The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  “I read what it said, Miss Pine.”

  “Then you’ve got to do something.”

  I had to agree. Surely, they couldn’t have enough to hold Lucy when there was evidence that pointed to the involvement of someone else. “There are people who had a vested interest in hurting Lucy,” I said, “that much is clear.”

  “Leave the investigations to me, ladies,” Wilkes said.

  “You always say that. And you always wind up relying on us to help you out.” Bee might’ve taken it too far.

  Wilkes glared at her like she’d just said an unspeakable word, sucking his teeth. “Ma’am—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Bee said. “I know what it means when you call me that, and I won’t take it, detective. You’re not going to warn me about anything because we haven’t done anything wrong. But you have. Lucy is innocent.”

  “Lucy Cornwall has been arrested and will be charged with Drake Haynes’ murder. Nothing you do is going to change that.” The detective was stiff as a board. Wilkes had never been cruel, but now, he was angry as raccoon with a sore rear-end.

  “But what about the person we saw in there?” I asked, pointing up at the house.

  “This mysterious ‘figure’ in the hoodie, as you put it, is nowhere to be found.”

  Bee bristled. “So, what, you’re saying that we made it up? Why? Because we’re so desperate to interfere?”

  Wilkes’ lips thinned. “Stay out of it.” He pointed first at Bee and then at me.

  I opened my mouth to argue with him, but he walked off before I could get a word out.

  “That man is a pain in the neck. I ought to…” Bee trailed off, the chirp of crickets filling the silence.

  “What do you think?” I asked, after a beat.

  “I think that he’s being stubborn, and he doesn’t like that we’re involved again,” Bee said. “Then again, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out, does it?”

  “But why is he being stubborn, that’s the question. Obviously, the letters aren’t irrefutable evidence, but surely he has to take them into account.”

  Bee scratched her chin. “Hmm.”

  “What?” I scanned Lucy’s cute home. One of the officers bumped into a hanging potted plant and it swung wildly while he tried to catch it and stop it. It bonked him in the face, and he backed up, rubbing his nose.

  “Hmm.”

  “Bee, what is it?”

  “They must have something concrete if they’re keeping Lucy. That or what we’ve given them just isn’t enough for Wilkes to reopen the investigation,” Bee said. “Which doesn’t bode well for poor Lucy. It could be that they have more than circumstantial evidence.”

  “What do we do?”

  Bee was quiet for a while, and we both watched the activity around the home. Some of Lucy’s neighbors had come out to take a peek at what was going on. They either stood out on the sidewalk or on their front porches with cups of coffee. One guy even had a bag of popcorn.

  The atmosphere in Muffin was different. People were intrigued and as gossipy as ever, but they were cautious too. It was the murder of a celebrity. That kind of news struck at the heart of a town because it brought national attention.

  Heavens, we’d noticed the media was more involved this morning—they’d been vans parked outside the police station, cameras and people with microphones too.

  “Bee? What can we do about this?”

  “Let’s get back to the Runaway,” my friend said, and looped her arm through mine. “We’ll discuss it. I can’t bring myself to believe that Lucy did this, no matter how strange it is that she had gunpowder residue on her hands and that she was missing at the time the shots were fired. Something doesn’t add up here.”

  “But,” I said, once we’d reached the food truck, “what if Lucy wrote the letters to herself? She could have done that.”

  “Is that what you truly believe?” Bee asked. “That she did all of this? Rubes, we literally just saw someone in her home.”

  “Right. I know. Of course. I’m just trying to be cautious.” As much as I adored Lucy, I was afraid that she would wind up being the one who’d done it. That would betray our trust, and I didn’t want the disappointment. Better to assume the worst.

  “It wasn’t Lucy,” Bee said, with certainty. “You know me, Ruby, I don’t assume anything unless I have the evidence to back it up, but this time… something very strange is going on.”

  11

  For the second time since we’d moved into the Runaway Inn, Bee and I decided that it would be better to grab something to eat from a local restaurant and bring it back, rather than eat at the inn itself.

  Mrs. Rickleston wouldn’t approve, but I couldn’t force myself to care. She’d been acting strangely for a while now—ever since she’d had a fight with Lucy over nail polish. Still, we’d had to slip past the front desk holding our pizza boxes while Mrs. Rickleston glared at us through narrowed eyes.

  “She’s not endearing herself to me,” Bee said, placing our pizzas on the coffee table in her small suite.

  “Is it just me or has she changed?”

  “Might be perspective. She was friendly when we arrived, and we had no reason to expect anything ill of her. But now…”

  I checked the door was locked. Just in case. Then again, a lock wouldn’t stop Mrs. Rickleston, or anyone else, from spying on us. She could simply press her ear to the door and eavesdrop.

  “Poor Lucy.” The sentiment had run through my mind on repeat over the past few days. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “Or, she did.” Bee flipped open the first pizza box.

  We’d gotten two, one pepperoni and the other a spicy chicken number that I’d wanted to try—there were sliced chili peppers on it. The delicious cheesy scent filled the room, and I grabbed a napkin and a slice.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, then took a bite. The cheese was melty and stringy and the chili peppers were hot as heck, but boy was it tasty.

  “Well, you were the one who was particularly suspicious of her.” Bee took an armchair, holding a slice of the pepperoni. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you were right. Of course, you were right. We must investigate every angle if we’re going to clear Lucy. Or not clear Lucy.”

  “What about your feeling that Lucy didn’t do it?”

  “Hmm.” Bee chewed. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. It’s more of a feeling that something isn’t quite right. Just look at what we walked in on when we arrived at her house.”

  The strange, shadowy figure. Gosh, after the last murder we’d investigated, I’d had just about enough of strange figures wearing hoodies.

  “Now, I’m not saying they were the murderer. They might’ve been a petty thief taking advantage of Lucy’s terrible situation, but if so, why do it so quickly? News travels fast in Muffin, but does it travel fast enough that they’d arrive so soon after she’d been arrested?”

  “I wish we’d gotten a better look at what was in that bag.”

  “Regardless,” Bee said, between chews, “we’ve got a lead. Lucy’s guns were stolen. And there were the letters she’d received.”

  “Why didn’t she tell us about them?” I asked.

  Bee wiped her fingers on the napkin then grabbed her purse and brought out her iPad. She’d bought one just last week and hadn’t given up using it since. She set it on the coffee table and opened a notes app. “Let’s write up a suspects list.”

  “OK. Sure.”

  “First has to be Lucy,” Bee said, typing our friend’s name. “She was missing at the time of the murder, and she’d been unhappy earlier on in the day about all the female attention Drake had been getting.”

  “And the gunpowder residue on her hands.”

  “Right.” Bee put that in. “Then there’s…”

  Mrs. Rickleston. Bee typed it out. Wanted Drake out of the Inn after discovering he was dating Lucy and had a longstanding grudge against her.

  “Do you think that’s enou
gh motive? We don’t even know whether she was at the concert,” I said.

  “Still worth noting down.” Bee paused, tapping her chin. “Who else?”

  “The hooded figure, identity unknown.”

  Hooded figure. Bee put that at the very bottom, as an extra note to consider later.

  “Ah!” I flung up a finger, flicking grease onto my blouse. I grimaced and dabbed it with a clean napkin. “The manager. I saw Nathan Bratte, the manager on the stage after Drake collapsed. He’d been holding something in his hand.”

  “A gun?”

  “I don’t know.” If only I’d caught a better look at him. “But he ran off right away.”

  Nathan Bratte. Drake’s manager. No motive ascertained yet but didn’t seem unhappy about Drake’s death. Was out in Muffin, jogging in the park the very next morning. Knows Mrs. Rickleston.

  We wracked our brains for more, but I couldn’t think of anyone else. “What about the clues?” I asked. “There’s the way Drake was shot, and the fact that he was getting a lot of female attention. Could be that some jealous stalker attacked him.”

  “Could be,” Bee agreed. “That would suit the letters Lucy received. Someone wanting to hurt her because she was with Drake, but the motive is a little weak and I’m not sure that the letters really said anything like that.”

  “I took a picture of them,” I said, taking my phone out of my pocket. I unlocked the screen and opened my picture gallery. “Let’s see. Here’s one we didn’t read.” I cleared my throat. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. I will make sure that you never forget.”

  “That doesn’t sound like it’s related to Drake, but more like it’s an act that Lucy committed.”

  “Like messing up the nail polish color on someone’s nails?” I raised an eyebrow. “Or… what was it that Mrs. Rickleston thought Lucy did? Got her appointment at another salon cancelled.”

  A knock came at Bee’s bedroom door, and we both jumped. Thankfully, I wasn’t holding a slice of pizza anymore—the grease would’ve gone everywhere—but I did drop my phone with a clatter. I picked it up, praying that the screen wasn’t cracked, then breathed a sigh of relief.

  Bee got up and answered the door. “Oh, good evening, Jamie.”

  The ever-handsome ex-detective entered the room, his gaze immediately latching onto me.

  Those pesky butterflies in my stomach decided now was a great time to start a revolt.

  “Jamie,” I said.

  “Sorry to bother you. I tried calling, but I got no answer.”

  I looked down at the notifications on my screen. I’d been ignoring all missed calls and messages today. “Oh, I didn’t see. I mean… we were busy.”

  “No problem,” Jamie replied, lifting his palms. “I just wanted to check you were all right. After what happened, everyone’s on edge.”

  “Come in.” Bee grinned. “Have some pizza. We were just talking about the murder and the suspects.”

  “Suspects, eh? You two are at it again, I take it. Bet Wilkes is happy about that.” Jamie shut the door then came over and helped himself to a slice. He sat on the floor nearest my armchair, completely at ease with himself. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a white buttoned shirt. These days, he was always well put together.

  Maybe, I was just noticing him more. “Wilkes doesn’t technically know.” I’d found my voice. “And we’re going to keep it that way.”

  Jamie bit into his pizza. “He won’t find out from me. I’m definitely not friends with any of the detectives in this town after the last case they investigated.” They’d taken an interest in Jamie during that one. “So, who are your suspe—oh!”

  “What?” Bee’s eyes widened.

  Jamie made a choked noise and dropped the slice of pizza in the cardboard lid, pointing at his throat. “W-water. Water!”

  Panic drained the blood from my face and adrenaline rushed through me. Was he choking? Poisoned? Was—?

  Bee sprang into action, laughing, and brought back a glass of water from the bathroom. “Not a fan of chili peppers then, Hanson?”

  He mumbled something indistinct before practically drowning himself in the glass.

  I settled back in the armchair, the tension slowing winding out of me. I’d been convinced the pizza was poisoned for a moment—it just went to show how many murders we’d witnessed or investigated of late. That and how much I’d started caring about Jamie.

  Just those few moments of choking had instilled more fear in me than Drake’s death had.

  Hanson glugged down two full glasses of water, refilling them himself, then stuck out his tongue and fanned it with his hand. “Still not working, but oh well.” He sniffed. “What I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted was… who are your suspects? And, by the way, why on earth are you eating pizza that was made by the devil himself?”

  “Ruby’s idea,” Bee said, and handed him the iPad. “Take a look at our list for yourself.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Rickleston is on the list.” Fine lines wrinkled his tan forehead. “You’ve mentioned her because of nail polish?”

  “Yeah.” I explained to him what had happened between Mrs. Rickleston and Lucy before he’d come to Muffin.

  “Ah, see, now that’s interesting. I saw Mrs. Rickleston down at the nail salon the other day. Just a few days before the murder, I’d say. Maybe… three?”

  “Really?” Bee lurched forward in her chair. “What was she doing?”

  “Peering through the windows. I remember thinking it was strange because of how anxious she seemed. She was pacing back and forth and then she scribbled something on a slip of paper and… well, I didn’t see what she did with it because I turned the corner. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. Wasn’t my place to worry about what she was and wasn’t doing.”

  Bee and I exchanged a glance.

  Mrs. Rickleston near the nail salon? That was about as likely as a mouse taking a nap in a cat’s lap. She hated the Hashtag Nailed It Salon. And now, just a few days later, Lucy was behind bars and had been threatened, and her boyfriend was dead.

  The plot was as thick as lumpy custard.

  12

  If there was one good thing about this week, it was that the rainbow cake in a cup had sold like crazy. People loved the ease of grabbing a cup and a little wooden spoon and feasting on delicious cake.

  “We have to make something else like this,” I said, tucking into one on our quick break before brunch.

  “I’m open to any and all ideas.”

  “What about… cheesecake in a cup?”

  “Yum. Strawberry cheesecake. The fridge kind,” Bee said. “I detest baked cheesecake. Feels just like eating a wheel of cheese to me, I’m not sure why.”

  “I love baked cheesecake,” I replied. “Creamy and filling and… what? Bee? You’ve got a really weird look on your face.”

  Bee and I had leaned against the back counter of the truck to take our break, both with a cup of coffee a piece and a view of the park, the duck pond, and the church on the hill far above to relax us before the lunch rush started. But now, Bee’s expression had gone hyper-focused rather than relaxed and blank as it had been only moments before.

  “Hello?”

  “There, look, sitting under one of the gazebos.” She pointed out into the sun. “Who is that girl and why is she crying? She looks so familiar.”

  I put down my coffee and cake, squinting out into the early afternoon. A young woman with dark hair sat on a bench under the gazebo, clasping her hands around her pregnant stomach, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking.

  “I know her,” I said. “That’s uh, what was her name? She’s staying at the Runaway Inn. She was worried about there being a murderer on the loose, what with her being pregnant and all.”

  “I don’t think anyone needs motivation to be concerned about killers roaming the streets,” Bee replied.

  “Gosh, what is her na
me? It’s eluding me now.” I wracked my brain, and a customer came up to the counter to be served in the interim. Bee took care of them while I kicked myself for the blind spot in my memory.

  “Becca!” I yelped. “That’s it. Becca Sherer.”

  “Good heavens. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Bee clutched her chest, and the customer, an elderly woman with puffy plum colored hair and bright blue eyes, did the same.

  “Dear, you can’t do that to women our age,” she said.

  “Our age?” Bee frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Simply that women of our age have to be careful of shocks like that. We’re prone to heart attacks and collapse.”

  “I am not prone to anything of the kind,” Bee replied. “Now, what was it you wanted? Rainbow cake? Or applesauce?”

  “That’s not funny,” the woman said, pruning up her lips.

  That was my cue to get out of here before things got out of hand. I probably should have stayed to mediate and disperse the tension, but I was too intrigued by Becca. Why was she crying in the park?

  What if something terrible had happened that we didn’t know about? Heavens, she was staying at the Runaway Inn, so she might’ve run into Mrs. Rickleston or witnessed something or…

  Don’t let your imagination run wild. She’s probably feeling hormonal.

  Regardless, I excused myself from Bee’s snippy conversation with the customer, brushed my hands off on my Bite-sized Bakery apron and headed off down the trail that wound past the duck pond and into the park.

  Muffin’s park was lovely—far better than the square of green that’d served as the park in the last town we’d visited, Carmel Springs—but the crying pregnant woman put a damper on the mood.

  I reached Becca just as she drew a tissue from her pocket and rubbed it beneath either eye. She’d smudged her mascara and looked up at me with eyes that would’ve suited a raccoon—black encircled in a pale face. “Hello,” she said. “Sorry, I was just leaving if you want to take the bench.”