Marzipan and Murder Page 2

  “You’re right.” And she was, of course, but I couldn’t help it. I’d spent years in a relationship with a man that had broken me right down to my insecurities. The only time I’d felt confident was when I’d been interviewing people for articles or writing stories for the paper. Apparently, decisions related to my business fell under the ‘insecurity’ tag.

  I’d have to get over it.

  “Interesting, though,” Bee said, walking to the coffee station in the corner of the room. She made a mean pot of Joe.

  I sat down and kicked my shoes off, tucking my feet underneath me in the armchair. “What is? The wedding?”

  “Everything about it. Honey and her husband included.” Bee doled out coffee grinds into the receptacle. “Don’t you find it strange that she didn’t cry to her husband instead of coming downstairs and weeping by herself at the breakfast table?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “She could even have spoken to that friend of hers, Jessie, but she didn’t. Why do you think that was?”

  “Perhaps, an attention-seeking move?” I asked. “Maybe she wanted everyone to feel sorry for her.”

  “Valid point. It’s still odd, though. A woman like that surely gets more than enough attention.” Bee gestured with a spoon. “Look at her, for heaven’s sake. She looks as if she’s stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

  I paused, biting on the inside of my cheek. I had learned to gossip at the paper, it was necessary to ask awkward questions and have whispered conversations to find the truth, but I’d tried to rid myself of the habit once I’d quit and bought the food truck.

  So much for that idea. “Do you remember the day they first arrived in Carmel Springs?”

  “Vividly,” Bee said. “Honey threw a fit over having to get married in William’s home town. He carried the bags into the guesthouse after her, like a puppy dog.”

  “Harsh, but true.”

  “And then they had that rip-roaring argument later that night. I could barely sleep,” Bee said, as she clicked on the machine, allowing the grounds to seep and the life-giving liquid to burble out into the glass pot below.

  “Well, let’s hope they’ve resolved their issues. They seemed fine at breakfast. You saw how they were whispering and cuddling of their shared omelet.”

  “Most off-putting,” Bee said.

  “This wedding might be what puts us back on the map in town. I really wanted our first venture out on our food truck to be successful. And I already ordered a new supply of boxes to be sent to the post office here.”

  Bee gave me a warm smile. “It will work out, Ruby. Don’t you worry.”

  Footsteps thumped down the hall outside—wooden boards creaking under the weight of them—and stopped outside my bedroom door. A curt knock came next.

  Bee and I stiffened then relaxed.

  Of course, it was probably just one of the guests. Albeit one who walked like they’d been cursed with giant feet. The murder and the ensuing investigation from the mean detective last week had us on edge. It was silly. Carmel Springs was safe, now.

  I answered the door and found Honey tapping her fingernails on the jamb. “There you are,” she said. “We haven’t finished talking about the wedding.” She forced her way into the room without invitation.

  “Come on in,” Bee said, sarcastically.

  Honey ignored her. “So.” She folded her arms. “As I said, I want them to be wedding cupcakes. Like, a whole tiered, layered thing of cupcakes, get it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you taking notes?” Honey demanded. “I don’t work with amateurs. I want notes taken so you don’t get it wrong.”

  “Surely, an amateur would get it wrong with or without notes?”

  This time, Honey shot Bee a scathing look.

  I brought my phone out and opened up my notepad app. I typed out her first request—or rather, command—then waited for the next.

  “Good. That’s better. The last woman who worked for me was an incompetent fool.” She smacked her lips. “Do you know anything about organizing weddings?”

  “No,” I said, quickly. “Just baking.” And even that was crossing a line. Bee was the baker, I was the truck driver and business owner. But in the past two weeks, I’d picked up a few tricks from my partner. I could whip up a mean banana bread miniature, now.

  “Oh.” Her lips turned down at the corners. “Well, fine. Now, I want to taste your stuff first before I hire you. I’ve already got the event prepared. We’re holding the wedding at the town hall.” If anything her expression grew more disdainful. “And you can use their kitchen to prepare the cupcakes when I do hire you.”

  “All right,” I noted that down too, for posterity.

  “I’m going to be busy scouting a new organizer for the wedding,” Honey continued, none of her weepiness present anymore. “I want you to prepare a set of sample cupcakes and drop them off at the town hall by tomorrow morning. You can come by in the afternoon, and I’ll tell you my verdict. Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” I said, slowly.

  “But the cupcakes will cost you,” Bee put in. “The testers. Ingredients don’t come cheap.”

  Honey glared at Bee.

  My cheeks grew warm. Once again, Bee had stepped in where I might not have. At least, she was always looking out for our best interests.

  “Well, fine.” Honey waved a hand, right after the awkward silence had passed. “I’ll pay you for the test cupcakes. But they had better be good. They had better be worth my time. Now, I’ll expect that delivery there by 9 am, as I’ll be attending the town hall an hour after. You’re to come back at 2 pm. No sooner. No later. Understood?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Good.” She swept from the room and nearly tripped over Trouble in the hall. “Stupid cat!”

  Trouble darted toward us, and I lifted him into my arms, stroking his soft calico fur. Before I could say anything about her insult, Honey had marched off down the hall, her stilettos heavy on the wooden boards.

  “She’s delightful,” Bee said.

  “A real treat,” I agreed.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Trouble purred and rubbed the side of his kitty face against my hand. “Yeah,” I said, “I’m sure. This will give me a chance to make my famous marzipan frosting.”

  “Famous?”

  “OK, not famous. But it’s the frosting that inspired my love for baking. It was my grandmother’s special recipe, and it’s probably the only thing I can make that tastes delicious, rather than just OK.”

  Bee poured us our coffees, and I returned to my comfy, flower-patterned armchair with Trouble. He purred and clawed my hand when I rubbed his belly, clearly in the mood for play, but all I could think about was the wedding, cupcakes, and Honey Wilson’s foul attitude.

  4

  “What a beautiful day,” I said, as we stood on the wooden overlook near the beach. The waves weren’t as choppy today, and the view of the ocean was what had kept me in Carmel Springs, instead of rushing off to the next town. Well, that and the seafood.

  My belly grumbled at the thought.

  “Hungry?” Bee asked, beside me.

  “You can say that again. Do you think we have time to grab lunch before we head over to the town hall?” I checked my watch. “Ugh, no we don’t. It’s already a quarter to, and she wants us there at 2 pm on the dot.”

  “Bit of a megalomaniac if you ask me,” Bee said. “What with the hair and the heels and the commands. She would fit in well in the army.”

  “Even with the hair and the heels?”

  “All right, a fashionable army. She could have one of her own shows like Joan Rivers did. Remember her?”

  “I never really watched those shows,” I said. “But I’m sure you’re right. Honey is very stylish.”

  “At least, she’s got that going for her.”

  “Bee.”

  “It’s difficult for me to be polite when other people aren’t,”
Bee said.

  I shook my head. “Let’s get going.” I’d have to wait until after our meeting with Honey to grab a bite. We’d planned on checking out more of the local restaurants, since the Lobster Shack was closed until further notice, due to its chef having been arrested. Murder was never good for business, as I’d come to discover.

  Then again, that was kind of a no-brainer. Is that a horrible pun I just made? Eugh.

  “I would’ve liked to go somewhere for lunch,” Bee said, as we turned off the long beach road and started toward the town’s center, passing quaint wooden stores with people both inside and out. A few of them smiled and nodded or greeted as we passed.

  It was a nice change from the outright suspicion the week before. “Samantha will probably have a snack for us when we get back. And we really shouldn’t have taken the day off just because of the cupcakes.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think it made much of a difference,” Bee said. “I doubt anyone stopped by at our usual spot overlooking the beach. At least not in search of our cakes.”

  “But the wedding will change that,” I said.

  “Yoo-hoo!” The call came from the butcher’s across the street. Both Bee and I watched as Millie, the rotund and friendly editor of the paper hurried across the street toward us, flapping a hand in greeting. “There you are. I went down to the beachfront today, but your truck wasn’t there. Is everything all right?”

  “So someone did miss us,” I said, brightening at the prospect. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Apart from business being slower than a frozen lobster,” Bee noted.

  “But we did just get an offer to cater a wedding. We’re about to find out if we have the job.”

  Millie pursed her lips. “Don’t tell me. It’s the Wilson-Hall wedding?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I heard Ms. Wilson is a real pain in the places sun don’t shine,” Millie said. “But then, that’s none of my business, now is it? I have good news, though.”

  “You do?” I was in desperate need of some.

  “I’ve gotten one of the food critics at the paper to agree to taste your food and write up a review. How the review pans out will be up to you ladies, of course.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic!”

  “Thanks,” Bee said and gave the woman one of her warmer smiles. “That’s really appreciated. We could use all the help we could get now.”

  Just the fact that we were speaking to Millie seemed to change a few attitudes. Locals watched us, and as we went our separate ways, a few of them waved or stopped to chat with us. Millie’s acceptance went a long way. Perhaps, we had made a powerful ally.

  We reached the town hall at five minutes past two. I despised tardiness, and the fact that we were late for a meeting with the ‘bridezilla’ gave me waves of tummy nerves.

  We entered the building and found the main hall empty. Chairs were still set up facing a front stage and a podium, and the place smelled of salt and wood polish, like the years of use in a coastal town had sunk into the furniture itself. I had trouble picturing how it would look all done up, and had thought the same when we’d delivered the cupcakes this morning.

  “Where is she?” Bee asked, frowning and checking her watch. “I might be the kettle here, but she’s late.”

  “I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you. I doubt Honey would take kindly to being called a pot.”

  “You really think she’d put the saying together?” Bee asked.

  I pinched her on the elbow for her meanness, and she swatted me on the arm, grinning.

  “But seriously,” she said. “Where is she?”

  “Maybe in the kitchen? That’s where we had to drop off the cupcakes.” I trooped across the hall and toward the shut kitchen door. The hall didn’t exactly have catering facilities, but the kitchen was big enough to prepare a few cakes, though we’d need to bring our own equipment on the day.

  I opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for me to register the scene in front of me, but when it clicked…

  I let out a squeal and stumbled back, Bee catching me as I stepped on her toes. “What? What is it?”

  A body lay on the floor in the middle of the town hall’s kitchen. A woman, with stiletto heels on, and… oh, no.

  “It’s her. It’s Honey,” Bee whispered. “What’s that on her face?”

  A white ‘cloth’ appeared to be stuck to her face. I approached, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. She definitely wasn’t breathing, and the cloth was none other than marzipan. My marzipan.

  “Bee,” I said. “I think it’s time we call 911.”

  5

  “Asphyxiation.” Detective Jones declared and grabbed one of the chairs in the town hall. He spun it around on the spot then straddled it, his meaty, hairy arms balanced on the top of it.

  “That’s terrible,” I whispered, shaking my head. Already, the beginnings of nausea roiled in my belly. I’d never been good with anything regarding corpses or blood or murder. But then, who was?

  Bee, apparently. My partner in baking had taken charge the minute the word ‘911’ had left my mouth. She’d effectively cordoned off the area, using a roll of kitchen towel and had taken several snaps of the body on her phone, as well as of the cupcakes and all possible exits and entrances to the kitchen. The sum of one—the same door we’d entered through.

  I had a hunch that my friend wanted to take matters into her own hands. I was too nauseated to be curious just yet, but that would kick in later on, for sure.

  “Terrible,” the detective said, bringing my focus back to his scowl. “Terrible that you were here in the first place.”

  Not this again. “Look, I’ve just witnessed a… well, not a murder, but I’ve just walked in on another dead body. I’m not in the mood to mince words, detective. Why don’t you just tell me what you need from me?”

  “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 accused 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—

  “She choked on your marzipan.”

  “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 is terrible.”

  “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 the 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 actually 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’ 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 bec
ause Bee was defensive of the food truck and of me as her friend.

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

  Bee glared at him. 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.’ How terrible.

  Bee and the handsome detective walked off a short way and sat down, Bee still 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 replied, folding 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 that was untrue, so it would help his case. I’d always been of the opinion that police served and protected, and to solve crimes, obviously, but Jones…

  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 town hall’s 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.”