Poison at the Bake Sale
Hollis Shiloh
Published by Spare Words Press, 2019.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Poison at the Bake Sale
Poison at the Bake Sale | Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
author's note:
Story copyright February 2019 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover art by Bayou Cover Designs. Proofreading by Carol Davis.
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ABOUT THE STORY:
Abe has an awful premonition that something will go wrong during a local baking contest. Of course it's his silly imagination; he's just jumpy these days, after that murder last year. But when the day of the competition means running into his abusive ex, who later turns up dead, Abe wishes that he'd paid more attention to his anxieties, not less.
Now it's up to Abe and Gregory to figure out who could have done in the awful man. Because the authorities are looking awfully close to home, and there's only so much strain that even the best relationship can take.
A cozy gay mystery
50,500 words
Poison at the Bake Sale
Chapter one
Abe sat very still. A bee was buzzing around the flowers on the mint plants in his herb garden. It was all well and good, Gregory's talk of harvesting their own honey, or how lovely and useful pollinators were, and how a hive was definitely a good thing to have; it would practically save the earth. He'd been very enthusiastic about it.
Abe had tried his best to feel the same way and failed; and now, every time one of those soft-looking little insects buzzed near him, he froze. He'd never liked bugs, even ones that couldn't injure him. And bees, for all their honey, definitely came with a sting. He sat very, very still on the bench in his backyard, hoping the creature would go away and pollinate elsewhere.
Who knew planting herbs would only encourage the beasts? Go away! Go on! he silently urged, but he didn't so much as twitch a finger to shoo it away. It was a very clumsy sort of bee, and that distinctive little whine was irritating.
Abe had come out here to sketch. His herb garden (which Gregory, neighbor and boyfriend, had helped him set up), and the adorable garden bench he'd bought to sit on seemed the perfect place to get in the mood for art.
Of course it had been some time since he'd drawn anything. Abe wanted to reconnect with the artistic side of himself that he'd almost completely lost. He'd been hoping these backyard improvements would inspire him. It had been years since he'd done anything creative—at least, anything that didn't involve cooking. He could be fairly creative there.
He used to fit the stereotype of a creative. It was one of the things he'd lost during his unhappy marriage to Lenard. He wanted to get back that side of himself, if it was even possible. Sitting here with a hand clenched round a pencil, he wasn't certain that it was.
The notebook spread open on his lap was terribly, awfully blank: an unmarked, high-quality paper waiting to be ruined by his touch.
What would I have given for a sketchbook like this when I was young, when nothing could stop me from drawing? He remembered drawing on wide-ruled paper, because that was what he had. What joy there was to be had even using such poor materials. Oh, how he had cherished any "good" paper he got, for Christmas or birthdays, or when he could get to an art store and buy some himself with carefully earned and hoarded money. He'd been so creative back then, and there was always something he wanted to draw, even if it was just a silly doodle.
And now all this clear, open space only filled him with terror. Even before the bee showed up, he'd been frozen. Had he lost that part of himself forever?
Without meaning to, he glanced over towards the decorative white picket fence separating his property from Gregory's. As was normal for him, Gregory was hard at work, doing something physically demanding in his garden space—which was the whole yard. While that had been a point of contention when they first met, he'd grown to like and accept Gregory's passionate nature for gardening. His goal was turning what had been a lawn into his idealized version of a garden, filled with fruit trees and berry bushes and veggies instead of grass or decorative plants.
Abe, who had nearly given up on flower gardening after a bad experience involving a dead body last year, had decided to do an herb garden instead, and a few decorative roses along the fence.
Abe could only just see Gregory's shoulders from here, as he was hard at work, no doubt digging yet again. He seemed to be digging endlessly, despite having put in a succession of vegetable plots and fruit trees. There was always something new to do—some trench, new bed, or project—probably because he had the energy of a border collie and the strength of an athlete. He was really quite the catch.
It was a shame about the cruise, it really was. It had showed them to each other in the worst possible light, and, well, Abe was glad he hadn't put his house on the market yet and moved in with Gregory after all. It hurt to realize just how incompatible they could be at times.
The cruise had been an unmitigated disaster from day one. It had been such a nice idea: go on a romantic cruise together, spend some quality time, and really relax. Abe would get away from the consulting work that took so much of his time. (He liked working from home, but there was never really any escape from work when it lived with him.) Gregory would let his gardening plans go for a bit, spend some time truly relaxing, and they'd both be fully present. They'd even picked a cruise for gay couples so it would be welcoming and friendly, a relaxing atmosphere where they might make friends and wouldn't feel shy about being together.
Instead of being a joy, it had quickly turned into a horror for Abe, who came down with food poisoning the first day and was dreadfully sick through the whole cruise, more or less stuck in bed, unable to eat or enjoy the breeze, or sightsee or do anything. He was seasick when he wasn't being ill from the food poisoning; he couldn't go ashore, and he grew to hate that horrible little cabin more than anything in his life.
As for Gregory—well, that border collie energy was trapped in a confined space with no outlet and no partner to play with. He'd bounced off the walls, restless and miserable. He'd tried to be a comfort to Abe, but they'd mostly ended up getting on one another's nerves. Abe was far too ill to appreciate any suggestions of activities, and while Gregory tried to be the dutiful boyfriend and mop his brow for him, he also couldn't stop talking about the food waste, and how someone should be composting, and all sorts of things that Abe was in no frame of mind to bear hearing about. He couldn't eat food; he didn't want to hear about it. As far as waste, or energy, he just wanted to be left alone to die in peace, and then Gregory could compost his body if he wished. Death had felt quite imminent.
At any rate, the cruise had been miserable for them both, and their relationship had cooled a bit as a result. It was a shame, because he truly liked Gregory—perhaps more than he should. He'd been ready to sell his place and move into Gregory's, taking over the unfinished decorating, co
oking for them both, sharing a bedroom, and generally being quite domestic together.
Perhaps it was better after all to be neighbors; then they could get away from each other when they needed to. The thought made him sad. He didn't want to get away from Gregory, he really didn't. And yet clearly, they still needed some space...
The bee buzzed, and Abe didn't draw, didn't move. But he watched his boyfriend over the fence and thought wistful things. As if sensing eyes on him, Gregory looked up, looked around, and then when he saw Abe watching him, his face relaxed into a big grin. He smiled and waved, as bright and sunny as the day itself. Abe sighed softly and raised one tentative hand to wave back, very slowly. He didn't want to scare the bee and have it sting him.
And if that doesn't sum up our whole relationship. Him, brave and energetic. Me, scared and neurotic...
"Yoo-hoo!" called a familiar voice, and Abe turned his head (carefully and slowly) to look at his neighbor, Winnie, striding purposefully from her lawn onto his, a smile on her face as she waved. She had the look of a woman with gossip or news to share, and he perked up inwardly at the thought.
Winnie was looking good these days, having recovered completely from her brush with a murderer and settling into a happy relationship with her boyfriend, Rick Radford, who used to be her gardener. Nobody was really scandalized by that; the surprise was more that Rick had actually settled down. And, apparently, remained faithful for all this time!
At least there had been no gossip or suspicious indicators to tell of anything else. He was truly taken with Winnie, and she was taken with him. Abe found it a lot easier to be happy for his neighbor and friend with her catch of the hottest gardener in the county, since he had his own boyfriend now. But once upon a time (and not so long ago, at that), he'd have been bitterly jealous, sour as a lemon about it.
"Winnie, hi," he said in a hoarse whisper.
She stopped abruptly. "What's the matter? Are you ill? Don't cough on me!" She raised her hands as if to shield herself from a germ assault, making a face.
He would have laughed at her exaggerated expression, but he didn't dare make so much noise. He shook his head gently and tilted his chin slightly. "There's a bee."
Her gaze flicked past him to the herb garden and its persistent pollinator. "Oh, for pity's sake, Abe! It's just a honeybee. They're not hostile." She shooed him to the other side of the bench, farther from the bee, and plopped down beside him, flicking out and smoothing the edges of her skirt, which was short and flippy, crimped and white, above the knee.
It was midsummer, and she had gorgeous legs. Winnie had always been eye-catching, and now she was even more so, with the confidence that being in a happy relationship gave her. Like Abe, she'd once been married to a real jerk. Unlike Abe, her spouse had died and left her quite well-off. Lenard had not left Abe in a better financial position, and he had the bad taste to be very much alive. In fact, he was probably currently destroying the happiness of his much-younger boyfriend, Edward, whom he liked to brag about on social media.
Abe, feeling every year of his age, as well as neurotic and divorced, tried to forget about the bee and concentrate on his friend. "What's up?" he asked, hoping he didn't look sad and faded, and too introspective and miserable (and, well, old) to her sharp eyes. Winnie was a good person, but he didn't put it above her to pass on the news that he was looking run-down or gloomy. Which he was. But still. It didn't do to let on that there was trouble in paradise, or that he was feeling lost and unsure of himself lately.
Getting back into some artistic pursuit or other was supposed to help him reconnect with his lost passions, get back what he'd lost through the years, the bad marriage, and working all the time. Instead, he was feeling more out of place and uncertain than ever—and less creative than he'd dreamed was possible.
"You shouldn't be scared of bees, you know," said Winnie. "Well, not unless you're allergic."
"I'm not, but I don't like being stung."
"Have you ever been stung?" She looked skeptical, as if she couldn't imagine him voluntarily being out of doors long enough for that to ever happen.
"Of course I have. It was dreadful." He'd been little more than a toddler, and a river of tears had resulted. He'd been in his Easter Sunday best—a very smart little suit, a powder blue color that his mother had picked for him and he'd adored. His father hadn't liked it, and he hadn't understood why then; he'd thought he looked really nice: fancy and colorful, the way girls got to dress all the time. His normal school clothes—striped shirts, boring brown corduroy pants—had seemed so plain in comparison.
The bee sting had taken the shine off hunting for eggs in the backyard, and, in retrospect, perhaps off any burgeoning love of the outdoors. He'd been much happier when Mommy let him help her make some Easter cookies. The eggs had been taken in eventually by the grownups, except for the ones that were forgotten and left to rot or be eaten by animals. The next year they hadn't bothered hiding eggs for him, and he thought they'd all been relieved. An Easter basket and some colorful clothing had been enough.
Winnie glanced over at Gregory. "What's he putting in today?"
Abe hunched his shoulders, feeling hunted. "I don't know. Something with a Latin name."
Winnie snorted. She didn't sound half as elegant as she looked, thought Abe grumpily. He had tried to take an interest in Gregory's gardening permaculture projects; he really had. He didn't like reminders of how he'd failed.
"Well, anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the bake sale. They've decided to make it into a competition this year. With a judge and everything."
"Oh, dear," said Abe. He and Winnie exchanged significant looks, perfectly in sync now. Abe was superstitious; he had avoided competitions far and wide after the nightmare of the gardening competition, which had ended up with a celebrity dead in his backyard. It had been horrifying, and had severely shaken his sense of security, already not the strongest in the world. Winnie had nearly died, as well. It wasn't all bad; these events had brought Winnie and Rick into a happy relationship, and had let Abe get to know his neighbor, Gregory. The two had become close during the ordeal, and ended up dating after everything was over. But he didn't think he'd ever willingly participate in another competition in his life; that nightmare had quite beaten the competitive pride out of him.
"Well, we'll have to talk them out of it, I suppose. There's no celebrity judge, at least? I hope?"
"No." Winnie shook her head, pressing her knees together in a nervous manner. "It's voting. People are supposed to vote anonymously, and the scores will all be added together. Of course everyone actually in the stupid thing will vote for their entry, and so will their families and friends, so they've got to have more people involved without a personal stake. The local retirement home is going to have its residents take a day trip and participate."
"Well, it could be worse," said Abe. "But I don't want to take part, as a judge or an entrant." And he was a good baker. "I'd be looking over my shoulder the whole time, waiting for a murderer to jump out of the woodwork. I don't care if it's foolish; I wouldn't feel safe."
"You're telling me!" said Winnie. "I almost died after eating those brownies." She shuddered. "No, we're definitely on the same page. I'm hoping you—and Greg—can help talk them out of doing it."
Abe winced a little. Gregory didn't like being called Greg, but Abe didn't correct her.
"Of course no one else is going to see it the same way, are they?" said Abe, sinking immediately into despair. He put down his sketchbook and pencil, finally giving up on getting any art created. At least the bee had disappeared somewhere; he didn't see it or hear any buzzing now. "Who's in charge of the nonsense?"
"Mary."
"Mary Mink?" Abe's voice rose incredulously. "That's ridiculous. You'd think she'd know better."
"Well, she is the neighborhood's best cook, and everyone knows it. She's not the sort to say no if she's asked to run something, even if she wanted to say no. Besides, it's her idea to have everyone help ju
dge, so she must think it's a good thing."
"The whole thing is ridiculous." Inviting a whole bunch of old people to taste random baked goods, not to mention inciting the competitive spirit of the neighborhood, really didn't seem like a good plan to him. If anyone was going to discover a secret hankering to become a poisoner, this would be the time. He no longer believed murder couldn't happen here. In fact, these days he suspected it constantly, even without good reason. Any 'died swiftly in his sleep' obituaries made him suspicious now. And yes, Abe was the sort of person who read obits avidly.
He wasn't sure he'd have liked even a young, hale bunch of judges not as superstitious as he felt, but a group already close to meeting the man with the scythe was not his idea of a good idea.
"Who's spearheading this?" he said. "Besides Mary. You said someone talked her into it."
"Oh, well, Hannibal, of course."
Abe groaned. Hannibal Hughes, resident windbag and aphid hunter, liked being in charge of things. He had a militaristic view of life, and everything needed to be competitive, or a battle, including his gardening—him versus the aphids. He also loved attention and enjoyed it when all the older ladies in the neighborhood were paying attention to him. Naturally, he was the one who would push himself forward and take charge even of a baking competition—while palming off any real work onto Mary.
Quiet, sensible Mary Mink was an amazing cook and baker—and a recently discovered lesbian, having moved in with her friend-turned-lover, the gruff Fiona Fairchild. They seemed quite happy together, settling in with Fiona's knitting and cats, and Mary's herb garden and baking. Seeing them together did Abe's heart good. He cared about them both, and liked seeing them happy. It was an oddly startling mix of old-fashioned and modern, seeing them together—two little old ladies unremarkable from many others, except for how openly they loved each other: out and proud, and occasionally wearing matching Lesbian Pride scarves Fiona had knitted herself.
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