Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  Why was Millie spending time with him?

  And what business did he have in Carmel Springs?

  Not my business. Not my business at all.

  8

  Business on the food truck was better than ever. Folks lined up in front of it, hungry for the special lemon meringue cupcakes and a new number Bee had whipped up: the pumpkin spice cookie to be served with our pumpkin spice lattes. Thanksgiving was on the horizon and people were ready to celebrate it.

  “These are delicious,” a customer said, lifting a cookie. “I can’t get enough of them. Can I get ten to go? My kids will love them too.”

  “Of course,” I said, and busied myself preparing the order and ringing it up on the cash register.

  Usually, the days on the truck were punctuated by chatter, laughter and the view of the ocean, the sunlight glimmering on the waves. But today was different—storm clouds gathered in the distance, and I couldn’t help but think they were an omen of sorts.

  What had Millie been doing with that strange man?

  I’d insisted on ignoring her meeting with him and focusing on the food truck, instead, but now I was here, I couldn’t stop myself from pondering the possibilities. What if he was some kind of Mafioso? Could Millie really be involved in Detective Jones’ death?

  Ooh, what if Millie was being blackmailed by the mafia man? She might have seen something and now he was after her to shut her trap. She could be in danger!

  Ridiculous, you don’t even know who the guy is. He’s probably not a mafia guy.

  “Good afternoon, Kayla,” Bee said.

  Our co-guest in the Oceanside stepped up, looking beefier than usual. That might’ve been because she’d spent the last few mornings shoveling back donuts, cupcakes, and treats.

  “Hello,” she said and offered both of us a smile. “I’ve come for sustenance. I’ve got to eat if I want to stay big for the competition.”

  I tucked hands into the front pocket of my apron. “Of course! When is it? And are you meant to be eating so many sweet treats before it starts?”

  “I look good no matter what I eat,” Kayla said, lifting her chin. “I work out all day, apart from when I’m eating, so yeah, why not treat myself? And the competition’s next week. I’m really nervous about it, but shoot, I know I’ll win. No amount of sweet treats will stop me. Besides, it’s sustenance and there are loads of good fats in here.”

  Was there much competition for bodybuilding females in Maine? Regardless, she had a goal, and I was all for a woman who took control of her own destiny. “We’ll be rooting for you. We could come by and give a few cheers, you know.”

  “No, that’s fine. You don’t have to come. It will just be a whole bunch of us posing for judges,” Kayla said, quickly.

  “What can we get for you today, Kayla?” Bee asked, clearly as eager to return to her own thoughts and ponderings as I was. Maybe, she’d developed a few more theories about who the stranger had been. Or she’d suggest we go find out by confronting him. Definitely not a wise idea.

  “Give me a dozen of those pumpkin spice cookies, please. And a soda. I want something cold to wash the goodness down. Oh, but make it a diet soda, please.”

  “Will do,” Bee said, and set to work packaging and pouring.

  “Coming to this food truck is a highlight of my day,” Kayla said, while she waited. “And the bonus is I get to leave the guesthouse.”

  “You don’t like it there?” I asked. “Did the murder creep you out?” It had bothered all of us.

  “Well, kinda, but that’s not why I don’t like being there. I don’t’ want to run into…” she trailed off, glancing over her shoulder to check no one was within earshot. She licked her lips. “Can you guys keep a secret?”

  “Sure can,” I said.

  Bee snorted.

  “I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just a rumor I heard. And it’s put me on edge. Like… why would she have done that?”

  “Done what?” I asked, leaning my hands on the countertop.

  Bee had stopped feeding cookies into a candy-striped box, her focus on Kayla, as well.

  The bodybuilder ruffled her short black hair and drew closer. “Well, I was speaking to Mrs. Carlington yesterday afternoon at lunchtime, and apparently, she and Mr. Carlington saw Sam snooping around Detective Jones’ house the night before the murder.”

  The information didn’t compute for a moment. “Sam? Snooping?” It didn’t seem plausible Why would Sam have been snooping around the detective’s house?

  I think you know why.

  But no, I couldn’t believe that Sam had darkness in her heart. Surely not.

  “She was snooping?” Bee asked.

  “Yeah. Apparently, the Carlingtons were on their way home from a restaurant and they saw her. In the front garden. Peering through the windows.”

  That didn’t’ sound good.

  “Wow,” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “You can ask them if you’d like. I wasn’t the one who saw it. Can I get my cookies now?”

  “Right.” Bee finished up and handed the box over then the soda too. She rang up the order and tendered the change. “Enjoy them.”

  “Thanks. You guys be safe. I don’t know how I feel about being in the guesthouse at the moment. What if Sam was the one who… you know. Did it. Like, she seems so nice, but you can never tell, can you? It’s often the nice ones who are mean deep down.” And she marched off and took a place at one of the benches. She popped the box open and set to work, shoving cookies into her mouth.

  “This can’t be true,” I said.

  “Like she said, we can ask the Carlingtons. They have no reason to lie.”

  “Unless they were the ones who did it.”

  Bee raised a silver eyebrow at me. “Come on, Ruby, you and I both know those two aren’t energetic enough to drag a body around in a guesthouse. They’re ancient.”

  “They’re only five years older than you.”

  “Age is just a number. But fitness is underrated. I go jogging. I doubt either of them is into anything particularly strenuous.”

  “It’s ironic that you’re an ageist,” I said.

  “Fitness snob, more like.”

  I brought out a dish towel and cleaned off the counter, even though there was nothing on it that needed cleaning. “Do you believe it?” I asked. “That Sam was snooping around in Jones’ front garden?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s only one way we can know for sure, and that’s by asking her.”

  My belly flipped, flopped and wiggled like a fish out of water. I was used to talking to people, confronting them even, but doing it to Sam would be so weird. She was such a good friend, now, and if she thought that we were accusing her it would ruin what we’d built up.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Bee said, “but we can easily phrase it as us trying to clear her name, rather than thinking she’d one something wrong.”

  “I just don’t want this to ruin thanksgiving. Or Christmas. I don’t want Sam to get in trouble either.”

  “She won’t get into trouble if she hasn’t done anything wrong,” Bee said.

  She had a point there. And as far as I was concerned, there wasn’t a chance that Sam had actually murdered Detective Jones. In fact, there was more chance of the sky turning purple and Santa Claus descending on the food truck with a bag full of coal.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s talk to her.”

  9

  The guesthouse’s dining area was empty, the clock on the wall ticking gently and displaying the time as 6 pm. It was just past dinner time, and the meals had all been cleared away, the other guests had returned to their rooms, all except for Bee and me.

  My stomach ached. I’d hardly eaten a bite of the sumptuous lobster mac and cheese that Shawn had prepared for us because I’d been too nervous. It was time to talk to her about the rumors floating around in town.

  It wasn’t that I thought she’d actually done it. No, that sim
ply couldn’t be true. I just didn’t want to lose her as a friend for asking. And it was necessary to clear every possible suspect so we could find the real killer.

  Bee sat near the fire, logs crackling merrily in the grate, and I held Trouble in my lap, stroking his fluffy ears.

  The kitchen doors opened and Sam came out into the living room, brushing off her shirt. She spotted us and jerked as if she’d been electrified. “Oh! Sorry, I thought everyone had already gone up to bed.”

  “Not everyone,” Bee said and folded her newspaper. “Good evening, Samantha.”

  I frowned at Bee. She’d sounded a little too interrogatory, even in her greeting. “Could we talk to you for a second, Sam?” I asked.

  She chewed on her lip, her shoulders rising.

  “Sam?”

  “So you heard,” she said.

  “Heard what?” I asked.

  Sam stood silent then came forward and lowered herself into one of the armchairs near the fire, the light casting flickering shadows along the side of her pale face. “About Detective Martin coming around to ask me questions. I’ve been so stressed about it. Terrified that everyone in town will hear about it, and think that I was involved somehow and then the guesthouse…” She hung her head. “I’ve worked for years to try make this place better. I just… I want everything to work out. And now Detective Jones has been murdered, and right here. Right here.”

  “It’s OK, Sam,” I said.

  “Not really.”

  Sam’s head came up, and I swiveled toward Bee. “Is it necessary to be like that?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Bee said, firmly. “Now, Sam, we love you to pieces. We think you’re an amazing person, but if you want us to help you prove that it wasn’t you who killed Detective Jones, you’re going to have to hold your head up higher and act a little stronger.”

  Tears glistened on Sam’s eyelashes. “What do you mean?”

  “She means that we need you to help us help you.”

  “But how?” Sam asked. Trouble meowed and hopped from my lap to hers, turning in a quick circle and kneading her jeans.

  “By telling us the truth,” Bee said. “We heard that you were snooping around Detective Jones’ house a few days before he was murdered. We want to know why.”

  Sam’s bottom lip trembled. Trouble lifted his kitty head and meowed at her. It was amazing how animals could pick up on distress, and even more amazing how terrible I felt about the questions we had to ask. This was why I could never be a police officer. Separating my emotions from a case seemed nearly impossible.

  Luckily, Bee was stone-cold. She was the one who did most of the cold, logical reasoning.

  “Sam?” Bee asked.

  She let out a long, low breath. “That’s what everyone thinks?” she asked. “That I was snooping around because I wanted to kill Jones?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “But you can see how it’s suspicious. Maybe if you just told us why…”

  “I feel like I can’t,” Sam whispered. “It’s not my place to say anything.”

  “Sam, you realize that this is looking pretty bad for you. Better you break someone’s trust than wind up in prison for a crime you didn’t commit,” Bee said, sharply.

  Again, Sam went all wobbly-lipped. “I was there looking for Martha.”

  “Martha? Jones’ wife?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’ve been friends with her for a while and she needed my help.”

  “With what?” Bee asked. “And why would she need your help so late at night?”

  “Because she was looking to divorce Jones’ and she didn’t want anyone to know and she wanted to try a trial separation and—”

  “Whoa.” I raised my hand. “Slow down, Sam. Can you start from the beginning?”

  Samantha nodded. “Right, well, Martha came to me a few weeks ago and told me that she’s not happy in her marriage. She was my mother’s friend, and that sort of transferred onto me. The friendship, I mean. She wanted to try a separation because she couldn’t stand Jones a second longer.”

  “Did she say why?” Bee asked.

  “He was a tyrant at home. Always grumpy and critical. Basically, the same way he acts around town,” Sam said. “Or acted. Oh heavens, I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Back to Martha,” Bee prompted.

  “Right, well, she wanted my help. She asked if she could come stay at the guesthouse for a while. She wanted to hide out before leaving Carmel Springs. And she needed help moving her things into storage too,” Sam said.

  “But that doesn’t quite explain why you’d be snooping outside her house.” Bee’s tone remained sharp. I shot a look her way, but she ignored it.

  “I hadn’t heard from her in two days. She was supposed to be coming to the guesthouse that night, but she hadn’t turned up and she wasn’t answering her phone. I was worried, so I went over there to check she was doing all right. I swear that was it. There was nothing sinister about it.”

  “And did you manage to get hold of her?” Bee asked.

  “Yeah. She told me not to worry and that she needed a few more days to get her affairs in order.” Sam stroked Trouble, her fingers worrying his fur until he caught them with his little claws and got her to stop. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. For Martha or for me.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, drawn to the flickering flames in the fireplace. Sam was stressed, clearly, and it would be easy enough to check if what she’d told us was true. We had to speak to Martha again.

  And find out why she’d lied to us about her ‘vacation.’ Now that Jones was dead, why would she lie about their separation?

  Because she has something else to hide.

  10

  “We should have seen this coming.” Bee led the charge down the sidewalk on Syrup Street. “The spouse is always the first suspect in a murder case. People are often motivated by anger or love or lust or revenge, especially when it comes to their significant others.”

  “But that might just be us jumping to conclusions,” I said. “There might be another reason that Martha lied.”

  “Like what?” Bee asked. “Why would she hide what her true intentions were? She’s scared of being found out and that means she has a secret. Probably a dark one.”

  I sighed. It was troublesome to get Bee to relax once she was on a roll, and she was surely on one now. Still, it was a nice thought, believing that we could solve the case as easy as that. But I doubted it—wouldn’t Detective Martin have investigated this avenue already?

  “Almost there,” Bee said.

  Martha’s neat little house was bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, the white walls clean, the windows tightly shut against the coming of winter. Her curtains were open, though, and a TV flashed blue light in the living room. She was home.

  “Are we sure about this?” I asked. “We probably shouldn’t accuse her of anything.” And it was sad that she’d wanted to leave Jones and had hidden it. Unless she was hiding it because she planned on killing him. But then why would she have told Samantha?

  Bee opened the picket gate and we hurried up the path and onto the porch. Bee knocked, and I tucked my coat against my chest, holding it tight and hoping that we didn’t get in trouble for this one.

  Jones is gone. Martin won’t throw you in prison. But I didn’t know that for sure.

  The latch clicked, and Martha opened the door. Her blonde hair was done up in rollers. She snorted through her slightly upturned nose. “What are you two doing here?”

  “We’re sorry to bother you,” I started. “But we just wanted to—”

  “You lied to us,” Bee said.

  I stepped on the toe of her boot. She had to rein it in. For heaven’s sake, we couldn’t go around accusing people of murder. “What Bee means is that… uh, yeah, basically that you didn’t tell us the truth.” There wasn’t another way of wording it. “We spoke to Sam, and she mentioned that you wanted to separate from Detective Jones. You’re not goi
ng on vacation at all.”

  “Vacation and separation are basically the same things,” Martha said, waving a hand. “And you have some kind of nerve coming over here telling me I’m a liar. What are you insinuating?”

  “We’re not insinuating anything,” Bee said. “We’re being direct. Why did you lie to us?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to,” Martha replied, inching the door closed. “You’re not police officers. I don’t need to give you an alibi or a reason for what I do.”

  “We’re concerned citizens,” I said. “We want to help keep Carmel Springs safe. There’s a murderer on the loose and solving the crime—”

  “Is not your job,” Martha snapped. “At all. You’re bakers. And you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  “You can’t leave.” Bee folded her arms. “The police would want you to hang around until they’ve caught the killer.”

  “Is that what you think?” Martha smirked, lifting her chin. “I’ve already had my interview with Detective Martin and he knows I have a rock-solid alibi, which he’s confirmed, for the night of the murder. I’m free to leave Carmel Springs as soon as Nathan’s last affairs have been sorted out. It wasn’t me.”

  “Oh.” Now, that did present a problem. And made us look terrible for coming over and accusing her like this.

  “Oh,” Bee echoed. “Well, sorry for being confrontational. We’re trying to do what’s right.” Bee hardly every apologized unless she was sure she’d done something wrong.

  “Yes, sorry,” I said, blushing.

  “I don’t accept your apology. I don’t know who you two think you are, but it’s no small wonder Nathan thought you were idiots. He told me daily what trouble you had caused him. He was up at night with ulcers over it. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Bee kept her silence. I cleared my throat.

  “We haven’t been going out of our way to cause trouble. We’re trying to help.”

  “You’re a hindrance,” Martha said. “A waste of time. Two old women who can’t control their urges to interfere. Grow up, will you?” She slapped the door shut in our faces.