The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse: Books 1-3 (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Box Sets)

by Nic Saint

  Her patience was wearing thin. Not only because she was being attacked from all sides, but she hadn’t eaten since she left Bell’s. Nothing soured her mood more effectively than an appetite she couldn’t satiate.

  Fortunately, she could already hear the police sirens coming closer. The cavalry was on its way and she heaved a sigh of relief, knowing the ordeal was almost over.

  The only thing that caused her concern was that the crook hiding in aisle two would manage to negotiate a quick getaway. She stared from the man at her feet to where she knew his associate was lurking and thought long and hard about a strategy to apprehend the second shooter before he made a run for it.

  She wanted them both to pay for their crimes.

  She thought perhaps it was her grumbling stomach talking, but she wanted to see the man suffer. That can of beans had hurt her hand. She barked to the man at her feet, “Stay!” He nodded grudgingly. She then tiptoed to aisle two, keeping the gun trained on Gangster No. 1.

  She stealthily made her way over to Gangster No. 2. She didn’t really have a game plan but hoped her consuming desire to nail the bastard would be sufficient to overpower him. As she approached the aisle, she could see the tip of his shoe. Great. He was still there. It was then that she heard a strange sound. Munching.

  Shocked and appalled, she realized the man was feasting on Rafi’s wares. Anger made her see red dots and suddenly a plan formed in her mind. She glanced up at the huge pile of canned baby peas, then to the figure lurking beneath stuffing his face, and she gritted her teeth. With a quick shove she tipped over the entire pile. The cans tumbled down, like lemmings off a cliff, pelting the man beneath.

  Howls of pain rose up. This was her cue. Darting around the corner, she yelled, “Stick ‘em up, punk!”

  She’d always wanted to do that, and the satisfaction was considerable. The man didn’t hesitate one second but instantly obeyed her simple command.

  He stuck em up.

  The next few moments were spent in idle meditation on the fact that crime doesn’t pay. She leisurely swung the gun from Gangster No. 1 to Gangster No. 2, making sure they didn’t get it into their heads to try any funny business. The one buried under baby peas was a particularly nasty one. She could tell from the hostile gleam in his eye. A career criminal, she was sure of it. Though he was good-looking in a scruffy sort of way, she didn’t want to take any chances, and kept him covered and holding up his hands until the police arrived.

  Finally, after what seemed like ages, Virgil Scattering came charging in, along with one of his associates.

  “Felicity!” the tall and gangly police officer cried out. “What the heck are you doing?” His mustache quivered in astonishment at the sight of the two bruised bad guys.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? These guys were robbing the store and I managed to overpower them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gangster No. 2 piped up, “but that’s nonsense.” He gestured to Felicity. “She’s the bad guy. Can’t you see the huge-ass gun she’s waving?”

  She stared, shocked at the sheer gall of the man. She studied him closely. Apart from the contusions on his brow, and the cans of peas still covering his shoulders and chest, he wasn’t too badly looking. For a gangster, that was. He sported a tousled, blond mop of hair that flopped down over his ears and gave him the look of a shaggy dog. His eyes were a clear blue and as they burned into hers, they seemed electric. The rest of his visage wasn’t too hard to look at either. His nose was slightly crooked, which lent him a goofy air, and his chin was hewn like Henry Cavill’s.

  “Don’t listen to him,” she advised Virgil. “He and Smelly Guy over there are in this together.” No pair of electric blue eyes would make her alter her version of the truth. If he wanted to convince the police he was a victim and not the lowlife he really was, he had another thing coming.

  The man folded his arms, causing more cans to roll to the floor. “Did you or did you not hold up that poor guy who’s lying face down on the floor?”

  “Virgil,” she said, her patience wearing thin, “are you simply going to stand there or are you going to arrest this man?”

  “Virgil,” the man spoke, “if you arrest me you’re making a big mistake.”

  Officer Scattering, not the most forceful cop on the Happy Bays police force, scratched his scalp as he watched the back and forth between them like a tourist at Wimbledon. “I, erm…”

  “Virgil, this man and that man,” she said, swinging her gun from Gangster No. 1 to Gangster No. 2, “were robbing this store when I managed to get the upper hand. Just ask him.”

  At this, she swung her gun to Rafi Papandreou, the store owner, who’d joined the debate. At the sight of the gun, he quickly stuck up his hands. “Don’t shoot!”

  Felicity rolled her eyes. “I won’t. I promise. Now tell Virgil what happened.”

  “Yes,” Virgil echoed, “tell me what happened.”

  Rafi, lowering his hands, now used them to rake through his thinning mane. He was a nervous little man of about forty and this store meant the world to him. Which perhaps explained his habit of talking about it—and himself—in the third person. “Well, that man enter Rafi’s Deli with big gun pointing at Rafi, but through quick feet Rafi made getaway to safe room and lock himself. On cameras Rafi saw gangster threaten Miss Bell, but she turn all the tables. Then second gunman approach Miss Bell and hit her with beans! She knock him out with peas! End of story for big, bad gangster.” He grinned happily, displaying a nice row of gleaming white teeth.

  Virgil seemed satisfied. “Well, I guess that settles it.” He was rattling his handcuffs.

  Gangster No. 2 didn’t seem convinced. “This is all a bunch of hooey. I came in here and saw this woman pointing a gun at that man! So I decided to do my civic duty and try to stop her!”

  Felicity rolled her eyes. “What a load of—”

  “Crackpot!” cried Rafi defiantly. He pointed at the man. “He gangster!”

  “But I’m not! I’m a reporter for the New York Chronicle, and—”

  Virgil gave him a dark frown. “I think this has gone on long enough. You’re under arrest, sir. Now please come along quietly.”

  “But that’s bullshit!” the man spat. “I’m a reporter for the—”

  “Come along,” Virgil repeated.

  Rafi and Felicity exchanged a look of quiet relief, and watched the two men being cuffed and led from the store and into the paddy wagon. Finally, the harrowing episode was over and the healing could begin. Grasping her shopping basket from the floor, she popped a strawberry into her mouth.

  It hit the spot.

  Chapter 6

  As Felicity was walking home, the thought occurred to her that she might have overdone things back at Rafi’s. After all, she’d been waving that gun around like some crazed amazon woman. She might have accidentally shot someone in the foot or leg or some other, more vital, organ. As she proceeded along Colbert Street toward Stanwyck Street where she lived, she suddenly broke into a cold sweat. She’d actually fired that gun, hadn’t she? Into the ceiling. Above which lived…Rafi’s family!

  Frantically, she reached for her phone.

  “Rafi!” she cried the moment the line connected. “I didn’t hit anyone, did I?”

  “Hit anyone, Miss Bell?” Rafi sounded surprised. “You hit bad guy. Baby peas straight to noggin. Bull’s eye!”

  “No, I mean did I hit anyone when I fired that gun? Remember? I fired off one shot at the ceiling? Oh, God, please tell me I didn’t hit Leticia or the baby.”

  “Oh!” Rafi chuckled. “They’re fine! Perfectly fine! Ceiling thick concrete. No bullet penetrate. Leticia fine. Baby Jesus fine.” He hesitated. “Mami fine.”

  These words were spoken with considerably less enthusiasm, as if Rafi had secretly fostered the hope Mami wouldn’t have survived the attack. A missed opportunity, he seemed to feel.

  “Thank God,” she breathed from the bottom of her heart. “I was so worried.”

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sp; “Everything fine,” he repeated. “Only hurt canned beans. Minor bumps and bruises.” He laughed and Felicity joined him. An episode like the one they’d both suffered through creates a bond, and she knew they would spend many a moment in the near future reminiscing about their narrow escape.

  She’d arrived at Stanwyck Street 41 and let herself in. Just then, her phone chimed. She frowned at the display and seeing the name Stephen Fossick pop up, picked up as she nudged the door shut with her hip.

  “Hey, Stephen. What’s up?”

  “Fee, so glad to hear you,” a gravelly voice rang out. Stephen might be the best editor for miles around—and coincidentally also the only editor for miles around—but he was a little hard of hearing and seemed to think everyone was. She held the phone away from her offended ear. “I heard all about what happened at Rafi’s. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. Two guys tried to rob the store but I stopped them.” Hearing herself say those words suddenly made her swell with pride. She had actually thwarted a robbery, hadn’t she?

  “You’re a true heroine!” Stephen boomed. “And what I want you to do is write a short piece about what happened,” he quickly added. “Nothing fancy. Just tell the readers the story in your own words. About five hundred of them.”

  She stared at her reflection in the hall mirror and saw that her eyes were wide and fearful. “But—but I’m not a reporter. I can’t—I can’t possibly—”

  He cut her off. “You can and you will. I would do it myself but I’m doing a piece on the mayor so basically you’re all I’ve got!”

  “But-but-but—”

  “Great! That’s settled then. Get me the story by six. That should give you plenty of time to come up with something. And don’t worry—I always rewrite everything before it goes to print!”

  “That—that’s great,” she muttered, then remembered she’d never written an article before. But before she could mention this minor detail, the line went dead. She’d been writing her baking column for about a year now, but that wasn’t quite the same as writing an article. She staggered into the house feeling as if a great weight had descended upon her, and as she allowed gravity to drop her onto the couch, she became aware of Alice, seated cross-legged in the cozy chair, reading a book.

  “You look like hell,” her friend remarked as she eyed her with compassion.

  “Thanks. That sounds about right.”

  Chapter 7

  Felicity accepted a glass of cool water from Alice’s hand and stared before her as her friend fussed over her.

  Alice was a pint-sized petite blonde, her hair styled in a bob, with bewitching green eyes that perpetually appeared to sparkle. She and Felicity had been friends since kindergarten, when they’d bonded over a shared dislike of Virgil Scattering, who’d had the revolting habit of smearing his boogers all over the other kids’ faces, claiming they—his boogers, not the kids—had healing powers.

  She took a seat next to Felicity and patted her hand consolingly. “I heard all about it. I ran into Mabel on my way home and she got it from Gloria.”

  Gloria Gonzalez was Rafi’s fabled ‘Mami’, and about as accomplished a town gossip as Mabel Stokely, who worked at Town Hall.

  “Looks like the whole town knows about this already.”

  Alice shrugged. “You know how it is. Nothing ever happens in Happy Bays and when it does, tongues start wagging. Remember when Letitia was bitten by Mabel’s poodle last year? Front page news. Imagine the kind of tizzy they’ll get into with this robbery story. I bet they’ll still be talking about it at the Festival.”

  Since it was only April, and the annual Happy Bays Festival wasn’t until the end of August, Felicity felt this was taking things too far. “There must be other stuff they can talk about, right? After all, it’s just a little robbery. No biggie.”

  “No biggie? You should have heard Mabel. She made it sound as if Virgil had collared Al Capone himself.” She leaned in and touched her knee excitedly. “Is it really true you held those two perps at gunpoint?”

  Felicity nodded, still thinking about that article. For some reason, writing it seemed more daunting than subduing those two crooks.

  Gaston, the chubby red cat they kept, trotted up from the kitchen, and hopped on the couch, nestling himself between them. Alice tickled him behind the ears and he started a steady purr. “You have to tell me all about it,” she said with shiny eyes.

  “I thought you already knew all about it? From Mabel who heard it from Gloria, remember?”

  Alice hitched up her shoulders. “I’m sure they left out the best parts.” She grinned excitedly. “Is it really true you fired a gun?”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.” She told her friend how much anxiety that single bullet had already caused her, then proceeded to regale her with the whole story, leaving out no details however small. Finally, she added the kicker: that she was supposed to write an article about the whole ordeal. As if it wasn’t enough she’d had to go through it, she had to put it into words as well.

  “Didn’t you always say you wanted to be a reporter? Just like Tintin?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, “but I never thought I’d actually have to do it.”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “Now that sounds logical.”

  “No, I mean, I already fulfilled my dream. I love doing my baking columns. But an actual article?” She threw up her hands. “I’m not trained for that. I didn’t go to journalism school, or take any classes. I don’t even know where to begin!”

  “I’ll help you if you want,” Alice suggested. “Writing an article sounds like fun.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the neck to me.”

  “Do you have one of those thingamajigs? A, um, whatchamacallit…” She snapped her fingers. “A deadline.”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “So what’s the plan? Strawberry shortcake or the article?” She licked her lips and Felicity laughed. Of the two of them Alice was even more enthusiastic about the baking column than she was, for she couldn’t wait to eat the final product.

  “Let’s do the cake first, then worry about the article.”

  “I like your thinking. Let’s start right away, shall we? I haven’t eaten.”

  Felicity rubbed her tummy. “Me neither.” Though she didn’t really approve of having strawberry shortcake for dinner, she could have eaten anything. Her original plan had been to arrive home before Alice, whip up some grub, and plan the rest of the evening while they enjoyed an early dinner together. Now, after her run-in with those two elements from Happy Bays’s criminal underbelly, her plans lay in ruins. But at least she’d gotten away with her life.

  “You should have seen them,” she told Alice as she laid out the ingredients on the kitchen countertop. “One of them was hideous as hell, while the other…” She hesitated, vividly seeing the face of the second hoodlum before her mind’s eye. “Well, actually he was kinda cute. Blue eyes, straggly hair, lean body—what I could see of it, of course,” she quickly added. She told the story of the baby peas and Alice laughed heartily.

  “That has to go into the article,” she insisted. “I can see the headline now. Baby Peas Versus Cute Thug. 1-0.”

  “Mh. Didn’t think about headlines, actually. I suppose Stephen will pick one.”

  She checked the list. Strawberries, sugar, eggs, flour, baking soda, salt, and cream. Yep, that seemed about right. She wiped the countertop, placed the food processor in the center, switched on the oven, and busied herself measuring the right amounts and putting them in glass bowls. Alice prepared the camera the two friends bought especially for these sessions. The money they paid for the camera wasn’t really covered by the stipend received for the Flour Girl column but they had so much fun they didn’t really care.

  Alice positioned the camera just so, and hit the kitchen ceiling lights. “Did I tell you that we have now reached the fabulous number of one hundred subscribers on our YouTube channel?”

  “Yay. That is fabulou
s.” Felicity frowned as she read the recipe. She’d gotten it from her grandmother, like so many of the other recipes she’d prepared for her column. She’d already told grandmama that her baking prowess was garnering more and more fans each day, but since the old lady wasn’t really internet-savvy that didn’t mean all that much to her. She was happy that her recipes would stand the test of time though, as Mom dutifully clipped all of the columns and collected them in a scrapbook.

  “So, are you ready, Flour Girl?” Alice asked, hovering her finger over the record button.

  “I’m ready if you are, YouTube Girl.”

  Alice, with a wide grin, pressed record and just at that moment, the doorbell rang.

  They both uttered a curse. “I’ll get it,” Alice called out as she ran to the door. “You just go ahead and start already. I’ll fix all this in post.”

  Felicity grinned. Alice was beginning to sound like Martin Scorsese. She plastered her most genial smile on her face and started explaining to the camera what she was going to prepare today. She’d just started adding the sticks of butter to the processor when she caught sight of a tall, handsome man walking toward her. The moment she recognized him as the crook who’d attacked her with a can of beans, she let out a yelp of horror, took a firm grip on the bowl of eggs conveniently placed next to her hand, and whirled them at the man.

  The bandit opened his mouth to speak when the eggs impacted on his face with a satisfying crack. Felicity just wished she had something harder, bigger and capable of causing more damage to throw at the gangster.

  That’s when she caught sight of the meat cleaver…

  Chapter 8

  Rick Dawson stood hovering on the doorstep of a cozy red-brick two-story row house, just around the corner from Happy Bays’s market square. He stared at the sign next to the bell, which revealed that here lived ‘Felicity + Alice.’ The sign was written in a pink scrawl and surrounded by a cloud of hearts and flowers.