Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  “Yes, thank you. But he was working that espresso machine like a champ, pulling espresso for all the lattes, cappuccinos, mochas and Americanos people were ordering. He was also pouring coffee from the pots as well. You were outside, but behind the counter we were all pitching in, helping fill orders.”

  “And you think he saw Mia stomping up to the counter and stirred a little cyanide into her coffee—for the heck of it?”

  I thought about that. It didn’t seem right, but I had little time to ponder why. My train of thought was broken by a basket of rolls plopped between us, immediately followed by a curt, “Ladies.”

  At the sound of the voice, Kennedy and I sprang apart like a couple of note-passing teenagers. “Oh, hello, hon,” waitress Karen said, recognizing me. “The jeans and T-shirt threw me off. Is it just you two tonight, or will you be expecting another?” The way she said “another” left little doubt as to whom she was referring to.

  “Just us,” I quickly assured her.

  Karen gave a curt nod and took our drink order. She was just about to head to the next table when she stopped. “Hey, so what’s going on with your lighthouse bakeshop? Heard some woman died there yesterday. That’s a pretty bad omen for an opening day, if you ask me.”

  “She didn’t ask you,” Kennedy shot back, faster than a guard dog’s bite. “And we don’t believe in omens. The lady was murdered.”

  “What?” That got her attention. “No one said anything about murder.”

  “How did you know about my bakeshop?” I asked her.

  “Gossip, hon. It’s Memorial Day weekend. Everybody’s out and about. And everybody talks. Heard Rory was behind the counter helping you out. Nice touch using a red-blooded, all-American hunk like him. Had I known about it earlier, I would have come to your bakeshop too. So, where is he tonight? You two have a falling-out or something?”

  “Falling-out?” I questioned, blushing and scrunching my nose at the same time. “We’re not . . . a thing. Just friends.”

  “Right. Next thing you’ll be telling me is Ms. Glam over here shops at Walmart.” It was meant as a joke, yet Kennedy rose to the remark like a challenged lioness.

  “Two things, darling,” she said, staring at our waitress. “First, nobody knows what Lindsey and Rory are, including them. They’re still in the exploratory stage of their relationship. Secondly, I have been in a Walmart—during my college days. Where else could I get toilet paper, crisps, biscuits, and a stout pair of wellies in the same stop? Now Amazon Prime and Alexa handle the dirty work for me. I like you, Karen. So, tell us. Were you and Rory ever an item?”

  Karen laughed with the force and vigor of a donkey. “I wish. Married, with three children, and a proud Walmart shopper to boot. I’ll get the lemon water for Ms. Bakewell straightaway and see about that bottle of Chablis for you, hon.”

  The moment Karen left, I shot Kennedy a look. “You’re scaring her. And did you have to order a whole bottle of wine? Don’t you think you should cut back a little? We’re working, after all.”

  “Thanks to you, I only have two vices left, blogging about fashion and wine. Leave me something,” she dramatically proclaimed. Although Kennedy was mostly joking, we both knew she was referring to her former real addiction to shopping. Thankfully, with my help, she had slayed that demon before it destroyed her.

  “I’m not having a glass,” I told her, looking around the crowded dining room. It was Saturday night and the tables were filling fast. No wonder waitress Karen always looked a bit frazzled.

  “Who are you?” she mocked, referring to my lack of will to drink a glass with her. “Beacon Harbor’s changed you. In New York you were always in your Wall Street tower counting money. Now you’re frying donuts, conversing with a ghost, and chasing after a backwoods enigma who just might be a closet poisoner. You picked a strange day to give up wine, Lindsey, darling.”

  “We don’t know that Rory’s a murderer. God, I hope he isn’t. But the fact is, the cyanide was in the coffee.”

  “You said he’s writing a book,” Kennedy probed, then stared at the moose head prominently placed on the far wall. It was then I recalled my first visit to this restaurant. It had been my first date with Rory. He’d worn a jacket and jeans: I was wearing a dress by Chanel.

  “Maybe there’s a New York connection,” I told her. “The first time I came here, Karen thought I was his agent.”

  “As in literary agent?” She laughed. “Do you even read?”

  “Yes, I do. Although these days it’s mostly recipe books. I’ve been busy baking.” I mock-sneered in her direction and pressed on. “What if he really has an agent? What if he’s been to New York City to meet with him or her? We know Rory likes meat. He’s a hunter, after all. He could have dined in Jeffery’s restaurant, Sizzle. That could be the connection!”

  “Good heavens!” Kennedy arched a professionally shaped brow and picked up a roll. “There are twenty-four thousand restaurants in Manhattan alone, and you think he went to Sizzle?”

  “It’s a popular restaurant,” I countered.

  “Was popular,” she corrected. “But let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that he dines at Jeffery’s restaurant. He’d have to be served a very gamy steak to exact a revenge like poison. And I say very gamy because the man’s a hunter and he’s obviously eaten plenty of gamy meat.” Kennedy flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and took a bite of her roll.

  “He’d ask for his money back,” I offered logically. “And even if he did go to Sizzle, it’s doubtful he’d ever see Mia. She was a pastry chef, not a server.”

  We both sat at the table nibbling rolls, pondering a possible connection between Rory and Mia, when Karen returned with our drinks. “It’s a screw cap, hon,” she slowly explained to Kennedy, pouring out a glass of Chablis from the bottle she’d ordered. “I’m leaving it with you so you can take the rest home.” Kennedy had opened her mouth, a snarky comment sitting on her tongue just waiting to be launched, when I cut in with a question about Rory’s agent.

  “Oh, I don’t know if he’s got one. You just looked the part. I did know that he was writing a book. He liked to talk about it. He also liked asking questions about Beacon Harbor and the surrounding area.”

  “What kinds of questions did he ask?” I was curious to know.

  “Local fishing hot spots, local history and legends, hunting, that sort of thing. Once, however, he did break from his usual friendly banter by asking about recreational drug use among the local population, particularly the teens. Told him we have our share of opioid overdoses up here as well. I think he was trying to escape that element, but there’s no escaping it.”

  “Did he ever talk about cyanide, or inquire where to buy it?” I proposed the question as nonchalantly as placing a napkin on my lap.

  A puzzled look crossed her face. “Don’t think so. But you might want to ask him yourself. He’s right over there.” Karen pointed to the hostess station, where a throng of hungry diners had gathered. At the back of the crowd, poking a good six inches above the rest, was the unmistakable dark head of Rory Campbell.

  The Moose was a popular place. Panicking, I ran a quick eye over the restaurant. There didn’t appear to be any available tables. I chanced a look back at the crowd and locked eyes with Rory. He smiled and waved. Hope illuminated his face as he spotted our two empty chairs.

  “He’s coming to join us,” I hiss-whispered. Kennedy, having spied him as well, had flipped into panic mode. She was scanning tables, looking for God only knew what.

  “Bingo,” she declared, and plucked the bottle of wine out of Karen’s hand. She stood, picked up her glass, and grabbed my arm. “This table’s available for the next lucky diner. We’re heading over there.”

  I had no idea where there was. I might have protested leaving the comfort of our table if I hadn’t spied Rory weaving his way toward us. I had to admit, he looked spectacularly handsome in his form-fitting Henley and faded jeans. His wavy dark hair had been meticulously comb
ed into place, setting off his deep-set blue eyes to perfection. I hesitated.

  Kennedy, sensing my weakness, tucked the wine bottle under her arm and tightened her grip on me. A moment later I found myself being propelled toward a middle-aged couple who were being led to a table near the back. To my utter surprise it was Betty Vanhoosen and a man of a similar age.

  “We shouldn’t,” I whispered, trying to put on the breaks. “She’s . . . on a date.”

  “She’s your friend,” Kennedy replied. “Friends don’t let friends dine in danger. Now, smile and follow my lead.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The hostess had no sooner plopped down two menus when Kennedy took a seat, surprising everybody. “Betty! What a surprise seeing you here. Mind if we join you?”

  It was obvious that Betty had no idea we’d even been in the dining room. She’d been too absorbed with the man sitting across from her to notice much of anything. Although bald and bespectacled, he had a distinguished air about him. Betty Vanhoosen, I silently mused, you naughty, naughty girl.

  “Lindsey, Kennedy, what are you two doing here?”

  “We came for dinner. We were just about to order when we saw you. Wine, anyone?” Kennedy flashed her most charming smile and held up the bottle.

  Betty and her gentleman were above all else polite and allowed us to join them. The waitress was hailed and sent to retrieve three more wineglasses. Betty was just about to introduce us to her friend, when Rory appeared. He looked miffed.

  “Lindsey. Didn’t you see me?” He was staring at me with an expression reminiscent of Wellington’s whenever I had to leave him home alone. Rory, like Welly, oozed a heady mix of puzzlement and hurt. I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Betty did.

  “Why, Rory. What a pleasant surprise! You must join us too. I insist. Pull up a chair. I was just about to introduce a dear friend of mine. This is Bob Riggles. Bob’s a widower,” she felt inclined to inform us. “His wife and I used to be schoolmates.” Betty leaned forward, her round face glowing with adoration as she stared at the man across from her. “You might be interested to know that Bob is the medical examiner for the county. And guess what? He spent yesterday afternoon digging around in that poor woman’s body—”

  “We prefer the term ‘examined,’” Bob interjected kindly. “Just the standard procedures for an autopsy.”

  “Wait,” Rory said. “You were the doctor who performed the autopsy on Mia Long?” Rory cast me a questioning look.

  The older gentleman nodded. “That’s generally what I do when foul play is suspected.”

  “And guess what he found?” Betty, not to be upstaged by the county medical examiner, was determined to reveal the findings. Unfortunately, Officer Tuck McAllister had already spilled the beans privately to me.

  Kennedy, playing along, offered, “A whole lot of donuts?”

  “Yes. But that’s not all,” Betty proudly informed us. “He found cyanide too, and coffee.”

  The gentleman across from Betty flushed a deep red. “Betty, dear, that’s hardly appropriate information to be dishing out to the public, and over dinner, no less.”

  “They’re not public, Bob. This is Lindsey Bakewell. The woman was murdered in her bakeshop. Rory and Kennedy were there too.”

  Bob, a more cautious man than Betty Vanhoosen, furrowed his bushy white brows as he took in the measure of us. “They were there, you say?” The wheels of his mind were spinning.

  “Don’t you see?” Betty said, grinning as if she was about to release some glorious form of magic into the world. “That’s how the killer did it. The cyanide was put in the coffee. All that poor woman had to do was take a few sips, and boom. Dead as a doornail. Isn’t that right, Bob?”

  Bob hesitated. Staring levelly at the three of us, he answered, “Unfortunately, yes. All three of you were there at the time of that woman’s death?” he asked again.

  “It’s my bakeshop,” I offered plainly. “Kennedy’s my friend from New York. She flew in to help me with my opening day.”

  Rory, sitting quietly in his chair while silently processing what Betty had divulged, offered, “I performed CPR on the victim. She collapsed on the lawn. Her heart had stopped, and she wasn’t breathing.”

  “Interesting,” Kennedy remarked, “since you were the one making all the coffee.”

  Although seemingly launched carelessly, the accusation hit its mark with force. The entire table fell silent and stared at Rory. Betty, taking it one step further, covered her gaping mouth with a hand. A plump, dark-haired waitress chose that moment to appear beside Bob. Smiling, she asked, “What are we having to drink tonight, folks?”

  Kennedy, without looking at the waitress, raised her empty wine bottle. “Another bottle of this, please.”

  “A brandy old-fashioned for me,” Bob added. Like Kennedy, he wasn’t looking at the waitress. The rest of us remained quiet, causing the poor woman to scurry away.

  Rory, fully aware that he was the center of attention, stared straight at me. “You seriously think that I had something to do with that woman’s death?”

  “You were making the coffee,” Betty reminded him, her round, preternaturally pleasant face clouding with worry. She might, after all, be sitting across from a killer.

  “As a favor to Lindsey,” Rory defended. “She asked me to do it. You,” he said, directing his rising anger at me. “You were avoiding me? You saw me coming and abandoned your table. You knew about the cyanide in the coffee, didn’t you?”

  “She might have,” Kennedy coyly informed him. His dark brows furrowed with anger. “That explains the reason you’re here at the Moose. You’re not here for the food, or the ambiance. You’re checking up on me!”

  “Actually, we were going to order something called fried perch. Lindsey insisted.”

  I shot Kennedy a look to zip it, and turned to Rory. “Officer McAllister came to the lighthouse this afternoon. He had a few more questions, which I answered. And, yes, he told me about the cyanide in the coffee. Look, a woman died in my bakeshop. I don’t know what to think.”

  Rory, casting me a look that pierced my heart, slammed his napkin on the table and stood abruptly. Then, without another word, he left the restaurant.

  Kennedy followed him with her eyes. The moment he was gone, she turned back to the table with a conspiratorial grin. “Well, that was awkward. So, darlings, are we still going to order this fried perch, or what?”

  * * *

  We didn’t order the perch. I was upset, and Bob very likely believed that one of us had poisoned the poor woman on his autopsy table. Betty, realizing what she’d done by leaking the sensitive information, had grown upset as well, blubbering apologies and crying into her napkin. As for me, I was racked with guilt from all sides—Rory’s haunting look of disgust, Betty’s ruined date, and Bob’s unconcealed suspicion. Kennedy was also unusually quiet, which, honestly, unnerved me even more. She remained at the table, seemingly mesmerized by the swirling Chablis in her glass. The night had been ruined. The promised fried perch suppers were just going to have to wait. I apologized to Betty and Bob, laid down enough money to cover the drinks, and left the table. Kennedy abandoned both her glass and her bottle, and followed me out of the restaurant.

  We sat in the lantern room eating fast food burgers by candlelight. To our left the twinkling lights of the town and harbor danced along the waterfront. To our right was an endless expanse of darkness broken every now and again by a winking porchlight in the wooded hills. Rory’s cabin, also located on this side, was now as indiscernible as the scalloped shoreline. Yet Kennedy and I preferred the view straight ahead, marveling how the lake seemed as vast as an ocean. It was a moonless night. The stars overhead sparkled like diamonds on an endless sea of black velvet, while the lake below had only a voice by which to recognize it. The measured sound of waves rolling on sand had become so familiar it was akin to a lullaby.

  “He looked so hurt,” I remarked for the tenth time, staring at the blackness beyond the
windows.

  Kennedy shoved a fry into her mouth and followed it with a sip of chocolate shake. “I harken back to my original question. What’s his motive?”

  “You were the one who practically accused him at the table,” I reminded her.

  “Well, yes. Somebody had to do it. We all couldn’t just tiptoe around the elephant in the room, which was the fact that Sir Hunts-a-Lot down there”—she gestured out the window in Rory’s direction—“had access to all the coffee. Don’t you find it odd that he was the one who escorted Mia out of the café, only to perform CPR on her seconds later?”

  “He was removing an annoyance,” I said, then thought about it. Remembering something Officer Tuck had told me, I blurted, “The smell!”

  “That’s just the onions on my burger, Linds. Helps mask the fake-meat flavor.”

  “No, not that. The distinctive smell that cyanide gives off. Tuck said that victims of cyanide poisoning give off an unmistakable almond scent.”

  “We’re on a first-name basis with Tuck, are we? And after only one day!”

  “He insisted.” I ignored her grin. “If Rory knew so much about cyanide, why didn’t he detect it? The moment he started CPR he would have known, wouldn’t he?”

  She had finished her shake yet was still sucking on the straw, making an annoying milky gurgling sound as she stared at me. Finally letting go, she said, “That is troubling. Whether or not he poisoned her, he should have known the signs. And yet he kept at it and said nothing. Why is it that all the gorgeous men turn out to be psychopaths?”

  I shook my head as my stomach churned with a sickening feeling, thinking how easily I had fallen under his spell. First Jeffery and now my uber-hot neighbor. I had taken the fact that Wellington liked him to be a good sign. Welly had always been a good judge of character. For instance, he’d always growled at Jeffery, but maybe my pup had finally sold out his guard dog instincts to his stomach. Fresh-caught fish had turned him. I shook my head as another sickening wave washed over me. “What we have to do now is link him to the crime scene.”