“Maybe you ain’t such a bad little weirdo after all,” he called out to Tim in passing.
Fiona opened her mouth to speak and Tim silenced her with a glance.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “But one of these days, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Are you sure that you have one to spare?” Tim drawled, measuring a scratch at the victim’s hairline.
Fiona resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her unflappable boss and took a photo of the scratch instead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
In a hurry, as she perpetually seemed to be these days, Missy entered Cupcakes in Paradise through the front door, parking at the curb instead of in the back. She didn’t have any deliveries until after closing hours, so she’d just move her car then. The first thing that hit her when she opened the front door was the putrid smell. Gagging, she put a hand over her nose as her eyes darted to and fro, searching for the source of the offensive odor.
Her quest led her to the kitchen, the source of the foul stench. A container of milk lay on its side in front of the refrigerator, but it was clearly milk that had been spoiled for days. There were solid chunks of the vile stuff in the puddle, and Missy gagged again.
“Don’t cry over spilled milk,” she murmured behind her hand, swallowing hard against the nausea that had hit her like a sledgehammer.
Breathing through her mouth, she ran into the dry storage area and grabbed a super-sized container of oatmeal. The mess would be much easier to clean up if it was absorbed by the oats and could be scooped. She shook the oats over the sour liquid and chunks and noted with satisfaction that the grains were soaking it up like a sponge.
Donning rubber gloves and grabbing a trash bag and dust pan, she used a spatula to load up the dust pan and then dumped the pudding-like goo into the bag. It took her several minutes to get most of the mess taken care of, and she was thankful that not all of the spoiled milk had spilled out of the container. Tipping it carefully upright, she placed it into the trash bag, her stomach doing dangerous flip-flops.
On the floor with paper towels and heavily scented lemon cleanser, Missy balanced on the balls of her feet, making certain that her knees didn’t get anywhere near the remains of the spill. There was no way that she was going to make it through the day with that smell anywhere on her. She hoped against hope that with several fans and lots of deodorizer, she’d be able to get rid of the horrific smell before the shop opened. Cleaning up the mess was significantly cutting into her baking time, and the muscles on the back of her neck stiffened in response to the stress coursing through her.
“Melissa?” she heard a voice like a rusty gate call from the front of the shop. “Where you at, child? Lord have mercy, it stinks in here,” the voice muttered, getting closer.
“Oh no, that must be Joyce’s Aunt Beulah,” Missy whispered, leaping to her feet and looking around in a panic.
This was definitely not the first impression that she wanted to make, but when the stocky elderly woman appeared in the doorway, the course was set.
“You must be Jasmine’s Aunt Beulah,” Missy said, trying hard to smile, her cheeks red with exertion and humiliation. “I’m so sorry. I found spoiled milk on the floor when I came in this morning,” she explained.
Beulah frowned. “Well, you can’t be leaving milk out like that,” she shook her head, giving Missy a look.
“I didn’t,” Missy sighed. “I don’t know how it got there, and I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of this smell before I have to open,” she bit her lip, trying not to cry as she withered under Beulah’s stare.
“I’m making coffee,” the elderly woman announced, hands on hips. “You got vinegar somewhere?”
Missy stared at her mystified. “Yes, in the storage room.”
“Get you a bucket and mix up some vinegar and water, two parts vinegar, one part water, and use hot water,” she commanded, whipping an apron out of her dress pocket and putting it on. “How many pots of coffee can I make all at once?”
“Uh, six, but I don’t usually make more than two to start out…” Missy began.
“This ain’t for drinking, child. We’re gonna make coffee, then we’re gonna toss the grounds on that mess and let ‘em sit for a spell. Then we’re gonna wipe ‘em up and spray the place down with vinegar. When you mop that up, the smell will be gone, mark my words,” Aunt Beulah called out, heading toward the bank of coffee pots. “Where the grounds at?”
“In the cabinet below the coffee pots. I can come show you how to work them,” Missy started toward the front.
“Ain’t no coffee pot in this world I can’t figure out,” Beulah stopped her in her tracks. “You get on in there and get working on the vinegar water. We got us a mess to take care of,” she smiled and made a shooing motion. Missy nearly cried with relief at having help.
“Thank you,” she murmured, heading for the storage room.
“Don’t be thanking me, honey, you gonna be the one cleaning it up.”
Missy grinned for the first time since she entered the shop this morning. She and Beulah were going to get along just fine.
***
Beulah was hands down the best coworker that Missy had ever had, and she was thankful that, while the older woman had ostensibly been coming in for an interview, she had instead taken charge and gone right to work. She was crusty, old-fashioned, and utterly perfect. Her baking skills were amazing, the customers loved her dry sense of humor and home-spun wisdom, and Missy immediately trusted her completely.
She was sitting at one of the bistro tables in the eating area after closing, sipping on a glass of ice water, when Missy flopped into a chair opposite her.
“Whew, what a day,” Missy sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.
“Pshhh… a little hard work ain’t never killed nobody,” Beulah remarked. “If it ain’t busy, it don’t make sense to even have a shop.”
“I know, it just gets overwhelming sometimes. Can I get you some coffee?” Missy offered.
“Heck no,” Beulah shook her head. “I’d be up all night. I got to get my beauty sleep,” she chuckled. “I’ll take me some of those caramel pretzel cupcakes, though. Those things are addictive.”
“I’m glad you like them,” Missy grinned, rising to get a plate. “Thank you so much for helping me out today. I wasn’t really expecting that, but I’m grateful. I would’ve had no idea how to take care of the milk smell,” she wrinkled her nose.
“When something needs to be done, somebody’s gotta do it,” Beulah shrugged. “How do you suppose that nasty milk got there?”
Missy frowned. “I don’t know. It’s not even the brand that I use.”
“Sounds like somebody’s mad atcha. Who’d you cross lately?”
“I have no idea. Who would do such a thing?”
“I guess we’ll find out eventually,” Beulah mused. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Kids acting up probably. What time you want me to come in tomorrow?”
“I usually start baking around five.”
“Then I’ll see you at quarter ’til. If you can’t make it in that early, you might want to be getting me a key. I don’t like to be rushed when I’m baking,” Beulah stated firmly, accepting the plate of cupcakes with relish.
“I’ll do that,” Missy nodded, relieved that help had arrived at last.
***
“Hey, how did things work out with Beulah today? Are you going to hire her?” Echo asked.
She and Missy were having a girls’ night at an amazing Ethiopian restaurant. They sat on cushions on the floor and used injera, a spongy flatbread, instead of flatware to scoop up their food.
“Apparently Beulah was under the impression that she already had the job, and that was just fine with me. She brought her apron and solved a crisis for me the moment that she walked in the door,” Missy chuckled.
“She cracks me up,” Echo grinned. “I figured that her ‘interview’ mig
ht go that way.”
“She’s the best. She reminds me of my grandmother—always full of wisdom and pithy sayings. I swear she’s made of iron. I was exhausted at the end of the day, and she looked as fresh as a daisy.”
“I bet,” Echo nodded. “So what was the crisis?”
Missy told her about the spilled milk and Echo frowned.
“That’s really creepy that someone would randomly do that.”
“I know. It kind of makes me afraid to go in by myself,” Missy admitted.
“Well, fortunately now you have Beulah to defend you. Something tells me that not many people would be crazy enough to mess with her,” Echo giggled.
“Right? I know she told me what to do, and I did it,” Missy agreed. “How are things going for Kel at the gallery? Have the police figured out any leads in the murder?”
Echo shrugged. “I have no idea. He likes to keep me isolated from things like that. He had a ton of sales from the gala, even with the tragedy that took place.”
“That poor woman,” Missy shook her head. “I still have nightmares. I felt her fall beside me,” she shuddered.
Echo was distracted by something behind Missy, then she waved. Missy turned to see Carlton Aimes standing near the hostess stand. He waved, giving them a dazzling smile, then was led away to a table in another section of the restaurant.
“He seems so nice,” Missy mused. “But I feel like I know him from somewhere.”
“He’s so sweet, and he’s been a miracle worker for Kel, handling everything on the business side so that Kel can work on his art. He’s even been handling calls from the police department about the case.”
“Wow, that’s really great,” Missy smiled, glad that Kel finally had some help.
The two chatted for another couple of hours, lingering over dessert, until Missy finally declared, yawning, that she had to go. They headed toward the exit, talking and laughing, and Missy was suddenly bumped rudely from the side. There was a huge crash as a tub of dirty dishes and glasses struck the floor. Standing on the other side of the mess was Justin, the scruffy young man who had applied for a job at Cupcakes in Paradise. He wore the plain white uniform of a busboy, and had a fierce scowl on his face. The hostess rushed over to make certain that Missy was okay, and dismissed the busboy, telling him to report to his manager.
Shaken, Missy and Echo made their way to the car, grateful that no one had been injured in the mishap.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
“Dude, you’re not gonna believe this,” Ringo burst into Chas Beckett’s office, a stack of papers in one hand, a powdered donut shedding on Chas’s carpet in the other.
“Good morning to you too, Ringo,” Chas replied dryly, trying not to resent the interruption.
Ringo plopped into a chair across the desk from his boss and took a huge bite of donut, apparently preferring to speak with his mouth full.
“So, you know how you were having me check out the bad guy that the cops couldn’t nail when he offed his girlfriend?”
“Allegedly offed,” Chas corrected, wishing that the young man didn’t end his sentences in question marks quite so often.
“Sure, allegedly… whatevs,” Ringo brushed the comment aside, licking the powder from his fingers after stuffing the rest of the donut in his mouth. “Anyway, the chick that just got iced at the art gallery, was the first chick’s cousin.”
Ringo’s voice was muffled, and Chas wasn’t certain that he’d understood him correctly. He leaned forward.
“Wait, are you telling me that the two victims are related? Shannon Bentner and Maria Markham are cousins?” Chas clarified.
“Freaky, right?” Ringo nodded. “I mean, seriously… you open up this cold case to see who offed this chick, and then her cousin gets iced too.”
Chas frowned. “Look for other suspicious deaths in the family, and find what you can on the financials. See if there are any connections, other than family, between the two women. I’m going to go have a conversation with the suspect.”
“You got it, dude,” Ringo stood and headed for the door, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake. “I’ll check social media too, people are seriously dumb about what they put on there.”
Chas flipped through Shannon’s file again, finding the address of her former boyfriend, Anthony Calizzi. He lived in a gated community, which could sometimes be a challenge to get into, but Chas intended to approach him at work, where he’d hopefully be caught off guard.
***
Chas typically enjoyed going to the marina. The sight of sleek boats bobbing in the water usually automatically lowered his blood pressure, but today he had a point and purpose in being there, one that certainly didn’t allow him to relax.
“Hey man, long time, no see,” Andrew Koslowski, a laid-back, tanned young man who rented out boats to tourists greeted him. “I heard you’re not doing the detective thing anymore.”
“True enough,” Chas nodded. “Now I’m doing the ‘private investigator’ thing,” he smiled.
“Sweet. Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Business. Gotta talk to Tony Calizzi.”
Chas was interested to note the change in Andrew’s demeanor at the mention of Tony’s name. “You know him?”
“You could say that.”
“What’s his story?”
“Works on charter boats. Helps the tourists catch fish. Steals my customers whenever he gets a chance,” Andrew’s typically sunny disposition turned sour.
“Steals your customers? How does he do that?”
“He hangs out at the end of the pier and catches them first. They’re coming in to rent a boat and he tells them that they can catch fish and won’t have to do any of the work, so they go on his boat rather than renting their own.”
“Do you know if he’s out on a boat now?”
“Just got back. It’ll take him about ten minutes to stow all the gear and collect payment, then he’ll be back on the end of the pier again.”
Chas glanced at his watch. He could change his clothes—he always carried casual clothes in case he needed them during an investigation—and charter a trip with Tony to get to know him.
“Thanks Andrew, I owe you one.”
Chas bid the tanned young man farewell and jogged toward the parking lot to grab a change of clothes. He had shorts, boat shoes, and a polo that should do nicely. Tony wouldn’t suspect a thing, and by the time he knew that Chas was a PI, they’d be out on the open ocean. Accepting the inherent danger in his plan, Chas texted his receptionist Holly with information where he would be, and with whom, so if he didn’t report in within a couple of hours, she could call the police.
***
“You like fishing?” the handsome young man at the end of the pier asked Chas.
“I do.”
“I’ll cut you a great deal if you want to go out for an hour. Business is a little slow today, so we can leave right now if you want,” Tony offered.
Perfect.
“That sounds good,” Chas nodded. “But I don’t have any equipment.”
“No problem. I have everything that you could possibly need on the boat,” he pointed toward the marina.
“Great, let’s do this,” Chas followed him down to a small white fishing boat and hopped aboard.
They got settled, Chas paid him in cash, and the two men headed out to sea.
“You do this full-time?” Chas asked casually, once they were underway.
“I mean, sort of,” Tony shrugged. “I get to pick and choose my hours, so it’s not like a 9 to 5 or anything.”
“Must be nice,” Chas nodded.
“What do you do for a living?” Tony asked. “Doctor? Lawyer?”
“Private investigator,” Chas replied, watching for a reaction.
Tony sighed loudly, clearly irritated. “You working now?” he asked bitterly.
“Yep.”
“What do you want from me?” he demanded, more resigned than hostile. “It
’s been years, and I’ve told the police everything I know.”
“I’m not the police, and I paid for an hour of your time, so I’d like to have a friendly conversation with you for that hour.”
“Whatever, man,” Tony muttered.
“It must’ve been rough for you to have been busy the night that Shannon was killed.”
“I think about it every day,” Tony’s jaw flexed.
“Why weren’t you with her that night?”
“I picked up a shift as a waiter at a private party, for a friend.”
“Your friend, Phil?”
“Yeah. Why are you dragging all this up again? It’s not like anything changed.”
“Just making sure that I have my facts straight,” Chas replied easily. “How well do you know Phil?”
“He’s a good guy. We grew up together. We got each other’s backs.”
“I don’t think Phil has your back,” Chas lied, never having spoken to Phil.
“What do you mean?” Tony’s eyes narrowed.
“I just heard some things that don’t sound so good for you,” the PI shrugged.
“From Phil? Like what?”
Chas was glad to see that his insinuations had the intended effect.
“Do you know a woman named Maria Markham?”
Chas Beckett had looked into the eyes of serial killers before, and had typically found them hard to read. Tony Calizzi was hard to read. The moment he’d discovered that Chas was a private investigator, a mask had slipped firmly into place, and there was no way that Chas was going to see past it. That alone didn’t guarantee that Tony was a serial killer, but it certainly made the possibility seem more plausible. The veteran detective was cautious and had made a calculated risk getting on a boat with a potential killer, but didn’t feel that his life was in immediate danger.
“Know her? Not really. She was my girlfriend’s cousin, but it wasn’t like we ever hung out or anything.”
Caramel Pretzel Killer Page 4
