by Darci Hannah
“Like getting you to prep the sandwich counter for him or clean the panini maker?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes at her.
“We’re friends.” Alaina turned her attention to me and asked, “Can I tell him when he gets here? He’s not only going to love delivering the Christmas cakes, he’s going to love convincing people to sign for them too. I doubt Tom has the charm to pull that off.”
“Hey?” Tom’s hands were in midair as he looked at her. “I have plenty of charm.” To make his point, he graced us with his dazzling smile. One thing was certain. He had a great dentist.
But Tom’s white-toothed smile hadn’t moved Alaina the way it used to. Apparently, she was now immune to it. Smart girl, I silently applauded. But when did that happen? I’d been too busy to notice before, but on closer inspection, Tom and Elizabeth seemed very comfortable together. In fact, they had grown exceptionally close over the holidays. Was there a romance budding between the two? And what about Alaina and Ryan?
But I didn’t have time to dwell on the possible budding romances happening around me. I had a bakery to run.
We opened our doors to the usual rush of caffeine seekers, Danish lovers, and donut dunkers. The comforting melody of friendly gossip drowned out the soft Christmas music playing in the background. Wendy and Alaina were cheerfully working the counter as Tom and Elizabeth whipped up an astonishing array of our specialty holiday drinks. Ryan wasn’t due to come in until after the morning rush.
“How ya holding up, Bakewell?” Sergeant Murdock was standing in line for her peppermint mocha when she addressed me. I had just come out of the kitchen with a tray of warm, gooey cinnamon rolls. Did she know I’d been meddling in her murder investigation? I prayed not, but I could feel the blood drain from my face as I tossed her a wan smile in response.
“I’ll have one of those.” Tuck, coming to my rescue, stood beside his boss. He looked a bit tired, and I could only venture a guess as to why. “They look delicious, Lindsey. Hey, Sergeant Murdock and I were just talking about some footage we acquired from the bake-off. I suggested to her that Mrs. Nichols might be willing to take a look at it. Is she still here?”
Judging by the looks of it, Tuck had spilled the beans before Murdock was ready to broach the subject. But the question had been asked, and the sergeant decided to run with it. Plucking two complimentary cinnamon rolls from the tray, I put them on plates and led Sergeant Murdock and Officer Cutie Pie to a private table where we could talk. Unfortunately, the entire town was still reeling from the murder of the Christmas cookie critic, and more than a few curious eyes followed us.
“Look,” Murdock began, attempting a conversational tone. “You know how I feel about citizen crime solvers. I don’t like ’em. I don’t much like anything that will put a citizen of this town in danger. That being said, I’m also aware that we can’t solve a crime without the help of witnesses. It’s a thin line, Bakewell. A witness is not an investigator.” She felt the need to emphasize this by raising a brow at me.
“I understand.” In theory, I really did, but I also knew that sometimes snooping couldn’t be helped. It brought to mind my innocent-looking red velvet cakes cooling on the kitchen counter.
Murdock cut her cinnamon roll with a fork and took a bite. There was nothing to soothe the savage beast, I thought, like a mouthful of warm bread slathered in butter and sugar. “It’s a matter of these cookie-nappers.” She pointed her fork at me while still chewing. “We think they might have more to do with this case than we originally thought.”
“I see.”
“And Mrs. Nichols is the only one who can identify all three,” Tuck added helpfully, pretending we hadn’t already discussed this in private.
Murdock took another bite and nodded, her wispy blond bangs fluttering as she did so. “Do you think she’d mind coming down to the station with us?”
A short while later, Mrs. Nichols left the kitchen to accompany Sergeant Murdock to the police station. I thanked her for her help and told her to take the rest of the day off. The moment they were out the door, I sent Kennedy a text. No doubt she was still in bed somewhere.
Officer Cutie Pie just left with Mrs. Nichols to look at the bake-off footage. Work your magic on him. I’d like to know if any of those women were caught on camera.
She replied with a lazy, K.
A few hours later, Ryan arrived. As Wendy and I boxed up the festively frosted Christmas cakes, Alaina told him my plan.
Ryan held me with his charmer’s smile. “Why, this is most devious of you, boss. But I love it. You’ve put the right man on the job. For the record, I’m placing my money on that whack-job, Mrs. Stewart.”
Me too, I thought, then sent him on his way.
CHAPTER 34
As the hours dragged on and Ryan still hadn’t returned, I was beginning to wonder if my plan had backfired. He’d had four cakes to deliver in exchange for signatures. There was no guarantee my crazy plan was going to work. Just as there was no guarantee that the crazy killer wouldn’t catch on to what Ryan was doing and call his bluff. That would be bad. This last thought prompted me to pull out my iPhone. I was about to call Ryan when Bradley Argyle walked through the bakeshop doors.
“Lindsey,” he said with a wave. He marched up to the counter with a big grin on his face. I suspected I knew what had caused such a grin. I had sent him a cake, and now guilt was threatening to knock me on the head.
“Bradley, so nice to see you.” I smiled back at him, pretending I didn’t know why he had come to the Beacon. “Have you recovered from that disastrous bake-off? What a fiasco that turned out to be.”
He gave a slight huff in response. “What I’d like to know is what idiot invited that clown to Beacon Harbor in the first place?”
I’m sure my eyes were as wide as saucers. “You didn’t know?”
This time Bradley grinned. “Of course, I know. Felicity Stewart. Wish I’d had the forethought to protest her silly bake-off before it all started, but hindsight’s the devil to live with. I hear she’s the prime suspect in his murder.” A pitying look crossed his face as he shook his head. “And here I was even beginning to like the guy after he awarded my turtle-topped brown butter shortbread cookie first place.”
“It was well-deserved.”
I thought he’d be happy with my compliment, but his face darkened. “I’m not so sure,” he said, looking troubled. “It’s a good cookie, but all of us—with the exception of Felicity—had great entries. No. I got the feeling he was placating me.”
“Really? Why?” I found it curious he should think so.
Again, he shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because he was so obviously flirting with all of you women? He was trying to stir the pot between all of us, trying to create animosity.”
“Or more drama,” I offered. “Remember, the cameras were rolling.”
“He didn’t flirt with me, thank God, but he was taking subtle jabs at the fact that I worked at a hotel restaurant in a small, touristy town.”
Mrs. Nichols’s voice popped into my head. “Chevy is a very naughty man.” He certainly was, but why go after Bradley? It prompted me to ask, “Did you know him?”
He stared at me a moment, as if not hearing what I had asked. But then he shook his head. “I knew of him. But no. I didn’t know him.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I declared and offered to make him a coffee drink. “We’re almost closed for the day, but why don’t we sit at a table? I’d like to hear what Chevy told you. Maybe you saw or heard something important to this case?”
Bradley politely declined my offer. “Thanks, but I just got off work. I didn’t come to complain about a dead man, and I really don’t want to talk about him either. I came to thank you for the cake.”
I knew it! My stupid plan! The subtle deceit of it caused a wave of butterflies fluttering uncomfortably in my stomach. I instantly regretted sending a cake to this man. The writing on the note had been that of a woman’s, but I’d thought it was important to leav
e no stone unturned. I looked at the chef and forced a smile. “Glad you liked it.”
“It’s beautiful. I’m sure it’ll taste as good as it looks. You know, I’ve been so busy at the restaurant, and with that ridiculous bake-off stuff thrown into the mix, I haven’t had time to make anything for Christmas. By the way, I’d like to know who sent it?”
It was hard to stare into the eyes of another and offer a bald-faced lie. As a former investment banker, I couldn’t do it to a client, so why did I consider doing it now? I decided to take the middle ground and play up the mystery angle.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth when I began to look around for one of my employees to come to my rescue. But Ryan was still out, Tom had gone home, and the girls were in the back cleaning up for the day.
“Come on,” he prodded, pulling my attention back to him. “Was it a woman?” He looked so hopeful.
“Ahh . . . yes,” I conceded. “But that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“Was she pretty?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Was she older or younger?”
“Older.” Why did I say that?
“God, it wasn’t my mother, was it?” I didn’t know his mother, but the thought clearly was freaking us both out.
“Betty Vanhoosen!” I blurted, the name popping into my head at the very worst moment. But it was out, and there was no taking it back. “There you have it. Such a sweetheart. But please don’t tell her that I told you.”
The name appeared to satisfy him. “Betty,” he softly mused. “Not quite what I was hoping for, but it makes sense. Thanks, Lindsey. See you around.”
As he turned to go, I happened to look out the window. Ryan was coming up the front walkway. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that my fears had gotten the best of me. The thick-set young man with the kind face and jaunty smile came through the door just as Bradley was heading out. The younger man raised a hand in greeting. The other hand, I saw, was holding the four signed receipts.
Bradley followed Ryan with his eyes as he headed for the counter. Then, however, he caught sight of me. My heart sank. This time his expression wasn’t open and friendly but fraught with question.
CHAPTER 35
Baking calmed my nerves, but the kitchen had been cleaned for the day and I wasn’t about to muck it up again. Instead, I turned to the espresso machine and began making three gingerbread lattes as I waited for Rory and Kennedy to arrive. Ryan, that industrious young man, had come through like a champ. Not only had he gotten each recipient to sign the receipt, but he had also gotten them to add a Christmas word, his own holiday challenge. The kid was a genius.
Before Ryan had left on his sneaky errand, we had discussed the objective, which was to get a sample of each person’s handwriting. The four Christmas cakes I made were to be delivered to my fellow contestants plus one: Stanley Stewart. Since we felt the note had been written by a woman, Bradley Argyle was a long shot, but I felt that I had to include him for consistency. I didn’t know what his handwriting looked like. He could have written the note (who was I to judge the gender of handwriting?), although I really couldn’t see him having any clear motive to harm Chevy. But I wasn’t crossing anyone off my suspect list yet.
Stanley, on the other hand, had motive and opportunity to do the deed. His wife also owned the murder weapon . . . or the suspected murder weapon, at any rate. He could easily have taken it when he walked onto the stage to remove his wife. But why would he use his wife’s antique rolling pin? Maybe it was all that was at hand? Or maybe he was trying to frame her for Chevy’s murder—a sinister form of punishment for having an affair with the celebrity food critic and causing his public humiliation? In my opinion, anything was possible where Stanley Stewart was concerned—even hiring three unknown women to steal my cookies and harass Chevy Chambers.
And speaking of hiring women, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that he might have even been sly enough to get his young secretary to write the note that had lured Chevy to that quiet corner of the hotel for him. True, I had never seen Alyssa before our visit to Tartan Solutions, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been present at the Beacon Harbor Christmas Festival.
“Signatures are very personal and sloppy,” Ryan had told me upon his return with the receipts. “That’s when I decided to challenge them to write a Christmas word next to their name—in honor of the season. I used the word mistletoe as an example.”
“What a clever young man you are,” I had told him.
The compliment had made him blush. His head dropped with embarrassment as he shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked up again and brushed a rogue lock of brown hair out of his eyes. “I found it interesting that only one person didn’t write mistletoe next to their name. Not everyone is swayed by the power of suggestion.” I got the feeling he knew more than he was letting on.
It wasn’t until Ryan left that I looked at the four receipts. The moment I did, the annoying children’s song kept playing in my head on a broken loop. “One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. . . .” I blamed Sesame Street and the word Rudolph that jumped off the receipt in round, lovely strokes. Why couldn’t the writer have just written mistletoe like everyone else had? I looked again and understood. Guilt. The last time the word had been written in such a manner, a man had died. The name next to it, written in equally lovely strokes, caused my heart to pound out an uncomfortable rhythm that was at odds with the song. Calm down, I told myself, calm down. But instead of heeding my own thoughts, I took a sip of my gingerbread latte. There were just some things you had to face head-on, with a fresh dose of caffeine pumping through your veins.
* * *
I had run around the lighthouse grounds with Wellington and the models four times before I spied Kennedy driving up the lighthouse driveway in my Jeep. Running through snow was exhausting, but they needed the exercise, and I needed to calm down. We ran over to the boathouse, where Kennedy was in the process of parking my vehicle. I knocked on the window, startling her.
“What are you doing?” She looked confused and, if truth be told, a little guilty as well. I didn’t care that she had taken the Jeep to have a romantic Christmas lunch with Officer Cutie Pie, if that was what she’d been doing. I was on edge. Running with the dogs had done all of us some good, but I needed a second pair of eyes on those receipts.
“I made you a latte. Rory should be over soon. I need you to look at something.”
“My dear friend, how many times have I told you that I am not a doctor?”
“This isn’t about a suspicious, misshapen mole.”
“Thank God. In that case, I shall venture a friendly observation. Lay off the caffeine. It’s affecting your brain. Point in fact, it’s freezing out here, and you’re not wearing a coat.”
“I’m exercising the dogs,” I explained, turning back toward the Beacon. “I need you in the bakeshop.”
“You have been a busy little bee today, haven’t you?” Kennedy looked genuinely impressed when I told her what I had done. In spite of her own advice, she took a sip of her latte. “You’ve managed to get handwriting samples from all our current suspects. And here, I thought we were meeting to plan a daring raid on private journals and grocery lists.”
“Not quite. Making and delivering cakes was easier.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” she remarked and took out her phone.
After some convincing, Kennedy had gotten the image of the note from Mom. She opened it up and began studying the four receipts. I hadn’t told her what I had discovered. I wanted to see if she came to the same conclusion.
Just as Kennedy set to work, Rory came into the café. After a tail-wagging greeting from three happy dogs, he took a seat beside me. Brinkley and Ireland settled under the table, while Welly wedged himself between Rory and me. I was bringing him up to speed on what we were doing when Kennedy exclaimed, “We have a match!”
&
nbsp; “What? Really?” Apparently, Rory didn’t think Operation Christmas Cake would actually work.
“Look here.” She passed us her phone and the receipt in question. “Granted, it’s not much to go by, but it’s remarkably close.”
Rory, after a skeptical lift of his brow, studied the photo of the note and the signature on the receipt. He then took the other receipts from Kennedy and studied those as well. As he did, I silently prayed that I had missed something important. When Rory finally looked up and held me in his singular gaze, I knew that my prayer had gone unanswered.
“Lindsey . . .” The tone of his voice was warning enough.
“I know,” I said. “I looked at all the receipts the moment Ryan had left. I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.” I then explained how Ryan had asked each cake recipient to write a Christmas word next to their name, and the fact that he had used mistletoe as a suggestion.
Rory, thoughtfully stroking his firm, square chin, offered, “It’s either a sign of laziness, a lack of creativity, or an admission of guilt.”
“And she seemed relatively normal,” Kennedy offered. “Shall I call Tuck?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Let me speak with Ginger first. If she really did write that damaging note, there must be a reason.”
Kennedy’s face filled with concern. “I thought the reason was obvious. Murder!”
CHAPTER 36
Ginger Brooks lived in a little bungalow a block and a half from her ice cream shop. It was slightly farther for me, but I insisted on walking to her quiet neighborhood as I always did, arguing that it would be less suspicious that way. Rory had wanted to go with me, referring to Ginger’s home as the “Devil’s Den” (men were so ridiculous!). Although I wanted him to come, I had argued against it on the grounds that it might inhibit her from being candid with me. Regarding Kennedy, my argument was much the same. Ginger might be suspicious if both of us showed up on her doorstep uninvited. Also, and what I didn’t add for the sake of my friendship with Kennedy, was that her newfound desire to impress the village’s youngest and hottest cop might induce her to do something crazy. With Kennedy, conversations were always in danger of going off the rails. But the fact that she had been the one to confirm the handwriting for me had gone to her head. I didn’t need her going rogue and bursting through Ginger’s door with a gotcha moment. Nope, Kennedy was just fine doing what she was doing, which was communicating via text with Tuck. According to Kennedy, Mrs. Nichols was still at the police station going through footage with Sergeant Murdock. So far, there had been no sightings of the three mysterious women referred to as the cookie-nappers. A troubling thought had occurred to me. Could they have been working for Ginger? I hoped not. But honestly, I didn’t know what to think anymore.