Crafts, Cat Burglars, and Murder

by Stacey Alabaster

  “I can tell you put a lot of work into that sign.” I carefully put my luggage to the side of it, making sure not to touch her sign—partially because I didn’t want to crush it and partially because it didn’t look like the glue had dried yet.

  “Well, your grandmother didn’t give me much time to make it. I only had about ten minutes.” She glanced at the sign proudly before closing the trunk. She looked me in the eyes. “Let’s get on the road. We can chit chat in the car.”

  With that, she climbed in and clicked on her seat belt. As I got in, she was applying a thick coat of bright red lipstick while looking in the rearview mirror. “Gotta look sharp in case we get pulled over.” She winked again, her heavily wrinkled eyelid looking like it thought about staying closed before it sprung back up again.

  I thought about her words for a moment. She must get pulled over a lot, I thought. Poor old lady. I could picture her going ten miles an hour while the rest of Miami flew by her.

  “Better buckle up.” She pinched her lips together before blotting them slightly on a tissue. She smiled at me and for a moment, I was jealous of her pouty lips, every line filled in by layers and layers of red.

  I did as I was told and buckled my seat belt before I sunk down into her caramel leather seats. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the trip. I closed my eyes and tried to forget my troubles, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly to give all my worry and fear ample time to escape my body. For the first time since I had made the decision to come here, I felt at peace. Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

  The sound of squealing tires filled the air and my eyes flung open to see this old lady zigzagging through the parking garage. She took the turns without hitting the brakes, hugging each curve like a racecar driver. When we exited the garage and turned onto the street, she broke out in laughter. “That’s my favorite part!”

  I tugged my seat belt to make sure it was on tight. This was not going to be the relaxing drive I had thought it would be.

  We hit the highway and I felt like I was in an arcade game. She wove in and out of traffic at a speed I was sure matched her old age.

  “Ya know, the older I get the worse other people drive.” She took one hand off the wheel and started to rummage through her purse, which sat between us.

  “Um, can I help you with something?” My nerves were starting to get the best of me as her eyes were focused more on her purse than the road.

  “Oh no, I’ve got it. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.” She dug a little more, pulling out a package of AA batteries and then a ham sandwich.

  Brake lights lit up in front of us and I screamed, bracing myself for impact. The old woman glanced up and pulled the car to the left in a quick jerk before returning to her purse. Horns blared from behind us.

  “There it is!” She pulled out a package of wintergreen Life Savers. “Do you want one?”

  “No, thank you.” I could barely get the words out.

  “I learned a long time ago that it was easier if I just drove and did my thing instead of worrying about what all the other drivers were doing. It’s easier for them to get out of my way instead of me getting out of theirs. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be.” She popped a mint in her mouth and smiled. “I love wintergreen. I don’t know why peppermint is more popular. Peppermint is so stuffy; wintergreen is fun.”

  She seemed to get in a groove with her driving and soon my grip was loosening on the sides of the seat, the blood slowly returning to my knuckles. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t asked her name.

  “I was so confused when you picked me up from the airport instead of my Grandma Dean that I never asked your name.”

  She didn’t respond, just kept her eyes on the road with a steely look on her face. I was happy to see her finally being serious about driving, so I turned to look out the window. “It’s beautiful here,” I said after a few minutes of silence. I turned to look at her again and noticed that she was still focused straight ahead. I stared at her for a moment and realized she never blinked. Panic rose through my chest.

  “Ma’am!” I shouted as I leaned forward to take the wheel. “Are you okay?”

  She suddenly sprung to action, screaming and jerking the wheel to the left. Her screaming caused me to scream and I grabbed the wheel and pulled it to the right, trying to get us back in our lane. We continued to scream until the car stopped teetering and settled down to a nice hum on the road.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” The woman’s voice was hoarse and she seemed out of breath.

  “I tried to talk to you and you didn’t answer!” I practically shouted. “I thought you had a heart attack or something!”

  “You almost gave me one!” She flashed me a dirty look. “And you made me swallow my mint. You’re lucky I didn’t choke to death!”

  “I’m sorry.” As I said the words, I noticed my heart was beating in my ears. “I really thought something had happened to you.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Well, to be honest with you, I did doze off for a moment.” She looked at me, pride spreading across her face. “I sleep with my eyes open. Do you know anyone who can do that?”

  Before I could answer, she was telling me about her friend Delores who “claimed” she could sleep with her eyes open but, as it turned out, just slept with one eye half-open because she had a stroke and it wouldn’t close all the way.

  I sat there in silence before saying a quick prayer. My hands resumed their spot around the seat cushion and I could feel the blood draining from my knuckles yet again.

  “So what was it you tried to talk to me about before you nearly killed us?”

  I swallowed hard, trying to push away the irritation that fought to come out.

  “I asked you what your name was.” I stared at her and decided right then that I wouldn’t take my eyes off of her for the rest of the trip. I would make sure she stayed awake, even if it meant talking to her the entire time.

  “Oh yes! My name is Hattie Sue Miller,” she said with a bit of arrogance. She glanced at me. “My father used to own most of this land.” She motioned to either side of us. “Until he sold it and made a fortune.” She gave me a look and dropped her voice to a whisper as she raised one eyebrow. “Of course we don’t talk about money. That would be inappropriate.” She said that last part like I had just asked her when she had last had sex. I felt ashamed until I realized I had never asked her about her money; I had simply asked her name. This woman was a nut. Didn’t Grandma Dean have any other friends she could’ve sent to get me?

  For the next hour or so, I asked her all kinds of questions to keep her awake—none of them about money or anything I thought might lead to money. If what she told me was true, she had a very interesting upbringing. She claimed to be related to Julia Tuttle, the woman who founded Miami. Her stories of how she got a railroad company to agree to build tracks there were fascinating. It wasn’t until she told me she was also related to Michael Jackson that I started to question how true her stories were.

  “We’re almost there! Geraldine will be so happy to see you. You’re all she’s talked about the last two weeks.” She pulled into a street lined with palm trees. “You’re going to love it here.” She smiled as she drove. “I’ve lived here a long time. It’s far enough away from the city that you don’t have all that hullaballoo, but big enough that you can eat at a different restaurant every day for a month.”

  When we entered the downtown area, heavy gray smoke hung in the air, and the road was blocked by a fire truck and two police cars.

  “Oh no! I think there might have been a fire!” I leaned forward in my seat, trying to get a better look.

  “Of course there was a fire!” Hattie huffed like I was an idiot. “That’s why Geraldine sent me to get you!”

  “What?! Is she okay?” I scanned the crowd and saw her immediately. She was easy to spot, even at our distance.

  “Oh yes. She’s fine. Her shop went up in flames as she was headed out the
door. She got the call from a neighboring store owner and called me right away to go get you. Honestly, I barely had time to make you a sign.” She acted like Grandma Dean had really put her in a bad position, leaving her only minutes to get my name on a piece of poster board.

  Hattie pulled over and I jumped out; I’d come back for my luggage later. As I made my way toward the crowd, I was amazed at how little my Grandma Dean—or Grandma Dean-Dean, as I had called her since I was a little girl—had changed. Her bleach blonde hair was nearly white and cut in a cute bob that was level with her chin. She wore skintight light blue denim capris, which hugged her tiny frame. Her bright white t-shirt was the background for a long colorful necklace that appeared to be a string of beads. Thanks to a pair of bright red heels, she stood eye to eye with the fireman she was talking to.

  I ran up to her and called out to her. “Grandma! Are you okay?” She flashed me a look of disgust before she smiled weakly at the fireman and said something I couldn’t make out.

  She turned her back to him and grabbed me by the arm. “I told you to never call me that!” She softened her tone then looked me over. “You look exhausted! Was it the flight or riding with that crazy Hattie?” She didn’t give me time to answer. “Joe, this is my daughter’s daughter, Nikki.”

  Joe smiled. I wasn’t sure if it was his perfectly white teeth that got my attention, his uniform or his sparkling blue eyes, but I was immediately speechless. I tried to say hello, but the words stuck in my throat.

  “Nikki, this is Joe Dellucci. He was born in New Jersey but his parents came from Italy. Isn’t that right, Joe?”

  I was disappointed when Joe answered without a New Jersey accent. Grandma Dean continued to tell me about Joe’s heritage, which reminded me of Hattie. Apparently once you got to a certain age, you automatically became interested in people’s backgrounds.

  He must have noticed the look of disappointment on my face. “My family moved here when I was ten. My accent only slips in when I’m tired.” His face lit up with a smile, causing mine to do the same. “Or when I eat pizza.” I had no idea what he meant by that, but it caused me to break out in nervous laughter. Grandma Dean’s look of embarrassment finally snapped me out of it.

  “Well, Miss Dean. If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, call your insurance company. I’m sure they’ll get you in touch with a good fire restoration service. If not, let me know. My brother’s in the business.”

  He handed her a business card and I saw the name in red letters across the front: Clean-up Guys. Not a very catchy name. Then suddenly it hit me. A fireman with a brother who does fire restoration? Seemed a little fishy. Joe must have noticed my expression, because he chimed in. “Our house burned down when I was eight and Alex was twelve. I guess it had an impact on us.”

  Grandma Dean took the card and put it in her back pocket. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll give Alex a call this afternoon.”

  They said their good-byes and as Joe walked away, Grandma Dean turned toward me. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘Grandma’ in public?” Her voice was barely over a whisper. “I’ve given you a list of names that are appropriate and I don’t understand why you don’t use one of them!”

  “I’m not calling you Coco!” My mind tried to think of the other names on the list. Peaches? Was that on there? Whatever it was, they all sounded ridiculous.

  “There is nothing wrong with Coco!” She pulled away from me and ran a hand through her hair as a woman approached us.

  “Geraldine, I’m so sorry to hear about the fire!” The woman hugged Grandma Dean. “Do they know what started it?”

  “No, but Joe’s on it. He’ll figure it out. I’m sure it was wiring or something. You know how these old buildings are.”

  The woman nodded in agreement. “If you need anything, please let me know.” She hugged Grandma again and gave her a look of pity.

  “Bev, this is my…daughter’s daughter, Nikki.”

  I rolled my eyes. She couldn’t even say granddaughter. I wondered if she would come up with some crazy name to replace that too.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Bev said without actually looking at me. She looked worried. Her drawn-on eyebrows were pinched together, creating a little bulge between them. “If you hear anything about what started it, please be sure to let me know.”

  Grandma turned to me as the woman walked away. “She owns the only other antique store on this block. I’m sure she’s happy as a clam that her competition is out for a while,” Grandma said, almost with a laugh.

  I gasped. “Do you think she did it? Do you think she set fire to your shop?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t go jumping to conclusions like that. She would never hurt a fly.” Grandma looked around. “Where’s your luggage?”

  I turned to point toward Hattie’s car, but it was gone.

  Grandma let out a loud laugh. “Hattie took off with your luggage? Well, then let’s go get it.”

  Thanks for reading the sample of Up in Smoke. I really hope you liked it. You can read the rest at:

  amazon.com/dp/B06XHKYRRX

  Make sure you turn to the next page for the preview of A Pie to Die For.

  Preview: A Pie to Die For

  "But you don't understand, I use only the finest, organic ingredients." My voice was high-pitched as I pleaded my case to the policeman. Oh, this was just like an episode of Criminal Point. Hey, I wondered who the killer turned out to be. I shook my head. That's not important, Rachael, I scolded myself. What's important is getting yourself off this murder charge. Still, I hoped Pippa had recorded the ending of the episode.

  I tried to steady my breathing as Jackson—Detective Whitaker—entered the room and threw a folder on the table, before studying the contents as though he was cramming for a test he had to take the next day. He rubbed his temples and frowned.

  Is he even going to make eye contact with me? Is he just going to completely ignore the interaction we had at the fair? Pretend it never even happened.

  "Jackson..." I started, before I was met with a steely glare. "Detective. Surely you can't think I had anything to do with this?"

  Jackson looked up at me slowly. "Had you ever had any contact with Mrs. Batters before today?"

  I shifted in my seat. "Yes," I had to admit. "I knew her a little from the store. She was always quite antagonistic towards me, but I'd never try to kill her!"

  "Witnesses near the scene said that you two had an argument." He gave me that same steely glare. Where was the charming, flirty, sweet guy I'd meet earlier? He was now buried beneath a suit and a huge attitude.

  "Well...it wasn't an argument...she was just...winding me up, like she always does."

  Jackson shot me a sharp look. "So, she was annoying you? Was she making you angry?"

  "Well... Well..." I tripped over my words. He was now making me nervous for an entirely different reason than he had earlier. Those butterflies were back, but now they felt like daggers.

  Come on, Rach. Everyone knows that the first suspect in Criminal Point is not the one that actually did it.

  But how many people had Jackson already interviewed? Maybe he was saving me for last. Gosh, maybe my cherry pie had actually killed the woman!

  "Answer the question please, Miss Robinson."

  "Not angry, no. I was just frustrated."

  "Frustrated?" A smile curled at his lips before he pounced. "Frustrated with Mrs. Batters?"

  "No! The situation. Come on—you were there!" I tried to appeal to his sympathies, but he remained a brick wall.

  "It doesn't matter whether I was there or not. That is entirely besides the point." He said the words a little too forcefully.

  I swallowed. "I couldn't get any customers to try my cakes, and Bakermatic was luring everyone away with their free samples." I stopped as my brows shot up involuntarily. "Jackson! Sorry, Detective. Mrs. Batters ate at Bakermatic as well!"

  My words came out in a stream of breathless blabber as I raced to get them out. "Bake
rmatic must be to blame! They cut corners, they use cheap ingredients. Oh, and I know how much Mrs. Batters loved their food! She was always eating there. Believe me, she made that very clear to me."

  Jackson sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "Don't try to solve this case for us."

  I sealed my lips. Looks like I might have to at this rate.

  "We are investigating every place Mrs. Batters ate today. You don't need to worry about that."

  I leaned forward and banged my palm on the table. "But I do need to worry about it! This is my job, my livelihood…my life on the line. If people think I am to blame, that will be the final nail in my bakery's coffin!" Oh, what a day. And I'd thought it was bad enough that I hadn't gotten any customers at my stand. Now I was being accused of killing a woman!

  I could have sworn I saw a flicker of sympathy finally crawl across Jackson's face. He stood up and readjusted his tie, but he still refused to make full eye contact. "You're free to go, Miss Robinson," he said gently. There was that tone from earlier, finally. He seemed recognizable as a human at long last.

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "For the moment. But we might have some more questions for you later, so don't leave town."

  I tried to make eye contact with him as I left, squirreling out from underneath his arm as he held the door open for me, but he just kept staring at the floor.

  Did that mean he wasn't coming back to my bakery after all?

  Pippa was still waiting for me when I returned home later that evening. There was a chill in the air, which meant that I headed straight for a blanket and the fireplace when I finally crawled in through the door. Pippa shot me a sympathetic look as I curled up and crumbled in front of the flames. How had today gone so wrong, so quickly?

  "I recorded the last part of the show," Pippa said softly. "If you're up for watching it."

  I groaned and lay on the carpet, my back straight against the floor like I was a little kid. "I don't think I can stomach it after what I just went through. Can you believe it? Accusing ME of killing Mrs. Batters? When I know that Bakermatic is to blame. I mean, Pippa, they must be! But this detective wouldn't even listen to me when I was trying to explain Bakermatic's dodgy practices to him."