Choc Chip Murder (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 7)

by Rosie A. Point

  I dusted off my fingers over my plate then got up and headed for the doorway. Mrs. Rickleston wasn’t at her desk in the foyer—she usually took time off after breakfast or ran out to do some errands. Bee and I motored down the hallway and toward the French doors that looked out on the terrace.

  The police seal was, indeed, gone.

  The terrace was blessedly empty, and we made our way down the stairs and to the spot along the hedge where we’d first seen the body. It was gone, of course, though there was a patch on the grass I didn’t look at.

  “They took the shoe,” I said, pointing to the mud under the tree. There was still a faint imprint of where the stiletto had been wedged.

  “They would’ve had to. It’s evidence.” Bee put her hands behind her back. “Now, the only question is, where did the shoe come from?”

  I scanned the garden. We were at the end of it, and the back of the inn was guarded by a relatively high wall. To my right, a grove of bushy trees flanked another wall, and to the left was the sweeping lawn that led toward a fountain.

  “The garden is completely enclosed,” I said.

  “Which means the murderer had to have climbed over the wall or had access to the garden already.”

  I froze. “Rose-Marie was at the tea party, remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “And she happened to excuse herself from her table just before it happened.”

  “But she didn’t walk down the stairs into the garden,” Bee said. “No one did.”

  “No, they didn’t. Not at that time. All the tables were full. They were too busy eating the cookies.”

  “Or scoffing at them.”

  “Exactly.” I walked toward the tree where the stiletto had been wedged in the mud. “So, deductive reasoning says they have to have found another way around the hedge. Where does it end?” The hedge was a long barrier of green, trimmed into a rectangle.

  “Let’s find out.”

  We strolled along the hedge to the far end and entered the shade underneath the trees. There was mud here too.

  “Look there,” Bee said, and put out her arm. I nearly ran into her.

  A trail of footprints ran along the edge of the hedge and into the space beneath the trees. We followed them, and a mixture of excitement and dread welled in my stomach. The murderer had definitely come through here.

  “Do you think the cops saw this?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They would have looked for evidence of the murderer’s presence and connection to the scene.” The footprints disappeared in the long grass—the trail was cold.

  I stood in line with them and looked to the right, the left, and then straight ahead. “So, either the killer climbed back over here to escape,” I said, pointing to the perimeter wall. “Or they climbed over the hedge and slipped back to the party.”

  “I’m not so much worried about how they got away, but more about how they got in. Did they come from over the hedge or over the wall? That’s a game changer.”

  “I don’t think climbing the wall would be that easy,” I said. “Maybe they came from the party then went and changed their shoes in the bathroom and returned to the party afterward?”

  “It’s possible.” Bee tapped her chin. “All possible. If only we had something else to identify who did it. I didn’t notice anyone’s red stilettos at the party.”

  “To be fair, stilettos are high shoes. I doubt any of the women at the party would have been wearing them.”

  “Are you saying the elderly can’t wear stilettos?” Bee asked.

  “No, I’m saying it’s highly unlikely that they would. You know, it would be the talk of the society. Remember how much they gossiped?” I frowned. “It feels like we’re missing something.”

  “We’re missing a lot of things. Let’s split up and see if we can find any other clues.”

  I took the length of the wall, and Bee wandered around the hedge, examining the ground closely. But there was nothing else, and though I’d have loved to stay here all day searching, we had to prepare our cookies and treats for the Muffin Flower Show.

  One of our suspects would be there.

  9

  The Flower Show…

  I’d been worried that the ladies of the Muffin Garden Society would be the only ones at the Flower Show—they’d hated our scrumptious choc-chip cookies at the tea party, so who was to say how they’d react to our stall?

  Thankfully, Muffin’s park was packed with locals, most of whom had never even heard of the Garden Society before, and who seemed to love our cookies.

  Bee had parked the truck in our usual spot so she could bake cookies on the fly if we needed extra, and our stall was right across from the pond. A few ducks scudded along the water’s surface or bobbed, their yellow legs tucked tight against their fat, feathery bodies. They were completely unfazed by the activity around them.

  Stalls had been erected, a wooden stage had been put up for the prize-giving, and the women and men who were competing in the show had arranged their offerings in massive displays along the walkway.

  Rose-Marie Wilde sat in a chair next to her stall, waving a lace fan near her face and glaring around at her competitors. I had to hand it to her, the flower display she’d set up was gorgeous—and her black velvet roses were a stand out.

  Across from Rose-Marie, the long-haired woman, Sarah, had a display of her own. It was completely different, packed with exotic colorful flowers and themed for the tropics. How she’d managed to grow it all in this climate was astounding.

  “Ruby.” Bee nudged me. “You’re staring again.”

  “Sorry,” I replied. “It’s just so gorgeous, all of it. I thought today was going to be terrible, but it’s not. The air smells amazing, the view is perfect.”

  “And people love our choc-chip cookies,” Bee said, as she handed out another one in a brown paper Bite-sized Bakery bag.

  I returned my attention to the line of people gathering in front of our stall, eager for a bite of something sweet and satisfying. The smiles and chatter were infectious—it was almost possible to forget that a man had been murdered only a few days prior.

  Almost.

  I served customer after customer, Bee working along beside me until the line finally thinned out. People ambled between the stalls and the flower displays, stopping to admire them. Any time someone halted in front of Rose’s display, she would scowl, unless the person was a judge with a clipboard.

  “What a mean woman,” I said. “Look at how she behaves. She simpers whenever a judge is nearby.”

  “I’ve noticed that too. But a mean woman doesn’t necessarily equal a murdering woman. Look. She’s wearing tennis shoes.”

  “Ah, but what if that’s a ruse to throw the cops off her trail?”

  “Or she likes being comfortable,” Bee said, fiddling in the pocket her pink and green striped apron. “Let’s see.” She brought out her cellphone.

  “I suppose she’s not our main suspect. It’s more likely that it was the wife. With the guns and the strange conversation. And the fact that she wanted to hire us to investigate the murder. If only we had a little more information on the crime itself.” I hooked my hands into the pocket of my apron, sighing.

  “That’s where this comes in,” Bee said, waving her phone at me. “I’ve downloaded a police radio scanner app. I can tune into the radio scanner in Muffin.” She showed me her screen. “And listen to what’s going on. I know the codes.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “In certain states.” She winked at me. “It’s not going to help us figure out what happened and what evidence they might have, but if anything suspicious happens in Muffin, we’ll know about it first.”

  “Suspicious like what?” I asked.

  “Like a break-in or a gun being fired. I have a feeling that things are going to get strange in Muffin over the next little while.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Just a hunch.” Bee wriggled her nose. “I
usually have a feel for how things should go in an investigation, and with this one, I’m a little… I don’t know how to describe it. I feel strange about it. Like there’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “Well, we certainly saw the shoe. Perhaps, we can track down who wore it?” I asked, considering a cookie. I hadn’t had anything for breakfast this morning in the rush to get the stall set up. “Like a Cinderella murder.”

  “Exactly. The only questions is—”

  The squeal of a microphone sounded from the stage. Every head in the park turned, and the chatter dulled. The prize-giving ceremony was about to start. Bee secreted her phone in her pocket, and we collected our money in its little steel box, covered our cookies, and walked up the long trail toward the stage.

  The head judge, a hunched over woman with a set of glasses clinging to the end of her nose, studied the approaching crowd with a smile. Once everyone had gathered, she tapped the microphone and it produced a second squeal.

  Bee and I got a position right at the front, practically pressed against the lip of the stage.

  “All right,” she said. “Wonderful. So, I want to thank you all for being here for the Muffin Flower Show. Once again, this year’s presentations from the growers was fantastic. Could all the contestants please line up behind me here?”

  The contestants, including Rose-Marie, filed onto the stage and stood in a line. Rose wore a grin that said she had this competition in the bag.

  “Thank you, dears,” the head judge said. “As most of you know, my name is Mrs. Waldorff, and I’m one of the judges for the Muffin Flower Show’s competitive rounds. There were two rounds. The first was a home visit by a panel of judges on an agreed upon date. The second took place today. Contestants were judged on their setup, their decorative flare, the beauty of their flowers, and the range of flowers they produced.”

  Rose shifted her weight from one foot the other. Sarah stood a few people down the row, dead still, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

  “The judges’ decision is absolute. Once it’s announced, the winner will be asked to come forward and receive her prize. A check for $10,000.”

  My eyes went round. Bee stiffened next to me.

  That was a lot of money to give away for a good garden. Could this mean that Brent’s murder might have been motivated by the Flower Show after all?

  “The winner of the Fifteenth Annual Muffin Flower Show is…” Mrs. Waldorff accepted an envelope from another judge. “Sarah Rowland!”

  Sarah gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth.

  Rose-Marie’s smug grin slid off her face like cream pie. “No,” she mouthed, under the tumultuous applause from the crowd. “No. No. No.”

  “Uh oh,” Bee said. “Looks like things are about to get confrontational.”

  Sarah came forward and shook the head judge’s hand. A photographer snapped a picture of the massive check being handed over and another bout of applause followed.

  “No!” Rose-Marie’s vicious screech rang out. She rushed the head judge and bumped her out of the way, seizing hold of the end of the big fake check. “It’s mine!”

  10

  Shocked cries rippled through the crowd. The applause stuttered to a halt as Rose-Marie tugged on the check with all her might. “Give it to me! Give it. It’s mine!”

  “You’re crazy,” Sarah screamed back.

  The two gray-haired women stumbled back and forth, their greedy fingertips smudging the white card. The crowd of onlookers was caught between being mesmerized and horrified. Shouts came for the women to stop, but they ignored them.

  Rose-Marie pulled the check taut. “This is a set-up! You bribed the judges so you’d win.”

  “Let go!” Sarah applied pressure on her side.

  A fantastic riiiiip came as the check tore down the middle.

  “Well, that’s not ideal,” Bee muttered.

  Rose glared at her enemy, holding her half-check to one side. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes blazing with hatred. “You thief!” she cried, throwing the spoiled check aside.

  “Please, Miss Wilde,” the head judge said, approaching the pair with her hands out, like they might turn on her and attack. “The judge’s decision is final. And I assure you, the sanctity of the judging process and the Muffin Flower Show remains intact.”

  “Shut up!” Rose screeched.

  Another series of shouts and gasps came from the crowd. It was likely watching a courtroom drama unfold in front of our eyes. Except with less banging of the gavel.

  “I’m not stupid. I have won this competition every year for the past five years. Five years! You mean to tell me that, suddenly, this trashy woman grew better flowers than I did? This… this tramp.”

  “Excuse me!” Sarah fisted her hips. “You watch your mouth when you’re talking about me, Rose-Marie.”

  “I can’t believe I was ever your friend.” Rose slued toward her again, her beady eyes flicking back and forth in her head. “I trusted you.”

  “Trusted me? Friends? In what world were we friends? You treated me like I was your servant. And it doesn’t matter whether we’re friends or not,” Sarah thundered. “This is supposed to be a healthy competition. Just because you’re a sore loser, doesn’t mean the competition is rigged.”

  “What did you just call me?” Rose pointed a finger at the other woman. “What did you just say?”

  “I said you’re a sore loser.” Sarah swept her arms wide. “And you’re embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.” A slight twinge of delight crossed Sarah’s face.

  Rose huffed and puffed. She stamped her feet like a toddler on a rampage. A low growl escaped her throat, and she launched herself at Sarah, shrieking.

  The women collided and fell to the stage’s boards.

  “Stop! Stop before you break a hip!” Mrs. Waldorff yelled.

  But the women were lost to the world. They rolled around, scratching at each other’s faces, trying to pin each other to the floor. It was like a cat-fight on a much slower and stranger scale.

  “Look,” Bee whispered, tugging on my sleeve. “Look what fell out of Sarah’s pocket.”

  A glassy black phone lay on the edge of stage, an arms’ length from where I stood.

  “Grab it. Quick. There might be a clue on it.”

  I didn’t have time to question the validity of the statement. I nudged a few slack-jawed spectator’s aside and grabbed the phone then shuffled over to Bee and gave it to her.

  She tapped on the screen and unlocked it, right away.

  “We have to be quick about this,” I said, glancing up at the collection of arms and legs. The ladies were mid-brawl, but the head judge appeared to be on the phone, likely calling the police or security. Whichever came first.

  “Messages.” Bee opened an app on the screen. “Let’s go—oh! There’s one from Joseph.”

  “Joseph?”

  “That, um, that gardener we met the other day? That man?”

  “Oh, the one who made you lose your mind?”

  A text exchange had occurred between Sarah and Joseph. It made sense that they would know each other, given that he was a gardener who appeared to be working with most of the Garden Society ladies.

  Have you got that information I need? That had come from Sarah.

  Black velvet roses. Nothing too special. I’ve sourced a buddy who’s got the aphids. That was Joseph.

  Good. Let me know when it’s done.

  The conversation was short and dated a week earlier. Had Joseph unleashed aphids on Rose-Marie’s rosebushes? As far as I knew, she was the only one growing black velvet roses.

  “They were working together to sabotage her,” Bee whispered, and locked the phone’s screen, quickly. She placed it back on the stage and nudged it away from us. “I hate to say it, but it looks like Rose-Marie’s right. She should’ve won.”

  “You think she lost because of the aphids?”

  A strangled cry rang out. Two police officers had arrived on the
scene and one of them had lifted Rose-Marie off Sarah. She kicked and flailed her arms, trying to break free of the officer’s grip, her face a mask of anger.

  I could easily picture that mask of anger as she shot poor Brent.

  But the sabotage from Joseph and Sarah didn’t necessarily tie in with our case. It was just interesting that the Flower Show was so competitive. With a $10,000 grand prize, how could it not be?

  “If the judging panel went to Rose’s garden at home and saw aphids on the roses, they would have marked her negatively for that. For sure,” Bee said.

  Sarah sat up on the stage. Her blouse’s collar was ripped, and her hair was in disarray, but she wasn’t bleeding. A few scratch marks ran down her cheek.

  “Put me down this instant,” Rose-Marie commanded. “I’ll walk on my own. Put me down!”

  The burly police officer set her on her feet but didn’t release his grasp on her arms. “Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

  “That’s right, take her away. She attacked me for no reason. No reason!” Sarah cried.

  “You shut your horrible, lying mouth.”

  “That’s enough.” Mrs. Waldorff threw her arm wide. “Please, officer, take her away.”

  Rose was dragged off, not kicking, but definitely screaming, and Mrs. Waldorff hurried over to Sarah’s side and helped her to her feet. The rumble of talk overrode what they were saying, but the head judge was surely apologizing profusely, all while Sarah tugged her clothing straight, tapped her foot and waved her arms around as she complained.

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin. “I wonder if there’s a connection to… you know.” She looked around to ensure no one could hear us, but the locals were too consumed by the action that had just transpired.

  The thonk-thonk of Mrs. Waldorff tapping on the microphone quieted them. “I have to offer my sincerest apologies for what you saw today. This type of behavior is condemned by the Garden Society and the Muffin Flower Show. Please accept complementary beverages from the Muffin Flower Show sanctioned beverage stall.”