The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “Do you think they were having an affair when Misty was still married to him?” the other nail tech asked.

  “Hmm, I wouldn’t put it past Olivia,” Lucy said. “She hated her sister. You know, she was adopted before Misty was born, so they never really saw eye-to-eye. Because she was, like, older or whatever.”

  The new information practically rattled around the inside of my skull.

  “I wonder if she’ll be there at the funeral tomorrow,” Lucy said.

  “Misty’s funeral is tomorrow?”

  “That’s right. At the cemetery behind the church. Though, I doubt anyone will be there.” Lucy shrugged.

  I glanced over at Bee. She gave me an infinitesimal nod. We had our next lead.

  11

  Bee had chosen a classy outfit—black tailored pants, a black polo neck and a fleece black jacket to match. I had gone for a black trench with a maxi dress underneath because I didn’t have that much black clothing.

  Not that it mattered.

  There were an awful lot of people wearing colorful clothing at Misty’s funeral. It was scandalous. To make matters worse, there weren’t many people in the cemetery present to pay their respects. There were a handful, apart from the pastor himself—the same man, Jack Byrne, we’d met in front of the bakery after Misty’s death.

  Other than him, the handful of guests intrigued me. Since everyone had, apparently, despised Misty, it made no sense that any of them would’ve been in attendance, unless they had agendas of their own.

  “What do you think?” I asked, out of the corner of my mouth.

  Pastor Jack held his bible in one hand, his eyes closed as he waxed lyrical about Misty’s achievements. The coffin—a polished walnut behemoth—sat above its rectangle in the dirt, poised to be lowered inside.

  “I think we probably shouldn’t be talking while he is,” Bee replied, also out of the side of her mouth.

  “He’s not praying. He’s just talking about her.” I frowned. “With his eyes closed.”

  “Emotional guy.”

  The pastor raised his hands. “As a child of the flock, Misty was dedicated. She believed that giving for the sake of giving would only wind up hurting those on the receiving end of those gifts. That it was important to teach a man to fish, rather than to give him food for a day.”

  I tried keeping my expression sorrowful, but it was difficult. Of course, it was Misty’s funeral, so the pastor had to find something good to say about her—but couldn’t he have done a little better than this?

  The drone of his voice, caught halfway between sadness and concentration, crept between those gathered and the gravestones further back. A naked elm tree stood nearby, silent and watching. It didn’t provide any shade, but it didn’t need to today. The sky was gray.

  Someone sneezed nearby, but there wasn’t any sobbing.

  I scanned the gathered people. Across from us, on the other side of the coffin and open patch of dirt, stood Olivia, her head bowed, but she was clothed in a cheery orange sweater. Next to her stood the wily-looking Tom O’Leary. They weren’t holding hands this time.

  Further back, nearer the elm tree, Harper Kelly hovered, tugging at the throat of her own polo-neck sweater in a shade of fuchsia. And that was it, apart from a woman I didn’t recognize who hovered next to Pastor Byrne. She wore her hair dark, beneath a black hat, and was the only person dressed appropriately. Her gaze darted from left to right, constantly.

  “Who do you think that is?” I whispered.

  Bee hummed in her throat. “Must be the pastor’s wife? Don’t know who else would be here for Misty, dressed appropriately.”

  That was a good note. If she was the pastor’s wife, we could probably exclude her from our sleuthing suspicions.

  The pastor bowed his head in prayer, as did the shy woman to his right, but no one else did. Olivia glared at the coffin. Tom removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. He puffed on the end of his cigarette, blowing out clouds of smoke in what had to be a sign of extreme disrespect. Harper Kelly came forward, slowly.

  She halted in front of the coffin, and the pastor stumbled over his words then continued, “—let us wish Misty farewell on her next great adventure in the sky.”

  What type of send-off is that? Adventure in the sky? I barely kept from shaking my head.

  Baskets of rose petals had been placed around the coffin. None of the attendees came forward to lift them and toss the petals over the walnut top.

  The coffin crank made a noise, and the walnut case lowered.

  “Goodbye, Misty,” Harper said, softly, tossing her hair back.

  Olivia whipped around. “What did you just say?”

  “Oh, hi, Olivia, I didn’t see you there.” Impossible, of course, since there were so few people here. “How are you holding up?”

  The pastor remained where he was, studying the women. His wife tugged gently on his arm, but he ignored her.

  “You didn’t see me here?” Olivia scoffed. “Is that because you can’t see anyone from up there on your high horse?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard what I said,” Olivia growled. “You need to leave.”

  Harper flushed red. “I’m here to pay my respects.”

  “No you aren’t. You’re here to rub salt in the wounds. Do you think I’m scared of you, Kelly? I know the truth. I know that you were the one who—”

  “Ladies, please,” Pastor Jack said, striding toward them, leaving his wife to trail after him. He laid a hand on each of their shoulders. “You must calm down. This is a funeral. We’re here to bid Misty a fond farewell. If you need aid with conflict resolution, you’re more than welcome to come back to the church and speak with me about this.”

  “All I need is for her to get out of here before I rip that fake blonde hair out of her head,” Olivia snapped.

  Tom took hold of her arm and muttered something I couldn’t make out. She gritted her teeth but nodded, reluctantly. She took a step back then another, finally turned and strode away from the gravesite, her arms folded. Olivia talked to O’Leary, animatedly, but the wind carried her words in the opposite direction.

  “Well,” Pastor Jack said, making eye contact with me. “That was unfortunate. Are you all right, Miss. Holmes? Miss. Pine?”

  “We’re fine,” Bee replied, evenly.

  I looped my arm through hers, figuring it was time we made our swift exit. We’d, kind of, got what we’d come for. More information. It appeared that Olivia was convinced Harper was up to something. She’d hinted at it when she’d said Harper was the one who’d… done what? Killed Misty?

  “Let’s go out to eat,” Bee said. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  I nodded, but cast one last glance over my shoulder at the lowering coffin and the small gathering around it. The pastor’s wife was gone, and Jack stood with his arm around Harper’s shoulders, nodding as she spoke quietly to him. They didn’t notice me watching.

  Was it just me, or was the pastor a little too familiar with some of his flock?

  12

  Bee and I strode out of the restaurant, her clutching her coat closer and me impervious to the wind, only because I couldn’t stop frowning about the whole ‘funeral’ issue.

  It didn’t make sense to me—why would Olivia have been so upset at Harper? If Harper had had something to do with Misty’s death, Olivia surely wouldn’t have cared? She had never liked her sister. She’d made that clear when we’d spoken to her.

  “Well, at least the food was good,” Bee said.

  “You sound downright depressed.”

  “I’m always a little down when the leads on a case aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You know,” I said, “we have more important things to worry about. Like the truck. We can put all of this on hold if we want to. It’s not like the police don’t have it under control. It’s not like we have to make it our life’s pursuit.”

  “What do you mean? We just sit back and do nothing?”
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  “No, but we could, I don’t know, keep an ear to the ground rather than being boots on the ground? Let’s enjoy our time in Muffin instead of wasting it worrying about how well we’re doing with figuring out who murdered Misty.”

  “I suppose,” Bee huffed.

  “Besides, we can head back to the truck and make some donuts.”

  “Now?”

  We usually made our first batch fresh in the morning. “Yes, now,” I replied. “Not for the customers tomorrow, but for us. What do you think?” Donuts, ironically, were Bee’s soft spot. And she’d glare at me every time I made a ‘cop-donut’ joke.

  “That’s a great idea,” Bee said, perking up. “We can do strawberry glazed again. I love strawberries. Pity they’re not in season, right now.”

  We hadn’t eaten any dessert—making donuts was the perfect way to unwind. Shoot, I’d already gained weight since I’d bought the food truck, but what was a woman to do? There were too many treats to deny.

  Ten minutes later, we entered the street that held the Runaway Inn, and approached the front of it, the decorative lampposts casting their circles of light along the sidewalk, guiding our path.

  “Do you think that—?”

  “Ruby.” Bee tugged on my arm. “Ruby.”

  “What?” I’d been about to ask about tomorrow’s specials.

  “The truck.”

  We’d reached the front of the inn, and the cars parked out front were caught in gloom. The truck sat exactly where we’d left it, merry with its green and pink pastel stripes. The fabric awning that hung over the side window flapped gently in the wind, and the—

  My eyes widened.

  No. Not again!

  The driver’s side window had been shattered. Glass lay scattered on the tarmac. I rushed forward, Bee chasing after me, and brought my phone out of my handbag, directing the light from its screen inside the truck. The glove box had been yanked open and papers lay scattered over the passenger seat. The driver’s side seat had been slashed with a knife and the stuffing poured out of it.

  Anger clogged my throat. I forced myself to take a step back without touching anything.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Bee said.

  What was it with small towns and theft? This had happened to us in Carmel Springs too. I’d been so sure we’d left it all behind.

  The more you interfere, the more dangerous things will get. The thought came about of nowhere, but it tickled my mind. I gasped.

  “What?” Bee asked, her phone against her ear.

  “My journal is missing,” I said. “It was in the glove box.”

  “Oh?”

  “It had all the notes we’ve been making about Misty in it.”

  Detective Wilkes listened patiently as I repeated my suspicions for the third time. I’d insisted he take down notes while another police officer surveyed the scene and others took fingerprints.

  “Ma’am, thank you for the information and suspicions, but until there’s physical evidence tying someone to the scene, and that someone is also connected to the scene at the bakery, there’s not much I can do but file this as a case of theft.”

  Frustration bubbled through me. “But you’ve got to understand, someone wanted that journal because it had my notes in it.”

  “Your notes?”

  Bee had retreated into the inn to grab us both a cup of coffee after what had happened, and I was on my own here—doubtless, she’d be annoyed that I’d let anything slip. We’d found that most police officers didn’t like it much when we interfered in their cases.

  “Yes,” I said, reluctantly.

  “What notes?” Wilkes ran a leathery tan hand over his face. The man looked as if he’d been chewed up and spit out.

  “Just, uh, a few things I picked up on serving folks on the food truck.”

  The detective stared at me.

  I sighed. “You know, about Misty being hated by Olivia, and having had a fight with Harper Kelly. And the fact that Tom and Olivia are now a couple. That kind of stuff.”

  “Tom and Olivia,” Detective Wilkes said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you found out this information, how?”

  “Like I said, just by being on the truck and around town. Why, have I told you something you didn’t know? Is it about Tom?” I asked.

  Wilkes ran a finger down his hooked nose, his gaze unfocused now. “We’re talking about the same Tom? Thomas O’Leary? Misty’s ex-husband?”

  “Yes.” I had to take advantage of this unfocused expression. The detective still hadn’t snapped back to reality. “Did Tom and Misty ever fight?” I asked. “You know, verbally or otherwise, while they were married?” Of course, every married couple had fights, but they were divorced and if Tom had a motive…

  “A few reports,” he said, under his breath.

  “Domestic disputes?” I asked.

  Detective Jones’ head came up, and he focused on me, his eyes sharp and hawk-like. “Thank you for the information, Miss Holmes, but I suggest you stop writing notes about the case. We have this under control.”

  How could I believe that when I was still as suspect? And now, I knew for sure that I’d had information the detective hadn’t. What was worse, my journal was gone—there had been more than just my case notes in there. Some criminal now had my private thoughts and feelings in their hands.

  “Ruby?” Bee waved from the front step.

  “You go on inside,” the detective said. “We’ll finish up out here and check in with you once we’re done. I suggest you put a call in to your insurance company.”

  I thanked him, trying not to sound bitter, and headed up the path to the inn. Tomorrow, we wouldn’t be able to go out and serve our delicious donuts and treats. The truck’s window would have to be repaired, along with the seats.

  Bee handed me a cup of coffee on the porch. “What do you say?” Bee asked. “Ready to get involved now?”

  “With the case? You bet your bottom donut, I am.”

  “A bottom donut?” Bee asked. “That doesn’t sound good. Sounds like something that would’ve been served in Misty’s shop.”

  “That’s it,” I said, clicking my fingers and nearly losing my grip on the coffee cup. “We’ll go back to the scene of the crime tomorrow.”

  “Or Misty’s house. If there’s going to be anything incriminating about O’Leary, it will be there,” Bee said.

  And with that, the pressure on my shoulders lifted a little—we had a plan. The last thing I wanted was a run-in with another murderer.

  13

  “There is nothing better than a stack of pancakes dripping in butter and syrup,” Bee said, cutting into her pancake and lifting it to her lips. “Nothing.” She ate the bite with relish, swirling the fork back and forth in front of her mouth.

  “What about waffles?” I asked. “With ice cream and a cherry on top?” I cut into my omelet and ate a piece myself.

  Mrs. Rickleston and her chef had outdone themselves for breakfast again. The Runaway Inn wasn’t like Sam’s guesthouse back in Maine. They had a menu here, whereas Sam had sort of prepared the meals and told us what we’d be getting.

  I took a sip of orange juice. I was fortified by the food and the cozy atmosphere. It was early—well, early for most guests—at 8 am, and the dining area was empty. I shifted in my chair and peered out of the window at the poor food truck, waiting to be taken for repairs.

  “So, the plan remains the same?” I asked.

  Bee chewed on her pancake piece and swallowed, nodding. “First the bakery, then the house. Mrs. Rickleston has already divulged the address. The woman’s a wellspring of gossip.”

  “Good thing we have her around to help us.”

  Bee dragged a slice of pancake through a pool of syrup. “Hmm. There’s a problem with that, though. You just know she’ll be gossiping about us too.”

  “She seems harmless enough.”

  “They all do,” Bee said, “until the baker drops dead and
we’re prime suspects in the murder.”

  “Point taken.”

  I was both apprehensive and excited for the day to come. We’d been picking up bits and pieces of information here and there, but to go directly to the crime scene? Or to snoop around in Misty’s house? That was a new level of investigating entirely.

  One we’d partaken in before. And been punished for.

  I finished off the last of my omelet and orange juice then dabbed with a napkin. Bee was still busy, so I filled the few minutes with a stare out of the window at the sun-filled street, the beginnings of early morning activity starting up across the road.

  People got in their cars and drove off to work, or folks strode down the streets in their warm coats and woolen gloves.

  “Miss Holmes?” Mrs. Rickleston had appeared next to our table.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, dear, but I’ve just received this at the front desk for you. A young girl dropped it off.” Mrs. Rickleston proffered a letter in a sealed envelope. My name was written in full in a long sweeping hand on the front.

  “Oh, thanks.” I accepted it from her and waited until she’d retreated to the reception area before turning to Bee. “That’s weird. I haven’t gotten an actual letter in ages. Who doesn’t have email nowadays?”

  “It doesn’t have a stamp on it,” Bee noted, putting down her fork and scooching her chair around to my side of the table. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  “I don’t think so.” I turned the envelope open, but there was no return address on the back. Of course, there wasn’t. It hadn’t been sent by mail. A girl had dropped it off. How strange.

  “Here.” Bee grabbed her butter knife and handed it over.

  I slit the top of the envelope with some effort then turned it upside down and emptied the contents into my lap. A piece of folded paper fell out. I lifted it and opened it up.

  Ruby,

  It’s been a while and this letter might come as a shock to you. I’m writing because you left me and I need the money you owe me. Meet me by the lake with the ducks tomorrow at noon.