by Holly Plum
“Ladies, what is going on here?” he demanded.
Joy had often found that in moments of great stress, she tended to get snappy. Tension had been building inside of her all through the evening, between the frustrations of trying to text Sara Beth and the urgent matter of the ruby broach at hand. It was at that moment, with the eyes of Landon and Sara Beth and two security men watching her, that her anger finally boiled over. Leaning forward and thrusting a finger into Landon’s face, though without ever touching him, she shouted, “Take off your jacket.”
It was the sort of voice that portended disaster for the one who ignored it. “Why?” he asked quietly. He looked genuinely frightened.
“Joy, why are you doing this?” Sara Beth pleaded. “Why are you sabotaging my date?”
Joy turned to face Sara Beth, one finger still pointed at Landon in accusation. “Because this man is a thief,” she said. “You know Noelle Grant, the woman who brought Georgette’s ruby broach? It turns out he’s her ex-boyfriend. He broke into her house a couple of nights ago because he wanted that broach for himself. He smashed a window and probably cut himself in the process.”
“Where is this coming from?” Landon asked, throwing his hands in the air. “I haven’t been anywhere near her house.”
“But you have a criminal record," Joy retaliated.
“Um.” Landon stroked his chin with his hand. He made no effort to deny it.
For the first time, Sara Beth turned her wrathful gaze from Joy to the man seated on the other end of the table. “Is this true?” she demanded.
Landon rubbed the side of his face with his hand and mumbled something into his palm.
Sara Beth was beginning to look as livid as Joy felt, and it’s likely she would have pressed him for the full truth if they hadn’t been interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the patio behind them. Detective Sugar had emerged onto the balcony, accompanied by Edith who looked gravely apologetic, Tennyson, and several dozen photographers.
Joy’s first horrified thought was that security had called the police to have her escorted from the premises, perhaps even arrested. She rose her hands in surrender, prepared to accept her fate. But Detective Sugar brushed past Joy without even acknowledging her presence.
“Landon Park,” he said, while the camera bulbs flashed, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Raquel Malley.”
Sara Beth gasped and rose to her feet, but Detective Sugar proceeded by pulling out a pair of shiny, silver handcuffs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I just have one thing to say,” Landon said, his face beady with perspiration.
“What’s that?” asked Detective Sugar.
“How fast can you run?” Before anyone could lay a hand on Landon, he dashed off, bowling over a couple of photographers on his way back inside.
The four policemen were so startled that for a moment they stood gaping at the door in surprise.
“Well, what are you standing there for?” Detective Sugar snapped. “Go after him!”
The policemen took off. An elaborate chase ensued in which Landon Park, surprisingly spry and agile, leaped over banisters and down stairs three at a time. His pursuers weren’t as fit, and within a few minutes, he had disappeared into the depths of the hotel while they stumbled, panting, into the fifth-floor elevator.
“They’re never going to find him,” Edith said, wringing her hands in despair. “This place is enormous.”
“We’re sealing off the exits, so eventually he’ll be hounded out of whatever hole he’s hiding in,” Detective Sugar replied.
But, when pressed by a reporter, he declined to estimate how long that would take. Joy, however, who was intimately familiar with the hotel from the night she had spent there during a hurricane. She had a feeling she knew where Landon might have gone.
Leading Edith away from the policemen and photographers, Joy said, “If I were going to hide in a hotel like this, I think I know where I would go.”
“Where?” Edith asked.
Joy frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “There is a service staircase leading into the kitchen. Wait here with the detective and Sara Beth. I’ll be right back.”
Joy followed the red plush carpet to a nondescript door at the end of the hallway. It opened onto a thoroughly modern-looking stairwell chipped with peeling paint, completely at odds with the old world grandeur of the rest of the hotel. The stairwell led Joy down into a steamy kitchen where about half a dozen men and women wearing aprons and hairnets were frying fish, sautéing vegetables, and pouring noodles into colanders.
They took no notice of her presence as she walked to the storage room. It was here, as a volunteer, that she had stored the tables and chairs from the banquet hall in preparation for the silent auction.
Joy found Landon, crouched pathetically among the mop buckets and bug spray. He flinched and covered his face when she first opened the door, though he looked relieved to find that it was only her.
“Are you going to tell them I’m here?” he whispered. He looked so pitiful skulking there with his pleading eyes that Joy almost felt sorry for him.
“No, it’s up to you to turn yourself in,” she replied. “I just need you to tell me one thing. Why did you kill Raquel?”
“I didn’t,” Landon hissed urgently. “And I never broke into Noelle’s house, either. I was perfectly happy to part ways with her when we broke up. The only reason I even flew out here was to clean up my image, but that woman's death just made it a hundred times worse.”
Joy searched his eyes and saw no lies. “You need to come and tell the police your side of the story,” she said. “Running away is only going to make you look guilty.”
“I can’t,” Landon replied, folding his hands together in a gesture of prayer and biting down on his knuckles. “I'm a coward. Joy, you've seen me at a low. I would appreciate your discretion. There are a lot of people who look up to me.”
“Suit yourself,” Joy said disappointedly. “If you stay in here, it’s only a matter of time until they find you. Assuming you're telling the truth, there's still a murderer out there walking free. It's too bad you don't have the courage to point the police in the right direction.”
She left him quietly and walked to the lobby where she could take an elevator back upstairs. Joy found Detective Sugar, Edith, and Sara Beth waiting eagerly for the police to finish their search. Sara Beth looked thoroughly irritated, though she and Edith both seemed relieved to see Joy as she emerged from the hallway.
"Joy, there you are," Detective Sugar commented. "Please, stay here in the lobby until we've finished our search."
“That was brave of you, trying to find him on your own,” Edith said to her. “He could’ve killed you.”
Joy shook her head. “Whatever else Landon Park is, he’s not a murderer. And I have a feeling it won’t be long before the police find him.”
The revolving glass doors leading into the lobby opened, and Florence Thurston entered the room looking pale and out of breath. She ran straight up to Edith. “I saw on the local news that there was an incident taking place at the hotel. Do y’all know there are helicopters circling outside? It’s like something out of a movie.”
“Oh, my,” Edith said quietly. "I haven't been on television since the 70's."
Joy raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Anyway,” Florence responded, “I was just on the phone with Noelle Grant. She told me she gave you the ruby broach. I guess I'll have to find another buyer for it. Oh, this is so inconvenient, but she won't drop the subject.”
Without waiting for a response, Florence held out her hand.
"Oh, you mean now?" Edith asked, digging through her purse. "Hang on, let me find it."
It was then that Joy saw a thin gash like a scarlet thread running the length of Florence's palm.
Joy didn’t flinch. Her expression never changed. She merely went on staring through the door leading into the dining room, waiting for the police to emerge with Landon
Park.
Presently there came a noise of voices and footsteps from the kitchen and Landon shambled out, flanked by an officer on either side. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and he wore a pained expression on his face as he tried to escape the relentless onslaught of the photographers.
“I found him hiding in the kitchen, just like you said,” one of the officers said to Detective Sugar.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” Joy stated, her heart pounding.
Each of the officers, Detective Sugar, and cameramen turned to look at her. Several of the policemen looked irritated; some looked puzzled, but Detective Sugar smiled as though the whole scene was a mildly interesting scene from a movie.
“And why do you think that?” the detective asked.
“Because I remember the last place I saw Edith’s letter opener. It was on the day of the silent auction when Florence was making the announcements. She couldn’t get one of the envelopes open, so Edith gave her one. Florence was the last person to have it.” Pointing to Florence’s hand, she added, “She also has a fairly large cut on her hand, which was not there a week ago.”
Florence flinched and backed slowly away toward the door. “That means nothing,” she commented, rolling her eyes. “I cut myself all the time in the kitchen. Just yesterday I made lasagna and had a little accident while dicing onions."
“You’re also the only person who knew that Noelle Grant was going to get her broach appraised,” Joy went on. “Why did you want the ruby broach that badly?”
The room erupted in murmuring, as though this last fact cemented a case against Florence. Landon bestowed on Joy a look of relief. But Detective Sugar, taking this new information in stride, said, “Florence, I think you ought to come with me back to the station for questioning.”
Florence had remained unshaken through the bulk of Joy’s accusations. But now as the room began to voice its suspicions, she panicked. Bristling visibly, she seized Edith with one arm while reaching into her purse with another. Before any of the assembled policemen could stop her, she had raised a knife to Edith’s throat.
“I won't set foot in that station of yours, Detective,” she snarled. The expression on her face was completely at odds with her usual demeanor.
“Florence, you don’t have to do this,” Edith said weakly, her eyes on the knife.
“No, and I never meant to kill Raquel, either,” Florence replied. “But she was a thief, and she knew how much that old ruby broach was worth. Far more than Georgette had ever let on. She swapped it for a fake one at the auction. And she would’ve gotten away with it if I hadn’t seen her. We fought on the patio, and one thing led to another. I had the letter opener and it just sort of happened. I tried to plant the murder weapon somewhere else and make it look she'd fallen, but …"
“So all this time,” Detective Sugar said, “it was Noelle Grant who had the fake broach. Why would you break into someone’s house to steal a fake broach?”
“Because,” Joy answered, seized with a sudden burst of inspiration, “that was the only way she would ever get away with the crime. Noelle was going to have the broach appraised, at which point she would have learned that it was a fake, a counterfeit, a replica.”
“Well, the game is up now, anyway.” Detective Sugar stepped fearlessly forward and held out his hand. “You’re trapped in this lobby, you’re surrounded by policemen and reporters, and there’s no way out. You might as well give it up and save us all some trouble.”
“Never!” Florence growled, throwing down the knife. She sprinted outside as fast as she could go.
Edith, who had hardly dared breathe since being taken hostage, drew in huge gulps of air.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Two days later, Sara Beth and Joy sat alone in the bakery. Overhead, the TV broadcasted a local news report about how Landon Park had heroically flushed out the true killer of Raquel Malley. Tennyson Morris stood at his shoulder, soberly nodding.
“I can’t believe the murderer fell for it, honestly,” he said to the camera as the turrets of the Diamond Shell Hotel glistened behind him in the late afternoon sunlight. “I worked in close collaboration with Detective Sugar and the fine men and women of this Police Department during every step of this process. Those precious few moments after I turned myself in allowed them the time they needed to nab the real murderer.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Joy reached for the remote and turned off the TV. “The nerve of that man,” she said. “Didn’t even give me a mention.”
“And he seems to have forgotten about me completely,” Sara Beth added, shuddering in revulsion. “I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”
“Well, I look forward to seeing the movie version of all this.” Unscrewing a jug of sweet tea, she poured a couple of glasses and pushed them across the counter. “He will undoubtedly play himself, the dashing amateur sleuth with the rugged jawline who sensed evil lurking in this beachside town from the second he stepped off the plane.”
The bell on the front door chimed, and Edith walked into the bakery. She bore no sign of her recent brush with death. Confident and poised, she strode up to the front counter and ordered a Danish and coffee.
“You seem to be doing well,” Joy said as she passed the Danish across the counter. “Not suffering any ill effects from the fight against evil, I hope.”
Edith smiled warmly. “Not at all. That was probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
“Welcome to my life,” Joy said dryly. “If you stick around here long enough it won’t be the last time your life is endangered.”
“I look forward to it,” Edith responded playfully, her eyes bright with mischief. “I think we make a good crime-solving time. Maxwell and Cooke. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Joy frowned. “I don’t know, I kind of like Cooke and Maxwell."
“Or how about Sara Beth, Maxwell, and Cooke?" Sara Beth said.
“Nah,” Edith replied.
The three of them chuckled.
Edith drummed her long nails thoughtfully on the side of her coffee mug. “I went to see Noelle yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” Joy replied as she wiped down the cabinets. “Is she doing any better?”
“She just got out of the hospital a couple of days ago, but she’s still on bed rest. I told her about how we had solved the mystery, and how there was never really any curse. Nope. Just a greedy old woman who killed to take the money for herself. Of course, Noelle denies that she ever said there was a curse. She says it’s the most ridiculous bunch of hooey she’s ever heard.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Joy said with a perfectly straight face. “Because Georgette was right about the curse all along.”
Sara Beth set down her sweet tea and gawked at her. “Joy, no. You don’t mean…”
Joy’s eyes twinkled. “I'm completely serious. Y'all have converted me. That broach is definitely cursed.”
There was a long pause during which Sara Beth and Edith studied her face nervously, waiting for the moment when she would laugh or wink and admit she had only been kidding.
But it never came.
A Special Preview of SAYING PIE DO
A Patty Cakes Bake Shop Cozy Mystery
by Holly Plum
CHAPTER ONE
Most people prefer not to take work home with them. However, this was not the case for Joy Cooke. As she relaxed in her beach bungalow facing the glittering waters of the Florida panhandle, she fought the urge to set aside her book and get up to bake. She had been baking all day, but sometimes she never seemed to get enough of it.
Cheesecake, her mischievous but well-loved cat, blinked slowly up at her and released a small meow.
“Should we do it?”
Cheesecake jumped up from the couch, meandering toward the kitchen. It was all the prompting Joy needed. Tossing her book aside, she stood, her mouth already watering as she pondered the aroma that would soon surround the bungalow.
&nb
sp; “Scones or apple crisp?” she said out loud, running her eyes over the contents of the cupboard which she always kept fully stocked. This ensured that she was ready to make almost any baked good at any time. Joy never knew when the inspiration for a new recipe would strike.
Joy’s decision-making was cut short when she heard a knock on the door. Joy sighed, looking down at Cheesecake who was waiting eagerly for the cup of milk that always accompanied an afternoon of baking. “Sorry, pal, it’ll have to wait.”
Joy opened her front door to find a young woman she had seen in town before. It was Frances Land, a college student, and employee at the local bookshop. She always sported collared shirts and over-sized glasses that she pushed on top of her elaborate up-do whenever she needed to massage her forehead. Joy guessed that her slightly eccentric demeanor was related to the fact that she was an aspiring writer.
“Ms. Cooke,” Frances exclaimed, sounding nearly desperate.
“Hello, Frances.”
“Oh, Ms. Cooke,” the young woman hurried on, breathlessly. “I’m so glad I caught you.”
Well, you did come to my home after work hours, Joy thought.
“Here I am.”
“I desperately need your help,” Frances continued.
Joy hoped that Frances was simply being her over-zealous self and that her need wasn’t truly desperate.
Frances leaned in closer, looking as if she might pop with excitement. “Minnie Morin,” she said.
The name was met with a blank look from Joy. “Minnie Morin?”
“The bestselling mystery author, of course,” Frances exclaimed.
Joy remembered now seeing her newest book in the front window of the local bookshop. She’d never gotten into reading her books, however, since they tended to branch into a grittier area of fiction that she didn’t usually enjoy.
“We’re hosting a book launch party for her at the bookshop,” Frances stated.
“Another book?” Joy asked, knowing that the one she’d seen in the window had only been released a few months previously. “She sure knows how to crank ‘em out, doesn’t she?”
