Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  Finally everyone had left but Lucinda. Even the news vans out front were gone when she took his hands and started to speak, but he held a finger to his lips. He led her into his windowless office and let her whisper directly into his ear, breathlessly, what had happened.

  “She came at me when I told her,” Lucinda whispered, her voice butterfly soft against his ear. “I told her we were in love and it would be the right thing to do to let you go, and you didn’t know how to tell her. I told her how much you wanted a child. This child. And that’s when she came at me.”

  He stood still, waiting, aching to take her in his arms. “I shoved her. She fell and hit the back of her head on the table.”

  “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

  Lucinda stood back and looked at him helplessly with those blue eyes that melted him every time, then put her mouth against his ear again. “I don’t know. I could tell she wasn’t breathing. She had been screaming she would never let you go, said she’s Catholic and you belonged to her. She said if all you wanted was a baby she could take care of it herself. She just kept screaming over and over that I was a whore.”

  She pulled away and looked at him. “I’m not a whore. I fell in love. She never wanted you. I—I just let her lie there and then I remember seeing the little screwdriver on the table and I just bent over her and—”

  “Shhh, shhhh.” He put his hand over her mouth. She had started to get louder and he wasn’t sure what the laws were on listening devices, but he knew good and well Detective Martin didn’t like him and the cops had been all over this house.

  “Here are the books Sherri would have wanted you to have,” he said out loud. “All the cookbooks in this row. Not ones I’d ever use now; they would just remind me of her.”

  She grabbed a book at random and made a show of flipping the pages noisily. “It will be good to have something to remember her by, Jackson. Thank you.”

  She leaned close again. “I went straight home and put the clothes and shoes I had on in a trash bag. I drove it clear across town to the dumpster at the picnic area on the way to pick up Rudy at school. When we got back home I sent Rudy outside to play, showered, then cleaned the bathroom with bleach and mopped the kitchen.”

  There’d been a lot of mopping up that day, Jackson thought ruefully. “Did you see anyone at the picnic area?” he mouthed. Strangely, he felt nothing more for Sherri other than a deep sadness. His main concern was for his new love and the life growing within her. He couldn’t let anything come between him and his dreams of the perfect family. He would do whatever he had to do.

  Lucinda shook her head at him.

  He nodded at her and stepped back. “Yes, go ahead and take these two for now, that’s fine,” he said loudly. “And thanks for coming by. I need to be alone now, I think, to process everything.” He gave her the briefest of kisses on her lips and whispered softly, “I don’t know how you could have done this. I don’t know how I’m going to accept it, but I will. I will stand by you and the baby. You go home, rest, try not to think.”

  She wiped her eyes, nodded at him, and simply left out the front door, clutching an armful of cookbooks she’d never use.

  That had been two weeks ago. A week later, unable to stay away, he’d been back at her house, back in her bed, for the first time able to spend an entire night there, slipping out before Rudy woke up. He figured the police were going to find out about their relationship soon, if they hadn’t already, and he wanted to spend as much time as he could with her in case he was arrested and they were separated. He smiled. He was already able to feel the little bump where the baby was growing. He wondered again if it would be a girl or a boy. A little boy with red hair like Rudy’s, or—

  The doorbell rang, interrupting his reverie, and a loud knock followed. Jackson stuffed the rest of the oatmeal-raisin cookie in his mouth and went to find a cold- and cross-looking Detective Martin on his doorstep, stamping his feet to keep warm.

  “I’ve got another warrant, Mr. Bell. Can I come in and have another look around?

  “Don’t mince words, Detective. Get right to the point. But maybe you can tell me what exactly you’re looking for.”

  “Well, Mr. Bell, it’s like this. Your neighbors can’t help but notice how much time you’ve been spending next door.”

  Jackson stood silent, letting the cop say his piece.

  “And there’s this other little coincidence, too. Just so happens my wife’s sister is the receptionist at a gynecologist’s office and your neighbor has been in a couple of times over the last few months. Rumor has it the rabbit died, and what do you know, there’s that pretty little neighbor of yours without a husband in sight. Did some checking around. No boyfriend either, from the looks of things.”

  He eyed Jackson, looking for a reaction. “Of course, one-night-stands aren’t uncommon, I suppose. But I’ve been hearing you don’t come home at night anymore. Reckon it might be a little more than a one-nighter.”

  “Seems to me your wife’s sister has a big mouth about things that aren’t any of her business,” Jackson answered. He tried not to change expression.

  “Yes, well, be that as it may, I just had a sudden hankering to search your house again. You know, for the requisite sharp object. Even though none of us keeping you under surveillance have seen you discard anything or found anything in your trash can here or in your dumpster at work.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife. I’ve told you and told you.” Jackson was trying not to panic. So they had kept him under surveillance? Quickly, he tried to review his actions since the murder. He’d slept at home for the endless week afterward, for appearance’s sake, before finding himself unable to stay from Lucinda’s bed, but hadn’t moved the murder weapon as he simply couldn’t think of a better place to put it for now. He’d considered throwing it out with a batch of rotting produce, but the carrot hadn’t rotted yet and it might have seemed odd to anyone watching.

  But surely this suddenly forthcoming policeman didn’t have any clue where to start looking for the murder weapon. And even if he did, no bit of evidence on it would tie it to Jackson. But as for Lucinda—Jackson momentarily panicked, wondering if his frantic scrubbing of the little screwdriver had removed all traces of evidence and DNA. He weighed his options. Surely the worst thing he could do was prevent the detective from coming inside. He would just have to pretend there was nothing to fear.

  “Do what you have to do, Detective Martin.” Jackson stood back from the door to give the cop room to get by. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Uh-huh.” The detective pushed past him. “We gave the living room and basement a pretty good look right after your wife was stabbed to death. Even gave the yard a good going over with some metal detectors. But the upstairs bedrooms—not that you spent much time in the bedroom in this house, from what I hear—we could have looked there a little more carefully. And of course, a chef spends most of his time in the kitchen.”

  He walked around Jackson and went straight to the kitchen, where he paused to dig around the cookies in the cookie tin before putting the lid back on it. Jackson stood by the sink and watched him open cabinets and take out bags of beans and rice and feel them, then check the bags for holes. What few canned goods there were the cop picked up and shook, then replaced.

  “You see, there’s this thing called motive,” the detective said conversationally. “Who would have a motive, I wonder. A random stranger happens by? One of your employees, perhaps? Sounds like your wife was a little overly critical of some of your staff. And none too popular at her own workplace either. Known as a bit of a gossip and backstabber. Did you know that?”

  Jackson was surprised his wife had possessed the energy to backstab anyone. He didn’t reply, so the detective continued.

  “Don’t know if the pretty girl next door would have the strength to do her in either. But the husband? The husband is strong enough and had a pretty good reason for offing the old ball-and-chain.” He paused. “Strictly o
ff the record of course. Just running a few ideas by you. You know, in case you can offer any insight.”

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” said Jackson. “Having an affair isn’t actually a crime, and it’s a far cry from murdering someone.” Sooner or later it would be a hot gossip item in town that Lucinda was having his child, and he didn’t see any point in denying it now. Especially since he was damn proud to be having a kid with her.

  The cop stood back from the cabinet and held up a can of no-salt-added green beans. “True, not a crime. But in some circles actually considered a little tacky. And you wouldn’t be the first husband to move an obstacle out of the way who might object to your change of partner. So I’m just going to have a last look around, see what I can see, and maybe let you spend a little time thinking about whether there’s anything you feel like sharing with me. You know, to make things easier on yourself. Because I just can’t help but think, Mr. Bell, you may know something else you’re not telling me. Call it cop instinct, if you will.”

  Detective Martin replaced the can of beans and turned to the refrigerator, opening both the refrigerator and freezer doors, and Jackson broke out in heart palpitations and a cold sweat. He tried not to let the policeman see he’d had any reaction at all. The cop stared at him for a moment, then bent his head to look in the freezer, pulling out the ice tray and rummaging loudly around, then reaching for a container of ice cream and prying off the lid. He poked his finger deep inside the carton and pulled it out, licking it, intentionally being obnoxious.

  Wiping perspiration from his forehead, Jackson looked away from the refrigerator and the detective’s backside long enough to stare out the kitchen window and try to get his head together. There were several prominent lawyers who ate at his restaurant regularly. He’d need one and wondered who might be best to ask first.

  He realized he felt sick and wondered if he was going to throw up right there in his kitchen sink. He gripped the counter and leaned forward.

  From across the field behind his house, he caught a glimpse of a small figure topped by a blue hat and red curls. Leaning closer to the window, he saw Rudy reach up to ever-so-carefully wedge a carrot into the face of the little snowman they had built together yesterday.

  Rudy stood back to admire his snowman’s new, pointy nose and glanced over at Jackson’s house. Seeing his friend Chef at the window, he solemnly held up a mittened hand in greeting.

  Jackson took a deep, calming breath, waved at the little boy, and turned back to the cop, who was practically wedged in the refrigerator looking deep into the produce drawers. “Like I said, look all you want. And if you’re hungry afterwards you’re welcome to stay for a salad.” He hoped he sounded as sarcastic as he intended.

  The detective pulled his head out of the drawer and turned to look at him. “Not much into vegetables. More of a meat and potatoes guy.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Jackson, not bothering to point out potatoes are vegetables. “They’re full of vitamins.”

  “Zat so.” Detective Martin turned around and reached back into the refrigerator.

  “Oh yes,” Jackson said. “I bet you’d be surprised what you can get out of a vegetable.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After a childhood framed by weekly trips to the public library, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine in the mailbox, Dick Francis books on the coffee table, and a court-reporter mom typing late into the night, Tennessee native Eleanor Cawood Jones was doomed to write mystery stories from an early age. She’s worked as a journalist, comic book store owner, copywriter, and marketing director. Her short story compilations include:

  • A Baker's Dozen: 13 Tales of Murder and More

  • Death is Coming to Town: Four Murderous Holiday Tales

  • “Killing Kippers” (in Malice Domestic 11: Murder Most Conventional)

  Follow her at: www.amazon.com/author/eleanorcawoodjones

  Facebook: facebook.com/author.eleanor.cawood.jones

  Twitter: @eleanorauthor

  Contents

  It’s Halloween, one of the busiest seasons of the year for Samantha Sweet and the crew at her pastry shop, Sweet’s Sweets. The gang looks forward to a gala costume party at the neighborhood bookstore, but the evening takes a different turn when a guest is murdered, a rare book vanishes, and Sam finds herself in the midst of another mystery.

  SPELLBOUND SWEETS

  A Samantha Sweet Magical Cozy Mystery

  By Connie Shelton

  ONE

  SAMANTHA SWEET FELT her smile stiffen and she attempted to conceal her impatience from her customer. They sat at one of the two-person bistro tables in her shop, going over design ideas for a wedding cake.

  “But classic black is what I want,” whined Cassie Wolinsky, the bride. “It’s Halloween, I’m a witch, we wear black. The cake should be black too.”

  “The cake and the icing?” Sam asked. “Not chocolate. Black.”

  “Yes! Exactly!”

  A stiff breeze fluttered the awnings above the display windows at Sweet’s Sweets, and a deep rumble of thunder sidetracked Sam’s attention momentarily. She re-focused on her pencil and the order form before her, sketching what she thought Cassie wanted. Four tiers of sponge cake, which would have to be tinted with heavy doses of pure black food coloring. The bottom tier would be shaped as a thick book of spells with magical sparkles wafting upward across the other tiers. Miss Wolinsky’s other elements must include a black hat, a black magic wand, some black potion bottles and a black cat. The challenge for the bakery team would be to make the black-on-black objects stand out. She had a vision of the whole thing ending up a huge lumpy-looking dark mass.

  “It might be nice to have another color to help offset some of these,” she suggested, trying not to reveal her thoughts—that the idea was just plain weird. “If the magic sparkles are silver or gold—”

  “Well, yeah, they have to be silver,” Cassie said, as if any dunce would know.

  “So…how about if we use silver for the potion bottles too? And maybe the wand?” The piece was feeling more like a theme cake for a kid’s birthday than a wedding cake. The idea bothered Sam more than it should.

  Cassie’s eyes, directed toward the ceiling, told Sam how little the bride thought of the idea. “See, this is exactly why I didn’t bring my mother with me. You’re just not getting it.”

  Okay, I’m sure I’m old enough to be your mother, but don’t give me the eye-roll, young lady. Sheesh! Sam caught herself. Normally, she loved hearing her customers’ innovative ideas, and the challenge of turning their dreams into beautiful pastries was what Sweet’s Sweets bake shop was all about.

  She’d simply been working too many late nights recently. Halloween being one of their major busy times, up there with Christmas, Valentine’s Day and the wedding season, the extra hours were to be expected. Face it, as owner of the premier one-of-a-kind pastry shop in Taos she’d brought this upon herself.

  Jennifer Baca, Sam’s assistant who worked behind the counter and often took custom orders as well, spoke up: “I went to a wedding in Albuquerque last month where the couple chose a steampunk theme. Come to think of it, their cake was almost completely black. Maybe I can help with this one?”

  The bride seemed inordinately relieved at this suggestion, more so when Jen took over the sketchpad. Within fifteen minutes they had a drawing to work from, a cash deposit (which Sam couldn’t belittle—it had turned out to be quite an expensive cake), and Cass, as Jen now called her, happily left to climb into her black and silver Mini Cooper parked outside. She’d no sooner started the car than the storm intensified. A bolt of lightning flashed, blazing across the front windows and making Sam jump. Rain pelted the sidewalk.

  Once they were alone again she thanked Jen for coming to her rescue. “I’m not the ancient crone she thinks I am. Really. Fifty-four is hardly decrepit.”

  Jen, who had been Sam’s daughter’s friend in high school, put an arm around Sam’s shoulders in a quick hug. �
��You? Not a bit. If fifty is the new thirty, then you are about eighteen. I’ve never met anyone with your energy.”

  Sam thought about the real cause for most of her energy binges, a mysterious carved wooden box she’d received a few years ago. She and the box had made some kind of magical connection—the way an electrical zing charged through her body the first time she touched it, the fact that she sometimes saw auras now, the healing touch she had applied to injuries on several occasions. Sam couldn’t explain it, and no one other than her dear husband Beau knew it. A few suspected, and a couple of close encounters with some dangerous people had convinced her the box must remain secret.

  She shook off those thoughts. She hadn’t used the box’s powers in months and although it would have made the holiday season much easier to handle, she was determined to make it through on her own stamina. Just a few more nights to work late and she could take a few days off before the Thanksgiving pie orders began to flow in.

  “I like it,” Jen said, studying the black wedding cake sketch. “If the steampunk one I saw can provide a clue, it seemed to include very small variations in the depth of the black color. You know, a little less for the background, a bit more for the lace and flounces… Think of it as fifty shades of black.”

  Sam nodded. She and her decorator would have to put their heads together on this one. It still posed a challenge. She was heading to the kitchen to show the order to Becky when the bells at the front door tinkled and the owner of Mysterious Happenings, the bookshop next door, breezed in.

  “Good morning, lovely ladies! I am coming over to be inviting you to a party.” Ivan Petrenko was always cheerful and usually over-the-top with his compliments, although his curious accent and fractured English sometimes took a moment to decipher. “Is for Halloween, the party, and we must all dress.”

  Jen giggled. “Maybe you mean dress up?”