Beachfront Bakery: A Killer Cupcake

by Fiona Grace

  “This is completely inappropriate,” she said through her teeth.

  Ali felt the need to defend Detective Callihan. The poor man had only been trying to boost his team’s morale after a grueling early-morning shift, and now Ali had gotten him in trouble with his superior.

  “It was my fault,” Ali piped up. “I’m nosy. That’s all. And if you think about it, it worked out for the best because I might be an important witness now.”

  Detective Elton narrowed her eyes. Ali realized, with sudden panic, that she wasn’t looking at her like an important witness, but as a suspect.

  Oh crap, she thought.

  Ali had seen enough cop shows to know that there were three things the cops looked for to pinpoint a suspect: means, motive, and opportunity. By placing herself at the scene of a murder without an alibi, she’d just put a huge check mark next to opportunity.

  Detective Elton continued her aside to Detective Callihan. “We just got a positive ID on the victim. Preston Lockley. Lives in the orange house up the hill.”

  Her tone was equivalent to a click of the fingers.

  Detective Callihan mumbled, “Thanks for the coffee,” over his shoulder at Ali, then scampered out into the sunshine with the rest of the CSIs.

  Panic overcame Ali as she realized she hadn’t ticked one box, but two. There had been witnesses to her and the victim, Preston Lockley’s, altercation—he’d yelled at her as he left her shop. That gave her a motive. Revenge. Retribution. Score-settling.

  So not only did she have the opportunity, she also had a motive. The only thing missing was the means—which, of course, they wouldn’t find because she hadn’t hit him over the head with anything. But the CSIs had said his injuries could be consistent with a fall. So if his death hadn’t been caused by the blow but by drowning, caused by the killer’s push, well, that was something very much within Ali’s abilities. That gave her the third and final check.

  “Ms. Sweet,” Detective Elton said, peering at her intently. “You’re not planning on leaving Willow Bay anytime soon, are you?”

  Ali swallowed the anxious lump in her throat. Her mouth was too dry to speak, so she shook her head.

  “Good,” Detective Elton replied, tipping her sunglasses back down to the bridge of her nose. “It’s best you stick around town.”

  She gave the store a final, parting look of distaste, then left.

  Ali sunk her head into her hands. How had she ended up in such a mess?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  With a sigh of defeat, Ali swept her unsold pastries into a carrier bag for the second night in a row. It wasn’t yet five p.m., but she’d decided to close up shop early. She had been preemptive in her joy at having made her first sale. After Detective Elton had ordered her team out, the store had remained empty for the rest of the day. She’d not even had a kid come in to use the restroom, or a seagull steal her croissants.

  She decided to visit Delaney, and took her cell phone out of her pocket so she could have a Teddy pep talk on the way there.

  She paused with her thumb hovering over the dial button. Teddy had blabbed all her secrets to Hannah. If he couldn’t keep quiet about her ex-boyfriend being gay, he certainly wouldn’t be able to hold out about a dead body washing up on the beach mere yards from her home. Hannah would obviously tell their mom, and their mom would probably go all Momma-Bear and drive to Willow Bay to kidnap Ali back home. In this day and age of the internet and twenty-four-hour news cycles, Ali knew it wouldn’t take long before they found out, but she wanted to delay that moment for as long as humanly possible.

  She put her cell phone back in her pocket and turned to lock the door.

  With her back turned, Ali heard the rhythmic footsteps of a group of joggers passing behind her.

  “That’s her,” a female voice whispered. “The new girl.”

  “You mean the murderer?” came an equally hushed reply.

  Ali froze, horrified that they thought she was responsible for Preston’s murder. She fiddled with her keys, pretending to still be doing something, so she could avoid turning back around.

  But the group slowed their pace, presumably to get a better look at the supposed murderer, and Ali felt chills run up and down her spine at their continued gossip.

  “She doesn’t look like the type,” said another whispered voice.

  Ali stayed in her frozen position, her ears burning with fury, until the joggers had finally gone. She stashed her keys in her pocket and marched in the direction of Delaney’s store.

  She’d never felt so desperate for a friend to talk to.

  As the pier loomed into view, Ali was surprised to see the pier still open to the public. It was less busy than it had been yesterday, because no doubt most folk were planning on avoiding it for a little while, but it was open for business nonetheless. In fact, the only area still cordoned off with police tape was near the end of the pier.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, goosebumps appeared on Ali’s arms as she thought about Preston Lockley and what had become of him. The cordoned area included the Ferris wheel, where Ali had been standing just twenty-four hours earlier. Had his body been there when she had, floating in the ocean just yards below the spot she’d stood? Or had he been pushed later, after she’d left? Either way, the thought turned her stomach.

  A flash of red interrupted her ruminations. She followed the streak with her eyes. It was Django the monkey in his red and gold silk outfit, scurrying from one tourist to the next in an attempt to lure them into Lavinia’s dark green, wooden caravan.

  Ali hunkered down and hastened her step. The last thing she needed right now was to be accosted by the fortune teller’s monkey.

  But no one got past Django, and the furry critter skidded to a halt in front of her.

  She looked at him. He looked at her. Then he bared his teeth, hissed, and ran away.

  Wow, Ali thought. Even the monkey won’t mess with me.

  She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets and hurried onward.

  Soon, she passed Miriyam’s store, Kookies. Unlike her own bakery, Miryiam’s was brimming with customers. On the chalkboard behind where the woman stood, there was a freshly chalked advertisement for a special new cookie. She’d called it the Killer Kookie, and the tag line read: Kookies to Die For.

  Ali grimaced at how crass and disrespectful the marketing gimmick was.

  Just then, Miriyam caught her glowering through the windows, and her eyebrow twitched up questioningly. She narrowed her brown eyes with accusation.

  Ali scurried away.

  She was relieved to enter the relative safety of Little Bits of This and That. The craft store was as beautifully put together as its owner, with a large table for craft parties, and all kinds of delightfully presented shelves of yarn, fabric, and ribbons. If anyone could make crafting look like a legit hobby for someone older than twelve, it would be the gorgeous Delaney.

  The woman herself was sitting at her counter, operating a sewing machine as gracefully as someone playing a concert piano. It buzzed and whirred as she worked, no doubt crafting some amazingly creative and unique object with her exceptional talent.

  When Delaney spotted Ali lingering in the doorway, she gasped and jumped up. Her beaded jewelry rattled as she hurried toward Ali and wrapped her up in her arms. She even smelled beautiful, like fragrant spices being cooked in a field of fresh heather.

  “Oh, Ali!” she exclaimed. “I heard what happened with Preston. Isn’t it awful?”

  Ali shuddered as the visual memories from earlier that morning flashed through her mind like some kind of horror movie slideshow. “Unfortunately, I had a front row seat to all the drama.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” Delaney said, studying her face with crystal-blue eyes framed by perfectly shaped brows. “I don’t believe a word of those nasty rumors being spread around about you.”

  Ali felt her face blanch. She opened her mouth to ask what exactly Delaney had heard, but didn’t get the chance because De
laney took her by the shoulders and steered her toward the craft table.

  “Come. Sit down!” she said, plonking Ali into a seat surrounded by mini bottles of glitter.

  Evidently, Delaney’s customer base was still hungry for crafting, despite the recent goings-on. Ali wished she wasn’t surrounded by a million scattered googly eyes that seemed to be judging her.

  Delaney leaned her head on her fist and peered at Ali, her sea-blue eyes conveying both curiosity and trustworthiness. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Ali said. “I mean, I was on the pier last night about the time he was killed. I was alone. I have no alibi for the time of the killing.”

  “Well, neither do I!” Delaney exclaimed, so loudly she made Ali jump and accidentally stick her elbow into a pot of glitter. “Nor does every romantically unattached person in Willow Bay. Goodness. I’m sure they’re not going to accuse every singleton, are they?”

  She chuckled. She was evidently trying to be reassuring, but it wasn’t working. Ali felt paranoid, like the whole town was turning against her.

  “It’s not just that.” Ali continued brushing a flat palm over the glitter now stuck to her shirt with futility; she knew full well from Teddy’s Pride Parades she’d be shedding glitter for the next month. “Preston had been in my store earlier that evening. Literally an hour or something before he died. Which means I might well have been the last person he interacted with before he was murdered. And a whole bunch of people witnessed our argument about the lease.”

  Ali’s chest sank. She couldn’t help but feel personally responsible about the whole debacle, even though she’d had no idea about Preston’s agreement with Kerrigan, and hadn’t realized she’d undercut him.

  Delaney leaned across the craft table and gave Ali’s forearm a reassuring shake.

  “This will pass,” she said. “And you’re far too sweet to be a killer. I mean, your name is literally Sweet. The police will see that soon enough.” She patted her hand. “I’m going to make some tea. Chamomile. Helps calm the nerves.” She stood and floated toward the backroom kitchen. “Why don’t you do some coloring while you’re waiting? It can be very therapeutic. Use your non-dominant hand. It’s a scientifically proven anxiety-busting technique!” Then she disappeared out of sight.

  Ali slumped back in her chair, mulling on her misery. She picked up the coloring sheet closest at hand. It was, aptly, of a cake decorated with hearts and stars. She grabbed the pink pencil, put it in her left hand, and got to work on the hearts.

  How had she ended up in such a mess? As the prime suspect in a murder? This was so far from the dream life she’d come here chasing. Her cute little seaside town would forever be tainted by this horrible event.

  Delaney returned.

  “How are you getting on?” she asked as she placed a bright teapot on the table. Floral and herbal scents radiated from it.

  Ali looked down at her coloring. Her pink cake was a mess to say the least. But Delaney’s technique had been surprisingly effective. Non-dominant hand coloring was calming.

  “Did you know Preston?” Ali asked as Delaney poured the tea.

  Delaney shook her head. “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I mean, everyone knew Preston Lockley. You didn’t need to know him personally to know of him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ali replied.

  Delaney paused, looking uncomfortable. Even her expression of discomfort was pretty.

  “He was the local weirdo,” she explained, before hurriedly adding, “but who gets to decide what’s normal and what isn’t anyway? I spend all day working with glitter and glue!” She laughed nervously and buried her face in her teacup as she sipped.

  Ali frowned. “Why was he the local weirdo?”

  Delaney shrugged. “He still lived with his mom.”

  “Plenty of people still live with their mom,” Ali pressed. “LA rents are crazy.”

  Delaney looked under pressure. She put her cup on the saucer and spoke in a low voice, even though they were the only people in the store. “He had an obsession.”

  Ali’s eyes widened. “With women?”

  “No.” Delaney shook her head. “Balloons.”

  Ali frowned. Balloons? She’d not been expecting that.

  “What kind of obsession?” she asked.

  Delaney gave a little shrug. “Just, you know, an obsession. Hot air balloons. Helium balloons. He made a film about the Hindenburg disaster. Claymation.” She sipped her tea. “But I don’t think we should judge him for any of that stuff. Especially not now he’s passed.”

  It was curious to say the least. And Delaney was right. Who were they to judge the victim for his peculiar hobbies? It didn’t make him any more deserving of his untimely death. And who was she to judge him for exploding at her in her store? If Kerrigan had done the same thing to her, she would’ve been furious too.

  Ali put her pencil down with resolve. Whether it was the calming effects from the coloring task or the chamomile tea, or a side effect of whatever essential oil Delaney was pumping into the place, Ali decided she was going to get her dream life back. This thing was a blip. She’d been through worse. She would not let this crush her. If the police suspected her, then she would just have to investigate the murder herself and clear her name that way.

  And she knew just the place to start.

  She peered out the window at the steppingstones of rainbow houses until she found the orange one. The Lockley house.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ali woke at the usual time the next morning and headed to the bakery. She made an even smaller batch of breakfast pastries than yesterday to give herself time to make an apple pie—a part sympathy gift, part buttering up gift that she hoped would make Preston Lockley’s mother more open to answering her questions. She waited out the customerless breakfast shift, then locked up and headed for the Lockleys’ orange house.

  The apple pie was still warm in her hands as she steeled herself and knocked on the door. She wasn’t particularly happy about haranguing a grieving woman, but the only way she stood a chance of solving Preston’s murder was to find out everything she could about him. Maybe he’d made some recent enemies. The sort of guy who shouted at people he didn’t know had probably rubbed a few people the wrong way over the years. And no one would know about that stuff better than the person he lived with, whom he saw on a day-to-day basis, which, in this case, happened to be his mother.

  As she waited, the sun beat down on her, making sweat bead on the back of her neck. She heard shuffling footsteps from the other side. The door was opened by a short Asian woman in green scrubs. Ali guessed she was a nurse of some type.

  “Yes?” the woman asked.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Ali said, using the overly formal newsreader voice she often slipped into when nervous. “I was wondering if Preston’s mother was here? I wanted to pay my respects.” She held up the apple pie dish to emphasize the point.

  The Asian woman looked nonplussed. Her gaze slid down to the pie, widened with hunger, then rose back up again to meet Ali’s eyes. “We’ve had quite a lot of food dropped around already. I don’t know if there’s room left in the fridge for it.”

  “It can sit at room temperature,” Ali explained. “No fridge needed.” She smiled hopefully.

  The Asian woman didn’t smile in return. But she nodded and opened the door wider. “Fine. Come in.”

  “Thank you,” Ali said.

  She stepped inside, onto a grubby mint green carpet. The decor of the home was dated, with faded balloon motif wallpaper that looked like it was intended for a children’s bedroom, and framed family photographs covered in a thin layer of dust.

  “Genevieve’s in there,” the Asian nurse said, pointing through to the living room. “I’ll get plates.”

  “Thanks,” Ali said.

  The nurse disappeared down the corridor.

  Ali steeled hersel
f with a breath, then stepped into the living room.

  The decor was dated in here as well. The couch and armchair looked faded and raggedy. The pale green carpet was completely flattened by years of footfall. Despite the bright day, thick cream curtains were drawn across the windows, and the only light in the room came from a bulb overhead, which was almost entirely suffocated out by a large, tasseled lampshade. This, Ali realized, was what grief looked like.

  She spotted the woman then, Genevieve Lockley, the mother of a murdered son. She was sitting in the armchair, her gray hair flattened against the white lace doily headrest. She didn’t look old enough for care visits—seventy, at a push. Ali wondered about the nurse clattering around in the kitchen. Was she here because Genevieve was too grief-stricken to care for herself at the moment? Or did Mrs. Lockley have some other kind of ailment that required personal home care?

  “Mrs. Lockley?” Ali asked tentatively.

  The woman looked over her shoulder at the stranger standing in her living room. Her pale gray eyes were vacant, like there was no one behind them. A wan smile tugged up the corner of her thin lips.

  “Hello, Bess,” she said.

  “Oh,” Ali said, tiptoeing into the dim light. “I’m not Bess. I’m Ali.”

  The woman frowned. “From church?”

  “From the bakery. Seaside Sweets. Do you know it?”

  Genevieve’s frown only deepened. “No.”

  Of course she doesn’t know it, Ali scolded herself. No one does!

  “What are you holding?” Genevieve demanded.

  Ali sensed her presence was less than welcome.

  “Pie,” she said, sheepishly, raising the dish up in both hands. “I thought you might want a little pick-me-up. Do you like pie?”

  “Of course I do,” came the woman’s abrupt reply. “Who doesn’t like pie?”

  In this town, Ali thought, apparently everyone…

  “Sit down!” Genevieve Lockley commanded.