Murder by Chocolate Read online

  Murder By Chocolate

  A Bite-sized Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 1

  Rosie A. Point

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  More for you…

  Thank You, Reader!

  Also by Rosie A. Point

  Copyright Rosie A. Point 2019.

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  1

  I slipped out of the guesthouse in the dead of the night and was met by the salty smell of the ocean and the gentle wash of waves on the beach. The moon hung heavy and full in the inky black sky. A chill breeze tugged at my thick woolen coat, cinched at the waist.

  Spooky?

  Not really.

  3 am was my favorite time of the night—it was ever-so peaceful, and I got to spend the time I would’ve been tossing and turning in bed in my food truck instead.

  Hey, that rhymes!

  It was the adventure of being in a new town in Maine that had my insomnia at an all-time high. How was a woman ‘sposed to sleep with thoughts of lobster rolls and clambakes floating around?

  I stopped in front of my food truck, a smile parting my lips. It was gorgeous if I did say so myself. Candy-striped in green and pink pastels with a side window that opened out to serve the delicious baked goods we prepared fresh each day. Mostly Bee, my partner in baking, prepared them. I was still learning. But shoot, I was a good driver, at least.

  The name ‘Bite-sized Bakery’ was printed across the side of the truck in sweeping curled letters. Pride swelled in my chest.

  This was mine. All mine.

  And I had this morning in Carmel Springs, right next to the beach, to admire it, get to work, and appreciate that I was finally done with the hurt hidden in my past.

  “Have you heard about the ghost on Springs Wharf?” The voice floated out of the darkness behind me.

  I let out a cry and threw up my arms. Unfortunately, that meant I threw up the keys to my truck as well. They turned end-over-end once then dropped on my head with a jangle and a click. The jangle did nothing to help the sharp pain that came right after.

  “Ow.” The keys slid off my head and dropped on the sandy grass next to the truck. I bent and swept them up then straightened and glared at the man who’d startled me. “Ow.”

  “Sorry about that,” the guy said. “I didn’t mean to scare ya.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have crept up behind me then?” The shock had finally started wearing off, and I took him in properly. He wore a fully-waterproof suit, jacket and pants, and thick boots. His eyes were as blue as the ocean, his smile charming, and his hair dark and cut short.

  Not bad at all. Not that I cared, of course. I’d already had one man disappear on me. I wasn’t about to let another guy run off with my heart. Besides, I wouldn’t be in Carmel Springs longer than three or four weeks. After Bee and I had served our food, we’d be off to the next small town.

  That was our plan—explore the quaintest towns across the country. Meet the locals. And experience the food while serving our delicious cakes and cookies and donuts.

  The guy whistled under his breath, and, for one horrible moment, I was sure he was catcalling me. But no, his gaze had switched to the truck. “That’s a gorgeous piece of machinery you have there.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but can I help you with something? You stepped out of the dark speaking about ghosts, and now you’re…”

  “Oh, shoot, ha, that’s my bad. I got so caught up in, well, admiring you and your truck,” he said and offered me another charming smile. “I was trying to figure out the best way to approach you.”

  “Why?” I’d always been too inquisitive for my own good.

  “Because you’re pretty,” he replied. “And because I was hoping this here truck was open. Wanted to grab myself something sweet before I headed out.”

  Is he … flirting with me? “Oh. Oh, well, we’re not open yet,” I said, awkwardly, trying to ignore the little voice in my head encouraging me to flirt back. “But, uh, I do have one of yesterday’s chocolate mini-cakes in the fridge. I can’t charge you for it, though. We only sell fresh.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I’d planned on eating it for my morning snack, but the guesthouse would have a full breakfast at 9 am. Gosh, and I was set on trying everything this small town had to offer when it came to cuisine. “Hold on a second while I get it.”

  “Sure, that’s great. I’m Owen, by the way. Owen Pelletier.” He stuck out a hand.

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Ridiculous. It was a handshake not a hug. “Ruby Holmes.”

  “Pretty name to match your face.”

  Sheesh. At 36-years-old, I’d left flirting in the past, along with my disappearing ex and my twenties. “Wait right there,” I said, and hurried to the side door of my truck. I unlocked it, the heels of my pumps clicking on the steps.

  I was back moments later with the boxed up mini-cake. “Here you go,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Owen said, and opened the pink-green striped box. “We don’t get treats like this out on the water. I spotted your truck after we came in on the wharf yesterday evening. You were already closed though.”

  “Yeah, we’d had a long day of traveling. But we’ll be open all day today!” My voice seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet. I searched around for something to say, since Owen had done nothing but stare at me or the cake intermittently. “Um. You mentioned the wharf earlier. And a… ghost?”

  Owen chuckled. “Ayuh. Rumor has it, there’s a ghost of a woman who haunts the Springs Wharf. The legend says that she was the smitten lover of a fisherman who went out to sea and never came back. She spent every night waiting for him, but no news of what had happened ever came. She died of a broken heart, and now she walks the wharf, searching for him for all of eternity.”

  “Creepy.” I didn’t like ghost stories. I preferred the real, the here and the now.

  “Really? I think it’s sweet.” He shrugged. “But I work that wharf every day, and I’ve never seen nothing.”

  “You’re a fisherman?”

  “Sternman on a lobster boat.” His chest puffed out. “Shoot! Speaking of, I gotta get back before the Captain tans my hide for being tardy.” But Owen didn’t immediately rush off. He scuffed the grass with the underside of his boot. “Say, you want to have dinner with me? I know places where the leaf peepers don’t go.”

  “What’s a leaf peeper?”

  “Fall tourist.”

  “So me, basically,” I said.

  He laughed again. “Sure, but you’re different. I can tell. What do you say? Meet me at the Lobster Shack at 8 pm? You can bring a friend if you’re scared.”

  It seemed a challenge. And Owen didn’t scare me anyways. I had mace in my purse and a black belt in karate because self-defense was a girl’s best offense. A date. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?” There were a million reasons why not, but my mouth had just betrayed me.

  “Great!” And then he was off, hurrying down the road and away to the wharf—it was quite a way from the beach, past the pier which was lit even now with quaint fairy-lights and lampposts.
>
  I let out a breath.

  What a start to my first morning in Maine.

  Then again, I’d hoped things would be exciting once Bee and I got on the road, and so far, it looked like this small town would deliver.

  2

  “Here you go,” I said, handing the boxed up cake to the smiling woman in front of the food truck’s window.

  The sun had already dipped below the horizon, marking the end of a productive and fun day, baking, serving treats, and getting to know the locals in Carmel Springs. Most of them were friendly. Some of them were gruff. But all of them had loved the food truck, which Bee and I had parked in front of the beach and quite close to our guesthouse.

  “Have a lovely evening!” I called after the woman, as she hurried off across the parking lot and to her car.

  I took a second, inhaled the strange mix of our delicious baked treats and the salt coming off the sea. The ocean was timid this evening, the waves darting across the sand, touching and receding like a shy swimmer placing one toe into an icy cold pool.

  “That’s it,” Bee said, next to me “I am officially pooped.” My friend brushed her hands off on her pastel green and pink striped apron. “I think today has aged me about twenty years.”

  “So, you’re finally looking your age then?” I asked.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  But it wasn’t flattery. Bee was well into her sixties, but her spry attitude and her healthy habits had kept her slim, trim and looking better than me, if I was honest. She wore her hair in a silver-white bob, and her smile, though slightly gap-toothed, always warmed my day.

  It was strange, since we’d only been working together for a few weeks, but I felt closer to Bee than I had to most of my colleagues back at the New York Tattler.

  After the ‘incident’ I’d wanted nothing more than to get out of the big city, to leave my investigative journalist job behind. And Bee, who was still somewhat of a mystery to me, had helped me do that—when I’d first put my ad in the paper for a baker on my food truck, one who’d be willing to travel across state lines and sleep in loads of motels and guesthouses, I’d expected no takers.

  I’d been so convinced, I’d considered retracting the ad and asking for my money back. After footing the bill for the food truck, ingredients and all the accessories needed for a successful business on the road, I’d been strapped for cash.

  But then Bee had come knocking and everything had changed.

  I was eternally grateful to her for being willing to work with me, particularly since she was a fantastic baker.

  I flashed an appreciative smile at her now.

  “I take it you’re smiling for a reason,” Bee said, as she wiped off the counters in our truck with a rag. “Why don’t you tell me more about this date you’ve got tonight?”

  My stomach did a little flip. I’d forgotten about Owen, the handsome and surprising lobsterman, who’d asked me out. I checked my filigree watch, its pearlescent face flashing the time.

  It was already 7:30 pm. I had to be at the Lobster Shack in a half an hour. “Oh my heavens, I’m going to be late.”

  “Late? Late for a very important date?” Bee grinned at me.

  I flapped my hands at her. “I wouldn’t say it’s important. If I’m honest, I have no idea why I even agreed to go on a date with him. It was all so strange.” I broke down what had happened this morning for her—Bee had rolled out of bed an hour after the incident and had been too grumpy to ask too many questions at the time.

  “He scared you?” Bee asked. “That’s an interesting way to ask someone out on a date.”

  “I shouldn’t even be going. Not after…”

  Bee blinked at me. I hadn’t yet told her my full story, and she never pressured me into it. I liked that about her. She respected my privacy, and I did the same for her, though I was awfully curious about her history. She had let on even less than me.

  Not that it mattered—we shared a love for baking and were both loyal and trustworthy. Bee had a fantastic sense of humor too, which always helped during the long hours on the truck.

  I cleared my throat. “Look, I’ll tell you later, but now, I’ve got to go get changed and get to this Lobster Shack.”

  “Knock on my door when you’re back at the guesthouse, all right? Just so I know you haven’t gotten lost between here and the pier.”

  “And because you’d like to know what happened?”

  “That too.”

  I paused, looking around the truck. Not everything was neatly polished and packed away for tomorrow. “The truck…”

  “I’ll handle this.” Bee flicked my arm with her rag. “Go on. You go have some fun.”

  I hastily untied my apron, left it on one of the hooks next to the specials board, and hurried out into the night. A quick trip to the guesthouse for a freshening up later, and I was on my way to the pier—I’d looked up the address of the Lobster Shack earlier—my heart hammering in my chest.

  My palms had grown sweaty.

  This so wasn’t like me. Maybe it was good I got out of my comfort zone and forgot about Daniel. After all, it had been two years. Two whole years of my colleagues giving me the side-eye and muttering things behind my back and … I’d probably imagined most of it, but I certainly hadn’t imagined the pain of losing him.

  Now really isn’t the time to be thinking about that.

  I found the pier still bustling with activity, folks meandering along its wooden boards and stopping to play games at stalls or to shop for touristy items to take back with them after their trip to the seaside town was done.

  The Lobster Shack was meant to be right at the end of the pier. The closer I got to the restaurant, the quieter it became. Odd. The other portions of the pier had been so busy and full of life—surely, a popular seafood restaurant would draw in a lot of tourists and locals?

  I finally arrived at the restaurant and found it in darkness. The front doors were glass and huge, looking out on the ocean, along with several floor-to-ceiling windows. I spied a bar further back, but no activity whatsoever.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I reached into my purse for my mace. I took a step toward the restaurant, craning my neck, but stopped in my tracks. The front door was ajar.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone in there? Owen?”

  Of course, I wasn’t about to waltz into a restaurant so clearly devoid of life. But my curiosity was piqued for the second time today. Why would the lobsterman have invited me to a closed restaurant?

  I positioned myself in front of the door and opened it, slowly. The light from the lampposts on the pier splashed across the wooden boards.

  I didn’t have to take a step inside to make out the shape on the floor.

  A man, lying supine, a smear of something dark across his cheek. A lobster mallet lay a few feet from him, its end coated in something red. Something I was sure was blood.

  It was my date, Owen.

  And he was dead.

  3

  “And you just happened to be here to find the body?” The detective, a squat little man who wore a scowl that made him into a caricature of villain, sat with his notepad and pen on his lap and glared at me.

  “I didn’t just happen to be here,” I said, shifting on the bench at the end of the pier. “I was here for a date.”

  “With the deceased.”

  “Yes.” I’d already told him this about five times, but Detective Jones, the incarnation of every small town mean police officer cliché, didn’t seem to have taken any of it in. That or he just wanted to question me until we were both blue in the face.

  And given that it was fall, and the chill wind off the ocean had dropped another few degrees in the past half an hour, it was likely we’d both change color or freeze at this rate.

  I shifted on the bench, my gaze darting toward the restaurant and away again. Each time I looked over at it—now with its crime scene tape out front and police officers moving around the
entrance, talking softly—my stomach did a turn, flip and a plunge.

  Owen was dead.

  I had never seen a dead body before. No, that wasn’t right. I’d never seen a ‘murdered’ body. The only time I’d experienced anything similar had been at my Great Aunt Tiana’s funeral where there’d been an open casket. I’d been fifteen-years-old at the time, and I’d passed out right in front of the coffin. Twenty years had passed, but I wasn’t any less squeamish.

  It was much easier to write articles about war or famine or death than it was to confront it face-to-face.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and caught my breath.

  “Tell me what you saw again,” Detective Jones said, in that commanding tone.

  I faced him. “I didn’t see anything except … except poor Owen on the floor. He had a smudge of something on his cheek, and there was a lobster mallet next to him. I—I didn’t see anything else. Or anyone else.”

  “A lobster mallet,” Jones said. “Interesting that you remember that detail.”

  “It was fairly obvious, given that it was covered in blood.” I shuddered. “Look, what’s your point?”

  Detective Jones took his time writing something down on his notepad then underlining it three times, viciously.

  “Detective, may I go? I’ve given you my statement and answered all your questions. I don’t see how—”

  “You know when we last had a murder in Carmel Springs?” he asked.

  “No. I’m new to town.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He snapped his notepad closed. “The last time we had a murder was last fall. During tourist season. All these leaf peepers come down here, thinking they belong. They bring trouble with them. The guy whodunit the last time? He was a tourist too.”