The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Read online

  “A confession,” Jones replied.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Save us all some time and tell the truth. You killed her, didn’t you?”

  “I most definitely did not.” Outrage swam through me. How dare he accuse me when he had no evidence? Sure, I happened to have been at the scene of the crime, and it was my special marzipan that had been plastered over her face, but—

  “Your marzipan killed her.”

  “Excuse me, but my marzipan is soft and delicious. I don’t know what you’re—”

  Detective Jones rolled his eyes. “No, she actually choked on it. The marzipan was the murder weapon.”

  “Oh. Oh no.” Now, the outrage was gone, and I was just plain dizzy. How could this have happened? “This can’t be happening.”

  “Because you’ve been caught?”

  “What? No! Detective, this line of questioning is totally inappropriate. Bee and I came out here to meet with Honey about the cupcakes we’d be catering for her wedding.”

  “Let me guess. She told you she didn’t like the cupcakes, and you two decided to take matters into your own hands. Kill her for it.”

  I’d started wondering if the detective had been dropped on his head as a child. “Listen, detective,” I said, my tone stiffening now that some of the panic had dissipated. “Bee and I found a dead body, nothing more and nothing less. Why don’t you get your forensic people to find out when the murder occurred? Bee and I were out on the street in full view of everyone literally five minutes before we found the body. There’s no way we could have done this.”

  Jones glared at me. “That doesn’t mean anything. You might have murdered her in the morning and come back in the afternoon to establish an alibi.”

  I let out a frustrated grunt.

  “What’s going on?” Bee marched toward us. “Is Serpico giving you trouble?”

  “He’s convinced that we committed the murder.”

  Jones’s lips drew into a thin line at the sight of my baking partner. The pair didn’t like each other one whit. The attitude had been established during his last investigation because Bee was defensive of the food truck and of me as her friend.

  “I’m taking Miss Holmes’s statement. I’ll need you to proceed to one of the seats over there and speak with Detective Martin.”

  Another detective had appeared, indeed, and walked over. He was the opposite of Jones in every way—smiling, tall, handsome, and young. “Ma’am? Could I speak to you for a second?” And he’s polite too.

  I cleared my throat. None of that mattered. Poor Honey—all right, so she wasn’t “poor” so to speak—had been murdered, and it seemed as if someone had tried to frame the truck again. Or maybe, they’d been in such a rage they’d used whatever was closest to them to finish the job.

  Bee and the handsome detective walked off and sat down out of earshot, Bee casting glances our way, her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I’m going to take your statement,” Jones said, removing a pen from his pocket and uncapping it. “Need I remind you, ma’am, that lying in an official statement to the police is perjury and punishable by law?”

  “You don’t need to remind me of anything.” I folded my arms.

  The statement-taking went relatively quickly, but Jones kept stalling as if he wanted to squeeze more from me or get me to say something to help his case. I’d always been of the opinion that police served and protected, and solved crimes obviously, but Jones soured that impression.

  After the grueling interview, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and found the sun dipping toward the horizon.

  “It’s that late already?” Bee asked, emerging from the doors as well.

  Several police cruisers were parked in front of the building, and an ambulance sat alongside them. Forensic technicians had only just pulled up outside and piled out of their vehicle, making for the front of the building in their funny white suits and crinkling as they walked.

  “Oh boy,” I said. “Here we go again.”

  Bee nodded and looped her arm through mine. We started up the sidewalk away from the noise. Most of the store owners in the street stood around, gossiping behind their hands and studying the front of the town hall. A few of them pointed at us.

  I’d been sure that things were about to get better for the food truck, but Honey’s death definitely changed things.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Go back to the guesthouse and rest,” Bee said.

  “Rest?”

  “Rest being a euphemism.”

  “For what? Death?”

  Bee managed a short, sharp laugh under her breath. “Investigating it. I took those pictures, remember? There’s got to be something we can use to figure out who did this.”

  So there it was. Bee was determined to solve the mystery, even though it wasn’t our business. Then again, if we didn’t, Jones might use it as an excuse to blame us for it. “Do you think we’ll be able to figure it out? From what we’ve seen so far, it’s not like Honey was the most popular person around.”

  “Understatement of the year,” Bee said, as we turned a corner and were met with another crowd of people heading toward the commotion the street over.

  We were bumped several times, but no one stopped or paid us any attention, which suited me just fine. The less notice we garnered, the better it would be for the food truck. If Jones decided to confiscate it again… but, no, he couldn’t do that. After all, we’d used Samantha’s kitchen to make the cupcakes.

  “Hmm.”

  “What?” Bee asked.

  “I wonder if Samantha would know anything useful,” I said. “She knows when the guests arrived and how long they’re staying, and she’s probably been in contact with them more than we have. We should talk to her about this.”

  “Now, there’s a good idea.” Bee shot me an approving grin. “We’ll make a baker-sleuth out of you yet.”

  “I don’t remember opting in to the ‘sleuth’ title.”

  “With a last name like Holmes, how could you not be a sleuth?”

  Sleuth or not, I had to ensure this didn’t affect the food truck. Knowing Jones, he wouldn’t want us to leave town until this murder was solved. Though his version of “solved” likely involved us behind bars and him with less on his plate.

  Not on my watch.

  6

  The Oceanside Guesthouse was situated right on the beach, with a back porch that opened out on a gorgeous view of the sand below and the long trail that led down toward it. Bee and I positioned ourselves in wicker armchairs opposite each other, keeping our eye on the sliding glass doors that led into the guesthouse’s living area.

  No one was home.

  Samantha had given all the guests keys for their rooms and the house itself, in case she had to run out for ingredients or anything else. And it seemed she’d chosen now to do exactly that. Not exactly to plan with what we’d wanted to do—squeeze her for information.

  “Where do you think she went?” I asked, tugging on my fingers.

  “You must relax, Ruby,” Bee said. “You’re going to give yourself a hernia at this rate.”

  “Aren’t hernias from lifting heavy objects?”

  “True. A hernia is when the bowel pops out of the—”

  “Nope!” I put up both palms. “That’s more than enough information, thank you. If I want to know more, I’ll search online.”

  Bee chuckled. “It’s not that bad. Not as bad as death by marzipan.”

  “Eugh.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand how that’s possible. You and I both know my marzipan is soft and delicious. And we covered those cupcakes so the coating wouldn’t go hard.”

  “But really, they wouldn’t have to be rock hard to choke a person. All it would take is a little force.” Bee made a gestured with her arms and hands that I didn’t care to examine too closely. “Just like that, and then… that, and—”

  The sliding door opened, and one of the guests, the brother of the groom, Richar
d, exited onto the porch. At least, I thought it was Richard. They were twins, and it was difficult to distinguish between them. This brother had a mole to the right of his mouth like Cindy Crawford. Except male. And with dark rings under his eyes.

  He bobbed his head to us then stomped down the steps and took the long path to the sand, tucking his hands into the pockets of his chino pants. He’d rolled them up at the bottom but wore a pair of sneakers.

  “Who wears closed-toe shoes on the beach?” Bee whispered.

  “That guy.”

  “I mean, really. What’s the point of going to the beach if you’re not going to wiggle your toes in the sand?”

  “It’s cold,” I said, drawing my coat tighter around myself. “Maybe he doesn’t want his toes frozen off by the wind.”

  “Or maybe he’s up to something,” Bee whispered. “The groom’s brother, leaving the guesthouse, now? What if he’s trying to run? He didn’t look upset if you ask me.”

  “He might not know yet.”

  “Everyone knows. This is a small town.” Bee scratched underneath her chin. “I don’t like it, and I don’t trust it.”

  “Don’t trust what?” Sam stepped through the sliding door that Richard had left open. She wore a thick coat and a pair of woolen gloves. She stripped off the gloves, her cheeks a rosy pink.

  “Oh nothing,” Bee said, quickly. “Just idle chatter. I suppose you’ve heard?”

  “About Honey?” Sam asked. “I was in the fruit aisle at the General Store when I found out. It was chaos.”

  “Why?” I shifted in my seat.

  “Well, because it was announced over the loudspeaker. Old Man Lester has never had a strong grasp on the meaning of the word ‘tact.’ He announces everything over the loudspeaker in the store, from specials on minced beef to the untimely passing of Mrs. Rose’s pet parakeet.”

  “And he did the same about Honey?”

  “Yes. Poor Mrs. Crindle passed out on the grapefruits and caused a produce avalanche. They’re still cleaning it.”

  Bee pulled a face. “Thank heavens she wasn’t near the lobster tank.”

  Sam lowered herself onto the swinging seat, and Trouble purr-ticked his way out onto the porch and leaped into her lap. She stroked his ears and turned her head toward the ocean. “What terrible news. I can’t believe it.”

  “Can’t you?” Bee asked.

  Sam frowned.

  “She means, um, that Honey was, well… what’s the delicate way to put this?” I couldn’t find it, whatever it was.

  “Honey was mean and argumentative,” Bee said.

  Sam’s cheeks grew even pinker. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, particularly so soon after it, well, happened, but I can’t say you’re wrong. She was terrible to me when she first arrived. I think the only reason she started being nicer was because she hoped I would help her cater her wedding. For free.”

  “What? Free?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “I couldn’t believe it, either. She started by telling me that she wanted me to work for her. When I talked to her about it, she hinted that I should give her the service free of charge because she had already paid for their stay at the guesthouse, upfront.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s awkward.”

  “Yeah, it was. I didn’t give her an answer. I’ve been avoiding her since,” Sam said, as Trouble bumped his furry head against her palm.

  “I wonder if that’s what she was fighting about with that other woman. The redhead?”

  “Redhead?” Sam asked.

  “We saw Honey and some woman arguing the other day, but we’re not sure who she is. She wasn’t from Carmel Springs,” I said.

  Sam stroked Trouble absentmindedly, her gaze dancing toward the ocean again then the clouds gathering overhead, the setting sun casting its oranges and pinks along the sky. “Well, Honey’s wedding planner was a redhead. What was her name? We were only briefly introduced after Honey and William arrived, and she wasn’t at the house much.”

  Bee sat straighter. “Right.”

  “It explains why she needs a new one, after a fight like that.” And the wedding planner had seemed angry as a viper on a hot tin roof. Could she have taken exception to Honey’s vile attitude? She might be a suspect. “So this wedding planner, she wasn’t staying in the guesthouse?”

  “No,” Sam said. “I don’t know where she’s staying. I haven’t seen her in days, actually.”

  “Interesting,” Bee said, drawing the word out.

  “I hope I haven’t said too much.”

  “I don’t think you have,” I replied. “The whole town is probably wild with speculation at this point.” And I had to hope that the speculation didn’t extend to the food truck. But that was too much to wish for after Jones’s treatment this afternoon.

  Either way, Honey’s murder was a mystery I definitely wanted to solve. What if another guest at Sam’s place had done it? Might they be sleeping right next door to a murderer?

  I settled back and minded the view rather than the conversation going on between Bee and Sam. What was the next step? Figuring out who would’ve had access to the crime scene. There had been two doors in and out of the kitchen. Who had used them? And was it normal for the town hall to remain unlocked all day?

  7

  Driving the food truck out to the beach at 8:00 am was a force of habit now, given that I didn’t make any sales most mornings, and Bee was a total grump about having to wake up early. But there was nothing more rejuvenating than the fresh scent of the sea air, even if the quiet was broken by the odd squawk of a gull.

  “So,” Bee said, as she leaned against one of the counters in the food truck, sipping on a mug of steaming hot coffee. “What do you want to make this week?”

  “For the truck?”

  “No, for our impromptu trip to the moon.”

  “Oof, somebody didn’t get out of bed on the right side this morning.”

  Bee sipped her coffee rather than replying, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, after a minute. “I like the idea of the vanilla cupcake with a creamy caramel filling and the caramel frosting on top. They smelled delicious when we made them the other day.”

  “And I can teach you how to make the filling. It’s not difficult. I just wanted to check whether you were interested in making something with marzipan.”

  I pulled a face. “That’s a terrible segue into talking about the murder.”

  “I know. I was too tired to come up with a nice one.” She lifted her cup. “Too little coffee. Too much seagull ambient noise.”

  “They don’t bother me that much.”

  Bee shook her head. “Another anomaly to go with your early morning rising,” Bee said. “But really, what do you think about Honey and the wedding planner?”

  We’d talked late into the night about it but come to no conclusions. We’d retired with the promise of continuing our chat and investigation the next day.

  “I think we need to find out exactly who could get in and out of that town hall. And if they had any cameras. If they did, the murderer might have been caught on tape, and we won’t even need to worry about solving the case.”

  “They didn’t have any cameras,” Bee said, drawing her cellphone from the front pocket of her apron. She set down her coffee and came over. “See?”

  I flicked through the pictures on her phone, focusing on the corners of the kitchen rather than Honey’s body on the tiles. “You’re right. No cameras. That complicates things a bit.”

  “And look at this,” Bee said, gesturing to the back door. “See the lock? It’s rusted shut. There’s no way the killer came through the back or left through it either.”

  “Which means they must have gone out the front.” My eyes widened. “What if someone saw them leaving?” Though that didn’t help us much. Short of asking all the store owners in the street if they’d seen anything, we didn’t have much of a lead. And I doubted many folks in Carmel Springs would be open to q
uestioning from two strangers.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Bee said, as she bent and switched on the oven to warm it up for another morning of baking. “To the town hall.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Usually it stayed locked, right?”

  “But who would have the keys?”

  “The mayor? A maintenance person? Someone who looks after the place like a caretaker?” I asked.

  “Then we need to find out who that is and talk to them. That’s our next step.” Bee was so sure of herself when it came to the investigations and the baking, and I couldn’t help envying her. “But we’ll deal with that later. Let’s make ourselves some cupcakes to banish the dead-body blues.”

  “You have a way with words,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  We set to work, Bee standing at my shoulder and directing me as I made the caramel cream filling. It was therapeutic work, and the end result was delicious—sweet, but not sugary, creamy and light and tasting of caramel.

  I was tempted to sit down on one of the benches that overlooked the beach and feast on the filling alone. But we made the cupcakes as well, and Bee showed me how to whip up an equally light and delicious frosting. We waited until the cupcakes had cooled, the sweet vanilla scent mingling with the salt on the breeze, then filled the cupcakes and frosted them. I placed the finishing touch on each cupcake with a blob of pure caramel on top.

  “Wow,” I said. “My mouth’s watering.”

  “Well, it’s not like we have any customers to serve,” Bee replied. “Let’s have one.”

  One of the rules I’d given myself after leaving New York, was that I’d take each opportunity as it presented itself and enjoy every day. That included vanilla-caramel cupcakes. I snagged one out of our display case and tucked into it.

  The caramel filling erupted from the cupcake, and I groaned. “These are amazing.”

  “I’m sold.” Millie, the all-smiles editor of the paper, had appeared in front of the food truck’s window. “Those smell delish. Mind if I purchase one?”

  “You can have as many as you like,” I said, placing my cupcake to one side and washing off my hands. I slipped on the plastic gloves I used to serve customers then extracted one of the cupcakes and placed it in a box. “It’s good to see you again, Millie.”