Detective Hanson did a double-take. “Ruby,” he said.
“Hello.” My cheeks were already growing pink.
“Thank you, dear,” Moira said, taking the cupcake with star sprinkles. She bit into it and chewed enthusiastically. “Delicious!”
“Delicious?” Violet asked. “It’s a miracle you can taste a thing, you old bat.” She laughed and looped her arm through her friend’s. “Let’s go, dear, the ladies are about to put on a show.”
“A show?” Moira asked, dropping her cupcake wrapper on my tray.
“The Dance of the Knitting Needles,” Violet said.
“Wonderful!”
The women walked off without so much as a thank you, leaving me with the handsome detective. Though, was he technically a detective when he was in Muffin? He didn’t work at the local police station.
“Ruby,” Hanson said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “How are you?”
“Good. Just taking a short vacation. It’s my grandmother’s birthday.” He nodded to Moira. “I thought I’d come up and spend some time with her.”
I nodded, slowly. “That’s nice of you.”
An awkwardness followed, and I struggled not to stare at the man. He was even more handsome out of uniform—wavy blond hair, clean shaven, and wearing a neat button-down shirt.
“Nice seeing you again,” I said. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Right. Take care.” He looked as if he wanted to add something else, but I didn’t hang around to hear what it was.
I had business to focus on. There were plenty more cupcakes to be served and Bee would need my help. Besides, Hanson was nothing more than a friend who had been kind to us during our stay at the campgrounds. There was no reason to be flustered around him or treat him differently to anyone else.
In the kitchen, I placed the tray on the granite topped kitchen island and grabbed one of the others that lined the counters. Moira was a popular woman, and if the ladies of the knitting club enjoyed our cupcakes, we might be asked to cater other events. We could always use more business.
“What are you doing here?” Bee asked, sweeping into the kitchen to drop off an empty tray. “You should be out there talking to Mr. Handsome.”
“Bee, I’m not interested in men at the moment. We’re going to leave in a few weeks, so why would I be?”
My friend sighed. “He likes you.”
“And I like cupcakes,” I replied. “But a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor for this situation.”
I waved away her complaint. “We’re having the time of our lives in Muffin. Let’s not ruin it by overcomplicating things.”
“Whatever you say.” One of the things I liked about Bee was that she never pressured me too much. She’d say what she had to say then move on from it rather than pressing the issue. “We’d better get out there. Those ladies need their energy—I overheard one of them say they’re about to do some sort of dance?”
I followed my best friend out into the living room area, where the ladies had gathered in front of a table. Moira and Violet sat waiting, occasionally making a comment to one another, the setting sun visible through the window, orange among the pink clouds.
“Ready ladies?” Violet called.
The women raised their knitting needles and clicked them together.
“This ought to be good,” Bee muttered, as we circled the group to get a better view.
“Three, two—” Violet cut off.
Moira had grabbed hold of the hostess’s arm. She clung to her, making strange faces.
“Moira?” Violet turned to her friend. “Moira, dear, what’s wrong?”
But Moira didn’t reply. She gaped, then keeled over sideways and dropped to the fancy parquet flooring, her eyes staring at nothing.
2
“That’s a total of… how many?” Bee asked, as she loaded another massive Tupperware container of cupcakes into the food truck.
I didn’t answer. My mouth was dry as coconut flour. The reflection of flashing red and blue lights painted the side of our food truck, masking its cheery green and pink stripes. The odd shout rang out as police officers and medics moved in and out of the front doors of the mansion. Night had come, removing the last vestiges of the day’s warmth.
“Nine,” Bee announced, taking another Tupperware from me. “That’s nine people who’ve died since we started working together.”
“Could you maybe not scream that at the top of your lungs?” I scanned the front of the mansion, but the other guests had either gotten into their cars and driven off or were engaged in talking either to the police or each other. No one had heard.
“Relax,” Bee said, dusting off her hands. “I’m just saying that we’re magnets for mystery and mayhem, that’s all. Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling us that we should have been a detective duo.”
I shook my head. “Bee. She’s not even dead. And it wasn’t a murder. She just had a heart attack or something.”
“That’s what they think now, but it’s still suspicious. She just happens to fall over the minute they’re about to start their little dance?” Bee asked. “I don’t like it. Look at all the statements the police are taking—they must know something we don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the EMS guys would have told them what was wrong. And if it’s a suspicious cause…”
“I’m sure you’re reading too much into it,” I said, more to comfort myself than her. Bee would greet a new mystery with excitement, whereas I’d had more than enough excitement to last me a lifetime. I was as curious as the next sleuth, but heavens, I needed a break from the intrigue. And the disaster.
“We’ll see,” Bee said, and headed for the house. “I’ll be back in a second. I forgot my purse.”
“All right.” I shut the side door of the food truck and circled around to the back. I leaned against it, my arms folded, watching the ebb and flow of people around the mansion.
What if Bee was right? What if this was a murder? Then whoever had done it hadn’t pulled it off properly—poor Moira wasn’t dead. Idle wonderings about what had happened and why filled my mind.
“—think you understand how serious I am about this.”
I frowned and searched for the woman who’d spoken. The mansion grounds were dark, but two figures stood one side of the house. Violet—the mansion owner—with her fluffy bright red hair, and another man I didn’t recognize. He had to be in his sixties, but the skin on his face was pulled taut, and his thick silver hair glinted by the light streaming from the living room windows.
“—can’t expect me to do that.”
“Well, it’s more important now than it ever was. You have to.”
The man muttered something indistinct, and I strained to hear him without moving.
“What?!” Violet stepped forward, raising a fist. “You what?”
“—relax.”
“I won’t relax until you—”
“She’s gone, Violet. She probably won’t even wake up, so why worry about it?”
“Keep your voice down!” Violet hissed and looked around.
I averted my gaze, feigning deafness, though my ears burned red hot. They were talking about Moira, I’d have bet my last cupcake on it, and they weren’t saying anything nice. But what did it mean? The man, whoever he was, had seemed relieved that Moira was gone, as he’d put it.
Violet beckoned to him and they retreated under the trees that bordered her property, further from the house and out of earshot. Whatever they had to discuss, they clearly didn’t want to do it in front of the officers or the other guests.
“Interesting,” I murmured.
“What is?”
I jumped and grabbed my chest. “Bee! You can’t sneak up on people like that.”
My bestie flashed me her gap-toothed grin. “I didn’t. You were staring off into space in a trance. I even called yo
ur name on the way over. Anyway, I got my purse.” She lifted it as evidence. “And we can go.”
“Right. Go.”
“That’s what I said.” Bee wriggled her nose. “You OK? You look like you just saw a meat-filled donut.”
“Eugh! That’s disgusting.”
“Exactly. What’s going on?”
I licked my lips. If I told Bee now, she’d want to know more. That or she’d demand we sneak off into the night and tail Violet and her mystery guy.
“Spill it, Holmes,” Bee said, pointing at me. “I know when you’re hiding something, and you know you won’t be able to keep it from me for long.”
“Fine.” I sighed. “But you have to promise you won’t come up with any wise ideas.”
“Define ‘wise ideas,’ please.”
“I’m not going spelunking in the woods again. Or tripping over anymore dead bodies.”
Bee crossed her heart. “Hope to die.”
That would have to be good enough for now. I told Bee what I’d just seen—Violet acting suspicious with the silver fox—and her expression transformed from curiosity to excitement.
“I knew it!” Bee clicked her fingers. “There’s a mystery a foot. Where are they? Which way did they go?”
“Bee. You promised. You crossed your heart.”
She grunted and grumbled, but finally agreed to get in the truck rather than rushing off into the woods to chase down Violet. “I still think it’s suspicious,” she said, once she was settled in the passenger seat. “And if I think it’s suspicious that means the police will too.”
“I hope you’re wrong.” I pulled out of the driveway, the mansion growing small in my rearview mirror, while thoughts of Moira and her collapse recurred.
Surely, this wasn’t another case of malintent and murder?
3
I couldn’t name a better way to start the day than with a breakfast from the Runaway Inn. Mrs. Rickleston’s chefs had outdone themselves again, offering a unique breakfast menu for the week that was so good, I wanted one of everything.
“Would you look at this,” I said, prodding the menu. “It’s unbelievable.”
“My mouth is watering.” Bee swiveled in her seat, checking out the rest of the hungry guests. Waiters served drinks or rushed to the kitchen to put in orders, and Bee flagged one of them down.
“Good morning, Miss Pine,” the waiter, Brody, said. “Miss Holmes. What can I get for you this morning?”
“I’ll take the bagel with cream cheese and honey,” Bee said. “And a cup of the strongest coffee you’ve got.”
“Absolutely. And for you, Miss Holmes?”
This was my favorite part of owning a food truck and traveling to new places—eating different types of food. And meeting the locals. We’d already done our prep on the truck, so we could spend this breakfast hour focusing on nothing but the cuisine. Maybe, we’d pick up a great idea for a sweet treat to adapt for the truck.
“I’ll take the chocolate French toast and an omelet. Oh, and some coffee. And then a glass of orange juice, please.” I handed him the menu.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks!” Brody smiled before leaving us.
“I swear, you’ve got to be getting up in the middle of the night to do cardio or something,” Bee said. “How do you maintain your weight?”
“Nervous energy,” I replied. “Especially when people are passing out or dying left, right and center.”
“A bit of an overstatement.” Bee patted the morning newspaper which she’d laid on the neat white tablecloth once we’d sat down. “The headlines say Moira’s not dead. You were right, she just passed out, but get this, the police are looking for a suspect.”
“Huh?”
“Apparently, it’s a case of attempted murder. Someone tried to poison her, though we don’t know what the poison was. You know how what the cops are like—they only release what’s absolutely necessary for their investigation.”
“So, they released that she was poisoned?” I asked.
“Oh no,” Bee replied. “No, no. They only said attempted murder. Mrs. Rickleston let slip that she heard from her friend Mildred that it was poison.”
I frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. How would she have been poisoned? It wasn’t like she was eating or drinking anything before she fell over. She was just… well, sitting there.”
“Watching the weird needle dance.” Bee tapped her fingers together in mockery of the knitting needles.
“Right. So how could it be poison?”
“There are slow-acting poisons,” Bee said.
“And ineffective ones, apparently. She’s not even dead.”
“Don’t sound so regretful.”
“Oh, that’s horrible, Bee! I’m not regretful. Moira seemed like a nice woman, and I wouldn’t want to see anyone come to harm,” I replied, worrying the edge of the tablecloth between my thumbs and index fingers.
“I’m teasing you,” my friend replied. “I know you wouldn’t hurt a fly. You nearly pass out any time something like this happens.”
“Do you blame me?”
“No,” Bee said. “Though I’ll admit, I thought you were feeling faint before Moira dropped… unconscious. Thought maybe that had something to do with the detective we saw at the party last night.”
“Detective Wilkes?” I feigned innocence.
Bee scoffed and rolled her eyes. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Hanson. He’s in town.”
“Yeah, for his grandmother. Who’s now in hospital after someone tried to murder her,” I replied, bluntly. “I think it’s fair to say that he’s got more important matters to worry about than me. And I have more important things to focus on other than romance. You know that.”
“I know that a summer romance would be good for you,” Bee said, sagely.
Brody arrived with our drinks and saved me from answering. Bless him.
I slurped down orange juice, enjoying the tangy freshness while Bee sipped her coffee and shut her eyes, cooing her gratitude at how strong it was. Bee couldn’t make it through the day without enough caffeine.
“Anyway, we don’t have to worry about any of this,” I said. “Hopefully, Moira will recover and tell the police who would want to target her. And we can continue baking and—”
“If you suggest we don’t check this out, I may barf.”
“Barf?” I snorted. “Who even says barf nowadays?”
“I say barf.”
“Can you stop saying barf please?” I set my orange juice aside and rubbed my stomach.
“Why, are you going to—?”
“Bee!”
“Fine, fine,” she laughed. “No more ‘barfing’ and no more talk about the handsome detective. He’s the Voldemort in your life. Without the snake eyes and bald head.”
“Good,” I said. “We’ve got plenty to do today. Baked goods to serve on the truck and Lucy’s expecting us for a nail appointment this afternoon.”
“Ooh, she’ll have all the gossip on what’s going on. I bet she knows exactly who Moira’s enemies were.”
A booming laugh cut across Bee’s words, and we both turned in our chairs.
Mrs. Rickleston stood just inside the dining area, smiling at a man who wasn’t a guest, but who was familiar to me. He leaned in, talking intimately with Mrs. Rickleston, and she simpered and swooned.
“That’s him,” I whispered. “The man from last night who was talking to Violet.”
“Oh yeah?” Bee narrowed her eyes. “Who is he?”
“No idea, but look how flirty he is with Mrs. Rickleston,” I said. “I’ve never seen her giggle like that before.”
The man winked at our host then walked through the dining area, greeting people along the way, pausing to shake hands, exchange a couple of words or a laugh. Finally, he took a seat and was immediately tended to by a waiter.
“He must be a local celebrity or something,” Bee said.
“Heads up. Here comes Mrs. Rickleston.”
The owner of the Runaway Inn had reached the table next to ours. She asked them how their food was, smiled at the answer, all while glancing over at the mystery man, then made for us.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said, cheerily, patting her gray hair. “How are you this morning?”
“We’re fine,” I replied. “How are you?”
“Oh good, good.” She hadn’t even looked me in the eye yet, she was so intent on the charming guy. “You know. Good.”
“So, you’re good then?” Bee’s lips twitched at the corners.
“Hmm. Yes.”
“Mrs. Rickleston,” I said. “Who is that man? The one you were talking to?”
“The one that’s going to make your eyeballs pop clean out of your skull in a second, if you don’t stop staring.”
Mrs. Rickleston colored pink. She tore herself away from her new favorite pastime: watching the new guy. “Oh, Beatrice, you and your words.”
“As opposed to me and my irritation,” Bee muttered.
“Who is he?” I spoke over my friend, since her bad moods wouldn’t exactly put Mrs. Rickleston in the talking mood. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes, he is. Just a friend, mind you, nothing more and nothing less.” She patted her hair again. “That’s Harry Dean. He’s a very important man, the president of the town council, you see. Powerful.” She gave a little shiver. “If you’ll excuse me.” She headed for the next table, nearly tripping over her own shoes.
“A town council member,” I said, eying Harry Dean.
“Don’t you start. No wonder he laughs like a foghorn—if his head gets any bigger it will envelope the room,” Bee said. “The last thing he needs is a pretty young woman checking him out.”
“I’m curious about what he was doing at the party. And why he was talking to Violet last night afterward, that’s all.” And then there were the things he’d said and what they meant and—
“Ruby,” Bee hissed, and squeezed my arm.
Detective Wilkes had just stepped into the dining area. His gaze fell on us, and it was my turn to shiver—I’d seen the “I need to talk to you” look too many times before. The only question was, what could he want from us this time?
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