The Big Fang Theory (Magic Market Mysteries Book 8)

by Erin Johnson

  He huffed. “We ended it before I proposed to Elin, okay?”

  “Oh, well, that makes it better.” I shot him a flat look. “That was like a week ago?”

  He scowled at me and Peter. “What is this? Is that a crime or something? Is this what you’re here to ask me about?” He shot another frightened look toward the balcony where Elin sipped her wine, just her slippered feet visible where they rested propped up on the other chair. The rest of her was hidden behind gauzy white curtains.

  Peter cleared his throat. “While morally reprehensible, no—it’s not a crime.”

  Lorenzo’s shoulders relaxed.

  “But it does give you a motive to murder Polly.”

  “What?!” Lorenzo nearly launched out of his seat.

  “Everything okay, baby?” Elin called from the balcony.

  Her fiancé called back that it was and then glared at us. “What are you talking about?” He’d dropped his voice back to nearly a whisper.

  “We’re talking about the fact that Tonya told you her mother was aware of the affair and insisting that she tell Elin about it.” I raised my brows. “Looks like you two live a pretty posh life here. If Tonya or Polly told your fiancée about the affair, she’d dump you and you’d lose your access to all the finer things in life.”

  Peter splayed his hands. “Did you kill Polly to keep your secret from Elin?”

  “No!” Lorenzo gaped at us, then shook his head. “This is crazy.” He dragged his hands through his dark hair.

  Daisy wagged her bushy tail, scattering hair all over the pristine white carpet. I could’ve kissed her. True.

  Maybe not—there went our theory. Unless…

  I raised a brow. “Maybe you killed Polly so that Elin and Tonya would inherit the bakery. Once you married Elin, that would make you even richer.” I shrugged. “Maybe you’re planning to kill Tonya next? That way, she could never spill about your affair and you and Elin would own the whole bakery.”

  Lorenzo huffed. “This—this is absolutely crazy. I didn’t kill Polly—period.” He pointed at Peter. “I may be a cheater, but I’m not a killer.”

  I held my breath as I waited for Daisy’s reaction. She whined—true.

  I slumped back on the sofa. Man—these two seemed so suspicious, and we’d struck out with both of them… and Tonya!

  We took our leave, and I followed Peter out of the apartment. I threw up my hands. “Well, there goes our top theory.”

  Peter grinned and slid his arm around me as we walked back down the cobblestone streets. “Hey, there’s still the ex and, of course, Mimi Moulin, rival baker.”

  I reached up and squeezed his hand where it dangled over my shoulder. “You always manage to make me feel better.”

  He grinned—then sobered.

  “What?”

  His throat bobbed. “We need to head down to the Darkmoon to question both of them.” That little crease appeared between his brows.

  Oh—the Darkmoon. I nodded. “I know you’re thinking that Ludolf has it out for me and that it’s not a good idea for me to head into the Darkmoon where I’ll be recognized—but I’ll be safe if I’m with you and Daisy.”

  Peter nodded and we continued on—but he drew his wand and held it tightly at his side.

  26

  MIMI MOULIN

  While Mimi’s bakery wasn’t much to look at, especially in comparison to Polly Pierre’s cute as a button place, the heavenly smells wafting out the open door more than made up for its appearance. The place was located on a corner in the Darkmoon at the intersection of two streets lined with food carts and stalls. Even though there were plenty of options for hungry shoppers to buy pastries, the line for Mimi’s wound out the door and around the side of the crumbling brick building.

  Breads and pastries lay stacked on rolling carts in front of the windows, showing off that night’s goods. I lifted my nose as we bypassed the line, earning us some dirty looks, and took in a deep whiff of dark chocolate, bread, and vanilla. My mouth watered.

  Daisy woofed. You’re drooling.

  I shot her a flat look and whined as we stepped inside. You’re one to talk.

  The fluorescent lighting flickered overhead, the floors were chipped and stained, and the hairs at the base of my neck immediately began to curl from the heat and humidity. Still—the place felt warm and homey.

  Mimi had an eclectic staff. The guy with the green hair who’d been part of her team in the competition was behind the glass counter, working the register. He stood beside two girls, one with a shaved head, the other sporting a healthy variety of tattoos and piercings.

  The guy with the green hair waved the next customer forward as the one he’d just rung up headed out with a hefty white paper bag full of goodies. “Hi, Mr. Hennison. The usual?”

  The customer at the front of the line chuckled. “Of course.” He leaned over as the worker bustled about, magicking a donut and a few sweet rolls into the white bag he was holding. “How are the pumpkin chocolate muffins?”

  The guy with the green hair lifted a brow. “Do you have to ask? Mimi made them herself.”

  “Oh.” The older guy, Mr. Hennsion, rubbed his palms together, a gleam in his eye. “Well, then, I’ll take two—no, make it three. I think my granddaughter would enjoy that.”

  I grinned. I had a feeling Mimi had a lot of regulars. After Mr. Hennison was rung up, Peter politely murmured to the next customer in line and we cut in front.

  The guy with the green hair raised his brows. “Um—we cannot have a dog in here, and you’re going to have to go to the back of the line.”

  “Sorry about Daisy, but she’s my partner.”

  The guy crossed his arms and shook his head. “You’re going to get us shut down by the food and safety bureau, and that’ll mean none of these people in line get their baked goods.”

  Oof! If looks could kill. The entire line scowled at us. I leaned close to Peter and lowered my voice. “I think we’d better send Daisy out. I’ll break it to her gently.”

  He hesitated, the little crease appearing between his brows, but after considering a moment, he nodded to me. “Thanks.”

  I crouched down beside Daisy and let out a quiet bark to try and avoid being overheard talking to a dog. Hey, fur ball, nobody wants to bite into their muffin and get a mouthful of hair, so you’ve gotta scram.

  She narrowed her dark eyes at me and growled, her dark lips twitching. How does that make sense? You all are covered in hair, too! What about that unruly mane you never seem to comb, huh? At least I lick my fur. I’ve got better hygiene than you!

  I shot Peter a quick thumbs-up, then whined at Daisy. That’s debatable—not sure licking oneself is the most hygienic. I crinkled my nose and woofed. But rules is rules—sorry, Days. I’ll see if we can open the back door so you can overhear the questioning at least.

  She huffed, her ears flat. Fine. With that she slunk out the door, tail tucked, past the line of waiting customers who shrank back a bit from the enormous, and clearly disgruntled, German shepherd.

  I straightened back up and hiked up my jeans. “She took that well.”

  Peter only quirked a brow at me, then turned back to the worker. “We can keep Daisy outside, but we’re not here to order pastries.”

  I held up a finger. “Let’s not make any hasty decisions.”

  Peter smirked at me, then turned back to the green-haired guy. “We’d like to speak with Mimi Moulin please, in regards to Polly Pierre’s death.”

  All three workers glared at us, but the guy rolled his eyes. “Fine—she’s in back.” He shook his head as we pushed through the waist-high swinging door and headed behind the counter. “She’s baking though. And we worked the competition all day, so this is a double shift for her.” He pointed at us. “So be nice—she’s old!”

  “I heard that!” Mimi’s slightly gravelly voice called from the back.

  Peter and I slid through the narrow hallway created between tall rolling racks of goodies, then pushed th
rough the swinging doors to the kitchen in back. I slid my bomber jacket off—it was even hotter back here with the baking fires roaring in the bread ovens. The back door was open, letting in some of the cool fall air. Daisy stood there behind a metal security door, her nose stuck between two bars. I grinned and waved at her, and she huffed.

  Mimi stood at a table, kneading bread. Half a dozen other bakers bustled about, taking loaves out of ovens, decorating sugar cookies, and slicing cinnamon rolls. The workers moved quickly. A necessity, I guessed, given the line snaking around the building. Mimi wore a white apron tied over an ankle length pink muumuu.

  A thin guy with a buzzed head looked up from cutting cookies and took in Peter’s uniform. “Uh-oh, Mimi, the man’s here to take you away.”

  She grabbed a nearby rolling pin and shook it at him. “Don’t give me that sass!”

  He grinned, and the rest of her workers chuckled.

  Mimi’s lavender fauxhawk gave her a youthful appearance despite the wrinkles in her dark skin and the bags under her eyes. I couldn’t even imagine being on my feet all day for the competition on the royal grounds and then working all night—much less doing it in my eighties. Mimi had some real grit, and her mishmash of employees clearly adored her. As much as I wanted to find justice for the murdered Polly Pierre, I was hoping that Mimi wasn’t guilty.

  27

  SOURDOUGH

  Peter and I approached Mimi’s workstation. The pace slowed slightly around us as workers lingered nearby and moved more quietly. I glanced to my right and caught three bakers staring. They quickly dropped their eyes and got back to work.

  “Mimi—we’d like to ask you some more questions.”

  She glanced at us over the top of her cat glasses. “Well, better make it quick.” She worked the dough with her knobby knuckled hands. “You saw my line of customers? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Of course.” Peter glanced at Daisy, who stood at the back door, nose twitching. “I’m sorry to be so direct, but—did you have anything to do with Polly Pierre’s death?”

  “Humph.” Mimi shook her head. “Like I already said—no.”

  Peter and I glanced past the bakers, the flour-covered floor, and the racks of pastries to Daisy at the back door. She wagged her bushy tail. True.

  I shrugged up at Peter, relieved. Guess Mimi wasn’t our killer. I glanced over my shoulder at the cinnamon rolls a petite gal was slicing. Did that mean I could take home some pastries, then?

  Mimi dragged the heel of her hand through the bread dough. “I gave Polly a chance a long time ago—she was young and talented then.” She nodded to herself. “But also a thief. She stole my recipes—including my signature sourdough starter—and opened her fancy schmancy place on Main Street.”

  The tall, thin guy clicked his tongue. “What a witch.”

  I drummed my fingers on the floury butcher block table. “I don’t know—you sound pretty bitter. You’re sure that wasn’t enough motive to kill her—or maybe get one of your workers to do it?”

  “Psh.” Mimi smirked as she lifted the dough ball, turned it, and slammed it back down. “Child, if I wanted to kill Polly, I’d have done it years ago.”

  Daisy, still stuck behind the bars at the back door, wagged her tail and whined. True.

  Mimi pointed a dough-covered finger at me. “And no, none of my employees did it either. They like me—but not that much.” She chuckled.

  Peter licked his lips and kept his tone soft. “Good—thank you. We just needed to double check.”

  She nodded but kept her eyes on the bread dough.

  “We know about the court case.”

  Mimi stilled.

  Peter lifted his palm. “We actually have a sample of Polly’s sourdough starter. If you give me a sample of yours, we’ll test it and compare the two.”

  Mimi narrowed her eyes at Peter. “Why? So you can use it to open your own bakery?” She huffed and went back to her work, shaking her head. “Man, you must think I’m some kind of stupid to let that happen to me twice. People from the upper tiers thinking they can just take advantage of us Darkmoonies and shifters.”

  I understood her deep distrust of the police and the justice system. It had failed her before—why would she trust us now? I took a deep breath. “I get it, Mimi, but you can trust us. I’m a shifter, too.” It’d been a long time since I’d admitted that in public. A nervous jolt coursed through me.

  Mimi studied my face. “Prove it.”

  My throat closed up. “I—I can’t.” I’d lost the ability to turn into an owl a few years ago, when one of my colleagues cursed me—with a little concoction brewed up by Ludolf. I missed soaring over the island every night. It hurt to admit that I couldn’t shift. It made me wonder—was I even a shifter anymore?

  Mimi shook her head. “Yeah—that’s what I thought.”

  There wasn’t much more to say, so Peter and I took our leave… but not before I snuck Daisy a treat out of the complimentary jar at the front counter. As we rejoined the mutt outside, she growled.

  That was so humiliating, waiting at the back door like a common street animal and without even a— Oh. Her eyes grew huge as I held the treat in front of her nose. After a few dainty sniffs, she lurched forward and snatched up the biscuit.

  I recoiled and huffed. Snakes, Days! Watch the fingers!

  She munched happily, crumbs flying from her mouth, and I grinned at her, then caught Peter grinning at me. “What?”

  He shrugged and took my hand as we walked through the street lined with food carts and bustling with shoppers. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, and the mouthwatering smells of fried food hung in the air. “It just makes me happy when I see you two getting along.”

  I squeezed his hand as he grew thoughtful, that crease appearing between his brows. “I honestly didn’t realize how much people in the Darkmoon don’t trust the police.” He shook his head. “I mean—we were offering to help her.”

  I raised my brows at him. “Not to be a jerk, but… dur.”

  He smirked, then grew grim again. “I just didn’t know what a problem this was before.”

  I nodded and squeezed his hand tighter. “The more cops like you follow through on their promises and give them a fair chance, the more they’ll trust you.” I shrugged. “Plus, it might not hurt to do some of your shopping here—get to know the bakers and the gals at the corner mart, you know?”

  He nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  I grinned. “So what’s next?”

  Peter steered us up the mountain. “I say we question Vince Dupont—Polly’s ex-boyfriend.”

  28

  VINCE DUPONT

  We headed up a few tiers to find and question Vince Dupont. Edna, the precinct manager, had done some snooping for us and learned that of his many businesses (which included a mermaid bar, housing rentals, and a corner mart) he was spending the evening supervising his laundromat.

  A bell rang as Peter pushed the door open and held it for me and Daisy. We stepped inside a brightly lit building that smelled overwhelmingly of lavender. Daisy sneezed, and I had to turn my head and cough into my elbow.

  I recognized Vince from his hasty exit at the baking competition a couple of days ago. The tanned guy stood behind the counter, his black shirt unbuttoned way too low, exposing curly white chest hair. I raised a brow—the Pierre women certainly had a type. The older man ran a bejeweled hand through his slicked-back hair, the temples white and the top gray.

  A customer tossed a canvas sack onto the counter. “I need this all washed and folded.”

  A middle-aged woman in a smock stood beside Vince. She wrote out a ticket with a quill, then ripped off the lower portion and handed it to the customer. “It’ll be ready Friday.”

  The guy took it and headed out, shooting us a curious look before the bell rang as he left.

  “Can I help you, Officer?” Vince flashed a bright white smile, but his dark eyes stayed narrowed and tight. “Need your uniforms done?
We offer a 10 percent discount for civil servants. Heh.” His smile faltered. Someone was nervous.

  The front area of the business was pretty tiny, but a serpentine rack of hanging clothes snaked through the back behind the counter. Half a dozen wooden tubs with old-fashioned washing boards magically scrubbed laundry, sending up clouds of suds and bubbles. Enchanted bottles floated over, dropping in a dash of purple liquid, then a splash of green. I assumed they were for getting stains out or making collars crisp. A dozen smocked women moved about, arms full of sheets or hangers. A few paused to watch the interaction between us and their boss.

  Peter, Daisy, and I stepped up to the counter, and the lady beside Vince disappeared into the back. He gulped.

  “Actually, we’re here to speak with you about Polly Pierre.”

  “Uh—who?” He blinked his dark eyes rapidly and dragged a ring-bedecked hand down his mouth and beard.

  I smirked—this guy was a bad liar. I didn’t even need Daisy’s growl to know that.

  Peter sighed. “Sir, my partner Daisy here is a lie-sniffing canine, so I suggest you tell the truth. We know you were at the baking competition the day Polly was murdered.”

  The color drained from his overly tanned face. “She was murdered, huh?” He shook his head. “I was hoping it was just a heart attack or something.” He looked up, eyes wide, and waved his thick hands. “Not that I wanted her dead or anything, just—murdered.” He clicked his tongue. “Not a good way to go.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. “Her daughters told us that you and Polly used to be together?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yeah, we were together.”

  I bit my lip and pulled my brows together, pretending to be ignorant of the truth. “Why’d you break up?”

  His throat bobbed as he glanced over the counter at Daisy, who watched him, unmoving. “We, uh— I realized we had different interests.”