Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  It was mortifying. Absolutely humiliating, and I pressed a palm to my face, shaking my head. What made this even worse was I could understand what it was like to want to escape a town and all the memories it held. I had done the same with Daniel. Or after Daniel had disappeared.

  “Stop it,” Bee said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re being too hard on yourself. I can see it in your posture. Don’t listen to her. We’ve done some silly things, yes, but we’ve only been trying to help. And it’s not our fault that the murderer decided to do the deed in the guesthouse. At your birthday party. For heaven’s sake.”

  “Let’s just go,” I said.

  We hurried back down the path and onto the sidewalk. I didn’t look back. Martha clearly wasn’t the one who’d done it or Detective Martin wouldn’t have given her permission to leave. Unless she was lying about that like she’d lied about going on vacation the other day.

  “She got hostile very quickly,” Bee said. “And she didn’t seem that upset about the death of her husband.”

  “She wanted to divorce him.”

  “Yeah, but still. That’s a person she spent most of her life with. How could she be over his death so quickly?”

  I didn’t have any answers.

  11

  The purple of dusk had arrived as we turned the corner into the street that held the Oceanside. My feet were sore, my head hurt, and I was in need of a bubble bath, a cup of cocoa, and a night alone with my feet up and a good book. Perhaps, something Christmas-themed to take my mind off the murder.

  “I can’t wait until this is over,” I said. “The investigation, I mean.”

  “Let’s hope it ends the way we want it to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the real killer behind bars and the—” Bee stopped dead in her tracks and placed a hand on my arm. She squeezed. “Oh no.”

  I followed her line of sight and grew dizzy, the view of the guesthouse, with its pleasant atmosphere, warm firelight flickering in the living room windows, was marred by the police cruiser out front. It’s blue and red lights ticked and flashed. No siren.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Another cruiser skidded around the corner, rubber squealing and acrid smoke filling the air. It pulled into a spot next to the food truck. Two police officers jumped out, drawing their weapons.

  “What is this?” I made to step forward, but Bee held me back, digging her fingernails into my arm.

  “Don’t interfere.”

  “Why not? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t get in the way. You might get arrested for it, or get hurt. Those men are tense. Look at the way they’re holding their guns.”

  “But—”

  The front door of the guesthouse banged open, and Detective Martin emerged, clasping Samantha by the upper arm. He spoke quickly to her, though his words were lost in the wind.

  Samantha’s hands were cuffed behind her back. Tears streamed down her face. She shook her head every few minutes, her mouth moving.

  “They’re arresting Sam?” The words didn’t fit in my mouth properly. They didn’t belong.

  The police officers lowered their guns and holstered them. They came around to help Detective Martin with Samantha and placed her in the back of one of the police cars.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Bee asked, storming toward Martin now the cops had stowed their weapons. “Excuse me! Detective Martin.”

  The detective lifted his gaze from the cruiser. He frowned at us and placed his fists on his hips. “Ladies, this is none of your business.”

  “Why are you arresting Samantha?” I asked.

  “Because she’s being arraigned for the murder of Nathan Jones.”

  It had been a stupid question to ask with an obvious answer, but I’d needed to hear it for myself. It was as unbelievable as I’d expected. “No,” I said. “That’s not possible. Samantha wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Poor Sam sat in the back of the police car, tears streaking her cheeks and dropping to her lap. She wore the Oceanside Guesthouse apron, flour spattered across its front.

  “She’s innocent,” I insisted.

  “That’s not for you to decide,” Detective Martin replied, evenly. “We’ve got solid evidence that connects Samantha to the scene of the crime.”

  “What evidence?” Bee asked.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Detective Martin, please.” I wasn’t one for pleading, but I clasped my palms together now. “Please, you have to tell us. I simply can’t believe that Samantha would—”

  “Her fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” Martin said, his tone gruff. “And that’s the most you’ll get out of me. Now, you’ll have to wait until a judge sets bail if he decides she’s not a flight risk, and then you can speak to her yourself. For now, stay out of trouble.” He wasn’t mean about it. Rather, he was professional.

  I still despised it.

  Bee and I retreated to the front porch, watching as the cruisers drove off with Sam.

  I’d never been so low, my insides leaden with anger and frustration and guilt. If we’d figured out who’d done this sooner, Sam wouldn’t be in trouble. “It can’t be her,” I said. “She wouldn’t have hurt him. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Trouble the kitty cat poked his head out of the still-open front door and meowed.

  “Oh, poor, Trouble.” I swept him into my arms and stroked his head. “It’s OK, kitty. We’re going to get her out of there. There’s just no way she did this.”

  “She didn’t have an alibi,” Bee said. “And her fingerprints were on the letter opener. She had a motive because of Jones’ past fumbling at the Oceanside. And because she was friends with Martha and was seen snooping outside her house.”

  “Are you seriously telling me you believe Sam is capable of this?”

  “People are capable of horrible things. Even the nicest people.” Bee scratched Trouble behind the ears, wriggling her nose from side-to-side. “But no, I don’t think Samantha did this. I don’t know what evidence the cops have, but I don’t buy it. There’s something weird going on here.”

  “We have to find the murderer.”

  “We will,” Bee said. “But where do we start?”

  “The leads we have. There’s Shawn and Sam and Millie. The strange mafia-looking guy she was with. Remember?”

  “Yeah.” Bee folded one arm and propped her fist under her chin. “That’s the most suspicious activity we’ve seen so far.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  Bee was silent for a while, and the distant rush of water on the beach behind the Oceanside filled the gap. The salty sea air, the light filtering from between the curtains in the living room, and the scent of whatever Shawn had made for dinner this evening did nothing to comfort me.

  Sam needed our help.

  “Bee.”

  “Stakeout,” she said.

  “This is hardly the time to go out for dinner.”

  “No. A stakeout. Like a police stakeout. We’re going to follow Millie and catch her with this stranger, and then we’re going to find out exactly who he is and what he’s doing in Carmel Springs.”

  It was the best plan we had.

  12

  Millie’s house was located on the corner of Lobster Way and Maple Street. The two concepts blurred in my mind, bringing me a strange need for a lobster roll drizzled in syrup. Or maybe that was the exhaustion.

  We’d been posted outside of her house, across the street in a bush, for the past two hours. We were barely protected from the cold in our black coats—mine was woolen and Bee’s was leather and pretty cool, I had to admit—and my patience had worn thin.

  “I’m cold,” I whispered. “Are we even sure Millie is home?”

  “The lights are on in the upstairs window,” Bee said, without a hint of a tremor in her voice. Clearly, leather had better insulation qualities than wool. “She’s home. And tha
t car parked out front isn’t hers.” She nodded toward the silver-gray Honda in the short driveway.

  Bee’s face was mostly in darkness, but the nearby lamppost lit the side of it when she shifted and peeked out from behind the bush.

  I sat with my legs crossed, picking grass from the ground, rolling it up and flicking it away. I stifled a yawn. “I don’t want to be a brat, but this is super boring.”

  Bee sighed.

  “And cold.”

  “Ruby, if we had a car other than the food truck, I would’ve suggested we perform the stakeout in that. But the food truck doesn’t exactly scream undercover.”

  “Would it be wise to scream undercover during a stakeout?”

  “Hilarious.”

  Bee had a point. Whining wouldn’t get us any closer to freeing Samantha. But it was still something to see—Bee so focused, her gaze fixed on the house across the street. You’d swear she’d done something like this before.

  “How are you so calm?” I asked. “You seem completely relaxed about the whole ‘stakeout’ thing.”

  Bee opened her tote bag and removed a bottle of water and a Tupperware. Inside sat a collection of meringue topped cupcakes. “Here. Keep your energy up.”

  “Bee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you so calm? Have you, um, have you done this before?” I asked.

  Bee’s fingers fumbled on the lid of her water bottle. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t make a point of talking to people about my past, but now that you ask, yes, I have done this before. I used to be a police officer.”

  My jaw dropped. I struggled to find words.

  “You’re shocked,” Bee said, sounding bemused. “I guess that means I’ve done a good job of keeping my past private.”

  “I had absolutely no idea. I didn’t know there was much overlap between baking and investigating.”

  “Neither did I,” Bee said. “I got tired of working the beat. I lost a friend. A partner. And after that, I was done. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be a baker.”

  “Why didn’t you follow your dream sooner?” I asked, hoping it didn’t come across as judgmental. After all, I hadn’t followed my dream from the start either. I’d let my love for Daniel command which career path I’d chosen.

  “Because I wanted to fill my father’s shoes. He was a decorated police officer and a fantastic man. To everyone else except for me. I wanted to impress him. But, the man’s long gone, and I finally had the courage to do what I wanted to do,” Bee said. “I’m only sad I didn’t give myself a chance sooner. I should’ve told him to his face that I wasn’t going to be what he wanted.”

  “Live and learn.”

  “True.” We fell into an easy silence, and I tucked into one of the lemon meringue cupcakes, relishing the sweetness, the tang of lemon, and everything that went with it. It was absolutely divine and helped soothe away some of the aches and groans, even if that was just a mental thing.

  Bee finished off her cupcake, drank some water, then lifted a pair of pocket binoculars out of her tote and pressed them to her face. “There’s movement in there. She’s definitely not alone.”

  “Who do you think the guy is?” We’d had this conversation again and again and come up with no real answers. It wasn’t as if we could internet search ‘strange guy friends with Millie.’

  “We’re going to find out, Rubes, don’t worry.” Bee lowered her binoculars. “I’m only sorry we couldn’t have caught him before he did what he did to Detective Jones.”

  “Poor Jones.”

  “Hmm. Debatable. Not that he deserved to die, but he was such an abhorrent—”

  “Shush! Look out.”

  The front door of Millie’s house had opened, and two figures appeared. One was Millie, her gray hair loose around her shoulders, a fluffy robe tied tight around her waist. She had dark rings under her eyes and seemed downtrodden, her shoulders drooping.

  The second figure was the stranger. The Al Capone if he’d gone on a diet and grown a few inches taller. He said something to Millie, towering over her, lifting a finger and waggling it. After, he strode down her front path and onto the sidewalk.

  Millie shut her door, cutting out some of the light.

  The stranger walked toward the corner, in the direction of the beach.

  “Quick,” Bee said. “Follow him.”

  We stuffed our things into Bee’s tote then rose and raced down the street. We cut into another and found the suspect halfway across it, his hands tucked into his pockets, whistling under our breath.

  What now? Where is he going?

  13

  The Mafioso led us down long streets and around corners. He paused under a lamppost to light up a cigarette then set to walking again, scuffing the soles of his shoes on the gritty cement and humming a tune.

  “Where is he going?” I whispered.

  We were further back, but it was better to be safe than to be discovered by a potential murderer.

  Bee didn’t give me an answer. Her hazel eyes glinted as we passed by the vignettes of light cast by lampposts. The chill was stirred up by the wind and leaves skittered across lawns. We entered the street that led past the pier and the guesthouse, and I gasped.

  “He’s going to the Oceanside,” I hissed.

  The suspect froze mid-stride. He turned around and stared at us.

  “Oh, I think he heard me,” I said.

  “There’s no ‘think’ about it. He definitely heard you,” Bee groaned.

  The man removed the cigarette from between his lips and tossed it onto the sidewalk. He stamped it out with the underside of his Italian loafer. Of course, I didn’t know if it was actually an Italian loafer, but it fit his personality. Or the assumptions we’d made about him.

  “There a reason you’re following me?” he asked, in a thick New York accent.

  Oof, definitely part of the mob.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello,” Bee echoed.

  “We’re just heading back to the Oceanside.” I folded my arms. “And we noticed you were going that way too.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” the guy said. “You should, uh, work on that if you wanna get ahead. You know. With whatever it is you’re doing. Now, you’d better tell me why you’re following me before I call the cops.”

  “You call the cops on us?” Bee was suspicious. “We’re not the ones stalking around town looking menacing.”

  “Menacing?” The guy laughed. “Last I heard, it ain’t a crime to look any type of way.”

  “There was a murder at the guesthouse,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  The guy’s laughter cut out. “Who are you?” he asked. “You cops?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Bee cleared her throat. “I mean, no. But that doesn’t matter. We know you’re up to something. We saw you with Millie, and she didn’t look too happy about having you around.”

  “Of course, she’s not happy about having me around.” He drew closer, swaggering, his shoulders and arms swaying. “I’m her ex-husband.”

  If my jaw could have dropped lower, it would have punctured the earth’s crust and mantle and fallen right into the nickel core. “You’re what?”

  “Her ex-husband. He stuck out a tan hand. Tony Malone,” he said, saying the ‘Malone’ like ‘Maloney.’ “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Bee shook his hand. I did too and found that his grip was strong. Maybe a little too strong. “What are you doing in Carmel Springs?” I asked. “I don’t mean to be rude but we didn’t even know Millie had been married.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. Why would she tell anyone about her failures?” His lips parted in a sharkish grin. “I was coming down to this guesthouse to see if I could get a room for the night. Millie doesn’t want me sleeping on her sofa and I’m tired of sleeping in my car.”

  His car. The Honda. Why hadn’t he driven here if he’d wanted to book a room? Suspicion bubble
d inside me.

  “Sam’s not at the guesthouse. And you can’t make a booking in the middle of the night,” Bee said.

  “All right then I guess I can wait until tomorrow. You two have a lovely evening,” he said and winked at us. He strolled past, whistling and taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  Bee and I stood quietly until he’d turned the corner.

  “Good heavens,” I whispered. “What was that about?”

  “The lying?” Bee asked. “I don’t know, but I don’t buy that this Tony guy wanted to stay over at the guesthouse. Or that he’s Millie’s ex-husband.”

  “We could always ask her.”

  “How? Short of ambushing her while she’s at work or out to eat, how will we ask her? She’s been avoiding us like we’re the flu.”

  I didn’t have an answer, instead, I looped my arm through Bee’s and we walked back to the Oceanside together. We stopped on the porch, and Bee brought her keys from the tote bag. “You know what I’ve been thinking?” she asked.

  “Do tell.”

  “We haven’t checked out any of the alibis for the people staying at the guesthouse.”

  My brow wrinkled. “What, you think that it was someone who lives here?”

  “Obviously, the cops thought so or they wouldn’t have arrested Sam. What if the evidence has been staring us right in the face all this time and we didn’t even realize it?” Bee opened the front door and we slipped into the warmth of the guesthouse.

  I removed my woolen coat, unbuttoning it with ice-cold fingers. “What about Tony?”

  “We don’t have anything on him,” Bee said, quietly. “He’s still a suspect, of course, and so is Millie, but we need to focus on the people who were here on the night of the party. Jones was killed here. His body was placed in the living room on your gifts. It’s got to be someone who had access to the guesthouse.”

  Food for thought, yeah, but it also pointed back to Sam as the one who’d done it.