Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 7 - 9

by Stacey Alabaster

  Pippa shook her head and pointed to Lolly in exasperation. "What more is there to do? She is sleeping, Marcello! You just had to leave her to sleep and go to sleep yourself! Not drag her down here in the middle of the night!"

  Pippa looked at me for help. But I just shook my head to say sorry. I didn't want to get involved. Plus, I didn't want to wake the baby.

  "Can't you do anything on your own, Marcello?" Pippa closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head.

  "Hey," Marcello offered. "Maybe I can help out, seeing as I am here."

  Looked like it was just going to be Pippa, Marcello, and me on the case then.

  Oh, and baby made four.

  I was happy to be back at the bakery. This was home base for us, the place we always started from and now that we were back there, I felt like the cogs in my brain could start working properly again.

  I cleared a space and got out a dry erase board and a marker, placing it in the middle of one of the stainless steel kitchen counters where I would usually mix dough. This time, I was trying to figure out a place to start with solving Paul's murder. While I hovered over the board, Pippa moved Lolly enough out of the way that we wouldn't wake her, but close enough so that we could still keep an eye on her.

  Marcello blinked as he looked down at the board. "That’s all you got so far? It’s blank!"

  I tried to ignore him.

  "Okay, so we heard Scott yelling at him from behind the bar while we were seated," Pippa said. “I think that makes Scott our number one suspect.”

  I was confidently able to shut that ridiculous suggestion down. Maybe it had crossed my mind earlier, but now I could see that logically, it didn't make any sense.

  "Why on Earth would Scott be paying us a king's ransom to solve the case if he is the guilty party?" I asked in disbelief.

  "Umm...to throw us off the case?" Pippa asked, throwing her hands out like, duh, isn't that obvious?

  Marcello nodded and threw a ball of something up into the air. "That's what I would do," he said with his eyebrows raised.

  Whatever he had thrown up stuck to the ceiling. "Whoops, sorry," Marcello said while I stared at the wayward dough ball with a resigned expression.

  "Fine," I said, nodding. "We keep Scott on the suspect list." I leaned against the bench while something dawned on me. "But I don't think we'll be getting paid if we find Scott guilty."

  "I thought the money wasn't your biggest motivator?" Pippa asked pointedly.

  "It's not."

  "Don't let the money get in the way of you finding out the truth."

  I wouldn't. Still, even though I had agreed, out loud, to keep Scott as a suspect, in my own mind, I already knew that was a ridiculous suggestion and silently struck him from the list.

  I wrote his name, faintly, on the board.

  I shook my head. "Oh boy. With less than thirteen hours to go, we’re going to need more than this."

  Pippa paced back and forth. "Maybe it was a disgruntled customer." She suddenly let out a loud gasp. "What about that gray-haired dude that went to the bathroom right before me?"

  "Ooh," I said, nodding slowly. I was just grateful to have a non-Scott suspect for a minute. "Oh, but he was more annoyed with us than the waiter," I said, trying to recall the incident. "If he was going to kill anyone, he was going to kill Marcello," I said, shooting Marcello a look.

  "Hey, I am still alive and well," Marcello stated.

  "And don't we know it," Pippa said under her breath. Then she spoke a little louder. "He was also annoyed about all the commotion, remember?"

  I nodded. "Plus, he was in the right spot at the right time." I frowned. "Or possibly the wrong spot. Anyway, he was right by the stock room when it happened. Even if he's not our guy, maybe he saw something."

  Pippa agreed with me. "Only problem is, we don't even know the guy's name, let alone how to find him. And we've only got hours to solve this mystery. What are we going to do?"

  Chapter 4

  "I can't give out the private information of my customers like that," Scott said in the restaurant parking lot.

  I just stared at him in complete disbelief. "You do realize we are trying to help you solve a murder mystery, right? We are trying to help you save your business, remember?" And your own neck, I thought quietly.

  With the police gone, I had to wonder why Scott wasn't already down at the station with them. I supposed he hadn't bothered to be completely candid with them. Telling the truth might make him look kinda guilty.

  Scott looked at the ground. He sighed. "Where was the guy seated again? That's the only way I might be able to identify him."

  I opened my mouth to try and explain, but now that we were outside, I couldn't quite recall the layout of the restaurant or the location of the tables in relation to each other. "I might have to show you inside," I said. "Are you willing to enter a crime scene?" I stared back at the restaurant. It was surrounded by police tape. "Do not enter."

  Scott turned almost white but he gulped and nodded. "I suppose I can't get into any more trouble than I'm already in," he said softly as I trailed behind him.

  What did that mean?

  It was kind of eerie to be back inside the restaurant and not just because a man had been killed there two hours earlier. All the food was still on the tables, half-eaten. Nothing had been cleared away, like something terrible had happened, a nuclear apocalypse or something, and all the humans had perished but their half-eaten salmon and chicken had been left behind to survive.

  But the table the four of us had been sitting at was relatively empty. "We never got a chance to order," I explained as I headed to the table. "But I can tell this was our table by the red wine stain." I gulped as I looked at the bright red stain, which looked a little too much like blood at that moment.

  "Sorry about that," Scott said.

  "Why are you apologizing? It was my friend's husband who did it," I stated, remembering that Paul had also apologized like he had been to blame somehow, even though he'd been nowhere near us when it happened. I supposed it was just second nature for those who worked in fine dining to be overly apologetic.

  "I suppose your evening was ruined by something far more serious than red wine," Scott said with a heavy sigh. He took a seat at the table and leaned his head forward. "Do you know how many hours I work here every week, Rachael?" he asked me.

  I shrugged a little. "Sixty?" I asked. I knew how tough it was to run a business.

  Scott let out a little scoff. "Try more like ninety. Ninety hours a week, putting my blood, sweat, and tears into this joint...and for what? I'm barely keeping the debt collectors at bay. Do you know how much the overheads are at this place?"

  He was asking me a lot of questions considering that we were on a very short time frame. "Scott, do you remember who was sitting at this table to my left?" I asked, pointing to the table where the gray-haired man had been sitting. I was trying to get him back on topic, but he practically ignored my question and dove straight back into his pity party.

  "The rent alone is three thousand a week," he stated, shaking his head angrily. "And do you think those a-hole landlords ever give you a break? No, they only care about one thing, and that’s money. They think that a place like this must be raking it in, given our prices, but they don't realize the stress I am under every day."

  I looked at the time on my phone. It was almost 10:30pm already.

  "Scott, I really need to get the name of this guy. Well, and an address," I said. "If you want to pay the landlords, you need to be open tomorrow, right?"

  Scott nodded. "He was sitting there?" he asked, pointing to the table. "Which seat?"

  I frowned as I looked at the large table, which had housed a table of eight.

  "Hmm…" I tilted my head as I walked over to the seat where Pippa had been. "If he was close enough to have been hit by the wine drops, then he was probably sitting...here," I said, pointing to a seat. There was a half-eaten steak on the plate that looked so rare it could still be mooin
g.

  "Well, that doesn't help me much," Scott said, standing up. "I didn't even see who was sitting where."

  Oh my goodness. I was growing so frustrated with him I was about to scream. Didn't he realize we were on a strict time limit? The very same time limit he had set in the first place? I wanted to grab him by his chef whites and scream, "Just give me the info!"

  Oh great, now he's walking away.

  I threw my hands up into the air as Scott trailed away—slowly, of course—to the front of the restaurant and almost out of my sight.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pippa.

  Have you got the 411 on the guy, yet?

  I quickly shot a text back. Nothing yet.

  Hurry up! We're waiting for you here! And Lolly woke up. She's screaming.

  I sighed with frustration and stamped after Scott.

  He was flipping through a book. I was about to open my mouth and scream at him—'this is no time for reading!'—when I realized that he was actually being helpful.

  "Your guy was sitting at table thirteen," Scott stated. "Our luckiest table."

  Okay then.

  Scott ran his finger underneath the info. "Which means he must have been a very special customer..." Furrowing his brow, he struggled to make out the writing of the manager who had taken the booking. Didn't they do anything online or digital in this place?

  "Oh, gosh," Scott said, stopping. "I think I know who it was."

  "And?" I said impatiently. I checked the time. 10:45. This was getting ridiculous.

  "His name is Tyson," Scott stated. "Tyson McCall."

  "Am I supposed to know who that is?" I asked. Because I didn't.

  "The newscaster Tyson McCall," Scott said, his face turning dark as thunder. "Which means, Rachael, this story might have already gotten out."

  Pippa answered her phone with a snappy tone. Okay, so maybe she wasn't the most chill mother I had ever met. At least, not right at that moment.

  "Marcello, if this is one more easy question that you could have answered yourself..." she said, before trailing off for a second. "Yes, you can feed her from the bottle! I already told you that! It's in the fridge! Oh my goodness, where else would I keep it."

  She pressed end call and almost let out a scream. "I swear it was easier before he came back. I never thought being a parent would actually be more stressful when there are two of you."

  "It's only been a day," I pointed out. "Give it some time."

  Marcello and Lolly were back at the bakery while Pippa and I made the trek out to Belldale Heights. It was an area I had become more and more familiar with recently—it was the place where the better half of Belldale lived. Well, perhaps not the 'better' half. A lot of killers and kidnappers did seem to reside there. I supposed money didn't always equal good morals.

  But the richer half certainly lived here. I always felt self-conscious as my rusty old junk-bucket of a car rounded its way up the hills, next to all the BMWs and three-story mansions.

  "I can't believe that guy was a local celebrity," Pippa murmured as we made our way up the hill. It was 11:10 already. "Actually, I kinda can. It explains his diva behavior, doesn't it?"

  I agreed. "I didn't recognize him though. I wonder if that annoyed him as well. I don't exactly watch the local news. It's kinda boring."

  "Maybe don't say that when he opens his door," Pippa stated.

  An eternity seemed to pass while we waited on Tyson McCall's doorstep.

  "He probably isn't going to answer at this time of night," Pippa said.

  "Well, we don't exactly have the option of calling again in the morning," I pointed out, pressing the buzzer again. I pressed it a few more times for extra effect. 11:20.

  Finally, there was the sound of angry footsteps hurrying down the hall toward the foyer.

  "Good evening," I said brightly as Tyson McCall finally pulled the door back. I was definitely not met with the same bright greeting in return.

  "Do you know what time it is?" he asked gruffly as he tied his robe around him, squinting against the glare of the bright streetlights. "What the heck are you doing here?" He leaned out past me and squinted. "You haven't broken down, have you? You'll have to call roadside assistance..."

  I shook my head.

  "No. You might recognize us from earlier, at the restaurant?"

  "Oh," he said, frowning as a glimmer of recognition flickered across his tired face. "I do recall your party," he said before sighing with annoyance. "I am going to have to get that suit dry cleaned, you know. I should charge you for the bill."

  For crying out loud, it was one drop of wine.

  "So is that what you are here for?" Tyson asked. "To apologize? Or perhaps you want an autograph. Well, I'm afraid I don't do any signings while I am in my robe."

  I tried to bite my tongue. "No, um, even though we are both huge fans of your work." I tried not to laugh. "That’s not why we are here this evening, Mr. McCall."

  And we're certainly not here to pay for your dry cleaning bill, I thought.

  Tyson McCall folded his arms. "Why are you here then?" he asked suspiciously. "And by the way, how the heck did you find out where I lived?"

  I couldn't give away the fact that Scott had sold out one of his best customers. "Like I said, we're big fans from way back," I said. Well, that just made us sound like stalkers, didn't it.

  "It's almost eleven-thirty," Pippa whispered to me.

  Right. I had to hurry up, "So you might recall that we all had to clear out of the restaurant quite early," I said to Tyson.

  "What was all that about anyway?" Tyson asked, confused. "I didn't really believe that the kitchen was flooded. I never saw any water."

  Very observant. Perhaps he should become a detective instead of a news anchor.

  Pippa and I exchanged glances.

  "I noticed that you left your table and got up to use the bathroom right before we had to clear out," Pippa said.

  Tyson pulled his robe tighter again. "I didn't realize you were watching my every move so intently."

  "Like we said," Pippa continued stifling a laugh. "We're very big fans."

  "Yes, well, I am used to the attention," he said, sounding a little resigned. And a lot full of himself.

  It looked like Pippa was using every amount of restraint to not react to that statement. "Did you see anything unusual while you were walking past the kitchen?" Pippa asked.

  Tyson let out a long exasperated sigh. "No. Just the usual. A bunch of busy, screaming chefs and harried waiters. Why on earth are you asking me about this?"

  "So nothing unusual?"

  "Nothing," Tyson said sharply. He looked like he was about to slam the door on us. That wouldn't be good.

  I stepped in a little closer so that if he slammed the door, he would catch me in it. I doubted he wanted the bad press of slamming a door on a young woman and breaking her ankle.

  "It's just that you must have walked by just as..." Pippa stopped. I knew that she couldn't say anything else without giving away exactly why we were there. For one thing, Scott had already warned us about not letting this get out to the press. And we'd blow our opportunity to trip him up if we played our cards too early and told him that there was a dead body.

  "Just as what?" Tyson asked, narrowing his eyes. He had one hand on the door, still ready to slam it on me at any second.

  "Just as...just as the kitchen was flooding," I said, cutting in. "Scott, the head chef, suspects that maybe someone was trying to sabotage the restaurant," I stated. Good cover, if I did say so myself. I was quietly pleased. Perhaps smugness was contagious.

  Tyson actually looked concerned for a moment. "Scott is a friend of mine. I’m sorry to hear that someone would try to damage his restaurant."

  I shot a hopeful look at Pippa before I turned back to him. "So can you help? Did you perhaps see anyone strange hovering around? Ducking into the stock cupboard, for instance?"

  Tyson shook his head slowly. "I’m truly sorry to say that I didn’t see any
thing. In fact, I don't even remember seeing Scott there last night."

  I shot Pippa a look out of the corner of my eye. What about when Scott had yelled at our poor waiter? He had been so annoyed that he'd thrown his napkin down and stormed out. That didn't seem like the actions of a guy who was very good friends with the chef in question.

  "I can always look into it, if you like," Tyson said. "I am a journalist after all."

  I coughed a little to hide my reaction. I don't think that what Tyson did really amounted to journalism, did it? Wasn't he just the face that read from the teleprompter? But we couldn't really take the chance.

  "No, no, there's no need for that," I hurried to say. "Scott wants to keep this all quiet for the time being. And he doesn't want to put customers off before tomorrow. He hopes that you can respect that," I said.

  Tyson raised his eyebrows in a show of annoyance. "Well, if that's all you’re here for, I really have to ask you to leave and get off my property. If I see you again, I will be handing you that dry cleaning bill after all," Tyson stated before he finally slammed that door shut.

  We headed back to the car. Time was ticking and I didn't feel like we were making any headway at all. There was that panicky feeling in my chest again.

  "Do you believe him?" I asked as I settled behind the wheel again.

  Pippa shrugged a little from the passenger side and pulled on her seatbelt. I tried not to be too annoyed by her show of indifference. We didn't have time to mull the facts over, though. "Well, come on," I said. "Gut instinct. Was he telling the truth?"

  "No," Pippa said, shaking her head.

  "I don't think he is either," I stated.

  But we didn't have time to waste sitting there thinking about it. We had to press on.

  "Hey," Pippa said, looking at the time tick over on the dashboard. "It's Valentine's Day."

  Chapter 5

  We pulled into the parking lot of Scott's restaurant only to be met by him violently waving at us. At first I thought he was just really pleased to see us, but by the time I saw the police car sitting there, it was too late. He wasn't greeting us. He was trying to warn us away.