The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “Oh!” Olivia nodded. “Oh right, yeah.”

  “Here.” I foisted the box on her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s thoughtful of you. I don’t recognize you from around town?”

  “We’re new,” I replied. “We work on the food truck?”

  “Oh right, I heard about that place. Misty flipped out about it yesterday afternoon.” Olivia rolled her eyes, and then they widened as if she’d just realized what she’d said. She’d put herself near her sister on the day of the murder. And she wasn’t upset about her passing at all. “Anyway, that’s great that you’re here. I’m sure it will, uh, be great for your business.”

  “Yeah, we hope so. Unfortunately, it seemed that your sister wasn’t our biggest fan,” I said.

  “Oh, of course she wasn’t. Misty was threatened by anyone who had a talent for baking.” Another eye-roll from Olivia. “At least, no one has to deal with her drama anymore. She caused so much of it.”

  Yeah, there wasn’t a tear in sight here. “She did?”

  “Oh yeah.” Olivia looked nothing like her sister. She was skinny, tall, and with dark hair and eyes, and a tan too. Whereas Misty had been pale, blue-eyed, and furious. “I’m not surprised someone finally killed her.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously,” Olivia continued, shrugging her shoulders. “I wanna pretend that it’s a shock and that I miss her, but me and my sister, well, we just didn’t get along that well. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, she was mean, and she had nothing good to say about anyone. She took our parents’ bakery and drove it into the ground with poor management and bad customer service. But you know what?” Olivia drew in a breath. “None of that matters anymore. It’s fine. Thanks for coming by.” She retreated into the house and shut the door in our faces, taking the treats with her.

  Bee sniffed. “Well, there’s our answer.”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  We hurried back to the sidewalk and continued down it. I couldn’t help glancing back at the beautiful home. I could’ve sworn the curtains in the window had twitched as if someone had been looking out, watching us walk away.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “That Olivia had a reason to get rid of her sister.”

  “Maybe that man she was with last night had something to do with it.”

  “I agree,” Bee said. “It’s time we found out more about him. Maybe, I should put in a call to a few of my friends in high places.” Bee had been a police officer in her time, and I didn’t doubt she had contacts if she said she did.

  “Friends in this state?”

  “Oh yeah. Don’t worry, Ruby, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  I cast one final glance back at the house.

  6

  After a full day on the food truck, and our interlude with Olivia, who clearly didn’t care much about her sister’s death, I was bone-tired. The food at the Runaway Inn was fantastic, though, and was a balm for all that ailed me.

  “I hope you enjoy it, dear.” Mrs. Rickleston stood near the entrance to the dining room, watching with a hawk-eyed glare as her helpers streamed past and set out plates of food in front of the guests.

  The inn was full-up, as were all the tables—there were businessmen and women, a young family with two kids, and elderly and young couples, all seated at the circular tables, polished to a sheen and shining beneath the light of the bronze chandeliers.

  The curtains were held back by thick cream sashes, providing a view of the sidewalk and the wrought-iron lamps on the street outside. It was so gorgeous here that I couldn’t help staring at the view. It helped me relax.

  “I’m starved,” Bee said, and picked up her knife and fork.

  Tonight, we’d both selected the hot clam chowder with bread sticks and butter on the side. I ate it greedily, spooning it into my mouth as if I’d never eaten before. “So good,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” Bee took a sip of her water. “I’m glad we decided to come here.”

  “Me too. Kind of. I’m happy about the town,” I said, “but not about what I walked in on the other day.” I kept my voice low, checking that the other guests hadn’t heard. They were out-of-towners too, and they likely wouldn’t be listening in but still.

  “That reminds me,” Bee said, and dabbed her lips. She brought out her cellphone and set it on the table. “We have some research to do.”

  “What, here?”

  “Why not?” Bee asked. “No one’s watching us.”

  “I guess…”

  Bee finished off the last spoon of her chowder then shifted her chair around so we were seated next to each other. She unlocked her phone. “All right.” She opened a browser tab while I glanced around at the other tables, already paranoid.

  Which was silly, if I considered it—I’d never been shy about researching things in Carmel Springs.

  Bee typed ‘Thomas O’Leary’ into the search bar, and the results populated instantly. And boy, were there a lot of them. Thomas’ mugshot was online, along with newspaper articles decrying him as a member of the Irish mob.

  “Whoa.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Bee opened up one of the articles, dated a few months prior, and the headline came up bold.

  The Last Spider: Ex-Conman Turned Good Insists He Wasn’t Involved in Fire

  I read and re-read the title. A spider? What did that mean? Bee and I fell silent as we read.

  Arrested last week on suspicion of arson, Thomas O’Leary, ex-Somerville Spider who turned on others in his organization, was insistent that he had nothing to do with the fire that took hold of Little Mama’s Bakery in Boston last weekend.

  “The fact that I’m out here, talking to you about this, well, that’s all that needs to be said. They got nothing to hold me on, so that’s why I can give interviews. What can I say? What can I say?” Thomas spoke with one of our representatives on the phone, Monday. “They think that they can pin this on me because, really, they want to put me away. They want it so that they can get rid of me because I’m a problem for them.”

  Mr. O’Leary refused to expand upon those final comments, though, insisting that he was innocent and that it would be proven when the real arsonist was nabbed.

  “Wow.” I sat back. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “What are these Somerville Spiders?” Bee whispered and tabbed back to the search bar. She typed in the name of the group and another series of articles popped up. “Well, well, well.”

  “What?” I pushed my clam chowder dish to one side. “What does it say?”

  “Apparently, the Somerville Spiders are a now defunct mob that operated out of Beacon Hill. Dangerous—racketeering, human trafficking, drugs, alcohol, you name it. They did it.”

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “Oh no, indeed.”

  “And the article mentioned that Thomas had been arrested for arson,” I said.

  Bee nodded, sagely.

  “At a bakery.”

  “Interesting that Olivia, who hated her sister, would be hanging around with a man like that,” Bee said.

  I opened my mouth to expand on that, but Mrs. Rickleston arrived at the table, smiling. “Did you enjoy your meals, dears?” she asked. “Did you have enough?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “It was delicious. Best meal I’ve had since I arrived.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.” Mrs. Rickleston collected our plates. “Don’t go anywhere just yet, I’ve got some delicious apple cider donuts on the menu, served with a custard ice-cream.”

  “Yum.”

  Our host swept the dishes away, and another waiter appeared to refill our water glasses and bring us coffees or teas—whatever our hearts desired. Mrs. Rickleston’s inn was definitely bigger than Sam’s had been back in Carmel Springs, and she ran it differently, but it was homely in its own way.

  Apart from the fact that there was a murderer on the loo
se, and that our suspect list had just doubled. Olivia had hated her sister, and she had an ex-mob man friend, one who’d potentially burned down a bakery in Boston.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “What do we do?”

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin. “I’m not sure there’s much we can do yet. We can keep an eye out for rumors and information for now.”

  “On the truck,” I agreed. This way we could focus on the real reason we’d come to Muffin—it wasn’t to investigate murders. Good heavens, at this rate, I’d never escape that horrible feeling of judgment that experienced in New York. My thoughts turned to my ex-fiancé, Daniel, who had disappeared on me, and my mood dropped.

  “Here we are, ladies.” Mrs. Rickleston had reappeared with two plates—an apple cider donut sat atop each with a ramekin of ice-cream beside it. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.” How could I possibly be unhappy when there was so much to be grateful for? I had a friend who I traveled and baked with, great food to eat, a small town to explore, and now, another mystery to solve. I didn’t like to admit it, but I missed my old job in a way—there had been plenty of intrigue, and I’d enjoyed uncovering the truth.

  And Muffin had many secrets waiting to be uncovered.

  7

  The last time we’d wound up involved in a murder investigation, through no fault of our own—unless I counted walking in on a dead body—our food truck had suffered. People had decided that I was a femme fatale or a woman who’d poison my customers. The truck had done terribly, and Bee and I had contemplated leaving the town altogether.

  But in Muffin? Folks weren’t that worried about whether we’d poison them or not. The truck had never done better.

  Two lines spread from the front window and wound onto the path that ran alongside the duck pond. Gossip was rife, with everyone from the elderly to adolescents whispering, chattering, talking behind their hands.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying for cheerfulness, though I’d been asked about a million times whether I’d killed Misty. Most of the people who’d asked had framed it in a thankful tone. Or had even said that whoever had gotten rid of her, while it was terrifying there was a murderer on the loose, had ‘done the town a favor.’ I’d never come across a more detested woman. “Hello?” I peered at the customer standing first in line.

  A young man wearing an ascot and his hair in blonde waves. “Good morning,” he said, flopping his fringe back from his eyes. “Yeah, I just wanted to ask if you’d heard anything from that Detective Wilkes?”

  “No,” I said, stiffly, “I haven’t.”

  Bee handed over a box to the customer at the front of her line. “And for the last time,” she said, “I don’t know anything about the murder. Neither does Ruby.”

  It had been the same for her all morning. We’d barely gotten a second to catch our breaths between questions.

  “So,” my customer prompted, “you don’t know anything yet? Like, he hasn’t told you whether you’re a person of interest?”

  “Sir, would you like to order something?” I kept my tone calm though my frustration bubbled away beneath the surface. “We have a vast selection of treats for every palette. This week’s donuts are particularly good.”

  “Is that why you did it?” the guy asked. “Because, if that’s the case, I totally get it. I mean, it’s scary, but I can totally see this being some type of…”—he waved a hand at me— “baker’s quarrel or whatever.”

  “There was no baker’s quarrel. I simply found Misty. That’s all there is to the story. Now, can I get you anything to eat?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take one of those cupcakes, please.” He tapped on the glass case, pointing to the glistening lemon meringue cupcakes we’d made this morning.

  “Sure. Coming right up.” I packaged the cupcake as quickly as possible, handed it over, and accepted his money. I’d never been happier to see the back of a customer.

  But then the next one in line stepped forward, and the questioning started again. It continued that way for the following five customers, and when another came forward and halted in front of my counter, I was just about ready to bite someone’s head off.

  “Good morning,” said the woman, who had dark hair with purple streaks in it. “I bet you’re tired of talking about Misty.”

  “Not so much talking about it,” I replied, pleasantly surprised by her demeanor. “More frustrated at having to answer questions about it, I’d say.”

  “I’m sorry about that. People in Muffin are pretty inquisitive. Or nosy. Whichever works for you.”

  Bee snorted beside me.

  “They mean well,” the woman said. “I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Cornwall. I work over at Hashtag Nailed It, the salon? You should come by some time.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you.” We shook hands over the counter. Lucy’s fingers were tipped in long magenta claws, and she bore an unnaturally dark tan.

  “And you,” I replied. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ll take two strawberry glazed donuts, please.”

  “Sure!” I set about bringing them out of their case and placing them in a box.

  “Don’t worry about all of these people,” Lucy said, gesturing to the other customers. “They’re just curious because they got nothing going on in their lives. Besides, every one of ‘em hated Misty with a passion.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I opted for silence.

  “If you want the honest truth from me, though?” Lucy paused, clicking her nails together. “I don’t think it was either of you two.”

  “You don’t?” It was a refreshing perspective.

  “No, I don’t. And I got a reason too.” Lucy licked her lips. And, somehow, the purple-pink gloss slathered across them didn’t budge. She leaned closer. “Because I saw Misty get into a fight with someone yesterday morning. Right in front of her bakery.” She let that linger in the air for a minute. “And I’m not talking like… a verbal altercation neither. I’m talking like… there were fists flying and everything.”

  “Who did you see?” I asked.

  “Misty and that artist. The rich lady. Harper Kelly, that’s her name. Blonde and real pretty, but she’s got a temper on her, I’ll tell ya that much.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I handed Lucy her box, accepted the money then handed over her change. “Thank you. I hope you’ll stop by again.”

  “Oh, I for sure will,” Lucy said. “Listen, just don’t take what any of these people say to heart. They all got their own issues, know what I’m saying?” She flounced off with her box, her hair bouncing.

  “Did you hear that?” I grabbed a soda from the fridge behind Bee and cracked it open. I took a sip and set it to one side. Even the owner had to have a drink now and again.

  “I heard. Very interesting. Wasn’t Harper the one who first told you about Misty’s bakery?”

  “She was.”

  Before we could talk more, another customer stepped up, and another. The morning rush in Muffin was no less intense than it had been in Carmel Springs. People wanted their sweet treats and fixes, and they wanted them now.

  The path that led into the park filled with people, and I barely had a minute to catch my breath, let alone take another sip of soda. Not that I was complaining. But what Lucy had said had set off a chain reaction of suspicion and curiosity. What exactly had Harper and Misty been fighting about?

  We’d have to find out.

  Finally, the morning rush dulled, and there was that idyllic quiet before brunch struck. I grabbed a muffin and headed out of the truck then took a seat on one of the benches to enjoy it. Bee and I took our breaks in shifts, just in case someone showed up and needed assistance.

  I admired the view. The duck pond stretched out in front of me, the grassy green of the park spreading between trees on the other side, and on the hill further up behind it, sat the open gates of the stone church with its gorgeous steeple. It had to have been around when the to
wn was first formed.

  Two people exited the church’s open doors, a young woman in a crimson dress, and a man—the pastor who we’d run into the other day. They spoke, though I couldn’t really make anything out in the distance. And the woman raised a hand. A shout rang out, then faded. She spun away from the pastor and charged out of the gates, taking a left onto the street past the park, and soon disappeared behind the tree line.

  What on earth had that been about?

  “Ruby,” Bee called from the food truck.

  I finished off my food, disposed of everything neatly in a trash can, then hurried back to join her for the brunch rush, setting aside the woman in the red dress for later. After all, we didn’t have to uncover all of Muffin’s secrets. Just the ones that proved I hadn’t killed Misty Murphy.

  8

  Harper Kelly wasn’t just rich, she was ‘own an art gallery’ rich. That art gallery was right on Gallop Road, its glass doors open to the public, and its walls festooned with pictures that I guessed she had painted? I wasn’t a great judge of art, but they weren’t the Mona Lisa, that was for sure.

  Fruity classical music tinkled through the speakers, and we had been given a glass of sparkling grape juice in a champagne flute at the door. Bee held hers to her lips, her head tilted to one side, one eye narrowed.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “Maybe I’m just tired?” We had come to the gallery after closing the food truck. The last vestiges of the afternoon hovered around the horizon in bursts of pink and orange.

  “I don’t think you’re meant to get it, to be fair.” I took a sip of my now tepid grape juice and tried not to grimace. I’d shrugged off my apron back on the truck, but I still had a couple splotches of sugar and jam and sticky glaze on my sweater and jeans.

  “Good, because I don’t understand this at all.” Bee turned around and scanned the inside of the gallery. There were a few people milling around, checking the place out, but it was mostly empty. That might’ve been because most folks had already gone home or were eating at the rowdy bar and grill next door.