Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  I was just about to knock on the door again and demand that I be let out when Sergeant Murdock appeared.

  “Ms. Bakewell, please take a seat.” Murdock shot me a commanding stare from under her wispy blond bangs. She had the posture and attitude of an alpha dog, reminding me that, sure, I could step out of line, but I’d be bitten in the process. I decided to curb my inner New Yorker and took a seat at the bare wooden table.

  “Look,” I began, the moment she sat opposite me. “There’s been some mistake. I had nothing to do with the deaths of those two women. We tried to save Mia’s life, and we were the ones who found Fiona Dickel.”

  “We understand all that. Do you know what Fiona Dickel died of?” The question was delivered with a tilt of her head and the narrowing of her brown eyes.

  I began to sweat, thinking of what to say. Sure, I knew. I had smelled the telltale bitter almond scent on Fiona’s breath. But she wasn’t supposed to know that. I held her gaze and shrugged. “No. Not really.”

  Her small mouth stretched into a misleading smile. “Care to take a guess?”

  “Cyanide,” I said. “Either that or a heart attack.”

  She sat forward, her eyes locking onto mine. “As a matter of a fact, it was cyanide. Care to guess how it was delivered?”

  “Obviously something she ate. Look,” I said, getting angry, “I’m sorry Fiona was poisoned, but what I don’t understand is how you can make a giant, unfounded leap and blame me for that! My friends and I went to talk with her. We suspected Fiona of trying to poison Betty. We never expected to find her dead.”

  “Because you expected Betty to die,” she offered smugly.

  “What? No!”

  “After leaving the crime scene, I went to speak with Betty at her office. You mentioned that Fiona had taken Betty’s lunch. You indicated that the lunch on the counter had come from Betty’s office. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” I stared at her, wondering where she was going with this.

  “When Betty learned of Fiona’s death, she was, naturally, shocked. However, when I told her the cause of death, and that the source of the poisoning had come from the lunch Fiona had taken from her office, Betty turned a shade of white only possible in redheads and fresh corpses. Do you want to know why?”

  My throat had suddenly gone as dry as a desert. I swallowed painfully and nodded.

  Murdock’s smile faded. She was all business once again. “Because you were the one who sent her that lunch. The lunch laced with cyanide was meant for Betty, not Fiona.”

  “Wha . . . wha . . . what?” It was a shocking allegation. At the mention of the lunch and Betty, my thoughts began to swirl as my rapidly rising pulse pounded in my ears.

  “Betty told me how you were supposed to visit her that morning. As noon approached and there was still no word from you, she said that Paige, her office manager, rang her with the message that you had sent over lunch. Shortly thereafter, Fiona arrived with her threat of a lawsuit. The two women had words and Fiona stormed out, taking the lunch with her. She ate the lunch. The cyanide was in the Coke.”

  “But . . . I didn’t send Betty that lunch!” I cried, thinking of Betty and how brilliantly she’d played me. My God, I’d walked right into her trap. She had called me with the revelation that she’d been holding the coffee that killed Mia Long. I had believed her. I had even suspected Rory of slipping the cyanide into the coffee, when she obviously had done the deed herself—possibly with the intent of giving it to Fiona. Now she was accusing me of trying to murder her. I was going to take the fall for Betty Vanhoosen! That thought kicked me into the red zone.

  I grabbed Murdock’s unsuspecting hands. “That lunch wasn’t from me!” I told her, hearing the desperation in my voice. She yanked her hands out of my grip, and I continued. “I saw that lunch bag. It was white. Red’s the color I’d use, and I would never put a sandwich in a bag! It would be boxed up with a side of fresh-cut veggies and dip, and a cookie. A delicious cookie,” I added pointedly. “And that sandwich in Fiona’s hand was a ham and Havarti on marbled rye. I don’t even have marbled rye. Also, we don’t serve fountain drinks. There’s no way that lunch came from me!”

  The sergeant wasn’t pleased. “Are you finished? Did I say that you made it? We know it didn’t come from the Beacon Bakeshop. You’re supposed to be shut down until further notice, remember? The sandwich came from Harbor Hoagies. We’ve already spoken with them and confirmed it.”

  “Well, that’s a relief!” I stared at the sergeant. My game face was on and ready to win. “Because I’ve never been inside that deli. And if the order was phoned in, it could have come from anybody. The fact that Harbor Hoagies delivered it to Betty’s office should tell you that either someone who works there is trying to poison Betty, or Betty put that poison in the Coke herself knowing that Fiona would come by and take it. Or,” I added, another thought occurring to me, “Betty could have just offered it to Fiona herself. That’s right. We can’t ask Fiona, because she’s dead!”

  “Ms. Bakewell, if the order had been phoned in, we would have checked the phone records. But it wasn’t. We have an eyewitness who said that a woman came into the restaurant, stated her name was Lindsey Bakewell, ordered the sandwich with a drink, paid for it with cash, and left.”

  I closed my eyes tightly and shook my head. When I opened them again, I repeated the fact that I had never set foot in Harbor Hoagies, and that the person behind the counter had obviously been mistaken. Then I had another thought. Betty had connections in the town. Maybe she had coerced Paige into lying for her.

  “Paige didn’t say that you delivered the lunch,” Murdock corrected. “She told us a boy had delivered it. The delivery boy said it came from you.”

  “How convenient,” I snarled. “And I don’t suppose we know who this boy is?”

  Murdock shook her head. “We’re trying to find him. We will.”

  “Great. Officer Cutie Pie—I mean, McAllister—cuffed me and brought me in because I’ve been charged with murder. That was negligent. And you’ve been negligent as well, embracing Betty’s story like that without bothering to check my alibi or to state a possible motive for wanting to murder Betty Vanhoosen . . . or Mia Long, for that matter.” I stared at her, sucking in air like a fish out of water. For the first time, Sergeant Murdock looked flustered.

  “I have lawyers,” I told her. “Bloodsucking lawyers at my beck and call.” Okay, that might have been an exaggeration. My dad had a buddy who was a reputable corporate lawyer and family friend, but Murdock didn’t need to know that. “And if you don’t want me bringing them here, I suggest you call Kennedy Kapoor, Dylan Dykstra, and Rory Campbell. Every one of them will attest to the fact that I wasn’t anywhere near Harbor Hoagies yesterday. I was at the lighthouse all morning. Then I took my dog with me as I made a brief visit to the home of Rory Campbell before visiting Betty at her office. Once you’ve talked with them, you might want to ask yourself why I would want Betty Vanhoosen dead. She’s my friend, or she was until she threw me under the bus.”

  I watched as Murdock scribbled down the names of my friends. When she was done, she looked up once again. “Officer McAllister was acting under my orders. And you are correct. We haven’t thoroughly checked out your alibi for yesterday morning. I was acting on the statement of an eyewitness—”

  “Of a person who’s never before met me!” I slammed my fist on the table to make my point. “Also, do you have a copy of the receipt? It should have been time-stamped. I’d like to see it. And I’d like to know how much I supposedly paid for a ham and Havarti on marbled rye.”

  Puzzled, Murdock looked at me. “Why does that matter?”

  “I’d like to know how to price my sandwiches. To combat the taint of murder, I’m going to have to use savvy marketing and favorable price points to get the ball rolling again. The folks at Harbor Hoagies might think they know me now, but they’re really going to be cursing my name when I reopen with my Beachgoers’ Boxed Lunch Specials, starti
ng at a dollar below the competition.”

  That almost made Sergeant Murdock smile. “I like you, Bakewell. And your chocolate-chip cookies passed the Murdock test. My kids loved ’em. But I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you at the police station awhile longer. Let’s just hope your friends can corroborate your whereabouts yesterday morning.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Just like in the movies, I was granted one phone call, yet for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to call Mom instead of a lawyer. The moment she answered the phone, I realized my mistake.

  “Lindsey! Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Dad and I are just dying to know how your opening day went. I know you’re busy, dear, but he’s been on pins and needles. You know he grew up in a bakery around those parts. Although he claims he’s glad to have left that life behind, I’m skeptical. Friday morning, he baked a dozen blueberry muffins in honor of you. Saturday it was bran with raisins. Sunday it was cinnamon-swirl crumble top. I’ve been giving them to the neighbors. Today he’s making a pie. Perhaps if you had called—”

  “Mom,” I cut her off. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have much time. I’m in jail.” The phone call degraded from there. I quickly filled Mom in on the two deaths and why I was now being held at the police station.

  “Things like this didn’t happen to you in Manhattan. I still can’t get over the fact that your cheating ex brought his lover to your bakery. What was Jeffery thinking?”

  “Again, Mom, he was trying to ruin me. We can chat about this later. I might need a lawyer.”

  “I’ll ask your father. He knows plenty. Are they sure Mia’s dead?” Mom was having a hard time digesting the fact that my bakery was currently shut down, and that Jeffery and Mia had come all the way to Michigan. “And why would you kill a woman you’ve only just met?” She was referring to Fiona.

  “I didn’t, Mom.” I clutched the phone closer to my lips and whispered, “I think I’m being set up. Is Dad there?”

  “He went to the market early this morning to get fresh berries for his pie. We’re playing golf with the Bingfords then heading over to Roger Steel’s place for his annual Memorial Day cookout.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said with a blatant lack of enthusiasm. “Have Dad call me when he gets back.”

  Shortly after my disastrous call to Mom, my friends arrived.

  “Lindsey!” Kennedy ran to me the moment I entered the waiting room. She acted as if we’d been separated for years by the horrors of incarceration, and not the three hours it had actually been. Murdock, momentarily taken aback, shot her a steely-eyed gaze, but to no effect. Kennedy was immune to intimidation.

  I was happy to see Rory and Dylan as well. They represented the only real friends I had left in Beacon Harbor, and the fact they were gripped with concern caused me to feel both grateful and ashamed. Since Mia’s death in the bakeshop, things had gone from bad to terrible-on-steroids. I’d been accused of two murders and an attempted one. Statistically speaking, the crime-ridden streets of New York City had been far safer for me than the quiet vacation village of Beacon Harbor. Thanks to the signed statements of Kennedy, Rory, and Dylan, swearing that I was nowhere near Harbor Hoagies at the time the sandwich had been purchased, I was now a free woman.

  The entire situation had puzzled Murdock. In fact, in order to be certain my friends weren’t lying on my behalf, the eyewitness from Harbor Hoagies was brought down to the station. The young man was then asked to pick me out of a lineup of five other random women, two of whom worked at the police station, two from the township offices, and one officer’s wife. The kid stared at us for ten whole minutes before finally stating that none of us fit the description of the woman he saw. That woman, he said, had been wearing a long coat; a scarf over her hair, neck, and chin; a wide-brimmed hat over that; and round sunglasses. In short, he had no idea what she looked like. Sergeant Murdock, finally satisfied, apologized to me and promised to look into the possibility that Betty Vanhoosen might be behind the whole thing.

  “You just vanished from the lighthouse without a word!” Kennedy stated, giving Murdock her haughtiest glare. “Would have been nice to know what had happened instead of being shaken awake by Sir Hunts-a-Lot over here, who, apparently, was promised quiche.”

  Rory, clearly not a fan of Kennedy’s nickname for him, explained. “I knew something was wrong the moment I arrived,” he said. “I’ve never seen an empty pie plate on your kitchen floor before, and I’ve never seen Welly so guilt-ridden. I thought maybe you drove off somewhere, but your Jeep was still in the garage. When I couldn’t find you, I thought maybe you’d been kidnapped.”

  “That’s when he woke me up,” Kennedy interjected. “And that’s when we called the police. Imagine our surprise when they told us you’d been charged with murder.”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Dylan said, adding her part of the story. I felt a pang of guilt, realizing my arrest had pulled her from her morning workout. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was in shorts and a Tough Mudder T-shirt. “Talk about incompetent investigating.” This was said loudly, causing Murdock and Officer Cutie Pie, who’d just appeared in the waiting room, to flinch. “Lindsey Bakewell charged with murder? Ha! Her only crime is fixing up a derelict lighthouse and tempting this town with delicious baked goods. I’ll have you know that Lindsey’s the kindest person I’ve ever met!” Dylan looped her arm through mine. “Let’s get out of here. Police stations give me the creeps.”

  Tired, hungry, and badly in need of a caffeine buzz, I suggested we grab a bite to eat. Thanks to Wellington, quiche was out of the question. Although normally a model of canine obedience, unguarded food always got the best of him.

  Since Kennedy had taken Rory to the police station in my Jeep, and Dylan had driven separately, we decided to meet at Hoot’s Diner. It was three miles out of town near the highway, a safe distance from the police station and a place we could put our heads together over the matter of murder. Built in the seventies and remodeled in the nineties without ever changing the woodsy owl theme, there was a certain Up North nostalgia that clung to its pine-paneled walls. It was a family favorite, and why not? Breakfast was served all day, and the coffee, though not strong, was hot and good.

  We sat at a booth near the back of the diner. While waiting for our food, I shot Mom a quick text stating that I wouldn’t be needing a lawyer after all. Then, as our food arrived, I regaled my friends with the story of my arrest.

  “Wait!” Kennedy leaned forward, her eyes wide with intrigue. “Officer Tuck threw you in handcuffs? Isn’t that like”—she chanced a look at Rory and lowered her voice—“one of your fantasies?”

  “What? No,” I was quick to admonish, although my cheeks burned with embarrassment as Rory stared at me. “He thought I was resisting arrest,” I explained. “Which I might have been doing.”

  Rory looked troubled. “The bigger problem here is that Betty claimed you sent her that lunch. Either she’s trying to cover up the murder of Fiona Dickel by making you take the fall, or someone really might be trying to kill her.”

  “Betty and Paige might be in it together,” Dylan offered, taking a sip of her coffee. A thoughtful look crossed her face as she set down the mug. “We know that whoever ordered the lunch at Harbor Hoagies was a woman. Betty could have thrown on a disguise, ordered the lunch herself, and paid some kid to deliver it. She could have snuck back to her office before the sandwich was delivered. I know Paige,” Dylan added with a grim set to her lips. “Went to high school with her. She’s worked for Betty since graduating. Paige Winston’s been a brownnoser since kindergarten, but it obviously paid off. Betty saw something in her, took her under her wing, and has given her a steady job with good benefits. She’s as loyal to that woman as Wellington is to you, Lindsey.”

  “Are you suggesting that if Paige knew what Betty was up to, she’d lie for her?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Or,” Rory began, ready to play devil’s advocate, “Paige could be the
one trying to poison Betty.” Apparently, Dylan wasn’t buying that one. “Before you ignore the possibility, remember that Betty’s never had children. What if she’s leaving everything to Paige, including Harbor Realty? Maybe Paige is getting greedy and wants Betty out of the picture?”

  “I like where you’re going with this, Rory, darling,” Kennedy added, setting down her fork. “But that doesn’t explain how the cyanide got into Betty’s latte the morning of Mia’s murder. Was this Paige person even at the bakeshop that morning? Could she have slipped her the poison?”

  “She wasn’t there,” I said, recalling my conversation with Paige after my first visit to the police station. “She was manning the front desk at Betty’s office. But the Betty/Paige angle is worth looking into. On the other hand, if Betty is the target, I’d feel truly terrible if we overlooked something. Someone might still be trying to kill her, and we don’t know why. Last night I did a little snooping on Betty. Along with Harbor Realty, she owns several of the buildings in town. I was unaware of that fact when I moved here. I’ve met most of the business owners of this town, but I wasn’t aware that many of them don’t own the buildings their businesses are in. It makes them Betty’s tenants. She could have very easily ticked one of them off somehow.”