“He must be a local celebrity or something,” Bee said.
“Heads up. Here comes Mrs. Rickleston.”
The owner of the Runaway Inn had reached the table next to ours. She asked them how their food was, smiled at the answer, all while glancing over at the mystery man, then made for us.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said, cheerily, patting her gray hair. “How are you this morning?”
“We’re fine,” I replied. “How are you?”
“Oh good, good.” She hadn’t even looked me in the eye yet, she was so intent on the charming guy. “You know. Good.”
“So, you’re good then?” Bee’s lips twitched at the corners.
“Hmm. Yes.”
“Mrs. Rickleston,” I said. “Who is that man? The one you were talking to?”
“The one that’s going to make your eyeballs pop clean out of your skull in a second, if you don’t stop staring.”
Mrs. Rickleston colored pink. She tore herself away from her new favorite pastime: watching the new guy. “Oh, Beatrice, you and your words.”
“As opposed to me and my irritation,” Bee muttered.
“Who is he?” I spoke over my friend, since her bad moods wouldn’t exactly put Mrs. Rickleston in the talking mood. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes, he is. Just a friend, mind you, nothing more and nothing less.” She patted her hair again. “That’s Harry Dean. He’s a very important man, the president of the town council, you see. Powerful.” She gave a little shiver. “If you’ll excuse me.” She headed for the next table, nearly tripping over her own shoes.
“A town council member,” I said, eying Harry Dean.
“Don’t you start. No wonder he laughs like a foghorn—if his head gets any bigger it will envelope the room,” Bee said. “The last thing he needs is a pretty young woman checking him out.”
“I’m curious about what he was doing at the party. And why he was talking to Violet last night afterward, that’s all.” And then there were the things he’d said and what they meant and—
“Ruby,” Bee hissed, and squeezed my arm.
Detective Wilkes had just stepped into the dining area. His gaze fell on us, and it was my turn to shiver—I’d seen the “I need to talk to you” look too many times before. The only question was, what could he want from us this time?
4
The harsh lighting in the interrogation room at the local police station was migraine-inducing. If this place had had a cookie flavor, it would’ve been oatmeal. With Stevia extract instead of sugar. And without raisins.
I folded my arms and leaned back in the remarkably uncomfortable chair.
Detective Wilkes sat between me and the exit. From what Bee had told me, detectives did this type of thing when they wanted to make a suspect feel trapped. The idea was that I’d have to go through Wilkes to get out of the door, so while I was free to leave, the psychological pressure of having to go through the detective was still there.
And I had to admit, I wasn’t at my most comfortable.
“Sorry about the interruption,” Wilkes said, setting his water cup on the table, which was off to the side and not between us. “There’s a lot going on right now.”
“I understand.” I’d only been here for about fifteen minutes. Bee was probably in an interrogation room down the hall, and that worried me. Bee wasn’t the most diplomatic person. She might be the least, in fact. We didn’t need more trouble, especially since Wilkes was already annoyed at our previous interferences in his cases.
That was like a month ago. Surely, he’s over that by now?
“I hoped we wouldn’t have to have a discussion like this again, Miss Holmes.”
So, he’s not over it then. “That makes two of us.”
“Yet here you are. I assume you’ve heard the news that Mrs. Hanson is in hospital due to an attempt on her life,” he replied.
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“Good, so you know why you’re here.”
“Not really, no. I was at the party, but I did give my statement to the police last night. I don’t see what this has got to do with me.”
“Let me enlighten you,” he said, tapped his fingertips on the table. “You served Mrs. Hanson a cupcake that may have poisoned her.”
“What?” I forced myself backward, shaking my hair, and the front legs of my chair lifted. I caught myself on the table and set myself back on the floor, heart beating at my ribcage like a caged bird. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“We have reason to believe that the cupcake that Mrs. Hanson ate was spiked with poison,” he said. “And since you were the caterer…”
“Not again,” I groaned.
“Yes, again. I need to you to walk me through a few things,” he said, interlacing his fingers and resting them on his stomach. “Are you willing to cooperate?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Bee had cured me of worrying about what people would think of the food truck, but the twinge of fear was still in the back of my mind. I pushed past it, took several deep breaths, and focused on the detective. “What do you need to know?”
“Who made the cupcakes?”
“Bee and I made them in Mrs. Keller’s kitchen.”
“That’s Mrs. Violet Keller, right?”
“Right,” I said. “We made them in the kitchen.”
“Did she provide you with any of the ingredients?” the detective asked.
“Actually, yes. She gave us the confectioner’s sugar and the butter for the buttercream. She insisted,” I said, my stomach tying itself into loops and bows. Was the detective onto something here? Had Violet poisoned her friend?
“Was there any period of time when you weren’t in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” I said. “Plenty of times. Bee and I were in and out, running to get things from the truck or use the restroom, that kind of thing. We also took a lunch break and headed back to the Runaway Inn for a meal.”
“Can anyone confirm you were there?”
“Mrs. Rickleston can,” I said.
The detective nodded. “All right. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about that afternoon?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Yes.” I didn’t particularly want to throw Violet or Harry under the bus, but this was an attempted murder and I had heard snippets of things that might be of use. I told Wilkes everything, though it wasn’t much.
He picked up a notepad and pen and wrote something down. I couldn’t make it out—he kept the pad angled away from me. After that, there wasn’t much left to talk about. Wilkes asked me a couple questions, gave me his card, and told me to stay in touch.
“We’ll be confiscating those cupcakes, by the way, and your truck will be investigated today.”
“Are you serious? We have a business to run, detective.”
“And I have a case to solve,” he said.
“How long will it take before the truck is returned to us?”
“I can’t say for sure. A few days? A week?”
If I’d thought my heart was pattering before, it was nothing compared to now. A week without the truck? I wasn’t exactly made of money, and though I’d been left some by my grandmother, we did rely on the revenue from the truck to keep us afloat while traveling and staying at the guesthouses in different towns.
A week of no work would set us back. We might have to stay in Muffin longer than intended if that was the case, and I was already itching to get back on the road and explore new places.
I thanked Detective Wilkes. I was in such a daze, I wasn’t even sure what I was thanking him for. I headed out and down the gray hall, into the large roll call room and then past the front desk and into the street.
Bee wasn’t done yet, and I squinted in the sun, looking for the truck. It was still parked out front, but I’d already handed the keys to Wilkes. Boy, this was going to be a tough day.
“Hello, dear!” Violet walked up the front steps, dressed all in pink that c
lashed with her vibrant bottle-red hair. “How are you today?”
“I’m… OK. How are you?”
“Oh fine. Just annoyed that I must be here. Apparently, the officers want to talk to me about Moira. Poor dear.” She shook her head, but she didn’t look all that sad. “Have I paid you?”
The sudden change in topic caught me off guard. “Huh?”
“For your services last night? I might’ve forgotten in the rush. I’m so sorry about that, but you know, it was an extreme circumstance. So… did I pay you?”
“Uh, no, you didn’t,” I said. “But I can invoice you for that.”
“Please do,” she replied. “Well, take care. See you soon!” She trotted off, waving over her shoulder.
She’s in an awfully good mood. Awful was right. She didn’t seem concerned about having to talk to the police. Or that her best friend, the same woman she’d thrown a surprise party for, was in hospital fighting for her life.
5
Doing my nails wasn’t high on my agenda list this morning, but Bee had insisted we have some pamper time, especially since we had nothing else to do now that the truck had been taken from us.
“A week,” I said, gloomily. “Do you really think it will be a week?”
“I can’t say.” Bee stopped in front of the Hashtag Nailed It salon, her fists on her hips. “But we’re stranded in Muffin until then. Not that I wanted us to leave. I’ve enjoyed our time here.”
“Me too.” For the most part. There had been the regrettable murders, though I’d waged Bee would include investigating them as part of the enjoyable experience.
“Well, we can’t hang around out here all day,” Bee said, checking her watch. “We’ve got an appointment to get to.”
Bee and I entered the salon and were welcomed by the upbeat atmosphere of the place. Women sat chatting in chairs in front of nail stations, where the technicians filed their nails or dipped them in containers of… well, I didn’t know what. Doing nails wasn’t my thing. Bee enjoyed her manicures though.
The salon was decorated in purples, blacks and chromes, and music pumped through the open space—which was filled with natural light from the front windows.
Lucy waved at us from reception. “Good morning,” she called. “How are you doing?”
“Good,” I said, “how are you?”
“Oh, you know, like… it is what it is.”
“What is?” Bee asked.
Lucy leaned in, raising perfectly penciled eyebrows at us. “The salon is buzzing with news of the murder. That old lady? Moira, right?”
“Right,” Bee said. “But she’s not dead.”
“She’s not?”
“No, she’s in hospital,” Bee replied. “It was attempted murder. Someone tried to poison her.”
“Are we supposed to tell people that?” I whispered. “The detective…”
“You spoke to him already?” Lucy asked. “Look, everybody already knew it was poison, but I heard she was dead on arrival at the hospital.”
“Not according to the police,” Bee said.
“Wow. OK. Well, that changes things.” Lucy licked her thumb and paged through her appointment book. “Coffee?”
“Yes please,” I said.
“What do you mean that changes things?” Bee asked.
Lucy didn’t answer. She walked around the side of the reception desk and beckoned for us to follow her. She seated Bee at an empty station next to hers and sat me down in the leathery stool across from her.
“All right,” she said, flicking her purple-streaked hair from her shoulders. “Now, we’re ready to get into it.”
“Get into what?”
“Cherry!” Lucy called. “Cherry, honey, can you get me two coffees please? Sugar and half-and-half. Right?”
“That’s right.” Bee frowned at her. “What’s going on, Luce? You’re acting like you’ve got something to say.”
A technician with a tag that read ‘Jennifer’ sat down across from Bee and asked her what she wanted.
In no time, we had coffees, a cookie a piece seated next to the mug on the saucer, and our nails in firm hands. Lucy glanced to the left at an empty station and seats, then scooched forward and lifted an emery board from her collection. She bent it and allowed it to snap back.
“Someone poisoned her,” Lucy said, at last.
Jennifer gasped without looking up from Bee’s nails. “It was poison?” She had to be the only one who didn’t know. Then again, there was so much misinformation spread around nowadays.
“Totally.”
“Poison.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“But why? Who would do… like, that kind of thing?” Jennifer still didn’t look up from Bee’s nails.
“I think I know.” Lucy set to work on my manicure. “I heard that Moira had some enemies.”
“What kind of enemies?” I asked.
Before Lucy could answer, another woman was seated at the empty nail station next to mine—she had to be in her sixties, with perfectly permed gray hair. Her eyes were puffy and red. From crying?
“Good morning, Gertrude,” Lucy said. “How are you holding up?”
“Not good.” The woman sniffled and drew a pack of Kleenex out of her handbag. “Poor Moira. I can’t believe we won’t have her around anymore.”
“Oh, right, the Knit It Good Club,” Lucy said.
Gertrude gave a sorrowful nod, dabbing underneath her eyes with a tissue. “She will be sorely missed. She was such a light in our lives. “
I frowned. Why was Gertrude talking about Moira like she was already dead? Had we missed something here? Had they announced that Moira had passed in the hospital?
“She’s not dead,” Bee said, pointedly.
“Oh, I know, it’s just the thought of her not being at the meetings from now on. And what if she doesn’t recover and…” Gertrude trailed off and broke into heavy sobs. It took the nail technician several minutes to calm her down and grab hold of Gertrude’s hands.
I took a sip of my coffee and assessed the situation. Lucy had been about to tell us about Moira’s enemies. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be shy about divulging that information in front of Gertrude. I hinged on asking her to continue her story but lost my nerve.
Bee cleared her throat. “Lucy, you were telling us about Moira’s enemies?”
Trust Bee to cut to the chase.
“Right, yeah, of course.” Lucy stole a glance at Gertrude, but the knitting club member had already started chatting with her technician. “I heard that she had a few people who might’ve been out to get her. You know, these clubs are pretty competitive, and Moira was an influential woman too.” Lucy paused and checked Gertrude again. “You heard of a guy by the name of Harry Dean?”
I perked up. “Yes, we have.” Harry who we’d seen talking to Violet. Who was a member of the Knit It Good Club and had given us the ingredients for the frosting.
“He’s the president of the town council,” Lucy said, bringing the emery board to my nails. “And he wants to run for mayor later this year, but rumor has it that Moira had taken a disliking to him. She thought he was nothing but trouble and bad for Muffin.”
“Did she say why?” I asked.
“No, but Cherry’s auntie overheard him telling his wife that he wouldn’t let that ‘knitting witch’ stand in his way.” Lucy pulled a face as if that settled it—Harry should’ve been cuffed and thrown in a cell.
Thank goodness for due process. Then again, Lucy wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. If Harry had the motivation, all he’d need was access to Moira, and that was where Violet came in. But did Violet have the motivation too?
“Lucy,” I said, “Was Moira the head of the Knit It Good Club?”
“Yes, she was.” Gertrude answered me instead. “Now that she’s ill, Violet will have to take over as her second-in-command, at least until poor Moira is feeling better.”
And there it was. Violet’s potential motivation. Could it be that simp
le? Harry and Violet working together to get rid of a common problem?
I glanced over at Bee and she gave me the “we’ve got a lot to talk about” look. Or was it the “we’re on the case” look?
I couldn’t wait to find out.
6
“I love it,” Bee said, and twiddled her pinky finger at me. “Don’t you think it’s perfect?”
“It’s great,” I replied. “I wish I’d gotten one.”
Bee admired the butterfly nail art on her pinky finger, grinning. “Those women at the salon really know what they’re doing. I never would’ve dreamed of getting something like this done before. Seems a bit frivolous, you know? But now that I have it, I don’t know why I never thought of it before.”
I looped an arm through my friend’s, and we strolled down the sidewalk together. Bee might’ve been in a good mood, but I couldn’t quit thinking about what Lucy had said, and the fact that Gertrude had let slip Violet would be taking over now that Moira was “out of commission” so to speak.
“Let’s grab a bite to eat,” Bee said. “We’ve got nothing else to do now.”
“I was in the mood to make cupcakes this week.”
“More cupcakes?” Bee asked. “After what happened to Moira?”
“I know it’s wrong, but I’ve had a hankering for them ever since the party. I didn’t get to try one.”
“Given what we know now, that’s a good thing.”
Bee and I wound our way through town, heading for one of the most popular cafes—we hadn’t had a chance to frequent it because we’d been busy on the food truck.
The Nodding Frond sat on the corner of Baxter Way and Main Street—a few twists and turns away from the park where we usually set up shop on a normal day. It was a sweet little place, with lace curtains and a chime that sang two tones when a customer entered.
Inside, people drank milkshakes, sodas and coffees and snacked on croissants and cakes. The mood was happy—that was a nice change after poor Gertrude’s sobbing in the salon.
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