Scornful Scones (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 5)

by Mildred Abbott

I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t accused Carla of murdering her father-in-law. I hadn’t caused her grandfather’s seizures and couldn’t be held responsible for his increased stress around the fear that I was going to. And it was utterly asinine to think I owed her any explanation for hiring her barista’s twin brother.

  Katie was right. And I knew it. Anyone with a lick of common sense knew it.

  But still, it ate at me. I’d unintentionally been a thorn in Carla’s side since I opted to have Katie make the top floor of my bookshop into a bakery. I wanted to start to smooth things out if I could, and letting her know up front that I was going to hire Ben, and reassure her that I wasn’t trying to prove that she was a murderer, might start that process.

  I supposed there was a chance I was wrong, that Carla had poisoned her father-in-law or, even if I was wrong and there was no poison, simply watched him choke to death on the floor at her feet.

  That thought hadn’t occurred to me before. I could actually see Carla doing the second option.

  I shoved that notion aside easily as I weaved my way through the tourists moving at a snail’s pace on the sidewalk. I couldn’t clear the slate with her if I was wondering whether she’d rubbed her hands together and given a villain’s laugh while watching Eustace Beaker choke to death on her dry, dry scones.

  Watson and I were about three shops away from Black Bear Roaster when Harold walked out of the coffee shop.

  I halted, stopping so abruptly that Watson jerked on his leash and glared back at me.

  Harold appeared as sad and exhausted as he had that morning, though the bandages were off his face. It made him look worse, the freshly cleaned skin glossy with ointment over the superficial cuts. Behind him, Jonathan, holding what I assumed was a swaddled Maverick, exited the shop as well.

  To my relief, the three of them headed in the opposite direction.

  I waited for Carla to join them, but she didn’t.

  Had Harold been working, or had they simply been getting him out of Aspen Grove so he wasn’t trapped in his room all day?

  Surely he hadn’t been working, not after his car wreck the day before. Even as I watched, it was easy to see he was moving stiffly, certainly sore. I was honestly surprised he’d been allowed to leave the retirement village at all. Well, Carla was a hard one to argue with when she got her mind made up.

  The sight of Harold was nearly enough to make me change my mind, or come to my senses as Katie would’ve insisted. Nevertheless, I trudged on; Carla wasn’t the only one who was stubborn. Maybe if I could convince Carla, she might convince Harold, and he could have some relief.

  Black Bear Roaster was still fairly busy considering their bakery goods had killed a man a few short days ago. I caught sight of Carla’s blonde hair as she walked from behind the counter and toward the backroom.

  I considered following her, then rejected the idea. It would only seem like I was snooping. Especially after having been caught listening to her and Eustace the other day.

  I’d wait it out. No need starting the conversation on the wrong foot.

  We took our place in line behind two women. The older one was prim and, though I found her outfit garish, expensively dressed, while the younger was waifish and seemed rather scared.

  Nick was the only one behind the counter, and his voice trembled as he addressed the older woman. “Apple cinnamon scone with apple butter, Ms. Apple?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions, Nick. We’re not in class at the moment. At least pretend that you can think on your own.” Though her voice didn’t raise, pure disdain dripped from every word.

  “Sally…” The younger woman tentatively touched the other’s arm. “Really, there’s no call to—”

  The prim woman, Sally Apple, apparently, wheeled on her, eyes flashing. “Just because I’m forced to do weekly planning with you, does not mean I require your input on anything. Whether it be in the classroom, or a coffee shop, or anywhere else for that matter.” She whipped back to Nick. “You tell me, Mr. Pacheco. Miss Morris and I come in here every week, at the exact same time, have the exact same thing—start off with our hot teas, and then the exact same thing halfway through. Furthermore, you know full well that Eustace had this particular scone put on the menu in honor of me. So… can you put two and two together now?”

  It took all my willpower not to say something. To try to come to Nick’s defense. But the combination of my own lingering guilt, shock at her vitriol, and feeling like I was back in the classroom of a truly horrible teacher, stole any words I might find.

  Nick didn’t reply to her, but simply retrieved two apple scones and spread apple butter on top of them. After he rung Miss Morris up, who paid for both scones, the women took their pastries and headed across the coffee shop to a table where a laptop sat beside a tower of notepads and a couple of overflowing tote bags.

  “Welcome back to Black Bear Roaster, Ms. Page. What can I get you?” His cheeks were flushed and he didn’t meet my eyes, clearly humiliated.

  The last thing I planned on ordering was a scone. Though I had yet to sample anything that was moist and delicious, I was going to go for a cinnamon roll. However, the cinnamon rolls were in a large tray, and Nick would have to pull it out and then take time retrieving one. The jar of apple butter was still open behind him on the counter, so I decided to make it easy. Besides, surely the apple butter would help the scone be a little more edible. “I’ll just take what they had, if you don’t mind.”

  He nodded wordlessly, but before he could turn around, Sally Apple was back, shoving her plated scone between Nick and myself. “I thought I said to toast it. Same as every week, Nick. Rushing, just like you do on what little homework you actually accomplish.”

  He took the plate. “Sorry, Ms. Apple. I’ll get you a fresh one.”

  I snagged the plate from his hand. “This will work for me. I don’t need it toasted. Thank you.”

  Nick hesitated, then nodded, and went to work on a new scone, slicing it before putting it in the toaster.

  I turned to the woman, unable to bite my tongue any further. “If I’m understanding, you’re one of Nick’s teachers?”

  She straightened her thin frame and turned slowly toward me like a perturbed robot, cast her glare down at Watson, who took a protected position behind my skirt, then back up. “Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Though she was several inches shorter than me, I could feel myself wither under her stare, and to my surprise, my voice shook. “I had a teacher like you once. She was my English teacher. Spelling was a challenge, and she constantly told me how worthless I was. How I’d never be any good at writing.” I hadn’t even told my parents until the following year, though even then Dad stormed into the school and demanded her head on a platter. I lifted my voice to make sure Nick could overhear. “I went on to own my own publishing company, and now I own a bookshop. Despite having a hateful teacher such as yourself.”

  She lifted her chin, just slightly, and to my surprise the corner of her lips curved when she spoke and her words were calm and coated with ice. “That is an interesting story, Winifred Page. Funny how both of those careers require absolutely no writing at all. You published and now sell other people’s words, not your own.” She blinked. “Sounds like your teacher knew exactly what she was talking about.”

  Nick handed her a toasted and freshly buttered apple scone. “Sorry about that, Ms. Apple.”

  She didn’t respond, didn’t even look his way, just snatched the plate, lifted her chin slightly higher, and glided back to her table.

  It wasn’t until the younger teacher got my attention and shook her head slightly that I turned back to Nick. As I paid, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Hopefully I just didn’t make things worse for you when you’re in her classroom.”

  He didn’t respond, simply handed me back my credit card and then a pen to sign the receipt.

  “But on a positive note, you’ve only got a couple m
ore weeks to put up with her, right?”

  He looked confused for a second and shook his head. “No. I’m not graduating until December.”

  Maybe I’d heard wrong. “Oh, sorry. I just met your twin. I was under the impression he was graduating at the end of May.”

  “He is. I’m not.” Impossibly, he seemed even more ashamed and turned away.

  I tried to find something to say, anything to make it better, then decided the best thing to do was simply leave it alone.

  I was certain, at this point, the best thing I could do would be simply to leave. But instead, I led Watson to a small table, as far away from Ms. Apple as I could possibly be, and sat down.

  Still trying to think of a way to make Nick feel better, I took a bite of the scone and then cringed in surprise. Something was off, though I couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe the apple butter was spoiled. I sniffed it. No, not spoiled. I smacked my lips. It hadn’t tasted bad either, just not like apple butter.

  The mystery was forgotten as Carla reentered the main space. She did a quick scan, her brows knitting as she noticed Nick’s downcast expression, and then she froze when she saw me.

  Her moment of indecision lasted only a second, and she stormed toward Watson and me, eyes blazing in fury.

  Katie had been right. Common sense had been right. This had been a horrible, horrible idea.

  Carla slammed both of her fists on top of the table and leaned toward me, her voice, though whispered, was sharp as knives. “You have some gall, Fred. How dare you come in here?” She leaned closer still, so near that I could feel the warmth of her breath wash over my cheeks. “Are you that incompetent of an amateur detective that you do your stakeout in broad daylight? What’s your plan? Sit here with your stupid dog until I go crazy and start stabbing everyone?”

  “No.” I tried to keep my voice quiet as well. Clearly those around were aware of the scene, but the fewer people that overheard, the better. “I don’t think that.” I reconsidered the notion and raised my voice. “I don’t think you killed your father-in-law, or anyone else. I’ve not said that to anybody.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “So you didn’t go talk to Athena Rose the other day at the paper?” She sneered. “You didn’t think I noticed you being all buddy-buddy with her that day? I bet you just loved it, taking my barista, and then palling around with a wannabe critic who wouldn’t know good pastry items if they did the tango on her tongue?”

  And once again, the realities of small-town life clarified in my mind. Of course someone had seen me going to the paper, and of course they’d gossiped about it. Couldn’t even blame them, not after all I’d been involved in since moving to town.

  “I promise you, Carla, none of that is how it looks to you. I hadn’t even met Athena before that day. And I didn’t talk to her at the paper to get dirt on you or your family.” Though that was exactly what I’d gotten.

  “Do you have any idea the stress you’re causing my grandfather?” Clearly she wasn’t interested in anything I had to say and wasn’t going to believe it either way. “He’s a mess thinking that you’re going to try to pin Eustace’s murder on me. His only granddaughter. The mother of his only great-grandson. He can’t take much more, in case him plowing through the store yesterday with my car didn’t clue you in. And then you show up there this morning? Tell me you didn’t go there hoping to get some dirt.”

  “No. I swear I…” My words trailed off, I couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t think you did it, Carla. I really don’t.”

  “Like I care what you think.” She straightened and pointed out the door. “Get out. You and your flea-ridden dog. Get out and don’t ever come back.”

  I stood, and to my surprise, I realized I was trembling. Before I turned to leave, foolish or not, I decided to finish what I’d come here for, if for no other reason to avoid another altercation later. “I also wanted to let you know that Ben is going to start working for me at the bookshop.”

  She blinked and then shook her head. “Who in the world is Ben, and why would I care if he…” Realization dawned, and she glanced over at Nick. I was certain I’d just made his day markedly worse when I saw the fresh wave of hate in her eyes when she looked back. “Seriously, what is your damage? Do you have some sick fascination with being me? Trying to take over my life? What next? Are you going to adopt some baby and name him Maverick?”

  There was a shattering of a plate behind us, cutting off my response, not that I’d figured out what I was supposed to say to that. We both turned to see Sally Apple stand so quickly that she bumped the table and knocked it over, eliciting more shattering of dishes. Papers went airborne from the table and books spread over the floor out of the tote bags.

  The younger teacher screamed and jumped out of the way. “Help. Help us.”

  Sally clutched her throat and wheezed as she tried to suck in air. The sound was horrid. She seemed to be searching for something. Even as she attempted to breathe, she looked around the floor and her feet.

  Miss Morris dropped to the ground as she continued to yell. She dug through the mass of books, papers, and tote bags, adding to the mess and chaos. “Her purse. We need her purse. Her EpiPen is in her purse.”

  Then it made sense. Allergic reaction to something.

  Carla and I went into action at the exact same moment. She rushed toward them, yelling at the other customers. “You heard her, help us find Sally’s purse. Now!” She raised her voice even louder. “Does anyone have an EpiPen? Anyone?”

  I pointed over at Nick. “Call 911. Quickly.”

  He’d been frozen behind the counter, staring, but at my directive, picked up his cell and dialed the number.

  No one had an EpiPen, but everyone began searching for Sally’s purse, a few people were grabbing random purses and shoving them her way.

  She shook her head, eyes wide as she continued struggling to breathe.

  After a few more seconds, she went to her knees, and still no one could find her purse.

  I rushed to her, though I had no idea what to do. She wasn’t choking, she didn’t need the Heimlich. I sank down beside her, and she fell over into my arms, still attempting to breathe, her flushed face starting to turn blue.

  “Help is on the way, Sally. Help is on the way.”

  Miss Morris let out another yell from across the coffee shop. “Here it is!” She held up a purse from behind the counter, then rushed toward us, and dumped the contents in front of Ms. Apple and me.

  She located the EpiPen and ripped off the lid, but it was too late.

  Miss Morris stabbed the needle into Sally Apple’s thigh, but it was still too late. Much too late.

  A quiet shock filled Black Bear Roaster. After the chaotic cacophony of screams, choking, the shattering dishes, and the frantic search for Sally’s purse, every single person remained frozen where they were. Even Watson did nothing more than press up against me.

  When the ambulance and police arrived, things continued in slow motion. People spoke in whispers and seemed more confused than anything.

  It had all been so sudden. So unexpected. And even to my own way of thinking, the thought felt strange, considering how much death I’d seen lately. But there was a difference between walking in on a dead body and holding a woman who was alive as she made the transition to death in your arms. One minute Sally Apple had been… well… a fairly miserable woman, if my short impression was correct, and then the next… she wasn’t.

  The police took statements as the first responders handled Ms. Apple. Interviews were hushed and slow. They took long enough that Watson and I were forgotten in the shuffle, and we sat in the corner by the wall and front window and simply observed. And thought.

  Bananas.

  That was the flavor when I’d bitten into the scone. I’d expected apple and gotten banana. When it felt like no one was looking, I lifted the plate I’d used and sniffed the scone with a solitary bite out of it. The combination of apple and banana.

  Not that bizarre of a
combination, I supposed, simply apple butter and banana butter. Bananas weren’t my favorite fruit, but they weren’t repugnant. But for Ms. Apple, it seemed, they were deadly. Unless… hers had been poisoned as well.

  That didn’t make any sense. I stood right there as Ms. Apple and Miss Morris had gotten their matching orders. In fact, I’d commandeered the first scone Sally Apple had received.

  I eyed the pastry warily at that thought. Was it poisoned? Had my single bite simply not been enough to make me sick. Or… make me sick yet?

  No sooner had the fear spiked than I shoved it away as irrational. The scone wasn’t poisoned. I was fine. As was Miss Morris, apparently.

  Sally Apple couldn’t have been poisoned. She simply died of anaphylactic shock. That and the result of misplacing her purse.

  Maybe I had been wrong about Eustace. Maybe it had been the exact same thing. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t quite recall how he’d seemed when he’d choked before disappearing down the hallway. Had it been the same as Sally? Had Eustace been allergic? Although, surely, that severe of a banana allergy couldn’t be that common.

  The image of him choking did come back then. He hadn’t had an apple scone or apple butter. His had been covered with powdered sugar.

  I tried to bring the scene back. The entirety of it. What had been the same? What had been different? Maybe the answer lay in the similarities.

  Both times the coffee shop had been crowded. Although it had been more so before. Both had involved scones, and both Eustace and Sally died within moments of eating a scone. So maybe… I glanced toward the display case and counter. At Nick Pacheco, ashen and worried. He’d been there on both occasions. As had Carla. The girl… Tiffany… she’d been there before, as had Harold. But not this time. Neither of them.

  So, once again, maybe it was Carla.

  I studied Nick. Surely not. The boy seemed barely brave enough to string enough words together to form a sentence, let alone murder people.

  “Her! Fred! I want her gone.” Carla’s raised, shrill voice shattered the solemn stillness of the place and my thoughts about her barista.