“Coral,” I let out a sound, howling and whispering at the same time. I want him to hear me, yet I don’t want the neighbors to think I’m a lunatic wandering about the street in the middle of the night like a ghost. “Coral,” I let out that bizarre sound of mine again.
I point the flashlight at everything that looks like a shrub or a tree. Somehow he likes taking a nap underneath a tree. But still it’s the middle of the night. And he has his cozy bed for that.
“Meow,” I think I hear a muffled sound that sounds like Coral. And then I hear it again, “Meow.”
“Coral,” I ask, worried, and hurry my way to where the sound is coming from. I’m surprised to find myself in Mr. Gleason’s front yard. Coral never visited the place since after he was killed. I don’t know what he’s doing there in the middle of the night. I point the flashlight at every angle possible in hopes that I’d somewhere spot my darling cat. But the result is unsuccessful.
Where is he hiding in the middle of the night? I know he needs to draw my attention, otherwise he wouldn’t have let me know where he was, but still. I’m starting to think of myself as a little kid playing with her cat.
“Coral?” I ask again, exhausted by this cat-haunting. Wow, it really looks like I’m haunting him. But I’m not in the mood right now, when I’d rather enjoy the comfort of my own bed and smoothness of my pillow. Oh I desperately need to sleep. It’s been a very tiresome day, and that creepy detective has not done a lot to help me with my mood. He just has made me freaked out and I need to resolve this mystery by myself.
I mean, I will. But not tonight!
Tonight, I just want to indulge in the comfort of my own fuzzy bed and just crawl myself to sleep.
I hear Coral meowing again, and after pointing the light at every single corner possible in the front yard, I come to determine that he must be inside of the house.
But I’m a little scared to go in there alone in the middle of the night. It’s not like I believe in ghosts or anything—even though this remark is quite questionable—but the idea of breaking in a house with a murderer on the loose who might or might have not been there forcefully just has me cringing back.
What if the housebreaker has lured my cat into a trap in a way to punish me for going after them when they broke into Mr. Gleason’s house?
Oh, that thought is just scary and disturbing.
I look for the key under the vase again to find it lying still there. Braiden has not been here yet again. But I don’t blame him. The idea of being here is too scary and would remind him of everything. And let’s say that the latest situations happening are not the best kind of memories that one would like to recall.
Shoving the key in the latch, I twist the doorknob and let myself in, the door making a cracking sound all the while sliding forward.
It’s so dark in here and I know where all the light switches to his house are, but I don’t like drawing any attention to myself, so I’m just going to use the flashlight instead. I keep walking in to find the place in the same condition where I’ve left it just a few days ago when someone broke in.
I point the flashlight clumsily from one corner to the other just in case. I don’t want to find any surprises in the dark. My heart is already pounding so hard in my chest as it is. I feel like a little ruckus is happening inside of me. And that just goes to show that I’m horrified.
“Coral?” I ask, voice so shaky and whiny, like a little child waiting for a ghost to appear any minute.
My nerves calm and my heart beating goes eventually to its adequate pumping rates once I spot my dear cat laying peacefully above the desk nearby the shelves.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper at him in a criticizing way, as if someone would hear. “Do you have any idea how late it is? It’s time to sleep.” I emphasize, and I realize how foolish I might look talking to a cat like this.
He sees me calmly and doesn’t give a hoot in his catty way, “What is this mumbo-jumbo this lunatic is giving me about?” He glances at me kindly in a way that melts me away, and meows. It still seems to me like he doesn’t care about what time it is.
“Now let’s go home,” I indicate, making a gesture with my hand for him to come along, but he snubs me gracefully. “Coral,” I say in a crawling voice. “I said we should go home now.” I stutter to give emphasis to each word.
But he still is making me feel like a nutcase giving demands that no one is going to comply with. I look at him, and sigh, shaking my head in an endearing way.
“What is it?” I ask, mildly, as soon as it strikes me that he seems like he’s about to tell me something. But he can’t because he can’t talk of course, and instead he’s standing there making his firm point.
“What are you hiding under there?” I snoop in, catching sight of the files that he’s covered with his bottom.
I waddle forward, holding the light firmly in my hand while Coral purrs just a little in a way that says, “Take a hint, woman!” I point the flashlight to where the paperwork lies soundlessly, and Coral moves away, shoving one of the files behind with his muddy paw. I shake the dirt off of file and look at it, frowning.
What I gather while reading improperly through it, is that basically Mr. Gleason was about to hand his rights regarding one of his shops in the city over to some Marcus Halsey. The name strikes a blow inside me. Marcus, as in Braiden’s friend?
No, it can’t be! Braiden told me Marcus was here on vacation. And besides, why would Mr. Gleason want to give his legal rights to a stranger? Mr. Gleason never mentioned such thing. I ought to know.
The most bizarre thing is that these documents are dating four months ago, and still lying there unsigned. If that isn’t weird, than I don’t know what is.
I don’t want to grab the file because whoever broke in two days ago might come back and notice that it’s missing, but I grab my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and take a snapshot. Well, a couple just in case.
This might be good evidence. This might link us to whoever killed Mr. Gleason. I feel like I’m holding important evidence in my hands—well, in my phone—and suddenly I’m not all sleepy anymore.
“Nice instincts you have there, cat,” I congratulate Coral, and he takes great pride in the compliment, getting up from the sitting position he was a second ago, lifting his chin upward in great vanity, expecting for his reward. I scrape under his chin fondly and he purrs.
“Now let’s go. We don’t want to get caught in here,” I demand and this time he obeys.
Just as I take him in my hands, while trying to hold the phone tightly on my palm to prevent any unpleasant casualty, I hear the door cracking open and I hinge, horrified.
I keep telling myself that I don’t believe in ghosts, but when you’re standing in the middle of a gloomy night at the house of a guy who’s just been killed, no wonder you might consider the fact that an angry soul might be waddling around the house.
What if Mr. Gleason is angry with me for messing up with his files and breaking in to his house in the middle of the night? But it wasn’t my fault. It was Coral’s. So, be angry with him.
But I doubt cats with their neat instincts would be afraid of ghosts anyway.
Or, would they?
I don’t know, cats are just weird. A mysterious creature with so many talents.
The ghost theory drops when I’m hearing footsteps crinkling against the floor. Someone is here, I mean, besides me and Coral. And the next thought has me shaking like a bee stranded in a jar with a lid on. I realize that I’m trapped. I could use the broken window to get out, but I’m not just as fast as I should be, and now it’s too late. The footsteps are getting closer than what it takes for me to escape.
Oh, my God! I wonder if this is the housebreaker, and whether the housebreaker might be the killer. And if the latter proves me right, then I’m just screwed.
“Ainsley,” I hear a man’s voice breaking the silence and almost making Coral jump onto my lap. A
s far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t mind jumping into someone’s lap right now, asking for protection. But eventually my fear vanishes when I realize whom the vocal chords belong to. “What are you doing here?”
“Braiden?” I’m a little relieved that it’s just him and not some kind of killer. But then suspicion surrenders me entirely. What if Braiden is the killer? Nah, it can’t be! I shake this thought off immediately. How could I even think of such gruesome thing? Silly me! “What are you doing here?” I repeat, as if he owes me some kind of explanation.
But he’s just so gentle that he doesn’t mind that I answered his question with the same exact question, the only difference here being my tone, “I followed your advice. I’m here to take a look around the house. And then I found that the door was opened and hurried inside to find you here…with your cat.” He emphasizes as though the strangest thing in this is the presence of my cat.
“Well, I was looking for Coral, and for some reason he had decided to sneak into the house—I guess by the broken window—and I used the keys to get in.”
“I should do something about that window, don’t I?” he raises an eyebrow and looks at the cat in a judgmental way. And he still looks so adorable. Even Coral responds to Braiden’s irresistible looks with the cutest, almost insensible purr.
“Well, whatever the housebreaker has been looking for, I think he has found what he wanted.”
“He?” Braiden raises an eyebrow, surprised by my conclusion.
“Well, his torso indicated he was most definitely a man. I mean, it was dark and he was wearing a back hooded sweatshirt, but he seemed too athletic and muscular to me.” I demand.
He hoists his brows and let them settle to place again in an I-don’t-know-about-that way and tells me. “Well, it’s getting late, you should get some sleep.”
The end of the summer—the season that always gets me so thoughtful and sad. Long summer walks across the seashore; crisps starry lavender nights filled with amazing scents; strolling on the sand applying sunblock on the caramel skin. Oh, there’s just so many reasons why I find summer magical. But to be honest, I adore autumn as well. And I’m looking forward to the pumpkin season to indulge in all the little pleasures that autumns provides. I have to come up with new recipes, and have all the season ingredients integrated on my menu.
Heather is standing opposite me on the counter and she’s succumbing herself to the pleasure of my latest come-up. The lemon and hazelnuts muffin.
“So, what do you think?” I raise my eyebrows, expectantly and hold her gaze.
“Mm, this are to die for,” she notes. And I just take pride in my newest creation. Things have changed around the shop lately. People had gathered in. Not as much as I expected, but I’m hanging in there. I’m not losing hope just yet.
“I thought about it last night, before I went to bed.” I indicate.
“I thought you were haunting your cat last night,” she says with a mouthful of muffin.
“Well, I was.” I frown, recalling the whole thing. “And I still find it weird that Braiden would go there in the middle of the night. Of all the moments, he chooses the night to do that!” I indicate in disbelief.
“Well, it’s weird if you think about it, though you did good not telling him about the legal documents that you found.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, recalling the picture I took of the files and scrolling through my phone. “Here,” I tell her and let her take a look.
Heather seems too hesitant to let go of her muffin, but at the end she obliges and grabs the phone off of my hands, holding it with her little fingers in suspension, not wanting to make the screen dirty or something.
“Should we tell the police about it?” she asks, frowning at the screen.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “That might not be relevant. It’s not like we have any evidence or information that Marcus is here with a hidden agenda. That’s just suspicion. And it doesn’t feel right to go around and judging him of something that might, after all, be just a silly impression.”
“You’re right,” she points out, coming to realize that as of now it’s not much that we can do.
She grabs a tissue form a box on the corner and cleans her hands. After that, she grabs my tablet off the counter and starts making a research of her own.
“What are you doing?” I want in on whatever it is she’s after right now.
“I’m looking for evidence,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the screen. “What did you say his last name was?” she looks as if she’s imputed every keyword onto the search box and is waiting for me to finalize her little sleuth-hound.
“I think, Halsey, or something,” I mutter.
She types his name in and her eyes gauge at the screen, trying to gather as much information as she can at the earliest time possible.
“Well, it seems like he’s mega rich, and attended a top notch college. Brown.”
“Brown, you said?” my attention is aroused, suddenly.
“Yeah,” she says in an insusceptible way.
“Wow, that’s weird,” I scowl in uncertainty in the air. “Braiden said they went to college together. Why would he lie about that?”
“I don’t know, but something here reeks of deception. Maybe after all, Braiden is not all the irresistible guy that we all think he is. Maybe there’s more to him that we don’t know about.”
Nah, I can’t be. Just the idea of it would make me render in eternal sadness. Braiden is like this little sunshine in a cold day, the stars on a gloomy night. He’s my hope of raw beauty. He just makes me believe that things as beautiful as him exist. He’s the epitome of hope in me. And I refuse to believe anything misleading about him.
The door opens again and a bright, beautiful teen makes an appearance. It’s Kierra. She used to be one of the shop’s regulars, but with the cupcake shop going down the line, I guess, she spontaneously stopped dropping by, as everyone else did. But now that my shop is redeeming itself and its reputation, here she is, paying me a brief visit again, and probably, hopefully, a lot more in the future.
“Hey, Kierra,” I give her a little smile. She’s so pretty that it’s impossible not to smile at. It’s just a contagious feeling in the air. Anyway, that’s irrelevant.
“Ainsley,” she gives me that all-the-pretty-girls look, but I know that there’s more to her. I know for certain that she’s really nice and popular at Lazulville High School. “How are you?” she smiles and looks around the shop as if this is the first time of her being here.
“Well, I’m doing fine,” I mean, I don’t know how I’m doing. I’m just confused, that’s all. “What about you? It’s been a while.”
“Oh, you know, this back-to-school segment has us all swoony and sleepy at first, but, I’m adjusting.” I guess school started late in August, probably a couple of weeks ago, I don’t know. It’s been a while I haven’t been there, fortunately. I mean, I loved school and had a very adorable circle of friends and we made enchanting memories together, but I wouldn’t trade anything with my life as an adult. I mean, yeah, sometimes it gets hard, as in you start creating a cringe-worthy relationship with the guy that you love, instead of hitting it off and jumping in at the deep end. But I guess that after all it’s you controlling your own life. Control? Yeah, I guess life as an adult is a little rough.
But enchanting however.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“My usual raspberry cupcakes,” she says.
“I see your preferences still haven’t changed,” I note, recalling that Kierra always orders three raspberry cupcakes that I put in a box that she takes home with her.
“Well, you know me,” she mocks playfully. “Same old, same old.” And it’s funny, because, you know, she’s not that old. Like what is she, sixteen? Seventeen, at best.
While I dispose of her order, I can hear Heather catching up with Kierra in the background. Heather loves teenagers. And then I hear laughter. I gu
ess it reminds her that she’s nothing more than a teenager herself.
Like seriously, sometimes I think that Heather’s sense of time has stopped in high school. She was very popular there, but after it, not so much.
And I guess that’s what makes her high school time seem so beautiful and adorable. Maybe she wants to bring those good times back, but she can’t. I don’t know. It’s so sad.
After that, I come back with a box holding three raspberry cupcakes within.
“Here’s your order,” I smile, while she’s taking care of her due. “There you go,” I tell her, handing her the box that she delightfully grabs in her hands while smiling at me.
“I’ll see you next time,” she says and swings around.
“Sure thing. Have a good time,” I great her and she waves at me over her shoulder.
When we’re still alone, I look at Heather looking at Kierra in a way that is creeping me out.
“She’s so beautiful,” Heather notes.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess she has all those high school boys swooning at her feet.” Right after I say that, I realize that I just reminded Heather of high school, and I just fueled at her wishful condition.
Lucky for me, another customer comes in, and while I take care of his order, I let my mind soothe out, and remind myself that after all, this might just be a misunderstanding. Like, I’m so sure that if I talk to Braiden, he will set this all clear, and any suspicion I have of him being the murderer will simply go away.
When I get back at Heather, it seems like an unexpected idea has hit her.
“Let’s go there, tonight,” she mumbles, and I’m not sure I’m really following. “At the house,” she emphasizes. “And check about further evidence that we might’ve missed.”
Oh, I can’t believe I’m going down with this again. I feel like I’m hunting for something, but I don’t know what exactly. Heather clutches my wrist in a heartbeat, and I almost jump.
Cinnamon And Secrets (A Cupake Shop Mystery Book 1) Page 5
