A Pie to Die For: A Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery

by Stacey Alabaster

  I shook my head. "Real nice, Detective."

  The ignition was still running, but we hadn't moved an inch.

  "Who's that?" Jackson asked, pointing to the front of my apartment. "Who's going into your home?"

  "No one," I said, trying to get his attention away from the red-haired figure, clearly slightly tipsy, trying to get her key to work in the front door. "Let's just get to the station. Come on, bring me in for questioning again."

  Jackson flipped the engine off again so that we were in total silence as well as pitch-black darkness. He leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel as he watched Pippa struggle with the front door. "She's not breaking in, is she?"

  "I don't know," I said, shrugging in an exaggerated manner.

  "She clearly has a key." Jackson turned to me sharply. "I didn't know you had a roommate, Rachael."

  "She's just staying with me temporarily."

  Even though I could only see Jackson out of the corner of my eye, I could see him putting the pieces of the puzzle together, could see him figuring out how many lies I'd told him. Why did I feel so guilty about them? He was the enemy, after all. He was the reason I had "Killer" scrawled in blood-red paint over the front of my bakery. He was the reason I was about to get evicted from my shop.

  Jackson tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "So the visor belongs to your roommate."

  I didn't say anything.

  "What’s her name?"

  I still didn't say anything.

  "Rachael, I'm going to find out with or without your help, so you may as well tell me. You might think you're helping your friend by staying silent, but believe me, you're not."

  "Her name is Pippa," I said quietly.

  "And was Pippa working for Carl's Fish on the day of the Belldale street fair?"

  For some strange reason, in that moment I thought about poor old Carl, how I'd promised not to turn him in for paying Pippa under the table. Was he going to get into trouble now?

  "Yes," I said finally. "She was working there. But Jackson—Detective Whitaker—you've got to believe me, please." I reached out and grabbed Jackson's arm. "You've got to believe me that Pippa had nothing to do with any of this."

  Finally the clouds cleared a little and there was the slightest sliver of moonlight draping us. All I could see was Jackson staring back at me. "As I've told you numerous times before, Miss Robinson, you're going to have to leave the investigating to us. We'll decide how guilty or not this roommate of yours is." He picked up his radio and began to talk into it, giving his name and location to whoever was listening on the other end.

  "Wait," I said, reaching out to try and stop him as Jackson glared at me. He switched off the radio for a moment.

  "I won't hesitate to put you in cuffs if I have to, Miss Robinson."

  "Please, just don't make that call yet. I can help you. I can help you solve this case. You don't need to involve Pippa in any of this."

  Jackson shook his head in disbelief and scoffed as he said, "How many times do I need to tell you..."

  "I know, I know. Not to investigate. But you have to admit that I've done a better job than you have so far. You didn't even know about Pippa working for Carl, even though you've clearly already considered him as a suspect."

  Jackson's face was stormy. I could tell I'd hit a nerve.

  "Listen," I said, hurrying on, quickly trying to take advantage of the fact that I had him off balance. "I already know who did it, Jackson. The person, the woman, is named Simona. She works at Bakermatic down the road from my bakery. And she's trying to cover it up by making me look guilty. She's the one who painted "Killer" on my window."

  Jackson frowned. "How do you know all this?"

  "Because I investigated, of course. How else?"

  Jackson rolled his eyes a little. "I mean, how do you know for a fact that she did it? Do you have proof? Proof that she killed Colleen? Proof that she vandalized your bakery?"

  "Well, I have some pretty good evidence,"I said weakly. "She had red paint on her hands."

  Jackson scoffed. "Didn't think so. See, that’s the difference between being an amateur sleuth and an actual detective, Rachael. You need to follow the cold, hard facts. Not decide who is guilty and then make the evidence fit it. We actually use our heads. Our brains. Not our personal prejudices."

  I felt like a naughty school child who had just been chastised by a teacher. "I'm not prejudiced," I tried to protest.

  "Oh please, Rachael. You have a personal grudge against Bakermatic that is clouding all of your judgment. You are so hell-bent on proving that they’re guilty that you can't even see what’s right in front of your face." Jackson pointed towards my apartment building. "Or what is right inside your own home."

  I had fallen totally silent. I thought back to all the episodes of Criminal Points where one of the detectives had become too personally involved and been taken off the case. Did I need to take myself off the case? Had I just been screwed over so often by Bakermatic that I couldn't even take a step back and consider that someone else might be to blame?

  I turned my face back to my apartment. Pippa had managed to find the light switch at long last and had plonked herself back onto my sofa.

  Was I so close to Pippa that I couldn't see the worst in her? It was true that every time my brain even drifted towards the conclusion that she might be guilty it was as though there was an electric fence there that shocked me and wouldn't let me cross it.

  "You're right," I murmured. "I've taken this case too personally."

  Jackson let out a soft sigh. His reply was gentle. "It's okay, Rachael, you were just trying to protect your friend, and your bakery while you were at it. I can't fault you for that. You're a good friend, and a darn fine cook. But you'd better leave the detective work to those of us who are actually qualified."

  "Can I get out of the car now?" I asked quietly.

  Jackson nodded and I pressed the button to free my seatbelt.

  Jackson was hot on my heels as we walked back to my front door, but I felt as though I was moving in slow motion.

  "Are you going to arrest Pippa?" I asked him.

  He gave me a reluctant smile. "Just bring her in for questioning."

  I nodded. "You do what you need to do then."

  Before I knew it, Pippa was being led out by Jackson, now Detective Whitaker again, as I kept my eyes fixed firmly to the floor, unable to make eye contact with her.

  This is for the best, Rach. If Pippa did it then it's better for her—not to mention you—that she comes clean now. And it's better that you take a step back. Your interfering is only making matters worse.

  But as I slumped down on the sofa, Pippa now taking my place in the police car, I couldn't quite manage to convince myself.

  As I stared at the blank TV in front of me, I kept thinking about one thing.

  You know those detectives on Criminal Point, the ones who got too close to the case, took it all too personally, and had to be removed? Most of the time, they ended up being right.

  Chapter 7

  "Pippa?" I called out gently, flicking on the light in the living room. Her spot on the sofa was empty.

  Swallowing, I shuffled to the kitchen and boiled some water. I was going to need a strong cup of tea if I was going to get through the day that lay ahead. And I was going to need something solid in my stomach.

  I opened the fridge. Apart from my plate of brownies, the only items in there were one solitary egg and a quarter of a carton of sour milk.

  Brownies weren't going to cut it, and the milk may actually give me food poisoning. I slammed the door shut and grabbed my keys, deciding to risk it. I was going to have one of Deena's breakfast sandwiches.

  I was trapped in line behind half a dozen tradesmen in overalls and woolen caps, waiting for their bacon and eggs and cups of Deena's terrible, burnt-tasting coffee.

  At least her business seemed to have picked up.

  I glanced over my shoulder at my bakery, the front of which was
just visible outside the window. There was no one lining up to get in there.

  "Rachael!" Deena said, beaming at me. "I'm so glad to see you. I didn't like how we left things yesterday."

  I held my hands up in a show of mercy. "I'm just here for a breakfast sandwich," I said, nodding towards the sandwich press. "You got any double egg, single bacon sandwiches?"

  She shook her head. "No, but I can make one for you."

  "That would be great. Extra butter, please."

  The rush of tradesmen ended as I leaned against the wall and yawned, keeping an eye on the press. Deena was watching me carefully and she kept opening her mouth and then shutting it again as if she was going to say something to me and then changed her mind.

  "Hey, Rachael," she said, lowering her voice as she leaned in to whisper to me. "I was thinking about our conversation yesterday, when you were asking me all those questions about the street fair—and Colleen."

  "Deena," I said, interrupting her. "I'm not sticking my nose into that anymore. I never should have in the first place. I apologize for asking you all those questions yesterday, it wasn't my place to do so."

  "Oh." Deena's face fell a little. "It's just that..."

  I pointed to the sandwich press. "That's burning, Deena."

  "Oh!" She hopped over to the press and pulled out the sandwich. It was only a little charred on the sides but I could see that the eggs were now well done, while I prefer the yolk a little runny.

  "Oh dear," Deena said. "I have a real habit of doing that."

  "It's okay," I said, seeing her crestfallen face. "A little barbecue sauce will fix it up, if you've got some."

  Out in front of the shop, I leaned against the wall for a moment, applying my sachet of barbecue sauce while some tradesmen—painters, by the looks of their overalls—loitered beside me.

  "She's always burning these darn things," one of them complained, a younger man in pale blue overalls, who shook his head.

  "Come on, man, give her a break. She's been having a tough time ever since that woman left those awful reviews online. It really ruined her business."

  "Excuse me," I said, butting in. I gave both the men my biggest, cheesiest grin. "Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. I think Deena's food is great, some of the best I've ever eaten!" A lie. "I can't imagine why someone would ever give her a bad review. When was this?"

  The younger man shrugged. "It was about a month or so back now, a bunch of really bad reviews in a row, but Deena reckons they were all from the same woman. Some woman with a grudge against her."

  "Do you happen to know the woman's name?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager to know the answer.

  "Sorry, love, no idea." Both men chucked their half-eaten sandwiches into the trash before strolling off to their waiting van, leaving me to wonder: did I really need to butt out of this case? Or was overhearing this a sign that I should ignore Jackson, and follow my own gut after all?

  * * *

  There were several review sites online that the men could have been talking about, but by far the most popular, and influential, was Trip Advisor—the same site that brought me my floods of tourists. Or, used to, anyway.

  But it had been a while since I'd scoped out the reviews of my local competitors. Back when I'd first opened the bakery, I used to spend hours every day getting lost in all the reviews—checking my own, checking Bakermatic's, then checking for any recent reviews for the other restaurants and cafes near the bakery, making sure my ranking hadn't slipped. But I soon figured out that it was a giant time suck, and that my time could be better spent improving my own baking, my own recipes, and my own business.

  So it must have been at least two or three months since I'd even looked at the reviews for Deena's Sandwiches.

  Frowning, I sat down in front of my laptop with another strong cup of tea and saw that Deena's average rating had dropped to 2.1 out of 5. Ouch. Last time I'd checked, it had been at least a 4. What on earth had happened?

  Scrolling down, I quickly got my answer. There was a spate of reviews all from the same week, all with very similar comments, all giving Deena's Sandwiches 1 star out of 5. Even though all the reviews had different usernames besides them, it was clear from the wording and the fact that the same complaints kept being repeated over and over again that this was one person operating under a dozen different sock puppet accounts.

  "The worst food I have ever tasted in my life!"

  "This food made me sick to my stomach. I have been throwing up for the past 48 hours!"

  "Never eat here! That is a warning that you dismiss at your own peril."

  I sat back and thought about Carl getting sick from one of Deena's sandwiches earlier that week. I was grateful now that I'd thrown my sandwich in the bin after a few bites of the rubbery egg and burned bacon.

  But was this person telling the truth? Had Deena's food really made them sick? Or were they just trying to slander Deena's name and reputation?

  There was no picture next to the usernames and every time I clicked on the username, it always showed that the 'reviewer' had only left the one review. It was clearly someone who wanted to remain anonymous. It was also someone who was clearly nasty and had a vendetta out against Deena's shop. Someone antagonistic enough to come back again and again, who wanted Deena, and everyone else, to know just how unhappy they were.

  And I knew just the kind of person who would do that.

  Colleen Batters.

  * * *

  The door opened and then closed with an angry thud, causing me to jump out of my seat.

  "Pippa, come and have a look at this! Come look what I've found out."

  I could hear Pippa throw her keys down on the bench before she slowly walked into the spare room I used as an office. She had a scowl on her mouth and a face like thunder.

  "What have you found?" she asked in a low growl. Far from the usual perky, high-pitched voice she normally used.

  "Pippa, what's wrong?"

  She let out a snort of disbelief. "What the heck do you think is wrong? I've been down at the police station, Rachael! They think I gave Colleen the fish pie that killed her! And where have you been all day?"

  "Sleuthing" I said with smile, attempting to put her in a good mood. "I was on my way to the station to find you, really I was, but then I stumbled across this new information. Pippa, where are you going?"

  She stormed out of the room as I chased after her. "Pippa, please, don't be like this!"

  She spun around. "How do you expect me to be, Rachael?! You're the one who told that detective that I was working at Carl's that day! How could you?"

  I held my hand up. "Hey. You're the one who kept that from me, Pippa. I'm the one who ought to be mad at you! You knew I was being blamed for Colleen's death, and you kept this from me? When it could have helped me?"

  Pippa looked away as the anger drained from her face slightly. "That night when I got home, you didn't want to talk about it," she mumbled. "Besides, I wasn't supposed to go mouthing off about it or Carl could get into trouble. I know how seriously you take proper business procedures. I knew you'd ask me if I got paid properly, if I got my regular meal breaks."

  I sighed. "Fine. Whatever Pippa. So you're telling me that you didn't keep quiet because you knew you might be a suspect?"

  Guilt crept onto Pippa's face. "I dunno, Rach. Maybe." Her head was still hanging, like a puppy that has been scolded for going to the bathroom on the kitchen floor. "I'm sorry, I should have been honest with you, I should have told you I was there." She lifted her head and I saw how tired her eyes were. "But I honestly didn't see anything that day that could have helped."

  "Think, Pips. You didn't see Colleen Batters at all? There are witnesses who saw her eating a fish pie from your stall."

  Pippa rolled her eyes. "You sound like the cops. I don't even know what this Colleen Batters looks like! Maybe I served her, maybe I didn't." Pippa threw her hands up in the air. "Who knows!"

  "It's okay," I said, patting her arm. "D
on't worry about that now. I'll get you some tea."

  "But I am worried about it, Rachael. The cops think I'm guilty."

  "They think everyone is guilty," I pointed out. "That's their job. Look, I've got something that might make you feel a little better."

  "You do?"

  "Follow me."

  Pippa flopped down on the bed in the spare room after she'd read through all the reviews and I told her what I'd overheard about Deena. "Don't you see, Pips? Deena had the perfect motive to murder Colleen. She was ruining her business."

  Pippa sat up. "Yeah, but she said Colleen didn't eat from her stall that day."

  "Of course she would say that. But she's been losing business for months, not just this week like the rest of us. Sure, she's been a little hurt by Bakermatic, but..."

  Pippa let out a little laugh.

  "What?"

  "It's just the first time I've heard you mention Bakermatic in a while. Usually you're obsessed with them. Are you finally willing to admit that they may not be the bad guys?"

  "Hey, they're still the bad guys. Let me be very clear on that. But maybe Jackson was right. Detective Whitaker, I mean. Maybe I was too focused, too biased. Now that I've taken a step back, I think the real suspect has become a lot more obvious."

  Chapter 8

  "Can I speak to Detective Whitaker, please?"

  "He's not at the station right now," a bored voice on the other end of the line said. "Is this an emergency?"

  "Not exactly an emergency."

  "Well, is it or isn't it?"

  "I'll call back later."

  Pippa was looking at me expectantly as I ended the call. "What happened?"

  "He's not there." I let out a sigh. "Even if he was, I don't think he'd want to listen to anything I have to say. He thinks I'm obsessed with blaming Bakermatic. He probably won't even listen to my new theory now. I'm like the girl who cried wolf."

  "Well, you were a little obsessed with Bakermatic," Pippa said teasingly.