by Fiona Grace
Ali started to wonder what kind of event Ophelia might be thinking of planning that required so many cupcakes. Her mind went straight to some sort of vigil or memorial for Arlo. Ali wasn’t sure how good that would look to the public if she ended up catering an event for the man everyone thought she’d murdered!
“Theoretically speaking, yes,” she replied, trying to tread extremely cautiously. “I make more than one-hundred and fifty cupcakes a day at the moment anyway. But obviously I’m not baking anything right now because I don’t have access to my kitchen.”
Ophelia nodded her understanding. “But when that whole murder things is over with and you get your bakery back, then you can?”
Ali blinked with astonishment. Did Ophelia really just flippantly refer to the death of her boyfriend as “that whole murder thing?”
A million warning flags went up in Ali’s mind. Ophelia was acting odd, and in a way that made her skin prickle. Could Ophelia be the killer? Was that the reason she hadn’t reacted badly to Ali approaching her—because she knew the rumors about her being Arlo’s killer weren’t true, since it was her? Had she reached the end of her patience in dealing with Arlo’s troubled mind and done away with him?
Ali had obviously gained her trust somehow and needed to keep her talking. Which meant indulging this fantasy event of hers, at least momentarily.
“Are you going to tell me what the event is?” she said, forcing herself to match Ophelia’s tone, and mirror her smile with her own. Straight away, Ali felt how wrong it was, how immediately uncomfortable the incongruity felt with her actual emotions. How Ophelia could be smiling while her boyfriend was lying dead in a dumpster made chills run up Ali’s spine…
Ophelia looked coy. “It’s just a fun little family thing,” she said, evasively. She took a card from her pocket and held it out to Ali. “So, when your kitchen is open again, can I book you?”
Ali’s mind raced. She took the card and stared at it, wondering if it would be more sensible to just flat out refuse. But instead, she found herself saying, “I guess.”
Ophelia let out a little delighted squeal and clapped her hands. She jumped up off the bench. “Oh this is so exciting!” she exclaimed. “I’d better go. I have calls to make.” She turned back and embraced Ali in the strangest, most awkward way. “Thanks Ali! Give me a call, yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” Ali managed to stammer.
She watched Ophelia skip off down the boardwalk, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world, leaving Ali to wonder whether she’d just made conversation with a murderer.
Ali added Ophelia to her list of suspects but decided to continue investigating her original course of action.
*
The sound of construction was still going on all around Ali as she drew up outside the offices of the Willow Bay Herald, the publication that had hired Arlo to write his column. It was a fancy looking building, positioned on one of the roads off the boardwalk, with marble around the door and gold lettering. A sign had been stuck to the inside of the glass door: Due to staff bereavement, our office will be closed for the rest of the day. A couple of bunches of flowers were propped up against the wall, wilting in the hot sunshine.
“Shoot,” Ali said.
She was about to turn the other way and come up with another plan when she spotted movement through the door.
She cupped her hands up to the glass and peered inside. Sure enough, the elevator doors were open, and a man standing inside was making frantic attempts to get the doors to close. He’d quite clearly been about to exit the elevator when he spotted her standing outside and was now trying — and failing — to not be noticed.
Ali wondered if he recognized her as the bakery owner from Arlo’s scathing review, or if there was some other reason he seemed to want to avoid conversing with another person today.
She decided to make herself look as unimposing as possible, and flashed him a big grin and a wave, before pointing to the door handle to indicate she’d like to be let in. The man looked as if he was deliberating, but eventually exited the elevator and came to the door, removing a big bunch of keys from his pocket. He opened the door and stared at her with piercing blue eyes. There was a harried expression on his deeply lined brow, made even more pronounced by the puffy purple bags under his eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“I came here to pay my respects to Arlo,” Ali said. “I knew him in a professional capacity.”
“Just leave your flowers or card or whatever with the rest of them,” the man said, gesturing to the wilting bouquets.
“But they look so sad,” Ali replied. “Hardly a fitting way to commemorate a man. Why don’t I help you carry them all inside? Put them in a vase with some water at the very least.”
“Yes, fine, just hurry,” the man said.
Ali scooped up the flowers and headed inside the cool reception area. “Are you in a rush?” she asked the man.
“I was just running out to get a sandwich for lunch,” he said. “The phone’s ringing off the hook, for obvious reasons, and all my staff have gone home crying. They’ll sue me if I don’t let them take compassionate leave; I learned that the hard way.”
Ali tried her utmost to hide her grimace.
“So it’s just me,” he continued.
“You’re the boss, I take it?”
“Editor-in-chief,” he corrected.
“You must be devastated,” Ali said. “It’s such a shock.”
But far from looking sad about the sudden demise of one of his staff members, he just looked irritated by the inconvenience it had caused him.
“Devastated?” he said with a disdainful scoff. “I barely even knew the guy. But we had to ‘freshen up the publication’ with ‘new, daring voices.’” He used air quotes as he spoke, leaving Ali in no doubt that he was in vehement disagreement with whomever it was he was quoting, some higher up calling the shots. “Apparently, our last reviewer was ‘too forgiving.’ According to my junior staff writers, Arlo Hudson appeals to the younger demographic. Cost me an arm and a leg to lure him over here from Chicago, then all this happens! He writes two lousy reviews and snuffs it.”
Ali stared at the man, feeling an intense dislike toward him. He was a typical type A personality type, all stress and ego. She also did not care for Arlo Hudson on a personal level, but she was still respectful of the fact a man had lost his life. She would expect his employer to show a little more sympathy.
“I’m actually the person he wrote the lousy review about,” Ali said, deciding she may as well come clean.
The editor-in-chief glared at her. “Let me guess. You’re here to complain, too, are you? What have you got, some kind of petition to get me fired? I’ll tell you what I told the others, there’s no point anymore; the problem’s gone away.”
Ali blinked at him, surprised by the outburst. She had literally no idea what he was talking about. “What do you mean?” she queried. “What others?”
“All your sniveling little boardwalk vendors,” he snapped. “The moment they read Arlo’s review they were up in arms. Seemed to think the reviews would damage their businesses! As if we weren’t giving them free press.” He shook his head, as if at the stupidity of it all. “We were flooded with calls of complaints. One said he’d take an injunction out on the paper. One even threatened legal action if Arlo stepped within five feet of his premises. Narcissists, the lot of you!”
Ali was quietly pleased to hear the good folks of Willow Bay had stood up for her after the horrible attack Arlo had made on her store. Though she knew it was probably at least half motivated out of selfish reasons rather than altruism, it still made her feel good.
“And guess who gets blamed for it? Me. Apparently Arlo was ‘unnecessarily harsh.’ Too forgiving. Too harsh. Pick a lane people!”
He was getting pretty riled now. Ali could see a vein bulging in his forehead.
“Anyway, external pressure got too much so we fired him after your review and pulled all his ot
her planned articles. And then he goes and dies after I’d paid the severance.”
Ali paid no attention to his last uncouth comment, because her mind was still processing the first part of the sentence. “You fired Arlo?”
“We had no choice,” the editor replied. “Too many other vested interests needing protection. You think Willow Bay is all sunshine and tourists? Well, believe me, if you knew the types of people who were threatening me, you’d do what you were told to do, too.”
Ali knew perfectly well that Willow Bay was far from sunshine and tourists. She’d had plenty of run-ins with the shady people who pulled the strings on the boardwalk — the mobsters. Could that be who the editor-in-chief had been referring to this whole time? Was the “immense pressure” to fire Arlo coming from… Fat Tony?
It all started to make sense in Ali’s mind. Why else would this type A man cave under pressure, if not that the pressure was coming from someone with a nasty habit of breaking people’s legs? And Fat Tony of course had a huge, vested interest in the success of the boardwalk. To Fat Tony, someone like Arlo was a fly in the ointment who needed swift eradicating…
Ali put the bouquet of wilted flowers down on the reception desk. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, and she hurried out already knowing the next place she needed to be.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ali felt butterflies in her stomach as she hurried along the boardwalk to Fat Tony’s pizzeria. Confronting the mobster wasn’t something she particularly relished in doing, but he’d developed a strange paternal rapport with Ali, and if anyone could get him to confess, it would be her.
As she went, she let the new theory take shape in her mind. Arlo Hudson was a threat to the prosperity of Willow Bay — at least according to the vendors she’d spoken to. Perhaps without all the extra building work going on his nasty column would not have had such an impact, but the whole landscape of the boardwalk was changing and local businesses were feeling threatened. As one of the biggest property owners around, Fat Tony would be the most adversely affected. Add to that the strange fatherly affection he’d developed toward Ali, it started to look more and more likely that Fat Tony had done away with Arlo on her behalf. Perhaps he’d left the body so close to her premises to make it known to her that the murder had been committed for her, just as the manner of death — choking — and the location — in the trash — had been specifically chosen to link back to the review. In Fat Tony’s warped mind, he probably thought he’d been rather clever. ‘Clever and,’ Ali thought with a grimace, ‘funny.’
Just then, Ali reached Kookies, Miriyam’s rival bakery, and glanced through the window as she passed. It was packed. Quite clearly all the customers that should be at Seaside Sweets had gone there.
Ali clenched her fists, more determined than ever to confront Fat Tony and get the truth out of him. If he’d caused this mess for her, he could clean it up as well. He certainly had the power and influence to do it.
Just then, the delicious smells of basil and freshly baked dough reached Ali’s nostrils. She recognized the smell instantly—the mobsters’ famous pizza recipe. For all their faults, Fat Tony and his bunch of mobsters really did make the most delicious pizzas, and her stomach growled hungrily.
She drew up outside Fat Tony’s pizzeria, and halted. She always felt a sense of trepidation when it came to the mobsters. She could see a bunch of them inside, all suited and with slicked back hair, sitting at one of the bistro-style tables in the middle of the black and white checkered floor.
They appeared to be in deep discussion. A serious one, Ali deduced, by the gesticulations of their hands. Perhaps they were discussing what to do about the whole Arlo Hudson situation…
Just then, one of the mobsters spotted her hovering outside. His dark brown beady eyes bore into hers with such intensity, Ali felt her heartbeat immediately pick up speed. But then recognition registered in his eyes, and he grinned a warm, friendly grin.
He paced to the door in his sharp gray suit and pulled it open.
“Ali!” he cried.
Ali attempted a smile. She actually didn’t know any of Fat Tony’s mobsters by name, and yet they all seemed to know her. In fact, they seemed to know far too many details about her. Ali had long suspected they were keeping an eye on her.
“You here about the writer?” the mobster asked.
Just as Ali suspected. “Arlo,” was all she managed to say through her dry mouth.
“Then you’d better come in.” He pulled the door wider, beckoning her inside.
Ali swallowed hard and stepped into the pizzeria.
“Would you like a coffee?” the man asked as he guided her across the black and white floor toward the table of mobsters.
Ali wasn’t planning on spending any longer time than necessary in the pizzeria and was about to decline. But she didn’t get a chance, because the gray suited mobster turned his face toward the kitchen at the back of the store and bellowed, “Joe! Bring Ali a coffee!” Then he gestured to the table where the other mobsters were sitting, peering up at her stoically, and said, “Sit. Sit.”
Ali swallowed her nerves and plonked herself down quickly.
The gray-suited mobster took the seat opposite her, clearly in no particular hurry as he took his time to readjust his outfit — straightening the cuffs, neatening the tie, slicking back his hair. When he was satisfied, he looked at her and grinned. “So? Are you here to thank us?”
Ali paused. “Thank you for what?”
“For doing you a favor,” he replied, lowering his voice, “about Arlo.”
Ali felt her stomach drop. So it was true? They really had killed Arlo as a misguided attempt to help her?
“No actually,” Ali said, boldly. “I’m not here to thank you. I’d never wish harm on anyone, even someone who insulted me.” As soon as she’d started speaking, Ali felt herself suddenly flooding with confidence, and now she simply couldn’t stop. She felt a bit like a schoolteacher disciplining a bully, and found her tongue running away with her. “If you think what you did honors me in any way, you’re sorely mistaken. What you did was wrong. Cruel. Immoral. And it’s made everything a thousand times worse for me. Now I have cops questioning me, and my bakery’s been closed.”
A frown of confusion appeared on Joe’s brow. “That seems a bit over the top to me. If we thought your bakery would be closed because of it, we would never have done it.”
Ali was stunned. Her eyebrows flew all the way up. “Then you really didn’t think it through, did you? Because surely any fool would know that a dead body in my dumpster would backfire spectacularly!”
Silence fell. The mobsters all looked from one to another. Then they burst out laughing.
“This isn’t funny!” Ali cried.
But they didn't stop. They were cracking up now, tears streaming down their faces. If anything, Ali’s response made them laugh even harder.
Ali was furious. In their world, murder may well be a joke, but in her world, it was a very serious matter! Couldn’t they see that as a non-mob member their actions had totally and utterly screwed her?
“Stop laughing!” Ali shouted. “The cops think I did this. I could go to jail!”
At last, the main mobster started waving his hands in front of his face. “Ali, Ali, Ali, calm down. We didn’t kill anyone.”
The chuckles died down. Ali blinked with surprise.
“What?”
“We didn’t even know Arlo was dead,” he added. “Though I’m not surprised. Guy thinks he can move here and insult our town? He got what was coming to him by the sound of things.”
“Then what was this favor you did for me?” Ali asked. She folded her arms, now feeling less like a morally superior schoolteacher and more like a petulant child.
“We slashed his tires,” the mobster said.
Ali immediately recalled the conversation she’d had earlier with Ophelia. She’d mentioned they’d had their tires slashed, but Ali had presumed she’d meant when they were
living back in Chicago.
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish.
The mobster laughed. “Ali, we like you, but not enough to kill someone for you! We just wanted to teach him a lesson, is all.”
“I understand,” Ali said, quietly, feeling deeply embarrassed for her outburst. “And the publication?” she questioned. “The Willow Bay Herald? Did you put pressure on them to fire him?”
He smirked. “We might’ve had a few choice words…”
Ali exhaled her tense breath. Fat Tony and his mobsters weren’t the culprits. Someone else had killed Arlo Hudson. Which brought her back to having one and only one suspect—Ophelia.
It was time to devise some kind of plan to get more information out of Arlo’s former girlfriend.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ali made it back to her apartment to discover Scruff sitting on her doorstep waiting for her. After all her uncomfortable encounters today, it was a relief to see his face.
“Hey, Lil’ Dude,” she said, petting his head. “I’m glad to see you. Want to come in for dinner?”
He yapped, and Ali took that as a yes. She unlocked her door and led him inside, fetching a ceramic cereal bowl from her cupboard and filling it with doggie biscuits.
As Scruff began eating, Ali wondered if Nate was right about her adopting him. He was certainly becoming bolder and more comfortable with her.
While he ate, Ali made herself a quick meal, then sat on the couch and went through her notebook of suspects. She drew a neat line through: unhappy vendor, then another through: someone at the paper. Then she wrote down all the different avenues and lines of inquiry she’d explored throughout the day, adding any pertinent notes. By the end of her writing session, she was left with one name and one name only: Ophelia.
She retrieved the business card Ophelia had given her. It was an old one, with her former Chicago address on and the website address she and Arlo had run together. Her official title was listed as: business manager.