by Erin Johnson
She opened her mouth to speak, but a loud, familiar voice cut through the tense quiet, interrupting her.
“Alright, now, everybody remain calm!”
I turned to look as Peter’s boss, Inspector Bon, strutted across the lawn. I shook my head at him. Because yes, shouting at everyone would definitely help people be calm. I glanced to my right. Beyond the bramble patch, I could make out the turrets of the jail. With the precinct located on the royal grounds, it’d only taken the cops minutes to turn up.
Bon glanced up at the crowd, spotted the princess, and scowled. “You.”
The princess set her jaw, pink spots burning on her cheeks, while Prince Harry bit back a smile.
The little flame cackled. “It’s your biggest fan.”
I grinned. Guess I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t top of Bon’s list. The inspector’s boss, Chief McCray, strolled at his side, and half a dozen uniformed officers flanked them. McCray, her short blond hair barely moving in the sea breeze, caught my eye and winked. I nodded in acknowledgment, though unease washed over me.
Unlike Bon, who barely tolerated me and thought my abilities were a scam, McCray seemed to believe in me. In fact, she was quite friendly—sometimes to an unnerving degree. I often had to remind myself not to be fooled by her pally attitude—she had a keen mind and surprised me with insightful observations. I often got the feeling she knew more than she was letting on.
Bon pointed and barked out orders at the cops, some moving into the tent, others flanking the bleachers. Peter, accompanied by Daisy, spoke a few quiet words to Bon, I assumed filling him in on the situation, and then Bon turned to address the hundreds of spectators in the bleachers.
“A woman, one of the bakers, has died.” His gravelly voice carried in the nervous quiet. “As we don’t currently know the cause of death, we’re treating it as a murder.”
Murmurs sounded among the crowd. The bakers gathered around their stations, except for the two women who’d shared a station with the victim. They stood to the side, one motionless, as if in shock, the other sobbing loudly.
Bon held up his palms. “We’ll call you down in an orderly fashion to interview you and then dismiss you.” He narrowed his already beady eyes. “No one is to leave until you have permission!” He gave a curt nod, then spun ninety degrees on his heel and conferred with McCray and Peter.
I leaned close to Madeline. “Looks like I’ve got a new case.” I bit my lip and glanced up at the princess and Sam Snakeman.
Madeline squeezed my shoulder. “Honey, it’s fine—we’ll find another time to talk to them.” She grinned. “Actually—they’re holding a shifters’ rights rally outside the palace tonight. How about you meet me there?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure how conducive a rally would be to having a deep conversation. But I’d have to trust Madeline to figure that out.
“Now how about you help me get the scoop on what’s going on inside that tent….” Madeline leaned to the side, trying to get a glimpse of the sobbing baker.
I shot her a flat look. “Nice try. You know I can’t divulge police secrets in an ongoing investigation.”
She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “Just some tiny police secrets?”
I grinned. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
She smirked. “Fine. But I’ll come down with you—I’ve got to direct my photographer. We’re the first press on the scene. This’ll be a scoop.”
Our footsteps rang out on the gold bleachers as we stepped back down. I shook my head at the reporter’s excitement over a woman’s death. Then again, I’d caught myself looking forward to the challenge of solving cases before and getting justice for the victims and their families. Even Peter had commented lately on me thinking like a cop.
I was surprised to hear more footsteps, the bleachers ringing with them, and glanced back. The entire row of royals tromped behind us, flanked by the guards with their enormous lances. When we reached the lawn, Madeline dashed off to find her photographer, and I joined Peter, McCray, and Bon in front of the tent. Again, I was surprised when the royal guards followed us, with Princess Imogen, lantern in hand, Prince Harry, Sam, and the rest of their friends.
The princess edged closer, rising on her toes to peer into the tent. “How did the woman die? Did she have any—”
“Oh, no!” Bon whirled on her, his face and large ears red. He shook a short finger at the princess. “Out! All of you, out!”
The princess glowered back at him and opened her mouth, but the woman who looked like a coordinator marched over, her dark eyes blazing. She held a clipboard under one arm and pressed a slender finger to the communication device in her ear. “Brady—no! I told you a baker has died, not that she’s making rye, and in any case, I’m not going to get you a sample of bread!”
Her eyes widened, and she huffed. “Okay, yes, that time I did say bread. But before, I said dead.” She plucked the device out of her ear and turned to the princess, speaking in a businesslike, clipped manner. “I insist you all leave immediately and return to the palace.” She glanced behind her at the tent and then shook her head, muttering to herself. “Honestly, my first event back in Bijou Mer and of course, someone dies.”
Bon threw his hands up, exasperated. “That’s what I’m saying.” He shook a finger at the princess again. “Death and trouble follow you everywhere.”
“Uh!” She planted her hands on her hips. “That’s not fair. We could be helpful here, and just because I may have stumbled upon a few crime scenes—”
Bon barked out a humorless laugh. “A few dozen, you mean?”
The princess’s little flame peeked out of his lantern. “Snakes, Imogen, it seems like Bon can count better than you.” He batted his big, innocent eyes. “But I thought you said he was a brainless fool who couldn’t solve a mystery if it—”
She snapped the shutter on the lantern shut, and muffled cackling came from inside it. The princess and the inspector, both red-faced, shot scathing looks at each other.
Prince Harry edged between them, spreading his palms. “Inspector, we’re just trying to be of service.” His deep voice was calm and confident. “Can you at least tell us—”
Bon, a good head shorter than the prince, stepped forward and stood chest to chest with him. “I’m not telling you anything, your highness.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
A blinding flash of light made me jump. I turned and found Madeline grinning beside her photographer, who aimed his camera and snapped another picture, capturing Bon’s attempt at intimidating the prince. Bon turned and huffed, then backed up and fidgeted with the collar of his uniform.
The white-clad woman with the clipboard planted a hand on her hip. “Listen, for everyone’s safety it’s best we get back inside the palace.” She flashed her eyes at the princess, then looked at Sam Snakeman. Another young man had an arm around him, but Sam trembled, his shoulders up around his ears, chin nearly touching his chest.
“Do you think it’sss becaussse we’re sssupporting ssshifter rightsss?”
My stomach clenched. I hadn’t even thought of that. I glanced around at the stunned audience in the bleachers, the sobbing baker, and the other contestants clustered together in wide-eyed groups. It was entirely possible that someone was intent on disrupting an event intended to promote inclusivity and acceptance of shifters.
The princess blew out a shaky breath and nodded at the coordinator lady. “Sorry, Amelia, you’re right.” She rubbed Sam’s arm. “I’m sure it was just a terrible accident, but we should head to the palace just in case—for everyone’s safety.”
Bon curled his lip and muttered, “Everyone’s safety, plus my sanity.”
The princess shot one final glare at Bon, then turned with all her friends and stalked off toward the palace, flanked by guards. I watched them go for a few moments. I sure hoped Madeline was right and that I’d get another chance to talk to them about Ludolf.
Bon clapped his hands. “Alright, now that cer
tain nuisances have been taken care of, let’s get to work, team.” He nodded at Peter. “You’re lead on this one, Flint.”
Peter’s lips twitched toward a grin, and he straightened and gave Bon a nod. “Yes, sir.”
A heavy hand came down on my shoulder, and I startled. McCray beamed at me. “Guess that means our resident pet psychic is on the case, too?”
I gulped and shrugged. “Looks like it.”
Peter nodded. “We’re not sure we have any animal witnesses yet, but Jolene’s abilities always come in handy.”
McCray squeezed my shoulder again, hard, then raised her fingers to her temples. “Hope the ether sends some helpful vibes.” She winked, and again I had that uneasy feeling that she was onto me.
“Heh, yeah.”
She and Bon moved off together, stopping to speak with another officer. Peter slid up beside me. “Did you get a chance to speak with the princess?”
I shook my head, and he pressed his lips tight together. “Hey—it’s alright. We’ll talk to them soon.”
I nodded, feeling better just being close to him. “Alright, so what’s next?”
He jerked his chin toward the baking station in the middle, near the crying woman. “Let’s have a look at the victim.”
A dead body—oh, goodie.
POLLY PIERRE
The cops had ushered all the other baking contestants away from the victim’s body. It wasn’t until we came around behind the butcher block counter that I caught sight of her. My stomach twisted, and I quickly turned away, still not used to the sight of dead people. And especially this early in the morning. The gallon of coffee in my stomach suddenly felt bitter and acidic and threatened to come back up.
Peter strode forward and met Russo, a tall rookie cop I’d worked with a few times. Peter spoke in a low voice so the nearby contestants wouldn’t overhear. “What’d you learn so far?”
Russo ducked his head and pushed his square glasses up his nose. A scroll of parchment magically appeared in his hands, and he read over his notes. “The victim is Polly Pierre. Her team in the competition included her two twin daughters, Elin and Tonya.” He glanced behind him at the two women I’d noticed before. They stood a little apart from the other teams.
The sober young woman, who seemed shell-shocked, was short, plump, and brunette, while her sister, who sobbed so hard her eyes had nearly swollen shut, was tall, lithe, and blond. I raised a brow—didn’t think I’d seen two people who looked less like twins. I guessed they were both in their midtwenties, and neither looked at the other one or spoke.
Peter observed the sisters a moment, then turned back to Russo. “Do we have a cause of death?”
Russo edged closer, and I was forced to approach the dead woman to hear his quiet words. “Waitstaff brought around tea to the contestants. We suspect hers was poisoned.” He barely breathed the last word. “She collapsed shortly after taking a sip.”
Russo’s eyes darted to a robin-egg-blue teacup on the butcher block counter. I stepped closer, and Peter and I looked it over. Steam still curled from the clear brown surface, the cup nearly full. Coral-pink lipstick stained the rim, where Polly had presumably taken her last drink.
Peter gave a grim nod, then turned and crouched down beside Polly Pierre’s remains. I took a sharp breath through my nose, then blew it out slowly and chanced another glance at the body. Daisy circled around her, her black nose twitching altogether too close to the victim’s pale skin. Peter crouched near the victim’s head. His enchanted quill and scroll appeared beside his shoulder and began to scribble down notes.
Polly Pierre was tall, especially for a woman. She lay on her side, her short hair dyed a bright red that highlighted her pale skin and blue eyes. I shuddered, hoping someone would close those unseeing eyes soon. She looked to be in her seventies, was fully made up, and wore a sparkly necklace, matching earrings, and a bright, floral, frilly apron. Her colorful, vivacious look contrasted sharply with her deathly pallor.
Peter pointed with his wand at the greenish foam on Polly’s purple lips. The dark color only made her look more pale. “If it was indeed the tea, the timing suggests a fast-acting poison. One that would cause her to foam at the mouth.” He let out a sigh. “It’s something that would likely be absorbed into the skin of her mouth, versus a poison that would wait to be absorbed through the stomach.”
“The tea was poisoned?!”
We all looked up. A middle-aged woman, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, clutched at her necklace. She’d drifted closer, clearly trying to get a look at what we were doing. She now staggered back, her chest heaving, and her two teammates helped lower her down onto a stool behind one of the butcher block work stations.
The woman’s wide eyes darted around. “But—but I drank the tea!” She looked like she might be sick. “Oh, sea goddess.”
Alarmed cries sounded throughout the tent.
“I drank some, too!”
“Me, too!”
“Oh, keep it down, all of you.” A bald man with small glasses crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He and his team stared the others down. “Be professionals.” He rolled his eyes, and I narrowed mine. Interesting that only this man and his team didn’t seem concerned about the tea. Was it because they hadn’t had any themselves… or because one of them had killed the competition and knew they weren’t targets?
My boyfriend rose to his feet and slowly circled to address everyone in the tent. He held his palms up, trying to placate the panicking bakers. “We don’t even know for certain that the tea was poisoned.”
The woman with the headscarf whimpered and fanned herself, her cheeks flushed.
Peter raised his brows. “Besides, our evidence suggests that whatever killed the victim was extremely fast-acting. If you’d been poisoned, it would have affected you already.”
The woman with the scarf blinked. “Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed.
Peter gave the group an encouraging nod, then huddled together with Russo and me.
I bit my lip. “Okay. So if just about everyone here drank the tea, why was Polly the only one who died?”
Russo pushed his glasses up his nose. “Maybe the killer poisoned the cup itself, versus the tea?”
Peter nodded, a little crease between his brows as he thought it over. “It’s a good thought, but how would the killer know she’d get that cup?”
That last question stumped all of us. After a few moments of quiet, Peter turned to Russo. “Bag up the teacup as evidence, as well as everyone’s personal effects.” He pointed at the shelves under the butcher block countertop.
Besides some cabinets and a stone oven, a square cubby held several purses all crammed in together. I figured they must be Polly’s, as well as her twin girls’.
Peter gestured at the rest of the baking stations. “We’ll go through them all back at the station to see if someone snuck the poison in.”
An enchanted baking fire burned in the stone oven beside the cubby with all the purses, nervously munching on a stick.
Peter and I crouched down in front of it. He gave a little wave. “Hi—how are you?”
She shook her fiery head and spoke in a high voice. “Oof. Poor Polly.”
I edged a little closer, the warmth of the flames comforting in the chilly fall air. “Did you see anyone come over here?”
She nibbled at the stick with her fiery mouth. “Nope.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Did you see anything unusual at all?”
“No. I could really only see Polly’s legs, but I just saw her after the competition started and her girls ran off. I heard her talk to the tea guy—but nothing seemed out of the ordinary otherwise.”
I lifted a brow. “Tea guy?”
“The guy who gave her tea.”
Ah. Duh.
“Thank you.” Peter and I rose again, and he turned to Russo. “Make sure the fire stays fed—don’t let it go out.”
Russo nodded and moved off to confer with a couple other officers, who g
ot to work collecting evidence. Peter slid close to me. “I think it’s time we interviewed Polly’s daughters.”
Daisy’s pointy ears pricked up.
I winked at Peter. “Let’s do it.”
He grinned back, and we started toward the young ladies.
TWINS
While the rest of the bakers had edged toward the pantry side of the tent, an officer stood beside Polly’s twin daughters at the opposite end. Peter nodded at him, and he moved away as we approached. The shorter one stared straight ahead, though from the vacant, glazed eyes I guessed she wasn’t actually seeing me. The taller one continued to bawl, her face buried in her hands.
Peter frowned, then cleared his throat. When he got no reaction, he tried again, louder. The shorter gal startled and blinked at us, as though she wasn’t quite sure where she was. The other choked on a sob and lowered her hands enough to peek at us over the tips of her fingers.
I gave Peter an encouraging nod, and he laced his hands behind his back. “Elin and Tonya Pierre?”
The shorter one nodded. “That’s us.” Her voice came out hoarse.
Peter pressed his lips together. “I’m Officer Peter Flint. My associate, Jolene Hartgrave—”
I gave a little wave.
“—and my canine partner, Daisy.” Peter patted her furry head.
The girls’ eyes widened as they stared at the enormous German shepherd at Peter’s side.
“Daisy is enchanted to smell lies, so I urge you to be truthful with us.”
The girls nodded, their eyes growing even wider. Enchanted canine partners were hardly the standard, even on our magical island.
Peter gave them a sympathetic look. “I understand Polly was your mother. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The shorter one swayed slightly on her feet, while the taller girl wailed again, her thin shoulders hunched and shaking.
I glanced down at Daisy, who stood between Peter and me. She cocked her head, looking first at one girl, then the other. She whined. Their reactions are both honest.
I raised my brows. Guess everyone grieves differently. I’d have guessed the hysterics from blondie were an act.