Bee did a scooch of her own, and we put out heads together. “We don’t have any real suspects except for Clayton Babcock and Ava. We disregarded the wife the last time around and that was a mistake. We should keep our eyes on her.”
“But what would her motive have been?” I asked. “She’s clearly upset over her husband’s passing, and there hasn’t even been a whisper about marital problems.”
“Hasn’t there? I think we’ll have to speak to Millie before we decide on that.”
“Poor Millie,” I said. “She’s got enough on her plate at the moment. You heard Greta the other day. She was adamant she’d change the whole paper around. Being the editor is Millie’s life.”
Bee gave a doleful nod. “True. Millie deserves better than that. But we’re getting off-track. What about the Babcock?”
“I find it really weird that everyone calls him that. It really makes him sound like a mythical creature.”
“Well, he certainly gives speeches like he’s some type of ancient all-knowing wizard,” Bee said.
“He clearly had a motive. He’s going to try get the mayoral position,” I whispered. “And what will that mean?”
“That the folks of Carmel Springs will be condemned to listening to his dulcet tones at every event for the foreseeable future. A fate worse than death.” Bee finished off her milkshake and pressed it to one side of the table. “The man loves the sound of his own voice. Could that be a sign?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, narcissists love the sound of their own voice too. Maybe he has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. A lot of murderers have it.”
“That’s an assumption we can’t afford to make,” I said, my belly growling for lunch. I opened my handbag to distract myself and brought out my notepad. I pressed it flat to the table top and wrote the mayor’s name at the top, then underlined it. I drew a line down the page then wrote the Babcock and circled that.
“The enemy,” Bee said, leaning over. “But what about Ava?”
I drew another connection to the mayor’s name and wrote Ava’s with two question marks next to it and the word ‘motive’ in brackets. She didn’t have one yet. Unless there had been a will that her husband had written her into.
The waiter appeared next to our table with our fried clam starter, and I squirreled the notepad out of sight. We thanked her and started stuffing our faces with the clams, losing our train of thought and conversation.
The food was too good to worry too much about the murder now. It was Christmas. We had a party coming up and the last few days to enjoy with our friends. Should we really spend it on the murder? Bee was determined. And I was tired of doubting myself.
“These are so good,” I said.
Bee’s chowder and my lobster melt came next, and we gorged ourselves on the food, the tender lobster meat sending a shockwave of dopamine through me. So divine. After, we paid our bill, dabbed our lips with napkins, and headed out onto the pier.
I fiddled with the fingers of my gloves, seating them properly on my hands in the chill outside.
“Look there,” Bee whispered, grasping my forearm.
Over at the far end of the pier, standing next to one of the benches, was Detective Martin. He had a notepad out and tapped a pen against it, while talking to Greta Gould.
“What’s she doing with him?” I asked.
“She has to be a suspect. Why else would she be questioned? I didn’t see her at the tree-lighting ceremony, did you?”
“Not that I can remember,” I said.
“And you’d remember someone like Greta.” Bee gestured vaguely toward her hair. “I mean she’s hardly the wilting wallflower type.”
Greta shook her head, adamant about something, as she spoke to Detective Martin. But adamant about what? And why wouldn’t Martin just have asked her back to the station? Surely, that would’ve been more comfortable for both of them. Unless she had refused?
“Why do you think she’s a suspect?” I asked. “Could it have something to do with the Babcock? You saw her in the butchery today.”
“Yeah.” Bee pursed her lips. “Though we can’t possibly find out why without—”
Detective Martin looked up from his notepad and caught my eye. Quickly, Bee and I averted out gazes. I feigned an interest in the pier’s wooden railing and pretended to comment on it. Bee followed my lead and bent over to examine it.
“Ladies,” Detective Martin said, stopping beside us.
“Oh, hello, detective,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”
He harrumphed. Was he becoming more like the recently departed Detective Jones or was that just me? He’d gone crotchety ever since he’d started taking over these cases. “You didn’t see me there. Where didn’t you see me?”
I glanced past him, but the bench where Greta had been seated was empty now. I gave an awkward laugh but didn’t answer.
“How’s your investigation going, detective?” Bee asked, brusquely. “Any new leads?”
“You’ll find out when the rest of the public do,” Martin said. “I suggest you two ladies get out of the cold. Weather’s not for tourists. You’re liable to freeze your fingers off.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“It was a strong suggestion.” Martin paused. “The other being that you stay well away from this murder case.”
“We weren’t doing anything,” I protested.
But the detective had already started off down the pier, settling his police beanie onto his head and tugging it down around his ears.
“Well, looks like we’re on our own on this one,” I said.
Bee slipped her arm into mine. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, let’s get back to the Oceanside before I freeze my fingers off, as Martin so aptly put it.”
8
The following day, Bee and I headed out to the town hall, our spirits only slightly dampened by the icy weather. We were set on making this the best possible send-off, both for ourselves, the spirit of Christmas, and for our friends.
It was difficult, though, to put aside the questions and thoughts revolving around the mayor’s murder. The entire town was abuzz with the news and speculation was rife. Posters had been put against the wrought iron lampposts—headline news decrying the ongoing investigation.
Even the weather hadn’t stopped folks from coming out to talk about the murder. The Corner Café was the hotspot of all the activity and given that it was right across from the town hall and the Christmas tree on the grassy—now snowy—knoll, it was the perfect place to stop for coffee.
Bee and I dipped inside and stripped off our gloves. We joined the line that led toward the coffee machine.
“Are you ready to get decorating?” I asked.
“I was born ready,” Bee replied. “I need something to keep me busy. I miss baking, and when I’m not, all I think about is the case.”
“Me too.”
The line shifted, and we gave our orders to the barista and paid then stepped aside to wait. “You know,” I said, “I’m thinking we could use some help with the decorating. Maybe, we should get hold of the decorating committee from the Carmel Springs council?”
“Way ahead of you, Rubes.” Bee pointed toward the town hall.
Outside it, a small group of people stood waiting. One of them was a familiar, a young man with a ponytail and a thick fluffy coat.
“Who is that?” I asked. “He looks so familiar.”
“That’s Jerry. He’s the head of the decorating committee and he was the mayor’s assistant,” she said. “Naturally, he can’t assist anyone now.”
“Oh, he was the one who was being nice to Ava at the guesthouse.”
“Right,” Bee said. “Well, he’s been helpful, so far.” She checked her watch. “We’re meeting him in about five minutes.”
“Does he have the keys to the town hall?” It was shameful on my part, but I hadn’t had much involvement in organizing the decoration of the town hall or even the booking
of the venue. I’d spent the last few days cleaning out the truck and occasionally getting emotional over leaving Carmel Springs.
“Yes, he does,” Bee said, and patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, Rubes. I’ve got everything under control.”
“You’re a star.”
Bee flashed me her signature gap-toothed grin. We collected our coffees from a tired barista who still offered us a ‘Merry Christmas’ and a smile.
We headed out across the street. Snow fell, a thin layer had gathered on the ground this morning, and it seemed it would only get thicker today. I had been dreaming of a ‘Neil Diamond’ white Christmas. The cold was manageable when it was this beautiful. A thin dusting of snow had already attached itself to the branches of the communal Christmas tree.
“Hello,” Bee called, as we crossed the road.
Jerry Flagg smiled at her and shook her hand. “Bee. It’s good to see you again. And you’re…”
“Ruby,” I said, and took his hand next. “Thanks for helping us, Mr. Flagg.”
“Please, call me Jerry,” he said, and wiped his hand off on his jacket after our handshake. “And it’s a great pleasure. We’re happy to help. It’s a fantastic idea to have a Christmas party, and from what I’ve heard, everyone wants to come.” Jerry stamped his feet in his boots. “And I’ve got even better news. I chatted with the town council and did a bit of convincing, and they’ve agreed to help with the costs of the party!”
“That’s amazing,” I said, my heart filling with joy. It wasn’t that I’d been worried about paying for the party, especially as a farewell event, but the extra funding would help us make this an even bigger deal. “Thank you so much.”
“That’s totally my pleasure,” Jerry said. “I’m always happy to help out around town.”
“Wow.” Bee and I exchanged grins.
“All right, so are you ladies ready to get started?” Jerry asked, clapping his gloved hands together. The other committee members gathered behind him, eager to get started—or just to get out of the cold. “Let’s go!” Jerry dipped his hand into his pocket and removed the key to the town hall doors. He loped over to them, opened up then stepped inside and hit the lights.
I inhaled sharply.
I’d half-expected we’d find another body in the hall. But no, it was empty except for the usual chairs lined up facing the podium where the mayor would sometimes speak.
“All right,” Jerry said, “I hope you ladies don’t mind if I take charge?”
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Within reason.” Bee removed her gloves. “We’ve got some decoration plans, but we’ve still got to visit the General Store to stock up on tinsel.”
“Right, of course.” Jerry had brought out his phone and tapped on the screen. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” His fingers flew over the phone’s touch keyboard as he typed notes. “All right, everyone, let’s get these chairs packed up and placed in the stage wings. Got it?”
The door to the hall creaked, and Detective Martin entered wearing a thick leather jacket over his uniform. He swept his beanie off his head and came over. “What’s going on here, Flagg?”
“Jerry’s helping us set up for the party,” I said. “It’s going to be—”
“I’m afraid that’s not happening,” the detective replied, stiffly. “There won’t be any Christmas parties. We’re shutting the town down.”
“You’re what?” Bee’s eyes widened.
I held back a gasp.
“Shutting the town down in what sense?” Jerry asked.
“I’ve just come from speaking with the council members. They held a private vote a half an hour ago upon my urging. There will be no festivities or parties, no celebrations in the open and no mass gatherings until the murder of Mayor Jacobsen has been resolved.”
“That’s not possible,” I said. “Jerry’s just gotten the council to help us fund our party. Why would they—?”
“That’s not my problem,” Martin said. “I have to do what’s best for the residents of this town, and if that means shutting down every caroling club and Christmas party, so be it.”
9
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, as we piled out of the town hall.
Detective Martin stood next to Jerry, breathing down his neck as he ensured the town hall was locked up, and the committee members were in the process of dispersing.
“Neither can I,” Bee hissed. “There’s no way we’re going to let this happen.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked, walking a couple steps away from the detective so he wouldn’t overhear. I can’t believe I thought he was cute. Oof, now, that was out of left field. “We can’t go against direct orders.”
“Yes,” Bee said, “but we can solve the case. There’s no way they can stop us from celebrating with our friends if we remove the threat.”
“Of course.” The threat. “They wouldn’t shut the town down unless they were scared the murderer would strike again. But why? Who would be the target?”
“I don’t know.” Bee brushed snowflakes from her hair. “But I’m sure we can figure this out.”
Could we? It felt, sometimes, like all the past solved cases had been lucky breaks. Or that we’d taken a step too far and been fortunate enough not to get either arrested or hurt ourselves. Sheesh, since when are you full of self-doubt?
“We just have to nail down our suspect list,” Bee said. “And maybe check out the crime scene once things have, you know, calmed down.”
Another sprinkle of doubt frosted my mind donut. “Do you really think it’s best to get involved? I mean, the police—”
“Are y’all talking about the murder?” A woman spoke directly in my ear, and I jumped about a foot in the air.
I landed with a hiccup of a yelp and spun toward her.
She was short and thin as a rake, with long fingers that twitched at her sides. Her hair was tucked up underneath a polka-dotted beanie, and her smile was yellow-toothed and broad. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Misty Lamone.”
“Misty Lamone,” I repeated, unable to tear my focus from her. It was the way she carried herself, and the strange outfit she’d put together—a lime green coat, the beanie, and then a pair of purple-striped pants.
“Well, Misty Lamone,” Bee said, “you’ve just interrupted our conversation rather rudely. Is there something you want?” I could always trust Bee to say it exactly as it was.
Misty glanced back at the town hall, and I did too. Most of the folks there had dispersed, but Martin appeared to be in deep conversation—or argument—with Jerry.
“Let’s step around the corner,” Misty whispered. “I think I can help you solve the case.”
“You heard that?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah? You weren’t exactly whispering.” Misty rolled her eyes—she had on purple eyeliner. “Look, I know who you two are. You’re the leaf peepers who do that food truck baking stuff, right?”
“Right. But what’s that—” I started.
“And you solved a few murders around town,” Misty said. “Let’s just say, I saw something, and I didn’t want to talk to the police about it, but I did want the murder to be, you know, solved… who would I talk to?”
“A couple of leaf peepers, apparently.” Bee peered past Misty at the detective again. “All right, let’s step around the corner and check out the Christmas tree.”
A mixture of excitement and nerves erupted in my belly as we walked around the corner with Misty, across the street and toward the snowy knoll and the massive Christmas tree.
The tree was absolutely stunning. I hadn’t had the chance to admire it the other night, given the circumstances, but up close, the special touches, the tiny glittery red buoys in honor of the lobster industry that kept the town alive brought warmth and comfort, as did the flashing lights and silver white star on top.
Misty stopped in front of it, rubbing her arms. “All right, that’s better. Now, he can’t hear us.”
> “Why don’t you want to talk to the police?” Bee was an ex-cop. No doubt, Misty seemed pretty darn suspicious to her. She did to me too.
“Let’s just say, I have a spotty history with them.”
“Define spotty,” Bee replied. “You, uh, ran into trouble with the law? You did something wrong?”
“Look, if you’re worried that I’m somehow involved, you can breathe easy. I wasn’t. But I was around when the tree was being erected before the murder, and I think I saw something.”
“Before the murder?” I asked.
Bee put up a purple gloved hand. “Wait a minute. First tell us exactly what you did wrong that you’re not interested in talking to the police.”
Misty sniffed, her cheeks red either in defiance or from the cold. “Look,” she said, “either you want this information or you don’t. I ain’t gonna hang around and talk to you if you’re going to try to pry into my private business.” She jerked her head to one side. “Now, do you want the information or not?”
Bee pursed her lips.
“We want the information,” I said, quickly.
“Good. OK, so the stage was right here, in front of the knoll. And the tree is here obviously. We spent the whole day decorating. They made me do the back,” Misty said, rolling her eyes again—apparently, that was her signature move. “Come on. Around here.” She had a strange gait, a sort of ‘hunchback of Notre Dame’ walk without the hunchback.
“See.” Misty gestured to the tree. “I was on this side hanging up the baubles. Anyway, I took a break because trimming a tree is hard work. I was sitting right here.” She scuffed the ground with her shoe. “With a view of the church over there.” She pointed to the building directly across from the grassy patch.
The back of the church was hidden behind snow-dusted fir trees, and a low slung stone wall that was topped in wrought iron spikes. The gate itself was wrought iron too and locked with a thick padlock.
“Anyways, so I’m sitting here, having a smoke, and I saw this… person. At the time, I thought they were watching me, but I wasn’t sure.”
Murder Under the Mistletoe (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 4