer our questions.”
He took a sip of coffee and stared out the picture window. Although rain and wind tormented the dark lake, the view from his room was spectacular. He took another sip and said, “I tell you about Mia, and you fix my life? Fair enough.” He shifted his gaze to me. “Let me start by saying that I didn’t kill Mia. I loved her. We’ve been together eight years, ever since culinary school.”
The word love struck me. “When you say ‘together,’ are you referring to your friendship?”
His laugh was chilling. “Friends? We were far more than that, Lindsey. We were partners, soul mates. You and I?” He shrugged. “She encouraged that. You were our plan for success.”
CHAPTER 22
“Narcissistic pig!” I cried the moment we left the hotel room, purely to keep myself from falling to the ground in a puddle of rain and tears.
It had been the hardest ten minutes of my life, hearing how Jeffery’s crazy, ambitious pastry chef girlfriend had encouraged him to date me, although they were already lovers and partners in the restaurant. I’d met Jeffery during the private cooking lessons Kennedy and two other friends had surprised me with for my thirty-second birthday. I’d been dating a wealthy day trader at the time and had dumped him for the psychopath who had been using me for my money and connections. The marriage that I had narrowly escaped, purely because the idiot couldn’t keep his hands off crazy Mia, would have been a disaster. He nearly stole both my soul and my money! Thank goodness the pair had thwarted their own best efforts by being careless. I felt used and horrible. And yet, as terrible as the whole confession had been, I felt a little vindicated as well.
I had escaped.
I lived in Michigan and owned a historic lighthouse and bakeshop café. How ironic that one of my coveted connections, as Jeffery had termed them, had done her best to destroy him on my behalf! We hadn’t even known the whole story then. Truthfully, I could have lived the rest of my life happily ignorant of their deceit. But Mia’s death had changed all that. With the promise of redemption dangling before him, Jeffery had squealed like a cornered pig. He explained how Mia had pushed him to open Sizzle. Mia had created the menu. It had been Mia’s idea to cook pricey cuts of meat on different surfaces. Mia had pushed for the book deal. Mia, apparently, had been the brains behind the celebrity chef. Although he swore that he hadn’t slipped her a deadly dose of poison, I didn’t believe him. Jeffery’s star was falling. He was defeated and desperate. I could only imagine what that might do to a diva-tyrant like Mia Long.
We were nearly to my car when Kennedy took hold of my arm. “I just want to state for the record, Linds, that your taste in men is truly stupefying.”
“If you mean terrible,” Dylan quipped, “I agree.”
“How could I have been so stupid?” I felt as if I had just stepped out of a pool of used fryer grease. All the hot water in Beacon Harbor couldn’t wash the slime from me. “Of all the available men in New York City, why that idiot?”
“Maybe because he could cook,” Dylan suggested matter-of-factly. “You’re a baker, like me, so food is important to you. Finding a man who can cook is the equivalent of Prince Charming, am I right? We can’t help it. It’s sexy. My Carl can be a real jerk, too, sometimes, but he works a grill like a wizard uses his wand. I hate to admit it, but his slow-cooked brisket is like a happy pill. One bite and I forget why I was mad at him in the first place.”
“His food was sublime,” I admitted. “Jeffery had talent; he charmed me. Still . . .” I shook my head in dismay.
“Well, on the bright side, darlings, we just may have found our killer. Anyone mercenary enough to marry a woman they didn’t love wouldn’t have any problem bumping off another ‘inconvenience.’ The question now is, do I even follow through with the podcast? We could retract it on the grounds of deception and villainy.”
“We made a promise,” I reminded Kennedy. “Although he’s a cheating, lying worm of a man, he did give us the names of Mia’s friends. They accompanied her all the way to Michigan. They were helping her destroy my bakeshop. Although he said that they were all on good terms, as far as he knew, maybe one of them wasn’t. Maybe one of them planned to bump her off in my bakeshop and put the blame on me?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Dylan said. “We need to talk with them before they fly back to New York. Since they’re all staying here, I say we pay them a little visit.”
“Excellent idea. But before we go knocking on any more hotel room doors, I think it’s best you lose the rolling pin.”
The first name on our list was Mia’s sister, Abby Long, whom we found in the hotel restaurant having breakfast with the rest of Mia’s entourage. The women were sitting at a table by the window, sipping tea and picking at their pricey restaurant meals—eggs Benedict, gourmet omelets, French toast stuffed with apple, Belgian waffles smothered in berries
and whipped cream. Although the food looked delicious, the mood was somber.
“Abby?” I addressed a young woman who shared a striking resemblance to the recently departed.
“I’m Lulu,” the woman said and was about to point to the woman in question when she cried, “You’re that baker woman! You killed my cousin! Police! Police!”
If I thought we could sneak into the dining room unnoticed, I was wrong. Lulu was throwing a fit; all heads turned, and a man came flying out of the kitchen.
“Ladies! Ladies, what’s going on here?” The man, lean, tidy, and somewhere in his early forties, had the distinct look of a manager. His was about to handle the situation when he spied Dylan standing next to me. His face, already an unhealthy shade of red, flushed even darker. “Dilly?” he questioned. “What are you doing here?”
Dilly? Kennedy mouthed to me with delight. I ignored her.
“The to-go coffee was so good, Chad, I just had to come back for a refill.” Dylan’s voice was full of sarcasm as she challenged him with her eyes.
“I thought you were being helpful,” he looked down on her in a belittling manner, “bringing a cup to a grieving man. But I cannot allow you and your friends to come into my dining room and bother our guests.”
“They’re murderers!” one of the women exclaimed.
“We are not murderers,” I assured him in my sweetest voice. “Chad, is it? I don’t believe we’ve met.” I extended my hand to him. “I’m Lindsey Bakewell.”
“You’re the newcomer in town,” he stated, as if my identity had just dawned on him. “You’re the owner of that lighthouse bakery.”
“I am.” I smiled and introduced Kennedy. Dylan, he already knew. “We’re not here to cause trouble. These ladies came to my bakeshop yesterday. Their friend had an unfortunate accident. We’ve come to extend our condolences. In fact,” I remarked, having a brain flash, “I’d be honored if these ladies let me pick up their bill.”
“And while you’re tallying it up, darling,” Kennedy addressed the man as she placed a chair between two of Mia’s grieving friends, “why don’t you bring us a few of those coffees as well.”
