Cinnamon And Secrets (A Cupake Shop Mystery Book 1)

by D. S. Mowbray

  And it’s funny, because I never did anything to really have him in the first place.

  “Wow, look at this,” Heather hands me the tablet, where she usually catches up with the latest gossip.

  I take hold of the white tablet computer and look at the screen. There’s a necklace’s pic that I’m looking at, so I scroll downward to the article.

  “It says here, the thievery has occurred last night in Lazulville.”

  “What are you talking about?” she gives me the startled face. “I was meaning the necklace.”

  “I know you did.” I tease her, knowing that she wouldn’t give a hoot about this kind of information.”

  “It looks so beautiful and pricy. I mean, I would be a thief just to have it,” Heather looks at the screen in an I’m-just-saying way, and thinks whether she’d really put herself in that position.

  “Anyway, I have business to attend to,” I tell her and get ready to head out.

  “Please, don’t mind ringing me when he cuts your wrists,” she teases me, but for some reason it gets at me.

  What if Braiden really is the killer? What would I do then?

  I mean, do I really know what I’m up against?

  I sort of don’t like this new version of Braiden. He’s just so hot and perfect. And I don’t want anything to ruin that.

  “You think I would’ve done that?” he huffs in an unbelievable way.

  “What is it that you were doing in there in the middle of the night, breaking in like a thief?” I raise an eyebrow and feel a pang of hurt for having to put him in this position.

  “Ugh,” he places his hands on his temples, brows stretching along. “It’s complicated.”

  “Well, I’ve got time,” I cross my arms on my chest, waiting. He looks uncomfortable. Tired. At a loss for words. And I caused all this. I cannot help but feel a little blameworthy. Adorable Braiden, I hate doing this to you, but you have to understand. I didn’t have another choice, I want to tell him, but feel like he wouldn’t care about what I would have to say. All that he cares about is that I put him in a very uncomfortable position and he’s struggling through it.

  “You don’t understand, I cannot tell you,” he looks so perfect even though so desperate.

  “You’re not giving me much of a choice,” I mutter, desperately. I don’t want to make him feel like this. I of all people should be the one to support him. And yet here I am.

  “I’m giving you my trust,” he approaches and my heart leaps, I don’t know whether it is out of lust or fear of him being the murderer. He takes my hand and I fearfully, hesitantly oblige with his movement. Clutching my hand upon his, he places my palm against his chest and I can feel his heartbeats. His cinnamon cologne has me swooning. Is he trying to lure me? Because I’m undeniably falling. “You know me.” He whispers madly, and I melt away. “You think I’m capable of such cruelty?”

  I don’t. I don’t. But what am I supposed to do?

  “I think I should better go,” I avoid giving him a retort, because I know that with this much touching involved, things are going to soon get very enticing, and I’d find myself under the sheets of a latent murderer. Augh, I don’t know what to think.

  I move forward to get out of his house, when I hear his deep husky voice piercing into my chest.

  “Ainsley, just know that there’s no getting back from this.” He says, and I wonder: Is he trying to threaten me?

  Maybe he is the killer after all.

  I get out of the house without an answer, with the suspicion blowing in my head, and I finally find myself really taking my doubts into consideration.

  It’s just so hard to believe he’s a murderer when you look at him, all hot and sweet. I guess only his looks is very misleading. And was he trying to trick me with his charm? I mean, I’ve done everything to get close to him, but he insensibly pulled me back each time. And now when I showed up by his door with the gift of threat in my hands, he just wanted to get me into touching him. That’s just so confusing. I mean, touching him is confusing.

  My phone buzzes and I get it out of my jeans and look at the screen.

  “Did you go there?” asks Heather on the other part of the line.

  “I did,” I tell her. “But…I don’t know,” I sigh.

  “Ainsley. I filed a report.”

  It’s some noise down the street that’s having me all confused, so I don’t hear precisely what Heather is telling me.

  “Can you repeat that again? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles and I immediately realize what she’s done.

  Turning around, I take a look at Braiden’s house to find him climbing down the stairs to his porch with two men holding him by the arms and heading towards the car.

  Oh, boy. Heather has talked to the detective.

  I don’t realize that I’m still holding the phone in my hands and it feels like a weightless feather on my palm, while I’m catching sight of Braiden’s eyes.

  I’ll never be able to get that look out of my head. That look that says ‘I’ll never forgive you for this’. And suddenly I’m just a just-born kitten disoriented in the big world.

  Good bye, Braiden. There goes any tiny hope there was of us ever getting together.

  I stare at the same exact spot on the floor where the pattern of shadows and lights is reflected smoothly against the tiles. It’s the collection of branches, the outdoorsy lights, and the wind blowing on them occasionally, that it’s creating this artwork on my floor. The shadows crumble from time to time because of the evening breeze and mingle with one another to again go into the rightful place.

  It just looks so beautiful and I don’t know whether my noticing it comes because of the fact that I don’t keep my indoors lightning system off very often, or because of everything that happened with Braiden.

  I still haven’t been able to recover. How could I?

  And then I hear some cracklings that come from the outside and I get all confused and scared. Coral comes lingering against my feet on the couch, while I get up.

  Coral looks at me with sleepy eyes in a way that suggests he doesn’t really care about the fuss outside, when he’d much rather enjoy the indoors coziness meanwhile.

  “That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? If I’m not mistaken, it sounds suspicious,” I demand and head outside on my pajamas.

  Coral doesn’t consider my curiosity, but he lies peacefully on the couch instead, while I waddle over to my porch.

  It’s so dark and the season has taken its toll. The wind is blowing forcefully and I think it’s rather cold for a post-summer night. I try to make out throughout the darkness and I look immediately at the house next door.

  Everything seems so peaceful and quiet, and nothing out of the ordinary catches my eyes. What is going on here? I was so sure that I have heard something.

  Just as I’m about to get back inside, the corner of my eye catches a shadow moving through the night. A ghost? I shiver.

  I turn around immediately and look ahead. But still everything seems so peaceful. But then I spot the shadow again. It’s just that this time I don’t think it’s a ghost anymore. I think it’s a person waddling out of Mr. Gleason’s house and into the street. They start running.

  I’m so confused and terrified and I don’t know what to do.

  This couldn’t be Braiden, because he’s down at the precinct. So what does this mean? Is this for real, or is my mind playing tricks on me?

  I climb down the stairs to my porch and find myself lingering on my front yard. It’s too late. The person has already disappeared.

  I manage to bring myself in front of Mr. Gleason’s house and stay there thoughtfully. I look under the vase. The key is not there. Oh, my God. Clutching the doorknob, the door slips open.

  Horrified, I run over to my porch and grab my phone. I don’t think I’ll be able to spend the night alone.

  • • •

  “I knew
I should’ve taken that fancy vase when I had the chance,” Heather huffs infuriatingly, while I look at her in a way that suggests I’m not really catching up. And then it strikes me.

  “You went over to Mr. Gleason’s house to steal his vase?” I ask with gaping eyes.

  “Now, I wouldn’t call that stealing. More like sensible adaption of abandoned items in terms of providing care for them.”

  “You can sugarcoat your way around it as much as you want, it’s still stealing.”

  “Whatever,” she rolls her eyes. “Do you think it was stolen last night, you know, when you thought you saw someone breaking in?”

  It still hasn’t occurred to me that this might be the case. But she’s making a point. We only visited the house a couple of days ago and now the vase has vanished from existence.

  I called Heather last night after I witnessed someone barging in to Mr. Gleason’s house, and this morning due to my unbearable need of keeping my mind sane, I headed straight to the cupcake shop, earlier than I should have, while Heather was still napping. And now she’s here, with a great almost-thievery story to share.

  “It could’ve been anybody,” I try to reason. “Braiden is still at the precinct as far as I know, and I’m really sure last night I was completely lucid and my mind was not playing me tricks. The house is unowned for the time being, and we live in a crazy world. Everybody could’ve been there last night. Maybe I’m giving it much more thought than I should.”

  “Well,” she swings her head on one side thoughtfully and proceeds, “it’s so unfortunate that vase ended up in the wrong hands. I could’ve taken great care of it.”

  “I know you would,” I say teasingly.

  “You know,” her head sways from the floor to my eyes now fiercely as though she’s come up with a sudden conclusion. “I think it is your fault. You didn’t let me get the vase that night when we broke in to the house.”

  “How is it my fault?” I gape at her, defensively. “We were almost getting disclosed by a gruesome housebreaker who later on we found was Braiden.”

  Coral has just finished eating his food, so he waddles over the counter now and lingers to my feet. I bend down and scratch his head. He purrs in approval.

  I cannot help myself but think of Braiden again. Everything about him looks suspicious now that I’m taking stock of every fact, of every little detail that was there for me, and which I snubbed delightfully. That’s why he didn’t want me to tell the police about the housebreaker when I asked him at the church, because he was the housebreaker. When I was driving to work today, I passed by the usual street where Braiden’s house was (it was technically his parents’ house, but he was the one to use it, since they were really occupied running their successful business in the city), and for some reason I felt rather horribly for what I did (it still feels the same bad even though Heather was the one to spill the beans). But now that I’m putting all the pieces to the puzzle—it has been there all the time. And I just allowed myself to be so clueless because of my silly crush. I mean, his cinnamon fragrance, his suspicious behavior, the fight in the morning before the party…these were all tracks that I should’ve followed through with.

  The door opens, interrupting me from my thoughts, and I see Mrs. Hopper approaching. She spreads a kind smile at me, and suddenly my heart is filled with nothing but fondness. She’s such a sweet lady that scatters positivity everywhere she goes.

  “Hello, dear,” she greets me. “How are things with the shop going on?”

  “Well, surprisingly nice,” I gaze happily somewhere in the air and then meet her eyes with a smile.

  “Glad to hear. Looks like, after all, that party of yours did you good.”

  “Apparently,” I sigh in a contended way.

  “And who do you have to thank for that?” Heather barges in, demanding her credit rating.

  “We’ll always be grateful to you for that abrupt, surprising turn of events,” I mock her, recalling everything unpleasant that happened to that party. Heather’s smug smile abates eventually as she sinks down her seat.

  “So, Mrs. Hopper, what can I get started for you?” I ask her, knowing that she’d either request her usual blueberry muffins or velvet cupcakes.

  “Hmm,” she squints, as though trying to go over the options. “You know what? Just surprise me with your newest come-up.”

  For some reason, I get so excited that she’s giving so much credit in my original creations, and my eyes sparkle with appreciation. “I’ll get you two hazelnuts and lemon cupcakes. You’ll love them.”

  “Oh, that already sounds so delicious,” she wriggles with anticipation.

  While Mrs. Hopper makes herself comfortable on the seat next to Heather, I can already hear the mumbles of their just-sparked conversation. Mrs. Hopper is the town’s gossip mill. She always likes catching up on the latest updates regarding just about everyone in the town—and out of town for that matter. There are times where she just gets obsessed with famous people and starts digging and digging into their lives, looking for types of information such as ‘how much did they spend on their latest gift?’ or ‘who hooked up with whom?’

  And it so happens that Heather loves gossiping too.

  No wonder these two go along so well.

  “What’s gotten you all so startled?” I ask Heather, when I detect her shocked face, her chin tipped at Mrs. Hopper.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she howls.

  “What’s going on?” I try to push her to go further since she’s stopped for suspense effect.

  “We might’ve been wrong reporting Braiden after all.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, according to Mrs. Hopper here, Kamron, Mr. Gleason’s nephew, has been in constant arguing with his uncle regarding Mr. Gleason’s passion for charity. You see, Mr. Gleason was about to donate a great deal of his wealth to some researching center and all his nephews and nieces weren’t okay with it. But most of all, Kamron. Mrs. Hopper has witnessed them fighting so ferociously a week before he was killed.”

  I’m all confused and lost by the sudden dose of information. “Why decide to bring it out now?”

  Mrs. Hopper, to whom I was directing my question, shifts on her chair and looks at me compassionately. “Well, I heard about what happened to Braiden. And I don’t know why but I felt compelled to talk to somebody about this. I don’t know for sure who might’ve killed him. What I know is that each of his nephews might’ve had a reason to.”

  “But it was Braiden,” I insist. Knowing that I’ve put him through this mess for nothing is just so unbearable. “We saw him breaking in to the house. He’s the man with the black hooded sweatshirt.”

  “Well, I’m not implying anything, darling.” She let her eyebrows wriggle in a defensive way and then mumbles as though to herself. “The trouble some people go through just for some additional numbers on their bank accounts.” She shrugs, thinking about how nice of a person Mr. Gleason really was. And to think that this happened just about some money is just so frustrating. “Your cupcakes are all the marbles by the way, as always,” she giggles as though she’s indulging herself in some illegal yet rather pleasurable activity, while enjoying my hazelnuts and lemon cupcake.

  I just needed some time out. These last couple of weeks have just been too much for me. And I needed some air, so I asked Coral to join me, which he reluctantly did, even though I’m quite sure that as soon as we hit the outdoors, he got lost among some bushes or something. And now I’m enjoying this little pleasurable routine alone.

  The street is quiet and autumn has eventually decided to settle its charm among us, streets filled with so many colorful leaves, breeze flowing recklessly along.

  And then I spot something that gets me all hinged aback. Is this really him? No, it can’t be! I was so sure that Braiden was the killer, but now I don’t know what to believe anymore, since he’s here enjoying the pleasures the outdoorsy life has to offer.

&
nbsp; I stop my stroll and look at him, hands cupped on my waist, “Braiden?” I ask, shocked. How am I supposed to act around him, after what happened? “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Ainsley,” he says contemptibly. I never had him look at me like this…so angrily and cold. “What are you doing standing there all fearlessly? Aren’t you afraid I might kill you, since, you know, I’m a supposed killer?” Oh, he’s just resenting me! But who could blame him? I would resent me for doing what I did to him.

  “Look, about that, I’m sorry. But you should know that it wasn’t me. I would never do that.” I find myself yet another time putting together the wrong choice of words around him.

  “Does it really matter who filed the report?” Now his eyes aren’t too resentful. He sounds genuine, though you can tell that he’s affectedly hurt by all this. “It’s you coming to my house and treating me like I was the killer that’s hurting me the most. I thought we trusted each other. I thought we had built this sense of trust that we could count on, but seemingly I was wrong.”

  “But I trust you. I mean, it was confusing seeing you taking that hood off of your head. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I didn’t know any longer who I could rely on.”

  “They know I’m not the killer. I told them the truth.” He returns to my previous question.

  “You did? I wish you’d have told me the truth prior.” I mumble hopefully. “But I’m so glad it wasn’t you.” Here I am, yet again, regretting what I just said. For some reason, when I’m around him I keep complicating things for myself. “Would you ever be able to forgive me?”

  “Oh, I forgive you,” he says with a sudden power that came to him out of nowhere. “It’s just that I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to trust you anymore on anything.”

  It’s these two words that are going to haunt me forever. And honestly, how would you feel if the person you cherished the most is now officially ditching you?

  The banter between me and Braiden has got me all confused, and I need to stop these thoughts, so I bring myself to the nearest coffeehouse to grab something to go. But then I regret my abrupt decision when I spot Detective Cassidy ordering his usual black coffee, while waiting on the line. This is a confrontation I don’t need right now. Should I head back? I think he hasn’t noticed me.