“Done?” Bee popped out of the driver’s compartment on the truck.
“Done,” I announced, grinning at her. “We’ll be back in business within a day or two. Hopefully.”
“Assuming we don’t move on from this town.” Bee came over to stand next to me in front of the truck’s open window.
The Oceanside Guesthouse awaited us, its doors open to invite customers and guests inside. Samantha had made it clear that she didn’t have another booking for our room and that if we wanted to stay, we were more than welcome to.
“What do you think?” I asked, leaning my hands on the sparkling clean countertop in the truck. “Should we stay another few weeks before we head out? I did tell my supplier to send the boxes to the post office in town.”
“Which supplier?” Bee asked.
“For the boxes.” I gestured to the collection of striped and branded boxes beneath the counter. “We’ll need a fresh supply before we move on to the next town.” My idea to be the traveling food truck was ambitious at best and foolhardy at worst, but I’d always preferred ambition over sitting around, waiting for something interesting to happen.
“Stay in Carmel Springs,” Bee said, leaning back and folding her arms. “I don’t know if I could handle another week of seeing Detective Jones’s frowning face.”
“You know, the way you talk about him, I’m starting to think you have a crush on the man.”
“You should become a comedian,” Bee smirked at me. “No, really, I wouldn’t mind staying here. Carmel Springs has a lovely atmosphere. And I’m sure we’ll find another restaurant that actually does serve lobster.”
My mouth watered at the prospect.
“I have to say, I’ve enjoyed serving our food on the beach,” Bee said. “And in all likelihood, there probably won’t be another murder in town.”
The crunch of tires on gravel interrupted us. A car had pulled into the parking spot in front of the guesthouse—a black SUV chug-chugging out fumes and with black tinted windows. The engine cut off, and both Bee and I fell silent.
The driver’s side door clunked open, and a single black dress shoe emerged. It was followed by a man wearing a suit. An exceptionally handsome man with wavy dark hair and matching chocolate brown eyes. He bore a mole to one side of his lip. At a guess, I would’ve placed his age around thirty years old.
“Hubba hubba,” Bee whispered, nudging me. “Looks like Prince Charming has just rolled into town. And he’ll be staying at the Oceanside.”
“Bee, I would rather eat one of Grace’s poison cakes than date another man anytime soon. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“What, that they drop dead the minute you show up for the date?”
“You’re too kind.”
Bee sniggered. “It was too easy.”
“The point is,” I whispered, as the man strode around the back of the SUV, ignoring our existence, “that I have no interest in dating any man, ever again.”
Mr. Handsome opened the passenger side door of the SUV and held out a hand.
“Oh no,” Bee said. “Looks like someone beat you to the punch.”
A slender woman emerged, her fingers clasping onto Mr. Handsome’s for support. She was tall and thin, toned and beautiful, and definitely much younger than him. With swaying platinum blonde hair and the glitzy dress, she could have been a celebrity.
I didn’t exactly keep up with social media, so she might’ve been.
Either way, Blondie stopped and peered around at the parking lot as if it had personally insulted her. She sniffed, raising her nose. “Is this really the best you could do, William?” she asked. “This place?”
“Honey, I told you. This is my hometown. These are my roots.”
“Some things are better left in the past.”
I agreed with the sentiment, though not the snotty tone in which it was delivered.
“Darling, listen to me,” Mr. Handsome said, gripping her hands in his, raising one then the other and delivering a kiss to her fingers. “This is the perfect place for us to get married. You’ll see. Eloping was the best idea we ever had.”
“No. That you ever had. And it wasn’t the best, it was the worst. I don’t know how you expect me to plan a wedding on such short notice.”
Mr. Handsome—also known as William, apparently—sighed and dropped his fiancé’s hands. “It will be great. I’ll help you. Or we’ll hire a wedding planner. Trust me, this is going to be a wedding you’ll never forget.”
She rolled her eyes. “Get the bags, William. I’m going inside for refreshments. Assuming they have running water in a place like this.” She stormed up the steps of the Oceanside and into its waiting reception area.
“Poor Samantha,” I whispered. “Can you imagine having to be sweet and hospitable to a woman like that?”
“Jealousy makes you nasty,” Bee whispered.
“I’m not—”
William had rounded to the back of the SUV and spotted us now. He gave us a confident wave. “Afternoon, ladies. Business going well?”
“Not at all,” Bee said.
“But we’ll be open tomorrow,” I replied. “Hopefully.”
“Hopefully,” Bee echoed.
“Well, it’s nice to know we have some culinary options while we’re in Carmel Springs. The last time I was here, they only had one restaurant on the pier, and all it served was lobster, lobster, and more lobster.”
“What’s wrong with lobster?” Bee muttered to herself.
“That’s changed,” I said.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll see you around.” He started unpacking bags from the back. Several of the cases were glittery pink and small. And then there was the massive glassy purple one. The poor man would be out here longer than we would.
“How much do you want to bet she’s going to be a nuisance during our stay?” Bee whispered. “The woman. I can see her kicking up a fuss or three.”
I turned to Bee, putting the newcomers to the guesthouse out of my mind. “So,” I said, “what do you say? Want to stay a few more weeks?”
Bee wriggled her lips from side to side. “Hmm. All right. But on one condition.”
“Name it,” I said.
“No more murders.”
I giggled. “Now, Bee, you know I can’t promise you that.”
Thank you for reading the first of Ruby and Bee’s culinary adventures! There’s more to come.
Book 2: Marzipan and Murder
1
“I know who you are,” said the woman, her gray hair piled in ringlets atop her head, paused, clutching a few dollars in her fist. “You’re the one who solved Owen’s murder.”
It was hardly the opener to a conversation I would’ve expected from one of my customers. But I’d had plenty of questions and chats like it in the weeks Bee and I had spent in Carmel Springs, Maine, baking up a storm and serving people out of the side of my candy-striped food truck.
The small town had already surprised me. And not just with its sumptuous lobster rolls.
“I’m Ruby.” I brushed my palms off on my cutesy striped apron and presented a hand through the side window of the truck. “Ruby Holmes.”
“Of the Sherlock variety?” The woman showed me a white-toothed grin. She was chubby around the cheeks and waist and wore a long, flowery coat over a cream blouse.
“Not quite,” I replied. “But it’s nice to meet you, um…?”
“Oh, how rude of me. Sorry,” she said, “I’m Mary-Lynn. Mary-Lynn Miller, but everyone calls me Millie, and you’re welcome to as well.” She took a step back, her boots gritting on the asphalt, and admired the truck. “A few of the ladies in my knitting circle were gossiping about your truck the other day, and I had to come down and see what all the fuss was about. I hope you don’t mind?”
Bee rose from where she’d been crouching, keeping an eye on this week’s treat—vanilla-caramel cupcakes. We planned on injecting them with a delicious caramel filling once they were cool and topping them with a matching frosting.
“Oh!” Millie gave a sharp cry. “I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s because I didn’t want you to,” Bee replied evenly.
“This is Bee, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Bee, by the way,” Millie said. “You know, I’m somewhat of a baker myself.”
“Is that why you’ve come to the truck?” I asked, trying not to sound too desperate.
The sun was bright, the ocean choppy, the wind cold, and it was a perfect day for a baked treat and a cup of hot coffee, but the food truck hadn’t been doing that well lately. In fact, Bee and I had discussed packing up and moving on to the next town.
After the murder the week before, people’s enthusiasm for our treats—cupcakes, cookies, donuts, and more—had dwindled sufficiently. I theorized that was because the detective in town had taken it upon himself to confiscate our truck and surreptitiously blame me for the murder.
Even though we’d helped put the real murderer behind bars, the opinion had remained.
Millie had taken a few steps back in the interim. She didn’t answer my question but disappeared around the side of the truck.
“And I thought I was strange,” Bee whispered.
At sixty years old, single, and tight-lipped about her mysterious past, my partner in baking was the epitome of different. And I liked that. I wasn’t the most normal myself—having a keen eye and a difficult past did that to a lady.
Millie reappeared, patting her hair, icy blue eyes darting from left to right. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Not at all what the ladies said it would be.”
“What did they say it would be?” Oh heavens, did I want to know what the local gossip crew thought about the food truck? Would it break my heart and speed my exit from this small town and into the next one? I hadn’t felt this out-of-place before and, given my history, that said a lot.
“Hmm, well.” Millie wriggled her nose. “That it had been trashed and was dilapidated. And that the food here was stale.”
“Oh.” My shoulders drooped. It was no wonder our customer base had dropped off the side of a cliff. Good heavens, it was already past ten and Millie was our first customer of the morning.
On our first day on the truck, we’d been run ragged with customers. The comparison was stark and, frankly, gut-wrenching. I loved the atmosphere in the town, the scent of the ocean, and the smiles of the locals, even if they weren’t always directed at us, but if business didn’t pick up soon, we’d have no choice but to leave.
“Don’t worry about them, dear,” Millie said, flapping her hands at me. “They don’t have inquiring or particularly sharp minds. But I do.”
“Is that so?” Bee brought the cupcakes from the oven and delivered them to the metal countertop.
“Why, I’m here, aren’t I?” Millie turned in a circle, waving her arms over herself, flamboyantly. “Here to save the day.”
“Save the day?” I didn’t dare hope.
“I’m the editor of the local newspaper,” Millie said. “I have some degree of control over what’s published and when. Maybe, I’ll get one of the food critics to come down and have a taste of your treats. The proof is in the pudding, after all.”
“Assuming they don’t drop dead, that’s a great idea.”
I nudged Bee, but she only gave another of her gap-toothed smiles.
“She’s kidding,” I said. “It was a reference to—”
Again, Millie flapped her hands. “Oh, I know, I know.” She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I thought, perhaps, I could—”
A yell rang out, and Millie paused, frowning.
We all leaned forward, tracking the source of the cry.
Two women stormed up the street toward us. As they drew level with the truck, their voices drifted over. One of the women wore her hair platinum blonde and long.
It was Honey Wilson, the newest guest at the Oceanside Guesthouse, Sam’s quaint place that had been our impromptu home for the past week. Honey was loud, girly, and obnoxious. A strange combination for a woman so small.
She stopped next to one of the benches that overlooked the sandy beach below, stomping a foot and glaring at the lady who accompanied her. Tall, redheaded, and wearing a pantsuit and a severe frown, she towered over Honey.
“—think I’m going to do that, you’re crazy,” Honey said. “I’m telling you, I’m not going to sacrifice my special day for your idiot ideas.”
“Oof,” Millie said, leaning one arm on the truck’s counter as she watched the blowout.
“Who’s the redhead?” Bee asked. “Haven’t seen her around.”
“No idea,” Millie replied. “She must be from out of town.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I know everyone and everything that happens in Carmel Springs.” Millie’s confidence shone through the words. “If she was a local, I’d already have her complete history on file.”
I lifted my finger to my lips.
The argument had reached its peak. “—can’t help you if you won’t let me, Ms. Wilson.”
“Then I won’t let you.”
“You can’t seriously mean that. I came all the way from LA for this.”
“Enough.” Honey put up a hand, rolling her head at the other woman and clicking her fingers. “I’m done. And so are you.” She turned on her stiletto heel and pranced off up the street, her high ponytail swinging back and forth in a very “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” fashion.
The redhead whispered something under her breath, her lips peeling back in a rictus, then marched away in the opposite direction.
“Well, that was interesting,” Millie said. “And it’s upped my appetite too. May I have the, let’s see, a vanilla-caramel cupcake?”
“Absolutely,” I said, true joy spinning through my stomach. A new customer and maybe even a new friend. It was a good start to the day, arguments aside.
2
“What do you think we should do, Bee?” I asked as we took our seats at the table in the Oceanside Guesthouse’s warm open plan dining area. Once again, Sam had started a fire, and logs crackled and popped nearby.
“What do you mean?” Bee asked.
“Oh, you know, the truck. Maybe you were right last week. We should have left after the investigation ended.”
The living room was empty but would soon fill with people coming to enjoy their breakfasts. Sam was such a whiz when it came to cooking. She’d taken to preparing five meals a day, including snacks for guests, and we were there for almost every one of them.
How could we resist?
“I don’t know,” Bee said.
“You don’t? You were the one who suggested it.”
“Yes, I was.” Bee scanned the living room, her hazel eyes bright. “But now that we’ve been here for a while, I’m not as sure. From a business perspective, of course, it would be better to move on, but that would be like giving up.”
Oh heavens, that didn’t help much. But I could trust Bee to be blunt about her feelings, at least.
“Maybe we should stay for a few days?”
“Maybe,” Bee said. “Let’s see if that Millie woman comes back today. We could talk to her about the rumors she’s heard, perhaps even get her to publish a piece in the local newspaper about the truck?”
“I’m not sure I have the funds to pay for a sponsored message. We haven’t exactly been flush with customers the past—”
The swinging doors to the guesthouse’s kitchen opened, and Sam, the owner, emerged. She smiled and came over. “Good morning,” she sang. “How did you sleep?”
“Fantastic, as usual, Sam, thank you,” I replied.
“Your guesthouse is so comfortable,” Bee added. “How could we not be well-rested after a night on feather pillows?”
“Have you been using your fireplaces?” Sam asked. “It’s been cold the past few evenings.”
“I did,” Bee said. “I was toasty warm all night.”
Samantha was such a sweetheart, and she was another reason I’d be s
ad to leave Carmel Springs when we did decide to go. That and her adorable cat, Trouble, who’d taken a liking to me. He was stretched out on the rug a few feet back from the fireplace, his eyes half-open as he dozed, purring loudly.
“What’s on the menu for breakfast today?” I asked, checking that we were on time.
“I’ve got fried eggs and bacon, Eggs Benedict, or omelets for you to choose from. I’ll also be serving a breakfast starter of fruit parfait with fresh yogurt and granola. And there will be oatmeal if you’d like to skip out of any of the above.”
“Wow.” My mouth watered. “That sounds amazing.”
“I can’t wait to taste it.”
“We’ll just wait for the other guests to come down, shall we?” Sam wrung her hands. She was always concerned about whether we were settled or not. Partly, I figured, because she had inherited this little guesthouse from her grandmother. And she was a nice person. One could never put a price on kindness and respect.
We waited for the other guests to arrive.
Sam had a habit of encouraging people to talk over breakfast. On Sundays, she would push all the square tables in the dining area together, so we’d all be forced to eat and talk. Bee wasn’t the biggest fan of that kind of thing, but I liked it. The different personalities intrigued me.
A clatter of footsteps on the wooden staircase announced the arrival of some of the others. And a good thing too. I was about ready to eat my place setting.
A young woman entered, and I did a double-take. It was Honey, the blonde we’d witnessed in an argument in front of the truck the day before. She was in tears, wiping a finger beneath either eye as she took her place on the far side of the table.
I turned in my seat, searching for her fiancé, William, but he hadn’t come down yet. All in all, there were currently six guests, including Bee and me. Where were the others? Had something happened?
Honey sniffled and hiccupped.
“Are you all right?” I asked, scooching my chair out.
Honey’s bottom lip quivered.
“Oh dear,” Sam whispered. “Oh dear. Oh no. What’s the matter? Was it the cocoa? Did Mirabelle forget to refill your sugar pot?” The fact that she thought a sugar pot was a crying matter was both sweet and naïve.
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