Murder by Chocolate

by Rosie A. Point

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” the detective said, after my story had finished. “I can take your statement, but there’s no evidence that will lead us to—”

  “The latch on the door is broken,” Bee said, stiffly. “Samantha’s going to have to fix that. There’s definitive evidence that someone broke in.”

  “But none as to who it was.” Jones shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, but it’s not much.” And with that he was done and gone.

  “Well,” Samantha said. “I’ll have to call the locksmith tomorrow to get the door fixed.” But the disappointment was thick in her tone. She had to be worried too. This was her business, and it was being messed around.

  Because we’re here.

  If anything, this made me more determined to get to the bottom of what had happened to Owen. There was only one mystery I’d never solved. I wasn’t about to add another one to that list.

  11

  The following morning was bright with watery sunshine. I’d gone for an early morning walk on the beach, feeling slightly lost now that I didn’t have a truck to wake up to. As I made my way back up to the guesthouse, my cheeks cold from the wind, and my hair stiff from the salty air, I yawned.

  Shoot, I’d gotten hardly any sleep last night. How was I meant to when my room had been broken into, and when the lead detective investigating a murder case happened to hate my guts? Or he believed that I’d poisoned the victim.

  I came up the front steps of the guesthouse and sat on the porch swinging seat outside, watching the street and the empty space where I’d parked my truck.

  This was ridiculous.

  I had to get it back. I had done nothing wrong.

  “Why hasn’t he taken me in for questioning yet?” I muttered.

  The screen door creaked, and Bee emerged, pretty in a pink knit sweater and a pair of jeans and sneakers. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Oh, good morning.” I shook my head. “I was just thinking about that detective.”

  Bee let out a low growl.

  “If he really thinks I had anything to do with the murder, why hasn’t he brought me in for questioning yet? It’s strange.”

  “There are a lot of things that he does that are strange,” Bee said, leaning against the wooden balustrade. “Let’s just say, I’ve had my fair share of experience with law enforcement, and the way he’s been behaving has been unorthodox.”

  “Were you a police officer?” I asked.

  “Not quite,” Bee replied. “But I can see your investigative journalistic habits are operating at peak capacity.”

  “I can’t help myself. I was up half the night trying to work out who killed Owen and what the next steps are.” I’d thought I’d put mysteries behind me when I’d bought the food truck—it had always been my dream to travel, to go on adventures and to avoid settling in one place for long, all while baking to my heart’s content.

  Bee looked out at the ocean, wriggling her lips from one side to the other. “We need another lead,” she said, at last. “My best guess is the truth lies in the details. Someone was clearly threatening Owen, and the only person we know who’s had an actual ‘fight’ with him is Miller, the chef from the Lobster Shack. Perhaps, we’d better pay him another visit.”

  “Or the uncle.”

  “Owen’s uncle?” Bee asked.

  “Yes. I bet he’ll know who would have wanted Owen dead.”

  “You mean apart from everyone who hated him in town?”

  I laughed. “Apart from them, yes.”

  We went back into the guesthouse and grabbed two more cups of coffee to go, right from Sam’s machine with her handy Styrofoam cups and lids next to it, then headed out the door. The long walk down the street toward the pier refreshed me.

  I loved walking, and even though this wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my time in Carmel Springs, it was nice nevertheless, to get some exercise. Working on the food truck definitely limited the amount of time I got to walk or do anything else apart from serve food, occasionally burn a cake and receive a glare from Bee, and eat the leftovers at the end of a long day. Now, there was a recipe for weight-gain if ever there’d been one.

  We reached the pier and were greeted by the narrow-eyed stares from a few of the locals in their stalls or shops. I took Bee’s advice and ignored it, though it did plant a seed of doubt in my belly. What if, when I did get the food truck back, nobody came to buy any of our cakes or pies or donuts? What if they avoided us because they believed that I’d done it, no matter what the cops said?

  It was a question I didn’t want an answer to, right now.

  We strode up to the Lobster Shack. The glass front doors were slightly ajar, but there was no one inside.

  Talk about a flashback.

  I paused, a chill traveling down my spine.

  “What is it?” Bee asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just too quiet.”

  “Well, it is the morning. Maybe the Lobster Shack doesn’t open until later in the afternoon.” Bee raised an eyebrow. “Looks like they’re open.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Bee linked her arm through mine and guided me into the interior of the restaurant.

  It was quiet, the doors to the kitchen shut, thought the porthole windows let out light from within. Had the chef come to set up, early? That was what we did on the truck, and it made sense that a popular tourist att—

  The low rumble of chatter cut across my thought.

  Bee and I froze, her arm still linked with mine.

  She nodded toward the door at the far end of the restaurant, next to a set of stairs that led to a second floor with a balcony.

  “—think that’s a wise idea.” The words were low but audible.

  I led the way forward this time. Who was it? Benjamin? The owner would come in early, of course, especially if he’d had troubles with the restaurant. The whole ‘no lobster’ issue had to have hit hard.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think, Miller.” The voice was rough as sandpaper.

  Miller? The chef’s in there with him.

  “Listen, Ben, you don’t have to believe me, but it’s the best we can do at the moment. I ain’t serving fake lobster to these folks. Most of the diners who come in here are locals. One bite and they’ll know it’s not lobster.”

  “I think you’re overestimating the local palate.”

  Miller fell silent, and Bee and I tensed. She tugged on my arm. Time to go. Or was it? We’d hardly heard anything, other than the fact that Benjamin was willing to cut corners to get what he wanted.

  “Ben, I want the restaurant to do well too, but—”

  Benjamin snorted inside the room. “If you’d wanted what was best for this restaurant, you would never have gotten into an argument with Owen in the first place.”

  A beat passed.

  “He started it.”

  “And you finished it,” Ben said.

  My eyes widened. Was that an accusation?

  “I did what I had to do. He wouldn’t leave Hannah alone, boss. I wasn’t about to take that lying down.”

  “And it didn’t matter to you that your behavior would affect the restaurant. You knew that Owen would get you back for what happened, and that’s why you—”

  “Someone’s coming,” Bee whispered, squeezing her fingers into my forearm.

  I’d been so drawn in by the conversation I hadn’t heard the footsteps on the boardwalk outside. Quick as Trouble the cat, Bee and I made for one of the tables near the front and sat down.

  Grace, the waitress, entered the restaurant and stopped just inside the doors. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “We were hoping to have some breakfast,” Bee said, her cheeks flush.

  The server tucked curly blonde hair behind her ears and released a long, low breath. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Sorry, we don’t open until 11 am today. You’ll have to come back later.”

  We apologized our way
out of the restaurant, smiling and laughing at our mistake. The restaurant’s door shut behind us, and I took a breath. “That was interesting,” I whispered.

  “More than interesting. Downright intriguing. It seems the chef was lying to you on purpose the other day.”

  And that made him even more suspicious.

  “Come on, Ruby,” Bee said. “Let’s get back to the guesthouse and have some breakfast. We’ve got a long day of puzzling and clue-seeking ahead of us.”

  12

  I sat on the porch seat, admiring the ocean view, and occasionally scribbling a note on my pad. Bee had gone upstairs for an afternoon nap, but I couldn’t shut my eyes for a second without seeing the lobster mallet.

  It was a horrible vision to be taunted by, especially since it was supposed to be used on something delicious like lobster in the shell. And it confused me too. Lobster made my mouth water. Murder did not.

  I sighed and scanned my page again. I’d written all the names down and placed my clues next to them.

  Owen Pelletier—Victim. Not exactly the most popular guy around. Murder by lobster mallet and poisoning? Sick in the days before his death. Why would the killer have attacked him and poisoned him as well?

  “Odd,” I muttered, turning the ideas over in my mind. Underneath Owen were the rest. The suspects.

  Benjamin Pelletier—Owen’s uncle. Owns the Lobster Shack. Blames Miller for the fact that there’s no lobster and can’t get on with any of the others. But did he hate Owen? Motive?

  Chef Miller—Argued with Owen before his death. Definitely lied to me about Owen’s relationship/connection to the Lobster Shack. Suspicious. Mentioned someone named Hannah? Owen wouldn’t stay away from Hannah?

  Mr. Dillington—Owner of the wharf where Owen worked. Businesslike. Fairly nice guy and didn’t seem to care that much about Owen’s death. But… motive? None so far.

  Relatives—Need to figure this out. Speak to the family?

  So far, the most obvious player had to be Miller. He’d lied to me, and he had clearly had a problem with Owen. But why? If only I could figure that part out…

  I put my notepad and pen to one side. I needed a walk, some time to clear my mind and enjoy the view of the ocean. That would help me mull this over.

  It had been a long time since I’d been faced with a set of clues I couldn’t solve. Maybe the past few weeks on the food truck had blunted my investigative skills?

  I got up and meandered down the porch steps and toward the side path that led toward the beach, between rough foliage and sand. It was quiet, apart from the odd car passing by once in a while, and the natural sounds of the ocean. It would be so easy to forget, in this sweet small town, that there had been a murder.

  “Don’t be silly. No one’s going to jump out at you,” I whispered.

  Apparently, I’d fully embraced my new habit of talking to myself. Perhaps, it was due to the stress? Whatever the reason, I—

  The crunching of footsteps on the path behind me sent a thrill through my center.

  I paused.

  The footsteps did too.

  I glanced back, but there was no one there. There were plenty of places for someone to hide. The bushes either side of the path, for instance.

  Goosebumps lifted on my arms, and I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. You’re just hearing things.” I set off again, and immediately, the footsteps crunched along behind me. They were offset with mine, too, so it was clear there was someone there.

  Breathe, Ruby. You’re going to be fine.

  I’d done articles on big businessmen and oil magnates, on criminals in prison and mob bosses who didn’t want to be discovered. I’d seen my fair share of danger. I could handle this. I can. Totally. I’m fine.

  But panic sat in my throat.

  What if it’s the murderer?

  I kept walking, listening hard. I quickened my pace, and the pursuer did too.

  Instead of stopping, this time, I spun around to confront them.

  My eyes widened.

  The chef, Miller, stood there in his white uniform. He jerked on the spot and stopped walking.

  “Why are you following me?” I asked.

  He blinked. “I—uh, I wasn’t. I’m just going for a walk on the beach.”

  I scoffed. “Please. I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re following me, and I want to know why.”

  Miller tucked his hands into his pockets and licked his thin lips. He shuffled on the spot. “Look, I—it wasn’t anything bad. I just—” He huffed out a breath and removed his hands from his pockets again, thankfully without a lobster mallet in his grasp. “I heard around town that you were snooping and asking questions, talking about me, especially, and I wanted to know why.”

  That was it? Or was this yet more evidence that Miller had been involved in the murder? If he was innocent, why would he care that I’d asked questions? What if he was the one in my room?

  “What did you fight with Owen about?” I asked.

  The chef folded his arms. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “I don’t see how it’s your business to be following me around. I’ll happily report that to Detective Jones. It’s suspicious behavior.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do that. See, now, I didn’t mean any harm or nothing. I just wanted to—look, just stop asking questions about me, all right? It’s starting to freak out Hannah, and I can’t lose her. That would … well, it would be bad. Real bad.”

  “Who’s Hannah?” I asked.

  “My girl. She’s, uh, well, she was Owen’s sister. Owen was her sister. Shoot, I don’t know how to put it.”

  Now, that was a lead. Owen’s sister, Hannah. The same Hannah I’d overheard Miller talking about back at the Lobster Shack with his boss. “Why would you lose her?”

  Miller hesitated, he scuffed his shoes on the gravel, looking down yet again. “Hannah, she’s special to me. She don’t like all the craziness that’s been going on around here, lately. And she don’t like other women asking questions about me either.”

  I paused. Of course.

  Miller had asked me on a date the other day at the restaurant. Meanwhile, he had Hannah, who was his girlfriend, waiting for him at home. Irritation gathered in my gut—there was nothing I despised more than a person who betrayed their significant other. But that wasn’t my problem, now.

  “So look, just stop asking questions because she’s starting to think you might like me. People like to spread rumors, y’know?”

  Rumors or truths? I didn’t doubt that Miller had enjoyed a few affairs in the past. Poor Hannah.

  I have to speak to her. About her brother.

  “I’ll stop asking questions if you tell me the truth,” I said. “Did you or did you not murder Owen Pelletier?”

  Miller’s bright eyes went round as donuts. “Of course I didn’t!” he snapped. “And how dare you say that to me. I wouldn’t have… I didn’t never… I—”

  “Then why did you fight with him?” I asked, taking a single step toward the man.

  Strangely, Miller stumbled back. As if I was the one who was truly intimidating in this situation. I sized him up. Was he tall enough to be the intruder?

  “Look, I just. Fine! You want to know why? Fine. I’ll tell ya. Owen was a piece of work. He flirted with all the women in the restaurant. He caused trouble with his uncle. And he was using his sister. Hannah’s an angel, man, a real angel, and she deserved better than to have a lowlife brother hanging off her apron strings like she was his mom.”

  “So you took matters into your own hands.”

  “No,” Miller said, firmly. “I was over at Hannah’s place, having a date and all, when Owen came home and started causing trouble. He’d brought lobsters with him, some he bought from work, and he wanted Hannah to stop our date and cook them for him. She said no. He flipped out.” Miller took a breath, shaking his head at the memory. “He threw a lobster at her.”

  “He what?”

  “He threw
a lobster at Hannah.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “And that’s when I lost my cool. I punched him right on the nose. Police were called out because it was a domestic disturbance. After that, well, all of a sudden the Lobster Shack couldn’t get lobster anymore. Ben, the owner? He blames me for that.”

  So, either Dillington had lied to me about why he wouldn’t sell lobster to the Shack or Miller was lying, yet again.

  “That’s it, all right?” Miller took one step back then another, raising his palms. “I did what I came to do. All I wanted was to ask you to stop with the—”

  “Ruby!” The yell came from down the path, nearer to the guesthouse. “Ruby! Where are you?”

  “I’m here,” I called.

  Bee appeared, jogging across the gravel toward me, her hair sticking up on one side and pillow creases imprinted into her cheek. She passed by the chef without taking any notice of him. Bee grabbed me by the arms, gasping for breath.

  “Bee, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t. Ever. Make. Me. Run. Again.” She bent over, swiping at her forehead.

  “What’s going—?”

  “It’s the food truck,” she said, a smile parting her lips, showing off the gap between her two front teeth. “It’s back!”

  13

  And there she was.

  The apple of my eye. The cream on top of the cherry pie. Man, I’d gotten good at the whole rhyming thing in the last little while. It happened naturally whenever I was at my happiest. And right now, I was truly joyous.

  The Bite-sized Bakery food truck was parked in front of the Oceanside Guesthouse again, sparkling beneath the afternoon sun, its pastel green and pink stripes merrier than I’d felt the past few days without it.

  Detective Jones stood in front of it, his arms folded and one eye narrowed at us.

  “It’s back,” I said.

  “Told you so.” Bee wore a Cheshire cat grin. Not even the detective’s presence could put a damper on her good humor.

  “Miss Holmes,” the detective said, stomping forward and rolling his lips this way and that, as if he’d tasted something terrible and couldn’t decide on where to spit it out. “I’m here to give back your vehicle. Here are the keys.”