“Yes, you are. We’re just talking, and if she just so happens to have a gun and a missing red stiletto, then, hey, the murder’s solved.” Bee flashed me an excitable grin. My friend was happy baking on the truck and possibly avoiding her past, as well, though she’d never told me why that was, but I got the impression she missed sleuthing it up.
Each time something strange happened in one of these towns, we’d get involved. Soon, we’d have to rebrand as a traveling food truck and ‘mystery machine.’
“Here we go,” Bee said, and removed a clipboard from her tote bag.
“What’s that?”
“Just a little questionnaire that gives us an excuse for being here.” She marched up to the front gate and tried it. It was unlocked.
We entered and strode up the neat gravel pathway that led between perfectly trimmed grass and flowerbeds overflowing with blossoms and sweet scents. The porch provided shade from the sunlight. A porch swing with floral cushions sat to the left of the door.
Bee knocked, enthusiastically. “Hello?” Bee called out. “Anybody home?” I half-expected her to follow that up with ‘police, open up!’
Footsteps clattered toward the door, and it opened to reveal Rose-Marie, her hair tied tight as it had been the day before and her glare icy and green. “Yes? May I help you with something?”
Good heavens. She doesn’t remember us. Of course, she doesn’t. We were nothing but the help to her.
“Miss Rose-Marie Wilde?” Bee asked, tapping a pen against her clipboard.
“Yes? Who are you?”
“I’m Beatrice Pine. I’m doing a survey of the competitors in the Muffin Flower Show? It’s research to see how well each of the competitors is prepared. I’m guessing that the winner will have been the most prepared, but that’s up to the data.” She smiled at Rose. “Judging by your garden, you’re a shoo-in to win.”
Wow, such flattering. Judging by the manner in which Rose puffed out her chest, Bee was on the right track.
“Well, yes, I’ve been as prepared as I can be, given the circumstances,” she replied.
“Circumstances?” Bee asked.
I feigned interest in the planter on the right side of the door, as if the flowers within would give me answers. If Bee was the one questioning then I’d be the one examining.
“Yes. My gardener’s dead.”
“Oh. That’s terrible.”
“Not that terrible,” Rose replied. “Thankfully, almost everything was prepared before he decided to go and get himself killed. Anyway, I’ve already got a replacement for him, and I’ll be ready for that flower show this weekend. I always win, you know. Always. Write that down.”
Bee cleared her throat and the scratching of her pen followed.
“Good. Rose-Marie always wins.”
“So, you’d say you’re adequately prepared.”
“I’m over-prepared. I’m presenting my rare black velvet roses at the show. Sarah won’t know what hit her.”
“Sarah?”
“My next-door neighbor.” Rose jerked a gnarled thumb to her right. “Horrible woman. You should see how she wears her hair.” She paused. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Bee replied, politely. It had to be killing her inside not to snap back at the other woman, especially since Bee wore her long, silver hair loose and around her shoulders, just like Sarah had the day before. I admired the self-control. “I think that’s everything I need for now. I’ll go speak to a few of the other competitors. Sorry about your gardener. I wonder who would have wanted to do such a horrible thing.”
“Don’t know, don’t care. He was a useless lout. I don’t know why anyone would waste their time murdering him.”
I caught a glimpse of Rose’s feet, but she wore a pair of sensible, white tennis shoes. The door slapped shut, and I straightened, wiping a few beads of sweat off my brow. It wasn’t a particularly warm morning.
“Wow,” I said. “You did well. I thought for sure you’d give her a piece of your mind.”
“Sometimes, one has to humble oneself for the investigation.” Bee shrugged. “I’ll punch a pillow later.”
We set off down the garden path as a man entered the gate. Bee stopped dead in her tracks and gave a low whistle under her breath. “Nobody told me Brad Pitt lived in Muffin,” she whispered.
“Contain yourself.” Though, I had to admit, the guy striding up the path toward us had a sweltering vibe. He was clearly a gardener, since he carried a shovel and a pair of a thick gloves, but he wasn’t in overalls. He’d opted for a pair of blue jeans and a tight white t-shirt.
“Morning, ladies,” he said, in a thick Bostonian accent. “Come to talk to Rose?”
“We’ve just had a… actually, um—” Bee’s mouth hung open.
I clapped a hand over mine to keep from laughing. Goodness, I’d never seen her so smitten before.
“Oh yeah?” The gardener winked. “She didn’t give you any trouble, did she? Old Rose is a bit…” He tilted his head this way and that.
“Eccentric?” I suggested, and Bee jolted next to me, as if she’d forgotten I was there.
“I was going to say rude.” He tucked his gloves under one arm and extended a hand. “Name’s Joseph, by the way. Joseph Barnes. The new gardener. Wish me luck, though, after what happened to poor Brent.”
“Ruby,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “And this is Bee.”
Bee made a squeaking noise in her throat and colored bright red.
“You don’t think Rose had anything to do with what happened, do you?” I asked.
“No idea. Only just started working with her, y’know? But word around town says she might have had an argument with him or something? I don’t know all the details. I try to keep my head down and my hands in the dirt.”
“Right. Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“You too, Ruby,” Joseph said, winking again. “Bee.”
I grabbed my friend by the arm before she swooned right into a rose bush and guided her up the garden path. Our little investigation aside, we had a food truck to run—spring had brought out extra customers, all of whom wanted treats and snacks.
“Are you all right?” I asked Bee.
“Fine,” she said, faintly, looking over her shoulder at Joseph. “I just… I was lost in thought.”
I laughed. “Sure you were.”
4
“Can I get a choc chip cookie, please? And a coke?” The woman offered me a few dollars over the countertop. “I’m kind of in a rush.”
“Sure! Coming right up.” I took her money, rang up the order then handed her the change. Quick as a flash, I had a massive choc chip cookie in a brown paper bag—the Bite-sized Bakery logo stamped on its front—and a coke out of the fridge. “There you go. Come again!”
“I sure will,” she replied. “This place serves the best baked goods.”
That reply was reward enough for the hours we’d spent on the truck this morning, serving up cupcakes, donuts, coffees, sodas, and cookies. Our morning rush had lasted an abnormally long amount of time because the residents had gotten used to our truck being parked in front of the duck pond.
We’d become the hang out spot for the Muffin residents—the Muffiners?—and I loved that about owning the truck. It was wonderful to bring people together, to watch them interact, laugh, and enjoy themselves with friends, colleagues and family members.
People had cleared off, now, though. They’d either gone to work or shopping, and the space in front of the truck had emptied, including the park and its gazebo. It was finally time for our break.
“What a morning,” Bee said, and brought out a cloth to clean the counter.
“Oh, you’re talking about the handsome gardener, aren’t you?”
“Ruby.”
“Because, I have to agree, you did have a tough morning. You nearly passed out at the sight of him. I wonder if that’s a special super power he has
,” I continued, “you know, raising the blood pressure of women.”
“Stop it,” Bee said, brandishing the cloth. “That wasn’t what you think it was. I was just, uh, angry about Rose-Marie. That’s all. Lost in thought about her being such a mean witch.”
“Oh sure, sure, if that’s your excuse.”
“Would you like a cookie for your brunch break?” Bee asked, her tone saccharine.
“I’m not sure I can trust you, right now. You’ve got revenge in your eyes.”
“It is a dish best served sweet.”
I grabbed a cookie and headed out of the side of the truck to enjoy it. Bee and I took our breaks at separate times in case a customer arrived and needed help. I wandered over to the bench on the sidewalk and took a seat, squinting in the morning sun.
My bite of cookie was chewy, with gooey, melting chocolate chips. Bee was a master baker. My few tries at making these had flopped, but I wouldn’t give up yet. I’d practice until I got them right, just like I had with the donuts.
It was the honest truth that some people were talented at baking and others weren’t. But those who weren’t talented could still practice until they were good at it.
“Hiya!” Lucy Cornwall, a technician at the Hashtag Nailed It Salon bounced over to me. She wore her hair stark black, with a streak of purple through it. She sat down on the bench next to me, glancing left and right. “How are you doin’?”
“Hey, Lucy,” I said. “I’m good, how are you?”
Lucky examined her perfectly manicured, purple-painted fingernails. “I’m fine. Word on the street says that poor old Brent Snow got his bucket kicked for him.”
“Murdered,” I said, “Bee thinks it might having something to do with the Muffin Flower Show.”
A group of customers sidled toward the front of the truck and formed a line. More and more people joined it, as the brunch rush started up. I didn’t have much time left to chat. I gulped down my cookie in two more bites and got up. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Looks like we’re about to get slammed. Poor Bee has been baking all morning to make up for the demand.”
“Wait a second.” Lucy rose too. “I’ve got to talk to you about something important.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t fair to leave Bee to deal with all the customers. “Can it wait, Luce? I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that… well—” I gestured to the lengthening line.
Lucy scanned the crowd. “Yeah, sure. Look, I’ll meet you at the inn later on. Does that work? It’s kinda important.”
“Sure. Why don’t you come have dinner with us?”
“That sounds good,” Lucy said, and smiled. “I’ll see you then.”
“Bye!” I rushed back to the truck, mounted the side steps and entered in time to catch Bee halfway between pouring a coffee and snatching a cookie out of the tray. I helped her with the coffee cup and put a lid on the top, then took up my position at the counter.
We quickly lost ourselves in a mountain of orders. The hum of chatter was a comfort, along with the smiles, exchange of money or the odd swiping of a card. Bee stopped now and again to whip out fresh batches of cookies from the oven, and in the slower times, I helped her ice cupcakes.
“I think we need to get up at least an hour earlier,” Bee said. “It looks like people are in the mood for food.”
“Weird. I thought winter was when we were supposed to pack on the weight.”
“Apparently, the people here didn’t get the memo.” Bee put another tray of cupcakes out then checked her watch. “Shoot, it’s only 12 pm. The lunch rush will start soon.” She got a soda for herself, cracked it open and took a sip. “Did I see you talking to Lucy over by the benches earlier?”
“Right, yeah. I nearly forgot to tell you. She wanted to talk about something important, but she wouldn’t say what. She’s coming by for dinner at the inn this evening,” I replied.
“Oh? Interesting. I wonder if that something important had to do with Brent Snow’s murder.”
I blinked. Of course. No wonder she had been acting so strangely. “It might just be.” A blossom of nerves sprouted in my stomach. What on earth did Lucy want to tell us? What did she know that we didn’t?
5
There was nothing more satisfying than returning home after a long, hard day of work. Technically, I didn’t have a home at the moment—I’d sold my apartment in New York when I’d taken on the food truck endeavor—but the Runaway Inn was good enough for me.
“There you are, dears,” Mrs. Rickleston said, from behind her polished, walnut front desk in the inn’s foyer. “I was concerned you might miss the evening meal. My chefs have prepared steak tips, onion rings, and cream pie to follow.”
“That sounds amazing.” My stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten a thing since that cookie at brunch. Business wasn’t booming, it was nearly out of control. People wanted sweet treats and they wanted them now.
“You two run upstairs and freshen up,” Mrs. Rickleston said, getting out of her creaky antique chair. “I’ll make sure there’s a window-view table prepared for you.”
“Put an extra seat out, please, Irma,” Bee said.
“Are you expecting a guest?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Our friend will be joining us for dinner. I hope that’s OK?”
“Of course, dear. The more the merrier. As long as they know not to go out on the back terrace. You know, the police have placed a seal over the door. No one’s allowed in the garden until further notice.” Mrs. Rickleston’s lips pruned up. “Though I don’t see how that’s necessary. Surely, they should have all the evidence they need by now. Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m just concerned about the inn. But I’m sure everything will be fine. You two head on up.”
We waved goodbye to her, and Bee and I ascended the stairs, invigorated by the thought of food and the smells drifting from the dining area. I washed my hands, splashed some water on my face, and changed into something more comfortable—a blouse and a swishy skirt that was a reprieve after a day in jeans. After, I headed out and found Bee waiting for me.
“I’m starving,” she said, patting her stomach. “I swear, baking is hunger-inducing work. It’s not just labor intensive retail, it also smells great. I’m hungry all day long.”
“I saw you snacking on donuts as we were closing, Bee.”
“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t be hungry now. The donuts were an appetizer.”
We looped arms and headed off down the stairs, the polished wooden balustrade our guide.
“—not supposed to be in here.” Mrs. Rickleston’s voice drifted up from below.
“I didn’t come here to see you. I’m here to meet with my friends, so back off before I make you.” And that was Lucy’s voice!
Bee and I quickened our pace, reached the first landing and rushed down the main stairs into the foyer. Mrs. Rickleston and Lucy squared off in front of the Runaway Inn’s double doors. Lucy’s fists were on her hips, and Mrs. Rickleston had her finger out, mid-scold.
“Is there a problem?” Bee asked.
Mrs. Rickleston turned. “Yes, dear, there is a major problem. This… woman you’ve brought into my establishment, she’s not allowed. She’s banned from being on my property.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. Just because you didn’t like your manicure doesn’t mean you can go around, like, banning people for no good. Are kidding me right now? Like, hello!”
“You don’t get to decide what the rules are at the Runaway Inn,” Mrs. Rickleston snapped. “I do. And you did that to my nails on purpose.”
“This is about nails?” I asked. “Your nails?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Rickleston replied, firmly. “She painted them magenta. Magenta! How a woman my age is supposed to pull off magenta nail polish is beyond me. It’s scandalous. Scandalous! Everyone in Muffin would talk.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wearing magenta nail polish.” Lucy lifted her long purple claws and showed them off. “Or a
ny other color for that matter. And age has nothing to do with it.”
“It is not appropriate for a seventy-year-old to wear magenta nail polish,” Mrs. Rickleston shrieked back.
I’d never seen her this upset before. And I had to agree with Lucy on this one. I didn’t see how age had anything to do with nail polish choice. Shoot, I’d paint my nails bright green when I was eighty, if I wanted to. Judging by Bee’s expression, she agreed with me.
“You asked for something fresh. Fresh!” Lucy exclaimed. “I was just doing my job.”
“I told you I never wanted to see you again.”
“Ladies, please.” I put a hand on either of their shoulders. “You need to relax. I’m sure that Lucy was just trying to do something nice for you, Mrs. Rickleston. This is a misunderstanding. Now, would it really be so bad if she stayed for dinner? We invited her here as our guest, and we had no idea any of this was an issue.”
“I thought she was joking about banning me,” Lucy hissed. “But she’s just a twisted, strange old—”
“That’s not helping,” Bee said.
Mrs. Rickleston inhaled and exhaled, slowly. “Fine. Fine, she can stay. But she’d better not come near me. Or try to… paint someone else’s nails.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen, Mrs. Rickleston.”
I guided Lucy away from the inn’s owner and into the dining room. A few of the other guests looked up as we entered—doubtless, they’d heard the commotion—but we made a beeline for our table near the front window and took our seats.
Lucy immediately grabbed the pitcher of water in the center of table and poured it into her glass. She downed it in one shot. “I don’t like confrontation, y’know. It makes me super uncomfortable.”
“Sorry about that. We had no idea.”
“None,” Bee agreed.
Before I could quiz Lucy about what she wanted to meet with us about, a waiter arrived at our table. We ordered from a set menu then settled back in our chairs. Mrs. Rickleston hovered in the dining hall’s doorway, her eyes narrowed in our direction.
Choc Chip Murder (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 7) Page 2