Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop

by Darci Hannah

  Betty pursed her lips. “Well, my estate is complicated. I may not have children of my own, but I do have two godchildren as well as a niece and nephew. They’ll each get a little something. Then there’s some land that my deceased husband has put into a trust. I have control of it now, but it will eventually go to the town. The land is intended for a wetland preserve. It will never be developed. Mike Skinner, our local jack-of-all-trades, keeps an eye on it for me in exchange for hunting rights. I let him and a few other young men of the town hunt on that property. They must have the proper licenses, of course. I don’t want poachers there, but taking down a healthy buck in the fall really helps these families through the winter.”

  “That’s really kind of you,” I said, growing more impressed with Betty by the minute. I then thought to ask, “Does Rory hunt on your land?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s never asked, but if he did, I’d grant him permission. Mr. Campbell has always displayed good judgment, though I’m afraid the same can’t be said about me. I’m so embarrassed that I thought he might have tried to poison me.”

  “You weren’t the only one,” Kennedy added and gave her a reassuring pat on the hand.

  Betty gave a sympathetic nod and continued. “Most of my wealth will go to the town in the form of a charitable trust,” she explained, “and to other various charities. However, I have thought about leaving my business to Paige Winston, but that’s not stated in my will.”

  “Then there’s no motive,” I said, deflated.

  “Not an obvious one,” Betty concurred. “But, my dears, unless I’m the unluckiest person in the world, it doesn’t change the fact that somebody is trying to kill me.”

  CHAPTER 40

  We left Betty’s house with more questions than answers, which was disappointing. Although Jeffery might have learned from Chad, the chatty manager of the hotel restaurant, that Betty Vanhoosen had been the target of the poison that killed his lover, I doubted he’d be stupid enough to pick up the torch and try to finish the job in order to frame me. Kennedy suggested we drive over and talk with him, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  The matter of Paige Winston deserved to be investigated. I didn’t know Paige very well, but I was willing to talk to her. Betty didn’t like that idea one bit and called Officer Tuck herself with the lead. “Leave it to the professionals,” she had told us. “May I remind you that the last time you two meddled, someone died?”

  It was true, but I wasn’t ready to head home just yet. Indulging my curiosity, Kennedy and I drove out to the Benzie Area Historical Society Museum so that I could investigate another matter.

  “Is this about the dead captain who haunts your lighthouse?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’m curious about some of the families that might have lived in the area during the time my lighthouse was built. As I told you, I don’t think the Captain was murdered by a stranger.”

  “Oh, I get it. Because Paige Winston is off the table and you don’t feel like confronting Jeffery again, you’re going to try to solve the murder of Captain Willy Riggs?”

  “Nobody was ever charged with his murder, because there were no witnesses. It’s similar to this case in the fact that we have a person who likes to drop poison into drinks, but no motive and no witness. Basically, I’ve failed with the one, so I’m going to concentrate on the other.”

  “Oh, that’s logical,” she remarked sarcastically. “Well, while you talk with the docent, I’ll be over here looking at pictures old dead people. Holler if you crack the case, darling.”

  I’d been in the archives for an hour, copying records of family names and a few articles of interest, when Rory sent me a text.

  Dinner at my house tonight. I’ve got steaks, a grill, and plenty of beer. You bring the dessert and Welly.

  I’m on it, I texted back. See you in a few, and went to get Kennedy.

  Back at the lighthouse, while Kennedy prepared romaine lettuce for a simple Caesar salad—there was no mention of veggies in Rory’s text—I set to work on a traditional cherry pie, my personal favorite of all the fruit pies. Thank goodness I had purchased a large bag of frozen Montmorency cherries from one of the cherry orchards outside of town before opening my bakery. Traverse City was the cherry-growing capital of the world, producing 40 percent of the world’s cherries. I was excited to use the pert red fruit in future baked goods, but tonight I would wow Rory with my dad’s own amazing recipe for cherry pie.

  Taking out a large saucepan, I filled it with six cups of frozen tart cherries, sprinkled a tablespoon of fresh lemon juice on top of them, and gave it a good stir. I then covered the pot and warmed the cherries on medium heat, inducing them to thaw and release their tart juices. While the cherries worked their magic, I took out a small bowl and mixed one and a quarter cup of sugar with four tablespoons of cornstarch.

  After a few minutes thawing on the stove, I turned off the burner and let the cherries rest. Then I jumped to the bakery kitchen to nab one of the premade piecrusts Dylan had stored there.

  Dylan and I had discussed piecrusts ad nauseam. While I had championed the all-butter crust for flavor, she championed a crust with vegetable shortening for the flaky texture. We had finally settled on a crust that combined the best of both, one and a half sticks of unsalted butter for flavor, and one-third cup of shortening for texture. This was cut into three cups of all-purpose flour, with a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of sugar added for good measure. Once all the butter and shortening had been cut into the dry ingredients to the size of peas, it was then blended with half a cup of ice water and a teaspoon of cider vinegar to achieve that perfect rolling texture. The cider vinegar had been Dylan’s addition. It was another ingredient that would add to her perfect flaky crust obsession.

  With two piecrusts rolled out and one sitting in a pretty ceramic pie plate, I turned on the burner and stirred the sugar mixture into the juicy cherries. I continued to stir until the cherries were thick and bubbly. Once I was satisfied with the taste and thickness of the filling, I stirred in three tablespoons of butter for silkiness and poured the mixture into the waiting crust. I had actually contemplated topping the pie with snazzy latticework or a cute braided edge, but I didn’t have time. I still needed to shower and change. Therefore, a traditional top crust is what I went with. Having a little extra dough, I rolled it out and made a couple of decorative cherries. These I placed in the center of the pie. I then brushed the crust with milk and sprinkled it with finishing sugar before sending it into the oven.

  While the pie baked, I showered, got dressed, and met Kennedy downstairs in time to remove the pie. It smelled wonderful, confirming my long-held belief that there was nothing better than a freshly baked cherry pie. Although it was piping hot, it would firm up and cool nicely by the time we ate it. I packed up the pie, the salad, and set out for Rory’s house with Kennedy and Wellington.

  Although my day had started out on a terrible note, the crisp air of late spring, coupled with the beginnings of what was sure to be a spectacular sunset, had brought it full circle. I was out of jail and having dinner with friends on a deck overlooking Lake Michigan. It was about as perfect as it could get. Rory’s thick steaks were perfectly grilled, and Kennedy’s yummy Caesar salad more than made up for the fact that Wellington had eaten my entire breakfast quiche. Just to prove the point that his belly was, in fact, a bottomless pit, he had wolfed down the T-bone that Rory had made for him in mere seconds, and was now hyper-focused on the bone.

  “I’m a bit disturbed to hear that Betty doesn’t have any enemies other than the recently deceased Fiona,” Rory remarked before taking a swig of his beer.

  “She obviously has an enemy,” I countered, “a subtle one that her positive personality and rosy outlook fail to acknowledge. I’m stumped. Fiona was so vocal about her dislike for Betty that anyone else by comparison might seem harmless.”

  “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack, darlings.” Kennedy paused to take her last bite of the delicious pie. Wavi
ng her empty fork, she added, “And speaking of needles in haystacks, were the heroes in beige able to help you?”

  Rory chuckled. “The DNR officers didn’t know much about Betty’s land, since it’s privately owned. Betty doesn’t hunt, but they did say that a couple of local men have permission to hunt there. The DNR makes regular visits during deer season to make sure that anyone hunting on the property has the proper licensing and is abiding by the laws, but beyond that they didn’t have much to say. After my visit there, I thought I’d hike around the Vanhoosen forest myself.”

  I was taking a bite of pie when I looked at him. “Betty did mention that she let a couple of men hunt on her land. Can’t imagine they’d be upset with her.”

  “Did she mention their names?” For some reason this interested him.

  “No. You’d have to call her and ask. Did you find anything?”

  He drained the beer he’d been drinking and set the empty bottle on the table. Grimacing slightly, he answered, “I’m not sure.”

  “What does that mean?” Kennedy wrinkled her nose at him.

  Rory, rising to the challenge, leaned forward. “Betty owns a lot of land. To use your own analogy, it’s just a haystack if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Well, here’s another observation, Sir Hunts-a-Lot. If you don’t know what you’re looking for, then it’s just a waste of time.” Kennedy, to make her point, plucked a rogue crouton from the near-empty salad bowl and shoved it in her mouth, giving a dramatic crunch. That made me laugh. Rory did too, and all talk of Betty and murder faded away with the setting sun.

  “Welly and I will be waiting just over there,” Kennedy said, as we were about to take our leave. It had been an enjoyable night, and we had lingered too long. Kennedy had assumed, like the observant friend she was, that I wanted a moment alone with Rory, should he try to kiss me again. I was entirely open to the possibility.

  “This wasn’t the date I promised you,” he said, standing very close. “Unless you plan to bring your friend on all our dates. In that case, this is date number one.”

  “Funny,” I said, and smiled. “She’ll head back to New York once the murderer is caught and the bakeshop opens again.”

  “God, that can’t happen soon enough.” He bent his head for a kiss. Like a fine glass of wine, it radiated throughout my body, warm and tantalizing. And, like said wine, I wanted to keep drinking. Therefore, it took some effort to pull away.

  “Speaking of that,” I said, taking a deep breath. “You found something in the woods, didn’t you?”

  “I may have.” He grinned and bent to kiss me again.

  “Wait.” With both my hands on his very firm chest, I pushed him back a hair. “What? You have to tell me what you found.”

  His handsome face, like the flip of a coin, turned from playful to grim. “No, Lindsey. Not yet. Leave this one to me.”

  His tone was convincing, and although New York Lindsey would have pushed him to his limits, the new Lindsey bowed out with grace. “I trust you,” I said. “And I’ll trust you to tell me when you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 41

  It was a fact that Rory had earned my trust, but that didn’t mean I could just turn off my insatiable curiosity like a light switch and go to bed. Kennedy, having eaten too much cherry pie, was done for. During her sugar rush, we chatted, watched an episode of Jane the Virgin on Netflix, and drank a cup of herbal tea. Then, while I brushed Wellington—a necessary half hour if I didn’t want dog fur all over my lighthouse—Kennedy made a few social media posts and checked her email. “I’m out!” she declared at midnight, and went up to bed.

  I was tired too, but made another cup of tea instead. Then, leaving Wellington curled up on the carpet, I took my tea and climbed up the light tower stairs.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for, and that had been part of my plan. Sitting in the lightroom, staring in the direction of the lake was a darkness so complete that only the stars in the heavens were visible. Looking toward the town of Beacon Harbor, it was another matter. Soft lights lined the streets, and fainter ones twinkled down the shoreline and up the wooded hillsides where homes and cabins stood. But it was the lake that held my interest. As I stared out at the nothingness, part of me understood how Captain Willy Riggs must have felt that first night when he climbed the three flights of stairs to the lantern room to light the great beacon, and the allure of such an existence. Danger was part of the job, but not murder. And yet I couldn’t help but feel a stab of sadness to think that’s what had ended his career.

  After a long while of staring at the blackness, sipping herbal tea and yawning in turns, I decided to turn on my flashlight and read the list of family names I had copied during my visit to the Benzie Area Historical Society Museum. I had found the census for the year Captain Riggs had died. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find, but thought that maybe a name would spark a memory of one of the articles I had read of the Captain’s death, or maybe there’d be a name connecting to a family still living here. However, after perusing the list, I realized that I probably should have had a copy of the current White Pages for reference. I was a newcomer to the town and didn’t know much of the history or the family names. Also, reading such a list in the dead of night was akin to looking through columns of large numbers. My eyes were drooping as tiredness was finally catching up with me. The papers slipped out of my hand and dropped to the floor, scattering all over. I slapped my face, drained the last dregs of tea, and began gathering up the copies.

  As I knelt on the floor with the papers, one of them caught my eye. I’d been so focused on the old list of family names that I had forgotten all about the articles I’d copied. Although this article was dated two years after the Captain’s death, a docent at the museum had pointed it out to me as one of interest. Apparently, it was quite the scandal of the day. How it related to my lighthouse or the Captain’s death I didn’t yet know, but I decided to give it a quick read.

  The article was lengthy and the type small. I yawned more than a few times trying to read it. The gist of it was that a prominent captain in the town had been accused of a crime. The man’s name was Captain Edmond Cuthbert. The captain owned his ship and had been a longtime resident of the town. He was partially responsible for petitioning the state to give Beacon Harbor town status. Although revered as a pillar of the community, Captain Cuthbert had been found out to be a ringleader for a band of thugs. Although he touted himself a lumber baron, transporting milled lumber across the Great Lakes, he was, in fact, a smuggler of stolen paintings, jewelry, alcohol, and gold. I turned off my flashlight.

  “Smuggling,” I said to the glittering stars. “Smuggling,” I uttered again as if it was somehow important, and closed my eyes.

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of my name as the sweet smell of pipe smoke tickled my nose. An instant later, my eyes flew open, yet all I saw was darkness. Momentary panic struck, as I realized I was not in my room, not in my bed. Yet as the gossamer web of dreams faded, it suddenly hit me. I had fallen asleep in the lantern room, and although my skin prickled as ephemeral impressions of an older man in a dark blue uniform smoking a pipe receded into the darkness, I knew I was alone.

  I took a deep gulp of air. The moment I did, a thunderous bark echoed up the tower stairs. Wellington! What time was it? I sat up higher in the chair and glanced at my iPhone. Three o’clock, it said. Dammit, I thought. Some lightkeeper I’d be, falling asleep on the job.

  Wellington let out a string of agitated barks.

  I leapt from my chair. “Welly, I’m coming!” And I had every intention of doing just that, until I saw the lights.

  They were not coming from the lake like they had the other night. This light, happening in two short bursts, had come from the marina. I picked up the pair of binoculars I kept in the tower and tried to see where the light had come from, but it was too dark. Then, unbelievably, the sound of a diesel engine starting up pulled my attention a little closer to home.r />
  Although lantern rooms were traditionally surrounded in glass, mine, because it hovered just above roof level and had been built on a point, had a dark shield that prevented the beacon from shining directly on the lighthouse and the land behind it. Historically speaking, when the great lantern was lit, it would rotate, casting its beam across the lake in a sweeping arc that touched land on both sides of the point. However, as the beam rotated over the lighthouse, the shield blocked it from flooding the town with an unwanted roving light. For this reason, I had to peek around the shield to see what was happening on the lighthouse grounds. My jaw dropped when I saw the white sides of the Oberland Dairy truck pass under my garage lights. I ran around to the other side of the dark panel and watched it pull out of my driveway and turn down Lakeshore Drive, heading for the marina.

  “Just a minute, Welly,” I cooed down the stairwell, hoping to calm my dog. “I’ll be down in a second. Be a good puppy.” Wellington continued to whine as I picked up the binoculars once again and followed the Oberland Dairy truck to the marina.

  My heart was pounding as I kept telling myself that there wasn’t anything suspicious about an early morning delivery—even though I was certain we didn’t have one scheduled, being that we were closed and not using copious amounts of butter, eggs, cheese, milk, and cream at the moment—or the fact that the truck was now backing up on one of the long cement docks. Two beams of light appeared this time, both making their way toward the vehicle. The driver got out and opened the rear doors. Then he began unloading what looked to be sacks of flour.

  I got a good glimpse of one of the men from the marina. “Uber driver Mike!” I shook my head in dismay. “What the devil are you doing with so much flour in a dairy truck at three in the morning?” My inner voice promptly answered, Nothing good. Then, the words from the old article came flooding back to me: smuggling. In that moment it all clicked. Captain Willy Riggs had seen smugglers on that night long ago. The thought kicked my inner New Yorker into the red zone. Blood pulsed behind my eardrums, but not from fear. It was pure, unadulterated outrage.