The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  I didn’t answer her, though it certainly seemed that way.

  “You know what this looks like, don’t you?” Bee asked.

  “Don’t tell me. I seem suspicious again?”

  “Let’s think about it for a second.” She had lowered her voice as officers swarmed past us—one of them had told us to wait until a detective could be spared to take our statements and had promptly retreated to his cruiser where he sat, staring. As if he thought we’d run.

  “Don’t say it, Bee.”

  But my best friend in baking wouldn’t be discouraged. “You had an argument with Misty, people witnessed it, and now, you’re at the scene of the crime with a box of donuts that you managed to drop in there next to her corpse.”

  I slapped a hand to my mouth to keep from gagging.

  “Since when are you squeamish again?” Bee asked.

  “You argued with her too,” I said, from behind my hand. “And how could anyone think that a minor disagreement would be a motive for murder?”

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin. “Rubes, you know that there’s just about every type of motivation for murder and that there’s an abundance of crazy people in the world. The police will be thinking that too. The newcomer baker arrives and suddenly the old baker, who was seen fighting with her might I add, has been stabbed in the back.”

  “I know. I know, all right? But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Good,” Bee said. “Because you’re going to have to overcome your squeamishness about this if you want us to solve the case.”

  “Us?” I gaped at her. “Not again, Bee.”

  “You trust that these cops will have your best interests at heart?” Bee asked. “Look, I was a cop, and I know what it’s like to work murders like this one. You go for the most parsimonious connection. The one that makes sense. You make sense. But I happen to know you’re not the murdering type.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  “And I happen to know how to figure out who is.” Bee lifted her head, a smile flashing across her lips, revealing the gap between her two front teeth.

  My friend had already boarded the ‘free Ruby’ bus, even though I wasn’t technically in trouble yet.

  “Let’s just take it easy, Bee. I know you’re keen to investigate,” I said—it had to be difficult for her to put that life aside. “But we don’t want to get involved. We’re trying to sell cookies not get involved in the inner workings of a town.”

  “Didn’t you say that Harper woman mentioned the mayor? That Misty was the mayor’s daughter?” Bee asked.

  I nodded.

  “Oh boy. This is going to escalate quickly. They’ll want to close this case as soon as possible.”

  Before I could say anything, footsteps approached, and a detective appeared next to our bench. He was tall, balding, with a gray fringe of hair around his head. He stared down at us over a hooked nose. He was tan and almost… leathery.

  A tough nut to crack.

  “Good afternoon, ladies, my name is Detective Wilkes,” he said.

  I got up and put out my hand. “Ruby Holmes.”

  “You were the one who found her?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Chatter interrupted our conversation, and I searched for the source—a group of people had gathered across the road. Some locals with a reverend standing among them, wearing his black clerical shirt and tab. My stomach sank. Great. Now everyone knew we were involved. What would this mean for the food truck?

  “And what about you, ma’am?” Wilkes asked, turning to Bee.

  “I’m her friend,” Bee said. “She called me after it happened for moral support.”

  “So you didn’t witness anything yourself?”

  “No, sir, I joined Ruby a while after y’all rolled up on the scene.”

  The detective nodded. “All right then. I’ll need to borrow Miss. Holmes for a few moments to discuss what happened.” His smile was sharp around the edges and filled with mistrust. Could I blame him? I’d found the mayor’s daughter dead as a doornail. “Let’s head down to the police station.”

  “Is that necessary?” Bee put in. “Surely, you two can just talk here?”

  Wilkes’ smile disappeared like it had been sucked into the center of a black hole. “No. She’ll have to come with me.”

  “Is everything all right here, detective?” The reverend who’d been placating the crowd of onlookers had crossed the road in the interim and stood on the brick sidewalk outside the bakery. He peered inside the windows, but the body had already been taken away by folks in forensic gear.

  The detective chewed on air for a second. “Pastor Byrne,” he said. “Everything’s under control. No need for you to check in.”

  “Oh, of course it’s under control,” the pastor, not reverend, said, his green eyes twinkling behind square-rimmed glasses. He was young, probably in his early thirties, with a head of chestnut-brown hair, and an easy grin on thin lips. “I wouldn’t doubt you or your stellar officers for a second. But I saw you talking to these two ladies and wondered if they were all right. I wouldn’t want new members of the flock to feel any type of way about what’s happened here today.”

  “What do you know about what’s happened here today, pastor?” Wilkes’ asked. “I was under the impression that news hadn’t yet reached the ears of the… flock.”

  I could almost hear the inverted commas Wilkes’ had put around ‘flock.’ Clearly, there was no love lost between these two men.

  “Oh, you know how things are here, detective,” the pastor said, a slight Irish lilt slipping into his words. “News spreads fast in Muffin. I hear it was that poor Misty that was the victim, yes?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at this point,” Wilkes’ replied.

  If this Pastor Byrne dude was at all worried about the cold reception, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned to us and spread his arms. “Lovely to meet you, ladies. My name is Pastor Jack Byrne. Only a pity we weren’t introduced sooner.” A slight dig at the detective? What was up with them? “I take it you’re new to town?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m Ruby and this is Bee.”

  “A pleasure. A pleasure. Well, I hope you’ll stop by the church this week if you’re feeling low after all of this hoopla.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  Bee didn’t say a word but sat watching Wilkes’ through narrowed eyes.

  “If you’ll excuse us, pastor,” the detective said. “Miss. Holmes? Follow me, please.”

  I had no choice but to do as he’d asked. The alternative would be refusing to cooperate, and that would make everything worse. “I’ll meet you back at the inn,” I said to Bee, then followed the detective to his car, trying to ignore the burning stares of the onlookers across the street.

  4

  The questioning and statement-taking had lasted for the better part of two hours, but it was over at last, and I had taken an Uber back to the inn, the purple of early evening settling around my shoulders and the lovely building in front of me.

  The Runaway Inn faced the road with white clapboard walls and a central cupola peeking out of its gabled roof, three stories up. The garden out front was empty thanks to the cold snap that had come with winter, but the trees and their spindly branches stretching to the sky made the inn seem cozier.

  Perhaps, that was to do with the warm light spilling out of the glass panes of the front doors, and the windows either side of it. Cars were parked neatly in a row in their designated spaces on brick paving a few paces from the central path leading up to the steps—the food truck was one of them. A flagpole bearing the US flag stood proudly on the lawn.

  It was the type of place that spoke of years of service and pride, and I loved it already.

  “Ruby!” Bee bustled out onto the front porch.

  “I’m back.”

  “Evidently.” She rushed down the steps and toward me. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten us two rooms right next to each other. Not
conjoining like last time, unfortunately, but I’ve had your things brought up.”

  “Thank you,” I said, looping my arm through hers.

  We walked up the garden path together, onto the front steps of the gorgeous building, and entered.

  A portly, elderly woman sat behind the reception desk—a glossy, walnut affair—sipping from a dainty china teacup. She looked up and smiled at us. “Oh, hello, dear, you must be Ruby. Beatrice has told me so much about you. It’s lovely to have you at the inn. Will you be staying for dinner?”

  “Actually, we were hoping to head out to some local restaurants,” I said, “and it’s lovely to meet you too. Didn’t catch your name?”

  “Mrs. Rickleston,” she replied. “A pleasure to have you here. I believe that’s your food truck parked outside? I’ve had such a hankering for donuts lately. I’d love to try one of yours.”

  The donuts served to remind me about the murder, and I had to have paled because Mrs. Rickleston gave a start. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Fine, thank you. Just tired and hungry.”

  “You go get changed, Rubes,” Bee said. “I’ve already got the restaurant picked out.”

  “Great!”

  We headed up to the second floor, and Bee handed over my room key. I let myself into a lavender-themed bedroom with a double bed and a view of the street outside. It was tight, cozy, and cute in here, but I would miss the ease of access that had come with having an adjoining bathroom with Bee. After all, we’d spent a lot of late nights drinking hot chocolate and coming up with cupcake ideas and murder mystery theories together in Maine.

  I took a quick shower, dressed for the night out in a pair of jeans and a fitted sweater, then met Bee downstairs.

  “Are you ready to go?” Bee asked.

  “Absolutely. Where are we going?”

  Bee brought out her phone and showed me the directions she’d brought up to a restaurant called La Griglia. “Apparently, it’s the best Italian food we’ll ever eat.”

  “I’m excited,” I said, clapping my gloved hands together and rubbing them. It would be nice to get out after having sat in an interrogation room for hours. Doubtless, Bee and I would get to talking about what had happened to Misty and how. We didn’t know enough to make assumptions yet.

  We headed out in the food truck together and found the Italian restaurant, with its windows underneath green, red, and white striped overhangs, just around the corner from the inn. The inside of the restaurant was decorated with square tables, warm candlelight, and private cushy booths. Gentle Mediterranean music tinkled from speakers in the corners, and the walls were rough brick, completing the rustic effect.

  “I love it here,” I said, as we took our seats at a booth.

  “It’s comfy,” Bee agreed.

  The waiter arrived and offered us menus with a flourish, wiggling his thick dark eyebrows at me. “Here you go, signora,” he said, his accent thick. “Let me know if you need anything at all. Something to wet the throats, perhaps?”

  “Just a Shirley Temple for me,” I said.

  “I’ll take a glass of wine.” Bee shrugged. “Why not? We’re in Italy tonight.”

  The waiter swept off again to put our orders in, and I sat back, smiling at the warmth and happiness that now enveloped us. My gaze drifted to the side, and I made eye contact with a pretty woman with dark curly hair, and a set of oversized glasses. She frowned at me.

  What’s that about?

  The man seated across from her, also dark-haired, but bearing a few tattoos on the backs of his hands and up his arms, didn’t look our way, but glared off in the other direction.

  “Hmm,” Bee said. “I’d wonder why she’s staring at you, but I think I know.”

  “It’s because of the murder, isn’t it?” I focused on the menu instead of the staring woman. “Everyone thinks I had something to do with it.”

  “Doubtful,” Bee replied. “I spoke to Mrs. Rickleston while you were with that detective. Apparently, Misty was as well-hated as you heard this morning. People couldn’t stand her. She’d made several locals ill with her baked goods.”

  That didn’t bode well for figuring out who’d killed her. Wait, I’m not seriously considering getting involved in all of this again, am I? Old habits died hard—as an ex-investigative journalist, I struggled to keep my curiosity under control.

  “What else did she say?” I asked.

  “That if anyone would’ve wanted to get rid of Misty, it would have been her sister,” Bee whispered.

  “Her sister.” I didn’t have siblings, but I couldn’t imagine wanting to hurt anyone in my family. Shoot, not that I could imagine hurting people outside of my family either.

  “Olivia Murphy,” Bee said, turning her head so that it faced the brick wall. “Apparently, they didn’t get on well. And from what Mrs. Rickleston said, Olivia just so happens to have dark hair and wear oversized glasses.”

  I glanced over at the woman again. She’d given up on staring at me now and was instead sitting in awkward silence with the man across from her.

  Was it her? Was she Olivia?

  “Bee, did you know she would be here?” I asked.

  “I swear, I didn’t. Though, I’m flattered you think I could rustle up that kind of Intel on such short notice. I guess, everyone really likes this restaurant.”

  Before Bee could tell me more of what she’d found out, the smarmy waiter reappeared to take our order. I opened my menu. “I’ll have the meatballs to start, please.” They sounded delicious—bathed in a marinara sauce with a side of crusty bread.

  “The grilled calamari with tartare sauce, please,” Bee said.

  “Of course.” The waiter, Gino by his nametag, swept into a deep bow then hurried off again.

  The smells in the restaurant—garlic, lemon, basil and melting cheese—were almost too much to take.

  “I think we should find out more about the sister,” Bee said, directing my attention away from the delicious food to come. “Namely, what types of problems she had with Misty.”

  It was tempting, and I brought my purple-leather backed journal from my purse and set it on the table. I opened to a new page and scrawled Misty’s name across it.

  “You know,” Bee said, “you really should get a separate notebook for case work. Your journal is meant to be personal.”

  “It is,” I replied. “But it’s not like I plan on investigating many more cases.” I tapped the end of my pen next to Misty’s name then wrote down the suspected murder weapon and the place it had all gone down—the bakery.

  The waiter returned with our dishes and presented them, and I quickly shut my diary.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you lovely ladies?” Gino asked.

  I caught his arm. “Could you tell us who those two people are?” I nodded as discretely as possible.

  Gino glanced over and stiffened. “Those two?” He shook his head. “Her name is Olivia, beautiful, beautiful lady, but the man? Very dangerous. You must stay away from him.”

  “What’s his name?” Bee asked.

  “Thomas O’Leary,” Gino whispered, and his upper lip had actually gathered sweat. “Trust me. You don’t want to know that man. He’s the type who gets involved with… the wrong side of the law. Those types of people, if you know what it is I’m saying.”

  “Thank you.”

  We sat at the table and started our meal, but I’d already noted down his name in my journal. If this Thomas O’Leary wasn’t to be trifled with, and he knew Olivia who was Misty’s sister… the insinuation was there.

  “I wonder what this week will hold,” I said, as I cut into my juicy meatball.

  Bee gave me the look. The ‘let’s investigate and get to the bottom of the murder’ look, and, this time, I couldn’t really complain. It might be my neck on the line if we didn’t find out who’d done it.

  5

  Getting information about where Olivia Murphy stayed was super easy. Mrs. Rickleston was a gossip extr
aordinaire, and the minute we’d told her we’d seen Olivia out last night, she’d started talking like we were detectives and she was a witness.

  Olivia’s home was gorgeous—a brick-faced construction behind a picket fence along a street full of similarly cozy homes in Muffin’s version of suburbia. Bee and I stood outside the gate, a cold wind whipping around us.

  Once again, I held a box from the Bite-sized Bakery in my hands. We’d prepared a selection of treats—cupcakes, donuts, and macarons. It was our way of sweetening the deal. And of getting Olivia to talk.

  “Let’s not go too hard,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how you are, Bee.”

  “Hey, I know how to interrogate a suspect,” she replied.

  “Yes. Interrogate. But this isn’t an interrogation. Let’s try our best to be nice and tactful.”

  Bee chuckled. “I’m known for my tact.”

  “It’s practically your middle name.” But I was only teasing. Without Bee, we would never have solved the mysteries we’d had in the past, and the food truck certainly wouldn’t have been as successful as it was now.

  “Let’s go,” Bee said.

  We entered and walked up the pathway to the front steps of the house. The brass knocker glinted in the sun. It would’ve looked inviting and homely if not for the tension in my neck.

  I used the knocker, and Bee and I waited.

  The latch clacked, the door opened, and the woman we’d been waiting to see appeared. Olivia Murphy was lovely, but had dark circles under her eyes—they weren’t bloodshot, though, and it didn’t seem as if she’d been crying.

  “Can I help you?” Olivia asked, her gaze falling to the box in my hands. “Oh, no, thank you. I’m not buying anything, thanks.” She made to close the door.

  Bee was quick as a flash. She pressed her palm to the wood. “We’re not selling anything,” she said. “We came to offer our condolences for your loss.”

  “My loss?” Olivia opened the door again. “What loss?”

  “Misty,” I said. “I, uh, I was the one who found her.”