Murder and Marshmallows

by Rosie A. Point

  “And he threatened to kill Henry?” Bee asked, shrewdly.

  “No. Nothing like that. He didn’t even seem to care that much, but I know that he’s the only one who could’ve done this. Who else would want to harm Henry? He was… a good man.”

  Not the impression we got from the rest of the townsfolk. As far as Grapefield’s residents were concerned, Henry Hughes had been the worst man to set foot on town soil.

  “Surely, there must be someone else?” Bee asked.

  Perhaps, my bestie didn’t want to tunnel her focus on Carl. Or maybe she wanted to feel out Miranda—see if the woman had told the truth about the affair and her husband. Get a gauge for whether she was a liar or not?

  Miranda hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms. “I don’t know who it could be.” But her eyes widened right after. “Oh! Sherry.”

  “Henry’s wife?” I asked.

  “Yes. Sherry. I bet she was involved. I bet her and Carl got together to plan Henry’s murder. You know, Henry told me that he’d been stolen from recently by that pool boy Sherry employed. I bet all three of them were in on it.” Miranda was clearly wild with grief. The theory that Sherry, Horatio, and Carl had conspired to murder the baker was over the top.

  Everyone in this town is pointing the finger at someone else.

  “How might Horatio have stolen from the baker?” Bee asked, more to herself than to Miranda, it seemed. “He couldn’t possibly have if he wasn’t in town.”

  Miranda scoffed. “Of course, he was in town. He worked for Henry on the weekends. Spent his weeks with that flighty idiot of a woman, Sherry.”

  “But Sherry and Horatio went away together,” I said, quickly. “Didn’t they?”

  “Uh, no! Sherry lives in the house all year round. She can’t afford to go on vacation. She’s already spent all of Henry’s money on fancy things and cars. And…” Miranda cut off, blinking. “I shouldn’t be talking about this. I-I don’t know what came over me. This is wrong. I don’t even know you.”

  “Miranda, it’s OK. We’re just—”

  But there was no point in trying to get through to her.

  Miranda took off running back the way she’d come.

  “Wait!” I called.

  “No use,” Bee said. “She’s gone. But how interesting. Either Miranda’s lying about Sherry being in town at the time of the murder, or Sherry’s lying about being out of town.”

  “The batter thickens.”

  “Let’s go have dinner,” Bee said. “We’ve got a lot to think about.”

  14

  We could no longer hide our investigation from Jamie during the day, so we’d come up with a less than elegant solution. We’d wake up at 6am, sneak out and do our snooping around, then return to the guesthouse before he woke and meet him for breakfast.

  Bee was unimpressed—she preferred to rise at 9am and still grumbled anyway.

  I yawned my way downstairs, tugging on my coat, and met Bee, still wearing her fluffy robe, in the foyer of the guesthouse.

  “PJs?” I asked.

  Bee opened the robe to reveal a pair of wrinkled jeans and a blouse. “Slept in it,” she said. “And the robe is coming with because this is an unmanageable hour to be awake and I’m protesting that.”

  I laughed, but it was cut in two by a yawn. “Let’s get some coffee on the truck and head out.”

  “You know, you should find a way to convince Jamie to investigate these cases with us. He used to be a detective. He could help us. He has in the past.”

  “I think he probably will in the future if I ask him,” I said. “But I don’t want to take advantage of our relationship. It just seems wrong.”

  Bee mumbled something indistinct as we trudged out to the truck.

  I fixed myself a coffee in its warm interior then whipped up a milkshake for Bee. Coffee put her to sleep, so the only thing that could possibly energize her at this hour was a healthy dose of sugar.

  We glugged down our drinks then piled into the front of the truck and set off for Sherry’s house. Or Henry’s house. The baker’s beautiful mansion.

  Bee yawned occasionally, staring out at the darkened road, eyes narrowed to slits. “This is unreasonable,” she muttered. “You know, I’m starting to think we’re in the wrong profession.”

  “What, baking?”

  “Sleuthing.”

  “Baker’s are meant to wake up super early too,” I said.

  Bee muttered under her breath, and I tried not to smile openly at her grumpiness. It would only make things worse.

  Finally, we arrived at the baker’s three-story home and parked outside. The lights were on inside, interestingly enough, even though the digital clock on the truck’s dashboard said it was half past four.

  “Weird,” I whispered. “Why would the lights be on?”

  “The SUV isn’t in the driveway,” Bee said, perking up a little. “Sherry must’ve left. Look. The garage door’s open and everything.”

  “Are you thinking what I am?”

  “Why not break a few laws to catch a killer?” Bee replied.

  We got out of the truck, closing the doors as quietly as we could, then sneaked up the garden path. On the wraparound porch, we gravitated toward the front window. The curtain was open a slit, and a quick glance inside showed us none other than Horatio, the pool boy, rummaging around within.

  He hurriedly moved books aside on the grand shelves of the bookcases, checking behind them with his fingers, his expression pulled taut with desperation.

  What is he looking for?

  Whatever it was, he hadn’t found it yet.

  Horatio moved to the couch and shifted the cushions, pulling them up to check underneath, before hurrying toward the desk that sat nearest our window. It held a few papers, from what I could make out, but nothing else of note.

  The pool boy opened the drawers and rifled through them, then rested his hands on the desk, shaking his head. He hadn’t noticed us, hadn’t even glanced the way of the window, though he was right in front of it.

  Bee tapped my arm then mouthed, “Fingernails.”

  Oh my!

  Bee was right. Horatio’s fingernails, plain as day in the bright light of the living area, were dirty. Brown with mud?

  Good heavens. Could Horatio have gotten his nails dirty while burying Henry out in the woods? What other explanation could there be? It wasn’t as if a pool boy did much yard work. Unless he had picked up an odd job as a gardener in his spare time.

  If Sherry wasn’t paying him well because she was broke—as the butcher’s wife had suggested—then that wasn’t a stretch.

  “Darn,” Horatio muttered. “Where are you?” He pushed off from the desk and moved to another bookcase, shifting romance novels aside and peering behind them.

  “What’s he looking for?” I breathed.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  It could be anything. Money would be my best guess, but surely Sherry wouldn’t keep spare cash lying around in the living room. That would be in a safe or a bedroom or—

  Tires crunching on tar sent a thrill through my chest.

  Sherry’s SUV pulled into the driveway, the headlights’ beams slicing across the morning darkness and illuminating the porch.

  It was too late for Bee and I to duck out of sight, so we turned and waited for Sherry to walk up instead.

  “This is bad,” I whispered.

  “Leave it to me,” Bee said.

  The SUV’s door slammed, and Sherry marched along the side path toward the steps. “What are you doing here?” she asked, in biting tones. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

  “We came to speak to you,” Bee said, evenly.

  “At 6am? I think not.” Sherry wore all-black again, this morning, and her brown hair had been twisted into a tight bun—perhaps, it was to reflect her attitude.

  “Yes, at 6am,” Bee continued. “This is important.”

  Sherry folded her arms. “You have exactly two minutes
of my time.”

  Gosh, she really thinks she’s a celebrity.

  “More than I need,” Bee replied, trying for a smile.

  Sherry’s expression didn’t soften.

  “We thought you ought to know what’s being said about you.” Bee let tension build for a beat. “The butcher’s wife, Miranda, said that you lied about being out of town on the morning of Henry’s murder. That you were here, and that you conspired to—”

  “Outrageous,” Sherry snapped.

  “Isn’t it? Who does she think—?”

  “No. You’re outrageous.” Sherry readjusted her purse on her shoulder. “What makes you think I care what Miranda has to say about me? The police have the information they need, and you two… you two are everywhere. People are starting to talk about it.”

  “Talk about it?” I asked.

  “That’s right. How you’re two interfering biddies. We’re not stupid. We know you’re going around town, talking to people, making problems.” Sherry tossed her head.

  Is this the same woman who told us she despised the gossips in this town? Now, she was best friends with them, apparently.

  “If you come near my home again, I’ll call Detective Boyd and tell him,” Sherry said. “Do you understand me? I’ll make sure that you get in trouble. Now, get off my property.”

  I paled. Bee reddened and puffed out her chest. “Well, there’s no need to be rude,” she said. “We were only trying to help.”

  “You have thirty seconds!”

  I grabbed hold of Bee’s arm and tugged on it. She wasn’t good with being told what to do. A few pulls and huffs later, and I had her moving. Sherry watched us walk down the garden path and out onto the street.

  What do we do now?

  15

  “I don’t often use mean language, but that woman is an abhorrent, miserable little—”

  “Don’t, Bee.” I put on my seatbelt. “Cursing isn’t going to help.”

  “As if I would ever curse for a woman like that,” Bee replied, stiffly, and put on her seatbelt too. She turned to me, though, yanking against the restraint. “Ruby, we can’t go back to the guesthouse, after that. Surely, you see it too.”

  I bit down on my bottom lip to avoid replying.

  “We’ve never been closer than we are now. Think about it. Sherry’s hiding something. That pool boy of hers is either a thief or a conman, and then there’s Carl.”

  “What about him?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew what Bee would say.

  “Carl told us that the baker would never betray him by having an affair with his wife, Miranda. Yet the baker did exactly that, and Miranda has told us that Carl knew about it, and even went as far as to accuse her own husband.”

  “She also insinuated that three people were in on it,” I said, skeptically.

  “Is that so far-fetched?” Bee’s hazel eyes were alight. “Look how Sherry just acted. And Horatio. And everyone in town reportedly hated Henry. There’s something fishy going on here, and I feel like now is the best time for us to figure it out. Things are heating up.”

  “But… Jamie—”

  “Ruby.”

  “If we don’t leave now, we might not make it back to the guesthouse in time to pretend to be asleep and—”

  “Ruby,” Bee said, her tone growing serious. “You were the one who said you didn’t want to lie to him. So, let’s go to Carl’s house and see if we can find any evidence that proves he was the one who did it. Or that he was involved with Sherry and Horatio. Then, when we get back to the guesthouse, you can talk to Jamie about what we’ve been up to.”

  I grimaced.

  Bee was right. I couldn’t lie or even omit the truth, and with everything that had happened recently, from the murder to the fire, to the suspects acting odd… well, it’d become mighty difficult to keep track of the threads and worry about hiding our actions from Jamie too.

  “You know, Bee, sometimes I don’t like it when you’re right.”

  “You and me both,” she replied. “I take it that means we’re going to Carl’s house.”

  I nodded. “But how? We don’t know where he lives.”

  “Don’t we?” Bee removed a bound leather notebook from her pocket. “Remember Natalie from the diner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Remember when we asked her for Henry’s address?” Bee flipped the book open and showed it to me. “I asked her for the addresses of the relevant players. In retrospect, that’s probably part of the reason everyone now thinks we’re interfering biddies, as Sherry put it, but still. At least we know where to go.”

  I input the address into my maps app then frowned. “Wait a second. It’s literally down the street.”

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin.

  I started the engine, and we made the short trip down the street to park in front of yet another triple-story home. The sun had yet to crest the horizon, but a smattering of light had appeared along it, providing us with a gray view of the yard.

  It was well-kept, the grass mowed, and the rosebushes scraggly during winter, but the house itself was in darkness.

  “Looks like they’re asleep,” I said.

  “Except for whoever’s living in the back.”

  “The back?” I craned my neck and spotted a narrow pathway that arced around the side of the house. A secondary, smaller building, behind a glimpse of a pool, had its door open, light spilling from within. A darkened figure moved around in there.

  “What’s with everyone being awake at this hour?” Bee asked. “Yet more evidence that they’re all unstable.”

  I was too tense to giggle. We got out of the truck and entered the yard—there was no fence on the perimeter here. Instead of heading toward the main house, we walked around the back, past the covered pool, and up to the open door of the smaller apartment.

  “Knock, knock,” Bee called out.

  “What the—?” Carl stepped into view, holding a box in his arms that appeared to be filled with books. “What are you doing here?”

  “We were out driving in the food truck looking for a place to set up this morning when we saw lights on at the house,” I said, the words a surprise even to myself. “What with there having been a murder recently, we wanted to check everything was OK here.”

  “Oh,” Carl said. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Thanks. That’s real nice of you ladies.”

  “You’re welcome,” Bee replied.

  “Wait a sec, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked, then clicked his fingers. “Right, right, you were the two who wanted meat for a barbecue. Listen, I’m sorry about the way I reacted the other day when we were talking. It’s been a difficult time. If you come around to the butchery today, I can set you up with some meat for your barbecue.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling. “Uh, are you moving somewhere? Don’t mean to pry but the boxes…”

  “Yeah.” Carl ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m moving in here. Can’t live in the main house anymore.”

  “Renovations?” Bee asked.

  “No. My wife. Maybe she should be my ex-wife. I’ll have to look into that on a legal level, but yeah. Turns out what you two heard the other day was true. She was having an affair with Henry. Didn’t know about it until after. See, she started acting really weird around me. Crying all hours of the day and night, holding one of Henry’s pictures. She got mad at me for asking why, and then she told me the truth.” Carl sighed. “I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe that they were just friends. No guy’s lucky enough to have a buddy and a wife who get on that well. Wives are supposed to hate their husband’s friends, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “But I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Carl.”

  “Ditto.” Bee patted the butcher on the back.

  “Yeah, well. What can you do? When life gives you lemons, you make a marinade. Little bit of olive oil, salt, paper, dash of lemon juice. It’s good. You should try it.
You know, lemon’s a great tenderizer for meat,” Carl said.

  “Sorry for bothering you. We should probably go.”

  “And I should probably keep unpacking.” Carl glanced around at the boxes. “Kind of dumb, though, because the minute my lawyer hears about this, I’ll get to move back into the house. I’m not going to give Miranda a darn thing.”

  We waved goodbye and headed back to the truck—we couldn’t linger and press him for more information without arousing his suspicions.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” Bee asked. “Miranda told us that he knew about the affair all along, but Carl’s saying he only found out after Henry was killed. That’s a big deal. Because if he didn’t know, he had no motive.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Sherry and Horatio, maybe,” Bee replied. “Depending on how much money Henry left Sherry, of course.”

  “If he left her money.”

  It’d started looking like our leads would end in nothing but frustration.

  “Let’s go back to the guesthouse and work it out,” Bee said.

  And talk to Jamie. Eek.

  16

  Jamie stood in the foyer with his arms folded, watching as we entered the guesthouse together and stripped off our coats and gloves. Bee gave me a sympathetic look before hurrying into the dining area to book our favorite table by the window for breakfast.

  Here goes nothing.

  “Ruby,” Jamie said. “I was worried sick about you two. Where did you go?”

  “We went to check out a lead,” I replied, evenly.

  “A lead.” Jamie gritted his teeth then let out a long, slow breath. “I knew it. I knew that you two were up to something with that whole porcelain doll thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Jamie. I shouldn’t have lied, but the truth is, we wanted to find out what happened and we knew that you wouldn’t approve.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t approve,” he said. “We’re meant to be on vacation, enjoying ourselves. Not worrying about a death that has nothing to do with us. Ruby, couldn’t you just be happy with—it’s no use, is it? You two will do what you want no matter what I say.”