Murder Under the Mistletoe (A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 5)

by Rosie A. Point

  I had to admit, she had a point. The Babcock wore his butcher’s apron like it was a coat made of medallions and proclaimed his true worth. He grinned and spread his arms, welcoming people to the butchery like they’d stepped into his palace.

  “All right,” I said. “So maybe he hasn’t noticed us. But nothing’s happening either. He’s just hanging around in the shop, talking about…”

  “How great he is as a mayoral candidate?”

  “Probably,” I said. “What if he—” I cut off.

  The Babcock had slipped out from behind the counter at the back of his shop. He took off his apron and withdrew a phone from his pocket then waved to the customers and held up a finger. He exited the butchery and tramped around the side of it and into the alleyway.

  “Well, would you look at that,” I breathed.

  “Follow him, quick.”

  “What, in the food truck? I don’t think we’ll fit into the alley—”

  “Rubes!” Bee had already unclipped her seatbelt and opened her door.

  “Right. Of course.”

  We darted across the street, definitely not nonchalant in the slightest, and stood near the mouth to the alleyway. He wasn’t in it. But the Babcock’s sonorous voice traveled from somewhere around the back of the building.

  “—telling you.”

  Bee gestured toward the other end of the alley, where there was a corner, likely one that looked on the back of the butchery, and set off toward it.

  My heart did a flip. What if the Babcock caught us? What if he was the real murderer?

  I shoved the thoughts aside. This was a lead. A real one. I stopped behind Bee at the corner, and we both peered around it and caught sight of the Babcock.

  He stood in the center of the breezeway, between bricks that had been scattered messily across the concrete. There was brick dust here, there and everywhere. The wall itself had collapsed, and on the other side of it stood a scaffold and what looked like the long abandoned remnants of a construction in progress.

  My stomach sank.

  Brick dust?

  Then there was no proof that the brick dust on Babcock’s shoes had come from the church yard. Instead, it had most definitely come from here.

  “I want this worked out, Greta,” he said.

  I stiffened. Greta? Maybe this stakeout would give us some useful information after all. Just how close were the unlikely friends? Close enough to commit murder together? After all, we had no proof that the person who’d been in the church yard was the murderer.

  “No, no, no. It’s unacceptable. They knocked down my back wall and they haven’t been back to fix it for over a week,” he said, then paused and listened to what Greta had to say. “I don’t care if it’s Christmas. I’m working and it’s Christ—” He pursed his lips, shaking his head furiously. “No, you don’t understand. You told me you wanted to invest in my campaign and you did. This is a part of that. What if people notice the mess at my butchery? They’ll assume I’m not capable of managing anything. Then they won’t vote me in.”

  Greta’s an investor? A campaign investor?

  Shock guttered through me.

  Of course! That would give her a direct reason to get rid of Mayor Jacobsen. The Babcock had run against him and had lost in November. Likely, Greta had wanted to take control of the town and use the butcher as a puppet.

  After all, wasn’t she taking control of the paper? She wanted to use it to get her message out as well. It was a power play.

  “No, Greta. It’s important. If we want to win the town over, everything we do has to be immaculate. And if my butchery doesn’t fit that aesthetic then how do you expect me to win?” The Babcock turned around and paced to the other end of the space, his voice fading.

  My thoughts whirred, but Bee placed a hand on my arm and stopped them. She squeezed, and we slowly backed out of the alley and back into the—

  “Oof!” I struck something solid behind us.

  Oh no. My insides mushed into jelly, and my cheeks flushed hot. I didn’t have to look over at Bee to know the same had happened to her.

  Because it wasn’t a wall I’d walked into. It was Detective Martin.

  16

  Detective Martin adjusted his beanie, glaring at us and channeling the anger his old partner, Jones, had always had when it came to Bee and me. “What do we have here? Out for a stroll, ladies?”

  “Good morning, detective,” I squeaked. “We were just—”

  “Snooping.”

  “No, um…”

  “There’s no point in denying it,” Martin said, running a gloved hand over his stubbly chin. “I watched Mr. Babcock enter the alleyway way and you follow him.”

  Well, darn. How were we supposed to get out of this one? “We were just, um, going to ask him about our turkey order,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Bee clicked her fingers. “Our turkey order. We ordered a turkey from the butchery for the Oceanside’s Christmas feast, and it hasn’t been delivered yet.”

  Martin looked on the brink of rolling his eyes at us. “Ladies, you and I both know that’s not true. Now, I’m not here to lock you away for interfering. I was at the Oceanside a half an hour ago looking for you, and Sam told me that you’d be out here.”

  “Oh.” Of course, she’d told him. They were dating, now. And we hadn’t made it a secret that we’d be in town, hanging around.

  “Your food truck is parked across from the butchery, but you’re not open for business,” Martin continued, “so please don’t insult my intelligence by trying to squirm out of this one.”

  “Fine,” I said, thought Bee shook her head at me. “Fine, we were just here because we wanted to find out more about him. He’s suspicious. He has a motive for the murder, and his partner and friend, Greta is—”

  The detective lifted a hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be checking this out. There never was. But particularly not now.”

  “Why?” Bee asked.

  And why had he been looking for us in the first place. It wasn’t as if we’d done anything illegal, that he knew of. Sheesh, what had I become? Flouting the laws because I was desperate to uncover the truth about the murder.

  “Because the murderer has already been apprehended,” Martin said.

  I sucked in a breath. “What? How is that possible?”

  “Contrary to your beliefs, Miss Holmes, the Carmel Springs Police Department is capable of solving crimes. Even ones as severe as this one.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t capable.” But I’d thought we were stumped, so surely the police had to be.

  “Who is it?” Bee asked.

  Detective Martin drew his lips into a thin line. Apparently, releasing that information to us, even now, bit at him. He’d changed since Jones’ death. He was still handsome and tall, but he looked a lot older, as if the strain of running things had taken its toll.

  “Ava Jacobsen.”

  “What?” Bee gasped.

  “No. It can’t be,” I said. “She didn’t have a motive. And she was right there in the crowd before the tree lighting. And she was so upset.” Of course, we had suspected her at first, but none of our leads had brought us closer toward her as a person of interest.

  “Well, it is.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” I asked.

  Detective Martin sighed. “Look, I’m not obligated to answer any questions, but I know you two will keep poking around if I don’t tell you the truth. Ava’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.”

  “What, the string of lights?” I asked. “But surely you must have found other prints. I mean, isn’t it possible that—?”

  “Trust that the police know what they’re doing, Holmes,” Martin said, stiffly. “The murder investigation is closed. If you have any complaints… well, shelve them.”

  My jaw dropped. The detective had never been this blunt before.

  “Which brings me to my next piece of news,” he said. “Your C
hristmas party is back on.”

  “Really? The town’s open again? For celebration and caroling?” I asked.

  “Correct. Now, why don’t you two get back in your food truck and go to the Oceanside? It’s been a long morning, and I don’t want to have to throw you in jail for trespassing or stalking. All right?”

  Bee was so red in the face, she looked ready to pop—it wasn’t from embarrassment. She fumed. And I did too. The whole Ava thing didn’t make sense to me.

  “Go on,” Detective said, gesturing back toward the truck.

  “You can’t just tell us to leave like that.” But Bee started off across the street regardless. The minute we were out of earshot, the grumbling started. “That man! I can’t believe he thinks he’s so smart. I don’t buy this for a second, Ruby. They’re missing crucial evidence, I’m sure of it.”

  “But we do get to do the party, at least.” It was my effort at cheering her up.

  We got into the food truck and belted ourselves in.

  “What do you think?” Bee asked. “That he’s right?”

  “No. I don’t know.” I drummed my fingertips on the steering wheel. “But I do think there’s something we can do to find out.”

  “What?” Bee asked.

  “Go see Ava in jail. I mean, she’s surely allowed to have a visitor or two, right? So, let’s go talk to her and hear her side of the story. If she did it, then we can just let it go. The case will be solved, and we can focus on setting up for the party and celebrating Christmas with our friends.”

  “But what if it’s not?” Bee asked, her silvery eyebrows two slashes above her hazel gaze.

  “Then we do what we’ve always done with this type of thing. We investigate.” I’d been dubious about doing exactly that, but it was clear to me now that there was more to be uncovered.

  If Detective Martin refused to see it, it was up to us to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  Even if that meant getting in trouble again. And possibly ruining Christmas.

  17

  Ava was forced to wear handcuffs as she sat across from us in the tiny visitor’s room at the police station. The room itself was well-lit, with chairs that weren’t exactly comfy, but were fine, and a melamine-topped table holding three bottles of water.

  The fact that we weren’t on a visitor’s list hadn’t been a problem, simply because Ava hadn’t been transferred to an actual prison yet. She was still in the holding cells at the station itself. I didn’t doubt there were cameras all over the place in here.

  That was fine.

  If Ava had done it and admitted it, no problem. And if she hadn’t… well, hopefully she’d give us some clue as to who might have.

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming to see me,” Ava said, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks splotchy. Her blonde hair was tied back, but hadn’t been washed in a few days. They’d only arrested Ava that morning, but she hadn’t been looking after herself.

  Who could blame her?

  Maybe she did do it.

  What an awful thought to have. But it was a possibility. I had to bear that in mind. It wouldn’t help the investigation if I went in biased.

  Ava shifted under the scrutiny from Bee—my bestie in baking sat on the seat next to mine, making direct eye contact with the suspected murderess. Not, suspected, now, but accused.

  “How are you, Ava?” I asked, to distract from Bee’s glare.

  “I’ve been better,” Ava whispered, choking it out. “I’m grateful I have visitors, but it’s been such a difficult time. I don’t know how I’m going to handle everything. I mean, I have money for a lawyer but this is just… I would never have hurt Ian. He was the love of my life.”

  There were no tears, and the way she spoke was ever-so-slightly mechanical. Like she was sure she had to say that. How strange.

  “Listen, why would I have murdered him?” Ava asked, shifting to the edge of her seat. “And if I had, why would I have been so upset that I moved out of the house? I loved my husband.” Once again, every word sounded right, but the way they were delivered was empty.

  None of the sorrow that had been there at the beginning of the week was present. Had she been faking it before?

  “And now,” Ava said, letting out a choice sniffle, “now everyone’s going to think that I’m a terrible person.” Her voice cracked and she finally showed a few tears. “But I’m not. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I can imagine that it’s going to be so difficult going forward. People will judge me. I’ll get hate mail. I’ll…”

  “You’re sure you had no part in this?” Bee asked, gruffly.

  “Of course not,” Ava said, in a low whine. “I would never. Look, please, I know you two are good at investigating these types of things. Can you help me? Please?”

  “Help you how?” Bee asked.

  “Clear my name.”

  Bee and I exchanged a glance. We’d come here under the impression that Ava was innocent, but now, I wasn’t so sure. What if we helped and somehow got her out of prison when she was the culprit? But no, that wasn’t right. We’d only wind up finding the truth.

  “We might be able to help you,” I said, after a moment. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do something like this to your husband?”

  “Yes,” Ava hissed. “I know exactly who did it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, absolutely. It was Clayton Babcock,” she replied. “I mentioned him before, remember? I’m convinced now. He was out for blood after my husband won the election. And I just know he had access to the staging area for the tree lighting ceremony. And he would’ve had access to the strings of lights.” Ava shook her head. “Ian was the one who brought all the lights from home to give to the tree. That’s why my fingerprints were on it. That’s the only reason.”

  “You really believe that Clayton did this?” I asked.

  “Yes, totally. He was in a rage after my husband won. He even closed down the butchery for a whole day. There was an uproar afterward. There was almost a riot.”

  We’d been in Carmel Springs in November, and I didn’t remember any riot. “Are people that desperate for meat?”

  “You bet they are. Especially around this time of year,” Ava said.

  “I don’t remember any riot.” Bee folded her arms. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Positive. And the Babcock was Ian’s sworn enemy. Surely, you’ve heard that?”

  “Yes, that I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Well there you have it,” Ava replied. “He’s the one who did it. Trust me. Look, all you’d have to do is follow him around and you’ll find out the truth. Trust me.”

  She’d said to trust her twice. That didn’t implicitly instill much trust in me.

  “Please,” Ava said, her bottom lip quivering. “You’ve got to get me out of here. I don’t want to go to prison.”

  What about finding your husband’s killer? Doesn’t that matter?

  “We’ll do what we can,” Bee said, after a second. “But if you know anything else, you have to tell us. Otherwise we can’t help.”

  “I don’t know anything else. It was Clayton. That’s all I can tell you. It was definitely Clayton. He used to get into fights with Ian. He would call the office and leave snarky messages. I’m sure you can get hold of them. Maybe that can be the evidence you need.” The words rolled from her tongue. “What do you think? Can you bring him down?”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” I said, slowly.

  “Yes, no matter what that means.” Bee got up, and I did too. “It was nice seeing you again, Ava.” We left the tiny visiting room and filed out past the dispatcher behind her desk. A few officers passed us by and greeted, either with a smile or nod.

  Outside, we stopped next to the food truck, and I rooted around in my handbag looking for my keys. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think maybe Ava did it after all. Did you see the way she was talking about him? She was practically emotionless. She didn’t seem
to care at all.”

  “Then why did she cry at the beginning of this week?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Bee tapped the end of her nose. “But we can’t go back to the butchery without getting in trouble. I bet Detective Martin has his ear to the ground, and if he warned Clayton about us…”

  “Right. So what do we do?”

  “The only thing we can do,” Bee replied, trying for a smile. “Decorate for Christmas. Maybe one of the committee members will know something.”

  18

  Three days had passed since our visit to Ava, and we’d found a good ol’ fat nothing in that time. If not for Bee’s fabulous baking in preparation for the Christmas party that evening, I would have been downright depressed.

  No one could be sad after tasting one of her personalized miniature Christmas cakes. Ripe and sugared cherries had been used in the cake with a delicious and light vanilla frosting that dripped over the sides.

  I feasted on one and admired the hard work that we’d all put in to get the town hall ready for the party that would start in a little over an hour. Most of the decorating committee had cleared out, including Jerry and Misty, who had stayed for as long as possible before heading off to get dressed for the event.

  Now, it was only me, snacking on Christmas cakes, Bee, who had decided there was too little mistletoe in the hall and more was needed, and Millie, who’d stopped by with armfuls of tinsel and the excuse that she needed some time away from Greta Gould.

  Greta. Babcock.

  The murder.

  It didn’t feel right. Ava had acted strangely when we’d visited her, yes, but did that mean she was guilty of the crime? Maybe not. But the cops—

  “Hey, Ruby,” Millie called, teetering on the top rung of a ladder, “would you mind giving me a hand, dear, if you’re not too busy?”

  Millie was such a lovely woman. She’d let her hair gray out naturally and had chosen a warm, woolly sweater for the party so she wouldn’t have to go home and change.