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

  Meow! Trouble the cat pattered out of the living room and rubbed his furry calico face against Sam’s legs. He came over to me next, and I bent and scratched behind his ears.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said, “it’s good to see you again.”

  “I need a strong cup of coffee.” Sam shrugged off her coat and hung it up on the rack. “I bet Frank will be over here soon.”

  “Frank?” I asked.

  “Oh.” Sam’s cheeks colored pink. “Detective Martin, I mean. He’ll be here soon. Would you ladies like some coffee, as well?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  Sam hurried into the living room where a fire crackled in the grate. Trouble darted off after her, and Bee and I busied ourselves slipping out of our coats and gloves as well.

  “What do you think that was about?” Bee whispered.

  “What?”

  “She called the detective by his first name.”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t any of my business. The only business we had now was celebrating Christmas, and, hopefully, helping the police find out who had done away with poor Jacobsen. Though, I wasn’t sure on that last part. Should we get involved? Or was it better to leave it to the professionals this time? How strange that this had happened. And how it had happened too—equally strange and alarming.

  We hurried through to the living room and took up two armchairs in front of the fire. It was lovely and warm, and I lifted the poker and shifted the logs to release more of the heat. The embers sparked and swirled, and my thoughts wandered back to the lights on the Christmas tree in the center of town.

  And the body underneath it.

  Who might have wanted to do this? And why now? Why so close to Christmas? And in such a public fashion too. Surely, the killer had known this would make a scene and draw a lot of attention. Which meant they’d wanted that attention—after all, it would have been much easier just to hide the body, wouldn’t it?

  Easier in the sense that it would be harder for the detectives to find out who’d done it.

  “Did you see Babcock?” Bee asked, quietly.

  “Babcock?”

  “Yeah, you know, the guy who was standing in for the mayor. Did you see his face after he’d switched on the lights and spotted the body?”

  “I can’t say I did, no.”

  “He was smiling,” Bee whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied, and tied up her silver-gray hair. “Smiling from ear-to-ear like he’d just won the lottery, not seen a dead body.”

  “Well, if that’s not suspicious then…”

  “Exactly,” Bee whispered, scooching forward a bit. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”

  “Enjoy a cup of hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows?”

  “Figure out who did it,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “This is perfect.”

  “Bee, excuse my ignorance here, but I’m failing to see how the death of the mayor is in any way ‘perfect.’ It’s a tragedy.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.” Bee flapped her hands at me.

  “I really don’t.”

  “We’re leaving Carmel Springs after Christmas, right? So, this is our opportunity to do one last good thing for the town and all the people in it. We can help them figure out who did this,” Bee hissed. “We’ll leave on a high note.”

  “Or we could just make Christmas cupcakes and hand them out?”

  “You’re not seriously planning on sitting on your laurels while there’s a murderer around, are you?” Bee raised an eyebrow. “Because if that’s the case, I don’t know you at all.”

  In her past life—the one before she’d become my baker on the food truck—Bee had been a police officer. All these cases and dead bodies, well, they were like her Kryptonite. It was a miracle I hadn’t figured out Bee’s cop secret before. She did have a penchant for munching on donuts and interfering. But then again, so did I.

  “Rubes, come on. We should at least ask around. You know, sleuth out some clues.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “For now, I just want to relax. It’s almost Christmas.” And indeed, the interior of the guesthouse had been decorated beautifully—tinsel hung from the corners of the halls and rooms, a tree had been decorated and positioned in front of the living room window, its lights flashing and casting merry glimmers across the floor. Mistletoe hung from the ceiling, as well, and one of the newer guests—Mr. Davidson, had already tried using it as an excuse to smooch me. Eugh.

  Bee silenced herself and lifted the paper off the coffee table then settled into reading it. I was drawn in by the dance of the Christmas lights, the flicker and flash.

  Why did the murderer leave the body under the tree?

  All wrapped up. Like a Christmas present. Shudder-inducing.

  The swinging doors to the kitchen opened and Sam emerged carrying a tray stacked with three brimming cups. She handed them out, and we thanked her. The hot chocolate was delicious, the mini-marshmallows had already started melting into sweet, white foam.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” Sam said, taking a seat in a third armchair closest to the fire and across from ours. “Shawn’s already gone to bed, and I just got off a call with poor Ava.”

  “Ava, the mayor’s wife?” I asked.

  “Right. She’s distraught. I could barely make out what she was saying over the phone. She’s with the police, but she asked if she could come stay here for a few days. Apparently, she doesn’t want to stay in her house. I think because of… you know, the memories. Poor Ian.”

  Ian was the mayor’s first name. “She’s coming to stay here?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Sam said. “Poor woman.” A knock sounded at the front doors of the guesthouse, and Sam went to answer it, leaving us with that newest bombshell.

  “Why would she be worried about where she stayed right after her husband was murdered?” Bee asked.

  “I have no idea. It is strange. Maybe we should go speak to—”

  Detective Martin entered the living room with Sam at his side and nodded to us both, effectively ending our suspicions and chatter. “Good evening, ladies. I’m here to ask a few questions and take some interviews. Sammy, would you mind waiting in the kitchen with Miss Holmes?”

  “Of course. No problem,” Sam said.

  Sammy? Why’s he calling her pet names? A flush of heat crept up my throat. Were the detective and Sam dating? And if they were, what did it matter? Surely, I wasn’t jealous.

  “Ruby?” Sam smiled at me.

  She was pretty, after all, mousy and a bit shy, but pretty in her own way. We were about the same age, her maybe a bit younger.

  “Right, yeah. Coming.” I took my hot chocolate with me, choosing to focus instead on the case rather than my strange flushy-heat issue. I didn’t have anything to be jealous about—I wasn’t interested in the detective. I wasn’t interested in anything or anyone other than baking and the food truck and maybe… solving another murder.

  4

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked, as we stepped out of the copy shop in Main Street, the stacks of invitations clasped to our chests. “I mean, the mayor did just…”

  “Kick the bucket?” Bee suggested.

  “Technically, he had his bucket kicked for him.” I glanced left and right to ensure no one had eavesdropped. “But yeah, exactly. We don’t want to upset anyone.”

  “Come on, Rubes, we’ve been planning this Christmas party for ages. I mean, we’ve hired out the town hall, for Pete’s sake. We’re not going to let this stop us, right?” Bee rifled through the invites. “It’s going to be great. Think of it this way: our Christmas party will be a great send-off and it will lift the morale in Carmel Springs.”

  “I guess,” I replied.

  But it had only been a day, a single day, since the mayor had been found underneath the Christmas tree in the center of town.

  “This way. Let’s hit the Corner Café. We can chat to Milli
e about taking out an ad for the party, she mentioned she’d be there this morning.”

  Bee was much more enthusiastic than she’d been at the start of our time together on the truck, and I couldn’t bring myself to discourage her. She did have a point—hosting a party would help people cheer up and enjoy themselves this holiday season.

  Though, I wasn’t positive that would help Ava Jacobsen. She’d arrived at the guesthouse early this morning. I’d spied her through the gap in my curtains at 6 am. She’d been frail and blonde and red-eyed, and Sam had brought her into the guesthouse with much cooing and pats on the back.

  Why doesn’t she want to stay in her house? It’s not like the murder happened there.

  Or had it? Perhaps, Ava Jacobsen knew something she wasn’t—

  “Ruby?”

  “Right. Sorry! Coming.” I skedaddled after Bee.

  The Corner Café was one of the favorite hangout spots in Carmel Springs—especially in winter, when the beach was too chilly to visit, and the pier was invaded by an icy ocean breeze. It sat on a corner—hence the name—along Main Street, right across from the town hall where we’d be hosting out party, and near the green knoll that held the massive Christmas tree. Thankfully, it was now free of the corpse of the mayor.

  Eugh, what a horrible thought.

  The interior of the café was quaint with a wooden counter at the front, an assortment of tables and chairs, some of them mismatched, and pictures of the town from its inception on the walls. The aesthetic was fiercely small town and welcoming. If a welcome could be fierce. Though, heavens, a lot of things had been fierce of late.

  We handed out a few invites to the locals, receiving smiles and thanks in return, then spotted out Millie sitting near the front windows and made our way over.

  She had company. A woman who was… astounding in every sense of the word. She wore her hair a shimmering golden-red atop her head, and a long fluffy red trench coat cinched at the waist to match it. Her makeup—gold eyeshadow and crimson lipstick—would’ve stood out on Broadway.

  “Who’s that?” I whispered.

  “Let’s find out.” Bee walked over to the table and smiled at the women. “Good morning, Millie. And, oh, I don’t think we’ve met, Mrs.…?”

  “It’s Ms.” The woman pursed those crimson lips and speared first Bee and then me with a narrow-eyed stare. “Ms. Greta Gould. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me.”

  “Ms. Gould is one of the paper’s primary investors,” Millie said, though she didn’t seem happy about it. Her eye kept twitching. Odd. “And good morning, ladies, what are you up to today?”

  “We’re handing out invitations to our party,” I said, offering her one. “We’ll be having it next week, just before Christmas.”

  “It’s a farewell soiree, and everyone’s invited.” Bee gave Greta an invitation, as well.

  The fabulous Ms. Gould studied the invite like it had insulted her merely by existing. She pursed and rolled her lips. “I see.” She put the slip of paper down, gingerly. “Well, that’s nice for you, but Millie and I were just—”

  “It’s fine, Greta,” Millie said, “I can talk about it later. Join us, please, Ruby. Bee.” Her tone was tinged with desperation. Goodness, what was that about? Did Millie not want to spend time with the mysterious Greta?

  Color me intrigued. And hungry. “Don’t mind if we do,” I said. “I’m starved. I’d kill for a scone right about now.”

  A few of the nearby diners dropped their forks or gasped. Poor choice of words.

  “Sorry,” I called out, waving a hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just, um, hungry.”

  Bee and I dragged two chairs to the table and sat down next to each other—elbow space was at a minimum, both because we were squished into the short side of the table, and because Ms. Gould didn’t seem willing to move her glittering handbag out of our way.

  “Hmm, let’s see what’s good.” Bee swept up a menu and started perusing, but her gaze lifted over the edge of the card and wandered between Millie and Greta.

  “Are you sure this is all right?” I asked, trying not to nudge Greta’s handbag. “If you two are busy with important work…”

  “Now that you mention it,” Greta started.

  “No, no. There’s nothing too important to discuss. Greta was just checking in on the paper’s circulation dates. She wants us to publish two times a week instead of one.” Millie had blanched. “But, of course, we’re not sure we can meet those types of deadlines or come up with enough content in such a short amount of—”

  “Now, that’s just a load of steaming hot trash, Millie, and you know it.” Greta had lifted a finger tipped in a crimson nail. She jabbed it in Millie’s direction. “There’s plenty of content. It’s just you don’t want to publish it.”

  “Greta, we have guests.”

  “You’re avoiding my eyes, Millie. You won’t look at me. Why is that?” Greta’s voice reminded me of a foghorn in the night. Again, folks at their tables turned and peered over at us.

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m not avoiding anything. We won’t be able to publish twice a week without the necessary staff and writers and, frankly, our printing presses are just… Look, everything’s going digital nowadays and running both an e-zine and a newspaper is too much work for the amount of staff we have. Surely, you can understand that, Greta?”

  “No, I can’t. You just need to work harder. There’s plenty of news to spread around. Cripes, there have been about twenty murders in the last few months.”

  “Five,” I said, helpfully. “Just five.”

  “And people want updates on what’s going on,” Greta said. “You can fill them in on all the juicy gossip with a bi-weekly paper. If you thin it out a bit, so what? You’ll become the go-to crime information source. We’ll be influencers.”

  “Influencers?” Millie frowned. “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Greta swept a few strands of hair back from her eyes. “You’re short-sighted, and that’s exactly why I’ll be leading the charge at the paper.”

  “Greta, that’s not possible. You’re an investor not the owner of the—”

  “I bought it,” Greta said, triumphantly. “The paper. I bought the paper. We’ll be rebranding it and publishing as I see fit, and if you don’t like that, Millie, well, I’ll find someone who does like it.” She paused and laughed. “Everyone is so short-sighted in this town. It’s people like you and that mayor who get killed because of it. I suggest you re-evaluate how you do business.” Greta snatched up her bag and rose from the table. She left the Corner Café, trailing a cloud of pungent perfume.

  “Good heavens,” I said. “Millie, are you all right?”

  Millie trembled in her seat, either from self-contained rage or upset. “I’ll be fine. She won’t get away with this. She can’t.” Our friend got up and collected her bag. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m not in the mood to eat anymore. I’ll… talk to you later.”

  “Of course, Millie,” I said. “I hope you feel better. Everything’s going to be fine.” Would it be, though? It seemed like this Greta woman was on the warpath, and it didn’t matter who stood in her way.

  5

  After the strange ‘Gould Incident’ at the Corner Café, I’d lost my appetite as well. My brain had taken up the charge: figure out how to help Millie. But then, there were so many charges to take up lately, what with the party coming up, the death of the mayor and now Millie’s impending loss of the paper, it was difficult to pick one.

  I led the way up the front steps of the Oceanside Guesthouse. The doors were shut tight against the miserable weather—overcast, the odd splotch of rain on the rooftop or pathway—and I took a minute to collect myself before entering.

  What was this Greta woman up to? Why had she decided to change the publication schedule of the paper? And what was the obsession with the murders and crime? Did she want to solve the murder? But no, she didn’t exactly strike me as the type
who’d look out for Carmel Springs’ best interests.

  And you are?

  It was silly. I’d sworn I would never rest my head in any guesthouse for too long, but this place had grown to be home.

  “Are you OK, Ruby?” Bee touched a hand to my shoulder.

  “Yes, why?”

  “You’ve been staring at the front door for two minutes. I figured you had something important on your mind.”

  I paused, grasping the last of our invitations tighter in my gloved fingertips. “I don’t know, Bee. I guess I’m just… I don’t know.”

  “That’s about as clear as a cake batter.”

  “Sorry.” I managed a laugh. “I’m confused about a lot of things. We’re leaving soon and we’ve got the party coming up, and I’m sad but excited about going. A new adventure is always good, right? But leaving Carmel Springs…”

  Bee looped her arm through mine and led me to the swinging seat on the porch. “This is why we’re going to solve the mayor’s murder,” she said, quietly. “It will be our last farewell to the town.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Bee. What if we mess it up?” Tainting the image of the last few months we’d had in Carmel Springs would be a terrible leaving present.

  “What are you afraid of?” Bee asked. “You’re usually excited about investigating mysteries.”

  “I’m not sure.” Maybe she was right. I didn’t want to figure it out for fear that I would get drawn into staying here another month. That was what had happened after we’d solved Owen Pelletier’s murder. And as much as I loved this town and all its people, it was time to move on.

  I had an itch in the soles of my feet. A building worry that if I stayed too long here, I’d grow roots. And then the folks in town would get to know me, find out about my past, and the stares and whispers would start.

  She can’t keep a man. Her fiancé ran away. Her fiancé couldn’t stand to be around her for a second longer.

  “Look,” Bee said, “I don’t know what’s going through that head of yours, but I can assure you that this will be the best Christmas ever, and that solving this case will only make it better. Let’s help these people.” She tapped her chin and pointed at me. “Without Detective Martin finding out.”