Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “You mean BFT?”

  “BFT?”

  “Before Food Truck. I figured we should create acronyms for it since we do talk about it a lot. The past. The future. The mystery.” Bee wiggled her fingers at me like she could cast a spell.

  “All right then,” I said. “BFT and AFT. That works.”

  “So BFT, you were used to talking to people face-to-face and squeezing them for information.”

  “True,” I said. “And most of them were filled with it like a delicious jelly donut is filled with a raspberry jelly center.”

  “Hmmm.” Bee adjusted her handbag on her shoulder as we turned into a side street. “I’m not sure whether I’m hungry or disgusted.”

  I chuckled and shaded the screen of my phone, following the GPS directions toward Hannah’s street. She lived at number 13—how ominous—on Sunset Road. The houses on either side were tucked back between trees or at the backs of long lawns with garden ornaments. The people here kept the aesthetic quaint, in line with the rest of Carmel Springs.

  Finally, we reached Hannah’s house and proceeded up a stone path toward a gated front door, flanked on either side with two potted plants.

  “Seems like Hannah’s doing well for herself,” I said. “This is a nice house.”

  “I’m assuming she extorts people for a living, what with those massive arms and that thunderous voice…”

  “Be nice.”

  “A difficult request for me. When someone upsets my friend, I can’t help being just as mean back. An eye for an eye.”

  “Whatever happened to turning the other cheek?” But I was touched that Bee considered me enough of a friend she felt it necessary to stick up for me. I hadn’t had many friends like that, not at work, at least, and those friends I’d had before Daniel… well, they were all gone. Married or with kids. And I was the odd one out.

  I pressed the buzzer next to the front door, and merry chimes sounded inside. We waited. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe she’s not home?”

  “Maybe,” I said, and pressed the buzzer again. “I guess I should have asked Grace where she works instead of where she lives. That’s an oversight on my part. Oh, shoot, now what?”

  “Are you looking for that ginger tree?” A croaking voice traveled from the garden next door.

  Bee and I spun toward it.

  “Sorry?” I asked, shading my eyes from the sun.

  The woman was old and bent double grasping at the hedge that separated her yard from Hannah’s. “You heard me right,” she crowed. “The ginger tree. Hannah Pelletier. Never liked the girl nor her brother. Always fighting. Always making a noise and disturbing the neighborhood. The bad type, those two. Glad at least one of them is gone now.”

  I was at a loss for words. Bee was too.

  “She’s not home, see? Hannah. She’s at work.”

  “Oh,” I said, my brain finally clicking on. “Where does she work?”

  “At the community college. Teaches a baking class,” the woman said. “Not that she knows all that much about baking. That brother of hers had a sweet tooth of note, and word on the street is he never wanted to eat what she baked. Thought it was disgusting. I overheard them fighting about it.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Baking? Hannah was a baker?

  And Owen was sick the day before he died. Poisoning? Could it be?

  “You be careful of that Hannah, dears,” the woman said, with a cackle. “She seems nice but she’s evil made flesh. I’d bet my last penny that she’s the one who did it. Killed her brother. Flotsam and jetsam.” She snorted and spat into Hannah’s yard.

  Bee and I recoiled as one.

  “Um, well, thank you,” I said. “For telling us all of that. We’re going to go now.” I clasped Bee’s arm and we turned away from the crone and hurried back down the stepping stone.

  “You be careful of her,” the woman shouted after us. “You watch your backs. Hannah Pelletier is not a woman to be trifled with.”

  16

  The community college wasn’t too far off Main Street and was a series of flat brick buildings separated by concrete paths and grassy knolls. It hadn’t taken us too long to walk over, but both Bee and I were aching for a meal and a little something to drink.

  We grabbed a bottle of water and a seriously underwhelming lobster meat sandwich from the cafeteria and sat down on one of the wrought iron benches to wait. The office receptionist had told us that the baking class in Hall 7B would let out in about ten minutes.

  “This is nice,” I said, tipping my head back to accept the sunlight on my face.

  “I assume you’re not talking about the sandwiches.”

  “No, just being here. Look at the trees.” The leaves had turned to reds, yellows, and oranges, and each time the wind blew, a few trickled down to land on the grass. “It’s fall. The wind is nippy, but the air seems full of…”

  “Murder?”

  “Promise,” I corrected. “And spice. And pumpkin.”

  “And mediocre lobster sandwiches.” Bee swiveled and peered back at the wooden doorways to the hall. “I wonder what they’re baking in there. It can’t be anything good.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “My mother was a baker too, you know, it’s where I got the passion from, and she always said that when you’re too sour or bitter that comes out in the food,” Bee replied. “Now, I know I have my moments, especially when it comes to meanies like Detective Jones and this, Hannah, woman, but its people who are sour all the time that don’t bake well. Things flop that shouldn’t. Cakes taste strange. The frosting is never the right consistency.”

  “A baking conspiracy theory,” I said. “I like it. Maybe we’ll get to uncover the mystery behind that on our adventures.”

  Bee chuckled and finished off the last of her sandwich, her smile turning upside down as she chewed. “I mean, really. There’s more to life and lobster than mayonnaise. The bread is soggy.”

  The hall’s doors finally opened, and Bee and I rose, disposing of our trash in a can a few feet away.

  Crowds of students came out, most of them wearing aprons that were stained with chocolate or checking notes as they walked. It was a nice idea. I’d taken a very brief baking course before starting my business venture, but I was still a novice in comparison to Bee.

  Hannah appeared between the students, marching out with a scowl twisting her features, and her red hair tied in a bun atop her head. She was seriously tall, but ‘ginger tree’ wasn’t a fair label for her. She was an attractive woman in her own way. Handsome.

  Bee and I hurried across the lawn and met her a short way from the hall doors.

  “Hello,” I said, and gave a wave. “How are you?”

  “Are you crazy?” Hannah asked.

  “Not since I last checked.”

  “You came here? To my place of work? I warned you to stay away from me.” Her fingers twitched at her sides.

  “Actually, you warned me to stay away from Miller, who, by the way, is not my type.” I cleared my throat, delicately. “And I’m not here because of that. I’m here because of my truck.”

  “Huh?”

  “My food truck,” I said, my nerves building. It was one thing to plan a confrontation, but to actually do it… well, my palms had grown sweaty.

  “You know, the one you trashed?” Bee stood with her arms folded.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I do know that stalking is illegal. I’m going to report you for this.”

  “Look,” I said, “I know we didn’t get off to a great start, but I need to talk to you. Someone trashed my truck, and if it wasn’t you then it might be the person who murdered your brother.”

  Hannah paused. She fiddled with her apron, untying the strings, removing it, then tucking it over one arm. Every motion was precise, and she didn’t meet my eye. “My brother… I hate to say it, but he got what he asked for. He made an enemy of just about everyone in town, and though he was my
blood, and the Lord knew I loved him, I have to be honest with myself about what happened. He brought it on himself.”

  That was a terrible sentiment. Blaming the victim. It got my back up, but I took a breath. “I just want to figure out who’s been threatening me.”

  “Apart from you,” Bee put in.

  Hannah patted her apron repeatedly. “Owen was threatened too,” she said. “A lot. Someone slathered his whole windshield with fat the once.”

  “With fat?” Bee gaped.

  “With fat. Pig fat. It was disgusting. He got notes and our house was broken into, as well.”

  “He lived with you?” I asked.

  “Before the incidents, yes. I couldn’t handle living with him anymore. He really knew how to rub a person the wrong way, and it didn’t matter to him that I was his sister. He would make me as unhappy as possible. He would complain about my cooking, even though he couldn’t cook or bake himself, and he would leave the house a mess. He played loud music, and he would have woman after woman come over to the house on dates and make me cook the meals for them!”

  I struggled not to blush. Owen had asked me out on a date. “So you kicked him out.”

  “Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. I think he was sleeping in his car, but he brought it upon himself.” Hannah threw up her hands. “I’m not going to feel guilty about it. Owen was a meanie. Our own mother wasn’t talking to him, for heaven’s sake.”

  Another woman exited the doors behind Hannah, and I did a double-take. It was Grace, the waitress, walking across the lawn toward us.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, tucking blonde hair behind her ears, which were big. “I forgot to hand in my assignment.” She thrust a piece of paper with a recipe written out on it toward Hannah. “Sorry, Ms. Pelletier.”

  “Fine.” Hannah waited until Grace had walked off before turning back to us. She chewed on the corner of her lip. “We should talk. About Owen. You’re welcome to come back to my house. I’ve got some cookies leftover from my morning baking session.”

  “Are you sure?” This was quite a change from threatening my life. What if the cookies have been poisoned? I didn’t have to eat them.

  “Yes.” Hannah shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yes. I’m sure. Follow me.”

  17

  The minute we entered the warm, sunny yellow kitchen in Hannah’s house, my mind was set at ease. There was no way she was the murderer. A person who baked such delicious smelling cookies couldn’t possibly have an evil, murdering bone in their body.

  Still, I seated myself at the square table and waited for Hannah to take a bite of a choc-chip cookie before I did.

  Hannah crunched on it, a frown wrinkling her brow, and Bee and I helped ourselves to a cookie each.

  They were delicious, none of the sour-bitterness in Hannah’s personality had dripped into the batter despite Bee’s fears. The cookies were moist and sugary, the chocolate chips melted and rich, and I gobbled up two before I forced myself to stop and focus on the task at hand.

  Getting to the bottom of what had really happened to Owen. And my truck. My poor, poor truck.

  “You wanted us to come back here with you?” I asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t want you to run off thinking that I was the one who hurt Owen,” Hannah said.

  “Why would we think that?”

  “Oh come on, you don’t think I’ve heard the rumors? Everyone gossips in this town, it’s a way of life, and the old hag, Mrs. Maggert, next door? She’s no exception. She’s been telling anyone who will listen that I’m the one who killed Owen. As if I would do something like that to my own brother. It’s disgraceful.”

  “But you didn’t get along,” Bee said.

  “Of course, we didn’t. Like I said, Owen was a pain in the neck. He did what he wanted, and he didn’t care who he hurt in the process.”

  “Do you know who might’ve wanted to hurt him back?” It was the politest way I could put it.

  “Plenty of people,” she replied. “Nobody liked him. Nobody wanted him around. I think even the captain of his boat hated Owen, but Owen was good at what he did, so there was no point in firing him. Even my—”

  The chimes from the doorbell tinkled, and Hannah excused herself from the table to check who it was.

  “What do you think?” I asked Bee.

  “I don’t know. Her cookies taste good. She can’t be as mean as I thought.”

  “No, I meant about the murder. About Owen and the threats and—”

  Voices traveled down the hall, and I perked up, listening hard. A man spoke in the house, a rumbling that was familiar.

  An elderly man, who looked a lot like Owen, entered the kitchen. He wore a plaid shirt and shrugged off his coat as he entered, his bright blue eyes sweeping over the kitchen. He spotted us and stopped. “I didn’t realize you kept the company of murderers, Hannah.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Uncle Ben,” she replied, easily, and took her place at the table again. “I invited these women to join me for coffee and cookies. I didn’t do the same for you.”

  “You kicking me out?” Benjamin asked.

  “Keep causing trouble and I will.”

  Benjamin grunted and headed to the fridge. He jerked open the door and brought out a carton of milk then drank directly from it.

  Bee recoiled. I didn’t blame her.

  “Don’t mind him,” Hannah said. “He comes for dinner on Thursday nights. Gives him a break from his failing restaurant.”

  “Don’t get me started, girl,” Ben replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Clearly, there was no love lost between this family. “We didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.

  “You’re not. Now, where were we? Talking about who might have hated Owen enough to kill him.”

  Benjamin choked on milk and a little sprayed out of his nostrils.

  “For heaven’s sake, Benjamin, contain yourself,” Hannah snapped.

  Benjamin cleaned himself up over the kitchen sink. “You’re talking about Owen?”

  “Who hated him,” Hannah replied.

  “Sheesh. I just talked to about fifty of ‘em. Everyone hated the kid. Even I wasn’t a fan. He caused trouble. Too much trouble.” Benjamin’s eyes shifted toward Hannah, and his expression changed, one of concern. It was gone a second later, but I was sure I had seen it, and that something here was amiss. Something that involved Hannah.

  “Did you ever see anyone threatening him?” I asked. “In person?”

  “You mean apart from Miller?” Benjamin asked.

  “That was different. Miller was protecting my honor.”

  “Oh right,” I said. “The lobster event.”

  The Pelletiers stared at me.

  “What?” Hannah asked. “The what?”

  “The lobster event. Miller told me that he had to protect your honor when Owen threw a lobster at your face.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Miller told—”

  “Miller likes to tell stories,” Benjamin cut across my words. “It’s part of who he is as a person. Listen, are you ladies going to finish those cookies any time soon? I’m starving. I’d like to get my dinner done before 5 pm.” He checked his watch.

  I hesitated. “Just one last thing.” I reached into my pocket and drew out the threatening note we’d found on Owen’s car. “Do you know who might have written this?”

  Hannah took it from me and scanned it. A frown wrinkled her brow.

  “What?” Bee asked. “What is it?”

  Hannah got up and walked to the kitchen counter where she’d dropped off the homework assignments she had to grade for the baking class. She brought them back and plopped them on the table then began rifling through them.

  Benjamin shrugged and rooted around in the fridge for something else to eat.

  Bee and I shifted, sitting on the edges of our seats.

  “I think…�
�� Hannah removed one of the papers from the pile. “Yes. This is the same. I’d recognize it anywhere. I’ve been tutoring these students for over a year now.” She placed the paper in front of us then slid the threatening note into place on top of it. “See? The curl of the letters? It’s the same, right?”

  She was right. It didn’t take a handwriting expert to recognize the similarities between what was on the page and the note. It was a recipe, scrawled out hastily, the edges of the page crumpled.

  “Whose it?” I asked.

  Hannah shifted the note aside.

  The name of the student had been written across the top of the page.

  Grace Allen.

  “The waitress?” Bee asked. “But that doesn’t…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Grace.

  The same Grace who had given us information on Miller. Who had served us food. Who took a baking class! Of course. Hadn’t the lady next door said that Owen had a sweet tooth? After all, he’d come out to my food truck before work in search of something sweet to eat.

  And Owen had been sick for days before he’d died. Grace had been feeding him baked goods. This had to be it.

  I scraped my chair back, and the kitchen fell quiet.

  “Ruby?” Bee asked. “Are you all right?”

  “We have to go. Now.”

  “Where to?”

  “The Lobster Shack.”

  18

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Bee asked as we charged onto the pier. “I’ve already called the police, you know. Detective Hobbit-face says he’s going to find Grace and bring her in for questioning. From there, it’s only a few short searches away from the truth.” She paused, patting me on the forearm. “We don’t have to go to the Lobster Shack. And Benjamin said she would be on her shift within the hour. Do we really want to run into the murderer?”

  “We’re not even sure she is the murderer,” I said, but the words tasted of a lie.

  Grace was definitely the one who’d killed Owen. She’d been a baker, she’d potentially poisoned him, but why? That was what got to me. Why had she done it? And why with the lobster mallet? Had the poison she’d used not been effective enough?