Murder and Marshmallows Page 4

  Good heavens. No love lost. “All right.”

  “The police have already come by to speak to me about Henry’s death, as you put it. Really, it was a murder, and we all know it. He got himself killed, and though murdering is not a thing I’d do nor approve of, I’ve got to say, he had it coming.”

  Lyle took a deep breath, his grey eyes unfocused for a moment.

  “It all started five months ago,” he said, in the way a man spoke when he was about to tell an epic story.

  One I don’t have time for. I cast a nervous glance in Bee and Jamie’s direction, but they were preoccupied. Bee held a glass aloft and tilted it this way and that, pretending to be enthralled and clicking her fingers at Jamie when he so much as turned his head in my direction.

  “Henry and I never got on,” Mr. Grace said. “Whenever we had meetings at the town hall, he’d speak over me or anyone who dared raise their hand. But that was fine. I could deal with that.” He huffed a breath. “Until he came in here one day and ordered a set of double-walled glass cappuccino cups for his bakery. I took the order and got to work. But when I delivered the cups, and they were perfect, I tell you, perfect… he told me that he’d report me to the Better Business Bureau because I had delivered him cracked cups.” He muttered a rude word. “I wouldn’t stand for it, so I, well, I’m not proud of this but I went ahead and called the health inspector on him.”

  I arched an eyebrow.

  “I know, I know,” Mr. Grace continued. “But he deserved it. And, look, if his business was clean and there were no violations, it would’ve been an inconvenience at best. But—they found cockroaches in the kitchen and shut the bakery down last week.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” Mr. Grace said. “So, I got my revenge. And that was enough for me. No way would I put my life at risk for Henry Hughes. Because murderers always get caught, right? Most of the time anyway.” Another pause as Mr. Grace lifted the glass duck from the counter. He held it at eye level and peered through it before replacing it and circling around to my side of the counter.

  I glanced down at his shoes and did a double-take.

  They were boots. And they were caked in mud.

  Interesting.

  Mr. Grace took a step even closer. “But if you want my honest opinion on what happened to him,” he whispered. “I’d bet my entire store that it was the butcher who did it. His wife, Miranda, was having an affair with Henry. You can’t tell me he wouldn’t take that personal. Crime of passion.”

  And Miranda was the same woman we saw crying at the crime scene.

  “All right,” Bee said, approaching the front desk with Jamie in tow. “I’ve found what I want to buy.”

  “I’ll wait in the car,” I said, and winked at my friend.

  We had another lead. The only problem was following it with my boyfriend along for the ride.

  8

  Back at the guesthouse, Bee and I took our places at the table in front of the window, allowing the sun to bathe us in its cold winter’s light. Jamie had gone upstairs to rest after our trip to the glassblower—either Bee had exhausted him, or he wasn’t as spry as he’d thought after being sick the day before.

  “This is great,” Bee said, taking a huge bite of her hotdog—served with mustard and onion relish. “It’s like being in the city again.”

  I smiled at her.

  My memories of the city were bittersweet, but it was always nice to see Bee happy. “It’s a pity Jamie couldn’t join us for lunch.”

  “Pity, eh?” Bee lifted a silvery-gray eyebrow.

  “What? It is a pity.”

  “That’s not the impression I got from you today,” Bee replied. “You kept glancing at Jamie like you wished we’d never come on this vacation.”

  “Ouch.” I rubbed my chest. “That’s harsh, Bee. I like him a lot. I want to be here with him.”

  “But you’re more in love with sleuthing, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer her.

  Jamie had put pressure on me this week about settling down, and now I was being asked if I cared for Jamie enough.

  “Sorry,” Bee said, a minute later. She brushed her fingers off on her napkin and took a breath. “I pushed that too far. I just want what’s best for you, Rubes.”

  I forced a smile. “It’s OK.” And it was. By now, Bee knew me better than anyone else. We’d spent every day with each other for a year, and we’d hardly fought apart from that one time in Muffin. We respected each other’s boundaries, but I did take what she said and thought to heart.

  “Why don’t we opt for a change in topic?” Bee took another bite of hotdog and let out a groan. “Oh man.”

  “The case?” I whispered.

  The dining area was relatively empty as lunch had already passed, but Eleanor, our hostess, was at the coffee station, refilling sugar bowls and checking on the freshly brewed coffee.

  “The case,” Bee agreed. “What have we got?”

  I brought out my phone and opened my notepad app. “Shall we?”

  Bee finished off the last of her hotdog, cleaned herself with a napkin, then scooched her chair over to my side of the table.

  “The baker’s wife, Sherry,” Bee said. “Let’s talk about her first. She’s got the most motive.”

  I typed away.

  Sherry Hughes—the baker’s wife. She inherited his money according to the rumors but was estranged from him. She wasn’t in town at the time of the murder—allegedly. And she was having an affair with Horatio according to the grapevine.

  “A good lead,” Bee said. “But the mud on the glassblower’s boots?”

  “I agree.” I continued typing.

  Lyle Grace—the glassblower. Had mud on his boots—the body was buried out on the hiking trail and I definitely saw someone before we rounded the corner. He was the one who got the bakery shut down, so he was enemies with Henry. Revenge motive?

  I took a break, frowning at what I’d written.

  Miranda Anthony—the butcher’s wife. Accused of having an affair with Henry. Turned up at the hiking trail crying. How did she know that he’d died there? Did news travel that fast?

  “Interesting point,” Bee said. “I’d like to speak to this Miranda. Find out what’s going on there.”

  I took a sip of water before continuing.

  The butcher, Carl—he definitely had motive to get rid of the baker if Miranda was having the affair.

  “We need more on him,” I said, and saved the note. “What do you think, Bee?”

  “I agree. But right now, I think that our best lead is the conflict between the glassblower and the victim.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Mr. Grace’s muddy boots are also suspect.”

  “I say we tail him tomorrow,” Bee replied. “Really figure out what he’s been up to. Maybe there’s an innocent explanation for his muddy shoes. Why would he wear the same boots he’d used to commit the crime to work the next day?”

  “True.”

  “That leaves only one issue,” Bee said, tapping her chin. “What are we going to do with your beloved boyfriend?”

  I glanced out the window at Jamie’s Porsche. “I think I have an idea.”

  9

  “This is the best gift a man could get,” Jamie said, clasping the brochure as I steered him toward his Porsche. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  “Nah, Bee and I were thinking of checking out a local doll store,” I replied. “I figured you wouldn’t want to come with.”

  Jamie had paled at the mere mention of dolls. “Bee sure has strange tastes. First the glass obsession and now dolls?”

  “Porcelain ones,” I replied.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Jamie kissed me on the cheek, and I tried not to let guilt overwhelm me.

  My solution to the Jamie disapproving of our sneaky investigations was twofold. To get him a brochure for the car show that Eleanor had mentioned at the beginning of the week—Jamie was an enthusiast as evidenced by his Porsche. An
d to come up with a hideous field trip for Bee and me—one we wouldn’t be taking but that would be so unappealing, Jamie wouldn’t think twice about heading out to the car show.

  Apparently, my plan had worked.

  “How long is the show?” I asked.

  “It’s an all-day thing,” he replied. “But I’ll meet you ladies for dinner in the dining area. Sound good?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  I hugged my boyfriend and watched as he got into his car and strapped on his seatbelt. He blew me a kiss, revved the car’s engine, and took off down the road.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t seen my shoulders sag with relief.

  “Ready?” Bee called from the front steps of the guesthouse.

  I waved her over.

  She grinned from ear-to-ear. “A most elegant solution, my dear Ruby.”

  “Why, thank you, Watson.”

  “Hey! I wanted to be Sherlock,” Bee replied. “No fair.”

  We’d have to hoof it over to the glassblower’s shoppe because turning up in the food truck would draw unnecessary attention. Everyone was so hungry for baked goods, it was lucky there wasn’t a line outside the guesthouse.

  Bee and I set off, linking our arms as we sauntered down the sidewalk.

  Ten minutes later, we arrived at the glassblower’s shoppe. It was open, and I could just make out the shaper of Mr. Grace behind the counter, reading something on his phone.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We settle in to wait.”

  Bee and I sat down on a bench in the street, under a tree that had long since lost its leaves but would soon sprout new buds at the ends of its spindly branches.

  I brought out my phone and pretended to be enthralled. Bee removed a paperback from her tote purse and feigned reading.

  An hour passed with us seated there, occasionally glancing up at the store to check the movements within.

  “I’m starved,” I whispered.

  “Following suspects is hungry work,” Bee agreed. “We should’ve brought snacks but, hmm, we’ll probably have to leave soon. If he sees us and realizes we’ve been here all day, he’ll get suspicious. If only he would—”

  The door to the Glassblower’s Emporium opened.

  Mr. Grace emerged. He locked the front door of the shoppe then headed down the sidewalk, whistling under his breath.

  “He’s on the move,” Bee hissed.

  We rose from the bench and followed him.

  Mr. Grace led us through town back toward the guesthouse. My heart leaped and skittered as we drew closer and closer to the hiking trail. We reached the entrance to the preserve, hanging back and hoping against hope that our suspect wouldn’t turn around and see us.

  He paused in front of the entrance to the hiking trail—cordoned off as the police needed to do their work at the crime scene.

  Mr. Grace mumbled something under his breath, scratched the back of his neck, then started walking again.

  Bee and I shared a glance.

  Suspicious behavior. Is the suspect returning to the scene of the crime?

  Mr. Grace wound past the preserve, crossed the road, and took several turns, leading us back into suburbia. Finally, he entered the yard of a compact single-story clapboard home on Mueller Way.

  “This must be his house,” Bee said.

  “How do you figure that?”

  She didn’t have to answer the question—Mr. Grace fished a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door.

  “How weird,” I whispered. “He walked out of his way to go check out the entrance to the preserve.”

  “Right? Highly suspicious. Watch out! He’s coming back.” Bee and I dipped behind a tree on the sidewalk opposite the house.

  Mr. Grace emerged, tugging on a pair of thick gardening gloves. He picked up a watering can and a garden trowel from beside his front door, then descended into his yard. He turned the beds, watered the flowers, and got a whole lot of mud on his boots.

  “Hmm.” Bee tapped her chin. “This could be the reason he has muddy shoes.”

  “Can we really rule him out just because of this? I mean, walking past the entrance to the hiking trail like that?”

  “I see your point, and I agree. But I don’t think we’ll get any more information out of Mr. Grace,” Bee whispered.

  We backed out of the shade of the tree and made off before the suspect spotted us. I couldn’t help the disappointment that settled in the pit of my stomach. This hadn’t given us much information. And no evidence to speak of.

  No big leads to follow.

  “Let’s make hay while the sun shines,” Bee said. “We should check out the butcher’s place while Jamie’s preoccupied.”

  I nodded, but I was starting to think that maybe my boyfriend had been right about this investigation. We hadn’t found anything that was helpful yet.

  10

  Carl’s Butchery was tucked in a side street in the center of town—the merry sign on the front invited us inside, promising more than the usual meaty scent I’d come to expect from places like this. But that scent was still there, and I wriggled my nose.

  The interior of the butchery held a silver counter that separated the customers from the meat in the back—thankfully the processes of cutting and preparing was hidden from view behind a plastic curtain that covered an open archway.

  Mr. Anthony himself stood behind the counter, wearing a white plastic apron and a smile. Silver trays, refrigerated and behind glass, displayed everything from links of sausage to hamburger meat, to steaks, both T-bone and rump.

  “—thanks, Jemima,” Carl said, as he handed over a neatly wrapped package to a customer. “You take care.”

  “Don’t let it get to you, Carl.” The customer let the butchery door click shut behind her.

  Carl’s bright blue gaze zipped around the interior of the store and landed on us. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, though he’d lost some hair at the front of his head, and he seemed nice enough.

  Just because he’s nice and handsome, doesn’t make him the perfect husband.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. “Welcome to town. You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “How could you tell?” Bee asked.

  “Ah, well, I’m good with faces. Never met a face I can’t remember nor put a name too.” He affected an easy lean on the top of his counter, clasping his hands together and resting his wrists on the glass. “Name’s Carl Anthony.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Anthony,” I said. “I’m Ruby.”

  “Bee.”

  “Call me Carl,” he said. “Heck knows, everybody else does. Being called by my last name raises my blood pressure. Makes me think I’m in trouble with the wife.” He guffawed. “Anything in particular I can get for you today?”

  Shoot. It wasn’t like we needed meat. We weren’t about to cook our own meals since we had a lovely guesthouse to stay in.

  “We’re thinking of having a barbecue to draw more customers to our food truck,” Bee said. “Any recommendations for what we might serve?”

  I tried to stop my jaw from dropping. Bee was a master at thinking on her feet.

  “That’s a great idea,” Carl replied. “You own a food truck?”

  “Not me,” Bee said. “Ruby’s the owner. I’m the lowly baker.”

  “There’s no ‘lowly’ about it. Bee’s a master baker. Best one I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Baking truck,” Carl said, and lowered his head. His face transformed from the jolly welcoming smile to one that drooped with sadness.

  “Oh dear,” Bee said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—uh, it’s nothing.”

  “Is it Henry?” I asked.

  Carl’s head snapped up. “How did you—?”

  “I, well, I found him,” I said. “Out on the hiking trail.”

  “Wow.” Carl straightened, then pointed to a picture on the wall behind him.

  It was an image of Carl with his arm around the shoulders of a talle
r man with deep brown eyes. They both bore massive smiles and held out marshmallows on the ends of sticks. A camper was in the background of the image, a woman—one I recognized as Miranda—stood outside it, fists on hips.

  “That’s Henry,” Carl said, after a second. “My best friend.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I murmured.

  Bee stared at the image like she could commit it to memory.

  “Thank you.” Carl sniffed. “He was a good man. He didn’t get on with most folks, but once you got past the tough exterior, he was warm and kind. Giving, even. I took that picture a couple weeks ago on one of our monthly trips. Poor guy was so alone most of the time. His wife was… well, she didn’t want anything to do with him. Was more than happy to keep spending his money, though.”

  “You guys went camping a lot?” Bee asked.

  “Indeed, we did. Henry loved the outdoors. He—” Carl’s Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down. “I was meant to go out hiking with him on the morning it happened. But I—I had an issue with one of my biggest clients. Supermarket over in Millpark. I couldn’t go. If I’d been there, I might’ve stopped—” Carl bowed his head again and let out a long breath.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He waved a hand, forcing a smile. “I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. Just hearing you mention baking got to me.”

  An awkward quiet followed.

  “So you and Henry were close,” Bee said. “What about Henry and Miranda?”

  Oof. What a question to ask.

  Carl blinked—stunned for a moment or two. “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” he said, his face growing red and blotchy, “but there was nothing going on between Henry and my wife. He would never have done that to me.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I don’t think Bee meant it like that.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just wondered whether you were all the best of friends or not. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

  Carl puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, but the color didn’t drain.

  “We should, uh, go,” I said. “We’ll come back later regarding the barbecue.”