I can tell that he’s just a little bit older than me, but that’s not very conspicuous, really. And I haven’t seen anybody else around the house, besides him, so his coming here is getting me a little startled to be honest. But then I realize that I’m just starting to look suspiciously at just about everything as of late. And I really need to stop doing that.
Coral has managed to get himself on the other part of the fence, and he’s rubbing against my neighbor’s feet already. The snuggly Halloween vibe around the area is making me just so sensitive for some reason. Gideon bends down and scrapes under my cat’s chin, while Coral hoists his head letting the hand of the man glide alongside his fur. He only does that when he likes you, so it’s really shocking for me that he finds Gideon likable.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like Gideon is unlikable; nothing like it to be honest. It’s just that I find Coral and Gideon’s amicability very rapid.
“What about you?” I ask, taking a gander around his yard. It’s just so hard to conceptualize this yard as his, when just a couple of months ago it has been Mr. Gleason’s. “Are you and harvest holding, like, a grudge?” I notice that there’s not a single decoration around his house, but then again, he just moved here, so maybe I should give the man a little time.
“I wouldn’t consider myself as a holiday lover,” he says, and I find his statement very bizarre. I love just about every single holiday out there, and to hear that the man who just moved next door isn’t keen on any holiday in general, is more than shocking for me.
“How so?” I can’t just leave it at that. I think that you can discover more about a person’s personality just by digging deeper into their relationship with the holidays. There’s just something mystical that says so much about us about the way how we decide to honor and gratify in the spirit of the season.
“I’m more of a rational person. I find this scary-spirits, ghost-haunting, treat-or-trick mambo jumbo very unessential.”
I’m shocked. Here he is, rebuking one of my favorite seasons ever so audaciously, and I can’t stand it. But after all, it is just his aptitude in regards to it, and I have to find it respectable.
“Well, you are going to have a lot of this mambo jumbo that you were talking about going on around here, so you should just brace yourself for that.” I prepare him for what is going to happen around my yard in the days to come.
“I wouldn’t say that it bothers me; just that I’m not very into it.” He connotes and I can see that he is really a merry person that you would want to be around to. It’s in the serene way he behaves that I can see all this peace with the world.
“I think it’s getting late,” I look around at the gloomy sky, and shiver somehow, wrapping the sweater around my waist. “I should probably head inside now.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles so sweetly in his boyish voice. And everything about this moment seems just so cozy. Maybe it’s the ornament’s effect or my evening fuzziness that is making feel this emotive. “You do that.”
“I cannot believe that he really is your neighbor. I hate you already. Why should all the hot guys render around your world?” Heather scoffs on her seat, clutching her mug of coffee, and looking discontentedly at me.
“He’s hot?” I wrinkle my face in a rebuking expression. “I haven’t noticed.”
“Liar. You should be a fool not to notice, and I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Being involved into a murder mystery would do that to you. My head is just so perplexed by all these recent confrontations. And I don’t want to point any fingers, but there are a few people that I’m counting as suspects already. Their behavior makes it hard not to.”
“Maybe you should just soothe out a little, enjoy everything that is going on fine in your life. I mean, you deserve it,” her voice grows warmer while emphasizing the latter, while covering my hand with hers above the counter.
“I mean, is it really? Is everything just fine?” I scoff and look away, suddenly feeling an unexplainable pang of gloom capturing me.
“I don’t see a reason why it should not. You’re a young, pretty lady running a business. A lot of people would give everything to have that.”
“I don’t know about that,” I mutter and my mind maunders along some thoughts that I’ve been trying to postpone facing with lately. “It’s been days and I haven’t heard a thing from Braiden just yet. I mean, the way that we parted ways gave me so many mixed signals. He kissed me; told me he cared about me, and gave me hope that maybe, probably someday we’d get back together. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Honey,” she eyes me compassionately, making me embrace her homely interest and affection. “We don’t have to mourn over people that don’t want to be part of our lives anymore. If that’s what they want, they have no idea what they’re missing on. It’s their loss, don’t you understand?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like it. I feel like I’m losing everything if he keeps ghosting me.”
Meanwhile, I open my laptop on the counter, and start browsing on the internet. Imperceptibly, my mind goes over something that Kierra told me last time she was at the cupcake shop. I have his name now. With this much information, I can start making a proper investigation. That’s how I see it. You can do a lot of things with a person’s name, it gives you empowerment and knowledge that can help you dig other more important things from their life.
“What are you up to?” Heather has noticed my sleuthing attitude, and she’s eager to know.
“Colten Mahoney. That’s the name of the man that I found at the pumpkin patch. I’m going to do a little research about him, trying to take his life into scrutiny and realize whether there’s someone who’d have enough motive so as to go along and kill him.”
“I don’t like that look,” she hinges back, taking stock of my sleuthing face. “It says ‘I’m about to try and solve a murder mystery faster than the police, even if I have to peg myself away’.”
I’m scrolling through all the latent information I find about this man. I go into every public virtual presence of his, and look at his photos and the people’s that he’s taken pictures with.
He owns a hotel, has a wife, a brother and a cat. I gathered just this much from photos he’s posted. He has friends and an entourage that works for him at his property, though none of them look suspicious to me.
“I’m going to have to go talk to his wife,” I tell Heather, who is giving me the once over already.
“What about you staying out of this? Ainsley, it is not your responsibility to solve every mystery in town. Why don’t you just lay back and enjoy your comfortable life.”
“I feel like it is my duty. Why else would the man appear in front of me? Somehow I’m involved into this, whether you like it or not. And if I don’t do something about it, things might get out of hand.”
“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time with what happened at Mrs. Hopper’s house?”
My mind goes through all the risks that I took, my audacious (somehow stupid) behavior, and what could’ve happened if I hadn’t made it there on time.
“I won’t let things take a tumble this time,” I demand, staring at the screen of the laptop at the pic of the man whose remains I found underneath the pumpkin compilation.
Chapter Six
I sigh nervously, while knocking for the second time at the door in front of me. No one is answering and I’m considering leaving if the next few seconds go by without somebody showing up by the door.
As I’m about to knock again, for what seems to be like the last time this day, the door slides onwards, and I draw my hand back to place, while a woman appears in front on me.
She frowns for a few seconds, seemingly trying to determine whether she knows me or not, and then, after a little confusing moment, I try to find any similarities of the woman in front of me to the woman in the picture. She looked more carefree, and happy, dressed impeccably, at the picture, while there’s a pang of sadness now in her eyes, her hair is
so fuzzy, and she wraps her arms around the folds of the sweater that I think she’s keeping from last day, or longer.
“Hmm,” I cough, trying to get myself together and introduce myself to this woman. “My name is Ainsley, you probably don’t know me. I’m the girl who found your husband at the pumpkins’ shop.”
She frowns in what seems to be like an unsettling moment, trying to decide where she stands in all this, whether she needs to treat me accusingly, or whether she has to be more considerate and use me to get more information out of me.
“Oh,” she scowls, looking at me head to toe.
“I know that this is probably an inconvenient time. But I felt like I had to meet you in person. I’m so sorry for what happened to your husband.”
“That’s what I’ve been hearing all along. I’m trying to wrap my mind around the facts, and people are keeping reminding me, showing their compassion. They just don’t realize that it is not helping in any way.” She acts like my comportments somehow offended her.
“I understand this must be very hard for you, and I know that you’re coming from a place of despair and hurt, but I’m just trying to realize why what happened just happened. He was murdered and I was there. It’s only normal you’d want to find out why such thing could happen.”
“I guess it must’ve been hard for you too to have to come across a horrible scene like that.” She tries to sound more reasonable now, and I’m confused. Like a moment ago, she was just scolding me, and now she is just the next nice person. I guess that’s what happens when something this bad happens to the ones you love the most.
“I don’t mean to be too pushy, but may I come in?” I ask, knowing that there are other questions that I have in mind, waiting for me to carry on with.
She seems to hesitate for a moment, looking awkwardly around, and then she moves aside, making room for me to go in. “Yeah, sure.” She mumbles and I move forward.
Going into the house, everything looks so tidy surprisingly, and it smells so nice. I look at pictures of the couple at every corner of the house. They seem so happy, and I kind of envy that. It’s so nice to see people sharing love and merriness together.
“You looked happy, and so in love,” I connote.
“We were,” she says wishfully and I can comprehend the sadness in her eyes.
Somehow I know that this is going to be awkward for me. I don’t want to put her in an uncomforting position, and I know that there is no way that this conversation is going to go smoothly for both of us. But I have to see closely into the life of the man whose body I found while shopping. I have to puzzle out.
“If you don’t mind me asking, did you have any children?” I ask as soon as she offers me to sit on the couch, and when I make this question, she looks away longingly and I know that I’ve sparked wishful, gloomy thoughts into her head.
“We did not. He always wanted children and,” she looks away for a moment, and I feel so bad I want to tell her she can stop if she doesn’t wish to proceed, but I think like I would just make it worse with anything I might say. “With each passing moment we tried to come to grips with the fact. And I know that we both grew to pretend that the fact didn’t bother us anymore, but deep down he always got sad every time he heard a child’s giggle outside, or came across anything that reminded him of children.”
“I’m so sorry,” I feel like I’m just hurting her even with my compassionate apologies.
“Yeah, it is what it is,” she gets back to pretending it doesn’t bother her anymore. But it does. Even I can see it.
I guess people get better at pretending they don’t mind not having something that they desperately need to the point where they even start believing that their feigning is just an alternate way of reality. Just a moment ago this woman told me she still gets sad about not having children, and the next moment, she puts a smiley complexion on, trying to tell me that she’s come to terms with the facts.
“Mrs. Mahoney, do you remember anybody holding a grudge against your husband? Do you have any suspicions about somebody who might’ve done this to him?”
“I wouldn’t say that I do,” she shrugs and looks confusedly at the floor, which is a thing that she does regularly, as far as I’ve noticed. “I don’t think my husband was the type to weigh on anybody. He was always trying to soothe things out, and be at peace with everyone.”
“But there must be somebody obviously.” I point out.
“Apparently there is. But it still confuses me. What did they do? Who would’ve had that strong a motive so as to kill him?”
“Do you know why his remains laid at the pumpkin patch?”
“I think the shop owner has got something to do with it. I still don’t understand why the police haven’t charged him with anything just yet. Like, who else would’ve done it? He owns the shop.”
Sure, she’s making a point, though I wouldn’t snub my other suspects on my list. Everyone at the shop might be involved. That’s why I’m here after all, trying to find any inclusions.
“Did your husband know Mr. Grantham personally? What kind of relation would you say they had together?”
“Colten always visited the shop at the beginning of October each year. Sure, he knew Mr. Grantham, but it’s not like they were pals or something.”
“Then what makes you believe he might’ve wanted your husband killed?”
She looks away as though she’s hiding something from me. I can spot a flock of insecurity in her eyes, and it feels like she mumbling on her words.
“Oh, it’s my art and craft hour. I have to go now,” she says unexpectedly, out of nowhere, and I’m perplexed since I just came here and she’s already whooshing me away.
“But I don’t plan on taking too much of your time,” I try to make an excuse, but she’s already getting up from her chair, and I feel like she’s chucking me out by wading off the space in front of me and shoving me (without actually touching me) away.
In no time I find myself at the front door, having waddled backward by way of her booting me out. I look at the concerned face, and try to figure what got her so cuckoo all of a sudden.
Did I say or do something wrong to her? Because as far as I’m concerned, I was trying to keep the conversation very graciously.
“Can we arrange for another day?” I ask her, in hopes that I will be able to get some answers out of her in the future.
“I don’t think this will be possible. I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now.” She answers shortly.
Coming here, I was convinced she was just an unfortunate woman mourning over the loss of her husband, but with her behavior settling in, bizarre concerns are starting to arise.
What if she had something to do with it? I mean, she sure looks like she’s in the know in regards to what happened to her husband, or at least about the circumstances leading up to his being killed.
“Good bye, darling. It was nice of your to stop by. But don’t bother considering doing it again.” She smiles as if she’s saying the nicest thing to me, and I cannot put the weird behavior and the currency together.
Something feels off. I’m sure of it. But I know that I cannot do anything in my power to get her to spill out what she knows that she’s hiding.
With a door slammed in my face, I turned back and peer around the area. The street looks quiet and you can hear the chirps of the birds from above the trees. Everything looks so peaceful and uneventful.
I get back to my car, and start driving back home. My road trip is accompanied by nice music that is helping me get my mind off of things. But her bizarre behavior just clung to me.
What am I supposed to make out of it? I mean, sure she must be really distressed and probably weird behaviors are expected under such circumstances, and I’m sure that situations like this must construe with side effects towards your behavior, but this seemed too much.
Maybe I’m just looking too much into it. Maybe after all, behind her behavior, there’s nothing but just an unsettling attitu
de of a woman whose husband was just killed.
Chapter Seven
After having filed my statement down at the precinct, I’m arranging a mental scheme of the facts, trying to see things clearly. But so far everything is cluttered up. And I’m getting so many mixed signals from people that I didn’t expect.
As a self-indulging therapy, I’ve decided to browse through latent decorations on my computer, trying to see how each of them would fit in my shop. My jar of savings is getting riddled with each passing moment, and I’m so delighted that the business is delivering the goods, providing me with the necessary earnings and additional ones.
“I’m so craving for my pumpkin spiced latte, right now,” Heather has managed to sneak up on me, having me jumped up with horrification. “Did I catch you doing something indecent?” she raises an eyebrow playfully, having noticed my sudden freight.
“Nice entrance,” I mock, “though next time, consider using some comportments.”
“Hey, what’s that?” she points at my laptop screen, and now I have to explain to her about this little dream of mine regarding the new shop decorative conceptualization.
“Oh, just some silly page I came across on the internet.” I decide it’s better if I postponed in all the unnecessary additional details for now.
“So,” she wrinkles her expression, looking at me expectantly. “Can I have my latte now?”
“Yeah, whatever,” I close my laptop, and roll my eyes at her impatience. It’s a burden I have to deal with, come October—Heather’s PPL craving. At some point, it gets annoying, though she manages to even off her pesky cravings by complimenting the drinks I have to offer. And as a cupcake shop owner, and self-proclaimed food connoisseur, I have to admit that a little praise for the food that I offer wouldn’t hurt me. If anything, it would just incite me to keep going with the nice stuff.
Pumpkins And Trickery (A Cupcake Shop Mystery Book 2) Page 4