Case of the Muffin Murders

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Vance sighed and looked down at Sherlock, just as the tri-color corgi looked up at him.

  “Roger that,” I laughed.

  Fifteen minutes later, with the dogs tucked securely in my Jeep, Vance and I walked into Wired Coffee & Café. As was usually the case when I came in here, there was a line nearly eight people deep. Seeing how it would be a few minutes before we’d make it to the top of the line, Vance elected to get himself a coffee while I visited my favorite machine in the whole, wide world.

  Properly refreshed, with Vance holding his large coffee, and me holding my mega 64 ounce soda, we waited our turn. WC & C may have had hellaciously long lines, but at least the girls running the place were efficient. It only took us about five minutes to reach the counter. We both paid for our drinks and then requested to talk to the owner, Daryl Benson, citing official business. One of the girls ducked through the Staff Only door and a moment later, the young store owner appeared.

  “How can I help you today?” Daryl automatically asked. Then he noticed the two of us standing there and gave us a huge smile of relief. “Detective Samuelson. Mr. Anderson. It’s a pleasure. What can I do for you fine gents?”

  “Do you have someplace where we can talk?” Vance asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

  Daryl’s smile faded and he nodded. He hooked a thumb back at the Staff Only door and nodded for both of us to follow him through. Pushing by stacked boxes of cups, and lids, and various other items a popular coffee shop would need, we entered Daryl’s tiny office. There was just enough room for the three of us.

  “What’s going on?” Daryl asked, with concern evident in his voice. “I take it this isn’t a social call?”

  “Do you have any type of video surveillance in this place?” Vance asked.

  Daryl nodded, “Of course. I have a four channel wireless system in here which backs up every night to a data storage facility through the internet. I have two cameras covering the inside of the store, one for the backroom, and a camera covering the drive thru. Why do you ask? Do you need to see the footage for some reason?”

  “What I’m about to say has to remain strictly confidential,” Vance began.

  Daryl nodded, “Of course.”

  “There have been two murders in the last couple of days.”

  Daryl’s eyes shot open, “But I thought there had only been one! At least, that’s what I was told.”

  “Well, the second one happened at some point in time last night,” Vance grimly reported.

  “Oh, no. I hope it’s no one I knew. Can you tell me who it was?”

  “Mrs. Lucy Malone. Does that name ring any bells?”

  If possible, Daryl’s eyes opened wider still. He slowly nodded.

  “Yeah, I know who she is. She’s dead?”

  Vance and I both nodded.

  “Do you know how?” Daryl hesitantly inquired. “If it’s unpleasant, feel free to tell me ‘no’.”

  “We won’t have the official confirmation for another day or two,” Vance answered, “but it looks like it was carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “That’s terrible,” Daryl said.

  I had been carefully studying the coffee shop owner the entire time we were in his office. I was looking for some type of acknowledgement that he was already familiar with what had happened to Mrs. Malone. However, what I read on his features was genuine shock. He didn’t know she had been murdered. Either that or he was one hell of an actor.

  “How well did you know Mrs. Malone?” I asked.

  Daryl sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  “I don’t like speaking ill of the dead,” he slowly began, “but…”

  “If you have something that needs to be said,” Vance began, using a polite but firm tone, “then now would be the time to say it.”

  “All right. Fine. Here goes. Yes, I knew Mrs. Malone, but only because she made her visits here very memorable. She was nice enough to my girls, but man oh man, she creeped me out.”

  “How so?” Vance wanted to know. His notebook had found its way into his hand and he had started writing.

  “She kept hitting on me,” Daryl sighed. “She tried to get me to call her ‘Legs’. ‘Lucy Legs Malone’. That’s what she used to be called, back in the day. How do I know this? ‘Cause she told me, at every opportunity she could. I swear, every damn day I was here, she would always come in. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was stalking me. First off, let me say that I’m happily married. I have a gorgeous wife and a five year old daughter. There’s no way I’d ever jeopardize that. And second, good God, she’s old enough to be my grandmother.”

  I stifled a laugh, which didn’t go unnoticed by Daryl.

  “Has she hit on you, too?” Daryl hopefully asked.

  “No,” I admitted, “but I do seem to have a geriatric fan club that I’m not too keen about.”

  “She dressed inappropriately,” Daryl continued. “I’ve had to talk to her several times about her attire. I even had to threaten her with banishment from the café if she didn’t put more clothes on whenever she came in. Then there was her attitude.”

  “What about it?” Vance asked.

  “She acted like a few spark plugs weren’t firing, if you catch my meaning.”

  Vance nodded knowingly and scribbled more notes into his notebook.

  “I may not have liked her,” Daryl announced, looking straight at me, “but I never would have killed her. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything,” Vance remarked as he finally finished writing. “The reason we’re here is that we’ve noticed each of our VICs had your coffee cups in their trash cans.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Daryl told us. “We sell many cups of coffee, espressos, and lattes a day. If you’re looking for those numbers, I can get them for you.”

  “I’m not interested in that,” Vance said, shaking his head. “I’m more interested in what they were doing when they were here. Was there anyone watching them? Did you have any suspicious people in the café? Things like that.”

  “Ah. I see. Very well. Here’s what I can do for you.” Daryl proceeded to write a few things on a slip of paper and then hold it out to Vance. “This is the website address and my username and password for our online data storage.”

  Vance blinked a couple of times and glanced over at me with an incredulous look on his face, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. I quickly shook my head. I was reminded of the time last year when a certain female reporter informed me that their company surveillance footage was handled the same way. Everything was connected to the internet, which meant all the data was stored offline. If you knew what you were doing, then you could access that data and peruse through the footage at your leisure.

  The problem was, I was not such a guy. I was slowly getting better with all these technological gadgets, but I wasn’t that good. I didn’t have a prayer of being able to figure out how to access the data Daryl was alluding should now be available to us.

  Vance, however, was all smiles. He took the proffered slip of paper and nodded his thanks. We shook hands with the store owner and we left. Out in the parking lot, Vance looked down at the slip of paper and smiled triumphantly.

  “We have something to go on, pal. All thanks to Sherlock and Watson. Hmm. I wonder if it’s too late to bet on the dogs over the humans.”

  SIX

  “What’s he making now? I may not have been a fan of that green pie thing of his, but man alive, that cobbler looks and smells great!”

  “It’s actually called a ‘crisp’,” Jillian quietly corrected. “And the ‘green pie thing’ was a spinach quiche. I thought it was quite delicious.”

  “I’ll take the cobbler any day over that quiche.”

  “Crisp,” Jillian corrected again.

  “Cobbler, crisp. Tomato, tomahto.”

  Jillian swatted my arm and held a finger to her lips.

  We were standing inside her store, Cookbook Nook, w
here a local author was holding a book signing. However, since he was a cookbook author, he had volunteered to make a few of his dishes. I thought the first dish was literally a grass pie. It was green, it looked terrible, and smelled worse. However, it went over fairly well with the crowd. Not with me, though. Cooked spinach was one of the vegetables I could not get down, even if I tried. It looked too much like fresh grass clippings to me.

  I’m sure it tasted even worse.

  Now, the multi-berry crisp thingamajig, that was an entirely different matter altogether. It consisted of a variety of sweet, succulent berries and cinnamon oatmeal crumb topping. Just give me a fork and wheel my ass over to that table, thank you very much. Death by dessert is the only way to go.

  “I didn’t know you liked crisps so much,” Jillian observed. She pulled a napkin from a nearby table and dabbed the corners of my mouth. “You’re drooling, Zachary.”

  I could only nod. I was a sucker for crisps. And cobblers, cakes, pies, cookies, and… Okay, okay. I think we’ve already established I have a sweet tooth.

  “So, who is this guy?” I asked, after the featured author decided to take a twenty minute break. “Is he local?”

  Jillian nodded, “Yes. He’s a local chef who has written five different cookbooks, and was even featured on a segment on QVC. He’s sold lots of books. I’ve held several cooking demonstrations for him here. It also helps that his wife is a huge fan of my store.”

  “That can only be a good thing for you,” I observed.

  Jillian nodded, “Exactly. Do you know what I like most about his recipes?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He uses local ingredients for the vast majority of his dishes. Local vegetables and native fruits. Oh, and wine. We mustn’t forget about the wine. In fact, I know he’s mentioned Lentari Cellars in several of his books.”

  “Really? How cool! Hey, listen. What’s a guy gotta do in order to obtain a sample of that berry crisp? It looks like it could use a professional opinion.”

  Jillian giggled and slowly walked me over to the table where the author was busy signing cookbooks. He looked up, smiled at Jillian, and then noticed me. He signed a book that was just placed before him, returned it to the owner, and then slowly stood up. He held out a hand.

  “Arthur Higgins. And who might you be, sir?”

  “Arthur,” Jillian began, “this is Zachary Anderson, owner of Lentari Cellars. Zachary, this is Arthur Higgins, author and chef extraordinaire.”

  Arthur Higgins eagerly gripped my hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Anderson! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I plastered a guarded smile on my face.

  “With regards to my winery or with regards to my brief – but colorful – history in this town?”

  “I’m referring to your, in your own words, colorful history as a writer.”

  “As a writer?” I repeated, dumbfounded.

  Holy crap on a cracker. I stared at this middle-aged, balding, slightly pudgy man in his mid-fifties with the pompous smile on his face. He couldn’t possibly be alluding to my nomme de plume, could he? Or was he? He was certainly acting like he knew my alias was Chastity Wadsworth, risqué romance novelist. No one knew that. Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, sure, my mother had ratted me out to my friends last Christmas, but as far as I knew, that particular secret hadn’t left my house. Or had it?

  I turned to regard Jillian, who was busy studying the tiles on the floor.

  “You didn’t.”

  “It might’ve slipped out. I’m so sorry. Arthur, what did I tell you about that? You promised me you wouldn’t tell.”

  “Oh, fear not, my dear Jillian. We authors have to stick together, don’t we, Mr. Anderson? Or should I say, Ms. Wadsworth?”

  My lips thinned as I studied this ‘celebrated’ author.

  “Indeed.”

  I glanced over at Jillian and saw that she was on the verge of tears. While I’m not too certain why she divulged my alias to this guy, I did recognize what ol’ Arthur Higgins here was doing. This guy was jealous. I’ve seen it in other authors. Nothing will piss off one author more than encountering another author who was way more successful than he would ever be. All Arthur here was trying to do was to get my goat. The only way he could do that? By revealing he knew my ‘secret’ identity. Well, it was time to put Jillian’s mind at ease.

  “I’m flattered, Arthur. You definitely have the advantage. You know my material but, I’m sorry to say, I don’t know yours. How long have you been an author?”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Hey, two can play this game, old man. I’ll also guarantee I play it better.

  “For ten years now,” Arthur haughtily answered. “I’ve released a dozen books and at least half have hit the bestseller list in their respective categories.”

  I gave the pretentious fool a genuine smile, “That’s fantastic. I’ve gotta hand it to you chefs. I couldn’t cook a dish even if the only thing I had to do was add water. You have to stick to your strengths, don’t you think?”

  “Quite. How long have you been writing your stories?” Arthur asked, adding enough sneer to his voice to indicate he didn’t think my novels were worth publishing.

  “Oh, gosh. Let’s see. It’s probably about the same time.”

  “And how many books have you published?” Arthur asked. Hi nose, if possible, lifted higher into the air.

  “Truthfully? I don’t really know what the count is up to. I have five different series, with probably six or seven stories in each. That’d make at least 30. And I know what you mean about hitting the bestseller lists. It’s an awesome feeling, isn’t it? I love being able to say that I’ve hit the bestseller lists for USA Today, Amazon, and once I even managed to hit the New York Times list, but that was a few years ago. I’m trying like crazy to hit it again, but you and I both know what a pain that is. It’s a lot of work and you have to sell a lot of books.”

  “Of course. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Arthur walked off in a huff. Jillian took my arm and gently guided me to her back room, where we could be alone.

  “Zachary, I am so sorry,” she sobbed. “I had no idea he’d act like such a jerk. I accidentally let it slip that my boyfriend was an author, too, and when he pressed me for details, it all came out. I guess I was just trying to impress him with all of your accomplishments.”

  I stood there, motionless and silent.

  “Please say something. I said I was sorry. What more can I say that will make you feel better?”

  I suddenly found my mouth bone dry. I tried swallowing a few times, but I was flat out of saliva. Seeing how distressed Jillian was, and how anxious she was for me to say something, I held up a hand, indicating I wanted her to wait. I hurried over to a sink, jammed on the cold water, and thrust my head under the faucet to gulp down some water in true juvenile form.

  Had she really said what I think she said?

  “You told him I was your boyfriend?” I quietly asked as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Jillian’s eyes widened with surprise, “Did I?”

  “That’s what you just said a few moments ago.”

  “Oh, Zachary. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean...”

  I stepped up to her, held a finger to her lips to silence her, and then leaned in for my first kiss ever. On the lips, that is.

  “I accept.”

  Now it was Jillian’s turn to fall silent. A smile slowly crept across her face. Without another word, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.

  “I accept, too. I will admit, though, that it was a Freudian slip of the tongue.”

  “Perhaps,” I gently told her. “But, it was a good slip.”

  Jillian rose up on her tiptoes (I was over eight inches taller than her) and gently gave me another kiss. Now the goofy look appeared on my face. And as far as I was concerned, I didn’t care.

  “Come on,” I told my new girlfriend. “He may b
e a prick, but some of that stuff he made does look good. I want to try that cobbler.”

  “Crisp.”

  “Whatever.”

  I was right. That crisp was fantastic. The author might be the embodiment of an all-around dickhead, but he was a very good cook. I didn’t know what kind of berries he used, but they sure were tasty. Blackberries? Blueberries? Perhaps a mix of the two?

  I eagerly shoved another spoonful into my mouth. Right about that time, someone bumped me from behind, causing me to miss my mouth and drop a dollop of the berry filling onto my shirt. Thankfully, I was wearing a dark blue polo, so it really wouldn’t be noticeable. I hastily wiped up the spilled berries with my finger, licked the evidence away, and turned to see who had bumped into me.

  “Well, hello there, sweetie. Fancy meeting you here!”

  It was my own version of Legs Malone: Clara Hanson. Clara was the owner of PV’s one and only bookstore. Unfortunately, she was also president of the geriatric fan club I mentioned earlier, and gave me the heebie jeebies. I never cared for anyone who didn’t respect your personal space. Clara was just such a person. She felt she needed to be less than a foot from you when carrying on a conversation, and as a result, I usually had to take a few steps back from her. Oh, I should also mention she owned an African gray parrot that, inexplicably, found me utterly charming and would always land on my shoulder whenever she saw me. Little Ruby. I was never a bird lover, but that small parrot was quite endearing.

  Clara was, shockingly enough, dressed in an elegant yellow cocktail dress and had tastefully arranged her hair into a sophisticated style which cascaded down her shoulders. Typically, it’s sticking straight up, like Marge Simpson’s hair, from that iconic cartoon. Also, thankfully, she had toned down her use of perfume. I wasn’t sure what game she was playing, and I didn’t care, as long as I wasn’t involved. Then I saw that Ms. Hanson only had eyes for one cookbook author. I grinned and eagerly stepped out of the way.

  “Are you here to see Arthur Higgins? He’s a new friend of mine. Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “Oh, honey,” Clara crooned, “would I ever. Zachary, would you do the honors?”