Sugar and Vice: Cupcake Truck Mysteries

by Emily James

  Alan pulled up to a desk nestled in next to the wall. The desk’s owner had attached a large corkboard to the wall and filled it with pictures and letters, presumably from people who’d loved his writing.

  Alan shifted a stack of handwritten pages to the side, revealing a couple neatly folded newspapers. “We used to give out five complementary copies, but now it’s only two. The owners figured people could always print more off from our website if they wanted them.” He passed the newspapers into my limp grip, wheeled himself around to the other side of the desk, and fished around in his drawer. “And I have the other information we talked about. As my way of apologizing since I get the feeling you’d rather I hadn’t written the article at all.”

  That was an understatement, but it made me feel uncomfortable, like having a mosquito buzzing in my ear, to think I’d been that easy for anyone to read, even a trained reporter. At the time, I’d been more concerned about stopping the story than about revealing that I wanted to stop the story.

  He straightened up, a yellow sticky note in his hand.

  Despite his claim to have gotten it for me as an apology, he didn’t immediately hand it over. His hesitation made me think he was considering holding it ransom for an explanation. His reporter’s nose must be twitching at the scent of a deeper story. Why wouldn’t a business person want publicity—especially good publicity—for their business? Good press meant increased clients after all.

  I moved close enough that he could easily hand me the paper. “Humility was a virtue in my family growing up. I’m not comfortable with being in the spotlight.”

  He passed me the paper. “Humility sometimes brings honor. You saved that family from a double tragedy, and you deserved to be recognized for it.”

  His statement about humility reminded me vaguely of a Bible verse. My dad always had a Bible verse for everything. Hearing one, or something like one, quoted now brought a little sting to my heart. Not only because it was harder being on my own without any family or friends than I’d ever expected it to be, but also because Alan Brooksbank seemed to be the only one who believed I was a hero not a villain.

  I stuffed the sticky note into my pocket before he could decide to ask for it back, thanked him for the newspapers, and made my escape. The sooner I was alone, the sooner I could see if the name Alan got for me matched the name of one of Harold Cartwright’s grandchildren.

  Chapter 10

  Deciphering Alan’s doctor-level chicken scrawl after I’d gotten back to one of my safe spots took me almost ten minutes. Once I got most of the letters figured out, only one name on the list came close to matching—Blake Cartwright.

  I drummed my fingers on my knees in my cross-legged position on my truck floor. Now I had a name—and a phone number thanks to Alan—but I still didn’t have a concrete motive to give to the police. Without that, he wouldn’t bump to the top of the list above me.

  I had to do a little more digging.

  I couldn’t simply call Blake. He wasn’t likely to admit to some stranger over the phone whatever motive he might have had. As cloak-and-dagger as it sounded, I needed to spy on him to see if he’d recently made any large purchases that he might be having trouble paying off or if he showed any obvious signs of money troubles. Those coupled with the theory of him killing his grandfather because he needed the inheritance immediately should be enough to redirect the investigator’s attention off of me.

  Besides, I knew I hadn’t killed Harold and almost killed Janie. Whoever had deserved to be caught and punished for what they’d done.

  My new problem was how to follow Blake around. I didn’t have his address. It wasn’t like he was going to give me his address if I asked him. The only farce I could think of was to tell him I had a package for him, but no one in Blake’s generation would fall for that. Everyone my age and younger had grown up wary of phone scammers.

  I already knew he didn’t have an open social media profile or a website. But maybe he was still listed.

  I opened the browser on my phone, went to 411, and typed his phone number in. A B & D Cartwright popped up, including their address.

  The next morning, I got up at five o’clock and drove to Blake Cartwright’s house. I went past and parked on a nearby cross-street in his neighborhood. It put me close enough to be able to see if anyone left the house.

  Thankfully, they didn’t seem to have a garage. A garage would have ruined my whole plan. I might have ended up accidentally following D Cartwright around rather than Blake Cartwright.

  As it was, I’d likely only have today to try to come up with a solid motive. Not only couldn’t I afford to take multiple days off, but my giant purple-and-pink truck wasn’t exactly stealthy. After a couple of hours, he’d be sure to figure out I was following him.

  After two hours surveilling, I’d decided that cop shows on TV were all lies. Every time they showed anyone on a stakeout, they were always drinking coffee for about a minute before the suspect showed themselves.

  Not only could I not drink coffee for fear of needing to use the restroom, but sitting in my truck staring at the Cartwright house made me increasingly aware of my isolation. It was no wonder stakeouts were always done with partners. Staying awake and focused would have been a lot easier with someone to talk to.

  At seven-thirty exactly, someone finally came out of the house, but it wasn’t Blake. It was a petite brunette with a baby in her arms and two children who looked barely school age following behind her.

  A dull ache hit me behind the eyes. That was great. I was trying to send a dad of three little kids to jail to save myself. Logic told me that if he was the one who poisoned Harold, he’d brought this on himself, but my heart wasn’t convinced.

  The woman strapped all three kids in and headed off in the tan SUV from the funeral. It’d looked anything but new. The car that remained in the driveway wasn’t any better. Neither vehicle was even an expensive model, and they both looked old enough that car payments shouldn’t have been an issue.

  I had the unsettling feeling that I’d sent myself on a fool’s errand.

  I’d almost convinced myself to give up and head to my regular lunch spot early when Blake came out of the house dressed in a suit and tie, looking about as un-criminal as a person could.

  But he had been running from the scene of the crime, I reminded myself, and his wife and kids weren’t at a birthday party they should have been at.

  It’d be hours before my regulars were looking for me. I might as well at least follow him to work and see if a bookie or some equally shady character waited for him in the parking lot.

  Not that either of those types of people were likely to be waiting for him at his place of work at this time of the day. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t have a partner on this. That last thought had been me trying to justify the wasted time and gas, and I’d have probably said it out loud if anyone were around to listen to me. They’d have had a great excuse to mock me.

  If I spent much more time alone, I might start regularly talking to myself, and that couldn’t be healthy. Living in a food truck meant I couldn’t even get a pet and legitimize talking to myself by talking to them instead.

  Blake pulled out of his driveway, and I followed him from as far back as I felt I could without losing him. Which wasn’t far. His car wasn’t distinctive enough for me to trust that I could pick it out if a lot of vehicles got in between us.

  Instead of going toward the business sector the way his suit suggested he would, he turned west. While there were a few shops that way, none of them were the type where employees wore suits as far as I could remember. None of the restaurants were even fancy enough to have a maître d.

  He signaled and turned into the parking lot for Friends Bar.

  Not the kind of place I’d expect anyone to go before work in the morning.

  Maybe I’d made the right choice to follow him after all. This could point to him being an alcoholic, which could cause all kinds of financial problems. He could als
o be meeting someone here that he felt he couldn’t meet at his home or place of employment. While I’d laughed at myself for thinking he might be meeting a bookie at his place of business, I could see him meeting with someone he owed a large sum of money at Friends.

  I pulled past the entrance into Friends’ parking lot to give Blake time to park and exit his car without making it obvious I was following him. I turned around in the steakhouse parking lot next door, and then parked in the Friends’ lot on the far side. Other than his car and mine, there were only two others in the lot.

  I’d been down this way a couple of times scouting locations where I might park for good weekend foot traffic and the name of this particular bar had stuck with me. I wasn’t sure whether they were playing off the TV show of the same name or if they were alluding to how Cheers had been the bar where everyone knows you and you’re friends.

  Probably neither if I was being honest, but I couldn’t help myself. I liked to try to find connections and reasons for everything. It helped me to feel like life had a purpose and a plan to it and wasn’t simply random.

  One thing I was sure of—none of the restaurants on this particular street opened before eleven, including Friends.

  And yet Blake had gone inside. Someone had been expecting him at 8:30 on a Monday morning when most people were at work or heading there.

  The front windows of Friends were mostly glass. If I could get a picture of whoever Blake was meeting, I’d have more to pass over to the police. Anonymously of course.

  If the police could identify the other person as someone who regularly loaned large sums of money, that would scream motive. I’d be free to leave Lakeshore without looking like I was fleeing a crime.

  I climbed down from my truck and skirted the edge of the parking lot. If Blake and whoever he was meeting were in eyesight of the window, I didn’t want to give myself away. I could probably outrun anyone who tried to chase me, but my truck was so identifiable it wouldn’t be worth it.

  I tiptoed across the cement and over the lines of grass growing in the cracks. It wasn’t like the people inside would be able to hear me coming, but it made me feel better. I stopped at the edge of Friends’ large window.

  If my legs were double-jointed, I would have kicked myself. The glass was one way. My ignorance showed how few bars I’d been in in my life. Of course it would be one way. They wanted to make it feel open, but their patrons wouldn’t have loved everyone in the outside world seeing what was happening inside.

  That didn’t leave me with many options. I guess I could knock on the door and pretend to ask for directions. It wouldn’t get me a picture of who Blake was meeting, but I’d be able to give a description. That had to be better than nothing.

  Unfortunately, that would mean whoever it was would see me as well.

  I hesitated at the edge of the window, rocking back and forth slightly. Fear, for once, kept his opinion to himself, probably because there was no Fear-approved solution here. Any path I took left me in danger. Fear was probably curled into a ball in the center of my mind right now, silently screaming.

  Having someone see me seemed like the lesser bad option. They wouldn’t know I was the one who gave their description to the police. Even if they figured it out, I should be long gone by then.

  The key was for me to look calm and non-suspicious. I’d stopped here in the hope of someone being inside who could give me directions. If I hadn’t found anyone here, I would have gone on to the next business until I got the help I needed.

  I adopted the walk I used to use when I was out with Jarrod. It said both don’t notice me and nothing’s wrong here. A stride that wasn’t hurried and yet wasn’t lagging, without too much hip swing or bounce to my step. Practiced casual.

  Two strides from the door, it swung open and Blake came out.

  He stopped and let the door swing shut behind him. He gave me the awkward half-smile people get when they’re surprised to find someone where they didn’t expect them to be. Up close, I could see that his suit was a little too short on the sleeves, as if he’d owed it since before his last growth spurt.

  “You’re the cupcake lady, aren’t you?” he asked. “The one I bumped into in the parking lot at Grandpa’s birthday.”

  He said it so casually, like there was nothing for him to be ashamed of about the last time we’d met other than that he’d knocked me over. Not for the first time, I wished I was a better judge of character. I didn’t know if a guilty person would so easily bring up their escape from the scene or not. Maybe they would in order to see how I’d react and gauge whether I suspected them or not.

  He was still looking at me as if he expected me to confirm my identity even though the big truck sitting like a purple mushroom behind us should have given it away. Or maybe he was digging for why I was there, at a bar that wouldn’t open for hours.

  You already came up with a story, I reminded myself. Stick to it and you’ll be fine. “That’s me. I think I might be lost.”

  He glanced back at the door behind him, and his shoulders drooped like a balloon with a slow leak. “I thought so too, but it’s the right place. But they’ve already filled the job if that’s what you’re here for.”

  They’d already filled the…he was here to apply for a job?

  Applying for a job in person explained his suit and showing up at a business that would technically be closed. The ad must have told people when they could bring their resumes by.

  The memory of his three little kids filing out to their SUV behind his wife brought an ache to my chest. You didn’t wear a suit to an interview for a job at a bar unless you were desperate. “How long have you been out of work?”

  “Almost six months. My wife was a stay-at-home mom with our kids, but she’s looking for a job now too.”

  The ache in my chest doubled. After six months, their savings were likely gone, assuming they’d had any in the first place.

  He stretched a hand out toward my truck. “I wouldn’t have expected you’d need a second job.”

  He couldn’t have known how close to the truth he was hitting with the idea of me needing a second job. If I had a social security number to go along with my fake ID, I might have considered actually getting another job to see me through, but all I had was my real SSN. I couldn’t give anyone that.

  “It’s always difficult when I move to a new town until people get to know me. Food services are so much about word of mouth.”

  I gave myself a mental shake. The conversation with Blake felt so easy and normal, like we were two old acquaintances, that I’d almost forgotten why I came here in the first place. I hadn’t come here for that bar job that we’d both apparently missed out on. I’d followed him here to see if he had a motive for killing his grandfather to get an early inheritance.

  I’d found a huge, blinking motive. Not for the first time today, I wished I hadn’t bumped into Blake in the parking lot and didn’t need to suspect him.

  My throat closed up, as if the words knew I didn’t really want to speak them. “Will your inheritance from your grandpa help out some?”

  His eyebrows came together, forming three little vertical lines between them. “My inheritance? Oh right.” His eyebrows leveled out, and the corners of his lips turned down instead. “There wasn’t anything left to inherit.”

  I was a good judge of emotions, but I didn’t have the natural ability that some people did to tell if they were being lied to. In this case, Blake might have been lying to me, but the way his posture continued to droop suggested true regret to me.

  I had to be sure though. If there was no inheritance, there was no motive for Blake…or for anyone else as far as I could tell. Without a motive for Harold’s death, I might have to start considering a new exit plan—one that left Isabel Addington and How Sweet It Is Cupcake Truck behind.

  Chapter 11

  I widened my eyes just enough to hopefully indicate surprise and not enough to look crazed. “Nothing?”

  Blake shook hi
s head. “I guess that’s what happens when you have six kids eating up all your money when you’re young and then you live to be a hundred. My cousin Claire’s been paying for his senior’s home and all his other expenses for close to five years now.” Red streaked up his neck. “Not that we all let her do it by herself. I’ve helped out when I could before…and Dan helps and I know Stacey was too before her mom got sick and needed that operation.”

  One thing I recognized was when a voice in someone’s head was telling them they were a failure, that they’d never be good enough, no matter how hard they tried. Jarrod told me as much so many times that I still heard it in my head every time something didn’t go right.

  “I’m sure everyone knows you’d like to help more, including Claire.”

  Her name tasted sour on my tongue. Claire had been paying for Harold’s expenses for five years.

  Five years where her money was going to cover his needs rather than saving for her own old age, or allowing her to go on vacations, or to buy things she might want. It would be easy for someone to start to resent that. It’d be even easier for someone to fear they wouldn’t have enough to support themselves as they got older, especially if they didn’t have someone else who would cover for them. Or if they didn’t want to put that kind of burden on a family member.

  Blake no longer had a motive for killing his grandfather, but it seemed like Claire did.

  My cell phone rang on the drive back to my regular lunch location. Even though I didn’t want to talk to anyone and disrupt my thoughts, I touched the button to answer. I couldn’t risk losing a client because I didn’t pick up the phone. I answered with my standard greeting.

  “This is Detective Labreck, LSPD,” a man said from the other end in a business-like tone. “How are you today?”

  My hands jerked, and I swerved across the center line. I pulled my truck back into my lane. The man coming toward me from the opposite direction flipped me the finger as he passed. I couldn’t tell exactly what he was yelling at me, but I could guess at some of the names he was likely calling me.