Bee and I took a seat at a table in front of the window and picked up the card menus.
“I need a cookie,” Bee said.
“I think I’ll—”
“Hello.” Detective Hanson stepped up next to our table. Technically, calling him a detective now wasn’t correct. He wore plain clothes—a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, his hands tucked into his pockets. He was just as muscly and handsome as he’d been at the campgrounds.
I choked on air. “—o.”
Hanson raised an eyebrow, but it wasn’t as quirky as usual. He was pale and his hair was a mess, as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly.
“She means hello, detective.” Bee grinned. “Would you like to join us for some coffee?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he replied.
“Of course not. Scooch over, Ruby.” Bee shot me a sneaky wink.
I refused to blush about Hanson joining us. He was just some guy. One who was going through a difficult time because his grandmother had been attacked. Now was the time to show empathy, not pink cheeks.
“Call me Jamie,” he said. “I’m not here on official business.”
“So, you’re on vacation?” Bee asked.
“That’s right. Even detectives need to take them from time-to-time.”
We were interrupted by the server, and it helped me collect my thoughts. After we’d put in our order, I brushed my hair from my face and turned to Hanson.
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother, detective. I mean, Jamie.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s she doing?” Bee asked.
“She’s unconscious, but the doctors say that she’s going to recover,” he said. “I’m her only living grandchild so… it’s difficult. Sad to see her like this.”
“I bet it’s frustrating because you can’t investigate it yourself.” Bee accepted her drink from the server. “I would be going crazy wondering who had done it.”
“Yeah, I’d love to take it into my own hands but that’s not going to happen. The cops here have everything under control.” He let out a puff of air. “Or so they say.”
“You don’t think that’s the case?” I asked.
Hanson went a little stiff in the shoulders then relaxed. “I’m sure they have it under control.” It was as if a mask had fallen into place over his face—gone was the sorrow and concern. He had shut out emotion. Or maybe he had shut it in.
Understandable given the circumstances.
“We can help you,” I said.
Bee pressed the toe of her shoe onto mine.
“What do you mean?” Hanson asked.
“I mean, we can help you. We could check things out, you know? Ask a few questions.”
Hanson laughed. “Thanks, ladies. I know you’ve got your sleuthing degrees already, what with the whole campground incident, but I don’t want you getting in any trouble on my account. Besides, it’s probably best if the police handle this one.” He drew his wallet out of his pocket and threw a few dollars down to pay for his coffee with a tip. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. You take care, now.”
Bee waited all of two minutes after the front door of the café had closed before starting on me. “Ruby Holmes, have you lost your entire mind?”
“Maybe just a part of it? What’s wrong? You don’t like that I offered our help?”
“Of course not!”
“Why? He’s sad and—”
“And he’s a suspect,” Bee hissed. “What happens when we find out that Moira had a will. Or a life insurance policy? You heard the man. He’s the last living relative.”
“He said grandchild.”
“Same difference,” Bee replied. “We can’t go around offering out our services to people who might want us to look in a different direction.”
“We don’t have any services to offer, first off, and secondly, well, I don’t know what came over me. I just wanted to help.” Now, I did color as pink as a peach.
Bee softened up and patted me on the hand. “The best thing we can do for the detective is figure out what happened without involving him. You never know what people are like, Ruby.”
“I just figured since he was a cop…”
“An off-duty cop. One on vacation. And he’s still a person. People do bad things all the time.”
“You’re right,” I said, sagging. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“That you wanted to help.” Bee took a long slurp from her straw. “And that he’s cute as a button.”
“Bee!”
“A button with muscles.”
I rolled my eyes at her. But my chagrin didn’t last long. There were more important things to worry about. Like Harry Dean, Violet, and our newest suspect on the list, the ever-handsome off-duty detective.
Now that I thought about it, the way he’d reacted to my suggestion of helping him had been a little strange—he’d practically run off. And he’d come over all stiff and leery. What if he was up to something?
What if Bee and I could figure this out before anything bad happened? After all, Moira wasn’t dead. There was every chance that her attacker would hang around to finish the job.
7
The following morning…
I sat on the edge of Bee’s bed, my laptop open on my knees and my fingers flying across the keys. I’d already fetched coffee for us both—a morning treat before we attended the Runaway Inn’s scrumptious breakfast—but Bee hadn’t touched hers. She was currently in the en suite bathroom and had been for a while.
“You OK in there?”
She grumbled something in the positive.
My mind had been whirring since we’d chatted to Hanson yesterday afternoon. True, it probably wasn’t healthy to develop an obsession with the case because I wanted to find out if he’d done it or not, but it beat moping around waiting for the cops to release our truck.
Were they taking this long at Violet’s mansion? Surely, they’d have to close that off too.
“Speaking of which,” I murmured, and typed Violet Keller’s name into my search box.
I hit enter and brought up the results. The first page was flush with information. She had a massive online presence for someone who was the deputy of a small-town knitting club. What was that about?
“Bee, you should see this,” I said. “Violet’s running charities and she’s part of the town council. That must be how she knows Harry.” I tapped my chin. “I wonder if she wants to run for mayor too.”
The toilet flushed, and Bee emerged, grimacing. “I think something at that café disagreed with me.”
“You’re pale,” I said.
“And sweating. Trust me, I know.” She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I don’t think I’m going to make breakfast this morning.”
“I’m so sorry, Bee. Is there anything I can do?” I checked the time on the laptop’s screen. “The drug store will probably open soon. I can run by and get something for your stomach?”
“No, no, you don’t need to make a fuss.” She peeked at me over the edge of the blanket. “Just tell me more about Violet. And the others. You’ve got me interested now.”
I wasn’t about to argue with her, though I did give her the eagle eye to ensure she was well enough to handle it.
“Spit it out, Holmes.” Her usual no-nonsense tone was only slightly marred by a warble.
“Fine, fine. It looks like Violet is the belle of the ball, figuratively speaking. Very popular with the townsfolk, and she’s on the town council too. That just makes me think that Harry and Violet were conspiring against Moira. But why?”
Bee didn’t answer.
“Let me see here.” I typed in Moira’s name next. The more we knew about our victim, the easier it would be to figure out who had wanted her out of the picture. “Ah, here are some things about… oh wow.”
“W-what?” Bee asked.
I shot her a concerned look. “Are you sure—?”
“Just te
ll me.”
“Well, it looks like Moira’s on the town council too. If anything, she’s more popular than Violet since she’s head of the knitting club. I wonder if that means anything. Could she have been attacked over popularity?” I clicked on one of the articles and started reading. “Local town councilwoman wins big in tristate knitting contest.”
“There are tristate knitting contests?”
“Apparently.” I continued reading. “Moira Hanson of Muffin, Massachusetts, was, this week, the proud recipient of the first-place prize for best tea cozy in the Annual Tristate Knitting Competition for Massachusetts, Maine, and New Hampshire. In addition to her trophy, pictured below, she has snagged the $20,000 grand prize.”
“That’s a lot of cash,” Bee said.
“Enough to motivate a murder,” I agreed, and scrolled further down. I sucked in a breath. “Look, Bee, there’s a picture of Moira here, and look who’s standing right next to her.”
I swiveled the laptop. Moira stood next to a slightly taller man with equally gray hair, his arm around her waist in a manner that was a little too cozy for “just friends.”
“It’s Harry!” I hissed. “I don’t believe it. We thought Harry and Moira were mortal enemies.”
“D-does that mean Lucy lied to us?”
“No, I don’t think she would,” I said. “But there are mixed messages floating around. This picture proves there’s more going on than we—”
“Nope!” Bee leaped out of bed and ran for the bathroom. She slapped the door shut behind her.
“Oh dear.” I closed my laptop and set it on the coffee table in Bee’s small suite. The room was beautifully decorated and cozy, the sconces on the paneled walls gilded in gold, but the lovely aesthetic did nothing to ease my worries. “Bee?”
“I’m fine!”
“That’s it, I’m going to the drug store. What are your symptoms?” I called. Bee gave me the gory details, and I noted them down. “All right. I’ll be back in twenty. Hang tight! I’m going to ask Mrs. Rickleston to send up some extra bottled water. You need to stay hydrated.”
A grunt was all I received in reply.
8
Twenty minutes later, I stopped in front of the drug store in Muffin, named as you’d expect, and frowned at the CLOSED sign hanging in its door. According to the sign bearing their operating hours, they were meant to open at 8 am, and it was already five past.
I shuffled my feet and checked my watch. The morning was temperate without any wind, and the street was already busy with foot traffic and cars driving by. A few folks nodded to me as they passed, and I waved back. I didn’t take those types of niceties for granted anymore—I loved that about small towns. Everyone knew each other.
“Sorry, are you waiting for me?” A scrawny guy in a white pharmacist’s coat appeared, brandishing keys. Green eyes, scruffy ginger hair, and tufts for a beard. “I’m late.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of an emergency.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, and let me inside. “Come to the back, I’ll help you right away.”
“Thanks.” I followed him through the drug store, past the makeup section and to the prescription counter.
“Just a second.” He circled the counter.
I waited in front of one of the little window stations, tapping the list of Bee’s symptoms against my palm and checking out the place. Drug stores reminded me of being a little girl again, gripping my mother’s hand while she whisked me from store to store, running her errands. She’d been a shopaholic, and I’d been forced to keep myself entertained in unique ways. That was where my fascination with people-watching had started. I’d kept a little journal of all the interesting things I’d discovered until my mother had found it one day, torn it up, and told me I was nothing but a no-good busybody.
“Sorry about that.” The guy reappeared. He wore a nametag. “What can I get for you?”
“That’s OK, uh, Ronnie,” I said. “My friend’s feeling a little ill. Could you please give me something for her? These are her symptoms.” I slipped the note over the counter.
“Sure, no problem.” He read the list, didn’t ask any questions, and sped off again.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my jeans, and I wormed it out. “Hello?”
“Miss Holmes, how are you? This is Detective Wilkes.”
“Oh, hello, detective. How’s the investigation going? Any news on when we’ll get the truck back?”
Ronnie reappeared with several items and started separating and repackaging pills.
“I’m great, thanks for asking, Miss Holmes,” Detective Wilkes replied.
I squirmed. “Whoops, sorry. I’m eager to get the food truck back.” And to know what’s going on in the investigation.
“Right. Well, that’s what I’m calling about actually.” Wilkes paused. “We’ve got technicians working on it, and I should have it back to you by tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s great!” I practically shouted it, and Ronnie spilled pills everywhere. “Sorry,” I whispered to him, with an apologetic look.
“You can come by then and we’ll release it to you.”
“Thank you so much, detective. Did you find anything of use inside it?” I asked.
“Your cooperation was useful, Miss Holmes,” the detective said, “but that’s police business. I can tell you that you and Miss Pine are cleared as suspects.”
“That’s good news.”
“Take care.” He hung up before I could question him any further. But it was something at least. Our names were clear, and if the medicine to help Bee’s stomach didn’t cheer her up, this news surely would.
9
After settling Bee into her bed and making sure she didn’t exert herself, I headed downstairs for some breakfast. The food was great, but it wasn’t the same without Bee around, and I was faced with a day of nothing to do ahead. No food truck, no exploring with Bee, and too many questions about the major players in the case.
Halfway through my chocolate dipped croissant and freshly squeezed orange juice, an idea came to me. One Bee would either approve of or think was terrible. The last time I’d done something outrageous, I’d wound up hiding under a bed in a cabin in the woods, while a potentially murderous hermit looked for me.
“Yeah, I’m not doing that again,” I muttered, and finished off the last of my juice.
I got up and strode through the dining area, past tables of people finishing up their food or just starting it, all with the same satisfied expressions on their faces—it was the look that came with having eaten something truly delicious.
In the hallway, Mrs. Rickleston sat at the reception desk, fiddling with her nails and muttering to herself.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rickleston.”
“Oh, hello dear. How are you?” She picked up an emery board and filed her nails viciously.
“I’m good, how are you?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“Are you sure? You seem frustrated.”
Mrs. Rickleston slapped the emery board down and eyed me. “If you must know, I’m frustrated because I can’t get a manicure. I’ve been booked in with a salon in the town over for a month and when I called to double-check I had the right time this morning, they told me they had no record of my reservation!”
“I’m sorry.” I knew better than to suggest she go see Lucy at the Hashtag Nailed It salon. They were in the middle of a feud over nail polish colors or the like. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you do a manicure?”
“No.”
“Then no,” she snapped, but her features softened. “I’m sorry, dear, I’m just in a terrible mood today. I was looking forward to that appointment. You know, I bet it was the wretched Lucy who put them up to this.”
“Mrs. Rickleston, I don’t think—”
“She probably called them and told them who I was.”
“She wouldn’t—”
Mrs. Rickleston raised a wizened hand, stubb
y fingernails and all. “Now, now, I know you’re her friend, but I don’t want to hear it. I know what type of woman that Lucy Cornwall is. She’s sly and mean and she likes to gossip too much.”
I refrained from pointing out that everyone in Muffin liked gossiping too much, present company included.
“Anyway, what are you up to today?” Mrs. Rickleston asked. “No food truck?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I was thinking about checking out the town, actually. Say, Mrs. Rickleston?”
“Yes?” She turned the emery board over and shot it a look of pure fire and brimstone.
“Do you know where I can find out more about the town council?”
“The town council? Hmm. Well, yes, I do. Of course. I can give you the address to the Muffin Town Council’s offices. That gorgeous Harry Dean is the president. But why do you want to know about the town council?” She scribbled down the address on a slip of paper and handed it over.
“Oh, just wanted to find out more about Muffin in general. History and stuff.”
“You’d be better off visiting the museum the town over,” Mrs. Rickleston said. “It’s one of those living museums that recreates what life was like back in the 1700s.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I might just do that.” I tucked the paper into my palm and headed out the front doors.
The town council offices were in the center of Muffin, seated across from a play area, where kids went wild on the swings or skipped and ran about, their parents watching from park benches. The brick building, double story, was old but well looked-after.
I swallowed my nerves and opened the front door. My footsteps rang on polished flooring that swept toward a reception desk. The woman, rotund with flyaway brown hair, sitting behind it hummed under her breath.
“Hello,” I said.
“Oh, hello there. How may I help you today?”
“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Dean. Is he around?”
“The president is usually pretty busy,” the receptionist said. “But I can check. You don’t have an appointment with him?”
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