Dying For a Cupcake: A Devereaux's Dime Store Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  “Thank you! I—”

  “Let me finish,” Kizzy interrupted. “If you learn how to do a proper French twist and agree to do my hair and makeup for free for all my public appearances for the next year, then I won’t write the letter of complaint.”

  “As long as I know enough ahead of time to trade gigs with another network stylist, I can do that,” Q vowed. “But how will I get to your events?”

  “I’ll provide transportation to anything that’s more than a three-hour drive.”

  “Thank you so much for the opportunity.” Q sounded subdued. “I appreciate it.”

  “You have a good sense of style,” Kizzy drawled. “Except, of course, in your own wardrobe choices. But I have to admit, your makeup techniques are amazing. You took at least ten years off my face.”

  “It’s the under-eye concealer,” Q gushed. “I mix it myself.”

  The conversation turned to makeup techniques, and after a few minutes of listening to which sponge or brush was best for what effect, I lost interest. Having ascertained that Q and Kizzy had come to a detente, and that both Q and her brother had an alibi, I felt free to leave my eavesdropping post in the storeroom.

  I had run out of suspects from Kizzy’s current life, and I was more convinced than ever that her would-be murderer was someone from her past. Now I just needed Boone to show up with that damn yearbook.

  CHAPTER 22

  There was a break between the end of the exhibition at four, and the award dinner, which started at five thirty. Hoping that as people left the display room upstairs they would stop to do some eleventh-hour souvenir shopping, I planned to keep the dime store open until the last minute, then head over to the Methodist church for the supper.

  Happily, I had guessed correctly. After the judges did their final tasting and withdrew to vote for the winner, the shop was inundated with customers. As I scooped ice cream, boxed candy, and kept the shelves of cupcake-themed items fully stocked, I thought about Kizzy’s sudden change of heart toward Q.

  I would have sworn she’d never allow the French twist incident to slide. She seemed like the type to hold a grudge so tightly it would have to bite her before she’d let it go. Although, if Q really could perform anti-aging miracles with her makeup applications, Kizzy was no doubt getting the better end of that bargain.

  When the deluge of shoppers thinned to a trickle, I glanced at my watch and frowned. I was starting to get worried about Boone. There was still no sign of him, and his last text had sworn that he had one more errand. Then he was on his way.

  Several more minutes ticked by and I was thinking of texting Boone again to check on him when he finally arrived. I had already let my father and Hannah leave, so I waved Boone to the soda fountain stools and turned my attention back to the trio of silver-haired ladies debating the purchase of matching cupcake earrings.

  The women were the last customers in the store but seemed in no hurry to finish their shopping. My patience was about worn out by the time they settled on the earrings with the blue cupcake liners versus the pink ones. Gritting my teeth in a lockjaw smile, I herded them over to the register and rang up their purchases. When the last octogenarian handed over her twelve dollars and fifty-three cents, I escorted the threesome to the exit, thanked them for their patronage, and restrained myself from pushing them out the door.

  As soon as they cleared the threshold, I turned the lock, flipped on the closed sign, and joined Boone. “Where in the hell have you been and where’s your cat?”

  “Hello to you, too,” Boone said, not at all disturbed by my impatience. “Tsar’s therapist decided he was ready for a playdate with my folks, so he’s staying with them for a couple of hours.”

  “I’m glad Tsar is doing so much better,” I said sincerely, then eagerly reached for the yearbook that Boone held protectively cradled to his chest. As we played tug-of-war with the annual, I demanded, “What did your friend say about Kizzy?”

  “Jeffrey was gone by the time I got there, but he left a note with the yearbook saying that Kizzy and her clique reigned over the school like Marie Antoinette and her court.” Boone continued to resist my efforts to pry the volume away from him and added, “He wrote that even the teachers were intimidated by her and her friends.”

  “Aha!” I finally managed to wrestle the book out of his fingers. “So Kizzy’s claim to Chief Kincaid that she was loved by all was a lie.”

  “Shocker.” Boone waved his hand in front of his face. “A popular girl who was mean. Could you get any more cliché than that?”

  “Fine.” I started paging through the yearbook. “Have you looked at this?”

  “I haven’t had time.” Boone crossed his legs. “And I wasn’t sure exactly what to search for. I mean, we can’t talk to the entire senior class. We need to figure out how the yearbook can help us narrow down who hated Kizzy.”

  “Yeah. And the killer might not even be someone who was in her grade. It could be anyone in school with her at the time,” I mused. Shoot! What were we looking for? I thought about it and said, “Maybe the activities pictures or the seniors’ last will and testament or the section where the seniors’ futures are predicted will give us a clue.”

  “Those are as good places to start as any.” Boone reached over and flipped pages until he came to the group photos. “Wow. Kizzy was in almost everything. She was the captain of the cheerleading squad, and here she is singing the lead in the all-school musical, and here she is again on the debate team. Hell, she was even a member of the FHA.”

  “There was a Federal Housing Administration club?” I raised a brow. Now I’d heard everything. “What did they do, loan out lunch money?”

  “Once a financial consultant, always a financial consultant,” Boone snickered. “FHA is Future Homemakers of America,” he clarified. “According to their banner in the photo, they are the family, career, and community leaders of America.” He tilted his head. “That’s probably where Kizzy got interested in baking.”

  “Or her interest in baking was why she joined the organization,” I said. “Although Harlee did say she and Kizzy had planned to marry their high school boyfriends and live next door to each other, so maybe Kizzy just wanted to learn to be a good homemaker.”

  “Could be,” Boone murmured. “How ironic. I see Kizzy only came in second place in the FHA cooking contest. Odd it doesn’t say who came in first. I bet Kizzy was ticked off at the winner.”

  “No doubt.” Having been around Kizzy for the past four days, I felt it safe to assume that she would regard second place as first loser. “The cupcake queen would not take being defeated well.”

  “It looks as if Harlee was in all the clubs and activities, too.” Boone pursed his lips. “But she was always in Kizzy’s shadow. She was the lead’s sister in the play and the assistant captain for the cheerleaders and a floater for the debate team.”

  “We definitely need to have another talk with Harlee,” I decided. “She avoided my question about why she and Kizzy left town so abruptly and why, after being best friends, they didn’t keep in touch.”

  “That is suspicious.” Boone nodded, then said, “Oh, here’re the senior prophecies.”

  “And?” I was curious to see what Kizzy’s classmates had predicted for her future.

  “According to this, Kizzy and Harlee will marry their high school sweethearts and live next door to each other in matching mansions.” Boone made a face. “They will each have two adorable children—a boy and a girl—and become president and vice president of the CDM.”

  “I’m sure Noah’s mother would have had something to say about that.” Nadine had been the supreme ruler of the Confederacy Daughters of Missouri for as long as anyone could remember.

  “If Kizzy Cutler had gotten married and stuck around Shadow Bend, I have a feeling Nadine might have had a run for her money.” Boone smirked.

  “Any mention
of who the girls’ sweethearts were?” I realized we hadn’t figured out any of the other members of Kizzy’s posse.

  “There are a lot of pictures of Kizzy, but it seems that anyone with her in those photos is in the shadow and their faces are hard to see.”

  “Crap!” I bit my lip. “We have to get Harlee to identify the rest of the crew.”

  “Put that question on the list,” Boone ordered, then added, “Here’s the seniors’ last will and testament. Kizzy leaves her overwhelming popularity to no one.”

  “Wow.” I marveled at the sheer audacity that it took to put something like that in writing. That was quite an ego, even for a teenager. “How about Harlee?”

  “I don’t see anything for her.” Boone ran his finger down the page, then shook his head. “Nope. Either Harlee didn’t write her will or the yearbook editor left her entry out.”

  “Who was the editor?” I asked, fairly sure I knew the answer.

  Boone turned to the listing in front of the book. “Kizzy, of course.”

  Having come to a dead end, we examined the yearbook again, this time going page by page. At the very back, stuck between the end pages and the cover, was a yellowed newspaper article. I placed it gently on the marble countertop and read the faded print.

  A white Cadillac DeVille driven by 16-year-old Marla Parrett was struck Saturday night by a train on the outskirts of Shadow Bend. Police report that the accident happened on the railroad tracks near First Avenue. Investigators said the girl was killed instantly. Police continue to investigate. The victim’s family refused to be interviewed, saying they are too grief-stricken to comment.

  “I wonder why your friend Jeffrey kept this clipping,” I mused.

  “Let’s go over to his house and ask him,” Boone suggested. “I texted him that I’d return his yearbook this afternoon, and he responded saying that he’d be home all day.”

  “Perfect.” I got up and started shutting off the lights. “I need to put in an appearance at the dinner, but even if we spend an hour talking to your friend, we should be able to get there in time to grab a bite to eat before the award announcement.”

  I locked up and we headed over to Jeffrey’s place. A few minutes later as I pulled into the driveway of the nineteen twenties brick bungalow, I was glad that Shadow Bend was so small and that most of the cupcakers were probably already over at the Methodist church, staking out the best tables. A couple of miles between most destinations and no traffic to speak of made me thankful to live in my little hometown.

  We walked up a short ramp to the front porch and I admired the four redbrick pillars supporting the sloping roof. The exterior was in pristine condition, but the vintage feeling of the house had been retained. Jeffrey greeted us at the door, and after Boone introduced me, his friend invited us inside. We followed Jeffrey’s motorized wheelchair as he led us into the living room and waved us to a seat on the brown leather sofa.

  “You have a lovely home.” I gestured around me. “The earth tones and walnut floor really complement the brick. And I love your wrought-iron chandelier and candleholders. It feels so cozy in here.”

  “Thank you. I’ve tried to restore it to what I imagined the original owners might have had.” Jeffrey positioned his chair facing us. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on.”

  “No, thanks,” I answered for us both. “We need to get over to the cupcake dinner before the awards, so we’re in a little bit of a hurry.”

  “We won’t keep you, but we have a question about an article we found in your yearbook.” Boone handed the clipping over to his friend. “We wondered why you had saved this particular piece.”

  “Ah.” Jeffrey examined the yellow paper carefully. “My first love.”

  “Marla Parrett was your girlfriend?” I asked, then said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not my girlfriend.” Jeffrey smoothed the clipping. “We were in occupational therapy together. She had a visual-motor learning disability and I was there because of my cerebral palsy.” He shook his head. “But she was a sophomore and I was only a freshman, so I never asked her out.” He gestured to his wheelchair. “Plus, I wasn’t sure how any girl would feel about this.”

  “So you admired her from afar,” Boone said. “Her accident must have been a horrible shock for you and everyone else in the school.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.” Jeffrey’s lips thinned. “And for most people in our school, Marla’s death wasn’t even a blip on their radar.”

  “Oh?” I asked, not quite sure how a train hitting a car could be anything but an accident. “Are you saying Marla was murdered?”

  “You could say that.” Jeffrey sighed. “Marla was bullied to death by Kizzy Cutler and the Cutthroats, which is what we called her clique. They didn’t physically abuse her, just tore her to shreds with their words.”

  “You mean Marla committed suicide?” I asked, wanting to make sure I understood his meaning. “But that wasn’t what the article said.”

  “Her family and the school worked together to hush it up, but witnesses said that Marla drove her car onto the tracks, shut off the motor, and just sat there as the train crashed into her.” He closed his eyes. “And no one cared enough to make sure the truth came out.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, then answered myself. “Because no one wanted to admit that some poor girl had been tormented so badly by the popular kids that she’d decided that death was the only answer.”

  “Precisely. The adults couldn’t acknowledge that a girl was persecuted to the point that she was afraid to walk down the hallway.” Jeffrey scowled. “Marla’s parents were already ashamed of their less-than-perfect daughter. She had a learning disability, she wasn’t socially adept, and she had no interest in makeup or hairstyles or the latest fashions.” Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “She was quiet, sweet, and loved to cook. Not exactly what most teenagers, or even grown-ups, admire.”

  “What I don’t understand is why Kizzy would target a mousy sophomore.” I tried to recall what I knew about bullies’ motives but drew a blank. Making a metal note to call one of my sorority sisters who was a school psychologist, I refocused on Jeffrey.

  “It all started that fall when Marla won the FHA baking contest with her vanilla-rosewater cupcakes,” Jeffrey explained. “She had come up with this amazing honey lavender icing, and her entry beat Kizzy’s by a mile. Besting Kizzy in that competition invoked the wrath of the Cutthroats.”

  Something about Jeffrey’s answer rang a bell in my head, but before I could figure out why, Boone said to his friend, “You didn’t mention this in the note you left me in the yearbook.”

  “I hadn’t thought of Marla or what happened to her in nearly twenty years.” Jeffrey looked at Boone. “Last night when you texted me about Kizzy, I was in such a hurry all I could recall was how popular she was.” Jeffrey stared at his lap, then buried his head in his hands. “No. That’s not true. I just didn’t want to relive it. I felt guilty. I had been so afraid that if I spoke up and tried to stop them from bullying Marla, they would turn on me.”

  “I very much doubt that you could have done anything to change what happened.” Boone got up and hugged his friend. “If anyone should feel ashamed for not intervening, it should be the teachers.”

  “No,” I said sharply, and both men looked at me strangely. “If anyone should feel guilty about Marla’s death, it should be Kizzy and her friends.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “We need to talk to Harlee,” I said, checking my watch as I slid behind the wheel of my Z4. “Let me call her and see if she’s home.”

  “Won’t she be at the supper?” Boone asked, buckling his seat belt.

  “I bet you’re right,” I said. “Since the little chat I had with her after the fashion show about people commenting about her absence at the cupcake events and the importance small-town
folks put on socializing, Harlee has attended all the festivities.”

  “It would be more productive to surprise her than to phone her and give her time to come up with answers,” Boone suggested.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. Harlee was a smart cookie, and I had a feeling she’d avoid the subject of Marla’s suicide if she could.

  I glanced at my watch. We’d spent fifteen minutes with Jeffrey. It took only five more to drive to the Methodist church, so dinner was still being served when we arrived. I spotted Poppy as soon as we walked into the banquet hall. The mayor had her cornered by the punch bowl. When she saw Boone and me, she jerked her head, indicating that she’d join us as soon as she was free.

  Harlee was sitting at a table with several women business owners I knew from the Chamber of Commerce. She seemed to be having a good time and I hoped that I wasn’t about to ruin her evening for nothing. When I caught her eye, I motioned for her to step into the hallway. With a puzzled expression, she nodded her agreement, then excused herself and stood.

  “What’s up?” Harlee asked as soon as we were in the corridor.

  “Do you know my friend Boone St. Onge?” I asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yes.” Harlee smiled at Boone. “He represented me when I purchased my store.”

  “As I recall, you did all the hard work.” Boone beamed back at the shopkeeper. “You negotiated a great deal for that building.”

  “Well, Boone and I were best friends all during school,” I said before the conversation got sidetracked into real estate law. “Sort of like you and Kizzy.” I leaned a hip casually against the wall. “Except, of course, that Boone and I have remained close.”