by Darci Hannah
With the boyfriend, of course.
I stared at the words and realized the Captain was undoubtedly correct. The screen blipped and suddenly came back to life, landing on the last page I’d been reading. Jeffery’s pitiful interview on the morning talk show. Apparently, the Captain, or whoever it was that had hijacked my computer, was gone.
Could Jeffery be the one who killed Mia? Could he have used revenge on my bakery as a cover to divest himself of an embarrassing mistake, namely Mia Long? No doubt he’d been acting strangely. I recalled how he had lurked in the corner of the café, sampling a piece of my coffee cake as he left Mia to storm my counter and create chaos on his behalf. Jeffery wasn’t even that upset when Mia collapsed. He never lifted a finger to help. Rory had been the one to escort her outside. Rory had been the one to start CPR when she wasn’t breathing. Dear heavens, maybe the Captain was correct. Maybe Jeffery Plank had a reason to want Mia dead. But why?
That was the question I needed to ask him.
CHAPTER 20
The morning began with a clap of thunder. Fitting, I thought, as I threw on a robe and headed downstairs to the kitchen. My head ached, and I needed coffee. Wellington needed his morning romp around the lighthouse grounds followed by a cookie and a dental chew.
The moment I hit the landing, I was struck by the smell of brewing coffee. Why was coffee brewing so early? Although I always set up the coffeemaker the night before, I hadn’t pressed the button. An unsettling feeling hit me then, and I thought, oh no, what if the ghostly captain had taken it upon himself to make me coffee? Could that be any weirder than the conversation I’d had last night on my computer? Had a ghostly entity really taken over my laptop, or was it just some hacker playing a trick on me? Maybe I had dreamt the whole thing? While my head was spinning, Wellington was unfazed by my problems and trotted down the stairs, heading for the door. If there was a ghost in my kitchen, Wellington didn’t care. He had other pressing needs at the moment. I unbolted the lock, opened the door, and watched him bound out into the rain, happy as a duck in a puddle. I had half a mind to wait for him, but the pull of coffee was too strong. I crossed the short hallway and peered into the kitchen, half-expecting to see the old weathered ghost of the first lightkeeper at the table.
“Morning.” At the sound, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest. It wasn’t the ghostly voice of an old dead guy. It was Kennedy, which was equally as puzzling. Like ghostly entities and vampires, mornings weren’t really her scene. She looked up from her iPad, set down her teacup, and smiled.
“What time is it?” I asked, thinking I had overslept.
“Early. I know. And before you offer a snappy remark about seeing me vertical before noon two days in a row, which, I admit, is a miracle, I want you to know that this is me trying to be a better friend. I even pushed the button on the coffeemaker for you. See? Coffee.”
“That was you?” I said reflexively, when what I really should have done was thank her.
Kennedy rolled her eyes. “Well, it wasn’t Wellington.”
I pulled a mug from the cupboard and filled it with the freshly brewed coffee. I had to admit, it smelled heavenly. Resting against the counter, I took a sip, all the while thinking of how to tell her about the strange conversation I had last night through my computer. There was no eloquent way to broach the subject. After another fortifying sip, I blurted, “Something weird happened to me last night.”
She arched a black brow. “Kissing a backwoods hottie? Not so weird considering where you live.”
“What?”
“You and Sir Hunts-a-Lot. Maybe you’re too busy frosting donuts to notice, but he’s totally into you.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not talking about Rory. And . . . we didn’t kiss.”
This surprised her. “Pity. You were quick to walk out the door with him. Don’t tell me you’re just friends?”
“Honestly, I’m not quite sure what we are. But what I’m trying to tell you is that last night something took over my computer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking about the murder,” I told her, joining her at the table. “I wanted to understand the depths of your meddling and started Googling Jeffery Plank. I was in the middle of watching that video, the one where he makes that insensitive remark about cows on the morning show, when suddenly my computer went black. I thought it died, but then words started to appear.”
Kennedy, abandoning her iPad and her tea, stared at me. “What kind of words?”
“Look,” I said, feeling a bit foolish. “Don’t judge me too harshly, but I think somebody took over my computer—somebody claiming to be the ghost of the first lightkeeper at this lighthouse.”
“How . . . interesting,” she remarked, looking at me as if I was a donut short of a baker’s dozen.
Biting my lip, I asked, “Is it? Look, either somebody’s hacking my computer and messing with me, or I’m conversing with a ghost. Truthfully, I don’t know which one is worse.” I raked my fingers though my thick hair and cast her a nervous look.
Kennedy, enthralled, leaned forward. “This conversation, was it erotic?”
“What? No! It was cryptic. It was about the murder of Mia Long.”
“Cryptic yet not erotic? I’d say you’re dealing with a ghost.” She was annoyingly unfazed by this.
“Listen to yourself,” I chided. “You’re telling me I’m conversing with a ghost. Doesn’t that sound crazy to you?” I stared at her, entirely forgetting my aching head and the coffee.
“Look, darling, if there’s one thing I know, it’s the internet. And my experience tells me that any hacker targeting you is obviously a pervert. You’re a beautiful single woman with loads of cash. That makes you a target. But you say this hacker is talking about the murder of Mia Long? That just happened. It’s only just made the news this morning.” Kennedy turned her iPad to me. She’d been reading an article sensationally titled Donuts to Die For. Beneath the headline was a picture of my lighthouse bakery with its happy red awning above the door and the outside tables capped off with equally bright umbrellas. All the yellow police tape around the perimeter was like a sobering slap in the face.
I clutched my chest. “This is horrible,” I uttered, heartbroken at the sight.
“Horrible?” Kennedy looked at me with a slight grin perking up her lips. “I’ll admit that this picture’s a bit of a downer. But look at that tagline! Nothing like a bit of sensational news to pique public interest.”
“What does the article say?” My heart was pounding with dread. I didn’t have the nerve to read it. The last thing I needed was bad publicity.
“Interestingly enough, just the facts as the reporter knew them. It states that a woman died outside your bakery yesterday after choking on a donut.” Kennedy waved it off and shut her iPad. “What I find more interesting is that someone or something took the effort to contact you last night without using any of the accepted ways—like email or social media. Also, without you clicking on a bum link or something, I don’t think it’s possible to be hacked. It’s called phishing. Then, here’s another thought. Why you? You’re not a detective. What can you do about the murder of your ex-boyfriend’s tart?”
As she spooned out her convoluted logic, my heart began to pound with illogical fear. Kennedy did have a point. But a ghost? Did they really exist? And if so, was it usual for them to chat over a computer?
As if reading my thoughts, she added, “Look, I’m no expert on ghosts, so we should probably consult an authority. . . like a medium or an exorcist. But that would take time. For now, let’s say it is a ghost.” With her hands gripping her teacup, she tilted her head. “I am curious. What did it say?”
“Well, he calls himself the Captain, and he knew that a woman had been murdered at the lighthouse. Even stranger? He had tried to warn me the night before my grand opening.”
Her dark eyes glittered with interest. “Really. How did he do that?”
“It was two nights ago. Reme
mber I had just learned that I was going to be short a barista? I went over to ask Rory if he’d help at the bakery. I was standing on his back deck when we saw an odd light glowing in the lantern room. It was similar to a lighthouse light, only not as bright. It was around eleven o’clock. That wasn’t you, was it?” I thought to ask.
A contemplative look crossed her face. “Definitely not. I don’t go up there alone. That place gives me the willies.”
Her confession sent a little shiver up my spine. “Why didn’t you tell me that?” I asked.
“Really? You just bought this place. You sank a lot of money into it. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you that it’s haunted.”
I was about to press her further, asking how she knew it was haunted, when Wellington started barking at the door. “Hang on a moment,” I said, and went to get Wellington. To my surprise my dog wasn’t alone. Dylan was there as well, standing beneath a dripping umbrella.
I ushered her inside, took her umbrella, and dried Wellington off with a handful of towels. I then poured her a mug of coffee and sat her at the table next to Kennedy. While Kennedy brought her up to speed on my mysterious conversations with a ghost, I pulled a bag of carrot cake muffins out of the refrigerator. I had made them the morning before our grand opening, testing out a new recipe. The muffins were scrumptious, with all the flavor of a hearty carrot cake in a lighter, fluffier muffin batter. I planned on adding them to the bakery shelves but hadn’t gotten around to calculating out the recipe for the larger batch. I warmed the muffins in the microwave, bringing them to a nearly just-baked temperature. As the girls chatted, I topped each muffin with a generous amount of the fluffy cream cheese frosting I had made to go with them.
“Dangit!” Dylan remarked, eyeing the frosted treats. “Are these mini carrot cakes? I really didn’t come here to beg breakfast, but I can’t resist. These look amazing.”
“They are,” Kennedy said with an air of nonchalance. She picked one up, took a bite, and added, “I’ve learned to accept that everything Lindsey makes is amazing.”
Wellington, settling for a hearty bowl of kibble instead of a carrot cake muffin, happily ate his breakfast as we sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the tasty baked goods while discussing the death of Mia Long.
“When I left here yesterday, you’d been taken to the police station for questioning,” Dylan reminded us. “I had just sent the girls home with a fresh loaf of bread when Sergeant Murdock showed up and declared the bakery a crime scene. I was totally freaked out. You don’t grow up in Beacon Harbor without having a healthy respect for that woman. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I pulled all the cookies from the oven, shut everything down, and tried to clean up as best I could, but she just wanted me out of there. Murdock wouldn’t tell me much. She asked Rory and me a few questions, then sent us on our way. I could hardly sleep last night I was so upset at the thought of this place being shut down. Then, about an hour ago, I got a call from Frank Peters.”
“Oh no!” I exclaimed. Frank Peters was one of our suppliers. “I was so distraught yesterday that I forgot to call everyone and cancel all orders until further notice.”
“No problem,” Dylan said. “Got it all handled, boss. Unfortunately, the poor guy came out here early this morning and saw the yellow crime scene tape. Totally freaked him out. Had his truck parked behind the bakery and called me, checking to make sure everyone was okay. I gave him the scoop as far as I knew it. Told him I’d call him once everything gets resolved.”
Dylan, who loved early mornings, had thankfully taken control of our deliveries. Her past bakery experience combined with her knowledge of locally sourced dairy and produce vendors had been invaluable to me, and I trusted her good judgment. I felt like an idiot having forgotten to call them.
“So,” she began, her face holding a skeptical grimace after Kennedy had brought her up to speed, “you think you’ve made contact with the ghostly captain? Not surprising to me,” she remarked with a knowing look. “You might not think it to look at me, but I was a bit of a delinquent when I was a kid.” She challenged her statement with a grin while highlighting the piercings around her ears and pulling down the neck of her shirt to reveal a small howling wolf tattoo. “My spirit animal,” she added.
“Cool,” Kennedy remarked, staring at it. “My spirit animal is a pair of Louboutin shoes.”
“Not an animal,” Dylan told her with an eye roll. “Anyhow, Beacon Harbor was Boresville as a kid. For a little excitement we used to come here in high school, ya know, to sneak a beer or smoke a little weed. Back then we all knew that the lighthouse was supposed to be haunted. Heck”—she shrugged—“it was part of the attraction. We’d get high and then hear something that would spook us, like a tumbling brick, footsteps, or the sound of a door creaking on its hinges. Sometimes we would swear that we heard a man’s voice in the wind. Anyhow, we were all a bunch of chickens.” She laughed at the memory. “But one night, Mike actually broke in to the tower. It was always locked, ya know, for safety reasons. Mike brought a lock-cutter with him he’d stolen from his dad. He’d always wanted to climb the tower. I didn’t. I had a healthy respect for the old building and the ghost who was rumored to live here. That’s why he dragged me up there with him.”
“What a jerk,” I said, feeling frightened for her.
“He’s totally a jerk,” she agreed. “But he was my older cousin and like a brother to me. I’ve looked up to him all my life. That’s why I went along with him up the tower stairs.”
“And this is the reason I don’t have a brother,” Kennedy remarked in all seriousness. “My dear mother had more sense than to give me one.”
Somehow both Dylan and I found this remark ridiculously funny.
“My late mother’s not to blame either,” Dylan added with a little grin. “It was my aunt’s fault.”
“The nerve!” I said, and we all laughed.
“Wait!” Dylan stifled her giggles with a sip of coffee. “I didn’t tell you the scary part. Mike and I climbed the tower stairs. I remember it being dark. I also remember the odd smell, like smoke, only there wasn’t any fire. Then, when Mike reached the lantern room, he stopped moving. Every muscle in his body went stiff. I shoved him aside and peered around him.”
“Wha . . . what did you see?” I asked.
“Oh, I saw a ghost, alright—we both saw him, the Captain. He was just standing there, staring out the window dressed in old-timey clothes. The moment we came into the room, he turned to us.”
My breath caught in my throat as my hand clutched my chest. “Then what?” I whispered. “What did he say?” I wanted to know if this specter could speak.
“Nothing,” Dylan replied. “He just vanished. Gone, just like that. That’s how we knew it was a ghost.”
It was safe to say that Kennedy and I were both spooked.
Dylan, noting this, was quick to relieve our fears. “Don’t worry, boss. Mike and I survived our ghost encounter without a scratch. Everyone knows this old place is haunted, and who are we to say that ghosts don’t use computers? It’s odd, but maybe they can.”
“It is odd, isn’t it,” I agreed, staring at the half-eaten carrot cake muffin on my plate.
“Another odd thing,” Dylan began, looking at me. “Scary Sergeant Murdock’s claiming murder. Do we, in fact, know what killed that woman?” She leaned in, her fit, compact body and snapping brown eyes looking more curious than concerned.
“They suspect she died of cyanide poisoning.”
“You’ve got to be joking!” Dylan slammed her mug down, looking offended. “How is that even possible?”
“They think one of the donuts she ate was laced with cyanide,” I informed her.
“What?” she cried. “You and I were making the donuts. Why would we lace one with cyanide? More importantly, why would we try to kill that cuckoo-nut? I didn’t know her, and you certainly didn’t know she was going to show up . . . did you?”
We explained all we knew to Dylan, including the fact
that the only one who had any inkling that Mia might show up was Kennedy, and that Kennedy was nowhere near the bakery counter when Mia supposedly had been poisoned.
“So, what are we going to do about it, ladies?” Dylan’s brown eyes were not only probing, they were issuing a challenge. “We can’t just sit here twiddling our thumbs all day.”
I poured more coffee in her empty cup, refilled my own, and returned the pot to its burner. “We’re not going to do anything. I’m going to drive over to the Harbor Hotel and pay Jeffery Plank a little visit before he skips town. He’s the grieving boyfriend, supposedly. I thought he was acting suspicious yesterday, and last night I was convinced of it.”
Kennedy leaned close to Dylan and whispered, “The ghost of Captain Willy Riggs. He suggested the name.”
Kennedy was grinning. Her grin faded the moment I told her that I was taking her with me. “You need to set the record straight and tell Jeffery that I had nothing to do with his demise.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” she cried. “I’m not confronting him—not without a bodyguard! If he sees me, there’s going to be another body added to the list, namely mine.”
“You’re trying to be a better friend,” I reminded her.
“Better—not dead,” she corrected.
Dylan stood, walked over to my counter, and plucked my marble rolling pin off its decorative holder. “Since Lindsey needs to talk with the victim’s boyfriend, and you need a bodyguard before you’ll accompany her, looks like I’m coming too.” She rapped the rolling pin against the palm of her empty hand. I had to admit, although it was farcical, Dylan almost looked intimidating.
“The job’s yours!” I said, applauding her pluck. Shifting my attention to Kennedy, I added, “You and I are getting dressed. Then we’re all going to drive over to the hotel to pay Jeffery boy a little visit.”
CHAPTER 21
It was a small town. Dylan, thankfully, had a friend who worked behind the front desk of the Harbor Hotel who was willing to scribble Jeffery’s room number on a scrap of paper and slip it to us.