The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Read online

  I finished off my lobster roll and struggled not to lick my fingers afterward.

  We skipped out on the dessert and opted to head back to Bee’s room instead, Trouble darting between my legs and purring on the way. The day had been full of excitement and questions, and I was tired after all of it.

  I lowered myself into one of the armchairs, kicked up my feet on the coffee table, and let out a weighty sigh. “That’s better. At least we can relax and talk about everything, now.”

  “Minus the prying ears and eyes.” Bee nodded, sitting down as well.

  “Can ears pry?”

  “Small-town ears should be able to.” Bee tapped her manicured nails on the arms of her chair. “Speaking of ears, what do you think about the chef and the lies he dribbled into yours?”

  “Dribbled?”

  “Like sweet honey off the comb.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know what to think. He might have been lying outright. Grace hinted that he’d gotten into a fight with Owen. Maybe he wanted to throw me off his scent.”

  “In which case, that’s exactly the scent we should follow.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get the truck back. This has been my dream for the longest time, and if upsetting a few people will mean that I can—”

  The floor in my bedroom creaked.

  The door that led into the adjoining bathroom was open.

  I paused, frowning. It couldn’t be Trouble because the calico was already curled up on the end of the bed. Perhaps it was the guesthouse settling after a long day under the sun. Or the wind outside?

  “What was that?” I whispered.

  Bee shook her head.

  Together, we got up. I took the lead, tiptoeing toward the bathroom door. This is fine. It’s probably nothing. Just a noise in an old house. But it’s better to check to be sure.

  I opened the bathroom door, and Bee and I piled into the small tiled space. It was quiet as the grave—terrible turn of phrase to use in the situation, but there it was.

  Another creak sounded in my room, and I stiffened.

  There was definitely someone moving around in there.

  I heated from head-to-toe, and my pulse raced. I crept forward, Bee right at my back, and pushed open the other bathroom door. The hinges creaked.

  A figure stood framed in the moonlight next to my bed. They were dressed in black and holding something that glinted in the darkness.

  I gasped, shocks dancing over my skin.

  “Hey!” Bee yelled. “What are you doing in—?”

  The person took off running for the other side of the room, footsteps thumping on the floor.

  “Stop right there!” Bee shot after the intruder, but I stayed put, bracing myself against the bathroom door.

  It was a knife! They were holding a knife!

  “Bee, wait!”

  But it was already too late. My friend had rushed from the room.

  10

  It took me two great gasps of breath before I could summon up the courage to rush out after Bee. I couldn’t let her go out there on her own. What if the stranger turned on her? What if it was the murderer?

  I hurried into the hallway. The lights were off, and my footsteps creaked. “Hello? Bee?” Something brushed against my leg, and I let out squeal. A meow answered me. It was Trouble, his glowing yellow eyes peering up at me in the dark.

  A door opened, and a light clicked on in the hallway.

  “Ruby?” Samantha, the owner of the guesthouse, stood in her fluffy pink robe at the end of the hallway. “Is everything OK?”

  “There was someone in my room. A stranger. With a knife, I think. And Bee went after him.”

  Samantha’s jaw dropped.

  “I have to find Bee. She might be in trouble.”

  The words had barely left my mouth when footsteps sounded on the stairs. I tensed up, waiting for the intruder to reappear, knife in hand.

  Bee materialized on the landing, shaking her silver-haired head. “He’s gone. Or she. Whoever it was, they got out before I could stop them.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that,” I said. “What were you thinking, running after an intruder? What if they had turned on you? They had a knife.”

  “I’m not sure it was a knife, actually. It was silvery and metal, yes, but a knife?”

  How could she possibly be so calm? I was still shaken from the interlude. “We have to call the police,” I said. “They need to know what just happened.” How could they possibly believe I was the murderer, or even Bee, when we’d almost been attacked?

  “I’ll make some tea,” Samantha said. “To calm us down.”

  Another door opened in the hallway, and the male guest from downstairs stepped out, rubbing his eyes and wearing striped PJs. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Christmas morning,” Bee said. “Santa Claus paid us a visit.”

  “There was a break-in,” I said, quickly, since the guest only blinked at the joke. “We’re calling the police, and Samantha’s going to make us some tea.”

  “And cookies.” Samantha raised a finger. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “And I’ll call the police,” Bee said, with a glint in her eye.

  I would’ve bet all the tea and cookies in the world that Bee would be speaking directly to Detective Jones and having a few harsh words with him.

  Five minutes later, we were downstairs and seated in the living room, waiting for the police to arrive. The front door hadn’t been left unlocked, but the intruder had jimmied it open to get inside. They had to have been desperate.

  But who was it? And why had they been in my room? It was enough to make the skin crawl.

  I hadn’t seen much—but the intruder had been tall. Or maybe that had been my impression because of the fear. Their face had been hidden beneath a hood, and they’d been all in black. There was no way to tell whether they’d been male or female.

  “Who do you think it was?” I whispered to Bee.

  She sat next to me on the sofa, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know, but I’d bet anything it was someone who didn’t want us investigating what happened to Owen. Why else would they have broken into your room?”

  I shuddered to think.

  Another ten minutes passed before the police finally arrived, and Detective Jones himself swaggered into the room, scowling when he spotted us.

  “Hello, Detective Jones,” Samantha said, rising from her seat next to the fire. “Can I get you anything? Some tea or a cookie or—”

  “No.” He put out a chubby-fingered hand.

  Sam lowered herself back into the chair, and anger crawled up my throat. Good heavens, she’d only offered to be polite. Why was Jones so rude all the time?

  “You,” he said, pointing at me. “And you.” His finger shifted to Bee. “Tell me what happened.”

  Bee opened her mouth, and I could almost see the acid gathered on her tongue.

  I spoke before she could and broke down exactly what had happened. Meanwhile, two police officers examined the doors then traipsed upstairs to my room. Detective Jones didn’t even take notes, and he didn’t seem concerned that we’d nearly been attacked.

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” the detective said, after my story had finished. “I can take your statement, but there’s no evidence that will lead us to—”

  “The latch on the door is broken,” Bee said, stiffly. “Samantha’s going to have to fix that. There’s definitive evidence that someone broke in.”

  “But none as to who it was.” Jones shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, but it’s not much.” And with that he was done and gone.

  “Well,” Samantha said. “I’ll have to call the locksmith tomorrow to get the door fixed.” But the disappointment was thick in her tone. She had to be worried too. This was her business, and it was being messed around.

  Because we’re here.

  If anything, this made me more determined to get to the bottom of what had happened to Owen. There was
only one mystery I’d never solved. I wasn’t about to add another one to that list.

  11

  The following morning was bright with watery sunshine. I’d gone for an early morning walk on the beach, feeling slightly lost now that I didn’t have a truck to wake up to. As I made my way back up to the guesthouse, my cheeks cold from the wind and my hair stiff from the salty air, I yawned.

  Shoot, I’d gotten hardly any sleep last night. How was I supposed to when my room had been broken into, and when the lead detective investigating a murder case happened to hate my guts? Or he believed that I’d poisoned the victim.

  I came up the front steps of the guesthouse and sat on the porch swing outside, watching the street and the empty space where I’d parked my truck.

  This was ridiculous.

  I had to get it back. I had done nothing wrong.

  “Why hasn’t he taken me in for questioning yet?” I muttered.

  The screen door creaked, and Bee emerged, pretty in a pink knit sweater and a pair of jeans and sneakers. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Oh, good morning.” I shook my head. “I was just thinking about that detective.”

  Bee let out a low growl.

  “If he really thinks I had anything to do with the murder, why hasn’t he brought me in for questioning yet? It’s strange.”

  “There are a lot of things he does that are strange,” Bee said, leaning against the wooden balustrade. “Let’s just say, I’ve had my fair share of experience with law enforcement, and the way he’s been behaving has been unorthodox.”

  “Were you a police officer?” I asked.

  “Not quite,” Bee replied. “But I can see your investigative journalistic habits are operating at peak capacity.”

  “I can’t help myself. I was up half the night trying to work out who killed Owen and what the next steps are.” I’d thought I’d put mysteries behind me when I’d bought the food truck—it had always been my dream to travel, to go on adventures and to avoid settling in one place for long, all while baking to my heart’s content.

  Bee looked out at the ocean, wriggling her lips from one side to the other. “We need another lead,” she said, at last. “My best guess is the truth lies in the details. Someone was clearly threatening Owen, and the only person we know who’s had an actual ‘fight’ with him is Miller, the chef from the Lobster Shack. Perhaps we’d better pay him another visit.”

  “Or the uncle.”

  “Owen’s uncle?” Bee asked.

  “Yes. I bet he’ll know who would have wanted Owen dead.”

  “You mean apart from everyone in town who hated him?”

  I laughed. “Apart from them, yes.”

  We went back into the guesthouse and grabbed two more cups of coffee to go, right from Sam’s machine with her handy Styrofoam cups and lids next to it, then headed out the door. The long walk down the street toward the pier refreshed me.

  I loved walking, and even though this wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my time in Carmel Springs, it was nice, nevertheless, to get some exercise. Working on the food truck definitely limited the amount of time I got to walk or do anything else apart from serve food, occasionally burn a cake and receive a glare from Bee, and eat the leftovers at the end of a long day. Now, there was a recipe for weight-gain if ever there’d been one.

  We reached the pier and were greeted by the narrow-eyed stares from a few of the locals in their stalls or shops. I took Bee’s advice and ignored it, though it did plant a seed of doubt in my belly. What if, when I did get the food truck back, nobody came to buy any of our cakes or pies or donuts? What if they avoided us because they believed that I’d done it, no matter what the cops said?

  It was a question I didn’t want an answer to right now.

  We strode up to the Lobster Shack. The glass front doors were slightly ajar, but there was no one inside.

  Talk about a flashback.

  I paused, a chill traveling down my spine.

  “What is it?” Bee asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just too quiet.”

  “Well, it is the morning. Maybe the Lobster Shack doesn’t open until later in the afternoon.” Bee raised an eyebrow. “Looks like they’re open.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Bee linked her arm through mine and guided me into the interior of the restaurant.

  It was quiet, the doors to the kitchen shut, thought the porthole windows let out light from within. Had the chef come to set up, early? That was what we did on the truck, and it made sense that a popular tourist att—

  The low rumble of chatter cut across my thought.

  Bee and I froze, her arm still linked with mine.

  She nodded toward the door at the far end of the restaurant, next to a set of stairs that led to a second floor with a balcony.

  “—think that’s a wise idea.” The words were low but audible.

  I led the way forward this time. Who was it? Benjamin? The owner would come in early, of course, especially if he’d had troubles with the restaurant. The whole “no lobster” issue had to have hit hard.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think, Miller.” The voice was rough as sandpaper.

  Miller? The chef’s in there with him.

  “Listen, Ben, you don’t have to believe me, but it’s the best we can do at the moment. I ain’t serving fake lobster to these folks. Most of the diners who come in here are locals. One bite and they’ll know it’s not lobster.”

  “I think you’re overestimating the local palate.”

  Miller fell silent, and Bee and I tensed. She tugged on my arm. Time to go. Or was it? We’d hardly heard anything, other than the fact that Benjamin was willing to cut corners to get what he wanted.

  “Ben, I want the restaurant to do well too, but—”

  Benjamin snorted inside the room. “If you’d wanted what was best for this restaurant, you would never have gotten into an argument with Owen in the first place.”

  A beat passed.

  “He started it.”

  “And you finished it,” Ben said.

  My eyes widened. Was that an accusation?

  “I did what I had to do. He wouldn’t leave Hannah alone, boss. I wasn’t about to take that lying down.”

  “And it didn’t matter to you that your behavior would affect the restaurant. You knew that Owen would get you back for what happened, and that’s why you—”

  “Someone’s coming,” Bee whispered, squeezing her fingers into my forearm.

  I’d been so drawn in by the conversation I hadn’t heard the footsteps on the boardwalk outside. Quick as Trouble the cat, Bee and I made for one of the tables near the front and sat down.

  Grace, the waitress, entered the restaurant and stopped just inside the doors. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “We were hoping to have some breakfast,” Bee said, her cheeks flush.

  The server tucked curly blonde hair behind her ears and released a long, low breath. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Sorry, we don’t open until eleven today. You’ll have to come back later.”

  We apologized our way out of the restaurant, smiling and laughing at our mistake. The restaurant’s door shut behind us, and I took a breath. “That was interesting,” I whispered.

  “More than interesting. Downright intriguing. It seems the chef was lying to you on purpose the other day.”

  And that made him even more suspicious.

  “Come on, Ruby,” Bee said. “Let’s get back to the guesthouse and have some breakfast. We’ve got a long day of puzzling and clue-seeking ahead of us.”

  12

  I sat on the porch seat, admiring the ocean view and occasionally scribbling a note on my pad. Bee had gone upstairs for an afternoon nap, but I couldn’t shut my eyes for a second without seeing the lobster mallet.

  It was a horrible vision to be taunted by, especially since it was supposed to be used on something delicious like lobster in the s
hell. And it confused me too. Lobster made my mouth water. Murder did not.

  I sighed and scanned my page again. I’d written all the names down and placed my clues next to them.

  Owen Pelletier—Victim. Not exactly the most popular guy around. Murder by lobster mallet and poisoning? Sick in the days before his death. Why would the killer have attacked him and poisoned him as well?

  “Odd,” I muttered, turning the ideas over in my mind. Underneath Owen were the rest. The suspects.

  Benjamin Pelletier—Owen’s uncle. Owns the Lobster Shack. Blames Miller for the fact that there’s no lobster and can’t get on with any of the others. But did he hate Owen? Motive?

  Chef Miller—Argued with Owen before his death. Definitely lied to me about Owen’s relationship/connection to the Lobster Shack. Suspicious. Mentioned someone named Hannah? Owen wouldn’t stay away from Hannah?

  Mr. Dillington—Owner of the wharf where Owen worked. Businesslike. Fairly nice guy and didn’t seem to care that much about Owen’s death. But… motive? None so far.

  Relatives—Need to figure this out. Speak to the family?

  So far, the most obvious player had to be Miller. He’d lied to me, and he had clearly had a problem with Owen. But why? If only I could figure that part out.

  I put my notepad and pen to one side. I needed a walk, some time to clear my mind and enjoy the view of the ocean. That would help me mull this over.

  It had been a long time since I’d been faced with a set of clues I couldn’t solve. Maybe the past few weeks on the food truck had blunted my investigative skills?

  I got up and meandered down the porch steps and toward the side path that led toward the beach, between rough foliage and sand. It was quiet, apart from the odd car passing by once in a while and the natural sounds of the ocean. It would be so easy to forget, in this sweet small town, that there had been a murder.

  “Don’t be silly. No one’s going to jump out at you,” I whispered.

  Apparently, I’d fully embraced my new habit of talking to myself. Perhaps it was due to the stress? Whatever the reason, I—