by Fiona Grace
“No you’re not,” Teddy said, taking her by the shoulders reassuringly. “If you really were such a suspect, that interview would’ve taken place down at the station, not here in your store.”
Ali chewed her lip. Maybe he was right. Detective Elton may just be trying to pressure her. To turn the heat up and get her to crack. If they had any concrete and substantial reason to accuse her, she’d be in an interrogation room right now.
Teddy gave her a kind smile. “You know the truth always comes out sooner or later.”
“Then it had better be sooner,” Ali said. “Because I don’t have the luxury of later.” Her gaze flicked to the retreating black-clad figure of Detective Elton. “They’re closing their net in on me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Teddy left Ali to another day of zero customers. Well, one customer if she counted Teddy, but since he hadn’t paid for his coffee or croissants, she decided not to.
She couldn’t help her feelings of despair. Had this whole thing been a terrible mistake? The bakery? The move? Everything?
Ali needed to clear her head.
She headed out into the warm evening, locking the store behind her, and bumped straight into Scruff the stray dog.
“Hi, little guy,” she said to him, crouching down and scratching him behind the ear.
He was living up to his name today, looking scruffier than ever.
“I don’t have any leftovers for you,” she told him.
Scruff tipped his head as if listening intently to her.
“I forgot to bag them up.”
Forgot? Ali thought. More like couldn’t be bothered.
She’d grown tired of the ritual of baking exceptional treats only to throw everything away at the end of the day.
“Sorry,” she added, before turning and walking away.
Scruff trotted along beside her.
“Dude,” Ali said. “I already told you. I don’t have any food.”
Marco had been right. Once you fed the dog, he’d never leave you alone. Which was fine by Ali; she could use the company.
With Scruff in tow, Ali passed the entrance to the pier and glanced over at Lavinia’s caravan. Django the macaque monkey was sitting on the steps in his red satin waistcoat, sifting through the contents of a leather wallet. Ali glowered at him, recalling the moment he’d stolen her ten-dollar bill.
The memory felt like it was from a million years ago. That was from before she decided to move to Willow Bay. Before she’d opened her store. Before she’d embarked on this whole adventure.
Misadventure, more like, Ali thought with disappointment.
Just then, she spotted a man storming out of Lavinia’s caravan, stomping hurriedly down the steps.
“You’re a fraud!” he screamed as he went. “Your advice was terrible! My wife and my girlfriend both left me!”
“Uh-oh. Looks like Lavinia has another unhappy customer,” Ali told the dog, who was watching the scene with an expression of curiosity.
As the angry man stormed past her, Scruff jumped back and growled.
“Hey, it’s not his fault,” Ali said, crouching so she and the dog were face level. “He’s mad because Lavinia got under his skin and made him make a decision he regretted. Like me…”
It had been Lavinia’s stupid recipe metaphor that had made her think about opening the store.
Scruff licked her nose. Ali blinked, surprised, and let out a small giggle. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed to vent until that soppy dog had looked at her with those big, loving brown eyes.
“I mean, she made me think I could make my bakery a success,” Ali continued. “Me! The crème brûlée girl.” Her voice lowered as she became overwhelmed by sorrow. “It’s so obvious it would fail. All I had to do was ask a handful of people if they ate carbs and I’d have known my dream was stupid.”
Scruff yipped. Of course, Ali had no idea what the yip meant. It could’ve been a yip of “Yeah, ya dumb blond, what were ya thinking?” But it just as easily could’ve been a yip of “I’m still hungry, can we skip to the snack bit?” Or, as Ali decided, because it was what she needed the most right now, his yip meant, “I’m so sorry your dream didn’t work out.”
“Thanks, Scruff,” she said.
She picked herself up off the ground and walked the length of the boardwalk until she came to Kookies, Miriyam’s bakery. Unlike Seaside Sweets, Kookies had suffered no drop in customers since Preston’s gruesome killing. If anything, it was busier than ever.
Ali watched the pair of teens at the counter point to the chalkboard behind Miriyam. They were selecting the new Killer Kookie.
Ali realized that far from putting people off, the crass advertising gimmick was drawing them in!
Miriyam handed two bright red cookies over the counter, and the teens exited. They giggled as they hurried past Ali, and she got a clear view of the frosted design on the front: a smiley face with X’s for eyes.
Ali grimaced. What kind of a person would try to profit off a local disaster like that? What kind of psychopathic monster did it take to even come up with that idea in the first place?
Ali halted. Maybe the same psychopathic monster who’d committed the crime?
She mulled it over in her mind. Miriyam was clearly threatened by a new bakery opening on the boardwalk, especially one in a way better location than her own; because who would buy a cookie from the end of the boardwalk if they’d already filled up on pastry desserts? Miriyam, like every other store owner on the boardwalk, would’ve known about Preston’s penchant for pestering new store owners. Perhaps she’d known from personal experience that it wouldn’t be long before he accosted Ali and made a huge public scene. What if Miriyam decided to use that as a cover? Perhaps she’d killed him knowing everyone would blame Ali for the crime. And what if this whole Killer Kookie thing was her way of goading her? Of rubbing it in her face?
There was only one way to know for sure. Ali would have to confront her.
She looked down at Scruff. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time then help me, but if you do stick around, I promise you I’ll get you a big bone to say thank you. Deal? Okay.”
And with that, she went inside.
*
Of all the things Ali had done so far to try and solve Preston’s murder, this one scared her the most. Miriyam intimidated her more than Detective Elton. At least Detective Elton had a code of ethics to live by. Miriyam was a loose cannon.
Miriyam glanced up from the counter as she approached. She gave Ali a saccharine smile.
“Sweetie,” she said, her brown eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I see you’ve finally decided to come and taste some real food.”
Ali narrowed her eyes in return. “It’s Ali.”
“What?” Miriyam asked.
“My name,” Ali said thinly. “It’s Ali.”
Miriyam looked as if she couldn’t care less what her name was. She looked at her dispassionately. “What do you want?”
Ali cut to the chase. “I wanted to try one of your new Killer Kookies,” she said. “I hear they’re ‘to die for.’”
The fake smile appeared again on Miriam’s lips. She folded her arms. “Too bad. I’m all out.”
Ali peered over her shoulder. There were at least seven of the ghoulishly red cookies in the warming rack behind her ready to go.
“Really?” she asked.
Miriyam glanced over her shoulder, then back again. “Fine. I’ll be honest. I don’t want to sell to you. I don’t trust you not to steal the recipe.”
Ali was about to tell her the protégé of Milo Baptiste had zero need to steal someone else’s recipe, but held her tongue. It seemed unwise to goad the woman. Particularly if she harbored a murderous instinct.
“I’m surprised they’re proving so popular,” Ali continued. “You’d think people would be put off by the color.”
Miriyam shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to understand the tastes of Americans. It’s n
ot my job to judge.”
Rich, Ali thought, feeling distinctly judged as an American.
“All I do is give the people what they want,” Miriyam continued flippantly. “If they did not buy them, I would not make them. It’s as simple as that. Supply. Demand.” She used a lecturing tone, like she was teaching business studies 101 to a high schooler. “It’s what makes my store thrive. Flexibility. Adaptability. Changing with the times. You wouldn’t know that, because you make French desserts that no one’s wanted to eat since the Victorian times.”
Ali’s eyebrows shot up. That was quite the tirade.
“Thanks for the advice,” she said, tersely.
The bell over the door tinkled and Miriyam looked over Ali’s shoulder. A cluster of pre-teens had entered and were now coagulating in a nervous clump behind her.
“Move along, please,” Miriyam said, raising her voice over the noise of murmuring voices the kids had brought in with them. “These children behind you are what we successful business owners call ‘customers.’ You’d know that if you got any.”
It took all of Ali’s willpower not to blow a gasket.
Miriyam beckoned to the kids behind Ali, urging them to come closer. But Ali stood her ground, even as they jostled their way around her. She wasn’t done yet.
“Where were you the night Preston died?” she demanded over several heads.
“Working,” Miriyam replied simply, somehow managing to take their orders and carry on a conversation at the same time.
“After work,” Ali added.
“There is no such thing as ‘after work,’” came Miriyam’s snooty reply. “When you are a serious businesswoman, you must work when the work presents itself.”
Ali rolled her eyes. She’d had as much of the condescending lectures as she could stomach.
“So what, you were working your register all evening?”
Miriyam handed a sickly-looking cake on a stick across the counter to an eager, outstretched hand. “That sounds about right,” she said. “It’s what I do most evenings.”
Just then, a couple of tubby boys elbowed their way past Ali, forcing her back a couple of paces. Ali had to raise her voice to call over the excited din of sugar addicts about to get their fix.
“You can corroborate that?” she pressed.
“To the police, yes,” Miriyam replied. “Not to you. I owe you no explanations.”
The bell tinkled again, and yet more pre-teens pushed their way into the store. These ones were more boisterous than the first. They didn’t even wait for Miriyam to give them the go-ahead to push past Ali, they just went right ahead and did it of their own accord.
Ali couldn’t help but scoff at their rudeness. She would never have been allowed to behave that way as a kid! But none of them were actually being supervised, she realized, and everyone knew what happened to kids when left to govern themselves. Lord of the Flies.
“Hey!” a kid shouted. “That’s mine!”
Ali turned to see two kids wrestling over a cookie.
“It’s mine!” the second said. “I ordered the gooey chocolate brownie.”
“That’s dark chocolate caramel!” the first girl cried.
“No it’s not!” the boy shot back with a disproportionate amount of venom.
As a mini war broke out in front of Ali, the bell rang and yet more kids came filing in. Now she was swimming in them, up to her armpits in them. It was time to vamoose.
She began wading toward the exit. Which was when a shrill scream erupted from the front of the store. Ali swirled to see none other than Scruff standing on the counter, shoving his nose into the display cookies.
He must’ve slid in unnoticed through the legs of the children as they’d entered. The sudden sight of his furry presence caused pandemonium to erupt in the store.
“NO ANIMALS!” Miriyam cried. “NO ANIMALS!”
Ali couldn’t help but smirk. It was nice to see the horrible woman knocked off her high horse for once.
As she reached the door, Ali turned back and caught Scruff’s eye. His jaws were stretched around a giant chocolate chip cookie. He leapt down from the counter, taking his stolen goods with him, and charged toward her, cleaving a path in the middle of the screeching children as he did.
Ali shut the door after him, cutting out the cacophony of noise, and watched with amusement at the utter pandemonium he’d caused inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Ali’s moment of schadenfreude was short-lived, because she was no closer to solving the case, and not only was she the prime suspect, but she’d run out of leads to pursue.
She had her suspicions about Miriyam and her insensitive marketing gimmick, but she wasn’t sure if that was really enough to go on. Dyeing a cookie red to mimic blood was very different from killing someone. And besides, Preston wasn’t exactly a small guy. Ali doubted whether a woman would have the strength to throw a body from the pier, even one with baker’s muscles.
Scruff yipped at her.
“You’re right,” she said. “I did tell you I’d buy you a bone for sticking around. Come on.”
She led her furry companion as far as the closest convenience store, ducking inside to find the biggest and tastiest-looking dog treat in the pet aisle, and presenting it to Scruff.
“Thanks for all your help today,” she told him.
Scruff looked like all his Christmases had come early. He snatched the bone from her hands and took off down the street at a clip. Ali felt a small pang of sadness that the fluffy critter had abandoned her the moment he’d gotten his snack.
She headed back to her store, which was now in darkness, and hit the lights as she entered.
She glanced around at the bakery—her dream that had turned into a nightmare.
If she shut down now, she might be able to avoid going into major debt. Of course Teddy’s money was gone, and she’d have to find a way to pay him back, but she could resell the coffee machine and baking oven. Claw back a bit that way. And maybe she could sweet-talk Kerrigan out of paying any rent, since the store was in much better shape to rent out now than when she’d taken it. Which was more than could be said for her apartment. The little place had been woefully neglected during her time here. She hadn’t even finished unpacking her boxes. Of course there was always the bail and run option, but Ali could never be that cruel. Kerrigan was her landlord for the store and the apartment. Skipping on him would be unforgivably cruel.
Ali felt all-around terrible. So terrible she knew none of her usual cheer up routines would help. She needed to pull out all the stops…
It was cupcake time.
When Ali was a kid, she and her dad would make cupcakes as comfort food. In fact, it was this ritual that got Ali interested in baking in the first place. Over the years, she’d perfected the recipe and now could whip the delicious lemon coconut cupcakes from memory.
She went into the kitchen and fetched her dry ingredients—all-purpose flour, sugar, baking powder, and half a teaspoon of salt—sifting them into the bowl. Then she zested a lemon into the bowl with the dry ingredients and set it aside.
Next she moved on to the wet ingredients. She squeezed the lemon on a juicer and poured the juice into a new bowl before adding vegetable oil, buttermilk, and coconut milk. She turned on the beaters. Most people underbeat their cupcakes. Ali had learned one of the best tricks for perfect cupcakes was to beat them way longer than you’d expect. That, and adding the eggs one at a time, yolk first. And using real vanilla rather than extract.
She left the beaters to their thing, using a hand whisk to mix the egg whites and sugar until they made thick fluffy peaks. Then she added the wet and dry ingredients together under the beaters, threw in some shredded coconut and scraped vanilla, and left them to churn away.
As Ali added the shredded coconut, she thought wistfully of her father. Coconut had been his favorite ingredient. He’d always tried to sneak more into the batter, and it became a silly game, with Ali trying to stop him, or fet
ching her dolls to guard the bag of shredded coconut before he could steal it. The memory made her happy and sad all at once. She sprinkled in extra coconut in her father’s honor.
As she measured the batter into the muffin cups with an ice cream scoop, she couldn’t help the pang of grief she felt for her missing father. What she wouldn’t give to have him here, offering advice and support in her difficult times.
She set the oven at 350 degrees and popped in the batch of cupcakes. All she had to do now was kill twenty minutes, and then she could eat her woes away.
But just as she retrieved the batch from the oven, the bell over the door tinkled. Ali frowned, not realizing she’d left it unlocked.
She headed from the kitchen to the main store. Standing in the bakery was a middle-aged man with a big wide grin.
“What is that amazing smell?” he asked, his blue eyes twinkling. He had a strange aura, like some kind of game show host, making “What is that amazing smell?” sound like his catchphrase.
“Lemon and coconut cupcakes,” Ali told him, tentatively.
“Lemon and coconut cupcakes,” he repeated, as if that were the most incredible combination he’d ever heard of.
Ali looked at him warily. She’d met her fair amount of oddballs working in LA but she’d never met a man quite as chipper as the one now standing in front of her. He gave off an old Hollywood vibe, like one of those gentle, suave, blue-eyed crooners her mom always put on at Christmas.
He tapped the counter decisively. “I’d like to buy a lemon and coconut cupcake.”
Ali was surprised. She’d been dying for customers, and had failed to sell any of her amazing French desserts. But a cupcake? A simple cupcake?
“You—you want to buy a cupcake?” she stammered, her eyes scanning the gorgeous display of pastries that had failed to rouse any kind of interest in the man.
The man flashed her one of his game show host grins. “This is a bakery, isn’t it?” he quipped.
“Well—well, yes. Yes, it is,” Ali said. A shiver of excitement pealed through her. “Hold on one moment.”
