The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  This would be a great way to take our minds off the whole “murder” thing. And to make Sam happy. Apparently, there was a cash prize for the winner of the Halloween Day Competition. Likely, Sam wanted to use that to revamp the guesthouse and make the place even better.

  She’d been such a lovely host, supporter, and friend that I was more than happy to help her out.

  We hurried into the fruit and veg aisle. But it was empty of pumpkins—that was to be expected on Halloween.

  “What now?” Bee asked, shifting the items around in our cart.

  “These,” I said, lifting a melon and tapping against its thick shell. “They’ll be difficult to carve, but if we’re careful, we can make a few lanterns and paint them orange. They’ll look sort of spooky and cute.”

  “You’re a natural at this.” Bee grinned at me, and we started loading melons into our cart, stacking them carefully so they wouldn’t disturb our other items.

  “OK, so I think we—”

  The intercom blared and crackled overhead, and a stern voice sounded throughout the store. A woman who’d been sniffing the cantaloupes and knocking them with her knuckles let out a squeal and dropped one.

  “Attention shoppers,” the voice said. “Attention all shoppers. This is Lester, and I am interrupting your shopping experience to let you know that there has been a murder in Carmel Springs. Theresa Michaud has been killed. You have been warned.”

  The cantaloupe lady let out another cry. She dropped her handbasket and skedaddled out of the fruits section back toward the front of the store. The door clapped shut a second later, the bell tinkling.

  “Good heavens,” Bee said. “What an announcement to make.”

  “I heard Old Man Lester did that type of thing.” I paused, holding a melon in both hands and squeezing gently. “I wonder … do you think he might know something?”

  “About what? Decorations?”

  “No. What happened to Theresa. Maybe he knows something we don’t. The store is sort of hub. A lot of information probably comes through these doors.”

  “Good idea,” Bee said, her eyebrows rising. She was animated, likely at the thought of something as exciting as investigating another murder. What was it with her and that? She seemed so experienced too—during the last investigation, she had taken photos of the crime scene and made deductions I wouldn’t have.

  I placed the last melon in the cart, and we hurried to the front of the store.

  Old Man Lester stood behind the counter, frowning at the cash register.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “We heard your announcement.”

  Old Man Lester shifted, his gray eyebrows crinkling over deep brown eyes. “You’re them bakers. From the truck.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You helped solve that murder of the lobsterman,” he said.

  “Correct again,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” He sniffed, staring at us. “You going to pay for that stuff?”

  “Sure are.” I helped Bee unload our goods onto the counter, and Lester did the relevant calculations using an old calculator. He tapped the amount into his register, and I paid, my pulse racing. What if he didn’t want to talk to us about what had happened? He didn’t seem that friendly.

  “Do you know anything about what happened to Theresa?” Bee was impatient at the best of times—she didn’t beat around the bush when it came to asking questions.

  Old Man Lester froze, his hand extended and holding my change. “No. But I got something that might interest you two ladies.”

  “Oh?” Bee and I exchanged a glance. “What is it?”

  “I’m thinking that you two might want more information ‘cause you’re interested in figuring out who offed her. Am I right?”

  I pressed my lips together. “Not technically. We were just curious.”

  “Follow me.” Old Man Lester shuffled out from behind the counter and marched down one of the aisles until he reached a door. We followed him into an office that had little to no ventilation and a single chair and desk. An open laptop sat atop it.

  Lester beckoned for us to gather around. “See here? This is where I view my surveillance footage from the store. And if I go back two days ago…” He clicked and tapped away on the keys, his gnarled fingers spry. “Watch this.”

  Gray surveillance footage opened on the screen. “That’s Theresa, see? The one with the gray-blonde hair?” He tapped on the screen, and white bloomed underneath his fingertip. “And watch, here she comes.”

  Another woman entered. She wore her hair dark and short but was relatively tall herself. She stopped the minute she spotted Theresa standing in front of the counter.

  “Who’s that?” It was difficult to identify anyone out of costume, especially if I hadn’t met them before.

  “That’s Francesca Clark,” Lester said, pressing his finger to the screen again. “Watch ‘em fight.”

  “Fight?” The word had barely left my mouth when chaos erupted on the screen.

  Franny launched herself at the blonde, short Theresa. The fight was insane, women clawing at each other, their faces masks of anger. Finally, Old Man Lester appeared onscreen and managed to separate them. Franny fled. Theresa remained, her hair standing up at odd angles.

  “There you have it,” Lester said. “Now, some might not think that’s evidence, but I sure do. If anyone wanted to see Theresa dead, it was Franny.”

  “Did they usually fight like this?”

  “Nope. First time I seen it,” Lester said. “You mark my words, it was that Franny. She hated Theresa’s guts, and everybody knew it.” He sniffed. “I’m only surprised the cops ain’t arrested her yet.”

  8

  “They’ll be here any second!” Sam squeaked, her makeup starting to run. Tonight, Sam had chosen to be not a knight but a witch, and her tall, pointy hat was skew atop her head. Her dark hair was curled, and she’d pasted a wart on the end of her nose. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh.”

  “It’s OK, Sam,” I said. “The place looks great.”

  And it did, if I did say so myself. Bee and I had spent the whole of yesterday baking treats to be polished and hung around the guesthouse. Sam had cored out the melons, painted them, and created interesting decorations. The Oceanside had been transformed into an evil witch’s gingerbread house.

  The guests were due any minute—a selection of the local townsfolk, the committee members, and guests, including the mayor himself. And Sam had created a menu that would surely impress.

  “I have to get back into the kitchen. Look after Trouble, will you? Make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy?”

  “We’re on it,” I said, sweeping the calico kitten into my arms. I stroked his head, and he purred, bumping it into the palm of my hand. I was back in my Sherlock Holmes costume, and Bee was done up as a bee with a big, fluffy yellow-and-black butt.

  How she expected to sit in one of the chairs and eat was a mystery to me, but the fact was, we had done it. The place looked amazing. We’d even painted some of the lightbulbs in hues of red and orange to create a spooky ambiance, and Millie had sacrificed some of her candles to help solidify the witchy effect.

  A half an hour passed, and the delicious scents of cooking drifted through the guesthouse. A few of the new guests, a couple named the Carlingtons, and a young woman, Kayla Thatcher, drifted down wearing their costumes and talking among themselves.

  The guesthouse’s front doors were open, and I hovered near the curtains in the living-room-cum-dining-room. Cars pulled up and parked either side of the food truck, and the guests started emerging. Franklin Smith appeared, tall and slightly overweight, his chest as puffed out as it’d been at his Halloween party, wearing the same clown costume as he had then.

  Mayor Jacobsen, who was short and round and moved like a boat rocking on the water, shuffled out of a fancy black SUV. He wore a chef’s outfit, strangely, which didn’t seem like much of a costume to me.

  The gues
ts entered, and music tinkled from a stereo in the corner. There were nameplates at each table, and Bee and I found ours.

  We were seated with Franklin, the man who’d hosted the Halloween party the night before, and Gregory, who was out of costume, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. Of course, the poor man had lost his sister yesterday. He shouldn’t have been here.

  Then why is he?

  The kitchen doors opened, and Sam gave a shy welcome to everyone, bobbing her head and blushing almost magenta. Afterward, a group of servers, most of whom had come from the Chowder Hut, emerged carrying the starters.

  I licked my lips. It had been a hard two days of work to set up the amazing Halloween décor around the guesthouse, and I was ready for my reward.

  A waiter placed a bowl brimming with delicious seafood chowder in front of me, and I had to restrain myself from tucking in right away.

  “What’s this?” Franklin said, leaning in and sniffing his bowl.

  Bee pursed her lips. She wasn’t good with anyone who offended her friends, however slight that offense might be. “It’s a delicious chowder,” she said, “and knowing Sam, it will be the best we’ve ever tasted.”

  “I second that,” I said.

  Gregory lifted his spoon, dipped it into his chowde,r and lifted it to his mouth, almost mechanically. He chewed, swallowed, and repeated.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  Immediately, Gregory dropped his spoon with a clatter. He glared at me then scraped his chair, got up, and marched off.

  “That was tactful,” Franklin said. “You could have waited until he’d finished his meal.”

  “Hey,” Bee snapped, “that’s not her fault. She was trying to be nice. Anyway, he shouldn’t be here if he’s not in the state to attend.”

  Franklin slurped chowder off his spoon noisily. “I suppose you’re right, but I doubt that he’s that emotionally distraught that he couldn’t attend this… event.”

  I didn’t like the way Franklin said it, nor the way in which his eyes roved over the interior of the guesthouse. He didn’t seem impressed by anything.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on, you must have heard the rumors,” he said. “No?” He ate another spoonful of chowder and chewed on a piece of crusty, buttered bread. “Everyone in town wants to know who would do it. You know, hurt Theresa. After all, Theresa was well-liked in Carmel Springs. Of course, not as well-liked as she should have been. Franny hated her for sure. So did a few others because Theresa was … how do I put this? Kind of a stickler for rules. And a neat freak.”

  I kept my face impassive. If Theresa had been such a neat freak, why had her house been such a mess? Was that a clue in itself?

  “What’s any of that got to do with Gregory?” Bee asked, impatiently.

  I nudged her under the table. If she pushed too hard, Franklin might get suspicious, and who knew who he was friends with. What if it was Jones? What if Jones heard we’d decided to check this out?

  Shoot, is that what we’re doing?

  “Gregory’s relatively new to town. He only moved in a week ago.” Franklin paused, chowder dripping from his spoon, suspended above his bowl. “I’m not much for gossiping, but I did see something interesting on the day he arrived.”

  “What did you see?” I was too intrigued to care whether this was gossip or not. How was I supposed to figure out what had happened to Theresa without asking difficult questions?

  “Theresa lives next door to me, you know, and she’s usually so quiet. Like I said, sticks to the rules, keeps her yarn and home neat. She usually decorates too, but this year, she sort of let things go—and that coincided with her brother’s arrival.” He set down his spoon and wiped his fingers off on the tablecloth. “When he got here, he had a huge fight with Theresa right in the front yard. He wanted to put—” But Franklin broke off.

  Gregory had returned, his eyes dry and his bald spot gleaming by the candlelight. He took his seat and started eating again, ignoring the rest of us completely.

  Franklin pursed his lips and returned to his chowder. I averted my eyes to keep from staring at Theresa’s long-lost brother. He had been having fights with her. Or, at least, one fight. But then, siblings fought all the time—we would have to establish an actual motive for him wanting to harm his sister.

  Gregory dabbed under his eyes with his napkin. He sniffed and left half of his chowder in the bowl.

  Was he grieving?

  Or does he have something to hide?

  9

  So far, our suspect list was relatively short.

  There was Gregory Michaud, Theresa’s long-lost brother—but we had little evidence to back up the claim that he might have murdered her. He’d been emotional and had a fight with her once. That was all we had.

  And then, of course, there was Franny Clark, who had definitely gotten into an altercation with Theresa in the General Store and in front of our truck.

  Given that it was a Sunday, and just about everyone was done with Halloween and had retired to their homes, it felt to me like the right time to investigate. We didn’t have any treats to sell on the truck today, and I’d given up on pretending that I wasn’t interested in the mystery.

  Bee and I strolled down the street, affecting a casual attitude, even as we approached the perp’s house. Bee called Franny the “perp,” even though we didn’t have any solid evidence that she’d committed the crime.

  Yet.

  The wind brushed against my coat, and I tucked it tight against my body as we approached Franny Clark’s home. The real shock had come this morning when I’d asked Sam for Franny’s address and discovered she lived right next door to Franklin on the other side. Her home was the one with the pumpkin-shaped knocker.

  How bizarre.

  Or was it serendipitous?

  “Are you ready, Rubes?” Bee asked, as we trudged up the front steps and halted on a welcome mat with swirling writing.

  My stomach did a swirl of its own, but I forced the nerves back. “Let’s do it.”

  Bee lifted the knocker and brought it down three times.

  Nothing happened. No footsteps or calls from within.

  I pressed a finger to the doorbell and it chimed inside the house.

  “Just a second,” a woman called out. “One second.” And then a whisper, “You shouldn’t have come here today. This is ridiculous. You know how bad this makes me look, Shawn.”

  My eyes widened. Shawn? The very same Shawn who had been arrested the night before Theresa’s murder? That was what Millie had said. And he was here. Of course, they were family. Did they live together?

  The door cracked open and Franny Clark appeared, her dark hair tied back, her eyes hawkish and the tip of her nose sharp. Then again, that had been hidden underneath a clown’s nose the other night. “Yes?”

  “Hi,” I said. “We wanted to come offer our condolences for losing, um… Theresa. Your neighbor.” It was a weak excuse, and even I knew that.

  Franny raised a penciled eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re here to offer our condolences,” I repeated.

  “No you’re not,” she replied, nasally. “You can’t be. Everyone in Carmel Springs knows that Theresa and I hated each other. Which means that you’re here for another reason.” She lifted a finger and jabbed it in my direction. “To interfere! To get the next scoop of gossip to spread among your friends.”

  “We’re not from here,” Bee said.

  “Yeah, sure. I saw you two on that food truck. You wouldn’t give me a cookie. And if you think I’m going to talk to you about—”

  A dark figure materialized behind her, and I gasped—a man in a cloak and hood and… no, it was just that same dark-haired, dark-eyed teenager we’d seen at the Halloween Festival. His hair hung in front of his face, and his lips were colored dark black. He pushed past Franny and then past me.

  “Excuse me,” Bee said.

  “You’re excused.” Shawn marched
off down the stepping stone path and out onto the sidewalk, the gate clattering closed behind him. He reminded me of a giant bird of prey—the same skulking walk. Predatory, almost.

  “How rude.” Bee pulled her coat straight. “How absolutely rude.”

  Franny’s ire seemed to have faded, or rather, been redirected. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” she said. “He is rude. My sister’s child who came to stay with me. He can’t get a job, anywhere. Not that he’s trying very hard, but the point is, he’s been nothing but a nuisance to me since he arrived. Apparently, he got in trouble over in Boston, and he had to leave.”

  “What type of trouble?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t ask,” Franny said. “Honestly, he’s not even living with me. He’s got an apartment somewhere in town. He comes to visit once a week to check in, just so that when his mother calls, he can say he’s been visiting me. Not that I want him to.” She shook her head. “Back when I was nineteen, I was motivated and hard-working. Shawn is a good-for-nothing nobody. He doesn’t help out around my house, he doesn’t work, he doesn’t pay bills. I don’t know how he’s survived for so long.”

  It was a diatribe I hadn’t been prepared for, but it was still information.

  Shawn was clearly poor. Did that mean he’d have wanted to kill Theresa for money? Perhaps frame his aunt for the murder, since there was no love lost there?

  But did Theresa even have money to steal? Had her house been broken into before her death? There were too many missing elements here.

  “Anyway,” Franny said and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Is there anything else you wanted? Other than to spread useless rumors about me?”

  “No,” Bee said.

  “We didn’t want to spread rumors about you.”

  “I’ll believe that when… well, never. I’ll believe that never. Now, good day to you, and get off my property.” She slapped the door shut in our faces.