Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  But people didn’t seem to mind much. They were more interested in talking about what had happened to Detective Jones. Gossip was rife, with interesting theories as to who might have committed the crime floating around.

  I struggled to focus on them, though, since we’d hardly gotten a wink of sleep last night. And that was because the police had closed down the guesthouse for the night in order to investigate the crime scene and ascertain what had happened and how.

  We’d been relocated to a motel just outside of town, and while it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, it had been difficult to fall asleep. Particularly, since Bee hadn’t had her nightly coffee—she insisted it was the only way she could go to bed—and had kept me up with photos and theories of her own.

  Jones dead.

  It was crazy.

  “Good morning,” a woman said.

  I blinked and looked up, holding my Styrofoam coffee cup, the liquid now cool. I’d been half-asleep and standing. “Hello,” I said. “Sorry, I—oh, it’s you. Hi, Kayla!”

  The young woman, a co-guest at the Oceanside, offered me a weary smile. “Morning,” she said. “I thought it would be best to come get a cup of coffee today. I’m not huge on drinking the stuff, but goodness, after last night…”

  “Totally,” I said, and set my cold cup down. I poured her one, slipped it into a coffee cup holder, and handed it over. “There you go.”

  “Thank you,” Kayla said, brushing back short, dark hair from her bright green eyes. “This is terrible for my diet, but my trainer said it’s good to take a break once in a while.”

  “Your trainer?” Bee asked as she finished serving another customer. The line had dwindled now that the morning coffee and cake rush had ended. Likely, we’d have a few moments to ourselves until the brunch crowd rushed in.

  “Oh yeah.” Kayla tore the top off a pack of sugar and poured the contents into her cup. “I’m a bodybuilder.”

  I blinked. “You are?”

  She didn’t look particularly muscly, but then, who could tell? She wore a baggy shirt and a pair of jeans.

  “Yes,” Kayla laughed. “Priceless. I always get that reaction when I tell people. I look small, but if you had to come by the competition, you’d see just how strong I am.” She set down her cup and pulled a sleeve back, showing off a bicep that was the size of my head.

  Well, not quite, but it was still impressive. “You’re in town for a competition?”

  “That’s right!” Kayla withdrew a newspaper clipping from her pocket and pointed at the headline. “See? Carmel Springs hosts the Female Bodybuilder’s Association Competition.” She tucked the clipping away again. “And I’m going to win. If I can get some sleep. I won’t be able to train and prepare when I’m this tired.”

  “Ugh, that’s terrible.”

  “But not as terrible as the fact that a man died last night,” Bee said. “Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t Jones’ biggest fan, but what a way to go.”

  “Nightmarish,” Kayla agreed, shuddering. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “I wish we could say the same.” There had been a few incidents in the last few months, and we’d managed to get involved in all of them.

  Kayla paid for her coffee then headed off toward the benches that overlooked the ocean. It was a clear day today, and the water was glassy and smooth. The wind refreshed me a little, but definitely not enough to wake me fully.

  More customers arrived, seeking treats and chatter, including the Carlingtons—the elderly couple who’d been staying at the Oceanside over Halloween, and who had attended my surprise party as well. Mrs. Carlington was short and sweet as honey. She wore polka-dot dresses and could produce candies from her bag at a moment’s notice. Mr. Carlington smoked a pipe, was tall and thin as a rake, but was always ready with a book recommendation or an interesting fact.

  “Good morning, dears,” Mrs. Carlington said. “Do you have any specials this week?”

  “Lemon meringue cupcakes in celebration of Ruby’s birthday,” Bee said, gesturing to the stacked display case behind the counter. The cupcakes were another of Bee’s amazing inventions. A tangy lemon frosting, a vanilla cupcake, and zesty meringues atop it, dotted with beads of golden syrup.

  “They look divine,” Mrs. Carlington said. “Two please.”

  “Absolutely.” I set to work packaging two of the cupcakes in a Bite-sized Bakery box.

  “Did you hear the news about the murder?” Mr. Carlington asked, producing the newspaper from underneath his arm. “I assume Detective Martin has come by to talk to you about it?”

  Bee and I frowned at each other. “No? Why would he have spoken to us?” Bee asked.

  “Oh. Oh dear,” Mr. Carlington said and placed the newspaper on the counter.

  “You’ve put your foot in it again, Jeffrey.”

  “I have indeed,” Mr. Carlington said. “Well, no harm in telling all, now, since my foot’s already in the—”

  “Jeffrey, please!”

  “Right. Heavens, Deirdre, I wasn’t going to say anything too inappropriate. I’m not that invested in toilet humor.” Mr. Carlington had gone flustered and tugged on the collar of his shirt. “The newspapers have announced that Jones wasn’t killed by a knife but a letter opener.”

  “Oh. What’s that got to do with us?” I asked.

  “The letter opener was from Bee’s room.”

  Bee went wide-eyed.

  I grabbed the paper, fluffing it out to read it. “It can’t say that. How could they possibly know…?” But there it was, announced plainly on the front page.

  —a letter opener, taken from one of the guest’s rooms. Our sources close to the scene tell us that the letter opener in question came from Beatrice Pine’s suite. Could it be that the out-of-towner had taken it upon herself to—

  “Drivel,” Mrs. Carlington said, reaching over to pat Bee on the arm. “Don’t worry yourself with that. It’s second-rate journalism at best, and there’s no evidence that—”

  A siren whooped outside the truck, and Detective Martin’s police cruiser rolled to a halt in front of the food truck. He emerged from it, settling his hat on his thatch of thick, brown hair.

  “Miss Pine?” The detective stopped behind the Carlingtons. “Do you have a minute to speak to me? It’s important.”

  4

  The day on the food truck ended earlier than usual, mostly because Bee and I were too tired to continue. Folks in Carmel Springs seemed more interesting in talking about the murder than buying our cupcakes, too, and though I wasn’t big on celebrating birthdays, this was hardly how I’d envisioned my week going.

  “Are you OK?” I asked as we clambered into the truck—Bee in the passenger seat and me in the driver’s. “I mean, Detective Martin…”

  “He’s just doing his job,” Bee said. “What? I can be nice too. I can tell that Martin is a good officer. He’s following every lead. If they had anything on me, I’d be in prison by now, but they don’t and I’m not.”

  “Did he let anything slip?” I started the truck, allowing the engine to warm up. A lot of people didn’t know that driving off with their engine cold could damage it—this way, I saved myself money on repairs and got time to myself. Or time with Bee to talk about the murder.

  “Hmm.” Bee peered out of the windshield at the ocean. The sun was now high overhead, just past its zenith. “I didn’t get to press him for much information, but he did mention that he’d been busy all morning and apologized that I’d read about the letter opener in the newspaper before he’d gotten the chance to come and talk to me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned he’d had to calm down Jones’ grieving widow.” Bee rapped her knuckles absently on her window. “I wonder who she is.”

  “That’s an easy solve,” I replied, bringing out my phone and unlocking the screen. I shot off a quick text to Millie, our friend and the Queen of gossip and news in town. The reply came through seconds later, lighting my screen and sendin
g bubbles of excitement through me. “Martha Jones. And here’s her address.”

  “22 Syrup Street,” Bee read aloud. “What’s with this town and the cutesy names?”

  “What do you say?” I asked. “Do you want to go have a chat with the widow? Or do you want to stay out of this one?” We’d gotten involved, whether we’d meant to or not, in the last few cases in town. Cases that Jones had headed, and that he’d been protective over.

  And he locked you up, remember? It’s a miracle you’re not a major suspect. Yet.

  “I think the choice has been taken away from us,” Bee said. “What are we going to do? Serve cakes while the cops look for evidence that links me to the crime?”

  “I thought you said that Martin was a good detective.”

  “He seems like one,” Bee said. “But I just… the thought of standing by while my name is on the line doesn’t sit well with me.” She ruffled her silver-gray bob. “It’s taken me sixty years to start enjoying life. I’m not going to let fate take control now.”

  “Or handsome detectives,” I said.

  “Ha! So you do think he’s handsome.”

  “And, that’s my cue to leave,” I said, letting down the handbrake and pulling out onto the street.

  I entered Syrup Street five minutes later and parked outside number 22. It was a lovely neighborhood, with gorgeous trees, their leaves golden-brown and dropping from the branches. There were benches and lampposts, and the houses were neat with gardens that were small but cared for.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Never judge a neighborhood by its, err, cover?”

  “Well put.”

  “I’m too tired to come up with snappy puns, but you get what I mean,” Bee said, as we got out of the food truck. “There’s a seedy underbelly in a lot of places that look charming and quaint.”

  “All right, all right, don’t go all ‘seedy’ on me.”

  I opened the picket gate that let into Martha Jones’ yard and made my way up the path to the front of the house. It was squat, the front porch devoid of decoration. I couldn’t help but think that was the detective’s doing. He’d never seemed like the type to go for anything frivolous or fun. He’d been downright nasty toward us most of the time.

  Bee knocked and rang the doorbell, and we waited, the quiet broken by the odd barking of a dog or the rush of leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

  The door opened, and a woman who sort of looked like Miss Piggy, if Miss Piggy had turned human, smiled out at us. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Hi there,” I said. “My name is Ruby Holmes and this is—”

  “Beatrice Pine.” Martha, Jones’ widow, opened the door wider. “You two had better come inside. Follow me.” She walked down a long hall that was filled with boxes and a floral-patterned fabric bag. “In here.” She paused in a doorway, beckoning to us.

  Bee and I exchanged one of our ‘what on earth is this’ glances, then followed her into the house. We entered a living room that held a set of leather sofas and a flat-screen TV on the wall, beneath the stuffed heads of two deer.

  “I see you’re admiring Roger and Macy,” Martha said, and I startled.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “The deer.” Martha busied herself moving around the living room, drawing curtains back to let in light. “They were my husband’s favorites. He bagged them on a hunting holiday over in Milwaukee.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t a huge fan of hunting.

  Bee sniffed. “How did you know our names?” she asked.

  “Oh, Nathan spoke about you two all the time. You were a thorn in his side,” Martha replied. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  We took a seat on one of the sofas, the leather squeaking beneath us.

  Martha stood for a second longer, peering out of the window that looked out on the street. “Nathan mentioned your food truck often too.” She bent and retrieved a newspaper from next to the sofa. “And the headlines say that it was your letter opener that…” She closed her eyes for a second, trembling on the spot. “I was silly to invite you in. I was simply curious. You don’t seem that bad. The way he spoke about you, I half-expected you would have horns and forked tongues.”

  “Sheesh,” Bee said. “That’s good to know.”

  “We’re not here to cause you in any trouble, Mrs. Jones. We just wanted to offer our condolences.” My gaze was drawn to the boxes out in the hall, though, a few of them visible beneath a table. They were sealed shut with tape and marked ‘cushions’ and ‘books.’ “I see you’re packing. Do you need help with anything?”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” Martha said, her expression flickering strangely, perhaps between fear and anger and something else? “I don’t understand why my husband hated you so much, but no, I don’t need help. I’m going away on a little vacation, just to get some breathing room after what’s happened.”

  A vacation that required her to pack up her house? And cushions and books?

  “We have some cupcakes out in the food truck if you’d like some,” Bee said. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. I’m fine. Or I will be fine.” Martha still hadn’t sat down. “I guess, it’s just very strange to wake up and have the house empty of him. He wasn’t the most ebullient of men, but we had been together for so long. It’s just strange.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, disturbing her honey-blonde fringe. “I don’t think it’s registered yet. I just—oh my.” She finally lowered herself to the sofa and the leather screamed a protest.

  It would have been funny if not for the situation. “Mrs. Jones, is there anything we can do? Anything at all?” I asked.

  “No,” Martha said. “No, I think I need to be alone now. Thank you for offering your condolences. I appreciate it.”

  Bee and I filed out of the house as quietly as we’d come, past the boxes that surely shouldn’t have been there if Martha was just ‘going on vacation.’

  “What do you think?” I asked after we’d slipped into the truck and fastened our seatbelts.

  “That Martha’s got something to hide. Why else would she have lied to us about going away?” Bee replied. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way what’s going on in there qualifies as ‘packing for a vacation.’ The whole thing felt weird. Especially with the two deer watching us.”

  “Eugh.” I stuck out a tongue. “That was strange.” And it was even weirder to picture Martha and Jones as a married couple. I hadn’t bothered wondering if he had a significant other. I’d assumed that no woman would be able to tolerate his ego.

  Boy, had I been wrong.

  “Let’s go, Rubes. We should take it easy tonight. We’ll need our wits about us tomorrow.”

  “And the day after that.” Depending on how long the case lasted, of course.

  It was time to put our sleuthing caps on again.

  5

  It had taken two days for the police to clear the guesthouse of evidence, the body, and the crime scene tape, but we were finally back. Strangely, the Oceanside felt more like home to me, now, than my apartment back in New York ever had. At least, here we could get some proper sleep.

  Assuming Jones didn’t decide to come back and haunt our rooms. He had truly despised us, Bee in particular. I wouldn’t have put it past him to use his afterlife to punish us for our past transgressions.

  I sat at our favorite table in the living room, the one closest to the fireplace, a cup of coffee in front of me. Bee read a newspaper from a day prior to the murder—Sam hadn’t had a chance to bring in the latest, and we were both too lazy to go out and get it.

  “It’s good to be back.” I took a sip of my coffee, scanning the room. The chairs and tables were back in their usual arrangement. The gifts had been confiscated, and a few of them had been ruined because of Jones’ weight.

  Terrible thought. Poor guy. Was it disingenuous of me to feel pity for Jones? He’d been
an enemy of mine, in a way, but I would never have wished death upon him. Or anything bad for that matter. All I’d wanted was for him to leave me alone.

  The Carlingtons sat at their favorite spot next to the window, occasionally chatting or sipping from their mugs, while Trouble the kitten lay in front of the fireplace, warming his fluffy underbelly.

  “That’s interesting,” Bee said, turning the pages of the paper.

  “What is?”

  “This.” She pressed the newspaper flat to the table. “There’s an op-ed piece in here from Millie. It was written the day before Jones’ murder.”

  “Oh? What does it say?”

  Bee read in hushed tones, her fingers crinkling the paper. “It is the opinion of the editor that the police department in Carmel Springs is in serious need of assistance and perhaps a change in management. Too often, are officers like Detective Nathan Jones allowed to run amok, arresting innocents or making unfounded accusations. If these sorts of instances don’t come to an end, there will only be pain, confusion and upset in the future.”

  I sat back. “Wow. Sounds like Millie wasn’t Jones’ biggest fan either.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Did you see her yesterday?”

  “Yesterday? Where?”

  Bee folded the old newspaper and placed it to one side. “On the food truck. Did you serve her?”

  “No. I haven’t served her since … the day of the murder, I think. My birthday.”

  “And neither have I.” Bee pursed her lips. “Millie never misses a chance to gossip and have a cupcake. It’s weird that she wouldn’t have come by to talk about Jones’ death.”

  “You can’t possibly think that she would do anything like that. Come on, Bee, we know Millie. She’s a good person. She was the one who helped us drum up interest for the truck a few weeks ago,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, I know. But if we’re going to figure out who did this, we have to make sure that we investigate every possible avenue. We can’t be biased. It seems to me that Millie might have a reason to stay away. Maybe she’s afraid we saw the article. Maybe she thinks that we’ll ask her questions about it.”