Death by Scones

by Jennifer Fischetto

  I shook my head vehemently. "No! You are not going to blame this on the bakery."

  A smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. "The bakery didn't serve a peanut oiled dessert. You did."

  My stomach sank. This wasn't happening. We didn't cook anything with peanut oil. We never even ordered it. I was certain.

  Lester stood and patted me on the shoulder. "Don't worry. It was a mistake. They happen. But I'd be a lot more careful in the future."

  He turned away from me, grabbed his mug off his desk, and walked over to the coffeepot.

  "No," I shouted and hurried after him. "I can prove we don't use peanut oil in the bakery. Joe, our baker, does most of the cooking. He can tell you. As well as Grams. And I can show you our invoices and have you speak to our vendors. Everyone will say the same. We don't use any kind of nuts or peanut oil." My voice rose higher with each word until sound barely escaped my mouth.

  He stared at me with pity in his eyes. "Ms. Spencer, that wouldn't rule out a mistake happening."

  That was ludicrous. "How? Did one of us carry a bottle of peanut oil from home into the bakery for the heck of it?"

  He shrugged. "All I know is what the evidence tells me. Nathan Dearborn died of a peanut allergy, and the only contents in his stomach were the ones from your bakery. From the severity of his reaction, there's no way he ate the deadly item elsewhere. He would've been dead before he arrived at Cinnamon Sugar Bakery."

  I cringed at his words.

  "Now, if you're insisting there's no way this was an accident, I guess we can look into other possibilities."

  "Like what?" I asked, but as the words slipped past my lips, I realized what he'd say. If it wasn't an accident, it was on purpose, which would've meant someone murdered Nathan Dearborn. That was insane, but since I didn't want to be pinned for that, I whispered, "Never mind."

  Lester nodded and added powdered creamer to his cup.

  I turned on my heel and walked out of the police station. Back on my bike, I rode to the bakery and turned over everything Lester had said in my mind. I refused to believe this was the bakery's responsibility, although I couldn't come up with another solution. I was fearful about how this would affect the bakery. It was more than just our reputation though. People would believe I'd accidentally killed a man.

  Inside, I flipped on the light switch just above the register and turned to the tables. I re-envisioned what had happened that day, but with all the people in here, there was no way to remember who had grabbed what and when. There had to be a way to find out for sure. I just couldn't accept this.

  I stared at the door, hoping some revealing memory would return. But what if there wasn't one? I glanced up and saw the camera. My heart skipped a beat. Grams had one of her friends install a security camera last year after a couple of kids tried to steal money from the register during tourist season. Stuff like that never happened in the off-season.

  Giddiness filled my body. I ran to the office and rewound the DVR to Friday afternoon. From the angle of the camera, it was hard to tell who was who. Why hadn't the friend installed the camera facing the register so it filmed the customer's face rather than the back of his or her head? I made a mental note to change the direction and to add another camera to span more of the room. Except for a few people, everyone else was very indistinguishable.

  Just as I was ready to give up, I spotted something out of the ordinary. Instead of the arms, hands, and torsos of people mingling and eating, I saw someone carrying a plate of food.

  I paused the image and cocked my head, trying to make out what I was seeing. A black-gloved hand carried a small silver tray, similar to the ones we had in the bakery. On it were triangles of dough.

  Scones.

  I couldn't tell who was holding it, and then the person walked out of view.

  There was a tray of scones Joe had baked that morning, but I hadn't served any, and they were chocolate chunk and cherry. The autopsy hadn't mentioned those two ingredients. The scones on the monitor hadn't come from the bakery.

  Oh my God, somebody had brought in the scones on purpose. This meant he had been murdered. My stomach gurgled, and I thought I'd be sick. I ran to the bathroom off the kitchen. I wasn't sure when I'd go back into the public one.

  I leaned over the sink and breathed slowly, waiting for my stomach to settle. When it did, I turned on the cold faucet and wet a paper towel. I pressed it to my forehead and then the back of my neck.

  I returned to the office and scanned through the rest of that day, hoping to see the black-gloved hand again. And there it was. The person passed by the register on his or her way to the restroom. I still couldn't make out who it was or if it was a man or woman. But then I caught a glimpse of the person's feet. The figure wore brown suede moccasins. There was something odd about them. I zoomed, paused, squinted, cocked my head, and did all I could to make it out. On the tip of the right shoe was a weird yellow splat—a stain.

  Holy macaroons!

  I'd caught the killer on film.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Out of respect, I closed the bakery the next day. Maybe I should've done that the day after Nathan died, but I hadn't thought he'd been murdered then. Today, the day he was being buried, I knew otherwise. The service was later this afternoon, which meant I had plenty of time for some sleuthing.

  Last night I'd saved a copy of the security footage onto a flash drive, and as I was leaving the bakery, I'd noticed the Danger Cove Savings & Loan. Well, I hadn't just noticed the building. It had been there forever, situated diagonally across the street from the bakery. I'd passed it every day for years and barely noticed it anymore. But last night it sat on the corner like a giant smiley face. Its ATM machine, which wasn't separated from the building or covered in any way, faced the bakery. It had to have a security camera, which meant it might've caught the killer as well.

  But going there and simply asking for that footage was out of the question. I needed to be craftier than that, which involved Tara, and she was busy with a tots' class this morning. So until she was available, I baked a batch of banana muffins with wheat germ, at home. Baking left me relaxed and no longer hungry, and the house smelling like cinnamon and bananas.

  After cleaning up, I changed into high-waisted denim capris and a red-and-white checkered blouse. I plaited my dark hair into a single long braid down my back, tied a red scarf around my head, like a headband, and skated over to Nathan's. The whole trip over, I wondered why Grams never mentioned a connection between Mom and another Danger Cove resident. People knew her. There were a few old classmates, but after the well-wishers at her funeral left, no one came by to talk about her or to check on us. Mom's closest friends were Dad, Uncle Doug, and Aunt Sandra. We had been a close family.

  When I reached Nathan's house, I didn't hesitate and rolled up the walkway. It was long, and I moved slowly, somewhat nervous about who would answer the door. The white Toyota Camry that was parked there the first time I rode past was there now.

  An older man in dark-gray pants, a white T-shirt, and red suspenders held a pair of shears to a tall, flowering bush. He was probably at the invisible line that separated his property from Nathan's. He stared at me hard, and I could've sworn he growled. What did I do to him?

  I lifted the heavy, old knocker on Nathan's door and brought it down, several times.

  The old man growled again, this time with some murmurs under his breath.

  I considered rolling away, but the door opened, and I was taken aback.

  A man about my age in loose-fitting jeans and an olive-green T-shirt stood there. His feet were bare. A dark crop of spiky hair covered the top of his head, and black-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his face. He blinked several times and squinted at the sunlight, as if I'd just woken him, or maybe the dirt-crusted windows had made it dim inside. "Can I help you?"

  "Hi. I'm Riley Spencer."

  He raised his brows. "Oh, hi."

  He'd heard of me? Of course, Riley. I was certain Lester had told him all
about the girl who'd "accidentally" killed his relative.

  "I don't mean to intrude," I said. "I just wanted to pay my respects." Okay, so I was really just a snoop who wanted answers about the recluse and my mom, but this man didn't need to know that.

  He took a step back and opened the door wider. "No, please, come in. I'm Maxwell Dearborn, Max, Uncle Nathan's nephew."

  So he did have family. I stepped inside the dimly lit foyer. It was small and unadorned except for a lopsided coat rack.

  "I was just in the kitchen going through some things. Please join me. Can I get you some coffee?"

  He was awfully friendly considering how and where his uncle died.

  "No, thank you. I can't stay long."

  I followed him down the hall, which held large billboard-sized portraits of a young Nathan. I stopped in front of a black-and-white photo. He looked debonair with his hair slicked back, wearing a jacket and tie. His complexion was flawless, but black-and-white photos had a way of creating that painted-on look. He looked just like he did in the photo Uncle Doug showed me.

  Max stopped and turned my way. He smiled at the portrait. "That was taken after his very first film, The Lighthouse. It was actually about Danger Cove's lighthouse."

  I glanced to Max. I'd never heard of it. In junior high school our social studies teacher was a lighthouse enthusiast, but I didn't recall him talking about a movie. "Really?"

  Max rubbed the muscles on the back of his neck. "As the story goes, the producer was fascinated with the history of the lighthouse and wanted to make a film about a pirate who came to Danger Cove to look for treasure but fell in love with a local woman. I believe it's based on real history. Do you know of it?"

  I shook my head. "I've never been fascinated with pirates or treasures."

  Max smiled. "I wasn't either until I began researching. Anyway, when the producer visited Danger Cove to get inspiration, he met Uncle Nathan and immediately knew he was to play the lead. It was just luck that Uncle Nathan was also an aspiring actor. That movie made him an instant success."

  I stared at the picture, mesmerized by his high cheekbones and strong jawline. He looked so regal. That wasn't the man in the bakery. What happened to him?

  "He changed," Max said as if reading my mind.

  I widened my eyes. "Very much so. Why?" It wasn't my business, but it was such a striking difference I had to ask.

  Max, however, clamped his lips together. Darkness washed over his features. "He became troubled. The kitchen is this way." He turned and walked off before I could inquire deeper.

  I caught a glimpse of a living room with a few boxes and stylish furniture. Despite Nathan being wealthy, I was expecting dilapidated hand-me-downs, probably because of how the man in my bakery hadn't seemed to care about his appearance or about the outside of his house. But everything in here was clean and in great condition. We passed a long mahogany dining room table with eight chairs and turned into a bright kitchen.

  Sunlight poured through the windows. Whereas the front of the house was dark wood, this room had white cabinetry and cream-colored walls. It had a woman's touch. Did Nathan have a girlfriend? No, I couldn't imagine that.

  "Please, have a seat," Max said and pointed to the table by the windows and the stools around the island.

  I chose a stool. "I hope I'm not intruding."

  He walked over to a box on a far counter, then turned to me. "No. I was planning on coming to the bakery to visit you. This saves me a trip. There's so much to do here. I've been quite busy."

  "Are you going through and packing his things? That must be a hard task to do alone."

  He sighed lightly, the load of the task apparent on his slumped shoulders. "It's more than I thought. I forgot how big this place was."

  So he'd been here before, maybe visited over the years?

  "Are you his only family?"

  "No, my two aunts, Nathan's sisters, are in town too."

  "Oh, then you don't have to do all of this alone."

  He made this weird chuckle sound, and I couldn't tell if he was happy or disgusted. "That would be nice, but no. Aunt Holly and Aunt Gloria aren't known for their hard work. They're not even staying here. They're at Ocean View Bed & Breakfast."

  I quickly frowned. Tension in the family. That didn't surprise me though. What did was Max talking to me, a stranger, so freely.

  "And your parents?" I asked, feeling like Duncan Pickles, interrogating the poor, disheveled mourners.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You said Nathan was your uncle, so one of your parents was his brother or sister, right?" I smiled and hopefully came across as harmless.

  He glanced away. "My father was his brother. Dad passed away a few years ago."

  There I went, cramming my size-eight foot down my throat. "I'm very sorry for your loss. For all of it."

  He turned back to his box. "Thank you."

  A weird silence hung between us. I wasn't sure what else to say or ask. I had a zillion questions, but this man was already going through enough. He didn't need me poking around. I wasn't sure how else I'd learn about Nathan's connection with Mom, but it wouldn't happen today.

  I stood up and pushed the stool in. "I should get going. Again, I'm sorry."

  Max turned to me and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Thank you, but it wasn't your fault."

  I swallowed hard and smiled. A heavy lump settled in my chest.

  "Right?" he asked.

  My pulse rose. "N-no, of course not." I may have felt slightly guilty for whatever transpired in my bakery, but I most certainly wasn't responsible.

  "Right," he said, but there was something in his eyes that made me think he didn't quite believe it.

  * * *

  "This is a bad idea," I said and blew a long lock of strawberry-blonde hair out of my eyes. Actually, it wasn't even hair, more like nylon.

  "Sit still," Tara barked and adjusted the wig on my head. She sat back and surveyed her work. "It looks…passable."

  I sighed. "That horrible?" I pulled down the sun visor in her car and stared into the tiny mirror. I had toned down my makeup today and practically had a naked face with just a light coating of mascara to highlight my blue eyes, a hint of blush, and a smudge of my red lipstick, just giving a rose hue to my mouth. I didn't look as bad as Tara made out. I pulled on the navy hat and wondered if playing a cop was the best idea.

  When I had told Tara about needing the bank footage, she informed me the bank manager was new to town. I didn't ask how she knew this. It wasn't important at the moment, but I assumed he was buff and tanned. And just as luck would have it, Tara owned a cop uniform from a Halloween party two years ago.

  My stomach grumbled, and fear squeezed my chest. "I'm not sure I can do this."

  "Of course you can. It's not a big deal. Think of it as acting.

  "This isn't pretend. It's impersonating a cop. That's all kinds of jail time."

  Tara's left eye twitched. "Don't think about it. Just go in there, believe you have the authority, and get that tape."

  I nodded as if I was in agreement, but in reality, my brain was screaming, "Don't be a fool."

  If I didn't go inside, though, it meant not getting answers. I could take the flash drive to Lester, but I doubted a gloved hand and some spotted shoes would be enough to convince him to reopen the case. So without any other options, I pushed open the car door and stepped out.

  I re-tucked the back of the light-blue shirt into the navy pants and walked across the parking lot. We had specifically timed this for 1:00 p.m., when only one teller would be in the bank and the other would be at lunch. I planned to hide my face as best as possible, but I prayed I wouldn't run into a customer. Wig or not, I still looked like me.

  Luckily, the bank was nearly empty. The teller helped an elderly woman at the counter, and neither of them paid attention to my entrance.

  The black sneakers I chose to complete the look squeaked on the tile flooring. I headed to the desk by the front windows, where a
man my age sat. He wore a navy pinstripe suit and was adjusting the knot in his burgundy tie. He was definitely not buffed or tanned. In fact, he was the opposite. So how did Tara know him? Had her type changed?

  He looked up as I approached, and then he stood as I stepped up to his desk, and held out his hand. "Hello, I'm the bank manager, Mr. Stewart. How can I help you?"

  I placed my hand in his and shook. "I'm here about the death of Nathan Dearborn at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery last Friday."

  He wiggled his tie knot again and returned to his seat. "I heard about that. I'm afraid I didn't know the man. I'm new to town."

  I flashed a half smile, not sure if I should act professional or friendly. "Your ATM machine is positioned at an angle where its security camera may have picked up Mr. Dearborn's arrival that morning."

  He frowned and stopped fidgeting. "Okay. But what does that have to do with the death?"

  "There's been some discrepancy as to what happened that day. We're looking for a concrete timeline to certain events. I can't divulge information about an ongoing case, as I'm sure you understand."

  "Yes, I do. Do you have a warrant?" he asked.

  Damn. He was going to play this by the rules.

  I sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward, grateful I hadn't fastened the top button of my blouse. "I only noticed the camera a few minutes ago. I haven't had time to get a warrant yet. I figured I'd come in and see if I could get a copy now. The family is only in town for the funeral, which is later today, and they're just looking for answers."

  He gazed around the room as if looking for assistance with the sexy woman. "I want to help but…"

  I put on a high-wattage grin and leaned even closer. "You're new to Danger Cove. We're a small town and a safe, happy community. We do everything we can to help one another."

  I was running out of pep-squad words, and in another minute my face would be on his blotter. "Are you married, Mr. Stewart?" Hey, a dose of downright, obvious flirting couldn't hurt, right?