S'more Murder

by Rosie A. Point

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Were you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. What about you?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Apart from the shock.”

  Bee and I emerged from underneath the desserts table, both fearing the worst. The hall was empty, apart from the bartender, who cowered among the drinks and glasses, shooting glances over the polished wood counter.

  He spotted us, then looked past us toward the center tables. A piercing scream escaped his throat, so high it took me a second to compute that he’d made the sound.

  “What?” Bee yelled. “What’s wrong with—?”

  I gasped.

  Madeline Sweete lay on the floor, supine. She had been shot two times in the chest. And a silver glittery pump was gripped in Madeline’s hand as if she’d fallen and tried to grab hold of her attacker as they fled.

  I joined the bartender in the high-pitched screaming.

  “Ruby, stop!” Bee shook me by the shoulders. “Stop it.”

  I snapped out of my fear and back to the horrifying present. Someone had killed Madeline Sweete, and snow or not, we had to call 911. Hopefully, the police would get here in time to catch whoever had done it.

  6

  The detective and his police officers arrived by helicopter. It was the most extravagant entrance I could’ve envisioned, but the roads were still impassable, and a murder up in the mountains was worth the cost of the fuel. A good thing too, because the thought of spending the next few days trapped up at the resort with a murder on the loose wasn’t appealing.

  A coroner had arrived to deal with the body, and the detective, the only one among a group of police officers who had come to contain the panic, strutted around the dining room like he owned the place.

  He was skinny as a twig, a handlebar mustache draped over his top lip. He wore a thick winter coat and a buttoned shirt with what looked like grape jelly spilled down the front.

  “Get a load of this guy,” Bee muttered, from where we’d been seated at one of the many tables. The guests who’d been present at the time of the murder had been herded into the much smaller dining room at the resort right away. Staff had run out to grab the guests on the guest list and bring them here.

  And everyone, I had noted, had their shoes on. None of the women wore silver glittery heels.

  We’d been split into groups, and the police questioned people, one-by-one.

  Everyone was jumpy, a few people had been tended to by the nurse and doctor for shock, but we were here.

  “I can’t believe she’s dead,” I whispered to Bee. “Just like that. Gone.”

  “And at this time of the year. Valentine’s Day.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Bee fell quiet and swept her shrewd gaze across the dining room—another wood-walled room with a crackling fire, deep red rugs, and polished dining tables. “I’m thinking it’s either one of her many love interests or a jealous woman. Or it could be financially motivated. We just don’t know yet.”

  “Many love interests?” I asked.

  “You saw the way Phillip and Stony were staring at her before it happened, right?”

  I had noticed a few strange interactions, but I’d only counted them that way because of the context of Francescan’s attack. Shoot, what if it had been Francescan who’d done it? After all, she had mentioned that Madeline was the second most popular woman in Prattlebark Village. But then… who had attacked her?

  The detective swaggered over to us and paused, fisting one hip. “Evening, ladies,” he said. “Name’s Mike Spasinski. You can call me D.T. or Spassy. I got some questions for you. Who wants to go first?”

  Bee and I blinked several times.

  Spassy?

  “Uh… I’ll go first,” I managed, after a few moments of consternation.

  “Good. Good. Goodidy.”

  Bee cringed, got up and shifted down the table, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the detective without sitting down at someone else’s table.

  The detective took a seat across from me, draping one arm over the back. “Well, if this isn’t some type of Inspector Gadget case… ha!”

  “Inspector Gadget?”

  “You know, from the novel?”

  “I think you mean Detective Poirot. From the Agatha Christie novels?” I suggested, scratching the length of my nose. Oh boy, Bee would love being interviewed by this guy.

  “Yeah, whatever. It’s one of them mysteries where everybody’s locked up on a train or whatever.”

  “Sure.” I didn’t want to offend the detective, but this was already the most bizarre conversation I’d had with a police officer. That said a lot. Bee and I had run into our fair share of strange detectives, including the ones in Prattlebark Village.

  “So, how ‘bout you tell me what you saw or think you saw, huh?” Detective Spasinski—I couldn’t bring myself to call him either of his nicknames—picked his nails as he waited for my answer.

  “Well, there was a lot of commotion. The lights went out and there were two gunshots. A lot of running and screaming, banging of doors.”

  “And where were you?”

  “I was at the desserts table. We ducked underneath it when the gunshots went off.”

  “We?”

  “Bee and I.” I gestured to my friend. “We’re caterers.” Well, technically we owned the food truck but for the purpose of this week, we were caterers.

  “Uh, huh, OK. OK. So, you knew the victim.”

  “Not really,” I replied. “I mean, we met once and she seemed nice enough, but I didn’t know her other than that one conversation.”

  “OK. OK. OK. All right.”

  Annoying. Good heavens.

  Detective Spasinski was quiet for a minute. “So, what you’re telling me is that you didn’t see anything ‘cos you were under a table.”

  “Yes and no. I didn’t see anything because someone switched off the lights.”

  “Why didn’t you switch them on?”

  What a silly question. “Because I don’t know where the light switch is. And because I don’t work here.”

  “Yet you’re catering the event.”

  “Yes, I was hired by Francescan. I don’t work for the resort.”

  “Yet, they allowed you to serve your food on the premises.” He leaned forward, stabbing the tabletop with his finger like he’d made a grand deduction.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll need to speak to this Francesca about this.”

  “Francescan,” I replied.

  “Huh?”

  “Her name is Francescan.”

  “Ridiculous,” Detective Spasinski said. “There’s no such name as that.”

  “I assure you, there is,” I replied, stiffening. “Detective, are you calling me a liar?”

  “Spassy.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “My name is Spassy,” he said. “Listen, ma’am, I’m gonna have to note all of this information down for later digestive.”

  “Digestion?”

  “That’s what I said.” He sniffed, affecting that pseudo-relaxed posture again. “But you better not leave town because I’ll be keeping my eye on you and everyone else here.” He got up and walked off before I could correct him—this wasn’t a town, it was a resort, and we were snowed in so no one could leave if they’d wanted to.

  Good heavens, if I found him annoying, Bee would have serious difficulty containing herself around him.

  We had encountered plenty of detectives in our time traveling together, and though we’d gotten involved in many of their investigations, I couldn’t say that any of them were inept at their jobs.

  Detective Spasinski might be the first detective we’d met who fit the bill. There was bound to be a rotten apple in the bushel, right?

  I scratched under my collar, my anxiety rising then settling again. The snows couldn’t last forever, and the police couldn’t keep us here for long. As for Madeline’s murder, I had a few thoughts on who
might’ve done it. It was only a pity that the detective hadn’t bothered asking me about them—or affording me a minute to talk.

  Bee and the detective had started their chat, and my bestie was already red in the face.

  I averted my gaze, opting to check out the rest of the guests instead. Most of them were pale as confectioner’s sugar. All except for one.

  Miss Katrina Sweete, the stepsister of the deceased. She smiled and laughed while recording videos on her phone, posing this way and that in her ridiculous… wait a second, she’d changed her shirt. Hadn’t she been wearing a SpongeBob t-shirt earlier? She was in tennis shoes, not heels. If only I’d made a note of which shoes she’d been wearing earlier.

  “No!” Bee shouted. “Absolutely not. I will not call you by that ridiculous name.”

  Heads turned and a few people sniggered, breaking the tension that had grown in the interim, but the somber mood soon returned.

  Except for Katrina, of course, who continued smiling like she hadn’t just lost a family member.

  And so it begins…

  7

  The following morning dawned bright and icy cold, but Bee and I needed normality, so we took to the food truck and prepped coffees and cakes, our heater on full-blast, music tinkling from the radio on top of our refrigerator.

  Bee hummed while she worked on cupcake batter, occasionally pausing to check her recipe or to frown and stare off into space. She’d been doing a lot of that since her chat with the detective last night.

  “I wonder what’s going to happen today,” I mused, and took a sip of my coffee. “With the event and with the investigation.”

  “I have no idea about the event,” Bee replied, placing some vanilla essence in the batter, then stirring it. “But I’d wager that nothing will come of the investigation. Not with that detective in charge.”

  “He was horrible.”

  “Utterly abhorrent,” Bee agreed. “You know I don’t keep my opinions to myself, Ruby, but that was… there are no polite words to describe the man, so for once, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Hmm.” Bee finished the batter and set about dolloping it into the cupcake cases in the tray. “Interesting that it was Madeline who was shot. It had to have been intentional. The shots weren’t fired until after she brought out her phone and it lit up her face.”

  “So, what you’re saying is the killer waited until they could make her out in the darkness before firing the gun.”

  “Exactly. And they relied on the rumors that the power might go off to generate panic and ensure that nobody would test the lights for a while, giving them ample opportunity to get the gun and do the deed.”

  I shuddered. “Madeline seemed like such a nice young lady.”

  “You never know…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe she upset someone. Or maybe, the person who killed her is easily offended.” Bee finished the neat little dollops and admired her handiwork.

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “The host of the party,” Bee said, lowering her voice. “There’s got to be a coincidence or a cross-over between the two events. The attack on Francescan, and the death of Madeline. Either they have an attacker that’s targeted them both, or the two attacks were separate, or…”

  “Madeline attacked Francescan, and Francescan decided to exact her revenge?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But Francescan seemed to believe Katrina was the one who might’ve harmed her.”

  “So she says,” Bee replied. “Let’s see how she handles today. I wonder if she’ll call off the festivities. Murder is bound to put a damper on the love vibes.”

  I tried piecing it together while I set to work on the buttercream frosting for the cupcakes. We’d decided to prepare food for today’s lunch just in case Francescan decided to continue with the celebration. Though, I didn’t understand how she would. Madeline, as the second most popular person in Prattlebark Village—according to their strange measuring scale which neither Bee nor I understood—had been her friend.

  Surely, Francescan would be upset?

  An hour passed, and we transferred ourselves from the cupcakes to the donuts, working as a team to form them and then bake them. We’d opted for baked donuts because they were healthier, and because Bee had a fantastic secret recipe for them, given to her by her grandmother.

  A knock at the food truck’s side door snapped us from our baking groove at about noon.

  The door opened before I called out, and Francescan trotted into the food truck’s interior. “There you two are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Like, are you seriously going to abandon your duties?” She flicked her pink hair over her shoulder and leveled us with an angry glare.

  At least she leveled me. Bee raised an eyebrow at her. “We’re doing exactly what you hired us to do. Making food for your lunch.”

  “Are you continuing with the event, Francescan?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, though her eyes were bloodshot. Had she been crying? “Why wouldn’t we continue with it?”

  “Because your friend was murdered?” Bee set down her spatula. “You know, shot to death?”

  Francescan paled. “The s-show must, like, go on or whatever. It’s what Madeline would have wanted.”

  “Right,” Bee sniffed. “If you say so.”

  “Besides, the Valentine’s Day Ball is tomorrow. No one wants to miss the main event. Like, the whole purpose of this week is the ball, so…”

  A second knock came at the food truck’s open side door, the cold air drifting in and warring with the heater’s warmth.

  Phillip, the redheaded man who’d been present at the murder the night before, stumbled into the food truck. “Francescan,” he said, his voice deep and growling. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Of course you have, Phillip,” Francescan said, without turning to him. “Everybody’s looking for me.”

  Back in Prattlebark Village, Francescan had been full of herself, but had been harmless in her arrogance. Out here… it was like she was on a power trip that had accentuated her negative traits.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” Phillip asked, dipping his head in deference.

  “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

  “No, you’re good,” Bee said. “This conversation is done. We’ll have the food in the hall for lunch.”

  “And for the Valentine’s Day Ball?”

  “Yes,” I replied, before Bee could say anything snappy. I didn’t blame her for getting upset. And it made the hostess seem more suspicious to me. Why continue with the ball? Madeline wanting the show to go on was a lame excuse.

  “Francescan,” Phillip said.

  “What is it?” She spun toward him, nearly falling over in her haste, and catching herself on the kitchen counter.

  “I wanted to ask you if you’d like to be my date for the Valentine’s Day Ball. We’d be a good match. Both attractive and popular, you know?”

  “You think I would, like, say yes to you?” Francescan asked.

  Her glare had to be withering because Phillip shrank back a few steps. “Why not?”

  “I am the most popular person in Prattlebark Village, soon to be Vermont, and I’m not going to be second-best.”

  “What? Francescan, I—”

  “I know you asked Madeline yesterday,” she snapped. “And I know she turned you down soooooo. Yeah. No thank you. Gross that you even though to ask me.” She pushed past him and stormed down the stairs.

  Phillip hovered for a couple seconds, his face beet-red, lips pulled back over his teeth. Finally, he walked off too.

  “Interesting,” Bee said. “Looks like there’s a larger group dynamic we might have missed.”

  “They were interested in each other, or asking each other out or…”

  “Jealousy has to be rife,” Bee put in, enthusiastically. She snapped the door shut. “Think about it. Wh
at better motive to murder a beautiful young woman than revenge?”

  “Do you really think Francescan could do that?”

  “Yes, Ruby. She’s a narcissist, plain and simple.” Bee paused to check her cupcakes. “Besides that, she’s acting strangely.”

  I had to agree. Continuing the event after the murder was tasteless. The person who had killed Madeline was still at the resort.

  8

  Thankfully, the lunch service was uneventful. The guests gossiped and cast disparaging looks at other people, split into predefined groups. The only people who weren’t bothered by all the suspicion were Stony Williams, the tall and handsome man who was the most eligible bachelor at the party, and Francescan herself. She was too busy preening or chatting to her followers to care.

  After we’d served our desserts, Bee and I packed our things as usual and took them back to the truck.

  “What now?” I asked.

  We didn’t have anything to do for the next few hours, and the snow had finally stopped. The sun was weak, the white surrounds frosty but beautiful.

  “We could go for a walk.”

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin and shut the side door of the food truck. “What if we did something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like chat to a few of the main players in this case.”

  Uh oh. Bee had that glint in her eye again—the type that meant she was interested in figuring out who had murdered Madeline. Then again, I didn’t trust that Detective Spasinski would do his job properly. We’d seen him devour two whole cupcakes with their wrappers on this afternoon.

  “Who would we start with?” I asked. “Francescan?”

  Bee pulled a face. “While she’s definitely a suspect, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit through a chat with her today.”

  “What about Katrina?” I asked. “The night of the murder, I noticed she seemed happy, even though Madeline had been shot.”

  “Good catch,” Bee replied. “That sounds like an option. Now, we just have to find out which room she’s in.”

  “Easy,” I replied, and whipped out my phone. “Francescan’s assistant emailed everyone a full itinerary, including a breakdown of who everyone was and which rooms they’re in. It’s meant to encourage people to leave each other love notes.”