“One thing I learned during my tenure as a journalist was that the most simple and rational solution was usually the correct one.”
“Why would the killer have removed the ring then come back with it in hand?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t. But we have to call Jones.”
“Not until after I’ve had my cake,” Bee replied. “I’ll need all the sugar I can get if I’m going to deal with him again.” She ate a bite of chocolatey goodness, setting her phone aside. “Ah, that’s better.”
“Delicious, isn’t it? We should do something like this on the truck.”
“Not that it will help if there are no customers buying.”
“Now, Bee, you can’t let Jones get to you like this. He’s put you in a bad mood, and we haven’t even called him yet.”
“Yes, well—” she cut off, frowning, and tilted her head to the side.
“What is it?”
Bee set down her box on the coffee table and rose. “Crying,” she whispered. “I hear crying. Don’t you?”
I listened hard.
The gentle sob and hiccup seemed to be coming from … the wall! I’d had more than enough fear for one night. If the guesthouse was haunted with the ghost of a weeping woman, I’d check out and move on so fast the detective’s head would spin.
Bee, once again, didn’t seem afraid. She approached the wall and pressed her ear to it, tucking her silver hair out of the way. “It’s coming from the room next to yours.”
“Who’s next door?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Bee said and pushed off from the wall. “I have a hunch, though.”
“Jessie?” It would make sense that she’d be upset after what had happened to Honey and at the restaurant with Richard.
I followed Bee out into the hall, and we knocked on the weeping woman’s door.
It opened, and it was, indeed, Jessie who appeared, her brown locks tied up in a messy bun, and her makeup streaked. Long trails of mascara ran down her tan cheeks, and her lipstick had smudged at the corners of her mouth.
“Hello,” Bee said.
“We heard you crying. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she croaked.
“We wanted to offer our condolences for your loss.” I placed a hand on her shoulder.
Jessie broke down into a flurry of sobs and threw herself into my arms. I hugged her and patted her back, mouthing the word “coffee” at Bee over the woman’s shoulder.
“Right,” Bee said. “Let’s get you something warm and fortifying.” She entered Jessie’s room, and I followed, guiding the distraught maid of honor along and sitting her down in an armchair.
Her room was slightly bigger than mine, with a queen-sized bed and a balcony she could exit onto to look out on the ocean. Still, I wouldn’t have traded places with her in a million years. How sad it had to be to lose a best friend the way she had.
“It was just so sudden,” Jessie said, dabbing under her eyes with a Kleenex that was so frayed and used, bits of white tissue crumbled from its ends into her lap.
I lifted the fresh pack off her coffee table and handed it to her, taking a seat myself. “It really is terrible,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“She was such a ray of sunshine in my life.” Jessie sniveled and dabbed, sniveled and dabbed. “Whenever I needed help, Honey was there. She wasn’t the easiest person to get along with for other folks, but she was so nice to me. She was my friend. And now she’s gone. What am I supposed to do without her?”
Bee opened her mouth then closed it again. Likely, she’d had a sarcastic response on the tip of her tongue, but even she could tell that now wasn’t the time for it.
I patted Jessie on the arm. “We haven’t spent much time with the other guests, but even we could see that you two were close.”
“We were.” Jessie blew her nose. “I don’t think what happened actually hit me until tonight. Until Richard—” Her face grew red all over.
“Until he embarrassed you in the Chowder Hut,” Bee finished for her. “Sorry to say it, dear, but we were there. He was being super rude.”
“Yes, he was,” Jessie said. “Mean creature. He did that on purpose, just to embarrass me. Actually, no, that’s not why.”
“Why then?” I asked.
“Because he’s trying to hide the truth from everyone. That he’s probably the one who killed her.”
Bee dropped a teaspoon with a clatter.
“Why do you think that?” I asked, finding my voice again. “I mean, that’s quite a thing to say about someone.”
“Yes, I know it is. But I’m sure he had something to do with it.” Jessie scooched to the edge of the armchair, her bloodshot eyes shifting. “Honey told me that William had forced her to include Richard in her will.” Jessie paused for effect. “Obviously, William’s well off, but he’s been having some trouble with his businesses lately. And Honey? She’s an Instagram model. She makes loads of money. I warned her about William, but she wouldn’t listen, and now… well.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I said.
But the fact that Honey had changed her will to include Richard was a big deal. What if Richard had wanted Honey dead because he was in dire financial straits?
“You think that Richard would have been desperate enough for money to murder Honey?” Bee asked.
“Of course. Richard is a scumbag. I don’t think he’s worked a day in his entire life. If there was an easy way for him to ride their coattails he would’ve, but I know for a fact that Honey told William, after the wedding, she didn’t want to see Richard around anymore. She didn’t want him in her life.”
And if that was the case, what better motivation could Richard have had?
11
“Are you ready for this, Rubes?” Bee asked as she packed vanilla-caramel cupcakes into a box. “I know this might be too much for you.”
“Hey, I used to be a journalist. I can handle this.” But it was one thing to research a story, to question people or interview them, but to follow them? Well, I’d done that too, but never with a suspect in a murder case.
“You’ll be fine.” Bee gave her a gap-toothed smile.
I paused, studying my friend. She was so on top of everything when it came to cupcakes and murders. “You seem comfortable with the concept of tailing a suspect, Bee.”
My friend shrugged. “One does what they have to do,” she said, mysteriously.
I had never pried into her history, but the curiosity bug had bitten me. Still, I respected her privacy and wouldn’t ask. When she was ready to tell me, she would.
“I hope it’s not a waste of time,” I said. “What if today’s the day that Millie’s food critic comes to check out the truck?” We had opened the side window and parked in front of the guesthouse instead of at the beach today. And for good reason—we needed to keep our eye on the comings and goings of one particular guesthouse resident.
Richard Hall.
Our prime suspect after the discovery of the changes to Honey’s will. Assuming the changes had gone through. What if Jessie had been lying about that to remove suspicion from her?
“I don’t think we’re going to have any customers soon,” Bee said. “It’s unfortunate, but at least we can use the time to figure out what happened to Honey. Here, have a cupcake. It will cheer you up.”
I took one of the vanilla-caramels gratefully and peeled back the paper. The first bite was heaven, and the sweetness did help me chill out. It wasn’t as if we had any proof that Richard had done it. Yet. And our run-in with Detective Jones early this morning had only added to my determination.
He had taken the engagement ring, reluctantly noted down our encounter, and then left us with the warning to stay out of his investigation.
Perfectly pleasant as usual.
“These are so good.” I finished off my cupcake and disposed of my paper.
“If you do say so yourself. You helped, yo
u know. You can take credit for your hard work.”
“I hardly did anything. You’re the one who came up with the recipe. Honestly, Bee, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Probably not own a bakery on wheels.”
“You’d have less trouble with Jones, that’s for sure. He’s definitely taken a disliking toward me. I suppose that’s my own fault, but I can’t regret it.” Bee closed up the box of cupcakes. “Are you ready to go?”
We planned on taking the cupcakes to William and squeezing him for information. Without being too obvious about it, of course. I had a natural gift for two things: panicking and getting information out of people in a friendly and easy manner.
We’d overheard that Richard and William would be “meeting” right now—their hush-hush conversation over breakfast had traveled no matter how they whispered. And that meant we could question them both, and when Richard got spooked, tail him.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
The words had barely left my mouth when the front door of the guesthouse clapped open. Richard marched onto the porch, drawing a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. He paused and lit up then puffed out a cloud of smoke.
Bee and I stood deathly still, her clutching the box, and me trying not to stare too openly.
Richard didn’t spot us but walked off down the street at a leisurely pace.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Bee asked.
“Should we?”
“I think so.” Bee left the cupcakes on the counter, and I rushed around and closed up the truck. Quick as we could, we were off down the road after him.
Richard had already reached the corner. He took a left without looking back.
And so the “chase” began. If it could be counted as a chase when the man being pursued strolled along like he had nowhere in particular to be.
Bee and I kept back, talking softly in case he looked over his shoulder or decided to turn around. But he didn’t, and he took a squiggly path through Carmel Springs and into streets with brick houses with crumbling garden walls and stained curtains in their windows.
“Should we turn back?” I asked.
“When we’re so close to finding out where he’s going? I don’t think so.”
A half an hour of walking had passed, and the sun had reached its zenith by the time Richard dipped into the parking lot of the Go-To Drinking Spot, a bar with a worn sign attached to its brick face. The windows were grayed out with dirt or a tint, but the low thump of music spilled out of it when he entered.
I stopped on the street. Bee did too.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t see myself going in there any time soon.”
“One has to make sacrifices in pursuit of the truth, dear.”
“I would do anything for the truth, but I won’t do that.”
Bee chuckled but started off across the parking lot, and I followed. Bars had never been my thing, especially not ones that looked like this. The cars parked outside were mostly in states of rust or disrepair, and there were stains on the parking lot that I didn’t want identified.
Bee pushed open the door and entered.
The music thumped loudly from speakers in the corners of the room. A bar with a dusty mirror behind it held glasses and bottles of alcohol. Men and women sat on stools talking idly, most of them in ragged clothes.
“OK,” Bee said, “so maybe coming in here wasn’t the best idea, after all.”
One of the burliest guys in the places had spotted us and started stroking his long, gray beard. And Richard? He was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“No idea, but I won’t be storming through here asking questions.” Bee touched a hand to her purse and fiddled with the golden latch set in brown leather. “Let’s go.”
We exited the bar fast and set off across the street.
A door banged behind us. “Hey!” It was the gray-bearded man. “Hey, you. I know who you are.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Keep walking,” Bee said, urgently. “Don’t look back.”
“Come back here.” The man’s gruff calls followed us onto the sidewalk. “What’s the matter, Beatrice, you don’t want to talk to me?”
The fact that he’d used Bee’s full name came as such a shock, I stopped mid-stride. “He knows you, Bee.”
“Keep walking, I said.” Bee’s neck and décolletage had pinked. “Just ignore him.”
“Beatrice.”
But Bee wouldn’t stop walking, and I chased along beside her, glancing back over my shoulder at the gray-bearded man. After a while, he stopped following and stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.
“Bee,” I said.
“It’s nothing, Ruby. Just an old friend.”
“Here? You didn’t tell me you’d been to Maine before.”
“I haven’t,” she replied, stiffly. “It’s just a coincidence. Let’s forget about it and focus on the case, all right?”
And that was the end of that. All we’d garnered from our expedition was the knowledge that Richard hung out in a seedy bar just outside of Carmel Springs, and that Bee had friends in strange places. Ones she didn’t want to talk to or about.
12
Bee had retired to her bedroom after the strange incident at the bar. I left her to it rather than bothering her about what had happened. Doubtless she wouldn’t appreciate the interference.
It also gave me time to wash the truck and to steal another of the cupcakes. Under normal circumstances, I would never have snacked on our product, but since no one was buying, I enjoyed the guilty pleasure rather than mentally reprimanding myself for it.
Clouds blotted out the sun intermittently, and I finished up my food truck once-over after a quick rinse from Samantha’s garden hose.
The back of the guesthouse, with its comfy porch and chairs, called my name, and I rounded the side of the house, stopping to peer at the spot where the shoeprints sat beneath the living room window.
Why? Why had someone been peering inside? Who had they been looking for? And if it was the murderer, why would they have come back to the guesthouse when they’d already done the deed?
Yuck, I hated thinking about a murder in those terms.
I stomped onto the back porch and settled my tired bones into a chair, resting my hands in my lap. Trouble the kitty cat padded out of the open sliding door and hopped into my lap, purring for attention. I stroked his ears.
“I can always count on you to lighten the mood,” I said.
Samantha came out of the back door as well, the local newspaper clasped in her hand, her gaze scanning the front page. She took two absent-minded steps toward the swinging seat then stopped, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “This is terrible.”
“What is?”
Samantha shrieked and threw the paper at me. Thankfully, it fluttered to the ground before it got very far. Trouble hissed and hopped around in my lap, his little claws coming out and his back arching, tail bottle-brush thick.
“Sorry,” I said. “I take it you didn’t see me sitting here?”
“Oh, Ruby, it’s you. Thank goodness. For one horrible moment, I was sure it was… you know.”
“Someone else?”
“Right.” She picked up the paper and folded it messily, then sat down on the swinging seat. “I’m on edge, as you can probably tell. And I can’t believe what I just read in the paper. They’ve labeled my guesthouse as ‘murder hotel.’ I’ve never been so upset in my life.”
“Really?”
“See for yourself.”
I picked up the paper and opened it, scanning the article.
Trouble at Maine’s Murder Hotel…
“Oh wow, that’s a headline if ever I saw one.” Whoever had written this had gone in on the guesthouse. The article was well-sourced with information about Honey Wilson and her fiancé.
“How am I going to draw in new customers at this rate? People will avoid the guesthouse.”
<
br /> “Or you’ll draw in a crowd of people who are intrigued by murders. You know, you get that crowd of folks who hop from place to place seeking out the history behind local murders. Kind of like an unhealthy obsession.”
Samantha groaned and covered her face. “All I wanted was to fix up my grandmother’s guesthouse and share how amazing this place is with everyone.”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” I said, flicking the paper’s front page with two fingers. “This is just an angle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to this,” I said, clearing my throat and finding the relevant paragraph. “According to police reports, Ms. Wilson, an Instagram model and self-proclaimed beauty, was found in the kitchen of the town hall. It appeared there had been a struggle between her and the killer, whose identity remains unknown. Suspicions arise, however, regarding the other guests at the hotel in town.”
Sam groaned again.
“Two of the occupants are not originally from Carmel Springs and were associated with a previous murder investigation in the town. Miss Ruby Holmes and Miss Beatrice Pine run a local food truck and had recently been hired to cater the victim’s wedding. By a stroke of sheer madness, it appears that the murder weapon itself was the marzipan made by the baking duo. Speculation is rife as to whether these ladies are involved.” I grew hot under the collar at the insinuation.
“Oh no. They can’t really think you did that, can they, Ruby?”
“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks other than Detective Jones.” Not a good portent for either Bee or me. “My point is, Sam, the whole ‘murder hotel’ thing is just an angle. The writer hasn’t penned anything here that pins the murder on you or even relates it that much to the guesthouse. They called it a hotel, for heaven’s sake.”
“What does that mean?”
“That the paper will move on to bigger and better things when more evidence arises,” I said. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you.”
The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 13
