“You mean stole,” Harper said. “I still don’t think you should have done that.”
“I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t planning anything bad. We don’t want another Misty situation on our hands.” Jack kissed her other fingers, and I held back a tide of nausea.
How could he do this to his wife? And to the people who came to church? People trusted this man. If he was having an affair, and he’d clearly broken into my truck and stolen my journal and case notes, what else was he capable of?
“Why do you want me to have the journal?” Harper asked. “I don’t want anything to do with this. I had enough trouble with Misty. Can you believe the police actually questioned me about it?”
“You didn’t tell them anything about us, did you?”
“Of course not, Jack. I’m not stupid,” Harper replied. “But I am getting tired of hiding everything. I wish you would just leave her once and for all. Then we could be together. We could be happy.”
Jack brushed his fingers over her cheek. “You know I can’t do that. Besides, we wouldn’t have the money to run away together.”
“But I can help with that, I told you.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t have any money of my own. If my bank account had a bigger balance then maybe…”
“Is that all that’s keeping you from leaving with me?” Harper asked. “We could move to New York together. To SoHo! I’ll transfer money into your account if that’s how you feel.”
“Maybe,” he said, and drew her into a hug.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Bee breathed.
I go the odd feeling that Harper would do better to not give Jack any money. The whole situation was strange. He had broken into my truck and viciously gutted my upholstery, just because he wanted the diary? It had seemed more like a warning.
“The journal is probably by the door, dear,” Jack said. “You just missed it. Why don’t you go check if it’s there? I’ll wait.”
Ice flooded my veins.
Harper incoming.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, dear. It’s important.”
“Fine.” The pew creaked.
I twirled my finger at Bee and pointed to the side door. We rushed out, half-running, half-tiptoeing, holding our breaths. We darted across the church yard.
I looked back every few steps, but Harper didn’t follow us out, and the sliver of light leaking from the door remained the same until I ran around the corner and into the night.
18
“Harper doesn’t seem to know anything other than the fact that Jack needs money,” I said, pacing back and forth in the entry-hall of the inn. We’d only just gotten back, but the place was quiet, and the coffee station was empty. We’d have no luck getting any now, not here, unless I headed into the kitchen and snooped around.
“Let’s talk about this somewhere else,” Bee said.
“Upstairs?”
“No, outside, on the back porch,” she said. “I’ll run upstairs and get my phone. Make us each a hot cocoa and bring it down. Sound good?”
“Yes.” It would give me time to brainstorm. Thankfully, there were hot cocoa stations in our rooms for our convenience.
Bee hurried off, and I took a calmer stroll through the inn and to the back porch. I opened the door and let myself out, finding a seat on the same armchair as earlier. The porch lights were on, but they hardly shed light further than the back steps.
Harper was being blackmailed about her relationship. Jack felt threatened by it. Could he have taken the next step?
Bee reappeared with her phone and two mugs of cocoa about five minutes later. She handed me a cup, and I took it, gratefully, blowing on the top then drawing some sweetness into my mouth. How surreal, we’d been sneaking through a church just a few minutes ago, and now we were here, sipping cocoa and talking about the results of our investigation.
“Why did you need your phone?” I’d been so caught up in the whole Harper-Jack affair, I hadn’t bothered asking.
“I’m calling a buddy of mine in Boston. He might be able to help me with the case.”
“How?” I asked.
“Let’s just say, he’s a cop who knows things he shouldn’t. And if there’s anything we need to know about this Jack guy, he’ll know about it.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t see how he’d know anything if Jack is part of Muffin and he’s not a cop here.”
“Trust me,” Bee said. “My friends are not only in high places, they’re highly intelligent.” She got up and paced to the other end of the porch, where we’d run into the kitty cat, Snowy, earlier. Her bowls were still there, empty now. She tapped on her phone screen then placed it to her ear.
“Well, here we go,” I murmured.
Would Bee find out anything new about Jack? Maybe not, but it was worth a shot, and my suspicions had grown about both Harper and the pastor. It just didn’t sit right with me, a pastor having an affair like that.
He could’ve been capable of—
“Dirk,” Bee said. “Sorry to call so late.” Her tone was businesslike. “Yeah, yeah, it’s been a while. Listen, I need some help here. I’ve got a person if interest and I need to know what you know. Know what I meant?”
“That’s a lot of knowing things,” I whispered to myself.
“Right. Pastor Jack Byrne.” Bee turned away from the railing and met my gaze. “Yeah, you heard me right. He’s not? Not at all? Really. Now, that’s interesting. Well, thanks for your time, Dirk. Talk soon.” She hung up.
“That’s it?” I asked.
Bee pocketed her phone and sat down. “That’s interesting.”
“What did he say?”
“Jack isn’t a pastor. He’s got a rap sheet as long as forever. He’s a complete conman and, apparently, he’s wanted in Boston for a previous murder. Dirk is getting in contact with his superiors and the detective here, right now.”
“So, he’ll be brought down either way. But what if he wasn’t the one who—”
Heavy footsteps thumped around the side of the inn, and a dark figure sprinted into view.
I gripped Bee’s arm. She got up, and I went with her.
The figure came into the light.
Pastor Jack Byrne, or rather, the conman, Jack Byrne strode up the back steps of the quaint clapboard inn and stopped in front of us. He wore his black shirt, minus the white clerical collar. He tilted his head to one side, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Hello, ladies.”
“Pastor,” I said, nodding.
“Harper tells me you were sneaking around the church tonight,” he said. “Any particular reason for that?”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Bee said. “We’ve been here.”
“That must be why you’re both wearing all black.” He drew a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at me. “The game’s over. You know I killed Misty. You’ve figured it out.”
“Actually, no, we hadn’t quite reached that conclusion yet,” Bee said.
“We had our suspicions though,” I put in. “Thanks for confirming them.” I’d gone cold all over, and it had nothing to do with the rolling clouds above nor the first spatters of rain on the grass in the back yard. He was here. “Misty knew you weren’t a pastor. It wasn’t just about the affair, was it?”
“Misty liked to stick her nose where it didn’t belong. She was a sneak. Always trying to find the worst in people. Always looking for dirt to use.”
“And she found it,” Bee said.
“Correct. By going through my things. But that doesn’t matter now.” He shifted the gun toward Bee then back to me again. “You won’t know anything by the end of tonight, and Harper? Well, shoot, she’s my meal ticket out of here. She’ll give me what I need, and I’ll be on my way. Mexico here I come.” He hooted the last part.
My gaze fixed on the gun, glinting by the light from the wall sconce.
What could we do?
If I screamed for help, he
’d shoot one of us. If I tried to reason with him, he—
A scratching noise sounded, and Snowy the cat leaped up onto the railing next to the fake pastor. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Any last words?”
“That’s so cliché,” Bee said.
“Suit yourself.” Jack swung the weapon toward her.
Snowy let out another of her incredibly loud meows and leaped onto the fake pastor’s hand. She dug her kitty claws into his flesh and brought her fangs down on his knuckles.
Bee and I dived aside.
Jack screamed and stumbled backward, dropping his gun. Snowy leaped onto Jack’s head and went into full kitty attack mode.
“The gun!” Bee yelled.
I skidded across the rough floorboards and grabbed the gun. I brought it up and directed it at the murderer. He ran around in circles in the back yard, screaming as Snowy ravaged his head, and rain fell from the laden clouds above.
Finally, Snowy released him and rushed off into the trees, but it was too late. Jack’s face was streaked with blood from the attack, and he wore a look halfway between fury and terror.
That cat just saved our lives.
I pointed the gun at Jack, Bee stepping up to join me on the right. “Don’t move,” I said, “the cops are on their way.”
Another murderer caught, another case solved. Would we ever find peace?
At this point, I’m not sure I want to.
19
The following Monday
“Here Snowy,” I cooed, holding out the bowl of shredded chicken. “Here girl. Come on kitty cat, it’s OK. It’s just me.”
Snowy sat, aloof and suspicious, atop the porch railing, eying my offering as if it would come to life and scratch her on the nose. Heavens, not that she couldn’t defend herself. This cat was the sawed off shotgun of cats. She had taken down a murdering conman singlehandedly. Or was it… singlepawedly?
“Come on, sweetheart.” I held the bowl.
Over the past two days, I’d been practicing getting her to come closer each time I brought out the food. I liked this girl’s gumption. If I’d been able to take a cat with me on the food truck, I would’ve, but cats were terrible when it came to adapting to new environments.
That didn’t mean we couldn’t make friends. Mrs. Rickleston had already mentioned she’d like to have Snowy as the Runaway Inn’s cat. After all, wasn’t snowy technically a runaway? Much like Bee and me.
“Fine,” I said, and put the bowl down. “But I’m not leaving this time.” I sat down a short distance away from the chicken.
Snowy flicked her tail but hopped down from the railing and came to eat the chicken. She chewed neatly, letting out appreciative purrs and giving me the side-eye. I didn’t dare touch her yet. Just the fact that she’d let me sit next to her while she ate was a sign of trust. I wasn’t about to ruin that by moving too quickly.
The back door to the inn opened. “There you are,” Bee said. “I’ve got good news.”
“Anything to do with the murder?”
“Nope. That’s done, Ruby. Jack’s behind bars, Harper’s already closed her gallery and is speaking with the cops about being an accomplice to the crime. Olivia has inherited her sister’s bakery, and Tom O’Leary? Well, no one knows much about the guy.”
“Thanks for the suspect rundown,” I said, keeping my tone even so I wouldn’t freak out Snowy. She’d already flicked her tail at Bee’s sudden appearance. “But if it’s not good news about the murder then what can it be?”
“The food truck’s here!” Bee cried. “We can restock and get back to the lake by tomorrow. I’m thinking we’ll do… hmm, what about choc chip cookies?”
“That’s amazing.” I didn’t move a muscle.
“You’re not exactly jumping for joy.”
“Snowy’s eating.”
“Oh,” Bee said. “I see. Well, any time you’re—”
A massive bang sounded from the front of the inn. Snowy gave me a reproachful look, a loud meow, and leaped onto the railing and out of sight.
“Oh great,” I sighed. “There goes all my hard work. What was that?”
“Someone arriving?”
I followed Bee inside the inn, happier than I’d been in days. Not only was I making some progress with Snowy, but we’d gotten our truck back, now, and the local residents were at their friendliest. Shoot, even Olivia had come by the inn to thank us for capturing her sister’s killer. And she hadn’t even liked Misty.
The inn’s front doors were open, but a collection of bags had been dumped in them, blocking entry or exit. Mrs. Rickleston hovered nearby, appearing distressed.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, hello, Ruby,” the innkeeper said. “Goodness, my new guests had arrived I knew they would be a large party, but I didn’t expect this.”
A group of nearly identical looking blonde girls and brunette boys—sort of like a Brady bunch collection—strode up the inn’s front steps. They chatted with each other and dumped another set of bags. They were young adults and teens, with two adults who had to be the parents among them.
“Wow,” I said.
“There’s got to be about twenty of them.” Bee’s eyes were wide.
“Twenty-two,” Mrs. Rickleston replied. “The Flatley clan.”
“Like Michael Flatley? Lord of the Dance?”
“Not related, but the name, yes, I suppose, dear,” Mrs. Rickleston.
“Hey, move, you idiot.” One of the teen boys pushed a girl fight, and a screeching slap fight ensued.
“Don’t worry, dears. I’ll make sure your stay at the inn is just as peaceful as ever.”
That wasn’t much of a promise, after what we’d been through the past little while. Bee and I exchanged a glance. “Looks like it’s going to be another interesting few weeks,” Bee said.
When wasn’t it interesting when it came to us?
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go around the side of the inn. I’m itching to get baking again.”
“You? Well, miracles do happen.” Bee winked at me.
We looped arms and set off back down the hall, our backs to the commotion and turmoil and our gazes set on the future, and whatever else Muffin had planned for us.
Hopefully, not another murder.
Ruby and Bee’s adventures continue on the next page…
Book 7: Choc Chip Murder
1
“That’s hilarious, Tabitha,” a woman said, on the other side of the French doors that led to the Runaway Inn’s terrace, “but you know that I’m the one who’s going to win the Muffin Flower Show this year.”
“Really, Rose, you can’t make sweeping statements like that,” another lady replied, patting her dainty curls. “It’s rude.”
“Rude? It’s fact.” Rose, the original speaker, with her silver hair done up in a bun that tugged at the roots of her hair, smirked. “I’ve won the Flower Show every year for the past five years. I don’t see why this one will be any different.”
I lingered near the doorway, taking a few breaths of vitriol-free air before I headed out again with another tray of choc-chip cookies for the ladies of the Muffin Garden Society. Bee and I had been overjoyed after Mrs. Rickleston, the owner of the Runaway Inn, had asked us to cater the Muffin Garden Society party.
Now, I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.
The women, in particular Rose-Marie, had made disparaging comments about each other, the cookies, and the tea and milk they had been served. There was nothing wrong with the tea, milk, and cookies, but I couldn’t speak for the ladies. They were full of gossip, and a couple dollops of mean for good measure.
“Taking another break?” Bee asked, and halted beside me, holding a plate of cupcakes.
“It isn’t another break,” I replied, blushing. “I’m just… um—”
“Avoiding the ire of Rose and her cronies?”
“Pretty much,” I replied. “They’re exhausting. Every time I put a plate down, they have some
thing else to say.”
“Just offer them a sweet smile and a passive-aggressive comment and be on your way,” Bee replied.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re handling this really well.” Bee wasn’t a ‘people person.’ “What are you hiding? You didn’t do anything to the cookies, did you?”
“What? Like poison them?” Bee gave an evil laugh, the gap between her two front teeth on full display. “No, Ruby, of course I didn’t do anything to the cookies. I would never jeopardize our business like that.”
“Oh good.”
She swept toward the back door and opened it. “I can’t make any promises about the tea, though,” she sang, over her shoulder.
“That’s not funny!” I cried, even though she was obviously joking. Bee had been a police officer before she’d become my chief baker and best friend. She wasn’t about to poison anyone, but she certainly had a barbed tongue.
I took a breath then exited the back door and walked across the terrace. Spring had come in full force, and the grass in the garden below was green, the trees flowering beautifully, and the hedges trimmed into shapes and angles. A gardener wandered around down there, carrying a pair of shears and wearing overalls. He disappeared behind the hedges.
“You there!” A woman’s voice cut through my appreciation of the new spring day.
I looked up.
Rose-Marie—the dragon of the Muffin Garden Society—clicked her fingers at me imperiously. “You there, can you hear me? I think she’s deaf. Come here.”
I gritted my teeth and walked over. “Hello, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, there’s something you can help me with,” she said, in mocking tones. “You can help me by removing this disgusting tea from the table and leaving that tray of cookies. And you can do it with a smile.” Rose glanced around at the other women at the table. “I swear, you can’t get good help these days.”
A few of the ladies shot me appraising looks. One of them, a woman with silver hair that draped past her shoulders, offered me a smile that might’ve been consoling.
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