Cinnamon And Secrets (A Cupake Shop Mystery Book 1)

by D. S. Mowbray

  “Did you spot anything strange on your themed party last night?” he asks.

  “Um,” I try to remember. But what do I know? When I hosted that party, the last thing I had in mind was a murder investigation. I was preoccupied with other things. Like, whether or not the cupcake shop would get popular again, and things like that. “Well, I don’t think so.”

  “So do you remember anybody using the restroom at the time Mr. Gleason was killed?”

  “No, I was busy trying to keep the party going. I didn’t think something like a murder would happen.” Like really, I didn’t know I’d get so bored of this. But I am. I’m being treated as if I’m a criminal or something, while all I want is to grief peacefully over a murder of a friend.

  “You’ve been good friends with the victim. Do you recall anything suspicious happening lately? Somebody he’s been fighting with, or been in conflict with?”

  “Um,” I stop right there, while the situation between Mr. Gleason and Braiden comes to mind. Do I really want to tell him that? I mean, legally, I’m obliged to. But anyway, what would cute, adorable, hot, ripped Braiden have got to do with the murder of his uncle? It doesn’t seem relevant to me. And do I really need to make this vicious detective treat Braiden as a suspect? He must be so distressed by this murder happening. He doesn’t need any more on his plate. “Actually, Mr. Gleason was such a well-liked person. I don’t remember him ever holding a grudge over anything, or anybody,” I lie.

  Wow, I just lied to an authority. Does that make me a cheater?

  Hopefully not!

  The expression in his eyes now changes to something that doesn’t look like willpower more than a desperate conclusion. He probably thinks that all my answers are useless to his investigation.

  “Who do you recall Mr. Gleason being around to last night?” From the tone in his voice, it seems like he’s bringing our investigation to an end. Which is way faster than I imagined.

  “Well, Mr. Gleason had a lot of friends. He probably had a little catch-up with just about everybody at the party.”

  “Who was he talking to when you last saw him?”

  “It was,” I squint remembering everything, “Mrs. Hopper. But that’s irrelevant because they were good friends and she wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.” I say as soon as I realize that I, unnoticeably, might have made Mrs. Hopper an accessory to murder.

  “Isn’t that the lady who first saw him in the bathroom with a knife stabbed on his body?”

  “Yeah, it was her,” I’m kind of starting to feel insecure. Should I have told him that? But probably I wouldn’t have to lie about it. Other people might’ve seen her too being around Mr. Gleason at the party, and they probably would’ve confessed. So if I lied, then it would’ve made me look suspicious.

  God, this is getting just so complicated.

  And I’m just realizing how deep in this I might be. I was the one hosting the party, the owner of the place. So not only might he see me as a suspect, but I might look like a prime suspect even to his eyes. Just thinking about it is so disturbing.

  After another series of questions, the detective decides that he’s gotten enough from me. When we make it to the door, I feel like I’m blushing from the feeling of being a latent suspect. I know I should keep myself calm, if I don’t want to look suspicious to him, but I can’t help myself.

  “Ms. Holden, I’ve got this feeling we are going to see each other again,” he tells me, standing firmly above my doormat and looking deeply into my expression as if he wants to gather something out of it.

  “I’m glad to do my best at helping you find the killer,” I try to smile and look confident, but instead I just squint like an unsteady cat.

  I look at him going away and a pang of fear and outburst captures me altogether. I should do something about it, before the police get the wrong idea.

  “What are you doing?” asks Heather, looking up at me and squinting.

  I’m standing on a ladder, but I’m not used to it, so I’m doing my best not to fall, so I don’t look down at her, but instead keep doing my job.

  “I’m installing security cameras,” I tell her. “We wouldn’t have a mysterious killer on the loose if there were cameras in the shop.”

  “Nice thinking, though it should’ve been better had you installed those cameras before the themed party. We wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.”

  Oh, I don’t respond to that. Does she think I don’t know that? Everything would’ve been better if I had cameras in the shop that would capture every single moment, every frame. I would hand over the footage to the police and we wouldn’t have a detective haunting us like a ghost. All this nightmare would be over.

  The police told me I could have my shop back just last night. I think it’s been three of four days since they confiscated my shop to get any relevant details out of the murder scene. And seemingly they have gotten everything they want since they decided to give me my shop back.

  But obviously it’s not that much that they got out of it, since there’s still a killer out there and no one suspects anything.

  “You’re just being too hard on yourself,” Heather tells me, while scrambling through her bag and getting her tablet out of it, and then she starts scrolling on it with her finger.

  “Hmm?” I don’t understand what she’s talking about. I mean, at this point we’re all kind of giving ourselves a hard time. I mean, it’s not easy going through a situation like that.

  “About the cupcake shop,” she tells me, still focused on her tablet.

  “Oh, Heather, please don’t, now it’s not a good time,” I mean, as much as I want to make this work, it seems like the shop is destined to its unwanted fate.

  “No, it’s going to get interesting, I swear,” she stops me with that enthusiasm she always carries around her when she thinks she’s come up with a solution. “This is great,” she howls crazily. “This is awesome.”

  “I’m sorry, how is it any of it awesome?”

  “This is an amazing marketing strategy. Now that a murder happened in this shop, it is going to get famous. The place is going to get so popular.”

  “I’m not really following. How does any of this cater to my cupcake shop?”

  “Oh, you don’t understand,” her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Marketing is marketing. It doesn’t matter whether something gets famous for the right reasons or not. When the word gets out there, that’s all that matters.”

  “I really don’t get the logistics of it,” I give up. She’s getting crazy. “The joy in your eyes seems frightening.” I note.

  “Oh, darling, we’re way past frightening. We hosted a party and someone got killed.” What I expected to hear instead is ‘Hey, I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea,’ but I guess her craziness is all that I get.

  I think that would qualify as yet another crazy logic of my friend’s. When I’m done installing the cameras, I climb down the ladder and look at her. For some reason her joy seems to have vanished a little.

  “What’s up?” I ask, making sure she’s okay.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says and hides the tablet on her back.

  “Heather,” I make a demanding note. “What is going on? Why are you shielding the tablet behind your back?” I raise an eyebrow and look at her expectantly.

  She starts to mumble but I think I’ve had enough. I grab the tablet off of her hands and look at it. My mouths drops open involuntarily. There’s an article someone wrote about me, on the most prestigious cooking magazine. And it’s not good.

  Ainsley Holden’s disastrous cupcake shop. That’s how the top notch cooking critic, former chef, Andre Driscoll has decided to name his article about me and it goes on like this: Not only was her food fatal, but it made people want to kill other people. That’s probably why the murder happened in the first place. Now that’s just rude.

  “But…” I’m shocked and at a loss for words. “How did he know?”

 
“I might’ve imperceptibly invited him,” she bites her lower lip, and looks at me in an apologetic way with furrowed eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Heather,” I demand. “You cannot go around inviting the meanest cooking critic without me knowing.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and I think she means it. “But, hey, all kinds of marketing is good marketing.” She repeats herself, hoping that I won’t be as angry with her as I am.

  I decide that it’s probably best if I don’t hold a grudge. After all, what have I got to lose anyway? The clientele that never was?

  “I think I’m going to talk to Mrs. Hopper to see if there’s anything more I can get out of her. I haven’t been able to catch up with her since when the, well, murder happened. But I think I should start scrambling by myself. I didn’t like the way Detective Cassidy looked at me. It made me feel blame-deserving.”

  “He has an ability to make people feel like that,” Heather consoles me. It’s just good to know that it’s not only me that he’s making feel like I’m in trouble or something.

  “Hey, why don’t you come over tonight?” I ask Heather, since lately I’m not starting to like being alone in an empty house, with a murderer on the loose.

  “I’d like to, but Rylan and I got plans. He’s taking me out on a date,” she says joyfully, and I’m happy for her. She deserves a little happy time after everything that happened with her ex and also to get her mind off of things.

  • • •

  Late at night, I’m waddling over to my porch, since Heather texted me earlier telling me that Rylan canceled their plans and whether my invitation was still available. Of course, I said yes.

  And now I’m rubbing my arms with my hands to protect myself from the outdoors crisp September wind blowing without a care in the world. Oh, I miss summer already. But the idea of autumn just sounds too irresistible, so I convince myself that I’m still going to have a good time.

  I look around the street through the gloom that has embraced the atmosphere and try to catch sight of my friend. She told me she’d be here by now, and still I don’t understand—why am I waiting for her outside?

  Oh, yeah, it was probably because the silence of the house was suffocating me. I just wanted to get out and get some air. Since after the murder, everything has started to seem different. And I wonder, is it because of my shop being the crime scene that it’s affecting me so much or is it just the abrupt change of events that’s gotten me all unsteady and jumpy?

  Recently, I’ve found myself hinging or jumping at the slightest sounds. Like even when Coral is meowing I find myself holding my chest with my hands. I guess it’s not easy when you’ve got a detective making you feel all blameworthy and when a latent killer is on the loose…and it might be anybody. Literally anybody who might have done that.

  I jump again and realize that it’s not because of the cat circling my feet. Coral has just found me, even though I sneaked out of the house without him noticing. Somehow I just wanted some minutes for myself.

  It’s a cracking sound that had me so startled. And soon I figure that this sound came from the house next door. And after that, I realize that this is all too bizarre. The house next door belonged to Mr. Gleason, and no one lives there anymore. And for some reason the police didn’t find it necessary to confiscate his house, so there it is now all lonely and dark.

  My interest is aroused, I snoop forward to try and catch sight of something. Anything. I was so sure that I heard something.

  And then, I hear Heather’s car pulling over. As soon as she gets out of her car, I run at her.

  “Shhh,” I mutter to her. “I think someone’s in the house.”

  “Your house?” she looks at me, terrified.

  “No,” I correct firmly. “Mr. Gleason’s.”

  “But no one lives there anymore.”

  “Exactly!”

  My eyes are fixated to the window that is cracked open, obviously by the housebreaker. I feel my heart pumping crazily in my chest and I look at my friend.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask Heather, but it seems like she’s just as clueless as I am. She looks terrified, and then we hear another series of crackles. More ferocious and intense this time. And then I realize that the burglar is already going away.

  “Hey,” I howl and I run after them, but they don’t stop. Like, what was I expecting? But through the darkness I can see that they’re wearing a hooded sweatshirt and they’re holding something in their hands. “Should we call the police?” I ask Heather now that she’s managed to level up. She’s not much of a runner, you see.

  “Please, don’t,” I think I’ve had enough of them. We’re up the creek as it is. We don’t want them coming after us with their questions and judging expressions. “Maybe it was just a housebreaker looking for something valuable, or, I don’t know…” she shrugs.

  I mean, she’s probably right. Unless she’s not. What if the person breaking into Mr. Gleason’s house was the one who killed him? Maybe they were looking for evidence, trying to steal them or destroy them. What do I know anyway?

  “Let’s go check out for ourselves,” Heather offers and I go after her. We don’t have to get in from the window like the housebreaker. I know that Mr. Gleason keeps his keys under the vase on his porch. And I don’t think his nephews have been able to think of that, with everything going on.

  I use my phone as a flashlight and direct it toward different angles of the house. The house looks tidy and lonely until now.

  “Why would they come over here, if they weren’t looking for something?” Heather frowns.

  “They were looking for something,” I demand and point the flashlight at one certain spot.

  “Then it must’ve been some OCD addict, because the tidiness around here doesn’t say much about someone breaking in.”

  I ignore Heather and approach to his bookshelves. I see a mess of files crumpled together, and then I point the flashlight upward for further evidence.

  “What are you looking at?” Heather asks, noticing my concentration to this spot.

  “Mr. Gleason liked keeping his files organized. I think the housebreaker was looking for something. A document, or something else.”

  “You think it might’ve been the killer?”

  “By many chances.” I look at her and spot some kind of terror and thrill in her eyes. This is starting to seem very riveting to her—looking for evidence instead of the police.

  “In my opinion the housebreaker knew what they were doing.”

  “Why do you say that?” Clearly, I don’t share the same thoughts. If they knew the place then they would’ve used the front door in the first place.

  “Well, obviously, the room is so tidy. It means that he, or she, knew what they were doing. And they didn’t use the front door, because it would’ve been too suspicious. The police would realize that the housebreaker was connected to Mr. Gleason.”

  “Neat thinking,” I congratulate her. “Though this doesn’t say too much, since everybody in town knew Mr. Gleason. He was such a popular guy,” I say with fondness.

  “Okay, I’m going to head out now, quickly, because otherwise I’m going to cringe.” Heather says and I feel just the same. It feels different being here without Mr. Gleason around.

  “I’ll catch up with Braiden. If he’s okay with it, then we can tell the police.”

  “Absolutely, not,” says Braiden resolutely. “You did good telling me about this first. That detective can’t buy a clue.”

  “But don’t you think this might be good evidence for the police. I guess that that person breaking into your uncle’s house was certainly related to the murder. For all I know, they might’ve been the killer. And we’re incapacitated to find that out on our own.”

  “It’s not like the police would do much better, they’d probably confiscate the house and we won’t be able to get in.”

  “I already did,” I te
ll him, though I’m a little startled, to be honest, by his decision.

  “You did?” he seems surprised, and if I’m not mistaken, a little scared. “What did you find?”

  “Well, not much really,” I recall the whole scene and the thought of the darkness creeps me out. “The shelves were a little disorganized.”

  “Disorganized? My uncle was an addict. He kept tidying up his shelves even when they were perfectly systemized.”

  “Whatever they’d been looking for, I think it must’ve been among those files. Can you think of anything that someone would want from Mr. Gleason?” I ask.

  “Well, not that I know.” He shrugs and finds this break-in a little strange. I’m sitting on the pew behind him, so he’s swung his body back toward me so he can face me. St. Andrew’s Church was at full attendance every Sunday. I try my best to come here each weekend, but lately I’ve been a little busy with the shop. But today, I thought that I wouldn’t miss coming here for anything, because everyone in Lazulville comes here every Sunday, so I knew that I was going to find the people that I was looking for. Those people being Braiden and Mrs. Hopper.

  “The key is still under the vase, by the way,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, I know. I haven’t gotten around to changing it. Actually, I never visited the house, since after, you know, the murder.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I tell him, because it’s been days since after the unpleasant situation at my party and we haven’t been able to catch up, like, properly.

  “Yeah, it’s such a shocker, isn’t it?” he asks with a little gloom on his face. “He of all the people should get killed. Never hurt anybody. Never said anything bad to anyone. And yet he gets killed.”

  “I know, it’s so unfair,” I mumble, but truly I can’t even imagine what he’s going through. I mean, I’ve been a little unsteady for the last couple of days, and to me Mr. Gleason was just a nice neighbor who always greeted me with a smile and paid me compliments on my rough days.