by Darci Hannah
“Or maybe she’s blackmailing someone?” Dylan added thoughtfully.
We all thought about this a moment. “That’s a good point,” Rory added.
“We already know that a woman disguised herself, purchased the sandwich, and poisoned the Coke,” I told them. “It stands to reason that if Betty’s not the murderer, then some other woman is behind this. Who did she tick off? Who is she blackmailing? I say we concentrate on those who rent from her, paying close attention to business owners who might be in the Chamber of Commerce as well.”
“Good plan.” As Rory complimented me, I blushed under the heat of his gaze, remembering his kiss all too well. If I was a betting woman, I’d say he was remembering it too. It caused him to clear his throat, adding, “Betty also owns quite a bit of land around the town.”
Dylan, shocked, asked, “How do you know that?”
“Apparently, Dilly, Lindsey’s not the only one here who knows how to use Google.” Kennedy winked at Rory.
“For once, Kennedy’s right.” Rory tipped a pretend hat in her direction, invoking a smile. “I’ve looked into Betty too,” he continued. “I honestly don’t know what’s going on here either. On that note, I say we do a little poking around to see if anyone can tell us something that might shed some light on the matter of Betty Vanhoosen. Is she more angel, or is she more devil? And if she’s a devil, is she capable of murder? You ladies start in town. I’m going to grab my truck and pay a visit to the Department of Natural Resources in Traverse City. Betty’s land is privately owned, but a good deal of it is bog, which is protected by state ordinance. I thought I’d check with the boys of the DNR and see if they have anything interesting to tell me.”
“Sounds like an excuse to go hunting,” Kennedy quipped.
“Any excuse is a good excuse,” Rory replied with a grin.
Stuffed with blueberry pancakes, caffeinated, and with a new plan, I addressed my friends. “Alright, sounds like we have a long day cut out for us. While Rory heads to the hinterlands, with or without his hunting rifle, we’re going to snoop around the town and talk with Betty’s tenants. Hopefully something will come to light from all of this, because orange isn’t my color. I can’t go to prison.”
With a gentle smile, Kennedy placed her hand over mine. “I won’t let that happen to you, Lindsey, darling, because . . . UCK!” She made a face. “Orange! Should be a crime to wear that color. Secondly, you’re not a killer, you’re a baker. Let’s take Welly with us just in case we run into trouble.”
Kennedy was under the impression that Welly was a guard dog. My gentle boy didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but I nodded all the same. “The heathen ate my quiche,” I stated. “He owes me. I suppose if his beseeching eyes and adorable fluffiness don’t get people talking, we could always threaten drool.”
Dylan flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and slid out of the booth. “Guys, this all sounds like fun, and I’d love to join you, but I’m afraid I have to bounce. I’ve kind of committed myself to cleaning Mike’s boat. We had a bit of a party on it yesterday, and he’s got a big charter tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling a bit stupid. She was part of this town and had a life other than my bakery. The fact it was still shut down made me feel incredibly guilty. I slid out of the booth and gave her a big hug. “Thanks for coming down to the police station this morning. Once again, I’m so sorry that all this drama is surrounding my bakery. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Say hi to Mike and Carl for me. And if they can think of anyone who might have a bone to pick with Betty, give me a call.”
“Will do, boss. And keep me posted. For the record, I’m placing my money on ‘Betty the Devil.’”
CHAPTER 39
“Well,” I began, walking out of Harbor Scoops with a waffle cone buckling under the weight of an obscene amount of butter pecan ice cream and a dish of vanilla for Welly. The ice cream was heavenly. Welly, waiting patiently outside, worked his busy tail with excitement. Kennedy, a step behind me, was carrying a cone of equal proportion to mine, only hers had been dipped in chocolate, rolled in nuts, and loaded with rocky road. “Seems like Dylan’s backing the wrong Betty,” I said. “Either she really is an angel, or her halo is all smoke and mirrors.”
Kennedy licked her cone to stop it from dripping, and nodded. “Stand here. We need a selfie in front of this place. This town is positively charming. I thought we had stepped into a Hallmark holiday movie when we entered that Swiss chalet and found a year-round Christmas shop, but this darling little ice cream parlor speaks to the child in me, and we both know I’m virtually a huge child.” With the expertise of a professional, Kennedy whipped out her phone. “Ready?”
I knew the drill. I lifted Wellington’s head from his dish and got into place. Kennedy snapped the picture as we pressed our heads to my dog’s and pretended to lick our cones. The red-and-pink-striped storefront topped with a bright red awning was the perfect background. Unfortunately, as Kennedy took her picture, Wellington took a shot at her cone with his tongue.
I laughed. “Looks like he made contact. I want a copy of that.”
She handed me her cone and worked the mini keyboard with both thumbs. “It’s going up right now. I’m tagging you in the photo. And shame on you, Wellington. That nice lady gave you your own ice cream.”
After posting her picture, Kennedy put her phone back in her purse and took back her cone. She gingerly ran a napkin down the compromised side and took a lick. Wellington looked up from his empty dish with hopeful anticipation.
“Ginger Brooks, owner of Scoops, was the last person on the list,” I said, putting a line through her name.
I had made a list of all Betty’s renters and friends, starting at the head of the town with the Tannenbaum Christmas Shoppe, the first shop in Beacon Harbor that tourists saw when entering the town. Kennedy had never been inside the Swiss chalet that not only looked like Santa’s workshop on steroids, but smelled inside like the essence of Christmas. Felicity Stewart, the owner, had been at my bakeshop on opening day. Although she owned the Swiss chalet and was not a renter, I knew she was one of Betty’s friends. And just like Felicity, Ginger Brooks had nothing but good things to say about Betty.
I looked at Kennedy and shrugged. “She’s clearly a Betty Vanhoosen fangirl as well.”
“I would be too if I was two months behind on my rent and my landlord reduced it by half until I could catch up. That’s downright neighborly!” This was said in Kennedy’s best shot at an American cowboy accent.
We continued down Main Street with Wellington prancing at the end of his leash, his luxurious black fur glistening under the late afternoon sun with the healthy sheen of one who’s eaten a spinach and bacon quiche and a dish of hand-scooped vanilla. I supposed he earned it, melting hearts and making friends of all the business owners and their pooches. Welly had a particular fondness for Libby, a golden retriever who resided in the Book Nook bookstore with her owners, Ali and Jack Johnson.
The Book Nook had been our second stop after the year-round Christmas shop, Tannenbaum. Kennedy was correct. Beacon Harbor was a very charming town, and the Book Nook seemed to tie the community together, not only by offering a wonderful and carefully selected offering of books, but because of the owners, Ali and Jack Johnson. Ali and Jack had also been at my bakeshop on opening day. The Johnsons, like me, had moved to Beacon Harbor with a dream—theirs was the dream of opening a charming bookstore. In a world where bookstores seemed to be closing due to online shopping, the Book Nook was a breath of fresh air. And although I had talked with Ali and Jack many times, I had no idea the impact Betty Vanhoosen had on their dream. According to Ali, Betty, who owned the building, had wanted their bookstore so badly in Beacon Harbor that she reduced her their rent to half of what she was originally asking.
“As far as landlords go,” Ali explained as Welly and Libby sniffed one another with tail-wagging delight, “Betty’s tops. She’s friendly, understanding, and works nearly
as hard at promoting our bookstore as she does selling houses. But you already know that. There was no bigger advocate for your lighthouse bakery than Betty.” Ali smiled. She was a handsome woman in her early sixties with lovely white hair and a serene countenance. She was a very likable person, as was her husband, Jack. I could see why Betty wanted this couple to succeed. They were the type of people who would add value to any town.
I had to agree she was correct. “Betty’s been very supportive of my bakery. But can you think of anyone who might wish to cause her harm?”
Ali’s pretty face clouded. “Fiona Dickel,” she whispered, and crossed herself. Because Ali, like everyone else in town, knew that Fiona had been found dead yesterday in her home. Thankfully, the details of her death hadn’t been released yet. A troubled look passed between husband and wife.
“Surely Betty had nothing to do with that,” Jack added with confidence. He’d been playing with the dogs. Welly, loving the attention, poured on the charm. He sat and offered his giant paw.
“We’ve been admiring your dog since you moved in. Have you ever thought of adding a dog treat or two to the menu?”
“I have plans for that,” I replied, and thanked them for their time. “And please, bring Libby down to the Beacon Bakeshop once we’ve been given the okay to open again. There’s a budding romance going on here, and Welly could use a friend. She’s welcome anytime, as are you.”
It was pretty much how the rest of the day went, as Kennedy, Wellington, and I walked from shop to shop, trying to find that one person who deviated from the “Angel Betty” narrative. Although many joked about her nosy nature and chattiness, the general consensus was that Betty was not only generous with her time and money, but she was a very good person. It had been my experience with her as well, and yet two suspicious murders had made me doubt it.
We’d been walking toward the lighthouse in near silence as we ate our ice cream. Then, thinking about Betty, I suddenly stopped. Harbor Realty was just across the street. I looked at Kennedy, who was in mid-lick, and said, “We need to talk with Betty. All we’ve learned is that Fiona Dickel was the only thorn in her side, which we already knew. She didn’t see eye to eye with everyone, but there’s been no real motive for murder. And from all we’ve learned of Betty, I just don’t think she’s capable of it. If all Betty’s saying is true, somebody really is trying to poison her. Only Betty can tell us who has the most to gain from her death.”
“And you think she’s going to talk with you? She thinks you tried to poison her, hence the reason you were recently charged with attempted murder”—she waved her hand in the air—“and murder. Another observation. Looks like the realty office is closed for business.”
Kennedy was correct. We crossed the street and checked the door. It was locked.
“Poor thing’s probably scared to death,” I offered. “Let’s take Wellington home and drive out to her house. With any luck we’ll find her there.”
* * *
Betty lived on the other side of town, down a private road that hugged the scalloped shoreline. Unlike Fiona’s sprawling spectacle of new construction, Betty’s house was of another generation, one that prided itself on workmanship and detail. It was a charming two-story home of tan fieldstone, steeply pitched roofs, bay windows, and brown shutters. It had the look of a cozy English cottage surrounded by stunning gardens and lush greenery. However, the charm of the home was not to be outdone by the spectacular back lawn rolling down to the lake. Without doubt, Betty’s house was the jewel of Beacon Harbor.
“Get behind the bushes,” Kennedy whispered, and rang the bell. She wanted me out of sight, and I agreed. I was probably the last person Betty wanted to see, but I was here to convince her otherwise.
When a few minutes had passed and there was still no answer, Kennedy rang the bell again. That’s when an overwhelming feeling of dread hit me.
I poked my head out of the bushes. “What if they got to her? What if somebody actually succeeded in bumping her off?”
“I was thinking the same thing. But before we freak out, I’m going to abuse doorbell privileges and give this little noisemaker the ringy-dingy to end all ringy-dingys. If she doesn’t come running or call the police herself, we’re going in.” She took a deep breath, faced the door, and attacked the bell like a woodpecker on crack.
It worked like a charm. A cry of “I’m coming! I’m coming!” wafted through the door, followed by a rush of heavy footsteps. The door flew open and Betty gasped. “Kennedy!”
“Hi, Betty.” Kennedy moved to block the door at the same moment I popped out of the bush.
“Lindsey!” Betty shrieked, her voice two clicks below a full-out scream. “I’m not talking to you!” Betty went to slam the door, but Kennedy’s foot was in the way.
“Ouch! Betty, stop!”
But Betty didn’t stop. She abandoned the door and darted down the hall as fast as her chubby legs could carry her, disappearing inside the house.
“I got her!” I said, and ran after her as Kennedy hopped on one foot behind me.
After a short chase, a slight struggle, and a lot of pleading on my part, I finally convinced Betty that I wasn’t trying to kill her. To make my point, I let her sit in a chair with her cell phone poised to dial Sergeant Murdock should she feel threatened. I then began to explain my side of the story, namely that I hadn’t sent the lunch that had killed Fiona Dickel.
A volley of Oh! Oh! Oh! left her mouth in relief as she finally believed me. “I didn’t really believe you had it in you, dear, but one never knows—and Paige did say that you were the one who dropped off the lunch in the first place. I mean, not physically you. It was a boy, but he said you paid him to deliver it, or Paige told me that’s how it went. At any rate, I thought you sent the lunch because you were running late.” Betty paused for a breath. “When Tucker came to deliver the news that Fiona was dead and that she’d been poisoned by the lunch, I”—she waved a hand above her head with nervous excitement—“I thought you were the one trying to do me in! I mean, my latte killed that annoying woman, and then my lunch killed Fiona. You must understand how that might look bad for you. The coffee came from your bakeshop; the lunch had your name associated with it, and all I did was put two and two together.” Betty’s round blue eyes still held a note of suspicion as she looked at me.
“Betty, I’m a numbers’ person by trade, and believe me, I did the math on that one too. In most cases two and two does equal four, but that’s only when no other variables are taken into account. The first variable is the fact that I like you. I have no reason to wish you harm. Then there’s the fact that there were five of us behind the counter that day and at least thirty people in the bakeshop proper, most of them rushing the counter. Mia Long and her bad behavior is yet another factor. Mia went to great lengths to draw attention to herself. Any one of us behind the counter, or near you, could have slipped you the cyanide when you weren’t looking.”
Betty nodded. “True, but the lunch delivery from you sealed the deal.”
Kennedy jumped to my defense. “That’s because whoever is out to get you is trying to frame Lindsey for the deed. Look at her.” She gestured to me with a gracious sweep of her hand. “Beautiful, gullible, and filthy rich. Lindsey’s an easy target.”
I rolled my eyes at Kennedy, and continued. “If I was the only person you told about Mia grabbing the poisoned cup of coffee out of your hand and I wanted you dead, it would stand to reason that I might try it again by sending you a lunch with a poisoned Coke. You called me in the middle of the night to tell me, but I can’t be the only one who knew. Who else did you tell?”
Betty blanched and covered her mouth. “I might have told Paige,” she admitted. Kennedy and I were thinking the same thing when Betty added, “And Chad, who manages the restaurant at the Harbor Hotel—”
“You told Chad?” Kennedy and I cried in unison.
“It just sort of slipped out,” Betty said defensively. “I was very upset.”
“What did Chad want?” I asked, thinking of the opportunistic restaurant manager who had scribbled his number on the breakfast receipt.
Betty shrugged it off. “He came by to chat. He was voicing his concern about a mutual friend of ours, as he often does. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Oh dear,” she suddenly cried. “I’m afraid he may have spilled the beans about my poisoned coffee to your ex, or that Mia woman’s friends. They’re still at the hotel, you know, and the fact she took the coffee from me would exonerate them all. Like your bakeshop, Lindsey, those poor people haven’t been cleared to resume their normal lives.”
Kennedy’s black eyes narrowed in disgust. “What if that wanker is trying to blackmail you for real this time? He could have had any one of Mia’s friends purchase the lunch, poison the Coke, and deliver it to Betty under the guise that you sent it. It would link Mia’s murder to hers, and both back to you. That little stunt would be sure to shut you down for good!”
I thought about that for a moment, ran the possibilities through my head, and shrugged. “Honestly, it’s not likely, but it deserves to be looked into. The trouble is, Jeffery didn’t poison Mia. She was an unfortunate victim of a more devious plot to poison Betty. I strongly doubt Jeffery would jump on that bandwagon just to ruin me. However, Betty, that does bring to mind Paige, or anyone else whom you might have offended.”
The thought visibly depressed Betty. “You think that Paige could be behind the poisonings?”
“Have you offended her? Does she have anything to gain by your death?”
“Certainly, I could have offended her.” Betty sat back in her chair and mindlessly caressed the vase on the decorative table next to her as she considered this. “She’s a young woman, and I’m her boss. I’m also a bit of a perfectionist. Are you asking if she inherits anything from me?”
“I read your bio on your realty website. Your husband passed away, and you don’t have any children.”