The crunching of footsteps on the path behind me sent a thrill through my center.
I paused.
The footsteps did too.
I glanced back, but there was no one there. There were plenty of places for someone to hide. The bushes either side of the path, for instance.
Goosebumps lifted on my arms, and I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. You’re just hearing things.” I set off again, and immediately, the footsteps crunched along behind me. They were offset with mine, too, so it was clear there was someone there.
Breathe, Ruby. You’re going to be fine.
I’d done articles on big businessmen and oil magnates, on criminals in prison and mob bosses who didn’t want to be discovered. I’d seen my fair share of danger. I could handle this. I can. Totally. I’m fine.
But panic sat in my throat.
What if it’s the murderer?
I kept walking, listening hard. I quickened my pace, and the pursuer did too.
Instead of stopping, this time, I spun around to confront them.
My eyes widened.
The chef, Miller, stood there in his white uniform. He jerked on the spot and stopped walking.
“Why are you following me?” I asked.
He blinked. “I—uh, I wasn’t. I’m just going for a walk on the beach.”
I scoffed. “Please. I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re following me, and I want to know why.”
Miller tucked his hands into his pockets and licked his thin lips. He shuffled on the spot. “Look, I—it wasn’t anything bad. I just—” He huffed out a breath and removed his hands from his pockets again, thankfully without a lobster mallet in his grasp. “I heard around town that you were snooping and asking questions, talking about me, especially, and I wanted to know why.”
That was it? Or was this yet more evidence that Miller had been involved in the murder? If he was innocent, why would he care that I’d asked questions? What if he was the one in my room?
“What did you fight with Owen about?” I asked.
The chef folded his arms. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I don’t see how it’s your business to be following me around. I’ll happily report that to Detective Jones. It’s suspicious behavior.”
“No, no, you don’t have to do that. See, now, I didn’t mean any harm or nothing. I just wanted to—look, just stop asking questions about me, all right? It’s starting to freak out Hannah, and I can’t lose her. That would … well, it would be bad. Real bad.”
“Who’s Hannah?” I asked.
“My girl. She’s, uh, well, she was Owen’s sister. Owen was her sister. Shoot, I don’t know how to put it.”
Now, that was a lead. Owen’s sister, Hannah. The same Hannah I’d overheard Miller talking about back at the Lobster Shack with his boss. “Why would you lose her?”
Miller hesitated, he scuffed his shoes on the gravel, looking down yet again. “Hannah, she’s special to me. She don’t like all the craziness that’s been going on around here, lately. And she don’t like other women asking questions about me either.”
I paused. Of course.
Miller had asked me on a date the other day at the restaurant. Meanwhile, he had Hannah, who was his girlfriend, waiting for him at home. Irritation gathered in my gut—there was nothing I despised more than a person who betrayed their significant other. But that wasn’t my problem, now.
“So look, just stop asking questions, because she’s starting to think you might like me. People like to spread rumors, y’know?”
Rumors or truths? I didn’t doubt that Miller had enjoyed a few affairs in the past. Poor Hannah.
I have to talk to her. About her brother.
“I’ll stop asking questions if you tell me the truth,” I said. “Did you or did you not murder Owen Pelletier?”
Miller’s bright eyes went round as donuts. “Of course I didn’t!” he snapped. “And how dare you say that to me. I wouldn’t have… I didn’t never… I—”
“Then why did you fight with him?” I asked, taking a single step toward the man.
Strangely, Miller stumbled back. As if I was the one who was truly intimidating in this situation. I sized him up. Was he tall enough to be the intruder?
“Look, I just. Fine! You want to know why? Fine. I’ll tell ya. Owen was a piece of work. He flirted with all the women in the restaurant. He caused trouble with his uncle. And he was using his sister. Hannah’s an angel, man, a real angel, and she deserved better than to have a lowlife brother hanging off her apron strings like she was his mom.”
“So you took matters into your own hands.”
“No,” Miller said, firmly. “I was over at Hannah’s place, having a date and all, when Owen came home and started causing trouble. He’d brought lobsters with him, some he bought from work, and he wanted Hannah to stop our date and cook them for him. She said no. He flipped out.” Miller took a breath, shaking his head at the memory. “He threw a lobster at her.”
“He what?”
“He threw a lobster at Hannah.”
“Good heavens.”
“And that’s when I lost my cool. I punched him right on the nose. Police were called out because it was a domestic disturbance. After that, well, all of a sudden the Lobster Shack couldn’t get lobster anymore. Ben, the owner? He blames me for that.”
So, either Dillington had lied to me about why he wouldn’t sell lobster to the Shack or Miller was lying, yet again.
“That’s it, all right?” Miller took one step back then another, raising his palms. “I did what I came to do. All I wanted was to ask you to stop with the—”
“Ruby!” The yell came from down the path, nearer to the guesthouse. “Ruby! Where are you?”
“I’m here,” I called.
Bee appeared, jogging across the gravel toward me, her hair sticking up on one side and pillow creases imprinted into her cheek. She passed by the chef without taking any notice of him. Bee grabbed me by the arms, gasping for breath.
“Bee, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t. Ever. Make. Me. Run. Again.” She bent over, swiping at her forehead.
“What’s going—?”
“It’s the food truck,” she said, a smile parting her lips, showing off the gap between her two front teeth. “It’s back!”
13
And there she was.
The apple of my eye. The cream on top of the cherry pie. Man, I’d gotten good at the whole rhyming thing in the last little while. It happened naturally whenever I was at my happiest. And right now, I was truly joyous.
The Bite-sized Bakery food truck was parked in front of the Oceanside Guesthouse again, sparkling beneath the afternoon sun, its pastel green and pink stripes merrier than I’d felt the past few days without it.
Detective Jones stood in front of it, his arms folded and one eye narrowed at us.
“It’s back,” I said.
“Told you so.” Bee wore a Cheshire cat grin. Not even the detective’s presence could put a damper on her good humor.
“Miss Holmes,” the detective said, stomping forward and rolling his lips this way and that, as if he’d tasted something terrible and couldn’t decide on where to spit it out. “I’m here to give back your vehicle. Here are the keys.”
“About time,” Bee growled. “Did you really think you’d find poison on that truck? If you did, you’re meaner and dumber than a—”
“Bee.” I placed a hand on her arm to stop the words. Just because Jones was annoying and definitely not our biggest fan, didn’t mean we should provoke him. He was still a police officer, and one who could put us away for provoking him. At least for the night.
“That’s a wise decision,” Jones said.
“Don’t you worry about what’s a wise decision or not.”
“Bee,” I repeated then put out my hand to accept the keys to my truck.
Jones hesitated. He sniffed then placed them in my palm. “This doesn’t ch
ange anything,” he said. “You’ll stay out of the way, out of trouble, or I’ll put you away for interfering in an ongoing investigation. Understand me? We don’t like nosy out-of-towners in our Carmel Springs.”
“Does that mean I’m no longer a person of interest in the case?” I asked.
Jones did the strange lip-rolling again, back and forth, back and forth. “Everyone’s a person of interest until they’re not.” And then he clumped off down the road to a waiting cruiser, his partner or just another officer, seated behind the wheel. The car sped off the minute he was inside.
“A bit of a cowboy, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Not the word I would have used.”
“I get the feeling the word you would have used is one that shouldn’t be spoken out loud.”
“You always were intuitive.”
I laughed and slung my arm through Bee’s, squeezing it in my excitement. “We’ve got the truck back! I don’t believe it.”
“I do,” Bee said. “Though, I’m sure Jones held it as long as possible just to inconvenience us. Hobbit of a man.”
“That’s an insult to hobbits.”
“True. Hobbits are industrious, at least. And Jones is…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “If we start this, I know I’ll be stuck with you mocking him all day long.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
I swung the keys in my hand and caught them against my palm, the jangle pleasant in my ears. “May I point out that it’s probably not a good idea to upset the police in town? We do want to serve our customers, after all.”
“Serve them?” Bee asked. “I don’t see why. This town has been nothing but terrible since we arrived, apart from Samantha. And the kitty, Trouble. And maybe that waitress at the Lobster Shack. We should leave.”
“Leave?” I frowned.
It didn’t feel right to just run off. Particularly not in the middle of a murder investigation. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t my murder to investigate.
“Yes, we should leave. If Jones doesn’t care whether we leave or not…”
“He didn’t say that. He didn’t confirm it.” Why was I so hesitant? It felt like unfinished business to run off without having solved the case. A part of me was desperate for the truth. After all, the last mystery I’d encountered had gone unsolved, and that had been personal. It had hurt me, deeply.
I paused, stroking my thumb over my bottom lip. “Well, whatever happens, we need to get this truck cleaned up before we go anywhere. I’m not going to serve our treats out of it without giving it a proper wipe-down.”
“Good point. Who knows where Bilbo poked and prodded while we were gone,” Bee said.
The early afternoon soon turned to late, as Bee and I cleaned the truck inside and out. Bee opted to take care of the interior, determined to scour all evidence of the rude “Tweedledum” before night fell. Every now and again she’d let out a grunt at something or the other. A few times, she had popped her head out the truck’s window to complain about a pot that wasn’t stacked correctly or a surface that had clear smudges on it.
“I’ll be right back.” I collected my bucket and walked around the side of the guesthouse to fill it with water from the outside faucet. Samantha had been kind enough to lend me all the things I’d need to spruce up the truck.
And then tomorrow?
I wasn’t sure what we’d do yet. My stomach clenched at the thought of leaving Carmel Springs. I liked the town, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to understand why Owen had been murdered. It was about more than just the truck now.
There was a mystery to be uncovered. A murderer to be brought to justice.
I finished filling up my bucket, heaved it up with both hands then made my way back to the truck. There was something cathartic about cleaning. Scrubbing away layers of dirt to reveal the fresh colors beneath made me happy, in a way.
I set, my bucket down, placed my fists on my hips, and studied the truck.
“Hey!” The shout had come from the street. “Hey, you!”
I backed up and scanned the street.
A fiery redheaded woman strode across the street, her hair flying out behind her. She was taller than me, and judging from the size of her arms, a great deal stronger. She wore a tank top and a scowl. Both scared me.
“Hello,” I said, trying for friendly but falling short at anxious. “I’m sorry, but we’re not open at the moment. If you come back tomorrow—”
“I’m not here for the cakes,” the woman snapped, coming to a stop in front of me.
Bee popped her head out of the window at the noise. “Good heavens, it’s the Green Giant. Except red.”
“I don’t think this is the time, Bee,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.
Clearly, this lady wasn’t in the best of moods.
“You’re right. I’m not in the mood,” the woman snapped. “I came here to warn you to stay away from my man.” She jabbed a finger in my direction. “I’ve had enough of people like you. Women who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“How rude,” Bee said, shaking her head. “Now, I don’t take back my Green Giant comment.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I really don’t. Look, who are you?” I asked.
The woman huffed a breath. “Hannah,” she said. “My name is Hannah, and don’t lie to me. I heard all about you flirting with Miller at the Lobster Shack.”
My eyebrows rose. This was Owen’s sister? It would pay for me to get on her good side, but it looked as if that ship had already sailed. “I’m not interested in Miller, I assure you. All I want to do is serve my cakes and—”
“Whatever,” Hannah hissed. “You stay away from him, do you hear me? You’ve been warned.” She spun on her heel and stormed back down the street.
“Well,” I said, blinking, “that went well.”
“About as well as anything else has gone this week,” Bee replied. “Interesting, though. It seems Miller’s a flirt.”
I frowned. There was something about this that seemed important, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It had to do with the case, with Owen, with the fights between Miller and Owen. Of course, Hannah wouldn’t have been involved in those, unless I counted the lobster-tossing incident.
But no, it was something else. If only I could figure out what it was…
“Don’t let her bother you. Tomorrow, Carmel Springs will be in our rearview mirror. We’ll find another town in Maine with lobster rolls and friendly folks,” Bee said and wagged her rag at me. “Come on. Let’s finish up. Samantha said she’s making steak tonight! And roast potatoes.”
“You had me at steak.” I set to work, but my thoughts stayed on Owen and the murder.
Had Hannah been involved?
14
I sighed and placed my fists on my hips, examining my bag and the neatly folded shirts and pants I’d tucked inside it. Trouble wound between my legs, purring and occasionally batting my ankles as if he could persuade me to change my mind.
Then again, I hadn’t exactly made it by myself.
“You know,” Bee said, lugging her bag behind her, “I think that’s the fiftieth time you’ve sighed this morning, and it’s only eight am.”
“Breakfast in an hour. We could stay and have some waffles. Sam said she was more than happy to—”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Now, granted, I don’t know you very well yet, Ruby, but from what I’ve seen so far, you don’t strike me as the person who settles down,” Bee said. “You seem like the type who wants to keep moving, you know, given that you own a food truck and you wanted a baker who was happy to traverse the country indefinitely.”
“What’s your point?” I asked, holding back another sigh.
“That you don’t want to leave. And that’s odd.”
I sat down next to my suitcase. “It’s the murder,” I said. “I can’t
stop thinking about it and wondering who did it. And why. All the clues are caught up in my head, swirling around and around and—”
Bee came forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Ruby, dear, it’s not your place to investigate it or solve it. I understand that you were a journalist before this, but you’ve moved on from that. And we should move on from this town and go to the next one. After all, there are plenty of quaint coastal towns to visit around these parts.”
“I like Carmel Springs,” I said. “Most of the people are lovely, and the restaurants and food are great. And the view…”
“I like it too. But this is for the best.”
Bee was right, of course. The murder hadn’t been solved yet, and the customers in Carmel Springs likely wouldn’t flood to the food truck if we did open it again. Not after the whole “poisoned cake” rumor that had spread through the town.
“We’ve off on our next adventure now,” Bee said.
And that brought me to my feet. I had left Daniel in the past, the mystery of where he had gone and why he had left me too, and I could do the same with this one. I zipped up my bag, lifted it off the bed then bent and scratched Trouble behind the ears.
“All right,” I said. “I’m ready.”
We headed downstairs and gave Samantha a hug goodbye each. She asked us to sign the guestbook then presented us with a polished seashell as a souvenir from our time at the guesthouse.
“Drive safe,” Samantha called, as we exited the front door and thunked our bags down the steps toward the…
Bee stopped dead.
I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth.
The Bite-sized Bakery food truck had been trashed. The windows had been broken, the tires punctured so the rubber puddled against the asphalt, and the pink and green stripes had been spray-painted over with a threatening message.
Back off.
You’re next.
I trembled on the spot, unable to think or even speak.
“No,” Bee said, next to me. “No, no, no.”
“How? Why?” I whispered, shaking my head.
The front door of the guesthouse opened, and another gasp rang out, this one from Samantha. “Oh no.”
The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 6