The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  The lights were on in the house and the front door was slightly ajar. I rushed up the stairs and pushed it open. “Hello?” I called out.” Hello, Lori? Are you in there?”

  No answer. Were we about to find another dead body?

  “Let's go inside. She might need medical assistance.”

  I hesitated but followed Bee into Lori's small home. The living room was empty, though the TV was on, and we proceeded further down the hall. Bee stopped in the kitchen doorway and threw out her arm.

  Lori lay on the floor, pale as a sheet. There was a little bit of blood on her hand, but nothing that looked serious, and her chest rose and fell evenly. She wasn't dead, thank heavens.

  “What's wrong with her?” I asked.

  “I don't know, but we'd better not move her, just in case.”

  “Can't we do something? Anything?”

  The wail of sirens came before Bee could answer me. I rushed out to the front of the building and waved at the police car pulling up next to an ambulance. Detective Wilkes was here—why on earth he might come when this wasn't related to a homicide was another question—and he rushed up the stairs.

  “She's hurt in the kitchen,” I said.

  The detective gave me a narrow-eyed look but streamed past. Medics came shortly afterward, carrying a stretcher.

  Bee and I retreated to the porch and waited as they brought Lori out and carried her to the back of the ambulance. She was awake, blinking, and grumbling, but didn't spot us as she was taken past. The detective came out a short while later, followed by another officer who I'd never met before.

  Wilkes stopped on the porch, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops.

  “Is she OK?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me that,” the detective replied.

  “We heard a scream,” Bee replied. “We were scouting new places to park the truck.”

  “Convenient.” Wilkes sniffed.

  “Please, detective, we don't know what happened. Could you please tell us if she's going to be all right?”

  He looked over at the other officer, who shrugged. Finally, he cleared his throat. “It appears Mrs. Snow slipped while cooking dinner. She hit her head, broke her leg, and passed out when she realized she was bleeding.”

  “Oh my heavens.” I clapped my hands over my mouth.

  “But she's going to be OK,” Bee said. “Right?”

  “Right. Not that it's any of your business. In future, stay out of other people's homes. That's a good way to get accused of committing a crime.” Wilkes loped off without another word.

  I couldn't bring myself to get angry over his barbed words.

  Was it true? Had Lori really just fallen? Or was there more to this than met the eye?

  12

  The following morning…

  I yawned my way through the hospital, keeping pace with Bee and grasping a bouquet of flowers in one hand. We’d hardly gotten a wink of sleep after last night because we’d spent it drinking hot chocolate then coffee and discussing the case in detail.

  What had happened to Lori was curious and a little disturbing. If it was true that she’d passed out at the sight of blood then it was much less likely that she could have shot Brent and run off.

  Finally, we reached Lori’s room and knocked on the door before entering.

  She sat up in bed, her leg in a cast. Her blonde hair was loose and stringy around her shoulders. The bedside table overflowed with gifts and flowers bouquets from other well-wishers.

  “Hello,” she said, chirpily. “It’s lovely to see you two again.”

  “Hello, Lori.” Bee positioned herself next to the bed.

  “We brought you some flowers. Though, maybe we should have brought you some cookies instead,” I said, placing our bouquet among the many others.

  “The flowers are lovely,” Lori said, and a small frown wrinkled her brow. “Is it true that you were at my house last night? The police officer mentioned you when he came to see me this morning.”

  Why was the police officer here?

  “Yes, we were at your home,” Bee said. “We heard a noise and the door was open.”

  “Detective Wilkes said you fell.”

  Lori nodded then grimaced and touched a hand to her forehead. “Yes. And hit my head quite badly at the back. I had to get stitches. Of course, the minute I saw that I was bleeding, I passed out. I was already in so much pain from my leg. And now, the doctor wants to keep me here for observation for the rest of the day, just in case I have a concussion or something. What a disaster.”

  “Terrible,” I agreed.

  Bee remained silent.

  “You’ve had a really tough week,” I continued, in the hopes of filling the lull in conversation. “How on earth did you fall like this?”

  “Oh it was just me being silly,” Lori said, pinching her fingers in the center of her forehead. “I’ve been struggling with things lately. You know, after Brent passed. I just… I can’t sleep well and instead of moping around watching TV, I’ve been trying to get active or do things that are proactive. So, I decided last night would be a good time to clean the entire kitchen from top to bottom.”

  “Wet floor?” I asked.

  “Yes. I was a little overenthusiastic with the cleaning products and everything got so slippery.” Lori gave a self-deprecatory laugh.

  “Your front door was open,” Bee said, for a second time. “Why?”

  “It was?” Lori asked.

  “Yes. Did you leave it open?”

  “Not that I remember. But I was outside a short while earlier. I was hoping to do some late-night gardening, but then I figured that it would be impossible and cleaning the kitchen would be easier. Boy, was I wrong. I kind of wish I’d attempted the late night gardening now.”

  Bee went quiet again.

  How strange was it that Lori had decided on the late night cleaning or gardening? And why had she left her door open? Was she that absent-minded because of her grief?

  What if the person she’d been talking to on the phone had come by and hurt her? What if she was covering for them for whatever reason?

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Lori said, gesturing to the chairs either side of her bed. “Please sit down. I think I’ve got some information for you.”

  “Information?” I circled to the chair next to the left side of Lori’s bed and lowered myself into it.

  “Yes. About Brent’s case,” Lori continued. “That detective questioned me again this morning. He seemed to think that someone had attacked me in my own home, which is ridiculous of course.”

  “Is it?” Bee asked. “There was just a murder in your family.”

  Lori drew in a breath.

  “She doesn’t mean it like that,” I said. “Just that you should be careful.”

  “I will be from now on.” But Lori didn’t sound so certain about that. She had just broken her leg and gotten stitches. “Anyway, like I said, I have some information I think you could use for your investigation.”

  Bee opened her mouth, hesitated and shut it again. There was no use denying we were checking this out. It was strange that Lori was so interested, though. She seemed bent on it—and while that might’ve been because she wanted to see her husband’s killer brought to justice, there was always the alternative.

  That she was the murderer looking for an easy out.

  “You asked me whether Brent had any enemies, and I told you Rose-Marie,” Lori said, “but I’ve had a lot more time to think now, and I’ve come up with another woman who might have been out to get him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  Lori paused for effect and tapped a finger on the plaster covering her IV tube. “Sarah Rowland,” she said.

  “The woman who won the Flower Show?”

  “Yes. Her. Brent worked for a lot of people, and Sarah was one of them. But he didn’t work for her for very long. He came home two weeks ago complaining because Sarah was making unreasonable requests.
One of them was that Brent spy on Rose for her.”

  I perked up. “Spy on Rose?”

  “Yes,” Lori said. “Which, of course, Brent wouldn’t do. He wasn’t that kind of guy. Even though Rose was terrible to him, he didn’t want to do anything to sabotage her. He had a great moral compass.” Pride shone from her face. “My Brent was a good man.”

  So, Sarah might’ve had a reason to get rid of Brent. She wouldn’t have wanted him to tell anyone about the bribery or sabotage, least of all Rose. And hadn’t she been at the garden party on the day of the murder?

  “What about the gun?” Bee asked, bluntly. “We noticed you have quite the collection. Is it possible that Brent’s own gun might have been turned on him?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. Brent wasn’t in the habit of taking firearms with him to work,” she said. “But… now that I think of it, well, one of his pistols was stolen last month.”

  “Did he report it stolen?” Bee sat up straight. “That’s important information that the police might need to solve the case.”

  “No. I don’t think he ever got around to it. He had so many guns, ornamental and otherwise. His grandfather was a war hero, you know.” Lori brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. “Do you really think that’s important?”

  “It’s too early to say,” Bee replied. “But it’s suspicious.”

  “Bee, we’d better get going. Perhaps, we can stop by later with some cookies, Lori?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen. The doctor has to let me out by tonight. Maybe I’ll catch up with you at your food truck.” Lori waved, smiling. She was surprisingly upbeat for someone who’d just broken their leg and lost their husband. Perhaps, the insurance policy had paid out early.

  That’s a cynical thought.

  But I’d have to be cynical if I wanted to help solve this case. At least, we had another lead. One that would have to wait. We still had a food truck to run.

  13

  After the craziness of the Flower Show and the night before, and even that morning talking to Lori about the murder and her accident, it was a relief to be back on the food truck, serving our treats and delights to the locals.

  I’d parked the truck in the usual spot across from the duck pond. This morning, the clean-up had commenced after the Flower Show. Men took the main stage apart and packed the pieces into a truck, while a few volunteers meandered through the park, spearing trash that had escaped the trashcans.

  A few of them had already joined the line to grab something to eat before they continued their work.

  “One choc-chip cookie and a coke,” I said, handing over the order to the woman in front of the window.

  “Thank you.” She swiped her card and entered her pin. I handed her the receipt with a smile, and she strode off to be replaced by the next person in line—a young man with wavy hair in a construction worker’s getup.

  “Hello,” I said. “How can I help you today?”

  “Gimme a donut, please. With sprinkles.”

  “Sure!” I reached for a brown paper bag.

  “Did you hear about the fight yesterday?” The construction worker leaned his forearms on the countertop. “Apparently, two old ladies started punching each other on the stage. I heard one of em’s in hospital, now.”

  “There was an argument, but there wasn’t a punch-up,” I said. “And I don’t think either of them are in hospital.”

  “Just what I heard,” he said. “People in this town are crazy.”

  I handed him the bag, accepted his money and rang up his order. He left before I could give him his change. I appreciated the tip, but not the insinuation that people in Muffin were two bread loaves short of a tray. They’d been through a lot lately.

  Oh heavens, was I already getting attached to this town and its people? This was like Carmel Springs all over again.

  What if I found a place I loved so much I couldn’t leave? I couldn’t stay put for too long. It wasn’t as if there was anything physically stopping me, it was just a feeling that, eventually, something would go wrong and the people would realize that I wasn’t worth their time or that the food truck was—

  The next customer in line stepped up, and I lost my train of thought.

  Sarah Rowland stood in front of my counter, wearing a silver, plastic tiara and a silken sash that read ‘Annual Muffin Flower Show Winner 2020.’ She tossed her hair every few minutes, looking this way and that as if she expected people to actually bow in front of her.

  Had she been given the tiara at the award ceremony? I hadn’t seen it, if that was the case. Had she gone out and bought it for herself? That was cringe-inducing, especially since she’d sabotaged her way to the top.

  Bee had frozen with a green and pink striped box held out to a customer, her gaze fixed on Sarah.

  Our new suspect, if Lori was to be believed.

  I licked my lips. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi.” Sarah was exuberant.

  “How are you?” It didn’t look like she had any bruises from her altercation the day before. But it got me thinking, where was Rose? Had she retreated to her house to plot her revenge?

  “I’m wonderful. As you can probably tell from my fantastic crown and sash,” Sarah said, “I’m the winner of this year’s Flower Show.” The last part came out in almost a shout, and the woman in the line in front of Bee’s part of the window jumped slightly then glared at Sarah.

  “Right. Congratulations.” It wasn’t as if I could broach the topic of sabotage. But what about Brent? “Your garden must be beautiful.”

  “Oh, it is,” she said, still in a voice that carried.

  Bee looked about ready to roll her eyes right out of her skull, but she continued serving the folks in her line. The ones in mine started shifting over, likely assuming that Sarah would be here a while to brag. I couldn’t help agreeing with the sentiment.

  “Do you, uh, do you need help to maintain your garden?” I asked. “Like gardeners and so on? I’m only asking because I’m interested in starting a garden of my own.”

  Sarah’s eyes grew hawkish.

  “Not to compete in the Flower Show. Just for the joy of growing things.”

  “Oh that’s OK, then,” Sarah said, and broke into a smile. “Yes, I had a team of two gardeners to help me with the maintenance of my flowers and lawn.”

  “Anyone I could perhaps talk to about gardening? You know, to get some tips for a beginner.”

  “Well, you could talk to one of them. Joseph. I have his number somewhere,” Sarah said, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’m in contact with all the most important people in Muffin. It comes with the territory, you know?”

  “Yeah. Uh, what about the other gardener?”

  Sarah paused. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to contact him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered. Brent Snow.”

  “Oh, right, of course. That’s terrible.”

  Sarah shrugged. “He was a difficult man. I’m not surprised someone decided to get rid of him.”

  That was the first I’d heard of Brent being ‘difficult.’ So far, everyone we’d spoken to had liked him. “Oh well, that’s—”

  “Anyway, if you want to speak to Joseph, here’s his number.” Sarah listed it off for me, and I scribbled it down on a napkin, not that I planned on using it.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “That’s fine. Now, I’ll take a large milkshake and two choc-chip cookies. And hurry up. I’ve got places to be and people to see.” She tapped the side of her nose. “The mayor’s going to meet with me this afternoon.”

  I prepared her order then handed it over.

  “Thanks,” Sarah said, and showed me her teeth. “Well, I’m sure you’re not going to charge me for this. I mean, I am the winner of the Muffin Flower Show. It would be socially reprehensible to try to—”

  “That will be eight dollars,” Bee said, glaring at her.

  Sarah sniffed. “You surely
don’t want to—”

  “Eight dollars.”

  Sarah huffed and puffed and dragged her wallet out of her purse. She handed over the money, waited for her change, tapping her heel all the while—not a stiletto—then marched off, her nose in the air.

  14

  After a long day on the food truck and our strange encounter with Sarah, it was a relief to go out and experience more of Muffin and its small-town friendliness. People were full of smiles as I strolled down the sidewalk, the setting sun warming my back.

  “Nice evening,” Bee said. “Isn’t that strange?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, just that it’s so pleasant yet there’s a murderer on the loose.”

  I grimaced. “I wish I could forget that part.”

  “Do you really want to?” Bee asked. “The more we think about it, the closer we’ll get to solving the case.”

  “And then we can get back to serving baked goods without worrying about who was wearing what type of shoes. Or how many guns they owned. Or who might have stolen those guns.”

  “True.” But Bee didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic—probably because she enjoyed investigating as much as she did baking. Perhaps, even more. “Now, where are we going again?”

  “I found this great place that serves burgers. They come highly recommended.”

  “By who?”

  “Lucy. She said it’s Muffin’s best-kept secret. Only the locals go there and nobody’s allowed to tell any of the tourists who come through town. Thankfully, Lucy thinks we’re practically family since we’ve been here a few months.”

  “Thankfully,” Bee said. “I’m starving. And I don’t feel like sticking around at the inn tonight. Mrs. Rickleston might stare a hole in the back of my head.”

  Ever since we’d invited Lucy over for dinner, the owner of the Runaway Inn had been giving us looks and sniffs and asking strange questions. It was far easier to avoid her than to answer any of them. She seemed to think we were in cahoots with Lucy about… gosh, I didn’t even know. Her nails being the wrong color?