Dead Velvet Cupcakes

by Polly Holmes

Why are you lying? The words flowed from her lips as if she’d practiced them a hundred times. “Why lie, Mary-Jane? I know for a fact Brad and Sheryl are out of town and I also know you told Clair you were picking up cupcakes for Sheryl. What are you hiding?”

  Mary-Jane’s jarring words were unexpected. “Why, you nosy little cow. How dare you stick your nose into my business? What I do in my life is of no concern of yours. I don’t have to justify myself to you or anyone else, for that matter.”

  All the muscles in her arm tensed and she gripped the phone so hard she feared she’d snap it in two. “If you lied about the cupcakes this morning, maybe you lied before. Maybe you lied about your alibi.”

  A disturbingly chilling laugh blared in her ear. “Ha-ha, don’t be so ridiculous. I’d like to see you try and prove it.”

  Why react so defensively? “You can deny it all you want, but I can sense you’re hiding something, Mary-Jane, and I’m going to find out if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Careful what you wish for.” Mary-Jane’s sinister tone was only superseded by another spine-chilling laugh. The line went dead.

  Half of Margarete’s brain was screaming to call the police, the other half was pleading for more concrete evidence. She sat, flustered, her brain churning the conversation over. “It’s you. It has to be you, Mary-Jane. But how to prove it?”

  Anger began to simmer in the base of her gut. Margarete flopped back on the couch, her body buzzing with adrenaline. Surely, she had enough information for Kayne to at least question Mary-Jane. Margarete’s gaze dropped to the open magazine on her lap, a name catching her attention. She surged forward, raising the article for a closer look.

  “Houses to the Stars, by Morgan Archer.” She licked her lips and her throat began to dry as the impact of her realisation suck in. “Morgan’s career started at the ripe age of twenty, when he secured an apprenticeship with one of the leading interior design firms in Australia.”

  He…Morgan Archer is a he, not a she. Mary-Jane killed Pierre and lied about her alibi. I finally have the evidence to prove it.

  Margarete sat a moment, every muscle in her body seized like a broken-down car engine. Her chest began to heave, and she fought to keep calm, her fingers curling in horror. “Mary-Jane murdered Pierre… Oh my God, Mary-Jane murdered Pierre.” The woman on the video footage was Mary-Jane, she was sure of it. It all made perfect sense now, except for a motive.

  Margarete was so deep in thought she almost jumped out of her skin when Billy Ray Cyrus’ voice roared to life. “Hello.”

  “Margarete, I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier.”

  Margarete’s entire body stiffened. “It’s you, you murdered Pierre. The woman on the video footage is the same height as you. Why buy cupcakes for Sheryl when she and Brad are out of town? Morgan Archer is a man, not a woman. Which means at the time of the murder, you couldn’t have been in an interview with her. Otherwise, you would have known Morgan Archer was a man.”

  Margarete willed herself to stay calm as panic ripped over her. Poking holes in someone alibi over the phone was probably not the best idea, considering she was home alone. It was now that she wished she’d waited for Logan to get back before she’d blabbed her thoughts out loud.

  Mary-Jane’s commanding voice sliced through Margarete like a samurai sword. “As if you’d understand. Everything was spinning out of control and I knew you were getting close, too close. Now you know. I guess the only question is who are you going to tell?”

  Margarete saw red. “The police, of course. Once I give my statement to Kayne, I’m sure he’ll want to question you.”

  “Oh, dear, I really wish you hadn’t said that,” Mary-Jane said tutting. “I had hoped to convince you otherwise. I really didn’t want to add to the body count, but I guess you’ve made that choice for me now. All I can say is poor Logan. I hope you hadn’t planned a long life together.”

  Poor Logan…. Long life? What is she talking about?

  “What do you mean poor Logan? What has Logan got to do with it?” she demanded, bolting off the couch, her knees barely holding her body weight. An invisible hand crushed the air in her throat, and she fought against the urge to vomit. “Wh-wh-what have you done?”

  Mary-Jane’s menacing laugh chilled her to the bone. “Unfortunately, Logan’s been detained…with me. Shame to see such a nice young man pay the price for your interference. You have a choice to make, my dear. Tell the police and Logan will be forced to enjoy a slice of the most delicious hazelnut and chocolate cake. You really shouldn’t make cakes with nuts in them, you never know who has an allergy these days. And unless you do as I say, that is exactly what’s going to happen.”

  The blood drained from her face. Her knees buckled and she hit the couch hard, in one downward motion. She gasped. Her lungs were starved for air. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t some Hollywood crime movie. You took another human being’s life, Mary-Jane. You’re the one who has to pay for that, not Logan.”

  “That all depends on you, doesn’t it? Unless you do exactly as I say, the body count is about to rise,” Mary-Jane snapped.

  Margarete gulped around the lump in her throat and her pulse raced. “What do I have to do?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Margarete pulled up just down from the café, her hands gripping the steering wheel. The briny sea breeze filtered through the air conditioner and lodged in the top of her nostrils. The street was sparse of tourist traffic, except for a few scattered cars dotting the length of the main street. A typical Tuesday afternoon in Ashton Point. She always closed the café early on Monday and Tuesday, due to the thinning people traffic. Today she was thankful Savannah hadn’t changed the schedule.

  “Am I really going to do this?” she muttered, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Mary-Jane’s wicked voice squirmed its way into her thoughts. If you’d like to see Logan again, bring your so-called evidence to the lookout down by Johns Cape. And don’t think of calling the police. If I see any sign of the authorities, I’ll personally hand-feed your boyfriend a slice of hazelnut cake.

  Margarete scrambled for her phone and dialled Logan’s number one more time, her eyes catching sight of the interior design magazine on the passenger seat. Come on, pick up pick up. It went to the message bank. Again.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Logan Hunter. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Logan, I don’t know where you are, but I’m hoping you’re still with your stepmother and as far away from Ashton Point as humanly possible. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s a matter of life and death. I need to know you’re safe. I have to know your safe.”

  In a moment of brain malfunction, her fingers moved double time as she punched in Kayne Pendleton’s number. Mary-Jane had said no police, but she didn’t have to tell him the whole story. Just enough to pique his interest. Can I afford to take the chance? She slammed her phone shut, cursing herself for her temporary mental slip.

  She grabbed her shop keys from her bag, pushed her phone into her back pocket and headed for the café. She might be about to step into the lion’s den, but she wasn’t about to do it without an EpiPen. If Mary-Jane did have Logan, the least she could do was come prepared. Savannah had insisted they get one in the first aid kit at work after her nephew in Adelaide was diagnosed with a nut allergy last November. “Remind me to give you a little something extra in your pay this month, Sav.”

  The streetlights flickered on, illuminating the entrance just as she approached the door of the café. “Why close the blinds, Savannah? You know I’d rather keep them open for the passers-by to see.” A shiver of unease raced through her as she turned the key in the front door and pushed it open.

  The sight before Margarete hit her like a tonne of bricks. She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes widened at the utter state that greeted her. “Oh my God,” she said as her eyes darted from one upturned table to the next. Broken chairs strew
n across the seating area as if they were nothing but firewood. Broken glass from the shattered display cabinets covered the floor like a layer of shimmering diamonds. Someone had violated her sanctuary. Margarete’s heart broke at the blanket devastation before her.

  It seemed her feet moved en route as she edged her numb body inside. “I can’t believe this. Who would do such a thing?” She stopped in the centre of the café and her gaze plastered to the serving counter. Her eyes landed on the chocolate cake in the centre, which was missing a giant slice.

  Margarete clenched her hands into fists at her sides, pure anger festering deep in her belly. Logan… EpiPen. With her mind focused back on her reason for being there, she headed toward the office out back.

  She’d only taken a few steps when she froze as if her entire body were submerged in a layer of thick, gooey mud. She cursed herself. The light flickered in the kitchen and the hollow sound of heels clacking on the tiled floor reverberated off the Jarrah-panelled wall. Her eyes widened as a female figure came around the corner. Margarete’s gaze fell to the chef’s knife clenched in Mary-Jane’s right hand. She froze and her eyes locked onto Mary-Jane’s sinister expression sending a shiver of fear through her body.

  A triumphant gurgle of laughter blurted from Mary-Jane. “Well, well, what do we have here? You really are hard of hearing, aren’t you? Where in my instructions did I say call in to the café on the way to Johns Cape?”

  Margarete’s heart raced and her gazed stayed glued to the chef’s knife. It was just like the one that killed Pierre. How am I going to get out of this one?

  “So, what are you doing here?” Mary-Jane asked swinging her arm as she moved out of the door of the kitchen and into the main area. The rays of the kitchen light reflecting off the knife casted a rainbow on the far wall.

  Margarete willed herself to stay calm. Two lives depended on it, hers and Logan’s. “I…um called in to get the EpiPen from the first aid kit.”

  “Forever thinking of others. Aren’t you sweet, Margarete?” Mary-Jane’s threatening laugh echoed through the subdued café. “Just like me. I was thinking of Logan and how much he’s going to enjoy that huge piece of chocolate cake covered in nuts.”

  A lightbulb snapped on in her mind and she slowly eased her hand behind her back and retrieved her phone, careful to keep it out of Mary-Jane’s sightline. As she punched in the redial button, she noticed the timbre of Mary-Jane’s voice drop to a disturbing level. She prayed Kayne answered.

  “Where is Logan?” Margarete’s heart plummeted. “You do realise that if he takes a bit of any of these cakes he’ll die.”

  “Well, duh. That’s the idea.”

  “Where …is…. Logan?” Margarete enunciated each word with precision.

  “Somewhere where you won’t find him.” She sighed. “You would have made someone a prim and proper wife someday.”

  Margarete frowned, keeping a careful eye on the knife. “Would have?”

  “Your timing couldn’t have been worse. I only came here to do a little untidying and pick up some dessert, but then you had to walk in, and my plans changed.” Mary-Jane gradually brought the knife up, running a fingertip along the blunt edge before coming to rest on the pointy tip. “You really don’t expect to leave here in one piece, do you?”

  Margarete gasped as she twisted the tip of the blade with her finger. “Why, Mary-Jane? Why kill Pierre? What did he ever do to you?” She prayed her call went through and the police were listening. They’re my only hope.

  Mary-Jane snorted. “Plenty, but what I’d really like to know is how you worked out it was me.”

  This is good, keep her talking. It will buy time.

  Her body was on high alert, but it was only a matter of time before Mary-Jane snapped and Margarete’s world came to a crashing halt. “Like I said on the phone, it was the reporter. Morgan Archer being a male not female. Blows your alibi right out of the water. Once Kayne mentioned it could have been a woman in disguise heading toward the kitchen on the video footage, it opened up a whole new list of suspects.”

  Mary-Jane slashed the knife through the air and Margarete jumped back in fright. “Oh, that man makes me so furious. I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. Morgan is a female name. Who in their right mind would name their daughter Morgan? Why couldn’t he have been female? It’s all your fault.” Mary-Jane lunged for her and Margarete jumped out of the way, the pain in her ankle no longer registering.

  “Wait,” she said, holding her hands up in defence. “You haven’t told me why you killed Pierre. It’s the least you can do.”

  Mary-Jane rolled her eyes to the roof and pursed her lips. “Because he was blackmailing me.”

  “Blackmailing you?” That was the last thing she ever expected to hear.

  “Yes, blackmail.” Mary-Jane paced the floor, her emotions building with each step. She slid the knife underneath a succulent cherry bomb cake sitting on the end of the counter and flipped it onto the floor. “Oops, sorry. My bad. It all started when Noel lost his job. I have a reputation to uphold in this town and how would it look if I started shopping at St. Vinnies? Don’t get me wrong they’re great…for other people, just not me. I had to get some money from somewhere, didn’t I? I’d made a nice little business on the side selling prescription drugs. Terry is too stupid to realise I’ve been stealing them from work. That creep, Pierre, caught me in the act one day and decided he wanted in or he’d turn me over to the police.”

  The words coming out of Mary-Jane’s mouth didn’t seem to match the image of the woman Margarete had come to know. “So, what happened, why kill him?”

  Mary-Jane turned and glared daggers at Margarete. If her eyes were lasers Margarete would have disintegrated on the spot. “Because he wanted more money. I met him before the party last week at the country club and he wanted, no, demanded more money. Money I wasn’t prepared to pay. Then I overheard your argument with him, and you were the perfect patsy to take the rap for his murder. It wasn’t hard to swipe your knife and the rest is history.”

  “And Nathan Bates?”

  Mary-Jane’s ice-blue eyes drilled into her and she knew time was running out. “That little dweeb thought he could take my money,” she said swiping the stainless-steel muffin stand clean off the counter smashing onto the floor a clear four meters away. “My money. Pierre had stashed it somewhere. When I saw Nathan with Clair at CC’s Simply Cupcakes, I noticed she’d given him a key. I knew what I had to do. He was a nobody, no-one is going to miss him.”

  Nobody is going to miss him? How can she say that?

  “Time for talking is over. Time to tie up loose ends,” Mary-Jane said raising the knife above her head. She lunged toward her, kicking broken chairs, tables anything that stood in the path between them to the side.

  An iron fist squeezed Margarete’s chest and she could barely breathe. The growing heat in her body felt as if she were suffocating. The knife slashed toward her in a ferocious manner and she froze on the spot, her feet ignoring the message to run.

  In the distance, the faint sound of sirens registered. Margarete’s heart sank as her legs scrambled sidewards, tripping over an upturned chair landing with a thud on her rear. “Don’t do this, Mary-Jane.” A rich bellowing laugh filled the café and Margarete turned, her heart racing at the pure vehemence bleeding from every inch of her enemy. She skated backwards on her backside across the room, pitching whatever she could grab at Mary-Jane.

  “You think throwing a few pieces of broken chair is going to stop me?”

  She was right. In the kerfuffle, it appeared Mary-Jane either ignored the approaching sirens or hadn’t heard them. Determination pumped through Margarete and her hand reached out and gripped a sharp-edged wooden table number by the upturned muffin tray. She pitched it at Mary-Jane’s hand holding the knife, colliding magnificently with her target.

  “Ahh,” she said, the knife crashing to the ground. The blade sang a sweet chime as it bounced across the tiles. Mary-Jane gripped her h
and, crimson blood oozing through her fingers. “You’re going to pay for that.”

  Panic clutched at Margarete’s chest and her breaths were coming in ragged gasps from the exertion. She grabbed the muffin tray and shot it across the café like a frisbee at Mary-Jane’s legs. The other woman toppled, her body descending in slow motion. The movement was straight out of an action movie.

  Starved for air, Margarete scampered on all fours to the opposite side of the café and out of reach of her attacker. She hid behind a fallen table, waiting for the distinct sound of death to approach. The sudden silence was heightened by the high-pitched whistle of the wind barking in the trees outside the front door.

  Is she waiting, ready to pounce as soon as I show my face?

  Fear rendered her paralysed, but it was the not knowing that terrified her the most. Margarete held her breath and squeezed the top of the table to stop her hands from shaking. Peering over the top, her gaze landed one the motionless body of Mary-Jane out cold, flat on the floor. She’d knocked herself out when she’d fallen. The wail of sirens and screech of tyres piercing the night air sent a cascade of relief through her system. She sighed, turned and slumped on the floor, propping herself up against the table.

  “Who knew cake bases made the best frisbees?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charlotte’s voice belted his eardrums as he bolted toward the entrance of the Tea 4 Two Café. “Logan… No… Stop.” Her voice alerted Kayne to his presence and he turned, blocking him half-way across the street.

  “No, Logan, you can’t go in. The scene hasn’t been secured yet,” Kayne said, his voice authoritative and commanding. “Let us do what we do best. Trust me, I know exactly how you feel, and I promise that as soon as we can, we’ll let you in. We will.”

  Logan tensed and every muscle in his body wanted to ignore Kayne’s instructions, but his brain knew he was right. He nodded, unable to drag the words from his throat.

  “Good, wait here behind my police car with Charlotte and Liam and we’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe,” Kayne said, retrieving his pistol from its holster.