Murder by Chocolate

by Rosie A. Point

  “About time,” Bee growled. “Did you really think you’d find poison on that truck? If you did, you’re meaner and dumber than a—”

  “Bee.” I placed a hand on her arm to stop the words. Just because Jones was annoying and definitely not our biggest fan, didn’t mean we should provoke him. He was still a police officer, and one who could put us away for provoking him. At least for the night.

  “That’s a wise decision,” Jones said.

  “Don’t you worry about what’s a wise decision or not.”

  “Bee,” I repeated then put out my hand to accept the keys to my truck.

  Jones hesitated. He sniffed then placed them in my palm. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said. “You’ll stay out of the way, out of trouble, or I’ll put you away for interfering in an ongoing investigation. Understand me? We don’t like nosy out-of-towners in our Carmel Springs.”

  “Does that mean I’m no longer a person of interest in the case?” I asked.

  Jones did the strange lip-rolling again, back and forth, back and forth. “Everyone’s a person of interest until they’re not.” And then he clumped off down the road to a waiting cruiser, his partner or just another officer, seated behind the wheel. The car sped off the minute he was inside.

  “A bit of a cowboy, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “Not the word I would have used.”

  “I get the feeling the word you would have used is one that shouldn’t be spoken out loud.”

  “You always were intuitive.”

  I laughed and slung my arm through Bee’s, squeezing it in my excitement. “We’ve got the truck back! I don’t believe it.”

  “I do,” Bee said. “Though, I’m sure Jones held it as long as possible just to inconvenience us. Hobbit of a man.”

  “That’s an insult to hobbits.”

  “True. Hobbits are industrious, at least. And Jones is…”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “If we start this, I know I’ll be stuck with you mocking him all day long.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  I swung the keys in my hand and caught them against my palm, the jangle pleasant in my ears. “May I point out that it’s probably not a good idea to upset the police in town? We do want to serve our customers, after all.”

  “Serve them?” Bee asked. “I don’t see why. This town has been nothing but terrible since we arrived, apart from Samantha. And the kitty, Trouble. And maybe that waitress at the Lobster Shack. We should leave.”

  “Leave?” I frowned.

  It didn’t feel right to just run off. Particularly not in the middle of a murder investigation. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t my murder to investigate.

  “Yes, we should leave. If Jones doesn’t care whether we leave or not…”

  “He didn’t say that. He didn’t confirm it.” Why was I so hesitant? It felt like unfinished business to run off without having solved the case. A part of me was desperate for the truth. After all, the last mystery I’d encountered had gone unsolved, and that had been personal. It had hurt me, deeply.

  I paused, stroking my thumb over my bottom lip. “Well, whatever happens, we need to get this truck cleaned up before we go anywhere. I’m not going to serve our treats out of it without giving it a proper wipe-down.”

  “Good point. Who knows where Bilbo poked and prodded while we were gone,” Bee said.

  The early afternoon soon turned to late, as Bee and I cleaned the truck inside and out. Bee opted to take care of the interior, determined to scour all evidence of the rude ‘Tweedledum’ before night fell. Every now and again she’d let out a grunt at something or the other. A few times, she had popped her head out the truck’s window to complain about a pot that wasn’t stacked correctly or a surface that had clear smudges on it.

  “I’ll be right back.” I collected my bucket and walked around the side of the guesthouse to fill it with water from the outside faucet. Samantha had been kind enough to lend me all the things I’d need to spruce up the truck.

  And then tomorrow?

  I wasn’t sure what we’d do yet. My stomach clenched at the thought of leaving Carmel Springs. I liked the town, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to understand why Owen had been murdered. It was about more than just the truck now.

  There was a mystery to be uncovered. A murderer to be brought to justice.

  I finished filling up my bucket, heaved it up with both hands then made my way back to the truck. There was something cathartic about cleaning. Scrubbing away layers of dirt to reveal the fresh colors beneath made me happy, in a way.

  I set, my bucket down, placed my fists on my hips and studied the truck.

  “Hey!” The shout had come from the street. “Hey, you!”

  I backed up and scanned the street.

  A fiery redheaded woman strode across the street, her hair flying out behind her. She was taller than me, and from the size of her arms, a great deal stronger. She wore a tank top and a scowl. Both scared me.

  “Hello,” I said, trying for friendly but falling short at ‘anxious.’ “I’m sorry, but we’re not open at the moment. If you come back tomorrow…”

  “I’m not here for the cakes,” the woman snapped, coming to a stop in front of me.

  Bee popped her head out of the window at the noise. “Good heavens, it’s the Green Giant. Except red.”

  “I don’t think this is the time, Bee,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

  Clearly, this lady wasn’t in the best of moods.

  “You’re right I’m not in the mood,” the woman snapped. “I came here to warn you to stay away from my man.” She jabbed a finger in my direction. “I’ve had enough of people like you. Women who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

  “Pardon me?” I asked.

  “How rude,” Bee said, shaking her head. “Now, I don’t take back my Green Giant comment.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I really don’t. Look, who are you?” I asked.

  The woman huffed a breath. “Hannah,” she said. “My name is Hannah, and don’t lie to me. I heard all about you flirting with Miller at the Lobster Shack.”

  My eyebrows rose. This was Owen’s sister? It would pay for me to get on her good side, but it looked as if that ship had already sailed. “I’m not interested in Miller, I assure you. All I want to do is serve my cakes and—”

  “Whatever,” Hannah hissed. “You stay away from him, do you hear me? You’ve been warned.” She spun on her heel and stormed back down the street.

  “Well,” I said, blinking, “that went well.”

  “About as well as anything else has gone this week,” Bee replied. “Interesting, though. It seems Miller’s a flirt.”

  I frowned. There was something about this that seemed important, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It had to do with the case, with Owen, with the fights between Miller and Owen. Of course, Hannah wouldn’t have been involved in those, unless I counted the lobster tossing incident.

  But no, it was something else. If only I could figure out what it was…

  “Don’t let her bother you. Tomorrow, Carmel Springs will be in our rearview mirrors. We’ll find another town in Maine with lobster rolls and friendly folks,” Bee said, and wagged her rag at me. “Come on. Let’s finish up. Samantha said she’s making steak tonight! And roast potatoes.”

  “You had me at steak.” I set to work, but my thoughts stayed on Owen and the murder.

  Had Hannah been involved?

  14

  I sighed and placed my fists on my hips, examining my bag and the neatly folded shirts and pants I’d tucked inside it. Trouble wound between my legs, purring and occasionally batting my ankles as if he could persuade me to change my mind.

  Then again, I hadn’t exactly made it by myself.

  “You know,” Bee said, lugging her bag behind her, “I think that’s the fiftieth time you’ve sighed this morning, and it’s only 8 am.”


  “Breakfast in an hour. We could stay and have some waffles. Sam said she was more than happy to—”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “Now, granted, I don’t know you very well yet, Ruby, but from what I’ve seen so far, you don’t strike me as the person who settles down,” Bee said. “You seem like the type who wants to keep moving, you know, given that you own a food truck and you wanted a baker who was happy to traverse the country indefinitely.”

  “What’s your point?” I asked, holding back another sigh.

  “That you don’t want to leave. And that’s odd.”

  I sat down next to my suitcase. “It’s the murder,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking about it and wondering who did it. And why. All the clues are caught up in my head, swirling around and around and—”

  Bee came forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Ruby, dear, it’s not your place to investigate it or solve it. I understand that you were a journalist before this, but you’ve moved on from that. And we should move on from this town and go to the next one. After all, there are plenty of quaint coastal towns to visit around these parts.”

  “I like Carmel Springs,” I said. “Most of the people are lovely, and the restaurants and food are great. And the view…”

  “I like it too. But this is for the best.”

  Bee was right, of course. The murder hadn’t been solved yet, and the customers in Carmel Springs likely wouldn’t flood to the food truck if we did open it again. Not after the whole ‘poisoned cake’ rumor that had spread through the town.

  “We’ve off on our next adventure now,” Bee said.

  And that brought me to my feet. I had left Daniel in the past, the mystery of where he had gone and why he had left me too, and I could do the same with this one. I zipped up my bag, lifted it off the bed then bent and scratched Trouble behind the ears.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  We headed downstairs and gave Samantha a hug goodbye each. She asked us to sign the guestbook then presented us with a polished seashell as a souvenir from our time at the guesthouse.

  “Drive safe,” Samantha called, as we exited the front door and thunked our bags down the steps toward the…

  Bee stopped dead.

  I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth.

  The Bite-sized Bakery food truck had been trashed. The windows had been broken, the tires punctured so the rubber puddled against the macadam, and the pink and green stripes had been spray-painted over with a threatening message.

  Back off.

  You’re next.

  I trembled on the spot, unable to think or even speak.

  “No,” Bee said, next to me. “No, no, no.”

  “How? Why?” I whispered, shaking my head.

  The front door of the guesthouse opened and another gasp rang out, this one from Samantha. “Oh no.”

  Bee turned. “Dear, would you be so kind as to call the police?”

  “Right away.” The door clicked shut again.

  I stumbled back and sat down heavily on the bottom step, my eyes heating with unshed tears. “Why? Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Bee said. “But it looks like we’re going to have the time to find out. We can’t go anywhere like this.”

  Our time at Carmel Springs was far from over, it seemed. And I doubted that Detective Jones would be overly enthused about helping us figure out who had done this.

  You’re next. It says that I’m next. Does that mean…? Could it have been the murderer? But no, why would they do that? It would only draw more attention to themselves and the case if that was true. It had to have been the same person who’d broken into my room in the guesthouse.

  Or… No, surely not.

  Hannah.

  She had warned me to stay away. Perhaps, she’d decided to act on that warning after all.

  Motion blurred around me as I sat staring at the truck—it was meant to be my freedom. My dream. And it had been reduced to nothing but a mess of threats and shattered glass.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I looked up.

  “Here,” Samantha said, “have some hot cocoa. You’ll feel better soon. I’m so sorry this has happened, Ruby. I don’t understand it. I didn’t hear a thing last night.”

  “Thank you.” I accepted the mug and took a sip of the bolstering sweetness.

  It didn’t matter that it had happened, but why it had happened.

  The police arrived, but I barely paid them any mind, save to answer their questions and give my statement. My thoughts whirled around the possibilities and, eventually, a certainty settled in my gut.

  If I was going to stay in Carmel Springs, out of no choice of my own, I’d find the killer and the person who’d trashed my truck, whether they were one and the same or not.

  15

  Finding Hannah Pelletier’s address had been as easy as a trip down to the Lobster Shack and a chat with our favorite server Grace. She’d been more than happy to dish the address and a little bit of dirt. Namely that Hannah was a total loon and had threatened countless women around Carmel Springs because she was as jealous as the day was long. And that Miller happened to be a serial adulterer which definitely didn’t help the cause.

  None of that mattered. I had my suspicions that Hannah was the one who had destroyed, or tried to destroy, my food truck. And that meant it was high time I paid her a visit. Even though she was huge and scared the dreams and hopes out of me.

  I’d tucked the threatening note from Owen’s car into my pocket, just in case I could somehow find something of Hannah’s to match it with. It was a longshot, of course. Perhaps, Hannah would recognize the handwriting? Or know who had been threatening her brother? Or maybe, it was her. And she had trashed the truck and killed her brother.

  Now, there was a horrifying thought or three.

  “You know,” Bee said, as we strolled down the sidewalk, past quaint stores on the Main Street, nodding to the occasional passerby, “you could have just checked the phonebook.”

  “There are still phonebooks? I thought we’d transitioned to the digital age.”

  “The youth of today.” Bee rolled her eyes. “Of course there are phonebooks. I bet Samantha has one in the office at the guesthouse.”

  “Yes, but I highly doubt that the phonebook would have gossiped with me about Hannah and Miller.”

  “I didn’t realize that gossip was high on your agenda of phonebook requirements,” Bee said.

  “It’s not. But you know what I mean. I like things to be in person, you know? It’s much easier to unravel the details of a person’s character face-to-face.”

  “That’s only slightly creepy.”

  I grinned. “Only slightly. It’s a bad habit I picked up during the journalist years.”

  “You mean BFT?”

  “BFT?”

  “Before Food Truck. I figured we should create acronyms for it since we do talk about it a lot. The past. The future. The mystery.” Bee wiggled her fingers at me like she could cast a spell.

  “All right then,” I said. “BFT and AFT. That works.”

  “So BFT, you were used to talking to people face-to-face and squeezing them for information.”

  “True,” I said. “And most of them were filled with it like a delicious jelly donut is filled with a raspberry jelly center.”

  “Hmmm.” Bee adjusted her handbag on her shoulder as we turned into a side street. “I’m not sure whether I’m hungry or disgusted.”

  I chuckled and shaded the screen of my phone, following the GPS directions toward Hannah’s street. She lived at number 13—how ominous—on Sunset Road. The houses on either side were tucked back between trees or at the backs of long lawns with garden ornaments. The people here kept the aesthetic quaint, in line with the rest of Carmel Springs.

  Finally, we reached Hannah’s house and proceeded up a stone path toward a gated front door, flanked on either side with two potted plants.

  “Seems
like Hannah’s doing well for herself,” I said. “This is a nice house.”

  “I’m assuming she extorts people for a living, what with those massive arms and that thunderous voice…”

  “Be nice.”

  “A difficult request for me. When someone upsets my friend, I can’t help being just as mean back. An eye for an eye.”

  “Whatever happened to turning the other cheek?” But I was touched that Bee considered me enough of a friend she felt it necessary to stick up for me. I hadn’t had many friends like that, not at work, at least, and those friends I’d had before Daniel… well, they were all gone. Married or with kids. And I was the odd one out.

  I pressed the buzzer next to the front door, and merry chimes sounded inside. We waited. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe she’s not home?”

  “Maybe,” I said, and pressed the buzzer again. “I guess I should have asked Grace where she works instead of where she lives. That’s an oversight on my part. Oh, shoot, now what?”

  “Are you looking for that ginger tree?” A croaking voice traveled from the garden next door.

  Bee and I spun toward it.

  “Sorry?” I asked, shading my eyes from the sun.

  The woman was old and bent double grasping at the hedge that separated her yard from Hannah’s. “You heard me right,” she crowed. “The ginger tree. Hannah Pelletier. Never liked the girl nor her brother. Always fighting. Always making a noise and disturbing the neighborhood. The bad type, those two. Glad at least one of them is gone now.”

  I was at a loss for words. Bee was too.

  “She’s not home, see? Hannah. She’s at work.”

  “Oh,” I said, my brain finally clicking on. “Where does she work?”

  “At the community college. Teaches a baking class,” the woman said. “Not that she knows all that much about baking. That brother of hers had a sweet tooth of note, and word on the street is he never wanted to eat what she baked. Thought it was disgusting. I overheard them fighting about it.”