Marzipan and Murder Page 5

  Bee opened her mouth then closed it again. Likely, she’d had a sarcastic response on the tip of her tongue, but even she could tell that now wasn’t the time for it.

  I patted Jessie on the arm. “We haven’t spent much time with the other guests, but even we could see that you two were close.”

  “We were.” Jessie blew her nose. “I don’t think what happened actually hit me until tonight. Until Richard—“Her face grew red all over.

  “Until he embarrassed you in the Chowder Hut,” Bee finished for her. “Sorry to say it, dear, but we were there. He was being horrible.”

  “Yes, he was,” Jessie said. “Mean creature. He did that on purpose, just to embarrass me. Actually, no, that’s not why.”

  “Why then?” I asked.

  “Because he’s trying to hide the truth from everyone. That he’s probably the one who killed her.”

  Bee dropped a teaspoon with a clatter.

  “Why do you think that?” I asked, finding my voice again. “I mean, that’s quite a thing to say about someone.”

  “Yes, I know it is. But I’m sure he had something to do with it.” Jessie scooched to the edge of the armchair, her bloodshot eyes shifting. “Honey told me that William had forced her to include Richard in her will.” Jessie paused for effect. “Obviously, William’s well off, but he’s been having some trouble with his businesses lately. And Honey? She’s an Instagram model. She makes loads of money. I warned her about William, but she wouldn’t listen, and now… well.”

  “This isn’t your fault,” I said.

  But the fact that Honey had changed her will to include Richard was a huge deal. What if Richard had wanted Honey dead because he was in financial dire straits?

  “You think that Richard would have been desperate enough for money to murder Honey?” Bee asked.

  “Of course. Richard is a scumbag. I don’t think he’s worked a day in his entire life. If there was an easy way for him to ride their coattails he would’ve, but I know for a fact that Honey told William, after the wedding, she didn’t want to see him around anymore. She didn’t want him in her life.”

  And if that was the case, what better motivation could Richard have had?

  11

  “Are you ready for this, Rubes?” Bee asked as she packed vanilla-caramel cupcakes into a box. “I know this might be a little bit much for you.”

  “Hey, I used to be a journalist. I can handle this.” But I still felt the beginnings of nerves in the pit of my stomach. It was one thing to research a story, to question people or interview them, but to tail them? Well, I’d done that too, but never with a suspect in a murder case.

  “You’ll be fine.” Bee gave her a gap-toothed smile.

  I paused, studying my baking partner. She was so on top of everything when it came to cupcakes and murders. “You seem comfortable with the concept of tailing a suspect, Bee.”

  My friend shrugged. “One does what they have to do,” she said, mysteriously.

  I had never pried into her history, but the curiosity bug had bitten me. Still, I respected her privacy and wouldn’t ask. When she was ready to tell me, she would.

  “I hope it’s not a waste of time,” I said. “What if today’s the day that Millie’s food critic comes to check out the truck?” We had opened the side window and parked in front of the guesthouse instead of at the beach today. And for good reason—we needed to keep our eye on the comings and goings of one particular guesthouse resident.

  Richard Hall.

  Our prime suspect after the discovery of the changes to Honey’s will. Assuming the changes had actually gone through. What if Jessie had been lying about that to remove suspicion from her shoulders?

  “I don’t think we’re going to have any customers soon,” Bee said. “It’s unfortunate, but at least we can use the time to figure out what actually happened to Honey. Here, have a cupcake. It will cheer you up.”

  I took one of the vanilla-caramels gratefully and peeled back the paper. The first bite was heaven and the sweetness did help me calm down. It wasn’t as if we had any proof that Richard had done it. Yet. And our run-in with Detective Jones early this morning had only added to my determination.

  He had taken the engagement ring, reluctantly taken notes about our encounter and then left us with the warning to keep out of his investigation.

  Perfectly pleasant as usual.

  “These are so good.” I finished off my cupcake and tossed the paper into the trash receptacle.

  “If you do say so yourself. You helped, you know. You can take credit for your hard work.”

  “I hardly did anything. You’re the one who came up with the recipe. Honestly, Bee, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Probably not own a bakery on wheels.”

  “You’d have less trouble with Jones, that’s for sure. He’s definitely taken a disliking toward me. I suppose that’s my own fault, but I can’t regret it.” Bee grinned and closed up the box of cupcakes. “Are you ready to go?”

  We planned on taking the cupcakes to William and squeezing him for information. Without being too obvious about it, of course. I had a natural gift for two things: panicking, or ‘beaning’ as my mother called it, and getting information out of people in a friendly and easy manner.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  The words had barely left my mouth when the front door of the guesthouse clapped open. Richard marched onto the porch, drawing a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. He paused and lit up then puffed out a cloud of smoke.

  Bee and I stood deathly still, her clutching the box, and me trying not to stare too openly.

  Richard didn’t spot us but walked off down the street at a leisurely pace.

  “Where do you think he’s going?” Bee asked.

  “Should we?”

  “I think so.” Bee left the cupcakes on the counter, and I rushed around and closed up the truck. Quick as we could, we were off down the road after him.

  Richard had already reached the corner. He took a left without looking back.

  And so the ‘chase’ began. If it could be counted as a chase when the man being pursued strolled along like he had nowhere in particular to be.

  Bee and I kept back, talking softly in case he looked over his shoulder or decided to turn around. But he didn’t, and he took a squiggly path through Carmel Springs and into streets with brick houses with crumbling garden walls and stained curtains in their windows.

  “Should we turn back?” I asked.

  “When we’re so close to finding out where he’s going? I don’t think so.”

  A half an hour of walking had passed, and the sun had reached its zenith, by the time Richard dipped into the parking lot of the Go-To Drinking Spot. A pub with a worn sign attached to its brick face. The windows were grayed out with dirt or a tint, but the low thump of music spilled out of it when he entered.

  I stopped on the street, frowning. Bee did too.

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t see myself going in there any time soon.”

  “One has to make sacrifices in pursuit of the truth, dear.”

  “I would do anything for the truth, but I won’t do that.”

  Bee chuckled but started off across the parking lot, and I followed. Pubs had never been my thing, especially not ones that looked like this. The cars parked outside were mostly in states of rust or disrepair, and there were stains on the tarmac that I definitely didn’t want identified.

  Bee pushed open the door and entered.

  The music thumped loudly from speakers in the corners of the room. A bar, with a dusty mirror behind it, held glasses and bottles of alcohol. Men and women sat on stools talking idly.

  “OK,” Bee said, “so maybe coming in here wasn’t the best idea, after all.”

  One of the burliest guys in the places had spotted us and started stroking his long, gray beard. And Richard? Well, he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “No idea, but I don’t think
I’m going to be storming through here asking questions.” Bee touched a hand to her purse and fiddled with the golden latch set in brown leather. “Let’s go.”

  We exited the bar fast and set off across the street.

  A door banged behind us. “Hey!” It was the gray-bearded man. “Hey, you. I know who you are.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Keep walking,” Bee said. “Don’t look back.”

  “Come back here.” The man’s gruff calls followed us onto the sidewalk. “What’s the matter, Beatrice, you don’t want to talk to me anymore?”

  The fact that he’d used Bee’s full name came as such a shock, I stopped mid-stride. “He knows you, Bee.”

  “Keep walking, I said.” Bee’s neck and décolletage had pinked. “Just ignore him.”

  “Beatrice.”

  But Bee wouldn’t stop walking, and I chased along beside her, glancing back over my shoulder at the gray-bearded man. After a while, he stopped following and stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  “Bee,” I said.

  “It’s nothing, Ruby. Just an old friend.”

  “Here? You didn’t tell me you’d been to Maine before.”

  “I haven’t,” she replied, stiffly. “It’s just a coincidence. Let’s forget it and focus on the case, all right?”

  And that was the end of that. All we’d garnered from our expedition was the knowledge that Richard hung out in a seedy bar just outside of Carmel Springs, and that Bee had friends in strange places. Ones she didn’t want to talk to.

  12

  Bee had retired to her bedroom after the strange incident at the bar outside of Carmel Springs. I left her to it, rather than bothering her about what had happened. Doubtless, she wouldn’t appreciate the interference.

  It also gave me time to give the food truck a wash and to steal another of the cupcakes. Under normal circumstances, I would never have snacked on our product, but since no one, in particular, was buying, I enjoyed the guilty pleasure rather than mentally reprimanding myself for it.

  Clouds blotted out the sun intermittently, and I finished up my food truck once-over after a quick rinse from Samantha’s garden hose.

  The back of the guesthouse, with its comfy porch and chairs, called my name, and I rounded the side, stopping to peer at the spot where the shoeprints sat beneath the living room window.

  Why? Why had someone been peering inside? Who had they been looking for? And if it was the murderer, why would they have come back to the guesthouse when they’d already done the ‘deed.’

  Yuck, I hated thinking about a murder in those terms.

  I stomped onto the back porch and settled my tired bones into an armchair, resting my hands in my lap. Trouble the kitty cat padded out of the open sliding door and hopped into my lap, purring for attention. I laughed and stroked his ears.

  “I can always count on you to lighten the mood,” I said.

  Samantha came out of the back door as well, the local newspaper clasped in her hand, her gaze scanning the front page. She took two absent-minded steps toward the swinging seat then stopped, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “This is terrible.”

  “What is?”

  Samantha shrieked and threw the paper at me. Thankfully, it fluttered to the ground before it got very far. Trouble hissed and hopped around in my lap, his little claws coming out and his back arching, tail bottle-brush thick.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I take it you didn’t see me sitting here?”

  “Oh, Ruby, it’s you. Thank goodness. For one horrible moment, I was sure it was… you know.”

  “Someone else?”

  “Right.” She picked up the paper and folded it, messily, then sat down on the swinging seat. “I’m on edge, as you can probably tell. And I can’t believe what I just read in the paper. They’ve labeled my guesthouse as ‘murder hotel.’ I’ve never been so upset in my life.”

  “Really?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  I picked up the paper and opened it, scanning the article.

  Trouble at Maine’s Murder Hotel…

  “Oh wow, that’s a headline if ever I saw one.” Whoever had written this had gone in on the guesthouse. The article was well-sourced, with information about Honey Wilson and her fiancé.

  “It’s horrible. How am I going to draw in new customers at this rate? People will avoid the guesthouse.”

  “Or you’ll draw in a crowd of people who are intrigued by murders. You know, you get that crowd of folks who hop from place to place seeking out the history behind local murders. Kind of like an unhealthy obsession.”

  Samantha groaned and covered her face. “All I wanted was to set up a guesthouse in my home town and share how amazing this place is with everyone.”

  “Don’t worry, Sam,” I said, flicking the paper’s front page with two fingers. “This is just an angle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen to this,” I said, clearing my throat and finding the relevant paragraph. “According to police reports, Ms. Wilson, an Instagram model, and self-proclaimed beauty was found in the kitchen of the town hall. It appeared there had been a struggle between her and the killer, who remains unknown. Suspicions arise, however, regarding the other guests at the hotel in town.”

  Sam groaned again.

  “Two of the occupants are not originally from Carmel Springs and were associated with a previous murder investigation in the town. Miss Ruby Holmes and Miss Beatrice Pine run a local food truck and had recently been hired to cater the victim’s wedding. By a stroke of sheer madness, it appears that the murder weapon itself was the marzipan made by the baking duo. Speculation is rife as to whether these ladies are involved.” I grew hot under the collar at the insinuation.

  “That’s horrible. Oh no, they can’t really think you did that, can they, Ruby?”

  “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, other than Detective Jones.” Not a good portent for either Bee or me. “My point is, Sam, the whole murder hotel thing is just an angle. The writer hasn’t penned anything here that pins the murder on you or even relates it that much to the guesthouse. They called it a hotel, for heaven’s sake.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That the paper will move onto bigger and better things when more evidence arises,” I said. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you.”

  “You think so?” Sam asked, drawing her yellow-blonde hair from her face as the breeze whipped it around.

  “I know so.” But the fact that the reports were so vicious and damning told me that solving this case had to take top priority. There had been a struggle in the kitchen, according to the paper. Did that mean that the attacker might have pulled the engagement ring off during the struggle?

  Perhaps, it had been an accident. Or perhaps the crime had been motivated out of a lust for money. That pointed back to Richard again. Richard was tall. But so was Jessie. And William. But what if it had been none of them, and instead had been an outside attacker. What about the redhead wedding organizer we’d seen arguing with Honey only a day or two before the murder?

  “Are you all right, Ruby?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry the reporter wrote that about you and Bee. Nothing could be further from the truth,” Sam said. “I’m a good judge of character, and I know you two wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone. Ever.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I didn’t need the comfort, but she was such a sweetheart. And trouble purring and settling in my lap brought a sense of warmth too.

  What about Bee?

  Therein lay another mystery. Gosh, I had been so sure I’d be rid of the hunt of truth when I’d bought my food truck and started revamping it. And now, I was on the road with my friend, and mystery had followed us all the way to another State.

  “I’m going to fix myself a cup of coffee and some cookies. Would you like some?” Sam asked.

  “That would be great, t
hank you.”

  Sam left me with Trouble purring away. At least, she seemed happier than she had when she’d come out onto the back deck.

  The afternoon had worn on, the sky had grown dull with gray clouds, thick with coming rain. A lone figure appeared on the sandy path leading through the bushes. Richard strode toward the back of the guesthouse, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He grinned at me and nodded then disappeared into the guesthouse.

  Was it a coincidence that he had taken a different path back to the Oceanside? And what had that grin meant? Did he know we’d followed him?

  Samantha returned with the cookies and coffee, and I dismissed the thoughts, for now.

  13

  “If that’s not a hit piece of an article, I’ve never seen one,” Bee said, her legs crossed and one of her fluffy bunny-ear slippers dangling from the tips of her toes. “Seriously. How were we involved in the last murder? That makes it sounds like we should be charged for it, not like we helped solve it.”

  It was after dinner, and I had tactfully avoided talking about our run-in with the bearded guy earlier. There were more important things to discuss. Like Richard’s walking routes, the article, and the victim herself.

  “But it’s interesting, don’t you think?” I lifted my mug of coffee and took a sip. “What they said about the struggle. If only we knew who she had struggled with. From what we’ve heard, she wasn’t well-liked.”

  “Hmmm, true.” Bee folded the paper and tossed it aside, lifting her mug to her lips after. “Here’s our problem,” she said, “we don’t know enough about the victim to warrant a true suspect list. We know that Richard and Jessie were fighting. Richard had motivation. William has been absolutely silent for days, and Jessie is visibly distraught. Those are our only suspects.”

  “And the wedding organizer.

  “Right. But if Honey was so hated, there might be suspects we’re missing.”