by Jemma Bard
Ben stepped closer, peered into the mixture, and sniffed. “Hmm. Interesting for sure. Sammie…that’s my girlfriend…she buys fancy soaps from that other place a few blocks over. I think it’s called Soaps and S—”
Violet clenched her jaw and nodded. “Yes, but they don’t make anything from scratch there,” she snipped, suddenly realizing how edgy she was.
Just as Violet went to set the lid on the pot, something that looked to be metallic shined in the center of it. She could see the soap had now melted enough to stir, so she threw on her gloves, grabbed the spatula, and pushed through the now-liquified mixture. Violet pushed, that is, until the spatula met something solid.
“What is thi—” Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Richard, get in here!” she screamed as the object in the center of the pot revealed itself.
Ben squinted his eyes and bent over. “What is that?” he asked.
Richard ran behind Violet and peered at the item from over her shoulder. “Violet!” he exclaimed. “I think you just found our murder weapon.”
Three minutes later, Carol Kincade had placed the murder weapon in a plastic bag to send off for processing —a tool Violet had used on a regular basis, and one she’d used the morning of the murder.
Violet swallowed down the humongous lump in her throat. Her mouth felt dry as she spoke. “That’s my wire soap slicer.”
Chapter 8
The scents of freshly baked pumpkin chocolate muffins and coffee greeted Violet as she stepped into Déjà Brew the next morning. And boy did she need it more than ever.
After she’d found Gordon’s murder weapon in her vat of soap yesterday morning, Violet had decided to take the rest of the day off to relax at home. Although the idea sounded ideal, it was much easier said than done. Violet had attempted more times than she could count to just sit back and relax, with Ralphie comforting her at her side. But that proved too difficult as her anxiety and all the spiraling questions that came with it got the best of her.
Why was the murderer in her shop? Were they looking for something? If so, what? What if they came after her next? And worst of all—what if Violet’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon and she was falsely accused of murdering her ex-father-in-law? It was only a matter of time before Carol Kincade ran the fingerprints on the weapon, fingerprints Carol claimed would still be in place even after the soap solidified and then re-melted around it.
But the murderer’s fingerprints would be there too, she reminded herself.
She thought back to her therapy sessions with Dr. Hazelton, Cape Flower’s only psychologist, after her divorce from Michael. He gave her two pieces of advice to stop the spiraling nagging thoughts. His first was to simply allow the thoughts and questions to bubble up to the surface of her mind, acknowledge them, and then let them go. He always told her that holding onto those thoughts and replaying them over and over again in her head would give those thoughts power.
But murder was a bit different than a divorce. And the fact she was a suspect made it all the more pressing.
This morning, she took Dr. Hazelton’s second piece of advice—get out of the house (and out of your head) and throw yourself into a new project. Since Violet was asked by the Cape Flower police department to close her shop for one more day, Violet couldn’t keep herself busy making soaps or experimenting with new lotions in her shop. Instead, she’d keep herself busy by investigating Gordon’s death herself.
So now she sat in her favorite Cape Flower coffeeshop, waiting for Cale. Her plan was to brainstorm a suspect list complete with motives and narrow down the suspects from there. She only had Cale and herself to rely on at this point. Carol was forbidden to share any information she knew about the case with Violet, and Richard’s lips were sealed with professionalism. It was up to Violet now.
I’ll be the Jessica Fletcher of Cape Flower after all.
“What are you thinking today, Violet?” Sylvia asked, jarring Violet from her sleuthing thoughts.
Violet peered behind Sylvia and at the large chalkboard behind the coffee bar showing this week’s specialty drinks—a spiced hot apple cider, a dark chocolate pumpkin latte, and a cookies and cream cappuccino.
“I think I’d like the dark chocolate pumpkin latte,” she said.
Sylvia winked. “Goes well with the muffin.”
Violet smiled. “Then I guess I’ll take that too.” She grabbed her phone from her purse and started to dial her aunt Loretta's number, but then paused. Violet’s aunt Loretta, the only sister of her late mother, still had a week left on what the brochures called a “Baltic Sea Cruise of a Lifetime!” Although Violet wanted…no…needed her aunt right now, it wasn’t as if Aunt Loretta could hop off the boat and swim home. Violet decided she’d just fill her aunt in once she returned to Cape Flower and the whole Gordon Preston murder debacle was over and well behind her.
“Sorry I was so late!” Cale said, breezing through the cafe door. “I got caught up talking to Nate Matthews about a tattoo.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “You’ve been saying you’re going to get one for over fifteen years. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’ll have you know”—Cale quirked an eyebrow as he took the seat across from Violet—“the tattoo talk with Nate reminded me of something.”
“Oh, yeah?” Violet leaned in closer.
“Remember the argument between Nate and Gordon we heard the morning of Gordon’s death?”
“Yeah!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot about that.”
Cale smiled. “I almost did too, but as I was walking to meet you, I saw Nate moving this bulky new tattoo chair into his shop and then he saw me staring, so I made small-talk about wanting a tattoo, and now I have an appointment after Gordon’s memorial service tomorrow night.”
“What?” Violet prompted.
Cale smirked. “He’s a good salesman, I guess.”
“So do you think he should be added to our suspect list?”
Cale caught Sylvia’s eye and ordered. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said, pointing to Violet. He turned back to the conversation at hand. “I think they argued and then he ended up dead hours later, so maybe.” He shrugged. “But who didn’t Gordon argue with about rent over the past few weeks?”
“True,” Violet agreed. “Just last week I heard Sylvia and Gordon going at it over her new sign.”
“What?”
Violet retrieved a purple pen and a notepad from her purse. “Apparently the new sign she ordered took up two square inches more on the storefront than was allowed, per her contract. Now that is ridiculous.”
“He was a ridiculous curmudgeon of a man.” Cale laughed while pointing to the purple pen and paper in the center of the table. “You really are doing this, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” Violet said matter-of-factly. Cale should know by now when she puts her mind to something, she makes it happen. After the divorce when Violet decided to turn her soap-making hobby into a full-fledged business, she read every single issue of Small Business Entrepreneur she could get her hands on. That research, a penchant for soap-making, and a degree in marketing coupled with a few years in retail as a teenager, gave Violet the confidence and know-how to write the business plan for Bubbles Boutique. And although she’d had a few growing pains and financial issues over the past eighteen months, she’d made her dream a reality. Best of all—Bubbles Boutique had kept her mind busy enough to not think about Michael, too much.
Violet grabbed the pen and made three columns—the first read suspect, second, motive, and the third, notes.
“Richard said the most likely suspects are family,” Violet noted, jotting down the names of both Jacqueline and Michael Preston.
“But didn’t Richard say he didn’t leave them a ton of money?” Cale asked—a valid question.
“True.” Violet nodded. “But you have to add in his life insurance policies, plus the Preston estate.”
Cale pursed his lips. “Those beat your measly seven hundred fifty t
housand.”
Violet laughed at his choice of word. “Yeah…measly little sum,” she teased. She wrote life insurance in the motive category.
“And what about the means?” Cale asked. “It can’t be Michael because he’s on…”
Violet raised a hand in the air, stopping him from finishing the sentence. “I am well aware of where Michael is right now, so it obviously couldn’t have been him.” Her face flashed hot as she crossed Michael’s name off the list.
“So who showed up unexpectedly at Bubbles and Bubbles that night?” she asked.
“Jacqueline Preston,” Cale answered.
“Ding ding ding,” Violet sing-songed. “She knew Gordon was coming into town, but of all places, why did she show up to my shop?” Violet decided Jacqueline Preston was suspect number one, with good reason. “I bet she followed him.”
Sylvia placed their coffee and cupcakes down on the table and Violet almost swooned from the decadent scents. Amidst the chaos, she’d forgotten to eat dinner last night. Her stomach growled as she took a bite into the chocolate goodness. “This is exactly what I needed,” she sighed. She pivoted in her chair. “Sylvia?”
“Mmm hmm,” Sylvia hummed, running two hands down her apron.
“Did you ever get that sign thing with Gordon straightened out?” Violet asked.
Sylvia put a hand on her hip and tapped her fingers vigorously. “No.” She shrugged. “But I guess that doesn’t really matter now.” She spun on her black flats and moved behind the coffee bar.
Cale raised his eyebrows up and down. “Add her to the list.”
Violet complied. “So that leaves three potential suspects.”
Cale took a bite of his muffin, swallowed it down, then spoke. “And we can’t forget about the supposed affair,” he said between chews.
Violet threw a hand to her head. “Oh my goodness, Cale!” Between the death, being exhausted, and the break-in at her shop, Violet had forgotten about what Sylvia had said yesterday morning. “The affair!” she exclaimed. “Then I know who I’m visiting today.”
The bell above the door jingled, announcing another Déjà Brew customer. Cale’s face contorted into a grimace. “Well, it looks like you’ll have to get through someone else first.” Violet was unsure whether or not she wanted to turn to see the source of Cale’s clearly disturbed facial expression.
But Violet didn’t have to move at all. The familiar, snotty voice gave it away. “Sylvia!” the voice demanded. “Have you finished the scones for tomorrow’s reception? I can’t have people sitting around the funeral parlor after the memorial without anything to munch on!”
Sylvia rushed to the owner of the voice—Jacqueline Preston—who stood in the center of the cafe in her signature head-to-toe white. Jacqueline pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her black Chanel bag and dabbed dramatically underneath the black sunglasses at her eyes.
Cale flicked his wrist, nodding with his head to Jacqueline. “You can start with her.”
Chapter 9
“Might as well sit with you while I wait,” Jacqueline said, taking the seat across from Violet. She unbuttoned her snow-white blazer and gestured to the one empty seat to her left. “Will you be joining us, Cale?”
Cale glanced at Violet and then the door. “I actually told Roberto I’d meet him for a walk.”
“You have to go so soon?” Jacqueline purred as she peered at him through long lashes.
“Yeah?” Violet said through clenched teeth. “Please stay longer.” She widened her eyes, hoping he’d listen and save her from the awkwardness that was sure to engulf the table. She didn’t know how to handle Jacqueline alone.
Cale rested a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “I think the two of you have some things to iron out.”
Jacqueline pulled her shoulders back and glared at Violet. “Indeed, we do.”
Cale left and Violet felt her stomach doing flipflops. How was she to even bring up the whole affair thing?
Jacqueline started. “I know about the money my husband left you,” she spat, her icy eyes meeting Violet’s.
Violet twirled a few strands of brown hair around her finger. “Is that so?”
In a gesture Violet didn’t expect, Jacqueline reached across the table and tugged hard on Violet’s arm, which caused her to let go of the strands of hair. “You’ve always been quite the fidgeter…it’s unbecoming to play with your hair, dear girl. Now sit up.”
Violet pulled back her shoulders as her stomach flipped again.
Jacqueline had the uncanny ability to make Violet feel like a child. Violet thought back to the first time she’d met Mrs. Jacqueline Preston. Michael and Violet had been dating for a few weeks, and he’d invited his parents to the local winery where there was a six-course dinner with wine pairing. At only twenty-two years old, the only wines Violet enjoyed were of the sweet blush variety—mainly Sutter Home White Zinfandel or a sparkling sweet rosé. For the third course, the sommelier brought out a 1996 bottle of Old Vine Zinfandel from the Sonoma Valley. Violet had perked up because she loved zinfandel—she just didn’t realize Old Vine Zin and the blush variety she loved were from two totally different grapes.
“This is my favorite!” Violet had exclaimed to the table, to which Michael responded by placing a hand over hers and patting it in a (now she realized) patronizing manner. Jacqueline had then peered at Violet with those icy gray eyes and asked, “You do know it’s not the same as that sweet garbage Michael tells me you drink?”
Violet should have known then and there her relationship with Michael…with his terrible family…would end in disaster.
“I know about the money,” Jacqueline said firmly, her words bringing Violet back to the uncomfortable situation at hand.
Violet reached for her hair, but second-guessed it, allowing her hand to drop in her lap. “You do?”
“For whatever reason my husband was always fond of you.” Jacqueline lifted an eyebrow. “He felt bad for your situation, I guess.”
Violet nodded and her jaw dropped. It took all her energy not to stomp out of the coffeeshop right then, but she forced herself to stay. She needed to see if Jacqueline was capable of killing.
And if looks could kill, Violet would be dead right now.
Violet plastered on a smile. “It was very generous of him.”
Jacqueline sighed. “Albeit stupid,” she huffed. “Leaving someone who wasn’t even real family that sum of money is just scandalous.”
“You need to know I had nothing to do with Gordon’s death,” Violet said before she could stop the words from coming out.
Sylvia flinched. “Of course I know that, silly girl.”
“Oh?”
Jacqueline leaned in, a flash of something Violet couldn’t quite pinpoint crossed her face. “Because I know who did.” Sylvia leaned back in her chair.
Now this was something Violet didn’t expect—it was Jacqueline, after all.
“Why were you really at the shops the night Gordon was killed?” Violet asked, unable to hold the question back any longer. It was about time she got over her fear of Jacqueline Preston.
“Well, I didn’t kill him, silly girl, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Jacqueline sat up taller in her chair and ran a hand through her graying hair, her large three-carat pear-shaped diamond glistening under the light above the table. “I couldn’t very well sit around at home that night knowing Gordon was out meeting his harlot, now could I?” Her lip curled up in a snarl.
That was an odd choice of word. “Like a mistress?” Violet asked, feigning shock, as if it were something that had never even crossed her mind. Then she took a sip of her coffee, studying Jacqueline over the top of her cup.
Jacqueline looked over her shoulder and then opened the clasp of her purse. She placed two manicured fingers inside, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and slid it across the table so it rested next to the mug Violet had just set down.
“What’s this?” Violet reached for the note.
“I
don’t know why I’m even showing you this…” Jacqueline hesitated and then relented, leaning in closer toward Violet. “Someone sent this to me the morning Gordon died.” A look of sadness that melded into one of anger crossed Jacqueline’s face as Violet unfolded the note. In perfect, looping script, it read:
Jacqueline,
Your husband’s having an affair, and I have the only proof. All I ask for this to go away is ten thousand dollars in exchange for the photograph or it will be plastered all over Cape Flower for all eyes to see. I’ll be in contact soon with a time and place. Just get the cash together.
The note itself was odd—someone was trying to blackmail Jacqueline Preston. But stranger was the fact that Violet had sworn she’d seen that handwriting somewhere before. But where? Violet pulled the paper to her nose and did her habitual gesture—she sniffed. The scent was nondescript, sterile. Nothing to help identify its owner.
“Did you just sniff it?” Jacqueline asked.
Violet ignored her snarkiness and asked, “Was there a photograph with the note?”
Jacqueline fidgeted with her hands. Interesting, Violet thought, a woman who condemns fidgeting is suddenly fidgeting.
Jacqueline sniffed. “I tore it up as soon as I saw it,” she said, her voice trembling.
“So you don’t even know who the woman was?”
“The photograph showed Gordon embracing a woman whose back was toward the camera. I couldn’t see her face, but I could clearly see my husband’s hand on her derrière.” She spat out the last word as if it tasted sour. “It made me sick to my stomach, so I tore it to shreds and then flushed it down the toilet.”
Although this added a layer of depth to Gordon’s murder, Jacqueline never answered Violet’s original question, so she asked again. “Jacqueline, why were you at my shop that night?”
Jacqueline sighed. “As I told you at your frivolous little event, Gordon had told me he had business to attend to downtown, and I had a feeling it wasn’t real estate business, but business with his little mistress. I followed him to town and watched as he disappeared into the alleyway behind your shop. I came to your silly little event in hopes of catching him red-handed.”