The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “All right,” Bee said, re-entering the living room. “They’re on their way. Don’t worry, Shawn. You’re going to be all right.”

  “I bet whoever did this framed Sam too,” Shawn said, his eyes wilder than usual. “You’ve got to find them. Please. For Sam.”

  16

  The Lobster Shack was as friendly as I remembered it, with wooden tables, buoys hanging off the walls, and the scent of seafood on the air. Music tinkled from the speakers, and almost all of the tables were full.

  A greeter emerged from behind a wooden podium and smiled at us. “Good evening, ladies. How may I help you? Table for two?”

  “We’re meeting someone, actually.”

  “Oh, Millie? She mentioned that two women would come by asking for her. She’s out on the deck by the fireplace. Follow me.” The greeter snagged two menus from the side of the podium and walked us through the restaurant.

  Familiar faces were everywhere, and a few of the diners waved a greeting. It was difficult to return it with a smile after what had happened today. Poor Shawn was in the hospital with a serious concussion. Detective Martin had followed the ambulance, so it was clear that he thought something was up.

  Did that mean that he’d free Sam? I couldn’t possibly rely on that being true. We had to solve this on our own.

  Gosh, I need to stop with the fatalism. It’s not healthy for me. Neither were cupcakes, but I ate as many of those as I could get my hands on.

  We exited onto the deck—a gorgeous wooden overlook that viewed the ocean and held little fairy lights along its balustrade. A central fire pit contained roaring flames, and the tables all around it were full. At one of them sat Millie, looking thin and wan in comparison to her usual jolly self. A folder rested next to her on the table, the top occasionally flapping in the wind.

  “Here you go,” the greeter said. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you so much,” I replied.

  We sat down across from Millie.

  Her sharp blue-eyed gaze glimmered less than usual. “Hello, ladies,” she said.

  “Millie. It’s been too long.” I patted her on the back of the hand.

  She flinched.

  “What’s wrong?” Bee asked. “Why have you been avoiding us? And what’s up with that weird Tony guy?”

  “You certainly know how to get to the point, Beatrice.”

  “No one would accuse her of beating around the bush,” I said, trying for a weak laugh. It fell flat.

  Millie leaned in, and we followed her example. “I asked you here today because I feel I owe you an explanation. I’m usually at the truck every day, and I would consider you both my friends. I think you’re wonderful people, and … well, it’s just wrong of me.”

  “What is?”

  “Lying to you.”

  “How did you lie to us?” I asked.

  Millie withdrew a Kleenex and blew her nose into it—a foghorn blast. She dabbed underneath her eyes afterward. “I should have told you about my past, but now it’s too late. Tony’s going to tell everyone anyway.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither,” Bee put in.

  “Tony, my ex-husband, was once a part of the mob. But he was kicked out a long time ago. I divorced him back then, but it was already too late. He’s spent years hunting me down so that he can blackmail me about my past. He wants money. Money I don’t have.”

  Money. Would he steal? But no, I couldn’t picture Tony spritzing himself with Mrs. Carlington’s rose-scented perfume.

  “Why would you avoid us because of that?” I asked. “You know we don’t care about your past. Everyone has their issues and secrets. As long as you didn’t do anything illegal…”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, quickly. “But he knows that my reputation won’t be able to stand a knock like this. I’m the editor of the paper, for heaven’s sake.” She tapped on the folder next to her. “And I’m too scared to go into work in case he follows me there and starts asking questions or saying things.”

  “Millie, it’s simply ridiculous that you think people will care what he has to say,” Bee said, brusquely. “He’s an ex-con, and you’re the editor of the paper. Everyone loves you. Heavens, we thought you were avoiding us because he had something to do with Jones’s murder.”

  Millie gasped. “No. Good lord, if he’d killed Jones I would have reported him to the police immediately and gotten rid of him. Not like that. You know what I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose you think I was involved somehow because of the article I wrote?” Millie asked. “The op-ed? That was because Jones had been stalking me for days, insisting that I tell him all I knew about you, Bee.”

  “About me?” Bee spluttered. “Why on earth would he be interested in me?”

  “I have no idea, but he was practically obsessed. Like a dog with a—oh no!” The folder on the table had flapped open, and one of the pages escaped. It whipped up into the air. “That’s our headline piece!”

  “I’ve got it!” I jumped up and snatched after the paper. My fingers closed around its edge just inches before it was lost to the fire in the central grate. “There.” I sat and smoothed out the crumples from my hasty grab. The title stood out.

  Bodybuilding Competition Marred by Stealing Scandal

  My insides did a flip.

  “—you see, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Millie continued, “and I simply don’t have time for my ex-husband either. But I don’t know what to do about him.”

  “Let him say what he has to say, Millie. In fact, you could do one better,” Bee replied. “You could write a tell-all expose about your past before he can say anything. Publish it in tomorrow’s paper. Disarm him.”

  “You think that would work?”

  “You have nothing to hide. You could frame it like you’ve been manipulated by him,” Bee said, conversationally. “Which you have.”

  “What’s this?” I asked, lifting the page I’d caught. “About the bodybuilding competition?”

  “Oh, that’s our headline piece for tomorrow. Huge scandal. The competition was ruined because all the prizes were stolen from the venue after the competition ended. Before they could do the prize-giving ceremony.”

  “It’s already happened?” I asked, frowning.

  “Yes, over two weeks ago. Right after Halloween.”

  My mind clicked, almost audibly. “Oh, my heavens. Oh my gosh.”

  “What is it?” Bee asked.

  “Rose perfume,” I said. “Stealing. Bodybuilding competition theft. Kayla. It was Kayla. She hit Shawn. And she killed Jones.”

  “What? How can you possibly be sure?” Bee asked.

  “She has no alibi, she lied about when the competition was taking place, and things have been going missing around the Oceanside.”

  Bee let out a squeak. “I’m stupid!”

  “No, you’re not,” I replied. “But why do you say that?”

  “Because she was wearing gloves on the night of the party. I still remember asking her whether she really needed to wear them indoors because she looked a bit like Michael Jackson.” Bee paused, wriggling her fingertips as Millie looked on. “No fingerprints on the murder weapon except for Sam’s. And Sam was the one who equipped the room with the letter opener. Of course, her prints would have been on the weapon.”

  “We have to go,” I said. “Now. Back to the guesthouse. If it really is her, we’ll find that perfume that went missing in her bedroom. And the gloves, potentially blood-spattered.”

  Bee and I rose and sprinted from the restaurant, drawing a cry from Millie. It was too late to turn back now. We had to get to the guesthouse and stop Kayla from getting away.

  17

  If I could’ve done a fancy handbrake turn into the parking spot in front of the guesthouse, I would have. The food truck simply wouldn’t allow for it. And the time for fancy tricks and laughter was gone.

  “Why do you think she knocked Shawn out tod
ay?” Bee asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because he was about to catch her doing something. Stealing something?” I leaped out onto the gravel in front of the guesthouse and ran for the front steps. I was up on the porch in seconds.

  We crashed into the hall, but it was empty. The living room was too, the lights still on from earlier when we’d helped Shawn.

  If it was Kayla, she sure had a lot to answer for.

  “Second floor,” I said, out of breath—I needed to start a cardio regime if I planned on chasing after people like this. “Kayla’s just down the hall on the left.”

  “She might be here,” Bee whispered. “Maybe we should call Detective Martin.”

  “Her car’s not outside. We’ll call him when we have real evidence.”

  Together, we mounted the stairs and hurried past our bedrooms toward Kayla’s. Shoot, we didn’t have a key. What if it was locked?

  I inhaled through my nostrils. A few weeks ago, I would never have burst into a bedroom after a murderer. Carmel Springs had changed me.

  I tried Kayla’s handle. The door opened.

  “We’re in luck,” I whispered.

  “That’s weird. Why wouldn’t she have locked it if she had something to hide?” Bee asked.

  “Ever heard the phrase ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?’ It’s a good one.”

  “Good heavens,” Bee whispered, as we entered Kayla’s room. “Solving crimes sure makes you spunky.”

  “I can’t wait to clear Sam’s name,” I said. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.” I clicked on the bedroom light.

  The bed was a total mess, the sheets pulled back and crumpled at the base of the mattress, and on it sat an open suitcase. Equally messy piles of clothing had been stuffed into the case, along with three gold medals and a trophy. All around the room were things that didn’t belong to Kayla. A crocodile-skin purse, the perfume that had gone missing, five silver forks, one knife, and two of the decorative statuettes that Sam kept in the living room.

  “Wow,” I said and walked over to the dressing table. On top of it was a collection of jewelry and wallets. “Wow. She’s not just a petty thief, she’s—”

  The door slapped shut behind me.

  I slued on the spot and came face-to-face with Kayla. Her lips were peeled back over white teeth that were too sharp to be normal. Had she gone and had them sharpened at the dentist or something? Seriously, she looked like a human shark. Her short dark hair stood upright, and she wore a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and a pair of leather gloves.

  “You couldn’t just wait until I’d skipped town,” she hissed. “You had to come here, now.”

  Oh heavens, Kayla was a bodybuilder. She was probably stronger than Bee and I put together. And we hadn’t called Detective Martin on the way over here, just in case we didn’t find any solid evidence that it was Kayla who’d committed the crime.

  “Now, Kayla,” I said, putting up my palms. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions or do anything rash.”

  “I killed the detective, and you know it,” Kayla said.

  “Well, that effectively throws the whole not-jumping-to-conclusions thing out the window,” Bee said. “She’s not as stupid as she looks.”

  “Bee, now might not be the best time to taunt the murderess.”

  “Is there ever a good time?” Bee asked, wryly.

  Kayla’s eyes flicked back and forth in her skull, from one of us to the other. “Talk as much as you want. No one’s going to hear you scream.”

  “OK, that doesn’t even make any sense,” I said, backing toward the table that held the fork and the knife. Perhaps we could arm ourselves and fight our way out? “If you’re going to say something before you murder someone, you should really make sure it’s … you know, profound.”

  “Don’t tell me how to murder,” Kayla growled, advancing on us.

  “I wasn’t, I swear,” I said. “I was merely telling you what to say before you do the murdering. There’s a difference.”

  “Slight difference,” Bee corrected.

  “Thank you. That’s helping.”

  Bee shrugged. “If there was ever a time to split hairs, now’s probably it.” She winked at me, leaning back casually against the dresser and closing a hand around the knife. “Don’t you think, Ruby?”

  “Bee, say the word, and we’ll split all the hairs you want.”

  “And what word might that be?” Bee asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. ‘Now’ will probably suffice.”

  “What are you two blabbering about?” Kayla snapped. “Shut up. You’re giving me a headache.”

  “Are you sure it’s not all the murdering and stealing you’ve been doing?” Bee asked.

  “Why did you kill Jones? At least tell us that before you do the deed.” I leaned back against the counter, copying Bee’s casual posture. My fingers touched cool metal, and I shifted one of the forks against my palm. A better weapon than nothing, at least.

  “What does that matter?” Kayla asked, narrowing her eyes. “You’re trying to buy time.”

  “Kayla, you can’t possibly kill us both at once. One of us will escape,” I said.

  “Watch me.” She lunged toward us, her arms outstretched.

  “Now!” I yelled.

  Together, Bee and I dove as well, bringing out our makeshift weapons. My fork hit Kayla in the shoulder and bounced off, clattering to the floor. Bee’s knife grazed her arm, but didn’t draw any blood—a butter knife wasn’t that dangerous. Go figure.

  “Idiots!” Kayla hissed.

  The door crashed open behind her, and Detective Martin came in, his gun up and aimed at the back of Kayla’s head. “Freeze,” he yelled. “Back away from the women.”

  And just like that, it was over. We were safe. The detective had saved the day, and the bodybuilder wouldn’t squash us into jelly.

  Miracles did happen.

  18

  Thanksgiving Day…

  “This turkey is the moistest I’ve ever had,” Bee said, spearing a slice on the end of her fork. “Shawn, you’ve outdone yourself. I’m grateful for your cooking.”

  Shawn, the consummate goth, blushed and cut a piece of the turkey off for himself. “It’s the gravy, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Bee chewed enthusiastically, brandishing her fork. “You’re just a natural talent at this.”

  Weeks had passed since the last murder in Carmel Springs, and since Kayla Thatcher had been taken away in the back of a police cruiser. It was such a great relief to have Sam back at the guesthouse that I offered up my silent gratitude for her presence at the table.

  Kayla had been wanted in three states for her crimes. Petty theft, grand theft auto, aggravated assault, and attempted murder. Apparently, Detective Jones had walked in on her stealing from Bee’s room, and she’d turned on him, knowing that if he arrested her, she’d be put away for longer than just a night. She was an ex-convict turned bodybuilder, using a fake name.

  “You’re right, Bee,” Sam said, stroking Trouble’s furry ears. She was seated at the head of the long table in the center of the dining room of the Oceanside. A fire cast warmth and light over all of us. The perfect Thanksgiving setting with just the four of us and Trouble. “Shawn is fantastic. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Now might be a good time to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.” I lifted my glass of orange juice. “I’m thankful for the lessons I’ve learned in Carmel Springs, and for naughty little Trouble, who both keeps me company and awake at night.”

  “I’m thankful for all of you,” Sam said. “Though we’re so different from each other, I feel like I’ve made true friends, and I’m so grateful for that.”

  “I’m grateful for the opportunity to work and live here,” Shawn said, lowering his head and peering at his plate instead of looking at us. “Nobody ever gave me a second chance until you guys came around.”

  “I am grateful fo
r this amazing food and the amazing company. And—”

  A knock rattled the front door of the guesthouse, and I jumped then laughed at myself. I was used to shocking happenings in Carmel Springs. A knock shouldn’t have set me off.

  “I’ll check who it is.” I rose and hurried through to open up.

  Detective Martin stood on the doorstep. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your Thanksgiving. I just wanted to wish you well, and I have something for Bee.”

  “For me?” Bee popped around the corner. She was too inquisitive for her own good. “What is it?”

  Martin drew an envelope from his pocket. “It’s a love letter.”

  “Goodness. I’m flattered,” Bee said, “but I’m a little too old for you, kiddo. You’d have better luck with Ruby.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” I choked. “No, no you wouldn’t.” I turned to Detective Martin.

  He laughed. “It’s not from me. It’s from Detective Jones.”

  Bee lost her words. I did too.

  “Wh—? Huh?”

  “Read it for yourself,” Detective Martin said, holding out the envelope. “I couldn’t give it to you ‘til now because it was in evidence. He wrote it for you and came by to give it to you on the day he was murdered.”

  I grabbed the envelope before Bee could—this was definite fodder for me to tease her later on—and opened it up.

  Dearest Beatrice,

  I know this letter will come as a shock to you, but it’s something that I must get off my chest. You’re not a leaf peeper. You’re a princess. I’ve been trying to hide my emotions from you for quite some time, but I think you must know we have a connection. I see it in the way you stare at me whenever I come by the food truck.

  I’m writing to let you know that my wife is planning a trial separation. I don’t care about her anymore. I am more than ready to start an affair with you.

  If you’re ready to pursue this with me and fulfill your every desire, call me. My personal number is attached below.

  Ever yours,

  Nate. (Detective Jones)