“Well, yes. He’s been stressed lately, you know. This is the first time he’s been the lead detective on a case like this, apart from when Jones was murdered, and it seems like he doesn’t have much by way of evidence. He needed someone to talk to.” Sam lifted her mug and hid her lips behind it. “I really shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“I mean we should,” Bee grumbled. “That’s highly inappropriate behavior from a detective. It’s not like the case details have been released on Discovery. This is an ongoing investigation.” As an ex-cop, Bee was bound to get annoyed about shoddy police work.
“She’s kidding.” I leaned over slightly, careful not to disturb Trouble in my lap, and patted Sam on the arm. “Everything will be fine. I’m sure the murder will be solved soon. OK?”
“I guess.”
The kitchen doors opened and Shawn appeared wearing, of all things, an ugly Christmas sweater complete with white bobbles and a reindeer knitted on the front. Shawn was into the ‘goth’ style of living, with dark hair and eye makeup. He flicked that hair back now and crooked a finger in Sam’s direction. “Dinner’s ready, boss.”
“Coming!” Sam practically jumped and sloshed a little cocoa over her legs. She giggled nervously then darted off toward the doors.
“Hmm.” Bee tapped the tip of her nose. “Now, that’s interesting.”
“Seems like Greta’s involved somehow. But why? And how?”
“I think it’s time we pay a visit to the mayor’s offices,” Bee said. “If Greta was there, someone’s bound to remember her. She’s not exactly inconspicuous.”
We had our next lead. The plot had thickened. Hopefully, the lemon-butter sauce for the roast chicken hadn’t.
13
Carmel Springs’ mayor’s office was situated in a double story building off Main Street. The outside was painted a murky brown, but the glass front door was clean and dust-free.
“Do you really think we’re going to find out anything of use?” I asked.
“Of course,” Bee replied. “With my superior investigative skills and your emotional tact, we’re bound to get to the bottom of this.”
I followed Bee into the mayor’s offices, removing my gloves. The thermostat was set way too high in here, and I pulled off my jacket too and hung it up on a stand near the door. Bee did the same, brushing her hair back from her forehead and casting that sharp-eyed gaze around the place.
The reception desk, right near another door that led to the offices, was manned by a young woman with flyaway dark hair and a bulbous nose. She picked at her lips and turned the pages in a magazine, the tips of her scuffed shoes poking out from under the desk to greet us.
“Good morning,” I said.
The woman screamed.
Bee stiffened. I jolted back a step.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, and laughed hysterically, still picking her lips. “I’ve been a little bit on edge ever since… you know, the mayor was strangled to death with a string of lights.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.”
“Definitely a reason to scream at passersby,” Bee muttered.
“So, what can I help you with?” the receptionist asked, tucking a finger between the pages of her magazine and closing it. “Do you want to speak to a—”
The door behind her opened, and the mayor’s assistant, Jerry Flagg, stepped out. “Is everything OK, Cheryl?”
“Just me again,” the receptionist said, with another maniacal laugh. “You know how on edge I’ve been ever since… the mayor was strangled with a string of lights.”
“She just said that the exact same way,” Bee whispered. “How strange.”
Jerry looked up and spotted us. His expression lightened from concern to happiness. “Hello, ladies. It’s great to see you again.” He reached back and tightened his ponytail. “I’m so sorry about your Christmas party. I was hoping that the good detective would lift the embargo on all things fun, but no dice.”
“He’s not interested?”
“Nope. He says his hands are tied. The town council wants to keep everyone safe.” Jerry rolled his eyes. “Seems to me like the mayor’s murder was personal. I don’t see why they’d be worried about some serial killer on the loose.”
Cheryl gasped, and the lip-picking intensified.
“Sorry,” Jerry said, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Would you like to come through and talk to someone?”
“Actually,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “We wanted to talk to you.”
“Yes, about the celebration.”
“Oh, of course,” Jerry said. “Right this way.”
We followed him past panicky Cheryl and down a short hall past a few cubicles. “The mayor’s personal office is on the floor above this,” Jerry said. “He wouldn’t have been caught dead down here with us.”
The place was pretty empty, likely because it was so close to Christmas, and because, well, folks were scared after the murder.
“Here,” Jerry said, opening a door to a small room. It contained a desk, a potted plant that had probably died two months ago, and an old air-conditioning unit with rust creeping down its side. He gestured to the rickety chairs in front of the desk and took a seat behind it.
Bee and I sat, and I pressed my hands together in my lap. Why was I so nervous? This wasn’t a big deal. I’d interviewed loads of people before, and it had never bothered me.
“We were wondering what your thoughts are on getting the council to let us have the party.” It was the first thing that had popped into mind, and I pulled on the thread harder. “Do you think there’s any way we could convinced them to lift the ban for one night? Everyone’s already got their invites.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Jerry said, sitting back and fiddling with his golden hoop earring. “Convincing them might be tough. They’re a bunch of old fogies. The type that don’t care much for change.”
“Fogies,” Bee said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Oh, no offense.”
“Why would I take offense?” Bee asked. “Are you saying I’m old?”
“Uh…”
“Maybe,” I said, saving Jerry before Bee’s wrath unseated our investigation, “maybe we could get someone influential to help us out. Do you know anyone like that?”
Jerry rocked back and forth considering it.
“What about Greta Gould?” Bee prompted, helping out with the thread-pulling. “I heard she’s buying the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Jerry said, pointing at Bee. “You’re onto something there. She’s also been around here a lot too.”
“What? At the mayor’s office?”
“Oh yeah,” Jerry said. “She often called Mayor Jacobsen. They would spend hours on the phone talking about things.”
“What things?” Bee asked.
“Oh, I don’t know for sure. Some of it was good and some of it annoyed the mayor. He used to walk around complaining about how that Gould woman couldn’t stop putting her over-sized nose where it didn’t belong. Really got under his skin.”
“Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin.
“Maybe,” I said, “we could talk to her about the whole council-party thing. What do you think?”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll tell you, we need some fun in this town. I could call her for you if you like.”
“No,” I said, quickly, then measured my tone. “No, that’s fine. You’ve done enough, Jerry, thank you. We’d like to talk to her in person. Convince her, you know?”
“Right, sure. Well, she’s staying in the Cove at the Clover Pot Hotel,” he said.
The Cove was near the other end of Carmel Springs and was more out of the town than in it. The Clover Pot was Sam’s only competition, except it wasn’t really, because it was overdone, too expensive and too far out of the way for most folks who came to town.
“Then we have our next step,” Bee said. “Thank
s for your time, Mr. Flagg.”
“Please, call me Jerry. All my friends do.” He got up and we followed suite. He shook my hand then Bee’s, and I cast a quick glance at his shoes, just in case. They were plain and black, a little scuffed, but without brick dust in sight.
Of course, there wouldn’t be. It wasn’t like brick dust just clung to shoes forever. A ridiculous thought. But still, it was good to get into the habit of studying people if we were to solve the murder.
“Thanks for your time, Jerry,” I said.
“Let me know what Greta says.” He walked us out.
Cheryl had resumed reading the magazine at the reception desk and managed not to scream as we gathered our coats and exited into the street. The town’s lampposts had been decorated with fairy lights, but I wasn’t feeling the festive vibe, now.
“To the Clover Pot Hotel,” I said. “And step on it.”
“Step on what? We’re not in the food truck,” Bee said, as we headed back down the road to where we’d parked.
“Sheesh, can a woman use a cool line once in a while?”
14
“Why do you think she chose the Clover Pot?” I steered the food truck down the road, carefully, past the soup kitchen and toward the Cove. “Why not just stay at the Oceanside?” Sam’s establishment was more popular than the Clover Pot and for good reason. She provided a homely feel and amazing food. There were always interesting folks to talk to. That was the beauty of a guesthouse.
Whereas the Clover Pot was professional removed. They probably had a breakfast or restaurant option, but there was no sense of community. It was just a hotel.
“She doesn’t want to be noticed,” Bee said. “That or she’s rich enough to rent a big suite for an extended period of time.”
“I wonder why she doesn’t have a place of her own here. Is she an out-of-towner?”
“I’m not sure. We could ask Millie. And if she is from somewhere else, why’s she interested in investing in the paper?”
“And what was she doing in the butchery the other day?” I added in. “She surely didn’t need a turkey. Where would she cook it?”
“Let’s find out.”
I pulled into a parking space in front of the Clover Pot Hotel and peered up at it. It was a three story, with a largely empty parking lot out front and decorated for glitz and glamor. The hotel bore a wide porch and two marble pillars either side of its front door. Its back had a view of the cove and the now icy deep blue waters and the rocks below.
The hotel itself didn’t fit in with the aesthetic of Carmel Springs.
“Bit of an eye sore if you ask me,” Bee said.
“Ostentatious.”
“Exactly.”
Bee and I hurried from the truck, bracing ourselves against the wind, and into the reception area. It was magnificent, with marble floors and a central chandelier full of glittering crystals. The woman behind the desk wore a neat uniform and a fake smile.
“Welcome to the Clover Pot Hotel,” she said. “How may I help you today?”
“Hi,” I said, slightly taken aback by her super cheery attitude. “We’re here to see Ms. Gould? Greta Gould?”
“Oh. Do you have an appointment with her?” The receptionist blinked, tilting her head to one side.
“Uh…”
“Yes, yes we do,” Bee put in. “We’re from the local paper. We’d like to talk to her about her acquisition of it and plans for the future.” It was a neat little lie.
I gave Bee an appraising look, and she winked at me when the receptionist wasn’t looking.
“I’m sorry,” the uniformed woman said, holding the phone to her chest, “it appears that Ms. Gould isn’t in her room.”
“Oh. Oh all right,” I said. “We’ll come back later.”
Bee and I thanked the receptionist and made our way across the marble hall and out onto the front steps. The food truck waited beneath the overcast sky, and so did another car—a shining black corvette. The doors were open, and two people stood in front of the tapered hood.
Greta and the Babcock.
Bee stopped dead in her tracks.
I did too.
“What’s that about?” I whispered.
Bee tugged on my arm, looped hers through it then walked us down the steps and toward the sports car.
Greta and the Babcock stopped talking immediately. Greta tossed her long golden-red hair back, and the Babcock put up a cheesy smile that would’ve looked perfectly at home at a bad actor’s convention.
“Good morning,” I said, as we came down the steps.
“Hello.” Greta folded her arms. “What are you doing here?”
“We were thinking of moving from the Oceanside to the Clover Pot,” I said.
Good heavens, I wasn’t a fan of lying, but I’d become adept at telling these fibs. It was shameful. It would also help us figure out who’d killed the mayor. Hopefully.
“You.” Greta raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Here?”
“Yes,” Bee replied, drawing herself up straight. “We were looking for a classier establishment.”
“Well, I don’t blame you,” Babcock said, in his booming ‘listen to me, everybody’ voice. “That Oceanside is so run down. Really, who would want to stay in such a small, rickety old place when there’s the Clover Pot Hotel out here? It’s beyond reason.”
“You’re the butcher, right?” I asked.
“Clayton Babcock,” he simpered, sticking out a hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you. I was just having a quick chat with my dear friend Greta over here about your food truck.” He gestured. “I heard you’re serving delicious treats.”
“When it’s not so icy cold we are,” I said, shaking his hand. His dear friend Greta? Why would the butcher and this strange golden-haired mogul be friends?
“Well, I think that’s great,” Babcock continued. “I think that if we…” He continued talking, but my mind flittered elsewhere, all while I nodded along. Why on earth were the butcher and the Broadway star wannabe out here talking? I didn’t buy it had been about the food truck.
They’d clearly arrived in the fancy black Corvette together. Which meant they were definitely friends. Or having an affair? But did that have anything to do with Mayor Jacobsen’s death?
Bee nudged me, ever so gently, and I found her staring downward at the sidewalk. No! At the Babcock’s shoes. They bore a fine layer of… what was that? Brick dust? It was reddish and sort of clumpy, molded to the outsides of his black boots. Perhaps, he’d walked through some snow and managed to paste the brick dust to the fronts of his shoes.
My eyes widened.
“What?” Greta snapped. “What are you staring at the ground like that for?”
“Oh! Sorry,” I managed. “I was just, uh, thinking about all the things I had to do today. Christmas is such a busy time, isn’t it Bee?”
“Busy like a bee,” she said, and gave an awkward chuckle.
“It was lovely seeing you again, Ms. Gould,” I said. “Good luck with the acquisition of the paper.” Poor Millie. I couldn’t imagine working for a woman like Greta. But, hopefully, if she turned out to be the killer, we could lock her away for good. “And it was great to meet you too, Mr. Babcock.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” he blustered, offering us another cheesy smile.
I rushed to the food truck, and we slipped into the cab and put on our seat belts. Bee let out a breath and erected a fake smile of her own. “Pretend to be laughing and joking about something,” she said. “Greta’s watching.”
I faked a laugh and glanced, briefly, over at the Corvette. Greta stood twirling a strand of hair around her gloved finger, glaring at the truck. The Babcock was oblivious to Greta’s lack of interest in his story.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bee said, with a pronounced giggle. “You know, before she burns a hole in the side of the truck with her glare.”
I reversed out of the driving spot and put distance between us and Greta Gould.
�
��Did you see it?” I asked. “Did you see the shoes?”
“Brick dust. Pasted up brick dust. I’m sure of it. And do you know what that means?” Bee turned in the comfy passenger seat, the fabric scraping beneath her thick coat.
“What?”
“It’s time for another stakeout!”
I groaned. The last stakeout had been beyond uncomfortable. And they seemed to be Bee’s favorite thing to do.
“Don’t take that attitude, Rubes,” Bee said, slapping the back of her hand against her palm. “Stakeouts are an integral part of any good investigation. This means that we’re closer than ever to solving the crime.”
“I hope you’re right.” But something told me there was more to Greta Gould than met the eye.
15
There were two major problems with staking out the butchery. Firstly, our food truck wasn’t inconspicuous. The pink and green pastel stripes stood out against the white snow. And secondly, being out on the street without the food truck was both icy and suspicious in itself. Nobody was out, hanging around the fronts of stores or buildings in this weather. The minute they arrived at their destinations, they all rushed right inside.
As a result, Bee and I had opted for the first impossible stakeout option. We sat in the front of the food truck across from the butcher’s pretending that everything was fine and it wasn’t completely obvious that we were just hanging around.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” I muttered, as yet another person walked by and frowned at us, puzzled by our presence.
We’d already had three people knocking on the windows asking if we’d open any time soon and had to tell them that we were closed for Christmas. That only drew more frowns and questions.
“Don’t worry, we’re fine,” Bee said. “We’re hiding in plain sight.”
“Bee, it doesn’t feel like we’re hiding much at all. I’m sure Babcock knows we’re here.”
“Oh, don’t be so certain.” Bee nodded to the butchery. Inside it Babcock stood behind the counter talking enthusiastically with his customers. A half an hour earlier, he’d leaped onto the counter again and likely gone into another ‘save Carmel Springs’ rant. “The man is oblivious to anything that doesn’t fit into stroking his ego.”
Murder Under the Mistletoe (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 6
