Carrot Cake and Cryptic Clues

by A. R. Winters

Chapter Seven

  “There’s still a couple of hours till eleven,” said Beth. “Let’s spend this time looking for cake photos.”

  “You mean, photos for your online bakery?”

  Beth shook her head. “No, I want to know who made that carrot-walnut cake that killed Celeste.”

  “It could’ve been anyone,” I said. “They wouldn’t just put photos of the killer cake online.”

  “No,” said Beth. “But maybe the killer didn’t actually bake the cake. Maybe they just purchased it from a bakery and dropped it off at Celeste’s house.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I admitted. “But how do we find out which bakery?”

  “I know all the bakeries here in Santa Verona,” said Beth. “Technically, even though I sell cakes online only, those bakeries are my competitors. So I know all the names.”

  “That’s a good start,” I said. “We can visit everyone’s website. Maybe they’ll mention a list of cakes they make.”

  “And the dinner was two nights ago, on Saturday,” said Beth. “So if the killer bought a cake, they did so on Saturday. We can just call the bakeries to check.”

  We started off by Googling the names of the bakeries. The first one didn’t have a website, the second was a specialty wedding cake store. The third specialized in children’s birthday parties, and their website was full of photos of Barbie and Thomas the Tank Engine cakes. The fourth made all kinds of cakes, including carrot-walnut, but the photo of their carrot-walnut cake revealed that it had plain white frosting, no rosettes.

  The fifth bakery was the one we struck pay dirt on. They made carrot-walnut cakes, and there was a photo of one of theirs: white frosting with white rosettes on the edges, just like Beth had described.

  “That’s the one!” said Beth enthusiastically. “I know it! That’s the bakery the cake came from!”

  We looked at the name of the bakery: Dave’s Desserts. It was located north of the city center, about a half hour’s drive from our apartment.

  “Do you want to go there?” I asked Beth warily, trying not to get our hopes up. “Maybe we can start with them.”

  Beth nodded enthusiastically, and the two of us drove over to Dave’s Desserts. It turned out to be a tiny neighborhood bakery, wedged in between a bodega and a dry cleaner’s. This part of Santa Verona was far removed from the glitzy homes near the beach, and while the streets were wide and tree-lined like the rest of the city, the houses were run-down or had been replaced by large, impersonal apartment buildings.

  Dave’s was manned by a young girl who looked like she was still in her teens. When we asked her about the carrot-walnut cake, she pointed to one which was in the display. “That’s our carrot-walnut,” she said. “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?”

  I shook my head. “Actually, we’re trying to find out if someone purchased a carrot-walnut cake on Saturday.”

  The girl manning the counter looked at us doubtfully, and then she said, “Perhaps Dave can help. I’ll go fetch him.”

  She disappeared behind a small door, and when she emerged, she was followed by a bald, slightly overweight man wearing a green-and-white striped apron. He smiled genially when he saw us and said, “I’m Dave. Minnie here says you’re trying to find out who bought a carrot-walnut cake on Saturday?”

  Beth and I nodded. “Do you have any records or something you can look up?”

  Dave said, “Yeah, I could look up the records, but I actually remember Saturday. We sold two carrot-walnut cakes. One was picked up by a family on their way to some party up north in Yarraville. And another was a phone order, picked up by a man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.”

  “What do you mean, phone order?” I said.

  Dave said, “Most of our clients just walk in and buy a cake. But sometimes we run out. So once in a while, we’ll have someone call in and ask us to make sure we put a cake aside for them. That’s what this man did. He called in the morning, I answered the phone. He said, can you put a carrot-walnut cake aside for me? I’ll pick it up in a few hours. So I did.”

  “And he did pick it up,” I said.

  Dave nodded. “Yeah. He paid cash and walked out with the cake.”

  “You don’t have any kind of video surveillance in this place, do you?” I asked.

  Dave shook his head. “Why? Are you after this guy?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. There didn’t seem to be any point being suspicious of a family who’d walked in and purchased a carrot-walnut cake to take with them. I couldn’t imagine a murderer pretending to make a family event of it. “You didn’t happen to recognize the man, did you? I mean, I know he was wearing a hat and sunglasses, but did he happen to have any visible tattoos or marks? Maybe anything that would make him stand out?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Dave. “He didn’t seem like much of a talker, either. I wouldn’t know him even if I saw him again.”

  I nodded glumly, and Beth said, “How late is your bakery open till?”

  “Saturdays we’re open till eight at night,” Dave said. “Why?”

  “No reason,” said Beth, but we were both thinking the same thing. “Were you here till eight?”

  “I was,” said Dave. “Saturdays, Minnie only works a few hours in the morning, and then I watch the store the rest of the day. I take Sundays and Tuesdays off.”

  “Does anyone else make carrot-walnut cakes that look like these ones?” I asked. “They’re really pretty, with the rosettes all around.”

  Dave shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so. I like to add the rosettes. I haven’t seen anyone else do that kind of thing around here.”

  We thanked him, left a tip for Minnie, and purchased a vanilla bean cake just to be polite. When we got to the car, Beth’s eyes were shining with excitement.

  “We’ve found something!” she said. “I’m sure this’ll prove that I couldn’t have killed Celeste.”

  I agreed. “Let’s head to the station now,” I said. “I guess our investigating can stop here.”

  Chapter Eight

  Before we went to the station, Beth remembered to call her lawyer, Leo Stalezzo. When she hung up the phone, she turned to me glumly.

  “Leo says not to go to the station,” she said. “He says he’ll meet us back at my apartment first.”

  We drove to Beth’s apartment, and a half hour later, Leo turned up.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” he said as soon as he walked into the apartment and settled down on a chair. “I went to see Detective Buchanan. I told him about Dave’s bakery and the man picking up the cake. Buchanan says he’ll look into it, but to be honest, I don’t think he’ll do much.”

  “How can he not do much?” I said, anger boiling up inside me. “This just proves that Beth didn’t make the cake.”

  “Actually,” said Leo, “it proves no such thing. Beth said she didn’t bake the cake, but that’s just her word. According to Detective Buchanan, all this new information proves is that other bakeries make carrot-walnut cakes, which we all knew already.”

  “But what about the rosettes!” I said indignantly. “We know they make cakes with rosettes on them, and none of the other bakeries do that.”

  “Sure,” said Leo calmly. “But that’s what the bakery owner claims. He can’t be sure of it—maybe the other bakeries do put rosettes on their icing, and Dave doesn’t know it. And there’s no way to prove that Beth didn’t put rosettes on the cake she made.”

  “And the man who picked up the cake?” I stared at Leo in shock. “How can they ignore this? This man just bought the cake that killed Celeste.”

  “The man bought a cake,” said Leo. “It doesn’t mean that the cake’s linked with Celeste’s death in any way.”

  “But nobody else makes these cakes,” I protested. “How can he…”

  I let my voice trail off. Leo was right; this new information didn’t actually prove anything. Anyone could bake cakes, and for all they knew, Beth was lying about not baking the cake that killed Celest
e.

  “And there’s evidence that Beth dropped off her cake in a white paper box,” said Leo. “The housekeeper put it on the kitchen counter, and then later, they served the cake to the guests.”

  “Someone could’ve switched out the cakes,” I said, but my voice sounded hollow even to myself. “That’s all they’d need to do.”

  “It’s a little far-fetched,” said Leo. “It won’t stand up in a court of law.” He looked at our glum faces and said, “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping this would prove Beth’s innocence, but it does nothing of that sort.”

  “This blows,” I said. And then I looked at Beth. Her shoulders were slumped, the line of her mouth decidedly unhappy.

  “Detective Buchanan’s made up his mind about me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid the trail of the cake with rosettes doesn’t go anywhere,” said Leo. “But you tried.”

  My eyes flashed with anger. “We didn’t try hard enough. We were just getting started, and we thought we’d gotten enough. Well, we were wrong. If Buchanan doesn’t think this is enough information, we’ll find enough information for him. We’ll find him so much information, he’ll drown in it.”

  Leo was smiling. “Calm down,” he said. “You don’t need to drown a man in information.”

  “No, I do,” I said. “If he won’t follow up on a lead, we’ll give him all the information he needs on a silver platter.”

  “Actually,” said Leo slowly, “Buchanan told me to remind you girls—no messing around with this case. They don’t want you spooking witnesses or anything.”

  “We won’t spook anyone,” I told Leo. “We’ll try not to.”

  Leo shook his head and left, warning us not to do anything that might get us into trouble, and then I went over and gave Beth a quick hug.

  “Don’t worry about Buchanan,” I told her. “We’ll figure this thing out. He won’t be able to ignore the next piece of information we give him.”

  Beth laughed shortly and said, “Do you think he’s right? Do you think we should just stop poking our noses around?”

  I shook my head. “Poking my nose around is what I do. And if it’ll clear you of these charges, then I’m going to be even more nosy than usual. And anyway, it’s time we got changed. We’ve got an appointment with a personal trainer that we just can’t miss.”

  Chapter Nine

  Susan’s Sundaes was a small shop on the eastern side of the beach, just a few blocks away from the main pier where all the tourists liked to congregate. We saw Sharon waiting for us on the beach as we parked Beth’s gray Mazda hatchback and stepped out. I waved to her, and she started to wave back, until she noticed who my “friend” was.

  Sharon was tall and slim, dressed in black bike shorts and a white tank top with “Sharon’s Training” printed on one corner. Her long brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and I noticed with dismay that she’d already set up three exercise mats, and there were quite a few heavy-looking kettlebells lying near the mats.

  “What’re you doing here?” she said to Beth when the two of us approached.

  “I’m Mindy’s friend,” Beth said nervously. “Mindy made a personal training appointment for the both of us.”

  Sharon turned to look at me coldly. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry for your loss. But we had to talk to you.”

  Sharon snorted. “Don’t be sorry. That woman got what she deserved. Anyway, you’re here, so let’s do some warm-ups.”

  Beth and I exchanged a glance. I tried to communicate telepathically, Just obey the commands of this workout-crazed woman who really wants us to exercise. I think Beth got the message. We went and stood on the mats and followed Sharon’s motions as she rolled her wrists and ankles in circular motions.

  “Start with some body-weight squats,” she said, showing us how to do the squats properly.

  As I squatted, I said, “I guess you didn’t like your stepmom that much.”

  “Nobody liked her,” said Sharon sharply. “Don’t lean forward. Back straight.”

  “Why didn’t you like her?”

  Sharon shrugged. “She was always making jabs about how my dad didn’t come from an ‘established’ family like hers. How she was worried I’d get fat, or I’d hang out with the wrong crowd. She didn’t like anything I did, and I got into the habit of avoiding her. Let’s move on to lunges now.”

  Sharon showed us how to do the lunges, alternating the legs, and Beth and I tried our best to copy her. I was already starting to feel quite winded. Months of inactivity and too much cake were catching up with me.

  “So you really think she deserved to die?” I said.

  “Sure,” said Sharon. “Go as low as you can. Don’t stop. The last straw was her criticizing poor Fred.”

  I’d read all about Sharon’s engagement online, but I didn’t want her thinking I was creepy, so I said, “Who’s Fred?”

  “My fiancé,” said Sharon. “Fred doesn’t have that much money and he doesn’t come from that great a family. But we love each other and we’re going to get married. I wish Celeste could’ve just been nice to someone for once.”

  “Who else didn’t she get along with?” I asked.

  “Just about everyone in the world,” said Sharon. “Although I suppose some people took it out on her.”

  She gave Beth a pointed look, and Beth said, “Look. I didn’t do it. You know that, right?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Sharon. “Let’s do some push-ups now. You can do them on your knees if you’d like.” She showed us how to do the push-ups, and we did a few of them dutifully.

  In between reps, Beth said, “I didn’t make a carrot-walnut cake. I made a carrot cake. Someone switched it out for a different cake.”

  Sharon said, “I’m not sure what I believe. But I didn’t think my stepmom’s killer would come over and talk to me about it. And I’ve read about how you two started an investigations business after you moved back to Santa Verona.”

  “The police got the wrong gal.” I finally collapsed on my stomach, unable to do one more push-up. “We need your help to find the right person.”

  Sharon said, “I guess I don’t really believe Beth killed her. I mean, we were always friends.”

  “Exactly,” said Beth. “You know I’m not a killer.”

  “I didn’t like Celeste,” Sharon said to Beth. “But I like you. And if you didn’t do it, I don’t want you to get into trouble for it.”

  Beth smiled broadly. “Thanks! That’s so nice of you. It really means a lot to me.”

  “Sure,” said Sharon, smiling. “Like I said, she got what she deserved. But you don’t deserve to go away for it.”

  “So can we stop doing these exercises now?” I said. “We came to talk to you, and we don’t need to exercise to do that.”

  “I think everyone can do with some exercise,” said Sharon. “It’s important to be healthy. That was just the warm-up. Let’s move on to kettlebell swings.”

  Beth and I groaned and got to our feet. We watched as Sharon showed us how to swing the heavy kettlebells, keeping our arms straight and raising them to above our waists.

  “Do a minute of this,” said Sharon, “and I’ll try to answer your questions.”

  I swung the kettlebells and huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf. In between swings, I managed to say, “Thanks.” Huff huff. “I appreciate you helping us.” Puff puff.

  “Sure,” said Sharon, keeping a close eye on us to make sure we weren’t slacking off. “Like I said, I don’t want Beth getting into trouble.”

  “So.” Huff. “You didn’t get along with Celeste?” Puff.

  Sharon shrugged, and I wondered briefly if she could’ve killed Celeste herself. After all, the woman clearly had a mean streak, making Beth and me exercise like The Biggest Loser contestants. As sweat trickled down my brow, I wondered if her meanness extended to killing her stepmom.

  “I loved her in my own way,” Sharon said. “Okay, e
nough of the swings. Let’s mix things up with a few ab crunches.”

  Beth and I put the kettlebells aside with sighs of relief, and then we copied her ab-crunching motions.

  “Celeste tried to be a mom,” Sharon said thoughtfully as Beth and I did the crunches. “I appreciate that. Though she wasn’t all that great at it. Of course, she did support me when I said I wouldn’t work for Daddy’s business, and that I wanted to be a personal trainer. So there’s that. Our relationship was messed up, but I loved her in a way. In between hating her and being angry with her. Okay, back to the kettlebell swings.”

  Beth and I groaned. As I grabbed the kettlebell and swung it rhythmically, I decided that despite being a sadistic exercise fiend, there was no way Sharon could’ve killed Celeste. Only a cold-blooded, ego-maniacal person would be so helpful in a homicide investigation where she herself was the killer.

  “Tell us about your stepmom’s enemies,” I said, huffing and puffing and wishing we could move on to some other exercise. “Who would want to kill Celeste?”

  “Half the town,” replied Sharon. “But most of those women wouldn’t go to all the trouble.”

  “And it had to be someone who knew she’d be serving carrot cake at the dinner,” added Beth.

  “Did you tell anyone about the menu?” I asked Beth.

  Beth shook her head. “I didn’t bother.”

  “The housekeeper was told,” said Sharon. “She could’ve mentioned it to someone she knew.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “Just us family. Celeste announced it on Friday at lunchtime—that she’d ordered some desserts online for Saturday’s party. She said it was the modern thing, to order online. Me, my dad, and my fiancé were at the lunch with her on Friday. And the gardener was working outside in the garden—he might’ve overheard. Okay, we’ll move on to deadlifts now.”

  I nodded, pleased to have been finished with the swings, and then I tried to copy Sharon’s motions, lifting up the kettlebell and then placing it down again.

  “We’ll need to talk to all those people,” I told Sharon. “Do you think they’ll help out?”