by Kate Bell
“A couple?” Cynthia asked, eyeing the bags.
“A few,” I said and began taking the baked goods from the bags.
Cynthia’s eyes got big as Lucy and I uncovered each item. The scent of oranges and sugar began filling the small office and if Cynthia hadn’t been hungry before we got there, she was now.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Cynthia asked, eyeing the orange chocolate cheesecake.
I liked Cynthia. We had met after Henry’s death and she seemed like a nice person. She looked a little older than I was and her hair was a striking black color that caught glints of light from the fluorescent bulb overhead.
I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. “Cynthia, I was thinking about a business proposition,” I said. “And a sampling of these lovely desserts will help explain that proposition. May I go and get some plates from the kitchen?”
“Of course,” she said and I trotted back to the kitchen. I stopped in the doorway and closed my eyes, willing my mind not to see the image of Henry Hoffer, dead on the floor with a knife stuck in his chest. That was something I didn’t need to see again.
I forced myself to move forward. “Charles, I need three dessert plates, three forks, and a pie server. Please,” I said.
Charles narrowed his eyes at me. “What for?”
“Now, Charles, don’t take that tone with me. I’m serving your boss some dessert. You don’t want to keep her waiting, do you?” I said sweetly.
“We have dessert here,” he said. “I make chocolate cake almost every day.”
“Almost every day?” I asked. “I bet your customers are excited about that when they happen to order it on the second or third day after you baked it, don’t you?”
He snorted. “You think you’re so high and mighty. Just because you can bake tasty desserts. If you had my budget and had to use margarine, I bet that would bring you down a peg or two.”
“Nonsense. I know my desserts are high and mighty, but I’m not. And at least you’re no longer buying those horrid frozen pies from Shaw’s Market. I have to give you props on that.”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with those pies. They were fine,” he said, going back to chopping his onions.
“Charles. The plates,” I said. If I stood there much longer, I was going to reek of onions and I didn’t want Cynthia smelling onions when she tried that decadent cheesecake.
Charles slammed down the knife he had been using and gathered up what I had requested.
“Thank you,” I called as I hurried back to the office.
“Here we are,” I said, setting the plates on the desk. “Which would you like to try first?”
“They all look so good. I just couldn’t wait. I already sampled the cookies, and they are so moist, I can hardly believe it!” she said.
“Thank you. Wait until you try the orange chocolate cheesecake,” I said. “Would you like to try that first?”
“That sounds wonderful,” Cynthia said, nodding.
“I want some of that,” Lucy said. “Cheesecake is one of my favorites.”
I gave her a look. We were here to sell my goods, not sample them. I cut Cynthia a small piece of the cheesecake and then cut a sliver for Lucy.
Cynthia took a forkful of cheesecake, making sure to get some of the chocolate ganache on her fork and put it in her mouth. She closed her eyes and slowly chewed. “Oh, my. This is so good,” she said when she had swallowed. “It’s creamy, and orangey, and yet not overwhelmingly orangey. The chocolate really sets the orange flavor off.” She took another bite and closed her eyes again, savoring the flavor.
“I worked on it for a while,” I said. “I love the flavor of orange and chocolate together. It feels so fresh, yet decadent,” I said, and cut a piece of the apple pie for her. “Now, try this apple pie. It’s my grandmama’s recipe. She taught me everything I know about baking.”
“Well, she knew a lot about baking, then,” she said. “But tell me, Allie, why are you bringing these lovely desserts for me to try?”
“Well, here’s the thing,” I started out, and glanced at Lucy for support. I knew my baked goods were good, but selling myself in a business setting was hard for me. Lucy nodded her encouragement. “As you know, I had my blog on grief. And it seemed after a while, that I needed to move on because it felt a little like I was reliving the whole grief process over and over as I wrote about it each week. So I ended the blog. And I’m thinking about starting a new blog. One on baking. And I need somewhere to try out the desserts I’m making, and I wondered if maybe, you might like to sell some of my desserts on a consignment basis.”
“Consignment?” she asked, sitting back in her chair.
“That’s right. If the desserts don’t sell, then that’s on me. If they do sell, you get a commission.”
“What kind of commission?” she asked, licking her fork. “This is so good.”
“Let me get you some carrot cake,” I said, taking her plate from her. I wanted her to try several items. “We can negotiate the commission. And I can bring in some kind of display case for them.”
“Oh, and maybe you could get a dessert cart and the waitresses could push the desserts around so people could look at everything,” Lucy said. “You know once they lay eyes on your desserts, people are going to have to buy them.”
“That’s a good, idea,” I said, nodding at Lucy. I was glad I had brought her along. She was always quick with the ideas.
I looked at Cynthia as she dug into the apple pie.
“The crust on this apple pie is so flaky,” she exclaimed. Then she looked up at me. “You might have a good idea, here. Maybe even great. I wouldn’t lose anything if they didn’t sell. But if they do, and I’m sure they will, and word of mouth spreads about your desserts being served here, it will bring in more business. But I need exclusivity. You can’t sell your baked goods anywhere else.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I said. “So is it a deal?”
Cynthia looked me in the eye. “It’s a deal. Commission to be negotiated.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Cynthia was a keen businesswoman. Her late husband Henry had only been a so-so businessman. He had been cheap and cut corners. Cynthia knew a good business deal when she saw it and she wasn’t afraid to act on it. I liked that.
Chapter Ten
Cynthia was sold on my desserts after tasting the orange chocolate cheesecake and we hadn’t touched the blueberry sour cream pie. After leaving the apple pie, oatmeal raisin cookies, and cheesecake for Cynthia, we put carrot cake and blueberry sour cream pie into the trunk of my car and I got behind the wheel. I turned and looked at Lucy and squealed. “We did it!”
Lucy laid her head back on the headrest of the seat and laughed. “You did it! You are about to embark on a new career!”
We laughed until we ran out of steam and then we sat for a few minutes. “I’m going to start a new chapter of my life,” I said with satisfaction.
“I’m so proud of you. You’ve been through a lot these past few years and you just keep going. Good work, you,” Lucy said, patting my hand.
I smiled at her. “I’m so glad I’ve had you by my side to see me through it all.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be,” she said. “And now that we’ve eaten far more sugar than we ought to, and spread it on pretty thickly here in the car, too, how about a nice coffee? It’s cold and I need something to chase that sugar down.”
“You got it,” I said and giggled. I had done it. I had convinced Cynthia to sell my baked goods. I wasn’t sure if that or the blog would be the proverbial icing on the cake for my new career. I had intended the blog to be the main show, but maybe putting desserts on consignment at Henry’s would be the main show.
The sky got darker as we drove to the Cup and Bean coffee shop and I wondered if it was going to snow again. Alec would want his snow for snow cream and I hoped I could get home in time to put a bucket out because I was not going out into the woods to try to get some. I had had enou
gh of that.
The Cup and Bean had the best coffee in town and the parking lot was more crowded than usual when we got there. I hugged my coat close to my body as we crossed the parking lot. The warmth of the building felt heavenly as we stepped through the door.
“Mmm,” Lucy said, inhaling deeply. “Mama needs a vanilla latte.”
“Me too,” I said and we got in line. There were four people ahead of us and I recognized the girl in front of me was Laura Linnley, one of Jennifer’s friends.
“Hi, Laura,” I said.
She turned around. “Hey, Allie, how are you? How’s Jennifer? I haven’t heard from her in nearly a month. We have got to get together, and soon!”
“We’re both great. She’s here quite a bit since her school isn’t far away. You should come to dinner one night,” I said. Laura was a sweet girl. When she had come to spend the night during her high school years, I could breathe a sigh of relief because I wouldn’t constantly have to monitor what she and Jennifer were doing. She was just a good girl. Don’t get me started on her cousin Dawn.
“I’d love to,” she said. “I’ll have to give Jennifer a call so I know when she’s in town again.”
For a few seconds, I wondered if I should bring up Iris Rose’s murder. I glanced around to see who was close enough to overhear our conversation.
“Laura, did you hear what happened to Iris Rose? Wasn’t she your second grade teacher?” I asked. I figured I might as well see if she knew anything.
“I did hear,” she said, nodding. “What a terrible tragedy. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt poor Mrs. Rose. She was one of my favorite teachers.”
“Jennifer’s too,” I agreed. “I just can’t imagine who would do that to her.”
“You know, I ran into her a couple of months ago and she didn’t seem herself,” she said as we stepped forward a couple of feet in line.
“Oh? How so?”
“I don’t know. Just really down. I asked her how she was, but then she perked up. I just kind of felt like she didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t press her,” she said.
“I don’t blame you. Some people are private that way,” I said, nodding.
“Well, I’ll see you soon, Allie,” she said as her turn to order came.
I looked at Lucy. “She wasn’t happy.”
“Being married to a cheater can make you unhappy,” she said.
“And having a crazy, controlling mother that butts into your marriage isn’t any fun, either,” I pointed out.
“No, it’s not. Having to look at your husband’s lover every day stinks, too,” she said.
We stepped forward and placed our coffee orders and looked for a table in the crowded room. When I saw Mr. Winters in the corner with his newspaper, I steered Lucy over to his table.
“May we sit with you, Mr. Winters?”
He looked up from his paper and nodded. “What do you ladies need to know?” he asked.
Lucy and I looked at each other, then back to him. He was onto us. “Mr. Winters, have you heard anything about Iris Rose?”
“Iris Rose? She was murdered,” he said confidently.
“Yes, we know that. But have you heard anything about the murder?” I tried to keep my voice low so no one would overhear, and we took a seat at his table.
He thought for a few moments. “No, can’t say as I have.”
That was disappointing. Mr. Winters was the best source of gossip in town. Gossip might be wrong, but it could sometimes get you answers.
“Oh wait, you know, I seem to recall that she and her mother didn’t get along very well,” he said thoughtfully.
“We had heard that,” I said and sat back in my seat, stirring my latte. There had to be more information out there somewhere. Iris had a pristine reputation, and while it was most likely accurate, someone out there didn’t like her and there had to be a reason for it.
“And her mother lost custody of her when she was nine,” he said, and then went back to reading his paper.
“Wait. What?” I asked. “How do you know that? And why did she lose custody?”
He closed his newspaper and folded it over. “Hilda Bixby liked to drink. She liked it so much in fact, that she preferred it to being a mother. I think it’s probably more accurate to say that Hilda didn’t lose custody of her daughter but gave it up voluntarily.”
My mouth dropped open. What mother would do such a thing? I looked at Lucy. She stared back at me, wide-eyed.
“Are you sure?” I asked him.
He nodded. “I remember because my brother-in-law had a fling with her about that time. She lived a wild life, that one did. She also told him she wished Iris had never been born. The girl slowed her down.”
“She wished Iris had never been born? What a horrible thing to say about your own child,” I said.
“Did she ever get her back?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, she gave up the drinking and running around and convinced a judge to give her back when Iris was fourteen. Iris hated to go back to her. She had been living with her grandmother and was happy as could be. It was her first year of high school and she had to change schools when her mother brought her back to Sandy Harbor,” Mr. Winters said, nodding.
“I’d be unhappy too, if my mother had given me up and then wanted me back when I had already found my own happiness,” I said.
“Why did she want her back if she said she wished Iris had never been born?” Lucy asked. “It doesn’t seem like she would have such a complete turnaround like that.”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe once she was sober, the guilt set in. It’s hard to say.”
It was a lot to absorb. It flew in the face of everything I believed as a mother and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I wasn’t so naïve as to think it didn’t happen all the time in this world. It just wasn’t something I could do.
I took a sip of my cooling latte and considered whether I was wrong about my assessment of Hilda Bixby. Maybe she was capable of murdering her only daughter. Maybe she still resented her daughter slowing her down and when she couldn’t control Iris like she wanted, she killed her. Richard Rose said she would go into rages. Maybe when she went down to the school to help Iris, she had lost her temper over something. I might have been grasping at straws, but it seemed more apparent that Hilda might have killed Iris.
I signaled to Lucy and we stood up.
“Thank you, Mr. Winters. If you think of anything else, will you call me?” I asked.
“Well, I would if I had your phone number,” he said, cocking his head as if to say I was a dummy.
“Of course,” I said and dug through my purse. I found a business card for my grief blog and handed it to him. I was going to have to make some up for my soon-to-be baking blog. “It’s on there.”
He looked the card over. “A grief blog?” he asked questioningly.
I nodded. “Soon to be a baking blog,” I said and left him looking befuddled.
“Let’s go, we have work to do,” I whispered to Lucy as we headed for the door.
Chapter Eleven
“So where are we headed?” Lucy asked when we got into the car.
I turned toward her. “I think we should pay Hilda Bixby a visit. Maybe take her a pie as a token of our sympathies. I just think there has to be more there, somewhere.”
“Do you think she killed Iris? And then, what? Took her out to the woods?” she asked.
“Maybe. But Hilda isn’t a large woman. I’m not sure she could have carried her from a murder site and then dragged her out into the woods and buried her. That’s a lot of physical work. Maybe she took her out into the woods and killed her there. That would be easier.”
“Were there footprints in the snow where Iris was found?” she asked. “Maybe she had someone help her?”
I shook my head. “No. It had snowed the night before we found her. The snow would have covered any prints.”
“Right,” she said, thinking. “It’s possible she had help.
Oh, I know, maybe Iris’s mother and her husband plotted together and killed her and took her out there.”
“Not likely,” I said. “Richard Rose and Hilda hate each other. Even if it benefited the two of them, I highly doubt they could have cooperated with one another long enough to kill her and get her buried in the snow. And I can’t imagine how they both would benefit.”
“Maybe they were in love with each other?” she said starting to get excited.
“Lucy. I just said that they hated each other,” I said.
“Maybe there was insurance money?” she suggested.
“That’s something Alec needs to check into,” I said.
“Well, let’s go see Hilda and see what she has to say,” she said, buckling her seat belt.
***
We climbed the steps up to Hilda’s apartment over the garage, looking over our shoulders to make sure Richard wasn’t watching. I didn’t see a car in the driveway, so I thought he must be gone somewhere. I had read in the newspaper that Iris’s funeral was the following day. I didn’t think Alec and I would show up for it, since we hadn’t really known her well.
“Wow, Hilda must be in good shape to climb these every day,” Lucy panted. Her foot slipped and she grabbed tighter to the railing. “Whoa.”
“Be careful,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “The snow doesn’t help. I’d have taken a tumble down them by now if I wasn’t as athletic as I am.”
I stood with my hand poised to knock on the door and it flew open. “Oh!” I nearly squealed. “Hello, Hilda, I-we were in the neighborhood and we thought we’d stop by.”
Hilda squinted her eyes and leaned past me to get a look at Lucy.
“This is my friend Lucy Gray. We uh, brought you a pie,” I said indicating the shopping bag I had on my arm. I had one hand on the landing railing and suddenly felt a little queasy at the stair height. I wasn’t good with heights and this garage apartment suddenly seemed terribly high.