Murder and Marshmallows

by Rosie A. Point

  “There,” Bee said. “That looks like a great spot.”

  I steered the truck into the parking area in front of the local park—it was open, with a huge expanse of grass, and a play area for kids that held a swing set.

  “This ought to be fun, right?” I checked my phone. No messages from Jamie yet.

  “Of course.”

  Bee and I moved through to the back of the truck. While I’d been consoling Jamie this morning, Bee had woken—at her usual 9am—and come downstairs to prep the marshmallow cupcakes. We placed the final touches on them, melting the marshmallows into the buttercream frosting with a blowtorch, then opened the side window of the truck.

  Immediately, people fell into line, chatting enthusiastically.

  First in line was none other than the friendly, gray-haired server from the café we’d gone to the day before.

  “You own a food truck!” Natalie exclaimed. “That’s so great. Boy, people in town are going to love having you around.”

  “We’ve got a special on marshmallow cupcakes today,” I said, gesturing to the glass cases containing the treats.

  “Ooh, I’ll take two please. And a coffee to go.”

  I fixed Natalie’s order, accepted payment, then tended to the next customer in line. Everyone in Grapefield was super friendly and happy that we were here, which was a nice change after our lukewarm reception in Prattlebark Village.

  Halfway through the morning, Bee had to make extra cupcakes to fulfill the demand. Always a nice feeling for us. The lines grew shorter as people headed off to their places of work or to do their shopping.

  At noon, a black SUV with tinted windows parked next to the truck. A handsome young man wearing a turtleneck emerged, his pale skin stark in the winter weather. He didn’t so much as glance our way but hurried to the passenger side of the car and opened the door.

  A glossy black high heel hit the tar and was followed by a tall, willowy woman wearing designer black clothing and a hat complete with black lace netting. “Thank you, Horatio,” she said, her voice thin and carrying.

  She was much older than the man who had opened the door for her, but her hand lingered in his, and their gazes met.

  I cleared my throat and nudged Bee.

  Was this the actual widow? Mrs. Hughes?

  Bee gave a tiny nod of her head, as if she could read my mind, and finished torching the marshmallows atop another cupcake.

  Mrs. Hughes, we presumed, swept toward the side of the food truck, Horatio dogging her steps. She stopped, gazing at us through mascara-laden eyelashes. She was pretty and looked as if she’d had work done to her lips and definitely fillers in her forehead.

  This was the baker’s wife? She looked more like the wife of a high society guy or a politician.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, again in that thin, wispy voice.

  “Hello,” I replied, merrily. “My name is Ruby, and this is Bee. What can we get for you today, Miss…?”

  “Mrs. Hughes,” she replied. “Mrs. Sherry Hughes.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Thank you.” She sniffed, but her eyes were dry, and there was no hint of puffy-redness as there had been with the other woman—Miranda, the butcher’s wife—in the café yesterday. Where had Mrs. Hughes been at the time of her husband’s passing? “I didn’t think I’d have to return to Grapefield so soon, but here we are. Here we are.”

  If only I was forward enough to ask her when she’d arrived back in town.

  “Have you been in town long, Mrs. Hughes?” Bee asked, never one to shut up when she had the chance to find out the truth about something.

  “Not too long,” she replied. “We’ve been traveling for hours, haven’t we, Horatio?” She patted the handsome young man’s cheek, and he sent her a smoldering smile in return.

  Sheesh. I feel like a third wheel and they’re the ones who walked up to the truck.

  “Hours,” Horatio said, and leaned into her touch.

  Eugh.

  “What can we get for you?” I asked, breaking the strange tension between them. It didn’t seem appropriate that she could be mourning her husband while flirting mercilessly with a much younger man.

  “Two marshmallow cupcakes to go, please,” Sherry said, studying the chalkboard at the back of the truck. “And two milkshakes.”

  “I’m on it,” Bee said, and set about rustling up the order. Maybe because she didn’t want to talk to Sherry? She had a low tolerance for people’s shenanigans.

  “Thank you,” Sherry said, clicking her fingers at Horatio to accept the order and pay on her behalf.

  They left a generous tip before walking back to the SUV together. Once again, Horatio held the door for Sherry, and she got into the passenger seat, adjusting the rim of her hat and tugging on the lace beneath it.

  The young assistant didn’t glance our way as he entered the SUV himself.

  “That was strange,” Bee said. “To put it mildly.”

  “Do you think they’re involved?”

  “Hmm.” Bee brushed her fingers off on her pink-and-green striped apron. “My gut says yes, but there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

  I met her gaze. “We go talk to her? Should we? I mean, we did tell Jamie we wouldn’t get involved,.”

  “I think it’s a little late for that debate. You and I both know we’re not going to let this one slide. Too much intrigue. First the weeping butcher’s wife was having an affair with the victim, and now this?” Bee gave a rueful shake of her head. “We find out where she lives, and then go see what we can find out. Unfortunately, we don’t have any solid contacts in this town.”

  I brought out my phone. “Nothing a quick internet search can’t solve.”

  6

  “For a baker, he sure lived in a fancy house,” Bee said, squinting up at the three-story home, tucked between trees and shrubbery. The house was bordered by picket fencing, the neighboring homes in the street just as grand and well-maintained.

  Finding the victim’s address had been easy—we’d simply driven by the café we’d eaten at yesterday and had a chat with Natalie. She’d been more than willing to offer up the information, and gossip about Sherry’s scandalous behavior with Horatio. Apparently, the young man was Sherry’s pool boy.

  “How does he afford it?” I asked, my brow wrinkling. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, baking is a lucrative business to be in, but it’s not like ‘three-story house’ lucrative.”

  “Hmm.”

  I struggled to find the right words. “It’s a small town. There’s no way Henry should’ve been able to afford a place like this, right?”

  “I agree,” Bee said. “And the way Sherry was behaving, with the SUV and the designer heels, it seemed as if she had plenty of money to go around.”

  “Money motive?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  We exited the food truck, Bee holding a box of marshmallow cupcakes, and headed up to the cutesy front gate. A paved, cobblestone path took us through a beautifully kept yard toward the wraparound porch. I knocked.

  A dog barked down the road and cold air tugged at my woolly coat. I tucked it closer to my chest. Boy, the end of winter couldn’t come soon enough.

  Clattering footsteps approached the door, and it opened. Sherry stood before us, holding closed the front of her silken robe trimmed with faux fur. She wore a pair of fluffy heeled slippers, and her cheeks were pink.

  “Oh,” I said, “hello, Mrs. Hughes. I hope we’re not interrupting anything?”

  “I was about to take a bubble bath, but I’m always happy to have guests over.”

  “Great,” Bee replied, and thrust the box of treats toward the other woman. “This is for you. May we come in?”

  “We, uh, we wanted to offer our condolences.” That was my follow-up, and I smiled at her too.

  Sherry accepted the box, graciously, then looked from me to Bee and back again. “Thank you,” she said. “This
is very kind of you. I, well, you’ll have to come in.”

  “Thanks.” Bee strutted into the fancy foyer of the home. Never one to hesitate, was my bestie.

  Sherry led us into her grand living room—it was open plan, with cream couches and several bookcases along the walls, carrying their weight in novels. A quick glance told me they were mostly romance novels. Had Henry read loads of romance too?

  Even weirder, there wasn’t a TV on the wall or anywhere. Thankfully, Sherry had a fireplace, and flickering warmth filled the living room.

  “Please,” Sherry said, gesturing to one of the couches.

  We took our seats, and she placed the box of treats we’d brought on the polished coffee table. “I should make you something to drink. Would you like coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Sherry left through a doorway at the opposite end of the living room.

  Bee nodded toward the bookcases. “Did you notice that?”

  “Maybe Henry liked romance? There’s nothing wrong with a man enjoying a love story.”

  “Of course,” Bee replied. “But it’s atypical. And that’s not really what I take issue with here. Everything feels off-kilter.”

  I didn’t question her on that statement because I felt it too. Something wasn’t adding up. Sherry’s home was luxurious, yet her husband was a baker. And she had a pool boy following her around in the middle of winter. And then there was the fact that she’d worn all-black today but hadn’t shed a tear over Henry’s death.

  Didn’t she say that she’d only just gotten back to town? Where was she before this? And why did she travel with her pool boy?

  Sherry swept back into the living room, cutting off my train of thought.

  She placed a tray of drinks on the coffee table, smiling at us. “It’s nice to have some company now that I’m back in Grapefield.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “A few months ago,” she replied, and sat down. She didn’t help herself to the coffee but popped open the box of cupcakes we’d brought and took one out. “I’m not a huge fan of this town.”

  “No?” Bee took a cupcake and a cup of coffee. “Why not?”

  “The people, mostly. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s brimming with gossips and cheats and horrible women.”

  “Really?” I took a cup myself and sipped it. The coffee was strong and nutty.

  “Oh yes. It’s part of the reason Henry and I initially decided to separate,” Sherry replied. “We were married in name but hadn’t spoken in years. Not on a truly deep level.”

  I tried not to react. That was a bombshell. So, even if Sherry had been having an affair with Horatio, the pool boy, it wasn’t technically an affair, was it? Henry and Sherry were estranged. Had Henry been happy with the arrangement?

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  “That’s a unique arrangement,” Bee said. “Was Henry happy with it?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sherry replied, snippily. “I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to insinuate.”

  “I’m not trying to insinuate anything.”

  I cleared my throat to disperse the tension. “I was the one who found Henry,” I said.

  That got her attention. She turned toward me, wide-eyed, forgetting her anger. “Y-you found him?”

  “Yes.” Interesting that that had gotten an emotional reaction out of her when she’d been cool as a cucumber about Henry up until now.

  “Well, that’s—well…” Sherry sniffed. “Well.”

  “So, I’m quite invested in what happens with the detective’s investigation,” I continued. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sherry whispered, touching manicured nails to her lips.

  “I was wondering if you had any idea who might’ve wanted to do this.” I took a sip of coffee to mask my nerves. “You know, it would be wonderful to catch them or at least to give the police new information that could lead to an arrest.”

  “Of course. Yes. Of course. Let me think for a moment.” If anything, Sherry was cowed, now. Her eyes darting back and forth, searching for information. Was she afraid that all roads would lead back to her? Why had the fact that I had found the body freaked her out so much?

  Bee and I waited in silence.

  “The glassblower,” Sherry said, after a moment. “I know that he had an argument with Henry recently. I can give you his name and address. That’s good information.”

  “And you haven’t given that information to the police?” Bee asked.

  “I prefer not to get involved with them. You know, they asked me a few questions, but there wasn’t much to say. I only arrived in town this morning.”

  Or so you say. “A name and address would be great, thank you,” I said, feeling more in control of this case than I’d felt about any of the others before it.

  7

  The following morning…

  “I’m fine, I swear!” Jamie held his hands up, smiling at my concern. “It must’ve been a one-day stomach bug.”

  “Really, if you’re still ill we can go out on the food truck again,” Bee replied, her hands behind her back. She kept her expression impassive, but the truth was, we didn’t want Jamie with us today.

  How horrible of you to think that. This is supposed to be a fun getaway together.

  But we had planned to visit the glassblower’s store this morning. Mr. Lyle Grace had a shoppe on Redden Lane, and there were questions to be asked, arms to be twisted, that kind of thing. We couldn’t possibly do that with Jamie around. He’d be furious that we’d gone behind his back and decided to investigate anyway.

  But what I’d said to Sherry yesterday was true—I was invested because I’d found Henry’s body. When I closed my eyes, I saw images of it, fingers peeking from the dirt and—

  “Ruby?” Jamie slipped an arm around my waist. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “We’re just not sure you are. We wouldn’t want you to exert yourself after being sick.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Jamie was a little pale, but he did seem remarkably better compared to yesterday. “Come on, ladies. Let’s go out on the town. We can grab a snack together. Just nothing too heavy.” He grimaced. “Still a bit nauseated.”

  “Sure,” I said, meeting Bee’s gaze. “But we thought of something else we could do first. Bee has a real passion for glass.”

  “Huh?”

  Bee glared at me like I’d lost my mind.

  “I mean, specific types of glass. Decorative pieces. We were going to go check out the glassblower’s shoppe today. Just to see if there’s anything that catches her eye.”

  “Oh cool,” Jamie said. “I had no idea glass interested you.”

  “Yeah.” Bee nodded enthusiastically, having caught on to my not-so-subtle plan. “Yeah, totally. I love glass. Glass bowls, glass pipes, glass… glasses. All that kind of glassy stuff.”

  Oh boy.

  “Let’s go,” I said, grabbing hold of Jamie’s arm.

  We headed out to the food truck together, but Jamie shepherded us toward the Porsche instead. Five minutes later, we parked outside the Glassblowing Emporium—as the sign read—and peered up at it.

  The store was full of light, and a display of the eclectic glass items Mr. Grace had created had been placed neatly in the store windows.

  “Wow,” Bee said. “It’s so…”

  “Glassy?” I suggested.

  She rolled her eyes at me.

  “What are we waiting for?” Jamie asked.

  We entered the store together, a bell ringing merrily above the door. The inside was as friendly as it had seemed—rows upon rows of shelves holding glass items, from decorative pieces to actual bowls and glasses.

  Lyle Grace, a tall man with wispy white hair that stood up at strange angles all over his head, smiled at us from behind a counter to our right. “Good morning,” he said, in soft tones. “Let me know if there’s anything I can get for you.”

  “W
e’re just looking for now,” Bee said.

  I made eyes at her, jerking my head toward Lyle then toward Jamie.

  Her brow wrinkled, but she tapped my boyfriend on the arm. “Say, Jamie,” she said. “Mind coming with me? I’m looking for something specific. A gift for Ruby since it’s her birthday soon.”

  “I guess I’ll have to hang around here.”

  “I guess you will,” Bee said, grinning. “Come on. Maybe you can buy something for her too.”

  “Uh, OK.” Jamie allowed my best friend to herd him down the long aisles of glassware. She occasionally stopped to lecture him about bumping any of the shelves, and the deer-in-headlights look he wore brought a giggle to my lips.

  No time for that, though.

  I strolled toward the front counter and pretended to admire the miniature crystal trinkets Mr. Grace had set out along it.

  “These are lovely,” I said, lifting a glass duck. “Very creative.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Grace said, his smile revealing brown teeth. “Thank you so much. That piece was quite challenging, you know. Very specific tools needed.”

  Now, how to segue from the duck to Henry?

  I set the duck back down. “I’m looking for something, but I’m not sure what yet. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Of course. What are you looking for?”

  “A gift that would be appropriate for a grieving widow.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve recently become friends with Mrs. Sherry Hughes. Do you know her?”

  “I do.” Mr. Grace’s smile had disappeared. “I know of her. We’ve never talked.”

  “Her husband recently passed.”

  “I heard.”

  “Did you know him too?” I asked.

  A strange transformation took place—a pulling tight of the lips, wrinkling of the brow, brown teeth exposed—for the briefest moment. “I did. Henry… Henry was a pain in my rear-end.”

  “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I don’t mind talking about,” Mr. Grace said, leaning in. “Everybody in this town talks about me as much as they do Henry, and I’d rather you hear this from me than them. Or that cougar, Sherry.”