“Ten out of ten.”
Bee affected a gymnast’s landing pose. “Why, thank you. Now,” she said, her expression growing serious, “let’s find out what we’re dealing with here before spooky church ghosts come to get us.” Bee switched on the flashlight she’d brought with her and directed it over the snow. “This way.”
“Wait,” I said, catching her arm before she could move off. “Look.” I nodded to the wall.
Snow had fallen during the day, and the layer on the ground near the wall and leading back toward the church was disturbed by a set of footsteps leading to and from it. The trail stopped next to the brick wall, right where Misty had pointed out the mystery watcher.
The beam from the flashlight slashed across the white snow. “What’s that?” Bee asked.
I crossed to the prints, careful not to disturb them and Bee joined me, crouching over.
“It’s dust,” I whispered, pointing toward the base of the wall. “How odd. Look. The footsteps come from the back of the church…”
Bee directed the light along the footprints toward the back of the church. They ended at the door. “Yeah, and to this wall.” Bee pointed the flashlight to where the footsteps had stopped. “That looks like… brick dust?” She gestured to the dust next to the two steps imprinted in the snow. “Which could mean that they, what, climbed over?”
“And then over again to walk back through the church? Why?” I frowned.
“Perhaps, they gripped the wall so hard that they scraped off some dust?” Bee feathered the flashlight’s beam over the spot where the stone met the wrought-iron spikes. “Nothing. Puzzling. That’s very puzzling.”
“Wait a second… Bee! The snow only fell today. That means that these are fresh sets of tracks. Someone came here days after the mayor’s murder,” I hissed.
A car turned into the street adjacent to the church’s yard, and Bee clicked off her flashlight, plunging us into darkness. We ducked low beneath the stone portion of the wall, waiting for it to move on.
“What do you think?” I whispered.
“That someone came back here to check out the crime scene after the fact.”
“That or it’s just a groundskeeper.”
“A groundskeeper who walks a selected route to the back wall of the church and nowhere else?” The passing car’s headlights lit up the churchyard a little, and Bee’s frown was clearer. “This is very strange.”
“What does this mean? That we have to find someone with brick dust on their shoes?” The car swept off and we were left in darkness again.
“It means,” Bee said, “that we—”
A creaking from the back of the church interrupted her.
Bee and I turned toward the noise. A darkened figure wearing a hoodie stood on the back steps, watching us.
11
“Bee,” I whispered. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“You mean the ghostly figure watching us from the back of the church?”
“I was thinking more like the creepy person watching us from the back of the church.”
“To-may-to, tomato,” Bee replied.
“Bee. He’s moving.” Assuming it was a ‘he,’ the figure on the back step of the church was, indeed, approaching. One purposeful step at a time, walking almost as though we were animals who could be scared off by sudden movements.
“Oh my heavens,” Bee said. “I think you’re right.”
“What do we do?” It was possibly the dumbest question that had ever left my lips—obviously, we had to run—but I could barely think straight. Panic trickled down my spine. It’s got to be the killer. They’ve come back to the scene of the crime.
Something glinted in the figure’s hand, and I sucked in a breath.
“We fight,” Bee said. “Come on, Ruby. We can take them down. There’s two of us and only one of them.”
“That would be great,” I whispered, squeaking it out and backing away, “like a really great idea if they weren’t holding a gun or knife in their hand, right now.”
Bee froze. “Oh. That’s regrettable.”
“Regrettable? More like terrifying.”
“Fine. Terrifying. But I still think that—”
The figure grunted and quickened their pace, crunching across the snow toward us. Our time for cute conversation was up.
“Run!” I cried and scrambled toward the gate. I was up and over in two seconds flat, but Bee had gotten the back of her jeans caught on the spikes.
“Help,” she said. “Help, help. I’m stuck.” She stretched out her arms, and I grabbed hold of them and pulled with all my might. The figure stormed toward us, and a shriek got stuck in my throat.
“Pull harder!” Bee yelled, glancing over her shoulder, her legs kicking against the bottom of the gate and clanging loudly. “Quick!” She was suspended half-way up, her beanie skew on her head. “Ruby!”
I gave a massive tug.
There was a terrific rippp of fabric, and Bee screeched and fell free of the gate. She landed majestically a second time, on her high-heeled boots with poise. No gymnast poses, though, Bee sprinted off, and I followed, darting after her down the sidewalk, a fine layer of snow falling in front of us.
“I lost my flashlight,” Bee panted. “He’s got my flashlight!”
“I think we’ve got bigger problems, right now. Better that he has your flashlight than our lives.” I glanced over my shoulder, but the figure hadn’t climbed the church fence yet. “We’ve got to—”
“Watch out!” Bee yelled.
I skidded to a halt, but it was too late. I careened directly into something warm and slightly squishy.
“Ow!” It was a person. A woman.
I caught her arms, before we both fell to the slippery wet ground, and tried steadying myself. My boots slid, and I ran on the spot, bobbling left and right, until, finally, Bee grabbed me from behind and held me in place.
“Relax, Michael Flatley,” she said.
“Very funny.”
“Not funny at all!” Ava Jacobsen, the mayor’s grieving window, tugged her arms from my grasp and glared at me through narrowed green eyes. She wore a puffy black jacket, a pair of jeans and her blonde hair tied up in a severe bun. She lifted a Kleenex to the end of her nose and sniffed. “You nearly knocked me over. What on earth are you two doing running around at this time of night?”
“It’s 7 pm,” I said, trying not to take the scolding to heart.
“And we could ask you the same question, Mrs. Jacobsen.” Bee’s tone was sharper than Ava’s had been.
What was she doing on this street, so close to the Christmas tree where her husband’s body had been found? Wasn’t it true that the murderer always returned to the scene of the crime? Or was that just a movie thing?
“If you must know, I was out for a walk. I thought of doing Christmas shopping, but it was too difficult. Who am I going to shop for?” Ava’s last sentence came out as a cry, but Bee didn’t seem affected by it.
“Sorry for nearly knocking you over,” I said. “We just, uh, we wanted to get back to the Oceanside. We don’t want to miss Shawn’s fantastic dinner.”
“Right.” Bee lifted a black-gloved hand. “I heard he’s making a roast chicken tonight. With crispy potatoes and lemon-butter sauce.”
“Lemon-butter without fish?” Ava’s upper lip pulled back. “How strange.”
It boded well for us that Ava found the lemon-butter sauce with chicken stranger than us in our all-black get-ups. I shivered and rubbed my arms. “We’d better get back to the guesthouse,” I said. “Are you, uh, coming, Ava?”
“Me?” Ava’s gaze darted past us and up the street. Toward the church? Or the tree? “Oh, well, sure, yeah. I guess I should head back. It’s cold, and I am hungry. This shopping thing was a bad idea.”
Shopping, huh? But most of the places in Carmel Springs had already closed. Besides, there wasn’t much to buy from the General Store. Most folks shopped for Christmas presents online and had them delivered
.
What exactly was Ava hiding?
“All right,” I said, “let’s get you back to the Oceanside.”
“Yeah.” Bee gave me a knowing look. “A person could catch their death out here.”
Ava sobbed.
“Poor choice of words, Bee,” I whispered, as I tucked my arm around Ava’s shoulders and guided her down the street. Ava was reluctant. She paused again, turning toward the tree then shaking her head and muttering under her breath. She dabbed under her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex.
“I wish things were different,” Ava said.
I couldn’t help but wonder, different how? And what exactly had Ava been doing out here at this time of the evening and in this icy weather?
12
The minute we arrived back at the Oceanside Guesthouse, Ava started off up the stairs with a vague murmur about getting an early night. I wasn’t about to stop her, though Bee looked as if she might. Regardless, I was frozen to the core.
I had food and hot cocoa and a stint by the fire on my mind. Questioning Ava could wait. Likely, it wouldn’t yield much even if we did question her now. Ava was either shaken up or shutting down.
“Hello!” Sam popped up from behind the reception desk, her hair tied neatly, and a smattering of lip gloss on her lips. How strange—Sam had never been big on make-up.
It’s Detective Martin. She’s dating him, remember?
“Hi,” I said, through chattering teeth.
“Why are you two dressed like spies?” Sam asked.
Bee’s eyes widened. She removed her beanie and black gloves hurriedly. “We’re just wearing jeans and black jackets,” she said.
“And gloves and beanies,” Sam noted. “Is everything OK?”
“Of course,” I said. “We were wearing black… in honor of Mayor Jacobsen.” It was technically true—we’d donned the nightly colors so that we could solve his murder mystery. That counted as honoring him, didn’t it?
“Oh, right. Poor Ian.” Sam peered over at the stairs to the second floor. “And poor Ava,” she whispered. “She hasn’t been right ever since it happened. She’s all over the place. I heard her talking to herself in her room last night.”
“Goodness,” Bee said. “That is sad.”
I got a distinct impression that Bee had wanted to say ‘interesting’ instead of ‘sad.’ “Did you overhear what she was saying? Maybe she was on the phone.”
“Maybe.” Sam shrugged. “She was crying quite heavily, though, and saying ‘no’ a lot. Anyway.” Sam gave a shudder. “I’m sure we’ve all had enough sorrow for today. Why don’t you lovely ladies go through to the living room? Shawn’s almost finished preparing dinner. Roast chicken.”
“Delish,” Bee said.
We hurried into the living room and found our favorite spots in front of the fire empty. Well, apart from Trouble, who had taken up residence on one of the armchairs. I lifted the calico kitty and sat down, placing him on my lap.
Trouble arched his back and gave a big ol’ yawn, then settled down again, purring and kneading my cold jeans.
“That’s so much better,” I said.
Bee fluffed her hair then placed her palms out toward the fire. “You can say that again. Nothing like a jaunt through a creepy church-yard to get ice the veins.”
“That church’s yard wasn’t creepy. It was the—”
Sam bustled into the living room, smiling as if she had a happy secret. “Would you like some hot cocoa? I’m about to fix myself some, and I’ve got a batch of delicious gingerbread men fresh out of the oven. Shawn is such a treasure.”
“Yes, please. That would be amazing,” I said.
Sam hurried off into the kitchen, the door, with its porthole window, swinging closed after her. She was back a few minutes later with the steaming cups of cocoa, mini-marshmallows bobbing in the mugs.
“Perfect,” I said, “thank you so much, Sam.”
“Sit with us, please.” Bee gestured to the last armchair. “It’s so warm by the fire.”
Sam took a place and sipped on her cocoa, her eyes sparkling and focused on the flames. “What a strange time this is,” she said. “The murder of the mayor, right around Christmas. I don’t know who would do something like this.”
“We have a few suspects,” Bee said.
I shot a look her way, but she patted the air.
We’d never kept anything from Sam before, not really, but now that she was dating the lead detective on the murder case things had changed. If Sam told Martin we’d decided to look into it, he’d take action against us. He’d warned us this afternoon that interfering would only lead to trouble.
And not the furry, purring kind.
“Suspects?” Sam set her cocoa mug down and shifted in her seat. “So, you two are looking into it again?”
“It depends,” Bee said.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re going to tell Detective Martin that we’re interested.”
Sam nibbled on her lower lip. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I like Frank a lot, but I wouldn’t get you two in trouble because of that. Besides, you’ve helped me so much with the Oceanside. You introduced me to Shawn, and when Detective Jones died—”
“Right,” Bee said. “Then we can trust you.”
“Of course.”
Bee and I gave each other another glance—we’d gotten better at reading each other. It was all the baking and solving crimes. I’d never had as close of a friend as Beatrice.
“We just ran into Ava near the Christmas tree in the center of town,” I said, as quietly as I could. “Naturally, as the spouse of the deceased, she’s a person of interest.”
“To us. We don’t know what’s going on with the police investigation,” Bee put in.
“Exactly. Though, we did see Detective Martin talking to Greta Gould on the pier the other day.”
Sam’s lips drew into a thin line at Greta’s name. “That woman,” she said, “is a scourge. She’s so full of herself.”
“We’ve noticed,” I said.
“She’s been giving poor Frankie so much trouble,” Sam continued. “He tried bringing her in for questioning for involvement in the case, but she called a lawyer before he could do a thing. Now, she’s refusing to talk.”
“He told you all of this?” Bee asked, incredulous.
“Well, yes. He’s been stressed lately, you know. This is the first time he’s been the lead detective on a case like this, apart from when Jones was murdered, and it seems like he doesn’t have much by way of evidence. He needed someone to talk to.” Sam lifted her mug and hid her lips behind it. “I really shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“I mean we should,” Bee grumbled. “That’s highly inappropriate behavior from a detective. It’s not like the case details have been released on Discovery. This is an ongoing investigation.” As an ex-cop, Bee was bound to get annoyed about shoddy police work.
“She’s kidding.” I leaned over slightly, careful not to disturb Trouble in my lap, and patted Sam on the arm. “Everything will be fine. I’m sure the murder will be solved soon. OK?”
“I guess.”
The kitchen doors opened and Shawn appeared wearing, of all things, an ugly Christmas sweater complete with white bobbles and a reindeer knitted on the front. Shawn was into the ‘goth’ style of living, with dark hair and eye makeup. He flicked that hair back now and crooked a finger in Sam’s direction. “Dinner’s ready, boss.”
“Coming!” Sam practically jumped and sloshed a little cocoa over her legs. She giggled nervously then darted off toward the doors.
“Hmm.” Bee tapped the tip of her nose. “Now, that’s interesting.”
“Seems like Greta’s involved somehow. But why? And how?”
“I think it’s time we pay a visit to the mayor’s offices,” Bee said. “If Greta was there, someone’s bound to remember her. She’s not exactly inconspicuous.”
We had our next lead. The plot had thickened. Hopefully, the lemon-butter sauce for the roast chicken hadn’t.
13
Carmel Springs’ mayor’s office was situated in a double story building off Main Street. The outside was painted a murky brown, but the glass front door was clean and dust-free.
“Do you really think we’re going to find out anything of use?” I asked.
“Of course,” Bee replied. “With my superior investigative skills and your emotional tact, we’re bound to get to the bottom of this.”
I followed Bee into the mayor’s offices, removing my gloves. The thermostat was set way too high in here, and I pulled off my jacket too and hung it up on a stand near the door. Bee did the same, brushing her hair back from her forehead and casting that sharp-eyed gaze around the place.
The reception desk, right near another door that led to the offices, was manned by a young woman with flyaway dark hair and a bulbous nose. She picked at her lips and turned the pages in a magazine, the tips of her scuffed shoes poking out from under the desk to greet us.
“Good morning,” I said.
The woman screamed.
Bee stiffened. I jolted back a step.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, and laughed hysterically, still picking her lips. “I’ve been a little bit on edge ever since… you know, the mayor was strangled to death with a string of lights.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.”
“Definitely a reason to scream at passersby,” Bee muttered.
“So, what can I help you with?” the receptionist asked, tucking a finger between the pages of her magazine and closing it. “Do you want to speak to a—”
The door behind her opened, and the mayor’s assistant, Jerry Flagg, stepped out. “Is everything OK, Cheryl?”
“Just me again,” the receptionist said, with another maniacal laugh. “You know how on edge I’ve been ever since… the mayor was strangled with a string of lights.”
Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 36
