S'more Murder

by Rosie A. Point

  “That means that Phillip had access to the car too, Bee. He could’ve, I don’t know… done something with the shoes?” I asked. “It seems tenuous at best. But there’s something fishy going on here. If only we had more evidence proving that the car’s important.”

  “I agree. The only thing we know is that the killer’s shoe was in the car. The other one grasped in Madeline’s hand as she died,” Bee said. “And we can assume that none of the men were wearing it.”

  I scrolled through more of Francescan’s images. One caught my eye. “Look at this,” I whispered. “Francescan sent this image to Madeline on the night of the murder. Look at the time stamp.”

  “Hmm. Just after 8pm. And she was… where is this? In the kitchen?” Bee asked.

  “Yes. This had to be literally moments before the lights shut off.” Francescan had sent an image of one of the meals, with the caption ‘Can’t believe you think this stuff tastes good. LOL.’ “So Francescan must have left the hall moments before Madeline died and gone to the kitchen to check on things.”

  “Micromanage,” Bee said.

  “She can’t have killed Madeline,” I whispered.

  “But… she borrowed the shoes from her. She was there,” Bee replied, patting the back of her hand into her palm. “It has to be her. All the clues line up.”

  I chewed on the corner of my lip. “I want to agree, but the timestamp doesn’t lie.”

  Bee fell silent pondering. “Katrina might have, though.”

  “What?”

  “Lied about the shoes. Maybe, Francescan didn’t send Petey to fetch them. Maybe they were actually Katrina’s,” Bee continued. “Hear me out here… Maybe Katrina wore the shoes that night and we didn’t notice. She had planned the murder and how she would frame Francescan. She would plant the shoe on the dead body as evidence, then run out and put the other one in Francescan’s car, quickly changing into a new pair. All in time to be herded back into the dining room for questioning.”

  “Maybe…”

  But it sounded too complex. I took screenshots of all the messages from our suspects in Francescan’s inbox: Katrina, Madeline, Stony, Petey, and Phillip. Finally, I crept back into the house and put the phone back. We pulled the window back into place, then ran for it.

  I’d hoped our little mission would clear things up. If anything, it’d only complicated things more.

  16

  Back at the guesthouse, Bee and I yawned our way through another cup of coffee a piece, both exhausted from our late-night jaunt, but too fired up to go to bed.

  “It’s got to be Katrina then,” Bee said. “According to what we know, she’s the most likely suspect. The shoe and the car, and her connection to Madeline, and the fact that she was outside Francescan’s house tonight…”

  I shook my head, taking another sip of coffee.

  “What?” Bee frowned. “You don’t agree?”

  “I wouldn’t say I don’t agree,” I replied, not wanting to put a damper on Bee’s brainstorming session. “I feel like we’re getting ahead of ourselves with this shoe business. We’re fixating on the shoes as part of the crime scene, but… we don’t know if there’s anything to the theory.”

  “Hey, but you remember the murder of the gardener back in Muffin, right? The woman’s shoe that was caught in the ground near the crime scene wound up being an important part of the case,” Bee said, gently.

  “I know. I know. But something doesn’t sit right with me here. I feel like figuring out the personal connections between these people will give us more information than worrying about the shoe will. Because just don’t have any real proof that the shoe was connected to the murder.”

  “How so?”

  “Think about it. Back in Muffin, when the gardener was killed and the shoe was wedged in the ground nearby, there was no one else around. It could only be the killer who had worn the shoe,” I said. “But this time, there was a hall full of people. Someone might’ve simply run past the body and tripped over it, leaving a shoe behind. There might be someone who had a very similar pair of shoes to the one we saw in the back of Francescan’s vehicle. If we set that aside and look at just the relationships between the suspects, we might discover more information we’ve been missing because we’ve been trying to connect the shoe to the murderer.”

  Bee stared at me, quietly.

  “What?” I asked. “Do I have crumbs on my face?” I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d been snacking on cookies since we’d arrived back at the guesthouse.

  “Oh, nothing. Just that I think you’d make a great private investigator.”

  I blushed. “So you think I’m on to something.”

  “Yes. You’re right. Let’s set the shoe aside. What do we have other than that?”

  “We have the screenshots of Francescan’s conversations to go through,” I said, bringing out my phone. “I sent them to myself.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  I set my phone on the coffee table and lowered myself to the floor.

  The first screen shot was a conversation between Madeline, the victim, and Francescan. Bee came over and sat on the armchair behind me, grasping her coffee tightly. We read the messages in silence.

  Francescan: Are u OK?

  Madeline: I’m fine, I guess. I just miss him.

  Francescan: Gurl, don’t even go ther. His not worth ur time.

  “This grammar is killing me,” Bee said.

  “Same.”

  Madeline: I don’t know. I just think that we can work this out. Maybe this weekend at the resort we can talk things through?

  Francescan: Talking things thru won’t change that he cheated on u! Get real. SMH.

  “What does SMH mean?” Bee asked.

  “Shaking my head,” I replied.

  Madeline: You don’t get it. Frank is special. He’s not like other guys.

  Francescan: All men r tha same.

  And that was the end of that conversation.

  “Francescan needs to buy a dictionary,” Bee said. “That was a trial to read.”

  “I think diction and grammar are the least of her problems,” I replied.

  “Ruby! Did you just say something disparaging about the woman in pink?” Bee mock-wiped a tear from under her eye. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “What did we learn, though? That Frank and Madeline had previously broken up. And that he’d been cheating on her. That’s a huge deal.”

  “It certainly darkens the batter,” Bee said. “Complicates the recipe? That’s better. Let me think for a second.”

  While she thought, I went through some of the other images. They were all filled with grammatical errors, but most of them didn’t have any useful information, apart from the picture Phillip had sent her, and Francescan’s last text to Madeline—the image of the meal in the kitchen.

  It seemed as if Francescan and Madeline had been good friends. If they’d had a fight before Madeline’s murder—over the shoes, as Katrina had told us—would Francescan really have texted Madeline the image?

  Unless it was an attempt at an alibi?

  “Oh here’s a conversation with her assistant.” I opened it so we could both read again.

  Francescan: Where r my shoes?

  Petey: In the car, Miss Taupin.

  Francescan: K.

  “I hate it when people send me a ‘K’ in response to a text,” Bee said. “It’s so rude.”

  “Agreed.”

  There was a gap of a few hours between texts.

  Francescan: I need u 2 take Madeline and Frank 2 a fitting. Frank needs a tux. Apparently their 2gether again. WTH.

  That text was dated five days before the vacation at the resort had begun. And if my online lingo was correct, ‘WTH’ meant ‘what the heck’ or a viler version of it.

  Petey: No problem.

  “OK, so clearly Francescan was frustrated with Madeline for getting back together with Frank Porter,” I said. “And I did see them kissing at the event.”

  �
�Everyone did,” Bee put in. “On the night of her murder.”

  “And Frank was closest to her. He could’ve shot her.”

  “But then how would he have cut the lights in time?” Bee asked. “He wasn’t near the switch. He was in the middle of the hall, putting on a public display of affection in front of everyone.” Bee pulled a face. “Which was disgusting, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe he was working with someone?”

  “Maybe. Either way, I think we should go speak to him.” Bee leaned back in her chair, placing her empty coffee cup on her knee. “He’ll at least have more information that we aren’t privy to.”

  “Right. I agree. That’s our next course of action.” Hopefully, it was one that would afford us the information we needed to solve the case.

  We hadn’t heard a whisper in the news or online about Detective Spasinski’s efforts to find Madeline’s killer—and I’d been keeping an eye out, just in case. There was only one report about terror at the mountain resort, and that was it.

  Bee got up, stretched, and yawned. “I’m going to try to get some shut eye,” she said. “You know coffee always knocks me out.” One of her many quirks.

  “Sleep well.”

  And then I was alone in my room, pondering the case. My head dropped to my chest as I stared at the laptop screen, my eyes drooping under the weight of too little sleep.

  What if it wasn’t any of them?

  17

  Frank Porter lived in a two-story house on the outskirts of town. The home was surrounded by foliage, nestled against the base of the mountain, with a rickety wooden fence separating the property from the street.

  I parked the food truck, stifling a yawn. It was late afternoon, and we’d spent a torturous morning serving customers—not because my love for serving baked goods and getting to know new people had changed, but because I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep until 4:30am.

  The only way I’d get any sleep tonight was if we put this case to rest.

  A brief scan of the news and a search online this morning had proven that the detective on the case hadn’t done a thing to investigate what had happened to Madeline.

  “He’s got to know something, right?” I asked Bee.

  My baking bestie sat in the passenger seat with an open Bite-sized Bakery box on her lap. She’d brought some donuts with her and had devoured two of them already, dusting off the sugar from her fingers into the box.

  Coffee kept me awake. Sugar did the same for Bee.

  “He’ll know something,” Bee said, though she didn’t sound that confident.

  We exited the vehicle. The slatted gate bore the sign ‘The Porter Residence.’ The air was brisk and cold, and I tugged my peacoat tight to my body. A quick walk up the path later, and we were on the porch.

  Bee knocked and we waited, the tension palpable.

  Would Frank know something?

  Had he cheated on Madeline as Francescan had suggested in her private messages? Or was that a lie?

  The door opened, and Frank, short, blond, but still handsome in his own way, stared at us. He wore a black shirt and jeans, with black socks. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Hi, Mr. Porter,” I said

  “We’re Ruby and Bee. We catered the Valentine’s Day Event at the Green Mountain Resort?” Bee added in.

  Frank’s neutral expression drooped, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. “OK. What do you need from me?”

  “We wanted to talk about Madeline,” I said. “We’ve been… uh…”

  “Look,” Bee put in, “here’s the deal. That idiot detective who was set to investigate Madeline’s case is a slacker, and we’ve been looking into what might’ve happened to her. We’d like to figure out who murdered her and see them brought to justice. And it’s not the first time we’ve done something like this either.”

  Frank’s eyebrows lifted with each passing sentence. “But you’re not cops?”

  “No,” Bee said. “We’re not cops. But we are going to figure out what happened. No matter what.”

  “We do need your help though,” I said, trying to soften the tone of the conversation. “We’ve recently come upon new information regarding Madeline’s relationships, and, well, it would be great if you could help us clarify a few things.”

  Frank hesitated, shifting the door back and forth. “OK. Come on in,” he said, stepping aside.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying not to show my surprise.

  It was a lukewarm welcome, but better than I’d expected.

  Bee and I followed Frank into his living room—wooden furniture with cushions that had seen wear and tear, but were pretty comfy, with a handcrafted coffee table.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Frank asked.

  “No thank you,” I said. “I’ve had about ten cups of coffee this morning.”

  “Don’t want to risk diluting the sugar,” Bee agreed.

  Frank shook his head. “Uh, OK. So, what do you want to know?”

  “What happened between you and Madeline?” Bee asked. “From what we heard, you had broken up, but you were together at the event.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Frank’s question was more tired than worried. “Because you can save your breath. I loved Madeline.” He got up and walked to a bookcase against one wall. He shifted a few books aside to reveal a safe.

  I tensed. What if he pulled out a gun?

  Frank unlocked the safe and came back with a velvet box. He opened it and set it on the table, showing off a gorgeous golden ring with a massive diamond. “I was planning on proposing to her when we got back to Prattlebark Village.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I whispered, pressing my fingers to my lips. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

  Frank bowed his head. “She was the love of my life. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but she was the one for me. Undoubtedly. Smart, beautiful, and funny.”

  “Why did you break up originally?” Bee wasn’t one to be dissuaded from her line of questioning.

  “Truthfully, because I couldn’t handle the attention she was getting,” Frank said.

  “What do you mean? You didn’t like that she was popular?”

  “That I could handle.” Frank shut the ring box and held it in his fist. “It was the guys that bothered me. Every dude in town wanted to date Madeline. Some of them were obsessed with her, and two really got under my skin. When I found out that Madeline had tried befriending them, it was… too much for me to handle.”

  “Befriending them?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “She tried being nice to get them to stop following her, texting her, harassing her. Until just before the trip up to the resort.”

  “What changed?” I asked.

  “She was attacked.”

  “What?” Bee and I gasped, in unison.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who attacked her?” Bee asked.

  “We don’t know,” Frank replied. “It was never clear who did it because it happened at night. But we figured it was one of these guys who was obsessed with her. She had told them both that she wasn’t interested, that she wanted to be friends, that she was in love with me. We tried reporting it to the police, but there was no real evidence to put either of them behind bars. So Madeline cut ties with them completely.”

  “Oh my heavens,” I whispered, the cogs turning. There was something about this that scratched at the back of my mind. Some connection with…

  “The person who attacked Madeline before we came up to the resort? That’s the person who killed her,” Frank said. “I’m sure of it. They wanted her and because they couldn’t have her, they…” He choked up and shook his head. “Sorry. It’s tough to talk about this.”

  I went over to Frank and squeezed his arm. “It’s all right. Can I get you anything? A Kleenex or a glass of water?”

  “No. But thanks. It’s good to get some of it out.” Frank met my gaze and then Bee’s. “You two want to figure out
who did this to Maddy? Don’t get my hopes up. That detective at the resort wouldn’t listen to what I had to say. He seemed to have no interest. I was certain someone had paid him off to turn a blind eye.”

  “Yes,” I said, firmly. “We’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Who were the two men who were obsessed with Madeline?” Bee asked.

  “Phillip Rorke was one of them. He’s a redheaded guy, and he was up at the resort too.”

  “And the other one?” I asked.

  The doorbell rang before Frank could answer. “I’d better get that,” he said. “Sorry. I’ll be right back. I’m expecting a package today.” Frank left the living room.

  We were so close I could almost taste the victory.

  18

  “What do you think, Bee?” I whispered, while Frank went to answer the door. “Think it’s Phillip?”

  “It might be,” Bee replied. “But I want to hear who the other stalker was first.”

  I nodded, getting up from the sofa, and walked to the living room window. The curtains were drawn—plain and white, allowing plenty of light through. I placed a hand on one of them, stroking the material absently.

  “What on earth are you doing, Ruby?” Bee asked.

  “Thinking,” I replied. “There’s something about what he said… Something…”

  “What do you mean?”

  What was it? Ugh. It was on the tip of my tongue. “Frank said that Madeline was attacked before the trip to the resort, right? Struck from behind. They don’t know who did it.”

  “Right?”

  “And that’s exactly what happened to Francescan on our first night at the resort,” I whispered. “Someone attacked her in the exact same way.”

  “I’m not seeing the connection.”

  “Bear with me here,” I said. “But don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence? Just before Madeline comes up to the resort, she gets hit. And then when we’re there, Francescan gets attacked in the same way. But she wasn’t robbed or hurt further. She was just left there on the pathway. The attacker didn’t try to kill her or even drag her off the path so she’d die of hypothermia in the snow or something.” I paused. “Which leads me to believe that Francescan wasn’t the intended victim. The person who attacked her did it because they thought she was someone else. Madeline. You saw how gloomy it was on that pathway that night. It would be easy to mistake one woman for the other. They were about the same height.”