The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  He struggled and cried out through the balaclava covering his face. “Let me go!” he whined. “Let me go.”

  “No.” I couldn’t reach my phone, but the screen was still lit up. My call had connected. I shouted out my address and the situation, not daring to release my captive in case he somehow got the better of me. This was ridiculous. What had gotten into me?

  I’d never been one to run toward danger.

  Too late to go back now. But who is it? Who’s the criminal?

  I ripped the balaclava from the man’s head.

  Shawn Clark glared up at me, the dark kohl around his eyes stark against his pale skin.

  “I suppose you think this was clever?” Jones snarled, his hands on his hips. He was at least a head shorter than me, and I was by no means a tall woman. “I told you, Holmes, I told you not to interfere with my investigations.”

  I blinked.

  Shawn had already been taken away in a police cruiser, and it was just my luck that it was Jones who had turned up to the crime scene with his partner Martin.

  “I wasn’t interfering in anything,” I said. “I was just walking by and I happened to see him here.”

  “And you expect me to believe that? I know you were following him.”

  “I most definitely was not. Why would I be?”

  Jones’s already thin lips drew into an even thinner line. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Holmes. I know what your kind is like.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Likely, he meant people who had come for the tourist season in Maine. Once, he’d called me a leaf peeper. “I swear, this was just a coincidence.” But it was mightily intriguing that Jones thought I was interfering because Shawn was involved. Did that mean that Shawn was an official person of interest in Theresa’s murder? “Look, Detective Jones, I have no interest interfering. Why would I? I—”

  “That’s enough.” Jones drew his hand through the air in a slicing motion. “I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, and I was right to think it’d go down.”

  “Go down?” Bee would’ve had a sarcastic comment to counter that statement, but I was fresh out. My palms were sweat-streaked. I’d just apprehended a criminal and made a seriously poor judgment to handle it myself. What if he’d had a knife? Or a gun? What if he’d overpowered me?

  “You’re coming with me,” Jones said, crunching forward across the grit at the back of the restaurant. He took hold of my arm. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  “What? No.” I drew my arm from his. “If you need a statement from me, just take it here. I don’t have to go down to the station.”

  “Oh yeah, you do,” Jones said, a cold glint in his beady eyes.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re under arrest for interfering in an ongoing police investigation.” Jones flashed a smile. “I warned you, Holmes, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’re going to pay the price for your gossipy, interfering ways.”

  I had no choice but to go with him, that or risk having another charge smacked on top of the first—resisting arrest. My mouth had gone dry and, heavens, my brain had too.

  13

  Much to Detective Jones’s eternal anger and my equaling relief, he didn’t have any right to hold me for longer than twenty-four hours. There simply wasn’t enough evidence to hold me for longer than that, or even to charge me with interfering with an ongoing investigation.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Detective Martin said, under his breath, as he escorted me down the front steps of the police station, away from the holding cell that had been my bedroom for the night.

  An incredibly uncomfortable and horrible-smelling bedroom. I had never missed Bee, Trouble, Sam, or the guesthouse more. What had I been thinking, going after the intruder? In a way, Jones had been right, as much as I hated to admit it—I should never have been involved.

  “Really, Miss Holmes, you have my sincerest apology for my partner’s behavior,” Martin said. “I know this must be frustrating for you.”

  “He was within his rights to hold me on suspicion of being involved,” I replied, bitterly. And I was never bitter. Unless it was about my disappearing ex-fiancé, Daniel.

  Martin opened the passenger-side door of his cruiser for me. “Please, allow me to give you a ride back to the guesthouse.”

  I hesitated. “I’m fine walking.” Though, the last time I’d gone walking, I’d wound up intercepting a burglary. But what was Shawn trying to steal in the Chowder Hut? Surely, the safe would’ve been emptied for the weekend.

  “I insist,” Detective Martin said. “It will make me feel a whole lot better about how you were treated.”

  I sighed and thanked him, slipping into the passenger seat. It was a vast improvement on sitting in the back behind the horrible grate that separated the two sections.

  Martin got into the car and started the engine. He pulled out onto the street and drove past folks shopping or sipping coffees in the Corner Café. I resisted the urge to sink down in my seat—it wouldn’t matter either way. Knowing Carmel Springs, everyone and their granny’s uncle’s brother knew that I’d been arrested yesterday.

  Hopefully they hadn’t gotten confused as to why. What if they think I killed Theresa?

  “Jones was apoplectic with rage when he realized he had to let you go,” the handsome detective said, breaking the silence.

  “Oh.” I licked my lips. “He shouldn’t have arrested me in the first place. I was trying to be a good citizen.”

  “I think Jones is trying to be one too, in his own way.”

  I didn’t care to agree with that sentiment. He’d been nothing but mean since we’d met him, but he was likely an OK cop. Apart from the whole “arresting me out of frustration” thing. “I don’t understand why he thought I was interfering. Was it because of Shawn?”

  Detective Martin glanced at me askance. “I’m not at liberty to say much, but Shawn is definitely a person of interest. In several crimes.”

  Now, that did intrigue me. At least I’d learned something of use during this experience. “I assume thievery is high on the list of crimes?”

  “Can’t say.”

  Instead of rolling my eyes at him, I looked out of the window at the activity near the town hall. Of course! Today was the announcement of the winner of the Halloween Day Competition. Sam would be excited about that—I was thankful that I’d make it back in time to go with her.

  The cruiser pulled up outside the Oceanside. We’d barely parked before the front door slammed open and Bee stormed out, wearing her fluffy bee costume, her gaze on fire with the fury of a thousand droplets of boiling fudge taste-tested before they were cool. There’s nothing quite as painful as a sugar burn.

  “You’d better go,” I said. “She’ll flay you instead of Jones. You’ve got a uniform, so it won’t make much difference to her.” I got out of the car, and Detective Martin screeched off.

  “Let me at ‘em!” Bee growled, but the car was already gone. Detective Martin knew what was good for him. Bee stamped her foot and almost looked ready to chase after him. She grunted after a second. “Come here.” She drew me into a brief hug. “Are you all—ooh! Poo!”

  “Poo?”

  “You smell terrible.” She stepped back, holding her nose. “You’d better go upstairs and shower before the award ceremony. You can tell me all about Jones’s crimes on the way there. It will help me decide on a fitting punishment for him.”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Bee,” I said, managing a laugh.

  Suspicion brewed, simmering unanswered. I was close to something. I could almost sense it. It had to do with money and with Shawn. With Theresa too. Gregory? Maybe.

  But what was the answer?

  14

  Folks had gathered around the stage that had been erected outside of the town hall. Everyone wore their Halloween costumes in celebration of the final announcement. The faces of clowns and goblins and witches and minions were filled with hope and excitement.

&nbs
p; Children, who had clearly had far too much sugar, darted through the crowd, laughing and playing. The sound was a lovely and slightly annoying backdrop to the chatter and the odd shout from one of the onlookers for Mayor Jacobsen to “get the show on the road already.”

  Sam stood in her witch costume, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and Bee looked about ready to breathe fire. “The nerve of that man,” she muttered, every now and again. “He had better not be here today. He had better not be here.” She broke off and sneezed violently.

  “Are you OK?” I asked. “Are you coming down with something?”

  “Rage.” Bee sneezed again. “That or I’m allergic to Detective Jones.”

  “Really, Bee, you can’t let him get to you like this.”

  “I can and I will. He needs a reality check. He can’t even keep control of his own cases,” she said.

  I’d already told her about Shawn Clark’s strange break-in at the Chowder Hut and Detective Martin’s hint that he might have somehow been connected to the murder. It seemed open and closed to me, but I wasn’t a law enforcement expert.

  Who else could it be?

  I scanned the crowds, searching for familiar faces, and spotted Franklin Smith and a squat woman with styled cherry-red hair chatting off to one side. The owner of the Chowder Hut, a tall, thin woman who wore a Joker costume, was to our left. Detective Martin was positioned near the front where Mayor Jacobsen had taken to the stage.

  Many of the other faces were familiar—people I had served on the truck, or who had become brief friends or acquaintances in passing. It was a nice feeling, standing among them, but I reminded myself not to get too comfortable.

  I’d taken it upon myself to tackle Shawn to the ground when, really, it hadn’t been my place. Was it because I’d become too attached to Carmel Springs and its people?

  The mayor tapped on the microphone, and it squealed.

  “Good heavens!” Bee cried and sneezed for the third time.

  She was definitely coming down with something.

  “Attention everyone,” Mayor Jacobsen said, clearing his throat repeatedly. “I’d like to welcome you all to the final event in our Halloween Day celebration.”

  A smattering of applause rang out. “Get to it already!” someone yelled. “Who won?”

  “All right, all right,” Jacobsen said, flapping a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his matrix-style trench coat. It was quite something to see a man of his size dressed as Neo from the hit movie trilogy. “I’ve got the results right here. The winner of the Halloween Day Competition is decided by the vote of the Events Committee.”

  People shifted. Samantha let out a little squeak and crossed her fingers, nearly dropping her prop broom in the process.

  “This year’s decision was reached by a unanimous vote. Or the results were unanimous. Either way, there was a clear winner.”

  I peered around and spotted Franny Clark standing a short way off, wearing no costume at all. Shawn was behind her, apparently having been bailed out, his arms folded, and a nasty cut streaking along the back of his right hand. He scowled at me.

  “Come on,” Sam said. “Please, please, please, let it be me. Please let it be me.”

  “It is my great pleasure to reveal, with no further ado, that the winner of the Halloween Day Competition for 2019 is none other than…” He opened the envelope and extracted a slip of paper.

  The tension was so thick it could’ve been cut with a knife. Even I held my breath.

  “Samantha Pringle!”

  Sam’s jaw dropped.

  Shouts of joy and applause thundered around us. Bee and I shrieked and clapped our hands. We drew Sam into a hug and helped walk her up to the front. She ascended the stage’s steps, visibly shaking, and posed for pictures with the mayor and the committee members, holding a massive check.

  “This is amazing,” I yelled.

  “Justice at last,” Bee said, over the shouts and laughter. “Poor Sam needed a pick-me-up after the trouble in town over the last few weeks.”

  Sam’s cheeks were pleasantly pink, and she smiled from ear-to-ear, blinking back happy tears. It was so good to see a friend happy that I welled up as well. I wiped the tears from under my eyes, laughed, and clapped. Bee beamed. The Carlingtons were nearby too, and Mr. Carlington lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly, his wife giggling at the noise.

  Most of the townsfolk cheered along as the photographers snapped photos, but some of the attendees didn’t look that happy. Millie was one of them, interestingly, and so was Franny, though I could hardly tell if that was just her state of being or not. Shawn was gone.

  None of that mattered, now. We’d done our part to help a friend in need. This called for a celebration—hot cocoa, creepy cakes, and an hour of warming ourselves by the fire. The murder investigation could wait. So could the mystery of what Shawn had been doing in the Chowder Hut.

  Couldn’t it?

  15

  “Thank you so much for your patron-achoo!” Bee sneezed and scattered coins over the food truck’s front counter. She gasped for breath and scrambled a Kleenex out of the pocket of her apron, dabbing the end of her nose. “Sorry about tha-choo!”

  “Thachoo?” the customer, a young woman, backed away from the change. “Listen, you keep it. I think I’m going to, um, yeah. Go.” And she hurried off, leaving both her change and her neatly packaged cupcake behind.

  “You forgot your foo-choo!” Bee sneezed again, blocking it with her tissue. She turned away and erupted into a volley of sneezes, one after the other, and the few customers we’d gathered early this morning backed away.

  “Looks like that’s all she wrote for our breakfast-cake-eaters,” I said. “Bee, I told you not to get out of bed this morning.”

  “You can’t manage the truck by yourself,” Bee said, sounding as if she’d spoken through the end of a horn. “I can’t let you-choo!”

  “You very well can let me choo,” I said, pretending to be a train conductor and honking the horn.

  “Bery funny.”

  “Bery nasal,” I replied. “Look, we need to get you to a doctor. One or two days off the truck isn’t going to make a difference. Halloween was fantastic for business, and your health comes first.”

  Bee sneezed a fiftieth time and grimaced, reaching for a fresh Kleenex.

  “That and the health of our customers. I’m going to have to quarantine the truck and scrub it down after this.”

  “I’m fine,” Bee said, watery-eyed.

  “That’s enough stubbornness out of you. We’re going. Now get in the front before you contaminate anything important.”

  Bee mumbled under her breath but bustled out of the side of the truck. The passenger-side door slammed a second later.

  I cleaned up the counter, shut the window of the truck, then made my way to the front too. We took a slow drive through town, past the Cleaning Committee members and volunteers getting rid of the last of the streamers and stalls, and toward the doctor’s practice near the small cove at the opposite end of town.

  We parked outside the squat, white-walled building, and I guided Bee out of the truck and into the reception area. The office was the same as any other I’d been in, with magazines, chairs that were likely saturated with enough germs to infect a small village, and a water cooler that had been well-used.

  But the reception desk was empty.

  “You go sit over there, Bee.”

  For once, my baking partner didn’t argue. She tottered over and sat down, dabbing at her nose and eyes, sneezing, and generally feeling sorry for herself.

  I leaned over the edge of the reception desk. “Hello? Is anyone here? I have a sick friend who needs some help.”

  “One moment please!” a frantic male voice called out. “Ouch, oof.” A clatter of noise came from the door behind the reception area. It opened, and a blond man with an exceptional polka-dotted ascot came out. “Hi there,” he said, tossing his hair back. “Sorry. There’s
usually two receptionists out here to man the desk, but since Emmaline went and got herself fired…”

  “Emmaline? What is that, a drain cleaner?” Bee called.

  “She’s rude when she’s sick,” I said, by way of apology. “Emmaline’s a lovely name.”

  “Well, Emmaline wasn’t a lovely person, so what does that matter?” The receptionist didn’t have on a nametag, but his attitude told me all I needed to know about him. He didn’t like his job, and the easier I made this, the better.

  But something strange had sounded in my mind. A bell had rung. Emmaline. That was a unique name. Who did it belong to? I’d heard it somewhere this weekend. But where?

  “Emmaline,” I said.

  “No, I’m Warwick.” The receptionist pointed at his chest. “Warwick.” He drew the name out slowly.

  “But who’s Emmaline?” I asked.

  “Drain cleaner,” Bee chirped. “Now, can I please have an appointment? I’m only dying of typhoid fever over here.”

  “Don’t be abrasive, Bee,” I said.

  “Like drain cleaner?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, um, Warwick, do you have any availability for her to see a doctor? We’re kind of desperate.”

  “Oh sure,” Warwick said and sat down in his chair, tapping on the screen. “Let me see what I can do for you.”

  “Faster, please.” Bee sneezed.

  “I can squeeze you in to see the doctor in like … fifteen minutes?” Warwick sighed. “Sorry, things have been tough ever since Emmaline got fired.”

  “Fired,” I said.

  “Yeah, she was so crazy. Like… so erratic. And I caught her stealing from the vending machine. Can you believe that?” Warwick flicked his hair back again. “Totally out of control. When the doctor found out she’d been doctoring the books as well, that was it for her. But she was fired like, last week, and it was such short notice that we haven’t found anyone to replace her yet.”

  Bee let out a terrific sneeze, one so destructive that Warwick actually jolted on the spot.