That was how I would have felt if not for Bee.
She hummed as she fixed us a pot of coffee in the corner of my room, setting out the mugs and insisting that I have a little sugar to sweeten my morning.
“Today is going to be a big day,” Bee said. “You’ll need your strength.”
“I’m sure sugar won’t provide me with strength.”
“But it might make you hyperactive. And we’ll need all the energy, vim and vigor we can get if we run into that shriveled walnut of a human being again.”
“You’re referring to Detective Jones?” I asked, hiccupping a laugh.
“The very same.” Bee brought a mug over to me. “Now, get the coffee down and let’s head out. That truck’s not going to drive itself out of the impound lot.”
It was a horrible thought—my poor food truck with its colorful stripes sitting in a lot, surrounded by heaven alone knew which types of vehicles.
Bee and I finished our coffees then headed out of the room and into the guesthouse proper, smiling at the host, Samantha, where she sat behind the reception desk with Trouble on her lap, purring. It was a scenic walk from there down to the wharf.
The entrance was gated, but those gates were open, and most of the jetties and docking spots were empty. Crates were stacked neatly to one side of a low-slung wooden building to the right, its door shut, and a fine layer of grime coating the windows either side of it. Buoys hung off the walls, colorful or faded by the sun.
A few cars were parked outside the entrance, some of them shimmering in the sunlight. One in particular stood out. It was weather-beaten and old, rust pitting the hood near the windshield.
Owen’s first words to me rang through my mind, as we stepped onto the wooden boards that led to multiple jetties, holding neatly stacked lobster traps or lengths of rope.
“Have you heard about the ghost on Springs Wharf?”
It was past time we got to the bottom of the confusing issue regarding Owen, the lobster boat, and the owner of the wharf. And the murder. Heavens, there was too much to investigate here.
We knocked on the office door before entering, me first, followed by Bee.
A man with graying hair and a vast belly sat behind a desk underneath the window, tapping his fingers on a laptop’s keyboard. He looked up. “Sorry,” he said, “we don’t do private fishing tours.”
“Oh. No, that’s not what we came here for,” I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my woolen dress. “We wanted to speak to Mr. Dillington?”
“What about?”
“Owen Pelletier.”
The man narrowed sea-green eyes at me. “Why?”
“We’re interested,” Bee said. “Apparently.”
“Do you know where he is?” I asked. “It’s pretty important.”
The man sniffed. “You’re looking at him.”
“You’re the owner of the wharf? Owen’s boss?”
“Owner of the wharf, yeah. Boss, not really. Owen’s boss was the owner of the boat he worked on. This wharf is privately owned, but we operate like a co-op. Folks come to fish here, I buy from ‘em and sell to local restaurants or companies.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “Oh, so you didn’t want to fire Owen?”
“No?” Dillington ruffled his gray hair. “Where you getting this from?”
I paused. I’d had a feeling that the chef at the restaurant had given me a garbled version of the truth. It seemed that gut instinct had been right. Dillington hadn’t had it out for Owen, or, he didn’t have the power to fire him, short of kicking the company Owen had worked for out of the wharf, entirely. Why had Miller lied?
Or did he just not know the truth himself?
“We were at the Lobster Shack, last night,” I said, slowly. “And we overheard that you didn’t want to supply lobster to the restaurant because of, well, of Owen.”
“Firstly,” Dillington said, raising a fat finger, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business nor why you think it’s a good idea to question me about Owen and the Lobster Shack.” He said the word ‘idea’ with a hard ‘r.’ “And secondly, the Lobster Shack is run by an idiot.”
“Owen’s uncle.”
“Still an idiot. Always trying to make a deal, looking to buy lobster at reduced prices, sweeping in at the last moment to annoy us all with questions about why the lobsters seem smaller than usual this year.” Dillington huffed out a breath. “Idiot. I’m not the only one who won’t sell to ‘im either. Most of every wharf don’t want nothing do with the man.”
So, Dillington hadn’t hated Owen. Or he was pretending otherwise.
“You still haven’t explained why you interrupted my working hours to talk to me about the Lobster Shack.”
Bee and I looked at each other. “We’re interested in Owen,” I said, at last.
“You’re interested in Owen.” Dillington’s eyes grew even narrower then widened. “You! I know who you are. You’re the woman he was meant to go on a date with. He bragged about it all morning before the boat went out. A beautiful brunette from out of town. That right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was the one who, uh, found him.”
“Oh. Sorry about that. Can’t have been a nice sight.”
I shook my head. “We want to find out what happened to him, you know? It seems the right thing to do. Do you know anyone who might’ve…”
“What, wanted to kill the guy? Can’t say that I do. Owen wasn’t well-liked, but he wasn’t a bad fisherman. He did right by his captain, and he worked hard.” A frown wrinkled Dillington’s brow. “Though, hmmm.”
“Though, hmmm? Care to elaborate?” Bee asked.
“Well, see, Owen had been sick a lot, lately. Day before he was murdered, he had to go home instead of going out on the boat, and that’s a big deal in this business.”
“What kind of sickness did he have?”
“No idea. Didn’t ask. But my guess was it had something to do with his stomach.”
Poisoning? Could it be that Owen had been poisoned before I even met him?
“Listen, ladies, my advice is you leave this to the cops. They’ll figure out what really happened to Owen, and then we can put this behind us and get back to business. Murder’s bad for tourism. And lobster fishing.”
And that was it. We wouldn’t get much more out of Dillington. But we had certainly gotten enough. As we walked back out of the wharf, I turned it over in my mind. The chef had lied. Dillington didn’t seem to care much about the murder other than how it would affect business in town.
“Look at this,” Bee said.
She stood next to the beat up car in the street in front of the wharf, pointing to a slip of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper.
I extracted it, carefully, and turned it over, flattening it out.
You’ll regret this, Owen. I’ll make it so you never forget me.
“It must be his car,” Bee said, reading over my shoulder.
“Do you think…?”
“The note is from the murderer? It could be. It might be. Put it away, quick, before anyone sees. You give that to the walking walnut cop and he’ll only use it against you. Or he won’t believe you.”
I folded the note and tucked it into my pocket. It might’ve been the wrong thing to do, but it was our first real clue.
We hurried back down the road toward the guesthouse before anyone could stop us.
9
The guesthouse was usually full for dinner, but the murder had put a damper on spirits. The lovely couple I had met in the hallway this morning had been in a rush to pack their bags and leave the town behind, though they had still had the time to smile and share a few kind words with me.
I sat at a table in the guesthouse’s open plan living room and dining area, a fire crackling merrily in the grate nearby. Bee had ordered a burger, and I’d gone for a lobster roll—thankfully, Dillington down at the wharf had no qualms about selling to the Oceanside Guesthouse, and the owner, Samantha, was an absolute whiz in the ki
tchen.
The food hadn’t arrived yet, and it gave us a chance to scan the relatively empty room and to gossip, of course.
“It’s interesting that the chef lied to you,” Bee said, as she drew her coffee cup from the table and took a sip. She had the odd habit of drinking coffee before bed and claimed that it relaxed her.
“Interesting is one way of phrasing it.” I kept my voice low.
A lone man sat in the corner next to the window, peering out at the ocean as the sun set, his chin balanced on his palm. We hadn’t been introduced, and he likely didn’t know anything about what had happened to Owen, but it was better to be cautious.
Particularly since the folks in Carmel Springs hadn’t been friendly since the confiscation of the truck.
“Here we go!” Samantha swept out of the wooden swinging doors that led to the kitchen carrying two plates. “One chicken burger and one lobster roll.” She set them down in front of us.
My mouth immediately started watering. The food smelled amazing, and Bee tucked in right away.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “We’re starving.”
“You’re very welcome.” Samantha lingered, her gaze sweeping to Bee then back to my face. “I heard about what happened to your food truck.”
“Oh.” Oh no. Does she think I poisoned Owen too? “Right.”
“I just wanted to say I’m real sorry about that. There have been a lot of rumors flying around in town, and I don’t want you to think that everyone has the same idea about you. That Detective Jones thinks he owns Carmel Springs. He’s always been a wretched man.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m hoping we’ll get the truck back soon.”
“Me too. It’s nice seeing it parked out at the beach. I heard you were serving hot cocoa.”
“We were,” Bee said, dabbing at the corners of her lips. “You know, before we were accused of being murderers.”
The man at the window jerked and looked over at us.
“She’s kidding,” I said, waving at him. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Bee giggled.
“Enjoy your meal. You let me know if you need anything else. I’ve got a cheesecake in the fridge. I know it’s probably nothing compared to the stuff you serve on your truck, but it’s sweet and it will fill the belly.”
“I’ve always got a second stomach for dessert.” Bee smiled at her.
And then we were left to eat our meal with the crackle of the fire for company—along with the occasional odd glance from the man at the window.
“I bet he thinks we did it, now,” I whispered.
Bee dragged a French fry through ketchup and grinned at me. “I’m struggling to care. Like I said, innocent until proven guilty. Opinions don’t matter, darling.”
“They do when you’re in the food business.”
“True. That’s why I stick mostly to baking.”
I finished off my lobster roll and struggled not to lick my fingers afterward.
We skipped out on the dessert and opted to head back to Bee’s room instead, Trouble darting between my legs and purring on the way. The day had been full of excitement and questions, and I was tired after all of it.
I lowered myself into one of the armchairs, kicked up my feet on the coffee table and let out a weighty sigh. “That’s better. At least we can relax and talk about everything, now.”
“Minus the prying ears and eyes.” Bee nodded, sitting down as well.
“Can ears pry?”
“Small town ears should be able to.” Bee tapped her manicured nails on the arms of her chair. “Speaking of ears, what do you think about the chef and the lies he dribbled into yours?”
“Dribbled?”
“Like sweet honey off the comb.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know what to think. He might have been lying outright. Grace hinted that he’d gotten into a fight with Owen. Maybe he wanted to throw me off his scent.”
“In which case, that’s exactly the scent we should follow.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get the truck back. This has been my dream for the longest time, and if upsetting a few people will mean that I can—”
The floor in my bedroom creaked.
The door that led into the adjoining bathroom was open.
I paused, frowning. It couldn’t be Trouble because the calico was already curled up on the end of the bed. Perhaps, it was the guesthouse settling after a long day under the sun. Or the wind outside?
“What was that?” I whispered.
Bee shook her head.
Together, we got up. I took the lead, tiptoeing toward the bathroom door. This is fine. It’s probably nothing. Just a noise in an old house. But it’s better to check to be sure.
I opened the bathroom door, and Bee and I piled into the small tiled space. It was quiet as the grave—terrible turn of phrase to use in the situation, but there it was.
Another creak sounded in my room, and I stiffened.
There was definitely someone moving around in there.
I heated from head-to-toe, and my pulse raced. I crept forward, Bee right at my back, and pushed open the other bathroom door. The hinges creaked.
A figure stood framed in the moonlight next to my bed. They were dressed in black and holding something that glinted in the darkness.
I gasped, shocks dancing over my skin.
“Hey!” Bee yelled. “What are you doing in—?”
The person took off running for the other side of the room, footsteps thumping on the floor.
“Stop right there!” Bee shot after the intruder, but I stayed put, bracing myself against the bathroom door.
It was a knife! They were holding a knife!
“Bee, wait!”
But it was already too late. My friend had rushed from the room.
10
It took me two great gasps of breath before I could summon up the courage to rush out after Bee. I couldn’t let her go out there on her own. What if the stranger turned on her? What if it was the murderer?
I hurried into the hallway. The lights were off, and my footsteps creaked. “Hello? Bee?” Something brushed against my leg, and I let out squeal. A meow answered me. It was Trouble, his glowing yellow eyes peering up at me in the dark.
A door opened, and a light clicked on in the hallway.
“Ruby?” Samantha, the owner of the guesthouse, stood in her fluffy pink robe at the end of the hallway. “Is everything OK?”
“There was someone in my room. A stranger. With a knife, I think. And Bee went after him.”
Samantha’s jaw dropped.
“I have to find Bee. She might be in trouble.”
The words had barely left my mouth when footsteps sounded on the stairs. I tensed up, waiting for the intruder to reappear, knife in hand.
Bee materialized on the landing, shaking her silver-haired head. “He’s gone. Or she. Whoever it was, they got out before I could stop them.”
“Well, thank heavens for that,” I said. “What were you thinking, running after an intruder? What if they had turned on you? They had a knife.”
“I’m not sure it was a knife, actually. It was silvery and metal, yes, but a knife?”
How could she possibly be so calm? I was still shaken from the interlude. “We have to call the police,” I said. “They need to know what just happened.” How could they possibly believe I was the murderer, or even Bee, when we’d almost been attacked?
“I’ll make some tea,” Samantha said. “To calm us down.”
Another door opened in the hallway, and the male guest from downstairs stepped out, rubbing his eyes and wearing striped PJs. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Christmas morning,” Bee said. “Santa Claus paid us a visit.”
“There was a break-in,” I said, quickly, since the guest only blinked at the joke. “We’re calling the police, and Samantha’s going to make us some tea.”
“And cookies.” Samantha raised a finger. �
�I’ll get right on it.”
“And I’ll call the police,” Bee said, with a glint in her eye.
I would’ve bet all the tea and cookies in the world that Bee would be speaking directly to Detective Jones and having a few harsh words with him.
Five minutes later, we were downstairs and seated in the living room, waiting for the police to arrive. The front door hadn’t been left unlocked, but the intruder had jimmied it open to get inside. They had to have been desperate.
But who was it? And why had they been in my room? It was enough to make the skin crawl.
I hadn’t seen much—but the intruder had been tall. Or maybe that had been my impression because of the fear. Their face had been hidden beneath a hood, and they’d been all in black. There was no way to tell whether they’d been male or female.
“Who do you think it was?” I whispered to Bee.
She sat next to me on the sofa, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know, but I’d bet anything it was someone who didn’t want us investigating what happened to Owen. Why else would they have broken into your room?”
I shuddered to think.
Another ten minutes passed before the police finally arrived, and Detective Jones himself swaggered into the room, scowling when he spotted us.
“Hello, Detective Jones,” Samantha said, rising from her seat next to the fire. “Can I get you anything? Some tea or a cookie or—”
“No.” He put out a chubby-fingered hand.
Sam lowered herself back into the chair, and anger crawled up my throat. Good heavens, she’d only offered to be polite. Why was Jones so rude all the time?
“You,” he said, pointing at me. “And you.” His finger shifted to Bee. “Tell me what happened.”
Bee opened her mouth, and I could almost see the acid gathered on her tongue.
I spoke before she could and broke down exactly what had happened. Meanwhile, two police officers examined the doors then traipsed upstairs to my room. Detective Jones didn’t even take notes, and he didn’t seem concerned that we’d nearly been attacked.
Murder by Chocolate Page 4