Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “I don’t know…”

  “If she had something to hide, she’d stay away.”

  “She’s probably been busy,” I replied. “We can’t just assume that it’s got to do with the murder.”

  Bee shrugged. “It’s strange, though, that she’s avoiding the truck days after Jones was murdered, and after she wrote this article about him. Just saying.”

  I opened my mouth to argue Bee down from mystery ledge, but Sam emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates with our breakfasts. She set them down in front us—a croissant with strawberry preserves for me, and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon for Bee, syrup on the side in case she wanted it.

  “Thanks, Sam,” I said. “This smells delicious. Um, but could I perhaps get that cheese we talked about?”

  “Right! Right, of course. Sorry, Ruby. Sorry.” Sam jerked on the spot as if I’d screamed at her then rushed back into the kitchen.

  “She’s jumpy,” Bee whispered.

  I nodded. But suspecting Sam of murder was even more ridiculous than the thought of Millie attacking Jones with a letter opener. She was our friend and a bit of a pushover.

  Sam entered the dining area carrying a small ramekin of grated cheddar and put it next to my plate. “There you go. It’s my fault. I forgot to tell Shawn you wanted the cheese.”

  Shawn was Sam’s newest assistant—a young man who’d once been on Jones’ suspect list for murder. He’d done nothing but cook delicious meals since Sam had hired him, though, and hadn’t done anything remotely illegal either.

  “Are you all right?” Bee asked as she crunched on a piece of crispy bacon. “You’re pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I guess it was the stress of what happened. I can’t believe that my guesthouse was the site of a m-murder.”

  “It’s terrible. But don’t worry, Sam, they’ll catch who did this.”

  If anything Sam only grew paler. “Yes. That’s good. I want Carmel Springs to be safe again.”

  “So do we,” I said. “Especially since we’ve decided we’re staying for Christmas.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Sam replied, absently.

  “Say, Sam.” Bee paused her crunching. “I’m curious, did you see anything strange on the night of the murder?”

  Again, Sam jumped on the spot. “The m-murder? No. Why? What do you mean?”

  Goodness, she was acting different. I cleared my throat. “I think Bee’s asking if you saw anyone around the guesthouse. You know, someone who maybe didn’t belong or who might have been snooping around upstairs.”

  “Upstairs, yeah,” Bee said. “They took my letter opener to kill Jones. So it might have been someone trying to frame me. Someone who hated Jones and maybe hated me too.”

  Sam appeared frozen, a deer in headlights.

  “Sam?”

  “No,” she said, jerking her head from side-to-side. “No, I didn’t see anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go, um, go check on Shawn. See if he needs any help with the other breakfasts.” She hurried back into the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind her.

  Bee and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I have a feeling we’re going to find out. Sooner rather than later.”

  6

  The sun had dipped toward the horizon, and we were at the end of another day on the food truck. Business had been better today and easier since we weren’t both exhausted and overwrought from the ‘excitement’ surrounding Jones’ untimely demise. But I couldn’t quit thinking about Sam.

  Why had she been so jumpy this morning? What had gotten into her? Was it because of the scare of seeing Jones’ body? Or was there more to it than that?

  You can’t seriously suspect that Sam had anything to do with it. She’s a lovely person.

  “What a day,” Bee said, as she clambered into the passenger seat of the truck. “That Kayla sure can eat. She bought an entire box of dusted donuts this morning and devoured them at one of the beachside benches.” She lifted a finger. “In one sitting. That’s no mean feat. Take it from someone who loves donuts as much as I do.”

  “Doesn’t seem like the prime bodybuilder diet to me. But what do I know?”

  “How to make a donut,” Bee said.

  “And that’s thanks to you.” I’d slowly started learning how to create baked goods since we’d started our adventure together. It was heartening to have Bee by my side, guiding me through the process and pointing out when I’d made a mistake, usually with a chuckle.

  We drove down the road toward the Oceanside, past the quaint houses, the pier and the Lobster Shack—we’d have to visit it again now that it had reopened. Finally, we parked in front of the guesthouse. The engine ticked as it cooled.

  I was so ready for a long hot bath and one of Shawn’s delicious dinners—who would have thought that a troubled young man like him would have such a knack for cooking? It was more evidence that one simply couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  “Uh oh.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look.” Bee pointed at the guesthouse.

  On the front porch, Detective Martin stood with his notepad out in deep discussion with Shawn. The youngster kept flipping his dark hair back, a scowl parting his lips. He shook his head, denying whatever Detective Martin had said.

  “What do you think that’s about?” I asked.

  “I think we both know. The murder. Maybe Martin thinks that Shawn had something to do with it.”

  “Surely not. Shawn’s got his history but he’d not a bad guy.”

  “No, he’s not,” Bee said, firmly.

  In the short while since Shawn had started working at the guesthouse, he and Bee had forged an easy friendship. It was probably because they both liked their privacy and because during Bee’s fluey stint, Shawn had snuck her some pancakes when Sam wasn’t looking. Sam had ordained that Bee should be fed chicken soup only.

  Detective Martin capped his pen, put his notepad away then drew a card from his pocket and gave it to Shawn. Finally, he walked down the steps and toward his cruiser. He either didn’t notice us or didn’t bother greeting, which suited me just fine. Handsome or not, there was more chance of me growing a fluffy tail and becoming the Easter Bunny than there was I’d ever date again.

  And particularly not a gorgeous detective who smelled of sandalwood. Oof, stop that!

  “Come on,” Bee said. “Let’s find out what happened.”

  We met Shawn on the porch. The Oceanside’s new chef stared at the card the detective had given him.

  “Evening, Shawn,” Bee said.

  He shifted and tucked the card into his pocket. “Hi. We’re having lobster ravioli for dinner.”

  “That’s great!” My stomach growled loudly in agreement. “But actually, we were just wondering what that was about.”

  “The detective?” Shawn rolled his eyes. “He wanted to talk to me about Jones’ death. Thinks I might have had something to do with it. You know, because I’m such a good scapegoat. Man, I ain’t done nothing wrong in weeks, and now this happens and I’m back on the radar. It’s dumb.” He scuffed his thick-soled boot on the porch boards.

  “I happen to agree with you,” Bee said.

  “Look, Shawn, we’re going to be, well, checking out a few leads and clues ourselves. We don’t think you did it—”

  “No one who cooks as well as you do could be a murderer,” Bee interjected.

  “—but we want to find out who did. Is there any reason Detective Martin might suspect you were involved?”

  Shawn scratched the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, I can understand why. It was this thing that happened a little while ago. Like maybe, I dunno, three or four days before someone offed the guy.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I was in the Corner Café grabbing a coffee. They got nice coffee, I like it because they’ve got all types and I wanted to try their new cappucc
ino.”

  “Ooh, the pumpkin spice?” Bee asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, that one!” Shawn lit up at the memory, but his brow wrinkled right afterward. “And then Jones came in, probably for his coffee too. But he couldn’t just leave me alone. He caused a scene, started making a big deal out of the fact that I was in there.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I was a good-for-nothing and that I was a danger to society or whatever. A lot of people stared or grumbled, but nobody said a thing about it. They were all too afraid of him because he could put them away, I guess. He said that I shouldn’t come back to the Corner Café ever again because it wasn’t for deadbeats and that if I did, he’d take everything away from me.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Wow, that’s crazy.”

  “That sounds like Detective Jones to me,” Bee put in. “The man had a screw loose. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he wasn’t all there. He arrested Ruby for no good reason after Theresa Michaud was murdered.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember,” Shawn said. “Anyway, now, because of that and everybody saw it too, that Detective Martin’s all over me. Asking questions and wanting alibis and all that. It’s annoying. I was at the guesthouse with everybody else during the build-up to the surprise party. And I didn’t kill Jones. He wasn’t worth my time.” He fiddled with the pocket of his Oceanside Guesthouse apron. “Man, why would I mess everything up like that? And a letter opener? Who stabs somebody with a letter opener? It’s just weird.”

  “Agreed.” Bee and I linked arms and followed Shawn back into the guesthouse. The scents of lobster ravioli were already on the air. I couldn’t wait to freshen up and tuck into Shawn’s latest creation, but the worry over the case stuck with me.

  Now, we had several suspects and all of them were either friends or folks we thought couldn’t possibly commit the murder. Sam, Millie, and Shawn. But their connections to Jones’ death were tenuous at best.

  “What do you think?” I asked Bee.

  She stopped in front of the stairs, peering up at the landing. The doorway to her room and mine were the first and second ones on the right. “I don’t know. But I’m wondering if they were out to get me or Jones. Why did they have the letter opener from my room?”

  If only I’d had an answer. “I think we should check out the Corner Café,” I said, “and speak to a few of the people or servers there. See if they maybe heard something. Shawn could be lying.”

  “True. He could be. But I doubt it. That young man isn’t the most orthodox in style or behavior, but I wouldn’t peg him as a murderer.”

  “There’s only one way we’ll find out.”

  7

  “So, what are our options?” Bee asked, rubbing her palms together.

  We’d taken the window seat in the Corner Café, which looked out on the town hall and the activity in Main Street. More of those wrought iron lamps populated the neat sidewalk, along with benches, a bus stop, and neatly demarcated parking spaces. Folks walked along, stopping at stores for what they needed or chatting with friends.

  The view was gorgeous, and the scents of roasting coffee beans and fresh-baked muffins and croissants uplifted me. And made me hungry. I scanned my menu, picking out a worthy brunch.

  The Eggs Benedict looked amazing. Or a muffin.

  “We could talk to our server, see if maybe he was on duty,” I said. “Or, wait, didn’t Shawn say that he was here to get a coffee?”

  “Pumpkin spice cappuccino,” Bee said, tapping on the menu card in front of her. “I’m dying for one of them.”

  “Not dying, I hope.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I try,” I said, scanning the place. “The barista. That’s it. We should speak to the barista. From the sounds of it, Shawn was in the line when Jones came in and confronted him. So it’s most likely that the barista would’ve seen it all.”

  “Hmm, assuming it’s the same barista on duty today,” Bee put in. “We could possibly—”

  Bee went quiet, her mouth hanging open.

  “Possibly what?” I frowned.

  Bee stared over my shoulder, at the doorway to the Corner Café.

  “Bee?”

  “Shush,” she hissed. “Just a second. Act natural.”

  “I’m not the one behaving strangely.”

  “Yes, yes. Hmm. Pretend we’re talking about something and don’t look,” Bee said.

  “Firstly, we are talking about something, unless we’ve entered another dimension where moving one's mouth and tongue and forming actual words doesn’t count as speech, and secondly—”

  “It’s Millie,” Bee whispered.

  I stopped talking, instantly.

  “No, no, not like that. You have to talk or she might look up and see us and think we’re staring at her.”

  It took all my focus and determination not to turn in my seat and look over at the point that had so fixated Bee. “OK, um, tell me what’s going on. What is she doing? Who is she with?”

  “Just a second.” Bee lifted her menu card and held it near her face, switching her gaze from it to the table where Millie was obviously seated. Not that I could tell without giving the whole game away.

  “Well?”

  “She’s pale and hunching over. She’s lifting her menu. Her fingers are trembling like, like… um… like a—”

  “Is the metaphor really important?” I asked.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” she replied. “She’s with a man. A stranger. Never seen him near the food truck and he doesn’t look friendly either.”

  “I have to see this.”

  “Don’t you dare turn around! You’ll give up our position.”

  “Relax, Bee. We’re not undercover cops.” I rose from the table and walked to the front of the coffee shop, joining the cue that wound from the counter backward. This was our chance to figure out exactly what Millie was up to.

  Casually, I removed my phone from my pocket and turned sideways, pretending to be engrossed in a game or a message from a friend. My gaze lifted, slowly, and I spotted Millie sitting at a table against the wall. She had tied back her gray hair in a severe bun—not like her at all—and wore no makeup. She’d also dressed in baggier clothes than usual—shapeless pants and a shirt that hung low.

  What on earth? How strange.

  The man seated across from her was tan with an aquiline nose and sharp green eyes. They flashed as he spoke, seemingly under his breath, leaning toward Millie. She sat deathly still, staring at him, unspeaking.

  What is that about?

  Millie was usually such a light, friendly person. She’d always had time to chat with us. She’d helped us with our—

  “Excuse me,” a woman said, loudly.

  I jumped and threw my phone upward. It turned end-over-end and careened toward the floor. I stuck out my hand and caught it, but it slipped and fell into the other, and I proceeded to juggle it on the spot and force it toward my chest. I pinned it against my shirt with my forearm.

  Everyone in the Corner Café turned their heads.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  But it was too late. Millie had spotted me. She paled and leaned in, hurriedly. She whispered something and both her and the mystery man got up and exited the establishment.

  “Excuse me.” The woman behind me in the line pursed her lips. “Like, some of us need our coffee fix. Can you move it along?”

  In my quest to spy on Millie, I’d failed to notice that the line had shifted forward. “Right, sorry.” I scurried up to the counter. “Hi,” I said, to the barista, barely keeping track of my words. “Um, can I get two pumpkin spice cappuccinos please?”

  “Sure.”

  Bee joined me and nudged me in the ribs. “You should take up a job in the FBI,” she said. “You’d be great at blending in.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Is that what that was? It looked like you’d decided to take up juggling and missed all your practice sessions.”

  “Now, who shou
ld be a comedian?” I asked.

  We got our cappuccinos and proceeded back to our spot in front of the window. I sat down and inhaled the delicious scent of the coffee, the aroma invigorating me. “Shoot. I forgot to ask the barista about Shawn and Jones.”

  “Forget them,” Bee said, waving a hand. “What about Millie? Did you see how she jumped? The minute she saw you, she went pale as flour and ran out of here.”

  “I saw.”

  “She’s avoiding us,” Bee declared. “But why? What could she be up to? And who was that guy?”

  “I don’t know. And I’m not sure how comfortable I feel about prying in her life. It seems wrong. Millie’s been nothing but kind to us, and I just don’t see her being the murdering type.” I’d said ‘murdering’ a little too loud, and the lady at the table behind us gasped. “Sorry,” I said. “Just, um, gossiping about the news.”

  The woman exhaled and nodded in apparent relief. Because gossiping about murder was normal, apparently.

  “Sure, Millie doesn’t seem like the murdering type,” Bee said, measuring her tone better than I’d done. “But what about the guy that was with her? He looked like… like… Al Capone.”

  “But thinner. And with a sharper nose.”

  “Exactly.” Bee mixed sugar into her coffee with a stirring stick. “Point is, he looked more than capable of, you know, offing a fool.”

  “Since when do you speak mafia?”

  Bee rolled her eyes. “Come on, we’ve got to find out who he is. Somebody has to know something.”

  “Bee, we’ve taken more than enough time off today. We need to get out on the truck and focus on our real jobs. Baking and making people happy. Not investigating our friend,” I said.

  “Bah, humbug.” Bee knew I was right, though.

  We finished our delicious cappuccinos in silence, both transfixed by the passing cars and people. My thoughts were on Millie and the strange man. He’d definitely looked… like he was from out-of-town. Rich coming from me, sure, but true.