Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  Betty shook her head. “No. Whatever demons that young lady has, she’s committed to slaying them. We had a talk the other day. I wanted to see how Dylan was getting along. She told me how grateful she was to be working at your bakery. She loves the Beacon Bakeshop. I can honestly say that although you’ve just opened it’s changed her life for the better.” Here she paused as a wave of anger swept through her. “No, I’m afraid there is only one person who wants me dead, and her name is Fiona Dickel.”

  Although the name came as no surprise, what was surprising were the lengths Fiona had gone to in order to harass Betty. It all began when Betty, acting for the city, had the nerve to put the old crumbling lighthouse up for sale.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night I was so worked up by my discovery. I was going to call Sergeant Murdock, but I felt silly. I took a shower instead, got dressed, and came here.”

  “What time was that?” Rory asked.

  “Two in the morning. That’s why I didn’t call the sergeant. Didn’t want to wake her.”

  “But you were okay with waking me?” I cast her a probing look. “You called me at three in the morning, remember?”

  “Your light was on, dear. I’d been going through my file of hate mail sent by Fiona and her smelly gang, when I saw the Oberland Dairy truck pull up at your back door. Dairymen are up early, but so are bakers. I assumed you were working in the kitchen.”

  “No,” I said, thinking about that. “I was sound asleep when you called. Wait. That’s not quite right. I awoke because Wellington was barking at something outside. You had called at the same time. I just assumed he got spooked by the phone ringing in the middle of the night.”

  “But somebody was already in the kitchen,” Betty said. “The light was on.”

  “That was Dilly,” Kennedy replied. “She was making Danish while Lindsey and I slept. And it was just about the most delicious thing I’ve eaten.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “After learning that the police had declared the Beacon Bakeshop a crime scene, Dylan was concerned about her finances while we were closed. I told her she could continue her baking schedule as usual. She’s also in charge of early deliveries.”

  “Either that,” Betty quipped, “or she’s having an affair with the Oberland Dairyman. Anyhow, dear, sorry I woke you up, but the revelation was shocking. Fiona has been in a private war with me for months, making death threats. I’d never taken them seriously until last night. And, to make matters worse, she stormed into my office a short while ago—just before you three arrived.”

  This was a shocker. “What did she want?”

  Betty shook her head. “She made the usual threats, only this time she’s determined to shut me down with a lawsuit, one that will jeopardize my Realtor’s license. And just to be obnoxious about it, she stole my lunch. Hope she chokes on it too, the nasty witch.”

  “Have you called the police?” Rory asked.

  Betty shook her head. “It was only lunch.”

  Rory stared at her a second too long, then closed his eyes while shaking his head. “No,” he said, opening them again. “About Fiona’s threats and the fact that you were holding the coffee laced with cyanide before it was ripped out of your hands by Mia Long.”

  “Oh that. Not yet. I wanted to tell Lindsey first. It’s her bakeshop, after all.” Betty leaned across her desk and took both my hands in hers. “I wanted you to know, dear, that the rude little woman’s death had nothing to do with you. Fiona Dickel wanted to shut you down as well, and she saw her chance. However, fate intervened.” After speaking these words, Betty looked up at her ceiling and crossed herself.

  “It scares me to death to think that had I taken one sip of that latte I’d be dead. It would be my body on that dissecting table under Bob’s knife and not that woman’s! I’m so angry I could march over to Fiona’s house and strangle her myself.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” Rory left his chair and walked over to Betty. Resting a hand on her shoulder, he said, “You’ve suffered enough. Go home and get some rest, Betty. I think it’s best if Lindsey calls Sergeant Murdock with this news. She’ll want to speak with you as well.”

  Betty nodded, promising she’d go home, lock the doors, and take a nap.

  The moment we were outside I took out my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Rory asked.

  “Calling the police. You said I should be the one to tell them the news.”

  He took the phone from my hand and ended the call. “Not yet. I’d like to have a word with Fiona Dickel first.”

  I was about to question that move when Kennedy chimed in, “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Rory darling. I have the rolling pin; you have the muscle. Her sheer hatred of Lindsey should inspire a vitriolic tirade as well as a confession.”

  “Perfect,” I said, shaking my head at them. “But if we’re going to confront a deranged woman, shouldn’t we first find out where she lives?”

  “Already got it,” Rory informed us as we headed for his truck. “It was printed on Betty’s folder of hate mail. And since I have experience with hostiles, I’m going to insist that I do the talking.”

  Kennedy linked her arm through his, and smiled. “We’ll see about that.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Fiona lived a mile outside of town in a pricey development known as Pine Bluff Estates. Although far from the lakeshore, many of the homes in the neighborhood had a spectacular view of Lake Michigan from atop the bluff after which the development was named. Admittedly, I was shocked when Rory turned in the main entrance to the neighborhood and continued along the winding road, passing one executive home after another. Fiona hadn’t struck me as the type of woman who’d buy in to such luxury, knowing the hefty environmental impact the neighborhood had cost to the surrounding forest. She struck me as more of the artsy type. I had pictured her living in one of the many charming midcentury cottages that made up the neighborhoods behind the town—the kind with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows and hand-crafted garden sculptures frolicking amongst the well-maintained gardens.

  The house Rory pulled up to wasn’t even close to my vision. It was a large, two-story, brick-faced dwelling with a roof that sprouted off in at least six different angles and pitches. There were no gardens to speak of, and the lack of shrubbery—nay, landscaping—gave the large home a severe, almost institutional look. The only indication that Fiona lived there at all came from all the protest signs sprouting from the patchy lawn. There were dozens of them, ranging the gamut from local government officials she didn’t like, to various climate and environmental causes, to two on gun control, and five dedicated to her personal pet project, the destruction of my lighthouse bakery. The one that chilled me to the bone, however, was a poster with Betty’s face on it and the words: This Realtor Sells Landmarks for Profit! Thankfully, Fiona’s house sat at the end of the road.

  “Her car’s here,” Rory noted, parking his truck behind the moss-green Subaru.

  “She better be, too,” I said, getting my game face on.

  “Looks like the house of a nutter,” Kennedy added, ignoring our remarks while removing her sunglasses. “She’s taken the time to plant protest signs, but they’ll never grow bushy enough to block out that atrocity.” She waved them at the house. “Money without taste is the real crime here.”

  “And possibly murder,” I reminded her, pulling her up the steps with me. The knowledge that this woman could have tried to poison Betty Vanhoosen and, by sheer mistake, killed Mia Long instead inspired me to take action. I wanted answers, and Fiona Dickel was going to provide them.

  What Fiona’s home lacked in shrubbery, it more than made up for in home security. Two surveillance cameras sat under the eaves on each corner of the house along with floodlights. A video monitoring system guarded the door, which Rory addressed by pressing the button. It was the type of system that not only chimed through the house but also alerted a designated cell phone to the fact that someone was at the front door.
Even if Fiona wasn’t home, she’d still have the option to address us. The silence was unnerving.

  “Do you think she’s ignoring us on purpose?” I asked.

  Rory shrugged and tried again, this time talking into the speaker on the security system. “Fiona, this is Rory Campbell. We’d like to discuss an important matter with you. Please open the door.”

  “Please open the door,” Kennedy mocked in her proper English accent. “Like that’s going to work. All the woman can see is your large, muscular frame and well-defined pecs. You’re scaring her with your alpha male attitude. Let me take a crack at it.” Kennedy, holding the rolling pin behind her back, nudged him aside and stood before the camera. She rang the bell and announced, “Ms. Dickel, Lilian Finch here from the global initiative on wildlife preservation and shrubbery protection act. Did you know that by planting just two small pieces of shrubbery near your house you could help feed the Borneo pygmy elephant for one month? I’d love the opportunity to show you how you can help save this endangered animal.”

  Rory, growing used to Kennedy’s ways, was in danger of erupting with a case of the giggles. Apparently, the great hunter had never heard of the Borneo pygmy elephant and thought she had made it up.

  “What?” she hiss-whispered. “They’re adorable. If Fiona’s home, she’ll open that door.”

  But the door never opened. That’s when Rory took matters into his own hands. He wasn’t about to leave without speaking to Fiona. “I’m going to go around back and see if I can’t find a point of entry.”

  “Why don’t we try the door first?” Kennedy said.

  “Right. With all this security she’s going to leave her front door open? I don’t think so.”

  Kennedy, unable to resist the urge, reached forward and grabbed the handle. To everyone’s surprise, the door clicked open.

  “Okay,” I uttered, stepping into the stark, cavernous home behind Rory. “Now I’m creeped out.”

  “It’s even worse than I thought,” Kennedy said, coming beside me. “Ocher walls, funeral parlor furniture, plastic fruit in wooden bowls, it’s as if she just stopped caring.”

  “Hush,” I whispered, feeling strange for having entered the home of another without permission. “Fiona,” I then called out, hoping for an answer.

  It was agreed that Rory would take the upstairs while Kennedy and I split up and searched the main floor. The house was eerily silent. Although there was plenty of light streaming through the picture windows at the back, there was a brightness coming from what I thought might be the kitchen. As Kennedy headed for the great room and the deck, I walked through the formal dining room, noting that the décor wasn’t as bad as Kennedy made it out to be. Stressful situations always brought out the snark in her. It was also part of her charm.

  Although Fiona’s style was eclectic, she had an undeniable passion for nature. Gracing her dining room wall was a stunning painting of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, a pristine sixty-five-mile stretch of Lake Michigan guarded by towering dune-topped headlands that rose to over four hundred feet above the lake. The old Beacon Point Lighthouse I had purchased sat on the southern end of the protected lakeshore. The lighthouse had been built to help guard the dangerous passage between the mainland and the Manitou Islands. What was once a thriving farm community and timber shipping port was now the haven of naturalists and tourists. And I had bought a part of that history, restored it, and had turned it into a bakeshop café. If I was an idealistic environmentalist like Fiona, I might have hated me too. But the reality of the situation was quite different. It was either my lighthouse bakery or high-end vacation condos. The sad fact was that thanks to satellites and the global positioning system, lighthouses were a relic of the past.

  With this disheartening thought, I turned the corner and entered the kitchen.

  And then I screamed.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sirens blazed in the distance, getting ever closer as Rory knelt beside the body. I had gotten the shock of my life when I entered the kitchen and saw Fiona sprawled face down on the floor in a puddle of dark liquid, a mangled ham and Havarti sandwich clutched in her cold hand. There was no point in Rory even attempting CPR. Fiona had no pulse, and it was hard to tell how long she had been lying there, robbed of her life and dignity in soiled plaid shorts and tie-dyed tee.

  “This is very bad,” Kennedy remarked for the second time. Her hand waved in front of her face in agitated disgust. “And EWOOOO! Who wears plaid with tie-dye? Who jams their hairy legs into tube socks before jamming those into clunky Birkenstock sandals? It’s so obvious what happened here. Bad fashion choices killed her.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Genuine anger seized Rory’s face as he stood up from the body. “A woman is dead in her own kitchen, lying in a puddle of soda while holding a sandwich, and you think she was murdered because her clothes don’t match?”

  “She’s not serious,” I said, gently touching his arm while flashing Kennedy a cautionary look. “And we don’t know that she was murdered.”

  Discovering the body had put us all on edge, yet clearly some of us were handling the situation better than others. Rory, for instance, had taken charge the moment he heard me scream. I was a trembling, blubbering mess, while Kennedy had chosen cattiness and delusion as her coping mechanisms. It might have been easier to believe that bad fashion choices had been Fiona’s demise rather than acknowledging the truth . . . which was that another woman was dead and no amount of cattiness or quivering was going to bring her back.

  “Are you sure calling the police was the right move?” I looked at Rory, noting that the sirens were close by. “What if they think we did this?”

  “We couldn’t leave her, Lindsey. But you’re right. The three of us standing around the body of the one woman in Beacon Harbor who vocally wanted to shut you down, that’s going to raise suspicion.”

  “But look at . . . look at the evidence.” With my head averted, I waved at the splatter of sodden sandwich bits floating in the remains of the spilled drink. “She could have choked on the sandwich, or had a heart attack.”

  “Or she could have been poisoned, like Mia Long was. We won’t know for sure until Doc Riggles performs an autopsy, which he’s going to have to do.” He then pointed to the white bakery bag on the counter. “And I’ll bet my black truck on the fact that this was the lunch she took from Betty’s office.”

  “You think someone poisoned that lunch—Betty’s lunch?” The thought sent a shiver up my spine.

  “Look, it’s a long shot, but we could check.” I didn’t like the look on his face as he said this.

  “How are we supposed to do that?” Kennedy snapped as wrinkles of disgust marred her lovely face. “If you want us to scoop up all those bits of chewed food, count me out. Also, I don’t think the police will take too kindly if we tamper with the evidence.”

  “We’re not going to touch a thing. You both know that I can’t detect the smell of cyanide, but maybe one of you can. There are three of us, which means that the odds of one of us being able to detect cyanide on the breath are pretty good. If neither one of you can smell the bitter almond scent, then there’s a good chance Fiona wasn’t poisoned. Now, who wants to go first?”

  There wasn’t much time, and neither Kennedy nor I was excited by the prospect of smelling the mouth of a dead person. Rory, unafraid of corpses and having no such qualms himself, kneeled near the body, getting ready with his end of the bargain. He was going to tilt Fiona enough to expose her mouth.

  Due to the blaring sirens, I could tell that the emergency vehicles had arrived. There wasn’t much time. Kennedy, being the opportunistic friend she was, shoved me forward. “You go first.”

  “All right,” I said, trying to fight back the urge to vomit as I gingerly got into position. It was nearly impossible not to look at Fiona’s bluish face, or step in the puddle of soda.

  On Rory’s cue, he rolled the body while I sniffed Fiona’s mouth. It hit me like skunk spray on a dewy la
wn. “Sour almonds! Sour almonds!” I cried, then I lost my cookies on the floor beside her.

  * * *

  We had no sooner jumped back to the safety of the kitchen island when Sergeant Murdock appeared with Officer Cutie Pie McAllister fast on her heels. Rory had reported the body, but the sight of Kennedy and me standing beside him in the kitchen caused both to suffer a swift bout of shock. While Tuck stared at me in speechless discomfort, Murdock schooled her emotions like a champ and focused instead on the body on the floor.

  “Well, well, well,” she said very softly, squatting beside Fiona Dickel. “What on earth happened here, do you suppose?” It was a rhetorical question, for as soon as she said this, she brushed aside a lock of long red hair from Fiona’s neck and checked for a pulse.

  “She doesn’t have a pulse,” Rory informed her. “We’ve already checked. And the vomit’s not hers.”

  “Mine, I’m afraid.” I raised my hand like a schoolgirl. Why, in God’s name, did I feel compelled to do that? Vomiting was nothing to be proud of, and scary Sergeant Murdock was not amused. “I’m, ahh, not used to dead people.”

  A look of slight terror crossed Tuck’s face as his boss made her way toward me. “And that raises the question, what were you three doing here, Ms. Bakewell? Surely you and Ms. Dickel were not friends.”

  “No,” I agreed. “We came to talk with her. We saw that her car was here and rang the bell several times, but she never answered. We were going to leave when we decided to try the door. It was unlocked.”

  “And you just walked in?”

  I nodded. Murdock’s cold stare, as frightening as the face of a dead woman, induced me to spill the beans as well. Much to the surprise of Rory and Kennedy, I blurted, “She had threatened Betty Vanhoosen with a lawsuit for selling me the old Beacon Harbor Lighthouse. We also had reason to believe Fiona might have been the one who put the cyanide in the latte Mia Long drank. Betty told us—right before we came here—that Mia had taken the latte out of her hand. Betty Vanhoosen was holding the cup laced with cyanide, and she had a suspicion that Fiona had slipped her the dose of poison when she wasn’t looking. Betty had forgotten about that, but suddenly remembered it in the middle of the night.”