Marzipan and Murder Page 3

  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, and my stomach sank.

  I’d been sure that things were about to get better for us and 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 all 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 really wasn’t our business. Then again, if we didn’t, Jones might use it as an excuse to frame us for it. “Do you really 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, all heading toward the commotion the street over.

  We were bumped sever times, but no one stopped or paid us any mind, which suited me just fine. The less attention 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.

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?” Bee asked.

  “I wonder if Samantha would know anything useful,” I said. “She knows when the guests arrived, how long they’re staying, and has probably been in contact with them more than we have. We should speak 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 surname like Holmes, how could you not be a sleuth?”

  It was a joke, of course, but it stuck with me. 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.

  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 on 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, butterflies tumbling around in my stomach.

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

  “Aren’t hernia’s 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 it up 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, Richard, exited onto the porch. At least, I thought it was Richard. They were twins, and it was sometimes difficult to distinguish between them. This brother had a mole to the right of his mouth, like Cindi 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 into the sands, tucking his hands into the pockets of his chino pants. He’d rolled them up at the bottom, but still wore a pair of sneakers.

  “Who wears closed 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 very upset if you ask me.”

  “He might not know yet.”

  “Everyone knows. This is a small town, Ruby.” 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 as she exited, her cheeks a rose 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 fruit avalanche. They’re still cleaning it.”

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

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

  “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 spoke to her about it, she hinted that I should give her the service free of charge because William 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 up against her hand with his furry head.

  “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 don’t think,” I said.

  Sam stroked Trouble, absent-mindedly, her gaze dancing toward the ocean again then the cloudy sky, the setting sun casting its oranges and pinks along the sky. “Well, Honey’s wedding organizer 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. “A wedding organizer?”

  “That would explain why she needed a new one, after a fight like that.” And the wedding organizer 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 organizer, 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. “I think 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 hope after Jones’ 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 7 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 still 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 organizer?”

  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 find out 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, focusing on the corners of the kitchen rather than Honey’s body on the tiles. “Yes, there were 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 questioning 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, they 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 speak 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 but envy that. “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?”

  Bee gave me her gap-toothed grin.

  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 the bench 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 delicious 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 the top.

  “Wow,” I said. “My mouth is 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 had to keep myself from groaning in delight. “These are amazing.”

  “I’m sold.” Millie, the chubby all-smiles editor of the paper, had appeared in front of the food truck’s window. “Those smell amazing. 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.”

  “And you, dear. Particularly since you’ve clearly whipped up something delectable for me to sample,” Millie replied, accepting the box and tendering a few dollars. “I see business is still quiet. Has my food critic come over to see you yet?”

  “No,” I said. “Unfortunately not.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll come by soon. Everyone’s still a bit freaked out after yesterday,” Millie said, popping open the lid of the box then lifting the cupcake out and examining it. “Beautiful.” She took a bite and her eyelashes fluttered. “Oh my heavens, these are divine.”

  “It’s all Bee,” I said. “She’s the baker between the two of us.”

  Bee flapped a cloth at me. “Ruby’s learning more and more every day.”

  “Both of you clearly know what you’re about. And that makes me furious at that detective.”

  “Let me guess, you’re talking about Jones?” I asked.

  “Hobbit,” Bee murmured.

  Millie giggled but her expression sobered quickly. “He’s been very loud about the fact that he found you two at the crime scene again.”

  “It’s not like we’re actively seeking them out,” I replied. “It just seems to happen.”

  “Dead bodies dropping in our path,” Bee agreed. “Like we’re baking grim reapers.”

  “Bee, that’s not the type of marketing slogan we want out in the world.”

  Millie laughed again. “You two are hilarious. You’ve got to come over and have some coffee at my place. Coffee and gossip. Speaking of which, guess what
I heard?”

  “What?” I asked.

  Bee poured three mugs of coffee and handed one over to Millie.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said, accepting it. “That Honey and her dear fiancé had an argument the night before the murder.”

  “They did?” Bee frowned. “We didn’t hear them and we would have. We’d been hearing them argue all week.”

  “Now, that’s a hot slice of gossip,” Millie said, taking a bite of her cupcake and chewing enthusiastically. “But they weren’t in the guesthouse when this particular argument took place. They were in the Chowder Hut down on the beach. See, there?”

  I peered out of the window in the direction Millie had pointed. It was opposite the pier, on the street overlooking the waves, but elevated on a rocky outcropping.

  “Great restaurant, and now, the scene of a potential pre-murder. What do you ladies think?” Millie asked.

  “No idea,” I said.

  Bee kept her peace, as well.

  But we definitely had our next lead. And a nice place to go to dinner too.

  8

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us, Sam?” I asked as I buttoned up my overcoat in the front hall of the guesthouse. Trouble rubbed his calico face against my ankles, purring. Meow. I bent and picked him up, heedless of the fur he’d surely leave behind on my black coat.

  “I’m not sure if everyone’s going out for dinner or not,” Sam replied, from behind her antique reception desk. She swiveled to and fro in her chair. “I can’t leave in case one of the others comes back. Poor William has been locked upstairs all evening.”

  “I heard him crying earlier,” Bee whispered.

  “I think he loved her very much. Of course, he did. They were engaged.” Sam removed a Kleenex from a pack on the desk and blew her nose. “Oh, it’s just so terrible. One of my guests murdered. I can’t believe it.”

  “It will be all right,” I said, with confidence I didn’t have. “Listen, we’ll bring you something from the restaurant. What would you like?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”