by Molly Maple
The t-shirt model seems to understand the conversational misstep, and backpedals quickly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up before even introducing myself. You probably don’t want to think about dead bodies at the grocery store.” He shakes his head at himself, no doubt blaming my muteness on himself.
Poor guy doesn’t realize that his degree of handsomeness will seal my lips no matter how gregarious he might be.
Please talk to anyone else, I want to beg him. I am no good at connecting with people who are lightyears more attractive than normal humans.
He extends his hand. “I’m Logan.”
“I’m… Oh, no!” The thing I’ve pulled off the shelf at random slips from my hand, smashing between us in a splash of pickle brine and eggs. “I’m sorry!”
Pickled eggs? In the baking aisle? Why?
And why did I grab the jar of it? Why did I have to drop it?
The stench of pickled eggs fills the aisle and no doubt the entire store within seconds.
He holds up his hands. “Careful, there’s broken glass. Are you okay?”
Don’t also be a nice person. There’s only so much a girl can take!
I can’t manage a full sentence, so I work out a bleat of “M-fine.” I glance around for a store clerk, and just as I turn, one comes trotting toward us.
“The Colonel isn’t going to like this,” the woman grumbles. While I should think she would scurry off to gather up a mop, she stills. Her head tilts to the side and shifts her red frizzy hair to her shoulder. “Oh, you’re the new girl. The one who found Gerald.”
I need to get a better reputation.
I twist my fingers, my nerves at their breaking point. “I’m so sorry. I had a clumsy moment. I’ll pay for the jar I broke.”
As I turn to more fully face the woman I have wronged, my heel slips on the slick brine, and I lose my balance. My arms flail like the klutz I always am at the exact wrong moment. My hips wobble as if I am on my way to losing a hula hoop contest.
My arms flail out to grab onto anything that might stop this Three Stooges moment from unfolding, but I miss the shelf completely. My hand slams down on my cart, pushing the whole thing away from me and exacerbating my descent toward the mess that much more horribly.
Strong arms reach out, wrapping around my body quicker than I can make sense of their direction. One hand fixes under my elbow while the other coils around my midsection, stopping my fall midway.
A gust of relief comes out of me. But the moment I realize the hands that steadied me belong to the beautiful Logan, I wish the brine and broken glass would have taken me instead. Horror twists my features. I shouldn’t be this near someone so intimidatingly pretty. He definitely should not be holding me.
“Easy, Charlotte,” he tells me in a gentle yet firm manner. The steadiness of his of voice makes me think no one has ever had cause to be cross with this man.
He has bright green eyes. When I come face-to-face with him as he rights me, that is the only thing that registers. They are the color of grass after it has just rained—deep and beautiful and filled with kindness that chases away all the shadows.
I am not used to being this close to someone so wholly handsome. My entire body is blushing, heated by the unassuming touch.
Logan steers me away from the mess, keeping his hand on my elbow while he drags my buggy down the aisle. “You alright? No injuries?”
I need to get away from him before I have another clumsy moment and pull the shelf down on our heads.
“Only death by embarrassment,” I admit. I am cloaked in stupidity, wearing it for the world to see.
If it wasn’t clear that Logan is out of my league before, that little stunt sure seals it.
He laughs at my turn of phrase. The sound of his velvety timbre teases me, while my smarter self wants to run for the door before I have another klutzy catastrophe. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
Logan is polite to me, which is the worst. I feel like I’m his elderly aunt or something as he steers me into the next aisle. We pass the store clerk with the mop in tow, who no doubt curses the day I was born.
If my face could turn a deeper shade of red, I am fairly certain we would be veering into purple hues. I want to abandon my cart and run out of the store altogether, but as I actually do need the ingredients in my buggy, that is not an option.
“Checkout. Thanks-bye,” I manage as I pull myself from the handsomest man in Sweetwater Falls, and quite possibly, the world.
I don’t look up as I thrust my things onto the checkout conveyor belt, but get through the task as quick as possible. I can feel Logan watching me surreptitiously as he examines a pouch of coffee on an endcap near the register.
I drop three things, entirely because he is watching. His gaze makes me clumsy.
I finally make it out of the store and shove all my groceries into my car. I peel out of the parking lot with no finesse, still blushing and reeking of chagrin.
As I replay the horror over and over in my mind, I am certain that there is no coming back from that horrid introduction.
It’s just as well; I have no business being near someone that pretty.
12
Fishing with Friends
When I get home from the debacle at the grocery store, the garage is open. It’s always shut when I come home, but today, Winifred is fishing around in the space, trying to grab something off a shelf. She stands on her tiptoes, reaching high.
When she spots my car, she finally gives up, flagging me down.
Instead of my usual spot, I park on the left side of the garage, so as not to crowd my aunt.
She greets me with a hug, and for a second, the urge to spill my embarrassment all over her in a gust occurs to me. “Hi, honey cake. How was work?”
“My day was amazing, and then it was a disaster. What are you trying to reach?”
“The box up there. It’s got my fishing gear. I’m going to the creek with Karen and Agnes. I can’t for the life of me think of how I got my tackle box up there to begin with.”
“I’ll grab it.” It’s barely any effort to take the worn, olive-colored hard case down, being that I am taller than most. “There you go.”
Winifred feigns a swoon. “My hero! I can’t think back to what I did before you came along. Maybe I was taller back then.” She chortles to herself, examining the box. Her smile turns wistful, twisting from cheerful to precious, tinged with a note of melancholy as her head tilts to the side. “Gerald was supposed to take me fishing today. The girls didn’t miss a beat. They’re taking me fishing so we can talk about it all while pretending we care about something as boring as fishing.”
My body stills as I take in her plans. I’ve never had friends like that. I’ve always wanted women who knew me enough to predict my ups and downs, who knew what I needed and planned their weekends around my grief.
My shoulders lower. “I think that’s lovely. What a sweet way to pay honor to his memory.”
She looks down at the tackle box, holding it at both ends like she is presenting it to herself. She blinks a few times. “Grief is hard. Friends help.”
It’s a simple truth, but it’s so profound that it conks me over the head with its veracity.
My hand finds its way to rest atop hers. “I’m glad I came here. I want to help you. Really help. I mean, clearly you don’t need looking after. But what do you need? How can I be a good friend?”
A small smile finds her weathered lips. “Just keep asking that. Eventually, I’ll stop being so stubborn and I’ll have an answer. Until then, keep the cupcakes coming.”
“I can do exactly that.”
A golf cart pulls up in the driveway with Karen at the wheel. “Come on, Winifred. If we don’t get to the creek before nightfall, we won’t get the good fish.”
I snigger in her direction, blowing Agnes a kiss. “Is that the way it works?”
Karen shrugs. “We have no idea how it works. I borrowed fishing poles. Winnie’s got the tackl
e box. Agnes brought the bait. I feel like that should hook us the good fish.”
Agnes holds up a picnic basket. “Worms, shrimp, strawberries and grapes. I thought we could experiment to see which bait the fish prefer.”
I love these three; I can’t help it. “My money’s on the grapes.”
Agnes winks at me as Winifred gets into the back of the golf cart, shifting aside the poles.
Aunt Winnie claps twice. “Let’s go, ladies. I was supposed to be hearing sweet nothings and blushing right about now.”
Karen raises her hand. “I can do the sweet nothings! Winifred, you’re a vision. An absolute dream girl.”
Agnes hoots her amusement as Karen backs down the driveway. “That’s right. Winnie, you’re the light of my life. The first fish I catch I’ll name after you.”
Winifred swoons as Karen turns onto the road. “So romantic!”
I laugh through my nose, waving at the three until they drive out of sight. They are the best.
I want that. Life would be glorious if I had a friend with whom I could share the good and the bad.
It’s an effort to push myself to step out on the edge of my daring, but I take out my phone as I head back to the garage and make the call anyway. Marianne and I have hung out several times. I don’t know why calling someone on the phone makes my insides tighten up. But the fact that I hesitate means bravery is needed.
And I am Charlotte the Brave.
My chest puffs as the call connects. “Hey, Charlotte. I was just thinking about you.”
My shoulders relax. “What a coincidence. The ladies just left to go fishing, and I got a bit lonely for a girlfriend. How’s your day going?”
I start sliding my groceries out of the back of my car.
“Slow. Sweetwater Falls doesn’t read enough. It gives me too much time to think about who could possibly have murdered Gerald. Feel like company tonight? I know I’m not going to sleep until we’ve talked this through. And I mean all the way through.”
I cradle the phone between my cheek and my shoulder. “You have excellent timing. I’m about to be up all night baking. Come on by when your shift is over. We can eat frosting while we put our detective hats on.”
I can hear Marianne’s smile in her reply. “Perfect. See you in an hour.”
Ending the call apparently requires too much coordination from me. In an effort to keep my device from smashing on the concrete floor of the garage, I drop the sack of flour and a bag of groceries from my grip.
At least a jar filled with pickling liquid didn’t smash this time.
I cringe, still mortified at the memory of having made such a fool of myself in front of Logan.
I pocket my phone, scolding myself for being such a klutz.
When I pile the things back into the grocery bag, it’s then that I realize something my eyes have been blocking out. On the floor of the garage is splattered a three-foot-long smear of orange paint.
My stomach drops when I realize this is the same shade as the color I saw on Gerald’s hands and arms.
It was a coincidence when Marianne pointed out the orange paint before. I could write that off because Winnie had seen Gerald two nights before he was discovered dead. It’s possible she was making her sign near him and he happened upon her paint.
Perhaps they had been painting Karen’s freedom signs, and he’d gotten some paint on his hands. That doesn’t make Winifred the one who killed him.
But studying the splatter pattern, this doesn’t look like a peaceful breakup. I can imagine all sorts of angry words and emphatic hand gestures that might accompany a mess this large.
If I had to guess, this fumbling streak of orange tells me the two of them didn’t have an amicable breakup, but one that involved throwing paint and who knows what else.
I try to retrace Winifred’s steps in my mind’s eye. Maybe she broke up with him and he didn’t take it well. Perhaps he grew angry and wanted answers. Maybe he thought she was cheating on him, or something less savory than “this just isn’t working out.”
My gaze touches on the corner where there is a worktable. No doubt this is where they were decorating their signs. Maybe he grew aggressive, and she picked up a tub of paint to throw at him. Then maybe his anger picked up and she had to defend herself with something heavier.
Like any number of the gardening tools she has hanging along the wall.
The whole scene makes so much sense, but I still don’t want to believe it. My mind tells me I am right in following this logic, but my gut screams that Winifred is a good person who would never murder a person.
At least, that’s what I hope.
13
Meringue and Murder Theory
Baking cupcakes is not a task that can be rushed. It is comforting to know that if I mix eggs, sugar, butter and vanilla into flour, baking soda, and salt, it will always turn into cupcakes.
Sometimes the whole world needs more sugar; other times, it’s just me who can’t go another day without creating something that sweetens my life.
Tonight, on my fourth batch of cupcakes, Marianne and I have gone over the details of Gerald’s murder too many times to count, but we are still nowhere solid.
Marianne scrubs my mixing bowl for the seventh time tonight. “So you’re positive it both has to be Winifred, and also that it can’t be her.”
“Yes.”
She narrows one eye at me to give me a glimpse of her wry humor. “Nothing confusing about that.”
“And you’re still positive it’s Amos Vandermuth?”
Marianne nods. “I can’t shake it. He cares about money an unhealthy amount. I mean, you saw how livid he was about possibly having to pay a few dimes in late fees.” Her shoulders slump. “But on the other hand, I like Amos. He helps me with the books for the library on occasion. It feels just as wrong to point the finger at him.”
“True. But being a miser doesn’t make you a murder.”
“Neither does being clumsy with orange paint,” she points out. “I just don’t believe Winifred would murder a man.”
“Me neither,” I admit. “But I can’t discount the evidence just because I love her, or because she’s family.” My eyes close. “She’s been limping.”
“She’s not exactly a teenager.”
“Sure, but is she limping because of arthritis, or because she was just in a physical altercation that ended with her murdering a man?”
We both go silent as the question settles in the air.
I chew on my lower lip, my heart aching that I’m entertaining such thoughts. Though, as much as I’d like to dismiss them, I can’t brush them aside.
“Change the subject, I beg of you,” I insist as my angst climbs too high for my tolerance.
Marianne snorts. “I can’t believe they’re out fishing in the evening. They’re too funny.”
My mouth firms as I whip the eggs for the Italian meringue by hand. “That is weird. I didn’t think about that before. I’ve never heard of night fishing.”
Marianne stills, and then slowly turns her head toward me. “Not that I believe Winifred did it, but if I was going to dump a murder weapon or some sort of evidence, I would do it at the creek under cover of night. Preferably with an alibi, like fishing with friends.”
The fact that Marianne comes to this conclusion has me reeling. My gut doesn’t want it to make this much sense, which is no doubt why I didn’t get there sooner.
Then, as if Marianne doesn’t want to be caught saying anything that might throw me further down that trail, she corrects hard with a cheery, “But that’s not what they’re doing. They’re fishing. They’re just really, really bad at it. I still think Amos did it. Though, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” She sets the mixing bowl in the drainer and picks up a spatula, running the dishrag over it. “Then again, Amos didn’t bury evidence, claiming there was nothing odd about Gerald’s body when his hands and arms were orange.”
I touch my nose and then point to her. “Yes. We ca
n’t discount Sheriff Flowers. That’s evidence, right there.” My whisk stills in the bowl. “Evidence he could have planted on Winifred. He could have taken the orange paint from her garage and slathered it on Gerald’s hands after killing him to point his colleagues in the wrong direction.”
Marianne’s mouth pulls to the side. “Then why is he burying the evidence of that? Why not make it a top priority to find where the orange came from?”
I consider this, whipping up the meringue with less vigor than the egg whites require. “Maybe he left evidence of himself being there at the crime scene, so the diversion would actually lead them straight to him.”
This seems to satisfy Marianne. As she finishes the last of the dishes, she sighs heavily. “I hate this whole thing. I thought last year would be the worst ever, but this one has a murder in it, so I guess my life isn’t getting better every year, like I was hoping.”
I don’t pry, though I do want to know what made last year Marianne’s worst year ever.
I taste the meringue, unimpressed with the normal flavor. It’s fine, which isn’t what I was going for. Not when I will be using these cupcakes to audition for a spot doing what I love at a restaurant.
No shortcuts. Only the best.
It’s an extra step, but I scoop some white sugar into the food processor, along with the guts of a vanilla bean and a handful of shelled cardamom. Pulsing the motor, I blend it all until the sugar is refined but not powdered, and the flavors are well mixed.
Marianne leans in when I take off the lid. She inhales deeply, her eyes rolling back. “Oh my goodness. That smells incredible. Please tell me I get to sample whatever it is you’re putting that on.”
“Of course. You’re my taste tester. But you have to be mean. You can’t be polite. I don’t want to bring in cupcakes that taste boring.”
Marianne salutes me. “I’ll be ruthless, Cupcake Commander.”
I place a scoop of the new sugar into a pan and melt it down to make a glaze.