Death by Chocolate Cake: A Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery

by Stacey Alabaster

  Renee pulled some cookies out of a plastic packet and arranged them awkwardly on a plate while I waited for her a few feet away at the dining room table.

  "Sorry, this is all I've got," she said, a bit ashamed. "Usually I bake my own fresh, of course. I suppose cookies from a packet don't hold much appeal to you."

  I smiled at her. "Usually they would be fine, don't worry. I mean, it's not the packet that's the issue for me. I'm afraid I have been diagnosed with an allergy to gluten."

  Renee looked stunned. "But how do you get by with the bakery?"

  "I've introduced a lot of gluten-free items," I said, gratefully accepting the tea she placed in front of me. "So I can at least taste test some of what we are serving."

  Renee was quiet for a moment. "When I found out that you had got through the audition ahead of me..." Her voice trailed off and she had to clear her throat before wrapping her own hands around her mug of tea for moral support.

  "It's okay," I said. "I'm not here to accuse you. Or judge you. I just want to find out what happened."

  "I just saw red," Renee explained, staring down into the depths of her teacup. "I wanted to get through more than anything. You know how much the prize money is, right?"

  "Of course." I bit my tongue when I thought about how unlikely it was that any of us there on that day were going to win, though. Even if we'd gotten through—and that was a low chance in itself—then we had to beat twenty-three other bakers, all of them more ruthless than the next, to get right to the end.

  Renee waved a hand around her house. "You can see how much that money would have meant to me, and my kids." I could hear them watching TV in the next room, the box temporarily sedating them.

  I nodded, feeling guilty now. Maybe I'd never deserved to be cast over Renee. I thought back to Justin and all his quotes and sound bites about what made good TV, but what about the people who really needed the experience? What about the people it could be a matter of life and death for? Was good TV more important than any of that?

  "And when Justin let slip that Pierre hadn't actually liked your cake," Renee said, finally looking up at me to cast me a suspicious look. "Well, I just looked at you, young and pretty, and my mind started putting two and two together...even though the answer probably didn't add up."

  "I only met him that day," I said quietly.

  "I know," Renee said.

  "So why did you tell the story to the press then? Were you really that mad at me?"

  Renee shook her head. "It was nothing personal, Rachael. The press descended as soon as Pierre was killed, you probably know that. They wanted anything, any little tidbit or gossip from the contestants, and they were willing to pay us for our stories." Renee gulped. "They were offering money. And the juicier the story, the more money they handed out. Even if it had nothing to do with Pierre's actual death."

  I sucked in a small breath. Suddenly Renee's outfit and fancy haircut, the ones that didn't quite match the rest of her surroundings, all made sense. "How much did they pay you?"

  Renee took a sip of her tea. "Enough." She looked at me. "Let's just say I don't need to win a reality TV show competition anymore." She offered me a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Rachael. But I'm sure you would have done the same thing."

  I wasn't sure I would have, but I didn't have five kids under twelve. Under the same circumstances, I probably would have done anything to provide for them. I just nodded. "It's okay. I can handle the rumors, and the gossip. But Renee, I just have to know what happened to Pierre. Did you see anything that day?"

  Renee shook her head. "Nothing. I was alone, crying in the green room when it happened."

  "And can anyone confirm that?"

  She shot me a look. "No. I was alone. But I spoke to Dawn Ashfield soon afterwards. She comforted me. Ask her, she can tell you just how upset I was about the whole thing."

  So much for not running into any handsome men out this way.

  I groaned when I saw the police car pull into the driveway, leaving enough room for my car to get out, but not leaving me enough time to scramble into it to check that my hair looked okay.

  "Jackson. I'm surprised to see you here."

  He gave me a wry look. "I'm not surprised to see you," he said rather pointedly. But his tone was a little jocular. He cleared his throat. "I hear that you've been poking your nose around?" He raised an eyebrow as he waited for my response.

  "And how did you hear about that, exactly?"

  "Well, from everyone I interview. Seems you're always there half an hour before I am."

  Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Oh. So I’m there before you, am I?"

  He cleared his throat again. "Anyway. I thought you didn't want to help out?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Right. You just didn't want to help me out. I see how it is."

  I sighed. "YOU didn't want me to help you out, remember?"

  "I seem to remember asking for your help."

  "No," I said, cutting him off. "You made a point of letting me know that it was Detective Crawford's decision to ask me, not yours."

  Jackson's face fell a little. "That's why you refused? Rachael, why do you care if it was Emma's decision or mine?"

  I squirmed a little. I didn't really have a good answer for that without revealing the rather shameful truth—that I had been jealous. That I was jealous.

  "I don't care. I didn't care. I just didn't feel like you really wanted me to help out. That you only asked reluctantly."

  "And that matters why? Isn't the only important thing that the case gets solved?"

  He was right. It should have been the only important thing. Maybe I'd been foolish, letting my pride get in the way. It was all starting to feel pretty petty now.

  "I only started to investigate because my friend—well, he's sort of my friend—Justin was getting the blame, and he wanted me to find out who was really responsible," I explained, lamely. "Honestly, I had no intention of looking into it at all until then."

  "Oh, we know all about Justin, don't you worry about that," Jackson replied. His tone was very heated. "We're keeping a very close eye on him."

  "Wait, you guys don't think he did it, do you?"

  Jackson was quiet for a moment. "You know I can't really share that information with you. But if you've got any information for us that might be useful, I suggest you share it."

  "Oh," I said, indignant. "So this is a one way street, is it? I have to tell you everything I know but you can't share anything with me?"

  "Yes, Rachael," he replied. "That's how police business works. I wouldn't like to think you were keeping any valuable information from us. Are you?"

  I thought about that photo of Marcello with Pierre.

  It's not time yet. You don't know anything for sure.

  Pippa would kill me.

  I shook my head weakly. "No. Only what you already know, I'm sure. I've just talked to Renee and I'm sure you got the same information out of her that I did."

  "Well, maybe you ought to come down to the station so we can compare notes and confirm that. After I've interviewed her myself, of course."

  "Fine," I said with a sigh. Didn't look like I really had much choice in the matter anyway.

  The old familiar smell of the Belldale Police Station hit me before I was chaperoned to the interview room. The smell was a stale one, tinged with a shot of melting-plastic and cigarettes, even though it was obviously illegal to smoke inside. Someone had been burning some kind of vanilla oil to try and inject some sweetness into the air.

  "I'm sure Renee didn't do it," I said, even before I'd sat down in the old familiar seat of the interview room. "I can tell you that right away. You don't need to look at my notes." Mostly because I didn't have any and I was worried he might actually want to see physical proof of my hunches.

  I wondered if I kept at this investigation game, whether I would have to start taking notes like a real detective. But that would be sort of like committing to it. And I still wasn't sure
I was quite there yet.

  Jackson shifted uncomfortably as he settled across from me, in a far more comfortable, padded seat. "What makes you say that? How can you be so sure that Renee is innocent?" I analyzed his tone. It didn't sound like he didn't believe me, necessarily, just that he was eager to know what evidence I had.

  I shrugged. "She only wanted to go on the TV show for the money. She has that now. So she has no reason to want Pierre dead."

  "You mean the money she got from the press?"

  I slunk back in my seat. Jackson knew about the rumors. Of course he did.

  He continued, "But she wouldn't have known she had that when she committed the murder. Hypothetically, of course."

  Good point.

  I quickly ran through what Renee had told me, before filling him in on everything I knew about Adam Ali and Justin as well.

  Jackson nodded slowly. "Those are our three main suspects then?"

  "Do you mean they are the cop's three suspects when you say our? Or do you just use it to refer to me?"

  He still wasn't giving much away. If he'd just accidentally let something important slip in a moment of weakness then he wasn't going to admit to it.

  I sighed. "Yes. Those are the three suspects."

  Jackson leaned back and the front two legs of his chair raised off the floor a little. He examined me closely.

  "And you're sure you don't know anything else that you're not telling us? There’s no secret suspect up your sleeve?"

  I shook my head. "Why would you even ask that? I've told you everything I know. I've told you about everyone I suspect might have killed Pierre."

  "Because if you are keeping something from us, Rachael, that would be a very serious matter."

  I bit down hard on my tongue. It was about to spill out: Marcello did it!

  But I just shook my head. "Looks like I'm not that much more competent than you are right now."

  Jackson leaned forward suddenly in his chair, bringing the top two legs down with a thud. "I think we're done here."

  Chapter 10

  At least Marcello couldn't cause any trouble while he was asleep. It was my preferred state for him.

  But Pippa awoke as I approached the sofa. It was already 10:00 AM of the newly appointed 'moving day' and I knew she'd appreciate the suggestion I was about to put forth.

  "How about I move the boxes for you guys? Go on ahead and you can catch up with me later. I know that Marcello can't do much with his finger all stitched up like that," I said, swinging a look towards Marcello's index finger that still looked liked a swollen sausage that had been badly stitched up. "And you ought to stay here to look after him, don't you think?" I added, trying to sound sympathetic.

  Pippa nodded a little hesitantly. "Only if you're sure though, Rach."

  "Couldn't be more sure."

  With the boxes loaded in the back of my car and the keys to Pippa's new apartment firmly in the pocket of my jeans, I was all set...for the chance to snoop through all of Marcello's stuff.

  Sure, I felt a little bit guilty for lying to Pippa, but it was all going to be worth it when I found proof, undeniable proof, that Marcello had known Pierre Hamilton and had been there the day he was killed.

  It took even longer than I'd feared to get to Pippa’s new place in downtown Belldale. Looked like she was soon to be no closer than a twenty-five minute drive away from me. Right now, she was a twenty-five second walk away from me.

  That was if she still wanted to go ahead with the moving plans.

  I had an inkling that once I found what I had a hunch I'd find, her plans might change somewhat.

  When I finally pulled into her new place, I barely had time to even appreciate how nice the apartment was.

  If this was located anywhere else, say on the other side of the highway, I’d live here, I thought, as I hurried in with the boxes. I wanted to be inside, out of the way of preying eyes, before I unleashed the carnage.

  Using the same knife that Marcello had used to slice through his finger, I began to gut the boxes, one by one. I had no idea how long it would be before Pippa, and maybe even Marcello himself, joined me.

  Items spilled out as I sliced the boxes open. I got down to my knees and sifted through them, looking for something, anything, that would confirm the unthinkable: that Marcello had killed Pierre.

  It was a mad scramble at first and I realized I was getting nowhere the way I was chucking things over my shoulder and frantically sifting through books, photos, receipts, and random accessories.

  I took a deep breath and thought about what my nana would have told me. "Take your time, Rachael. Be methodical. Don't leave anything to chance."

  I started over and began to sort the items into piles, taking the time to check over each one carefully.

  "There has to be something here."

  Time passed without me realizing it as I flicked through Marcello's journals and diaries and passport. Most of the writing was in Italian and anything I couldn't read, I secretively placed in my purse to take with me—either to show to someone who spoke Italian, or to translate it later myself with the help of Professor Google.

  I was just about to pack everything up and send Pippa a text when something came fluttering out of one of Marcello's leather backed journals.

  A bus ticket.

  Innocuous enough at first, I turned it over and read the details.

  I froze. It was a ticket for a concession pass to Hillsville Park. The place that played host to the Baking Warriors audition and the makeshift studio on audition day.

  My heart almost stopped beating. I even reached up and thumped my chest to try and get it working again. With my hands shaking now, I checked the dates.

  Then double-checked them.

  July 22nd. The day of the auditions. The day that Pierre Hamilton had died.

  I was so shocked that I didn't hear the footsteps enter the empty apartment behind me. I probably wouldn't have heard an earthquake in that moment.

  I probably wouldn't have heard Marcello in that moment.

  But it wasn't him that entered the apartment. It was Pippa. And it was too late for me to hide the wreckage.

  I spun around as I saw the shadow behind me.

  "Rachael?" Pippa's voice said. "What the heck are you doing?"

  I scrambled to my feet, trying to hide the evidence of what I was doing by kicking the exposed items underneath an overturned cardboard box. I shoved the ticked into my coat pocket.

  I gulped. "Pippa, it's not what it looks like." Even though it kind of was exactly what it looked like.

  "Why are you snooping through Marcello's stuff?" At first Pippa's face was nothing but confusion, but all color and expression drained from it as the realization dawned upon her.

  "What? Rachael, please tell me there's another reason why you are going through Marcello’s things." Her voice was a breathy whisper now. "Please tell me that, I don't know, that you're secretly obsessed with him or something! Or secretly in love with him. Anything would be better... Anything but...but..." She couldn't even finish her sentence.

  "Pippa, I didn't want to tell you until I was certain..."

  Pippa shook her head and backed away from me, tripping over a box as she went. She barely even noticed as she straightened herself up.

  "Marcello knew Pierre, Pippa."

  "No, he didn't," she whispered furiously. "Don't be stupid."

  "He did. He was at the studio that day, Pippa."

  But she didn't want to listen to me. "Big deal, what does that prove? So what, he was at the studio." But her eyes were wild and her voice shook.

  Pippa crossed her arms over her chest like a petulant child. "You're only saying all of this because you don't like Marcello. You think I made a mistake by marrying him."

  "Pippa, I have proof," I said, turning over the box to find the bus ticket. "Here, look at this," I said, waving it in her face. But she turned away and stuck her nose up like I had poked a dish of sour milk underneath her nose.
r />   Pippa was still backing away from me while my arm was outstretched, the ticket still dangling from it.

  "I can't believe this, Rachael. I thought you liked Marcello!" She stamped her foot on the floor this time, becoming more and more like a four year old by the second. "Did you only volunteer to help move his stuff so that you could come up with this crazy theory?"

  I dropped the arm holding the bus ticket. Time to try a different tactic.

  "When did you meet Marcello, Pippa?" I asked gently.

  "What does that matter?" Pippa asked, but some of the insolence was gone from her voice and she looked up at me plaintively.

  "Pippa, when you met him, did you tell him where you were from? Who you lived with? Anything like that?"

  Pippa shook her head tearfully. "I guess so," she said, as tears dropped to the ground. "I told him I was from Belldale, of course, and he was so excited to get married and move here. Or at least, I thought he wanted to move here." She sucked in a sharp breath. "Maybe he just wanted to come here to..."

  I hugged Pippa tight to me. "It's okay. You'll be safe now. You don't have to worry. I'll call Jackson." I just hoped it wasn't too late.

  "It can't be true, Rach." Pippa's lip started to tremble. She slumped down onto the floor and looked around the empty apartment before bursting into tears, her whole body shaking while a horrible noise that sounded like a dying animal escaped from her lungs.

  "Pippa, it's okay," I said, hurrying towards her, but she pushed me away. It wasn't so much a case of shooting the messenger as it was of shoving the messenger onto the floor.

  "Pippa, please."

  "I thought he loved me," she sobbed, burying her head in her knees as she rocked back and forth. "But all this time he was only using me."

  "Pippa, please." I knelt down besides her and tried to place my arm round her shoulders.

  "I should have known that someone as handsome as him would never be interested in someone like me," she wailed.

  "Pippa, that's not true. Of course they would be. It's just Marcello specifically that wasn't."

  Her wailing only grew louder. Okay, that was a stupid thing to say.