The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “Eugh.” I stuck out my tongue. “That was strange.” And it was even weirder to picture Martha and Jones as a married couple. I hadn’t bothered wondering if he had a significant other. I’d assumed that no woman would be able to tolerate his ego.

  Boy, had I been wrong.

  “Let’s go, Rubes. We should take it easy tonight. We’ll need our wits about us tomorrow.”

  “And the day after that.” Depending on how long the case lasted, of course.

  It was time to put our sleuthing caps on again.

  5

  It had taken two days for the police to clear the guesthouse of evidence, the body, and the crime scene tape, but we were finally back. Strangely, the Oceanside felt more like home to me now than my apartment back in New York ever had. At least, here we could get some proper sleep.

  Assuming Jones didn’t decide to come back and haunt our rooms. He had truly despised us, Bee in particular. I wouldn’t have put it past him to use his afterlife to punish us for our past transgressions.

  I sat at our favorite table in the living room, the one closest to the fireplace, a cup of coffee in front of me. Bee read a newspaper from a day prior to the murder—Sam hadn’t had a chance to bring in the latest, and we were both too lazy to go out and get it.

  “It’s good to be back.” I took a sip of my coffee, scanning the room. The chairs and tables were back in their usual arrangement. The gifts that I’d been bought had been confiscated, and a few of them had been ruined because of Jones’s weight.

  Terrible thought. Poor guy. Was it disingenuous of me to feel pity for Jones? He’d been an enemy of mine, in a way, but I would never have wished death upon him. Or anything bad for that matter. All I’d wanted was for him to leave me alone.

  The Carlingtons sat at their favorite spot next to the window, occasionally chatting or sipping from their mugs, while Trouble the kitten lay in front of the fireplace, warming his fluffy underbelly.

  “That’s interesting,” Bee said, turning the pages of the paper.

  “What is?”

  “This.” She pressed the newspaper flat to the table. “There’s an op-ed piece in here from Millie. It was written the day before Jones’s murder.”

  “Oh? What does it say?”

  Bee read in hushed tones, her fingers crinkling the paper. “It is the opinion of the editor that the police department in Carmel Springs is in serious need of assistance and perhaps a change in management. Too often are officers like Detective Nathan Jones allowed to run amok, arresting innocents or making unfounded accusations. If these sorts of instances don’t come to an end, there will only be pain, confusion, and upset in the future.”

  I sat back. “Wow. Sounds like Millie wasn’t Jones’s biggest fan either.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Did you see her yesterday?”

  “Yesterday? Where?”

  Bee folded the old newspaper and placed it to one side. “On the food truck. Did you serve her?”

  “No. I haven’t served her since … the day of the murder, I think. My birthday.”

  “And neither have I.” Bee pursed her lips. “Millie never misses a chance to gossip and have a cupcake. It’s weird that she wouldn’t have come by to talk about Jones’s death.”

  “You can’t possibly think that she would do anything like that. Come on, Bee, we know Millie. She’s a good person. She was the one who helped us drum up interest for the truck a few weeks ago,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, I know. But if we’re going to figure out who did this, we have to make sure that we investigate every possible avenue. We can’t be biased. It seems to me that Millie might have a reason to stay away. Maybe she’s afraid we saw the article. Maybe she thinks that we’ll ask her questions about it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she had something to hide, she’d stay away.”

  “She’s probably been busy,” I replied. “We can’t just assume that it’s got to do with the murder.”

  Bee shrugged. “It’s strange, though, that she’s avoiding the truck days after Jones was murdered, and after she wrote this article about him. Just saying.”

  I opened my mouth to argue Bee down from the mystery ledge, but Sam emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates with our breakfasts. She set them down in front us—a croissant with strawberry preserves for me, and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon for Bee, syrup on the side in case she wanted it.

  “Thanks, Sam,” I said. “This smells delicious. Um, but could I perhaps get that cheese we talked about?”

  “Right! Right, of course. Sorry, Ruby. Sorry.” Sam jerked on the spot as if I’d screamed at her then rushed back into the kitchen.

  “She’s jumpy,” Bee whispered.

  I nodded. But suspecting Sam of murder was even more ridiculous than the thought of Millie attacking Jones with a letter opener. She was our friend and a bit of a pushover.

  Sam entered the dining area carrying a small ramekin of grated cheddar and put it next to my plate. “There you go. It’s my fault. I forgot to tell Shawn you wanted the cheese.”

  Shawn was Sam’s newest assistant—a young man who’d once been on Jones’s suspect list for murder. He’d done nothing but cook delicious meals since Sam had hired him, though, and hadn’t done anything remotely illegal either.

  “Are you all right?” Bee asked as she crunched on a piece of crispy bacon. “You’re pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I guess it was the stress of what happened. I can’t believe that my guesthouse was the site of a m-murder.”

  “It’s terrible. But don’t worry, Sam, they’ll catch who did this.”

  If anything, Sam only grew paler. “Yes. That’s good. I want Carmel Springs to be safe again.”

  “So do we,” I said. “Especially since we’ve decided we’re staying for Christmas.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Sam replied, absently.

  “Say, Sam.” Bee paused her crunching. “I’m curious, did you see anything strange on the night of the murder?”

  Again, Sam jumped on the spot. “The m-murder? No. Why? What do you mean?”

  Goodness, she was acting different. I cleared my throat. “I think Bee’s asking if you saw anyone around the guesthouse. You know, someone who maybe didn’t belong or who might have been snooping around upstairs.”

  “Upstairs, yeah,” Bee said. “They took my letter opener to kill Jones. So it might have been someone trying to frame me. Someone who hated Jones and maybe hated me too.”

  Sam appeared frozen, a deer in headlights.

  “Sam?”

  “No,” she said, jerking her head from side-to-side. “No, I didn’t see anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go, um, go check on Shawn. See if he needs any help with the other breakfasts.” She hurried back into the kitchen, the doors swinging shut behind her.

  Bee and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I have a feeling we’re going to find out. Sooner rather than later.”

  6

  The sun had dipped toward the horizon, and we were at the end of another day on the food truck. Business had been better today and easier since we weren’t both exhausted and overwrought from the “excitement” surrounding Jones’s untimely demise. But I couldn’t quit thinking about Sam.

  Why had she been so jumpy this morning? What had gotten into her? Was it because of the scare of seeing Jones’s body? Or was there more to it than that?

  You can’t seriously suspect that Sam had anything to do with it. She’s a lovely person.

  “What a day,” Bee said, as she clambered into the passenger seat of the truck. “That Kayla sure can eat. She bought an entire box of dusted donuts this morning and devoured them at one of the beachside benches.” She lifted a finger. “In one sitting. That’s no mean feat. Take it from someone who loves donuts as much as I do.”

  “Doesn’t seem li
ke the prime bodybuilder diet to me. But what do I know?”

  “How to make a donut,” Bee said.

  “And that’s thanks to you.” I’d slowly started learning how to create baked goods since we’d started our adventure together. It was heartening to have Bee by my side, guiding me through the process and pointing out when I’d made a mistake, usually with a chuckle.

  We drove down the road toward the Oceanside, past the quaint houses, the pier, and the Lobster Shack—we’d have to visit it again now that it had reopened. Finally, we parked in front of the guesthouse. The engine ticked as it cooled.

  I was so ready for a long hot bath and one of Shawn’s delicious dinners—who would have thought that a troubled young man like him would have such a knack for cooking? It was more evidence that one simply couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  “Uh oh.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look.” Bee pointed at the guesthouse.

  On the front porch, Detective Martin stood with his notepad out in deep discussion with Shawn. The youngster kept flipping his dark hair back, a scowl parting his lips. He shook his head, denying whatever Detective Martin had said.

  “What do you think that’s about?” I asked.

  “I think we both know. The murder. Maybe Martin thinks that Shawn had something to do with it.”

  “Surely not. Shawn’s got his history, but he’d not a bad guy.”

  “No, he’s not,” Bee said firmly.

  In the short while since Shawn had started working at the guesthouse, he and Bee had forged an easy friendship. It was probably because they both liked their privacy, and because during Bee’s fluey stint, Shawn had snuck her some pancakes when Sam wasn’t looking. Sam had ordained that Bee should be fed chicken soup only.

  Detective Martin capped his pen, put his notepad away, then drew a card from his pocket and gave it to Shawn. Finally, he walked down the steps and toward his cruiser. He either didn’t notice us or didn’t bother greeting, which suited me just fine. Handsome or not, there was more chance of me growing a fluffy tail and becoming the Easter Bunny than there was I’d ever date again.

  And particularly not a gorgeous detective who smelled of sandalwood. Oof, stop that!

  “Come on,” Bee said. “Let’s find out what happened.”

  We met Shawn on the porch. The Oceanside’s new chef stared at the card the detective had given him.

  “Evening, Shawn,” Bee said.

  He shifted and tucked the card into his pocket. “Hi. We’re having lobster ravioli for dinner.”

  “That’s great!” My stomach growled loudly in agreement. “But actually, we were just wondering what that was about.”

  “The detective?” Shawn rolled his eyes. “He wanted to talk to me about Jones’s death. Thinks I might have had something to do with it. You know, because I’m such a good scapegoat. Man, I ain’t done nothing wrong in weeks, and now this happens, and I’m back on the radar. It’s dumb.” He scuffed his thick-soled boot on the porch boards.

  “I happen to agree with you,” Bee said.

  “Look, Shawn, we’re going to be, well, checking out a few leads and clues ourselves. We don’t think you did it—”

  “No one who cooks as well as you do could be a murderer,” Bee interjected.

  “But we want to find out who did. Is there any reason Detective Martin might suspect you were involved?”

  Shawn scratched the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, I can understand why. It was this thing that happened a little while ago. Like maybe, I dunno, three or four days before someone offed the guy.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I was in the Corner Café grabbing a coffee. They got nice coffee. I like it because they’ve got all types, and I wanted to try their new cappuccino.”

  “Ooh, the pumpkin spice?” Bee asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, that one!” Shawn lit up at the memory, but his brow wrinkled right afterward. “And then Jones came in, probably for his coffee too. But he couldn’t just leave me alone. He caused a scene, started making a big deal out of the fact that I was in there.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I was a good-for-nothing and that I was a danger to society or whatever. A lot of people stared or grumbled, but nobody said a thing about it. They were all too afraid of him, because he could put them away, I guess. He said that I shouldn’t come back to the Corner Café ever again because it wasn’t for deadbeats and that if I did, he’d take everything away from me.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Wow, that’s crazy.”

  “That sounds like Detective Jones to me,” Bee put in. “The man had a screw loose. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he wasn’t all there. He arrested Ruby for no good reason after Theresa Michaud was murdered.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember,” Shawn said. “Anyway, now, because of that, and everybody saw it too, that Detective Martin’s all over me. Asking questions and wanting alibis and all that. It’s annoying. I was at the guesthouse with everybody else during the build-up to the surprise party. And I didn’t kill Jones. He wasn’t worth my time.” He fiddled with the pocket of his Oceanside Guesthouse apron. “Man, why would I mess everything up like that? And a letter opener? Who stabs somebody with a letter opener? It’s just weird.”

  “Agreed.” Bee and I linked arms and followed Shawn back into the guesthouse. The scents of lobster ravioli were already on the air. I couldn’t wait to freshen up and tuck into Shawn’s latest creation, but the worry over the case stuck with me.

  Now, we had several suspects, and all of them were either friends or folks we thought couldn’t possibly commit the murder. Sam, Millie, and Shawn. But their connections to Jones’s death were tenuous at best.

  “What do you think?” I asked Bee.

  She stopped in front of the stairs, peering up at the landing. The doorway to her room and mine were the first and second ones on the right. “I don’t know. But I’m wondering if they were out to get me or Jones. Why did they have the letter opener from my room?”

  If only I’d had an answer. “I think we should check out the Corner Café,” I said, “and talk to a few of the people or servers there. See if they maybe heard something. Shawn could be lying.”

  “True. He could be. But I doubt it. That young man isn’t the most orthodox in style or behavior, but I wouldn’t peg him as a murderer.”

  “There’s only one way we’ll find out.”

  7

  “So, what are our options?” Bee asked, rubbing her palms together.

  We’d taken the window seat in the Corner Café, which looked out on the town hall and the activity in Main Street. More of those wrought-iron lamps populated the neat sidewalk, along with benches, a bus stop, and neatly demarcated parking spaces. Folks walked along, stopping at stores for what they needed or chatting with friends.

  The view was gorgeous, and the scents of roasting coffee beans and fresh-baked muffins and croissants uplifted me. And made me hungry. I scanned my menu, picking out a worthy brunch.

  The Eggs Benedict looked amazing. Or a muffin.

  “We could talk to our server, see if maybe he was on duty,” I said. “Or, wait, didn’t Shawn say that he was here to get a coffee?”

  “Pumpkin spice cappuccino,” Bee said, tapping on the menu card in front of her. “I’m dying for one of them.”

  “Not dying, I hope.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I try,” I said, scanning the place. “The barista. That’s it. We should talk to the barista. From the sounds of it, Shawn was in the line when Jones came in and confronted him. So it’s most likely that the barista would’ve seen it all.”

  “Hmm, assuming it’s the same barista on duty today,” Bee put in. “We could possibly…” Bee went quiet, her mouth hanging open.

  “Possibly what?” I frowned.

  Bee stared over my shoulder, at the doorway to the Corner Café.

  “Bee?”

  “Shush,” she hiss
ed. “Just a second. Act natural.”

  “I’m not the one behaving strangely.”

  “Yes, yes. Hmm. Pretend we’re talking about something and don’t look,” Bee said.

  “Firstly, we are talking about something, unless we’ve entered another dimension where moving one's mouth and tongue and forming actual words doesn’t count as speech, and secondly—”

  “It’s Millie,” Bee whispered.

  I stopped talking, instantly.

  “No, no, not like that. You have to talk, or she might look up and see us and think we’re staring at her.”

  It took all my focus and determination not to turn in my seat and look over at the point that had so fixated Bee. “OK, um, tell me what’s going on. What is she doing? Who is she with?”

  “Just a second.” Bee lifted her menu card and held it near her face, switching her gaze from it to the table where Millie was obviously seated. Not that I could tell without giving the whole game away.

  “Well?”

  “She’s pale and hunching over. She’s lifting her menu. Her fingers are trembling like, like… um… like a—”

  “Is the metaphor really important?” I asked.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” she replied. “She’s with a man. A stranger. Never seen him near the food truck, and he doesn’t look friendly either.”

  “I have to see this.”

  “Don’t you dare turn around! You’ll give up our position.”

  “Relax, Bee. We’re not undercover cops.” I rose from the table and walked to the front of the coffee shop, joining the queue that wound from the counter backward. This was our chance to figure out exactly what Millie was up to.

  Casually, I removed my phone from my pocket and turned sideways, pretending to be engrossed in a game or a message from a friend. My gaze lifted, slowly, and I spotted Millie sitting at a table against the wall. She had tied back her gray hair in a severe bun—not like her at all—and wore no makeup. She’d also dressed in baggier clothes than usual—shapeless pants and a shirt that hung low.