Cake and Punishment

by Maymee Bell

  “Anyway, I broke up with him over a week ago.” She brought her finger up to her temple and tapped it. “Or was it just a week ago? What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “That’s right.” Her mouth oozed with sophistication. She leaned on one hip and rested her hands on her waist. “You’ll get to meet Grant at Charlotte’s wedding.” A happy sigh escaped her. “I will tell you a little secret.” She jutted her right shoulder and got a little closer to me. “Emile’s a lot more fun than Grant in the sack. He was a fun fling. But Grant.” She brought her hand out in front of her and wiggled her ring finger. “He’ll be able to put a big fat diamond right around my ring finger. Emile couldn’t afford a bread tie. Besides, I was on an airplane coming back into town when Emile was killed. I have the ticket stub and Grant as my alibi.”

  She wasn’t the killer, but she did have my curiosity up.

  “How did Emile take the big breakup?” I asked.

  “He sorta saw me and Grant at the RCC having a little lunch that involved some kissing. He went into a jealous rage.” She smiled. “It only made Grant realize I was a hot commodity and it sealed our relationship. I’m gonna own the Piggly Wiggly one day.”

  I’m going to own my own bakery one day. The thought made me pause, which gave Ella the opportunity to walk back out to her guests.

  After dinner was served and everyone was waiting on the dessert, I bid farewell with the excuse that I had to get back to the wedding cake. Besides, I wasn’t about to waste my taste buds on a Piggly Wiggly dessert. Though a dessert did sound good.

  As soon as I got back to the little cottage, I slipped off my heels and walked into the kitchen. Duchess was on my heels. I picked her up and took her back to the kitchen with me.

  The chalkboard was the first thing I set my eyes on. I could either make myself a dessert and forget about the investigation, as Carter had warned, or I could write down what I’d learned about Ella. So I did both. I put the skillet apple pie in the oven and looked over the chalkboard while I waited for it to heat up.

  “Duchess, Ella has an alibi.” I talked to her as if she were going to talk back to me.

  Under Ella’s name, I wrote down what she had told me about her and Grant using the words AIRPLANE and OUT OF TOWN WITH GRANT. This would be easy to find out, and why would she lie? She’d admitted to having the affair, which I also wrote down, but Emile was the one who’d had the anger, not her.

  “Then there was the little matter of Patrick. Was Nick right? Did Patrick hide out in the fridge and whack Emile over being bullied? There were so many more layers to Patrick’s life. What would killing Emile do for him?” I looked over at Duchess. She’d curled up in a ball on the kitchen chair cushion.

  “What if it was Patrick’s father?” I questioned, drawing an arrow from Patrick’s name. “His dad didn’t want him to work there because he told Patrick he was a sissy. Maybe Emile was putting ideas of becoming a chef in his head, so Patrick’s dad wanted to silence him?” I wrote down all my thoughts. “He wouldn’t know what a seasoned skillet was if it hit him in the head,” I joked. “But Patrick probably would, since he had an interest in cooking.”

  My eyes drew over to the pantry door, where I’d set down the box of Emile’s past ledgers Evelyn had said I could take.

  “Maybe something is in here.” I talked to Duchess, but she didn’t look at me.

  The bottom of the box dragged across the floor as I pushed it with my foot. I popped open the lid and took out some of the journals and a few of the inventory receipts, spreading them across the kitchen table. I was happy to see Emile had kept notes about events at the RCC and even some little details like food allergies. For someone who fought with everyone, he sure had kept the needs of the members in his mind when he’d made his food and even done the preparation.

  My stomach gurgled as the subtle hint of cinnamon and hot apples blanketed the kitchen in a warm hug.

  There was a knock at the door. My eyes shifted to the clock on the microwave. It was a little too late to be having visitors, and if it was anyone, it’d be Charlotte. But there was no way she’d be back so quickly after I’d gotten back. Besides, she would have texted first.

  I grabbed the wooden rolling pin out of the crock sitting on the counter and drew it over my head as I walked toward the front door. The massive figure was distorted from the frosted glass in the front door.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded to know in a very deep, disguised voice.

  “Sophia?” Carter called from the other side. “Are you sick?”

  “Carter.” I swung the door open and let the rolling pin dangle at my side. “You scared me.”

  “You were going to—what did you say at the rehearsal dinner?—clobber me.” His eyes drew down to the weapon. “With a rolling pin?” His right brow cocked as he looked at me with an amused grin. He lifted up his hand, which gripped a bottle of wine. “I came with a gift.”

  “Piggly Wiggly wine aisle?” I asked with a giggle.

  “The most expensive. Five dollars.” He flashed that grin that made my breath quicken.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  “I know you talked to Ella. I know you saw Patrick. I’m guessing you’re about to pop like a full-blooded tick to tell me what you know.” Slowly he waved the bottle in front of me.

  “I’m not above a good bribe.” I opened the door and walked away, allowing him to let himself in. “I guess we can have wine while we discuss the clues.” I got a little excited.

  “We?” He tried to hide the upper lip curl.

  “I’ve got clues that you need. But first, I need you to promise me you won’t arrest Evelyn.” I opened a drawer, pulled out a corkscrew, and handed it to him.

  “And this just so happens to be red, which goes great with apple pie.” I took the bottle and found a corkscrew to open it.

  I took the pie out of the oven and set it on the stove. The light golden crust was flaky, delicate, and perfectly sealed to the edges of the skillet. “You just so happen to have apple pie?” Carter walked over and looked at the pie. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, smiled, and let out a sigh. “Smells so good.”

  A way to a man’s heart was through food, and I could see in his eyes that his heart was thumping for a piece of my pie.

  “Actually, it’s skillet apple pie. My version of the apple pie.” The knife slid through the crust. I plated two perfectly formed pieces of pie and was filled with joy when I noticed that the apples were evenly distributed, a delicious complement to the crust.

  “If you are ever on a date and want to pick a dessert to go with wine, you need to remember that the wine should be at least as sweet as the dessert. Red pairs nicely with cheesecake and with berries, tarts, carrot cake, and some dark chocolates.” I pushed a couple of the ledgers away from a spot on the table and set the plates down while Carter poured a couple of glasses of wine.

  “I think I’m going to have to take you to dinner just to make sure I remember this.” He eyed me under his brows. He held my glass out to me. After I took it, we clinked the glasses together.

  He was flirting with me. Not like earlier, when I’d dismissed it. Not that I was a great sleuth—clearly not; the facts were the only clues I could go on. He’d bought me coffee. He’d bought wine with me in mind. Regardless, now he was asking me to go to dinner with him? My inner amateur sleuth would have said that he was definitely flirting.

  We sat down. He picked up a ledger and glanced at it.

  “What are these?” he asked, taking a bite of his pie.

  “I’m sure you noticed Evelyn’s messy office.” Who wouldn’t? “She had this box in there, and I asked if I could take it home to look through because I know there’s some clues in there about Emile.”

  “Here we go,” Carter groaned. He leaned back in the chair.

  “Hear me out.” I knew I was stepping over his bounds again, but I had to tell him. “Emile supposedly had carpal tunnel over the past few months, but only a c
ouple of weeks ago his handwriting changed in his detailed ledgers. If he’d been having trouble writing, why would he write fine up until a couple weeks ago and then last week while doing Charlotte’s wedding be fine?”

  “Carpal tunnel comes and goes. I’m not sure it would hurt your handwriting that much.” His finger outlined the bottom of the glass.

  “Now you’re a doctor?” I shook my head and stood back up. The wine glass dangled in my hand while I looked the chalkboard over. “You can compare the handwriting. All of it is the same until the last couple of weeks. Even the signatures on the inventory delivery slips.”

  “So tell me what you heard at the RCC.” He quickly changed the subject but continued to look through the ledgers.

  “I know that it’s rumored Emile has had a few affairs. Ella has an alibi I’m sure it’d be easy for you to check on.”

  “Now you want me to use my investigation skills?” he asked with a sarcastic tone.

  I ignored him and continued my train of thought.

  “Natalie, who I still think you need to look at, owns that house he rented. How do you know her husband didn’t catch them together.”

  “We already went through his house and cleared it. There’s nothing there. He had a bed, a few pieces of clothing, and that’s about it. No personal items. He didn’t even have a cell phone, and all the records on his landline were clean. From all the interviews I’ve done, Emile was a big flirt and that was it. It seems he lived for the RCC, married to his job, which makes me believe that Evelyn had more of a motive than most.”

  “What about Patrick? Did you look into that?” I refused to talk about Evelyn and her motives. Granted, there really weren’t a whole lot of solid clues, now that I thought about it. Most of it was speculation that I needed to mark off my list as I went.

  Carter nodded. “So you’re saying Patrick killed Emile over his love of cooking?” he asked.

  “I’m saying that maybe Emile teased Patrick about not being true to himself, or even Patrick’s dad killed Emile thinking Emile had brainwashed his son into cooking.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Patrick’s dad?” He was even more confused.

  “I sorta stopped by Patrick’s parents’ house after I went to the school to look through the coach’s files for his address.” I bit my bottom lip and watched Carter rake his hand through his hair with an exhausted “I can’t believe you keep doing this” sigh. “I know. I know you said to stop looking into things, but that’s like taking a hunting dog to the farm and telling it not to hunt.”

  “It’s not just for the compromise of the investigation.” He stopped pacing and put his hands out in front of him, shaking them toward me. “It’s for your own safety. This is a murder.”

  “Fine. Don’t use my leads. Use what I’ve already given you. I’ve made Natalie mad, so see if she is the one who tried to kill me and sent the note.”

  Something must’ve struck him in what I’d told him about the whole Patrick thing, because he started writing on that little notepad again. I squinted to see if I could make out what he was jotting down, but when he looked up, he covered the pad with his large hand.

  “I hit a nerve with Natalie when she overheard me talking about Emile, and she followed me and Madison back to town after we left her,” I said. “I told Madison to drop me off at the bakery so I could work and Natalie overheard us. She even asked me about it before she kicked me out.” I smacked my hands together. “That’s it!” I jumped up and headed to the pantry. I loaded up my arms with ingredients. When I baked, my head cleared and I processed things better. “Maybe she was going to leave the note at the bakery, but when she saw me jogging off, she decided to run me down and make it even more dramatic. Believe me, it worked.” I pointed to the oven. “Hit PREHEAT 350 for me.”

  “You saw her following you?” he asked, walking over to the stove.

  “No. I’m talking out the clues.” I walked into the pantry.

  While Carter tried to figure out the fancy oven (which took him a few minutes), I grabbed the dry ingredients to make the basic vanilla cupcake I use as the base. It was the pudding filling that made it banana pudding cupcakes.

  “What are you making now?” He asked.

  “Banana pudding. Baking helps me think, plus I need a kid dessert for Charlotte’s wedding.” I set all the ingredients on the counter.

  Every restaurant in the South pretty much had banana pudding on its menu. As a kid, I’d liked the taste, but there was just too much of the pudding. We’d gone to one of those smorgasbords-type restaurants. I remembered taking a cupcake and a plate of banana pudding from the dessert section. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to eat, and Bitsy was beside herself that I’d taken two desserts when people on the other side of the world just wanted one dessert. She’d been good then about making me feel guilty. Anyway, I’d done my teenage job of ignoring her and scraped the icing off the cupcake. I scooped some of the banana pudding up with a piece of banana and frosted the top of the vanilla cupcake with it. My dad watched from across the table with a look of disgust on his face. Of course I had to try it, and no matter how bad it was, I had to pretend it was good. I took a deep breath and bit into my creation. It was an experience unlike one I’d ever had. Unfortunately, the term food porn hadn’t been created then, but it was for sure food porn.

  I guess the look on my face spoke so loudly to my dad that he reached over with his fork and, upon my agreeable nod, took a bite. The next day, there was a twenty-dollar bill and a note from my dad that said to head to the grocery store and buy the ingredients I needed to create a real banana pudding cupcake.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Carter leaned against the counter and looked at all the ingredients.

  If I stopped focusing on my batter, his nearness made my hands shake. It didn’t help matters that he looked very comfortable and fit in so well with the small cottage, almost like he was meant to go with the house.

  “Take the cupcake liners and line the cupcake pan.” I measured and mixed the ingredients while spouting out directions to Carter.

  It was strange working in the kitchen with Carter watching me, and I was shocked that it didn’t bother me. I’d always preferred to work on my pastries and baked goods alone. When Noah had come along, he’d been different. He’d always been too busy making the food to even notice what I was doing.

  “I’m keeping my ears open at the RCC because there’s a lot of talk around that place.” I let the mixer hum while I got started on the filling.

  “That’s a lot of speculation about Natalie being the one who tried to run you over. I’ll check into it.” Carter didn’t ask to help with anything else. He went back to eating his pie. “And I don’t see her driving a truck.”

  “It could’ve been one of her many handymen that she uses for that fancy house of hers.” It sounded like a pretty good suggestion.

  “I’m going to check out Patrick’s family too.” Carter looked at me. My hands were wrist deep in dough. I shrugged. My insides jumped for joy. Maybe I’d just helped get Evelyn off as the number one suspect on his short list.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Baking was better than taking melatonin. The heat of the oven along with the hum of the mixer and the smells that filled the air were more relaxing then a warm bath and warm glass of milk. Having a cute sheriff by my side didn’t hurt either.

  It’d been the best sleep I’d gotten since I’d been back in Rumford.

  “Rise and shine,” Bitsy singsonged through the front door of the cottage. She walked into my house with a carafe. “I’ve got your favorite thing—a cup of hot coffee.”

  “Thanks.” I pushed my bed head back and eyed Duchess, who was sleeping soundly on the couch pillow. “Are you mad I took Duchess?”

  “No. She started missing you the night you started staying here.” Bitsy looked around. “This house is adorable.”

  The bright morning rays spread across the open floor plan of the cottage,
and specks of gold danced on my ceiling. Duchess stretched her arms out in front of her and spread her paws apart, pushing herself up to stand and arching her back to finish off the yawn.

  “I’m not completely happy that you’re still staying here”—she paused—“alone.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head ear-to-shoulder and side-to-side. “Duchess will be a good roommate.”

  Bitsy pulled out little baggie of kibble out of her purse. She dangled it in front of her and helped herself into the kitchen, where she found a small bowl and put Duchess’s food in it.

  “See.” Bitsy pointed when Duchess scurried over to the bowl and started to eat. “She thinks she’s at home. Maybe I’ll cry when you come over and you’ll bring me here to live.”

  “You just miss my cooking,” I joked, giving Bitsy a hug. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  I took out two cups and poured the contents of the carafe in them. I handed her one and we sat down at the small table.

  “Is it true?” Bitsy drummed her fingers on the table.

  “Is what true?” I asked. I ate a piece of bacon.

  Duchess finished eating and rubbed herself between our legs. Bitsy dragged Duchess into her lap. If Duchess could have talked, I swear she would have called Bitsy annoying. Bitsy held the feisty feline tight to her chest and rubbed down her fur, ignoring Duchess’s attempt to claw her way out of her grip.

  “You were baking in the old Ford’s Bakery?” she asked.

  “Yes. Why? Who told you?” I asked.

  “As you know—” She tilted her chin in the air and looked toward the window, which was a surefire sign she’d been on the phone gossiping. “Everyone knows about your near-death experience and that you ran away from the killer.”

  “Mama,” I gasped, but it didn’t stop me from eating. “I didn’t run away from a killer. Trust me, if they had wanted me dead, they’d have rolled a few more feet with their truck and run me over.”

  “Still, you almost died,” she whined. “And I needed to talk to Nora, Carter’s mama, because we are on the committee for the Friends of the Library little library project.” Bitsy nodded. “And she asked how you were doing because, like a good son, he’s close to his mama and tells her things. She doesn’t have to hear it over the phone from her friends.”