Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  “We?” Kennedy shot me a look. “Oh, no-no, Lindsey, dear. We’ve done more than our share already. We’ve learned that Jeffery’s a wanker and that Mia’s friends are sycophants. But Rory, he’s way out of our league. He’s been trained by the military to kill people.”

  “That may be, but he also knows a lot about cyanide. He was making the coffee and he was the person who escorted Mia out to the lawn, where she collapsed. He then started CPR, which he continued until the paramedics came. Those are the facts. What we don’t know is how he brought the cyanide into the bakeshop—”

  “Or why he’d want to kill a woman he’s never met before.” Kennedy grabbed her empty cup and wrappers and shoved them into the bag. “We’re going around in circles here. All this talk of murder—and very likely that cheeseburger—is hurting my head. I say we sleep on it until morning. Then maybe we should consider paying Jeffery boy another visit. Maybe he knows of a connection between Rory and Mia?”

  “Maybe he does,” I agreed, and picked up my trash as well. Kennedy, turning on her cell phone flashlight, headed down the circular stairs. I had just blown out the candles when I noticed a light far across the water. I watched it for a minute, thinking it was a boat, but it didn’t appear to be moving. Also, I had learned that boats at night ran with several lights clearly visible: a white stern light, a red port light, and a green starboard light. The light in the distance was only one hazy white light, and it seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. As I continued to stare at the lone point in the blackness, a cold burst of wind hit the back of my neck, while the faint smell of pipe smoke tickled my nose. My skin prickled of its own accord, giving me an unsettling feeling that perhaps I wasn’t alone. That’s when I noticed another dim light, bobbing far down the beach. I stared at it a moment and watched it disappear. The light on the horizon had also vanished. I blinked and stared again, thinking that maybe I had imagined it.

  “Linds, are you coming?”

  “Yes,” I cried, and flipped on my phone light. Without looking back, I ran down the three flights of circular stairs as fast as my legs would carry me.

  CHAPTER 28

  Kennedy retired to her room without a care, which was fine by me. There was no reason to tell her about the unsettling feeling I’d had in the lantern room or the strange vanishing lights I thought I had seen. Even as Welly and I took our nightly walk down the beach, I was still trying to rationalize what I had experienced. Maybe it had just been my overactive imagination combined with the reflection of a particularly bright star. But as Wellington strained toward the lake at the end of his leash, I was forced to realize that my starlight theory was ridiculous. The stars overhead were too remote, and the waves crashed onshore with force. Welly didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He loved the water almost as much as he loved chasing seagulls. He loved the way it drenched his thick fur, and that he could drink as much of it as he pleased, hence the reason our nightly walks were conducted on a leash.

  After Welly was given his cookies and tucked into bed, I climbed into my own bed, but not to sleep. I was too keyed up and needed some answers. I leaned against the mound of pillows and opened my laptop instead, lulled into comfort by the gentle snoring of my dog. Last night someone claiming to be Captain Willy Riggs had contacted me via my computer. Whoever was typing with me, be it man or ghost, seemed to believe that Jeffery was a person of interest, which he turned out to be in more ways than one. Jeffery might not have been the one to slip Mia a deadly dose of poison, but he had revealed a very damaging truth to me. He had also pointed us in the direction of Mia’s friends. Thanks to Officer Tuck and the medical examiner, Bob Riggles, we now knew more about the cyanide poisoning that had killed Mia. It had been delivered through the coffee she drank, which had caused us all to point a finger at Rory Campbell. Having access to the coffee, he seemed to be the obvious source of the poisoning. Yet deep down in my gut, I didn’t believe it. And even more distressing to me was the disappointed look in his eyes as he left the Moose.

  Maybe Captain Willy Riggs didn’t believe it either. After all, if I believed in ghosts, I might be inclined to think that the first keeper of the Beacon Harbor Lighthouse had tried to contact me in the lantern room. And if he had tried to contact me there, it would only follow to reason that he’d pop into my computer and try to type a few lines to me as well. I was at least willing to entertain the thought.

  I started out just as I had last night, by Googling things on the internet. The first thing that struck my curiosity was the Captain himself. I wanted to learn a little bit more about him as a man, not as a legend, and what might have happened on the night he died. I read up on the United States Lighthouse Board and soon landed on a database in the National Archives. To my amazement, the original logbook of the Beacon Harbor Lighthouse had been preserved, all the old pages digitized and available for me to peruse. After meandering down that rabbit hole for over an hour, and making what I thought was a notable discovery, I decided to turn my sights from Captain Willy and educate myself on ghosts. I wound up watching a slew of spooky videos on YouTube of ghostly encounters.

  After watching about four of them, I began to catch a pattern. They were all shot in poor lighting, the actors (and I use the term loosely) were all overreacting to small noises or things the camera just happened to miss. And the ever-popular declarations of, “Oh my God, it just touched me!” could never be proven. My personal favorite was a video of a coffee mug sliding across the counter of some shabby kitchen in the UK. At one point I even spied the glint of what I believed to be fishing line that had been attached to the handle. Lame, I thought. All you ghosts are so lame.

  I was about to fall asleep when the screen on my computer flashed brightly then went dark. Although I had been expecting it, the suddenness with which it happened sent my heart racing. “How on earth are you doing this?” I floated the question to the room at large and held my breath, waiting for the electronic words. A moment later they appeared.

  Has the angry lady been avenged?

  It was his opening salvo, and just like the night before I found it utterly chilling. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then typed, Good evening, Captain. And the answer to your question is no. The angry lady has not been avenged. Although I knew that whoever it was typing with me had meant Mia, I took the question a little more personally. I was, after all, an angry lady too. My bakery’s opening day had been ruined. And I had not yet been avenged.

  There was a slight pause and then the words: Was it not the boyfriend?

  For some reason that question depressed me. If I was, in fact, conversing with a ghost, I would have thought he’d have better insider knowledge. After all, he was the one who suggested, and rather cryptically too, the boyfriend. I thought he was on to something. I thought, albeit wrongly, that ghosts could float around and get inside people’s heads and learn the truth. I was either conversing with a totally lame ghost, or I wasn’t conversing with a ghost at all.

  Actually, I typed, the boyfriend turned out to be a bust. He couldn’t have done it. The “angry lady” drank coffee laced with cyanide. The boyfriend wasn’t close enough to slip it into her coffee. There! Take that, I thought.

  She was poisoned?

  I grimaced and shook my head as I replied, I thought you knew that.

  She died an untimely death.

  Yes, and the police still don’t know who killed her.

  You need to dig deeper, Lindsey Bakewell.

  I gave a little grunt at this. Like I didn’t know that already. I’d been racking my brain for two days trying to figure out who had murdered Mia Long, and why. I am trying, I told the Captain. Then confided, Another name keeps popping up as well. It answers the question of how, but not why. And, truthfully, it makes me uncomfortable just to think about it.

  You are referring to the Hunter.

  That sent a chill up my spine! There was only one hunter I knew, and his name was Rory Campbell. Unfortunately, he’d been on my mind all night. Wh
oever was typing with me was doing a good job of creeping me out yet again. I took a deep breath and called on my inner New Yorker to answer this one. Can you please be a little more specific? This is Michigan, after all. Everybody hunts.

  A moment later I watched the words slowly appear on the screen: The Hunter-Soldier.

  Do you mean Rory Campbell?

  Yes.

  Is he the killer? I hated myself for even typing those words, but I had to consider it.

  The hunter-soldier has secrets.

  I rolled my eyes at the computer screen. Yes, I’m well aware. A real tall, dark, and silent type. But I was the one who asked him to make the coffee. I can’t honestly think of a reason for him to poison a woman he didn’t know.

  Then you must ask him.

  I was about to counter this when the screen flashed, beeped, and sprang back to life, depositing me exactly where I’d left off. Another video of a lame ghost encounter was about to load. With my heart tripping loudly in my chest, I closed the screen and shut my laptop.

  Rory Campbell, I thought . . . or the hunter-soldier, according to the thing messing with my computer. But whoever it was typing with me was correct. I needed to confront Rory. He deserved at least that much. Rory was the first real friend I’d made in Beacon Harbor. He’d shown me nothing but kindness since I’d arrived. For heaven’s sake, I had kissed him and still harbored fantasies of doing a heck of a lot more than that. If Rory Campbell had a reason to poison Mia, maybe he’d share it with me. Whatever the case, I was going to pay him a visit in the morning.

  I’d had no idea how long I’d been sleeping when I awoke to the sound of Wellington barking. I sprang up in bed, my heart pounding with fright as my dream swiftly faded from memory. Wellington was at the window. The curtains had been thrust aside, his giant head pressed to the screen. A light breeze fluttered through as he continued barking at something unseen on the lawn. I was about to cross the room and shut the window when I realized that my phone was also ringing. It was three thirty in the morning. I ordered Wellington to stop barking and grabbed my phone. I was half-expecting to see Mom’s Vogue cover light up the screen. What I wasn’t expecting was the name Betty Vanhoosen.

  “Hello,” I answered cautiously.

  “Are you awake?” Betty sounded frightened.

  “Honestly, not quite. What is it, Betty?”

  “Lindsey, I’m so sorry,” she blathered. “I shouldn’t have called you at this hour. But . . . I just remembered something very important about, you know, the murder.”

  “Betty, what is it?” Although I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes, her tone had grabbed my full attention. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

  “I . . . I can’t tell you over the phone. They might be listening. Can you meet me at my office tomorrow?”

  “Who’s listening, Betty?”

  “Tomorrow. At my office. Don’t say a word to anyone.” There was no reply to that. Betty, having been spooked by something, ended the call.

  I was about to go to the window and see what Wellington had been barking at when he turned suddenly and jumped up on the bed. I pulled him next to me and tried to fall back to sleep. Unfortunately, Betty’s frantic call had chased the Sandman away.

  CHAPTER 29

  I awoke to the smell of frying bacon and realized I had overslept. It was nine o’clock in the morning. My bedroom door was open, and I prayed it was Kennedy making breakfast and not the cryptic entity that had a penchant for midnight conversations on my laptop. The moment my feet hit the floor, I remembered the call from Betty as well. It was the reason I had overslept. The sound of her voice had frightened me; her desire to meet me at her office had kicked my sleepy brain into high gear, imagining all types of horrific scenarios.

  After a quick shower, I dressed and made my way down to the kitchen with the intention of heading out the door as soon as possible. However, seeing Kennedy at the stove plucking strips of charred bacon from a smoking pan stopped me in my tracks. She must have heard me coming. Because just as I had entered the kitchen, she turned from the smoking pan and grinned.

  “Look. I’m cooking!” Although puzzled, I applauded her initiative. The fact that she hadn’t started a grease fire was also impressive. “You need to go shopping,” she informed me. “Your refrigerator is appallingly empty.”

  It really wasn’t. She was merely complaining about the lack of ready-made foods.

  “I didn’t know what to eat, so I snuck into the bakery to see if you had anything good in there,” she informed me. I came beside her and turned off the burner under the smoking pan. I reflexively moved the pan to a cooler spot while Kennedy picked up an egg. “Dilly was in there, hard at work in the bakery,” she continued. “I suppose it’s okay, since you told her it was. Looked like she had a rough night too. Anyhow, she’s making cherry Danish. They looked delicious. She’s bringing some out when they’re done. In the meantime, she asked me to fry some bacon. Didn’t have the heart to tell the poor dear that I don’t do that. This”—she pointed to the plate of extra-, extra-crispy bacon—“is from your giant bakery refrigerator.” As she spoke, she attempted to crack the egg into a bowl. Having no feel for the task, she came down on the rim with surprising force. The egg imploded in her hand. “Ahhh, bugger all!” she cried and ran to the sink with a handful of scrambled raw egg.

  I picked up a sponge and attacked the mess while she attempted to wash the incident from her memory.

  “Well, you did a good job with the bacon,” I remarked, noting that my dog wasn’t in the kitchen begging for a piece.

  “Thanks,” she replied, drying her hands. “I had a little help from the internet.”

  “Where’s Wellington?”

  “He was barking at the door, so I let him outside.”

  I nodded, poured a cup of coffee, and was about to head out the door to find him when Dylan popped into the kitchen from the parlor entrance carrying a tray of freshly baked, beautifully iced cherry Danish.

  “Dylan!” I exclaimed in wonder, turning my attention from Welly and the door. “Those look amazing!”

  She forced a smile and set the tray on the table. “It’s been a weird week. Couldn’t really sleep, so I popped in early and decided to try my hand at making Danish. I haven’t made these in years. I wanted to see what you’d think.”

  There’s nothing on earth to rival a freshly baked Danish. A lot of bakeries took shortcuts with laminated dough, often ordering it from suppliers because it’s so tricky to get right, not to mention time-consuming. Laminated dough is the key to the most delicious pastries, like croissants, Danish, and every treat made with puff pastry. Lamination is essentially a process in which a slab of chilled butter is flattened, encased in a sweetened yeast dough envelope, rolled flat, and folded into a tri-fold rectangular shape. The dough is then chilled to stiffen the butter, and then rolled out again, where it’s folded in a tri-fold rectangle once again. This process continues until the required layers are achieved. When I was in my private cooking class learning baking from Jeffery, he had told me that a proper Danish dough should have 243 buttered layers. That was meant to intimidate me, until I, being the number-cruncher that I am, pointed out that 243 is divisible by three, or three to the fifth power, which would require repeating the tri-fold process five times. He had kissed me for that. I quickly expunged the memory and focused on Dylan’s Danish. One look and I knew she had worked hard on the multilayered, flaky, butter-laminated sweet dough.

  Kennedy returned the carton of eggs to the fridge, poured another cup of coffee, and picked up the plate of bacon. “Executive decision. We’re having bacon and Dilly’s cherry Danish for breakfast.”

  “Dear heavens, what would my mother think?” I teased.

  “Ellie already knows you’re crazy, darling. You moved here.” Her grin was sarcastic. “This,” she continued, waving her mug at the tray of Danish, “is wantonly reckless. When you talk to her today, and you should,” she reminded, “don’t mention the Danish.
”

  I hadn’t talked with my parents since Mia’s murder. I didn’t want to frighten them, and I wasn’t in the mood to field the load of questions I knew they’d ask. Instead, I put the impending phone call on my mental back burner and picked up a Danish. To my delight, it tasted even better than it looked. The dough itself practically melted in my mouth. Combined with the slightly tart cherry filling and sweet icing, it was like heaven. It would definitely be a star at the Beacon Bakeshop . . . if we were ever able to open our doors again.

  “Amazing,” I proclaimed, swallowing the last bite and getting up from the table. “Really, I’d love nothing more than to stay here all morning and chat with you two, but I have to find Wellington. Then I’m heading over to the real estate office.”

  Dylan, caressing her coffee mug, suddenly looked up. A troubled look crossed her face. “You’re not thinking of selling the place, are you?”

  “No. Betty called last night and asked me to meet her there this morning. She sounded pretty freaked out about something.”

  Kennedy grinned. “I’d be pretty freaked out too . . . if I was shagging a man who probed dead people for a living.”

  Dylan, after choking on a bite of Danish, stared at her. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  “Betty’s dating a man named Bob Riggles. He’s the medical examiner. Isn’t that just scandalous?”

  “We don’t know that they’re dating.” I shot Kennedy a cautioning look and picked up another Danish. “And don’t spread any rumors. What we do know,” I said, turning to Dylan, “is that it now looks as if the cyanide that killed Mia Long wasn’t in one of my donuts. It was found in the coffee she drank.”

  Dylan covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her troubled eyes shooting between Kennedy and me. “Rory was making the coffee. Do you think . . . ?”

  “Oh, Dilly, we don’t know what to think.” Kennedy, serenely puzzled, shrugged with palms pointing skyward. “He could have easily done it, but the question is, why would he?”