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

by Denise Swanson

  “How nice for you.” Harlee’s tone cooled. “But you two stayed in Shadow Bend.”

  “True,” I conceded. “Though geographical proximity is just one part of friendship. There’s also all the shared secrets and nicknames. Sometimes our friends know too much of our past to ever really untangle our lives.” I allowed her to process what I had said, then added, “Like being part of Kizzy’s clique. Once a Cutthroat always a Cutthroat, right?”

  “I see you’ve been talking to someone from the old days,” Harlee said, frowning.

  “That’s the problem with a small town.” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Long memories.” I paused, then said, “Especially when a girl takes her own life rather than face one more second of bullying.”

  “I—” Harlee flinched as if I had slapped her, but she lifted her chin and said, “I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

  “Let’s not drag this out.” The more I thought about Marla’s torment, the less patient I became. “Because Kizzy couldn’t stand to come in second in anything, let alone a baking contest, the Cutthroats harassed Marla Parrett until she drove her parents’ Cadillac onto a railroad track, shut off the motor, and waited for a train to wipe her off the face of the earth.” I stared at Harlee. “There’s no way you weren’t a part of Marla’s mistreatment. Birds of a feather flock together. Then they crap all over the ugly ducklings.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Harlee tried to speak, then buried her head in her hands. Finally, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and choked out, “Poor Marla. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret what we did to that girl. Regret that I decided to stick with my friends rather than put a stop to Marla’s persecution . . .” Harlee trailed off, then said, “The psychological damage Kizzy inflicted with her bullying was only a game to her. She reveled in the chaos it created. But the night Marla died, I vowed never to allow anyone else to be terrorized.”

  Before I could respond, Boone squeezed my arm and shook his head. I closed my mouth and waited. I still wasn’t sure how this all connected to the attempts on Kizzy’s life, but I was beginning to see a glimmer of possibility. If I could just nail down the thought that was floating in the back of my consciousness.

  “I joined the service the next day,” Harlee continued. “And I worked hard to make sure wherever I was stationed or whatever I was assigned to do, the people of that country and the soldiers around me were protected.” She straightened. “I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for what my friends and I did to Marla, but I severed all ties with Kizzy and the others. I had no idea what had become of her until Ronni came up with this Cupcake Weekend extravaganza. I don’t eat sweets, so I’d never heard of Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes until Ronni told me about her plan to bring the competition to Shadow Bend.”

  “When did you decide to murder your old friend?” I asked, even though there was something bothering me about Harlee as the killer.

  “Never!” Harlee yelped. “I’m not the one who’s been trying to kill her.”

  “Can you prove it?” I asked. “Because from where I stand, you’re the best suspect.” I ticked the points off on my fingers. “First, Kizzy made you do something that has haunted you ever since you were eighteen. Second, instead of going to college, you ended up in the army. Third—”

  “I have an alibi for the time of the hit-and-run attempt,” Harlee interrupted me. “I was within the sight of my clerk and all the models for the fashion show from six p.m. until the show was over.” She sighed. “If you don’t believe me, ask Chief Kincaid. He interviewed my assistant and the models this morning and was satisfied that I was innocent.”

  “Oh.” Evidently, the chief had listened to me after all. But that meant my last suspect was in the clear. Hell! My chance of solving the mystery and claiming the reward Lee had offered was fading faster than a cheap T-shirt. “Are any of the other Cutthroats still in town?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Harlee sagged against the wall. “Kizzy told me the other night that her boyfriend and mine went on to college, married other women, and live halfway across the country.” Harlee twisted a strand of hair. “The four of us were the core of the group. The others were mostly hangers-on. I haven’t heard that any of them stuck around Shadow Bend after high school. Since there are so few jobs here, most kids who go to college don’t seem to come back.”

  “Damn!” I chewed on that information for a while, then said, “I wonder if Marla’s parents are still here.” I pursed my lips. “Probably not. I don’t remember anyone named Parrett in the area.”

  “The family’s name isn’t Parrett,” Harlee said. “Marla was Mr. Bourne’s stepdaughter. You know the guy who owns the Savings and Guaranty? Mrs. Bourne was a widow with a one-year-old daughter when they got married. They had Gwen three or four years later.”

  How had I not known that Gwen had a half-sister who had died? Probably because I would have been only nine or ten at the time of Marla’s death. Maybe I had heard about the train crashing into a car, but probably not too much about the victim or the circumstances of the accident. Afterward, everyone involved would have wanted to let the matter drop and forget the ill-treated teen existed.

  I had to swallow the lump in my throat that had formed for the forgotten girl before I could speak, but I finally said, “Mr. and Mrs. Bourne live in Florida now.” I recalled the buzz around town a couple of months ago. After an incident with the president of his bank, Mr. Bourne had hired a new manager—a position he’d offered to my father, who had turned down the job—and retired from actively running the Savings and Guaranty. The Bournes had then given their big fancy house to their daughter and moved away. “So neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bourne is around here to go after Kizzy to retaliate for Marla’s suicide. Not that they would, considering that they reacted to the poor girl’s death by hushing up the whole thing.”

  “How about Marla’s sister?” Harlee asked. “Gwen would have been eleven or twelve when she died. Want to bet that her folks never told her the real story?”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I can’t afford that kind of gambling loss.”

  “Marla’s death might explain a lot about Gwen’s personality,” Boone said. “It had to be devastating to lose her sister like that.”

  “It must have been horrible for her.” I felt a little bad about how I’d treated Gwen in the past, then remembered that when I virtually lost both my parents during my teenage years, she’d been none too nice to me, either. Still, maybe I’d cut her some slack from now on—unless, of course, she was the murderer. I turned to Harlee. “You’re suggesting that Gwen discovered what really happened to her sister, and when Kizzy came to town, she decided to avenge Marla’s death?”

  “Anything’s possible.” Harlee shrugged. “It’s hard to tell how people will react to discovering a secret from their past. A twelve-year-old might have felt protective of her sister. Marla’s differentness made her vulnerable. And even though she was the older sibling, she was the one who the parents didn’t treat very well. Gwen might have some guilt over being the favorite.”

  “Maybe Gwen found something when she took possession of the family home that made her question the circumstance surrounding her sister’s death,” I speculated. “Then talked to someone like we did. Someone who was able to tell her the true story of Marla’s so-called accident.”

  “Someone who remembered how badly Kizzy reacted to Marla’s winning the FHA baking contest,” Boone added. “And told Gwen about the bullying.”

  “That’s it!” The fragment of an idea that had been niggling at me since we talked to Boone’s friend finally crystallized. “Kizzy’s original cupcake, the one she founded her company on, was a vanilla-rosewater combination with lavender honey frosting. Which, according to Jeffrey, was the flavor of Marla’s first-prize creation.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Harlee slid to the floor as if her bones had turned to water. “Kizzy not only t
ormented Marla to death, she appropriated her recipe and made millions from it.”

  “And that is more than enough motive for Gwen to want revenge,” I said. “Gwen has a real thing about possession and ownership.” I turned to Boone. “Look how she is about Noah. He took her out once, and now she thinks I stole him from her and hates me. She might have been upset to find out about the bullying, but profiting from a recipe that belonged to the Bourne family would push her over the edge.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “So you never realized that Kizzy stole Marla’s cupcake recipe?” I asked Harlee, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  “Remember, I told you that I had never even heard of her company until Ronni told me about it.” Harlee took a deep shuddering breath. “So I had no idea what kind of cupcakes she sold.”

  “I’m surprised someone from town didn’t figure it out.” Boone frowned.

  “Except that Kizzy didn’t start her company until several years after Marla won the contest,” I reminded him. “By then, who would think about a high school bake-off recipe?”

  “Especially since the winner was dead, and everyone involved wanted to forget the incident,” Harlee added, with a grimace.

  “Sadly, true,” Boone agreed.

  “What are you going to do now?” Harlee stared at me. “Your theory that Gwen is the killer is all supposition.”

  “First, I need to think over some stuff.” I paced up and down the hallway. “Once I have it all straight in my mind, I’ll call Chief Kincaid, tell him what we figured out, and turn the entire matter over to him.”

  “Let me know if you need me to corroborate anything to the chief,” Harlee said. “I’m going to head home. This stroll down memory lane has ruined my appetite.” She sighed. “I need a stiff drink a lot more than a heavy dinner.”

  After the door closed behind Harlee, Boone asked, “Now what?”

  “Before we go to Chief Kincaid, I want to make sure Gwen doesn’t have an alibi for any of the incidents. I can’t figure out a way to check her whereabouts for the time of the package delivery to Fallon on Thursday, but I know I saw her at the dime store just before Kizzy arrived on Saturday, so she definitely could have snuck upstairs and bonked the cupcake queen over the head. Setting my store on fire would have been a twofer for her, considering how much she dislikes me.” I chewed my lip. “Gwen was also at the Friday night dinner, but I don’t remember if she left before we did. She would have had to leave at least ten minutes or so before our group in order to have time to get her car and try to run Kizzy over.”

  “Didn’t you tell me Vaughn Yager was her escort?” Boone asked. “Certainly, he’d know how long she stayed at the supper.”

  “Right.” I strode over to the banquet hall entrance. “That’s a good place to start. I saw him inside, sitting with his aunt. Let’s go ask him about his date with Gwen.”

  Vaughn greeted me, shook Boone’s hand, then said, “You look like a couple on a mission. Is there something I can do for you two?”

  “What made you decide to ask Gwen Bourne to go with you to the dinner Friday night?” I asked immediately, too impatient to ease into my questions.

  “Actually, she phoned me.” Vaughn gave me a shrewd look. “I was sort of surprised.”

  “Did you pick her up and drive her to St. Saggy’s?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered slowly. “She said she might be running late, so asked me to meet her in the foyer. Funny thing. She was there before me. Why?”

  “I’ll explain everything later, I promise,” I assured him, then asked, “Did you go to the fashion show together afterward?”

  “We were supposed to,” Vaughn said, crossing his arms, “but she said she had an early day and was too tired, so she cut out from the supper right after you saw us together.” He wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t believe her excuse, but by then I was glad to get rid of her, so I bid her a fond farewell and finished my chocolate cream pie in peace.” He curled his lip. “I don’t mind a little wickedness, but I draw the line at malicious, and that woman is spiteful with a capital S.”

  “Thanks!” I kissed Vaughn on the cheek. I took Boone’s hand and hurried him away.

  Once we were back in the hallway, Boone said, “So Gwen had her own car Friday night and could have used it to try to mow down Kizzy.”

  “That’s two attempts she could have made on the cupcake queen’s life—the hit-and-run and the fire.” I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. “I just wish I knew how to find out about where Gwen was Thursday evening.”

  Before Boone could respond, Poppy came rushing out to the banquet hall and said, “They’re about to start the award ceremony. You guys better get inside.”

  “Did you save us a seat and something to eat?” I asked, taking a step to follow her.

  “Would I let you guys go hungry?” Poppy asked. “Three of the ladies on Mom’s committee pooped out on her, so I came early to help set up and snagged a table by the stage.”

  “There are perks to being a dutiful daughter,” I said.

  “Definitely. Those church women move the heavy tables around like they’re made of Styrofoam.” Poppy held open the door for us. “And I got a good giggle when I saw Gwen sneak in. I’ve never seen her such a mess. She usually looks like she just fell off a charm bracelet, but today she had her hair shoved up in a baseball cap and wore sunglasses. I guess she didn’t have time to do her usual full war paint.”

  “Gwen was here prior to the church hall opening up to the public?” Goose bumps popped up on my arms and I shivered.

  “Right after Mom and I unlocked the door. We were in the storage room counting out chairs, but my phone rang, so I stepped out into the corridor to get a better signal and I saw Gwen disappear into the banquet room.” Poppy frowned. “She had a gift-wrapped box, so I peeked through the door’s window to see what she was going to do with it.”

  “And?” Boone asked.

  “She put it on the floor by Kizzy’s chair,” Poppy answered. “Who would have guessed that Gwen was a Cutler’s Cupcakes groupie?”

  “Call the police,” I ordered, pushing past her through the door. “I think Gwen might be trying to poison Kizzy again.”

  “Again?” Poppy asked. “You mean Gwen was the one who poisoned Fallon?”

  “That’s our current theory,” I shouted as I darted inside the banquet hall.

  I found Kizzy and Lee chatting with the mayor and finishing their desserts. A large brightly wrapped package was sitting on the floor by Kizzy’s feet. Neither of the women seemed the least bit sick, and if I recalled correctly, Fallon had felt ill almost immediately. I skidded to a halt, wondering if my suspicion of Gwen was totally off base.

  Not wanting to look like a hysterical fool, I thought quickly. If I could remove the box and turn it over to Chief Kincaid when he arrived, I wouldn’t have to risk falsely accusing Gwen of murder.

  Pasting a smile on my face, I said, “Kizzy, Lee, how’s everything going?”

  “Fine,” Lee answered. “We’re about to announce the contest winner.”

  “Great.” I beamed. “The cupcakes all looked fabulous when I saw them this afternoon. The judges must have had a tough time deciding.”

  “I’m sure,” Lee agreed.

  “I see someone gave you a present, Kizzy.” I edged toward the box. “Would you like me to put it in your car for you so you don’t have to worry about it later? It looks sort of unwieldy.”

  “Sure.” Kizzy narrowed her eyes at me as if wondering why I was being so helpful, then pursed her lips. “But I’m still going to remember that you wouldn’t lend me a hand to carry stuff up to the display room yesterday.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, forcing out the insincere apology. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Hmm. Our car is the white 1960 Lincoln Continental.” Kizzy jerked
her head toward Lee. “Give her the keys.”

  “Thanks.” I tucked the ring Lee tossed to me into my pocket, then realized that I didn’t want to touch the package. Maybe poison took longer with some people than with others. Grabbing two napkins, I used them like potholders to pick up the box.

  When I noticed that Lee and Kizzy were staring at me, I said, “The wrapping is so pretty I don’t want to get it dirty.”

  Kizzy lost interest and turned back to the mayor, but Lee raised a brow and I shrugged. Hurrying back into the hallway, I rejoined Poppy and Boone in the foyer.

  “Chief Kincaid should be here any second,” Boone reported. “I see you got the gift. Did Kizzy seem sick?”

  “Not at all.” I put the box on the floor. “Maybe we’re wrong about Gwen.”

  Before Poppy or Boone could answer, Chief Kincaid marched through the front door, pointed toward the package at my feet, and demanded, “Is that the box in question?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, then explained how I had gotten it away from Kizzy.

  “So Ms. Cutler didn’t appear ill?” Chief Kincaid asked me. When I shook my head, he turned to Poppy and asked, “Did Gwen have gloves on or did she carry the package up to Ms. Cutler bare-handed?”

  “I’m pretty sure I would have noticed gloves.” Poppy paused, then nodded to herself. “She was definitely bare-handed.”

  “If Gwen is the killer—”

  Chief Kincaid interrupted me. “When Boone explained your theory of Gwen’s motive to me, I checked to see what kind of vehicle she drives. That information, along with what I learned not fifteen minutes ago, has left me strongly suspecting that Gwen is indeed our murderer.”

  “Why?” Boone asked. “You told Lee Kimbrough that you thought she did it.”

  “Ms. Kimbrough was the prime suspect in our investigation, but now we have new evidence,” Chief Kincaid informed us.

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wells are back. They’re the folks who live across the street from Veronica Ksiazak’s B and B in that big Gothic revival house. The ones who left town to avoid the Cupcake Weekend crowds,” Chief Kincaid said, then looked at me to see if I was following his explanation. When I nodded, he continued. “I was interviewing them when Boone called. The husband told me that he was out walking their dog Thursday evening and saw a package being delivered to the guesthouse.”