Murder and Marshmallows Page 5

  The butcher gave the barest of nods, and we made our escape. A hasty one at that.

  “Well,” Bee said, once we were out on the sidewalk. “What do you know? Mr. Anthony does have a temper.”

  “He’s glaring at us through the window.”

  Bee linked her arm through mine again and we wended down the street together.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked. “He thinks that Henry wouldn’t hurt him like that. And he seemed genuinely upset about his friend’s passing.”

  “Sure,” Bee said. “But notice that he said Henry wouldn’t do that to him. Not Miranda. That has to mean something.”

  “Right, but I still think the glassblower is our most likely suspect. I mean, he tried to sink Henry’s business. I wonder if there was any evidence that Henry was about to open the bakery again? If that was the case, it might’ve given Mr. Grace enough motive to do something about it.”

  “Why not trash the bakery then?” Bee asked. “Why murder a—”

  I froze mid-stride and gasped, pointing at the horizon. A thick plume of black smoke rose into the air.

  11

  Bee and I arrived at the scene of the fire, sweaty and out-of-breath. All those cupcakes and donuts on the truck hadn’t helped either of us with cardio fitness, that was for sure. A line had already been set up, and several firefighters herded the onlookers away from the blaze onto the opposite side of the road.

  The Glassblower’s Emporium popped and cracked. The windows had already burst, and the occasional blast of a glass item exploding within brought shrieks from the crowd. Flames engulfed the interior of the building, licking at the door and the window jambs. Acrid smoke filled the air, and Bee and I held our coats over our faces, stepping further back.

  Firelight reflected in the wide eyes of the locals, but Lyle Grace was nowhere around.

  “Who would do this?” I asked, as we backed up even further down the road, and let our coats fall from our faces.

  The firefighters had extended the perimeter, helped by the police that had arrived on the scene.

  A shaft of water sprayed the roof of the emporium and stressed business owners from the stores either side of the burning building paced back and forth or tried to hail the lieutenant on duty.

  “Someone who hated Mr. Grace,” Bee whispered. “Or maybe Mr. Grace himself. Insurance. You never know.”

  “Or a ploy to allay suspicions?”

  “That might be a stretch. But worth considering.”

  Bee and I fell silent and looked on in awe.

  There was something about fire—it was both mesmerizing and terrifying. The effect on the people who had gathered to watch it was clear. Every person to a man stood staring, either shaking their heads or transfixed by the sheer destructive power of it.

  “Terrible,” I whispered.

  A car door slammed nearby, and Bee and I turned.

  Detective Boyd had arrived on the scene.

  “He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think the fire was related to the murder, right?” I asked Bee.

  “Let’s find out.” Bee set off before I could so much as yelp a complaint.

  “Detective Boyd!” Bee yelled, waving at him. “Detective Boyd.”

  He turned, frowning. “Miss… uh?”

  “Pine,” she said.

  The detective spotted me, and recognition sparked in his gaze. “Oh yes, Miss Holmes. Nice to see you again.”

  “Is it?” Bee asked, gesturing to the burning building. “The circumstances aren’t great, are they?”

  “Sorry, who are you?” The detective hadn’t met Bee because she’d been asleep when I’d found the body.

  “This is my friend, Bee,” I said. “We were hoping to catch up with you.”

  “Did you remember anything else about what happened on the hiking trail?” Sweat beaded on his brow and dribbled over his temples. The man ran hot, apparently. The fire’s blaze didn’t help either, but it was still a winter’s day.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I replied. “But this is the glassblower’s store. Do you think the fire’s related to Mr. Hughes’ murder?”

  The detective’s mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut again, shaking his head. “Good heavens, woman, do you think it’s appropriate to ask me that? You’re part of an ongoing investigation. I can’t just tell you what’s going on.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “If I’m involved, I should be allowed to know. Shouldn’t I?” Of course, I shouldn’t, but I wanted to keep the detective talking. He had no idea who he was dealing with here.

  Two amateur sleuths proficient at annoying people into talking.

  The detective stammered, “T-that’s not how it works, ma’am.”

  “But you’ve got to admit it’s mighty strange that the emporium’s on fire after—”

  “I don’t have to admit anything,” he said, blanching.

  “Come now, detective.” Bee patted his meaty shoulder. “I know we haven’t known each other for long, but we’d be happy to offer you jelly donuts for the emotional distress this case has caused you.”

  I tried not to laugh at the dismay on Boyd’s face.

  Confuse him. That’s the goal.

  “It’s not causing me any emotional distress,” he barked.

  The detective in the previous town we’d visited, Prattlebark Village, would never have let us lead the conversation like this. It was just lucky that Boyd was flustered, or inexperienced.

  “But you would like a jelly donut, right?” I asked.

  Boyd opened his mouth to reply.

  “Do you think the murderer might’ve wanted to burn down the emporium?” Bee put in.

  “I—what?”

  “Or perhaps that Mr. Grace did this himself?” I asked.

  “I can’t just—”

  “What about those jelly donuts?” Bee put an arm around his sweaty shoulders.

  I did the same on the other side. “Marshmallow cupcakes?”

  “Cinnamon rolls?”

  “I’ve got to—”

  “You know, I’m sure that a cup of coffee would do you good,” Bee said. “And a slice of mud pie. Chocolatey deliciousness.”

  “Did Mr. Grace have insurance on the emporium?” I slipped that in.

  “What?” Boyd frowned. “No. No, he didn’t. And I don’t want any food!” He grunted and tugged free of us then skedaddled off, casting fretful looks over his shoulder.

  Bee covered her mouth with a hand, but it did a poor job hiding her laughter. “Do you think he even realizes he let slip vital information?”

  “Poor man,” I said, grimacing. “That felt cruel.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Bee sniffed. “We could’ve offered him chocolate chip muffins and given him bran muffins with raisins instead. That’s truly cruel.”

  We grinned at each other before retreating down the road to a safe distance.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “If Mr. Grace didn’t have insurance, there’d be no reason for him to burn his building down. Unless he wanted to throw suspicion onto someone else. Who else would target him?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bee tapped her chin then pointed. “But we ought to go check on Mr. Grace. Just to make sure he’s all right.”

  12

  We already knew where the man lived from tailing him earlier in the day. Boy, we’d done a lot with the time we’d set aside this morning. Never before had we worked a case this fast—but with Jamie due back soon, it was our only option.

  Bee and I drove up to the single-story home in the food truck and parked out front. Bee grasped a box of marshmallow cupcakes in her lap.

  The gardening trowel and pair of gloves we’d seen Mr. Grace with earlier on had been abandoned on the grass and his front door stood wide open.

  Uh oh.

  “Bee?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible that the murderer set fire to the emporium to throw everyone’s attention off Mr. Grace’s house. And then…”

  “Th
ey could’ve come here to murder him?”

  “Come on, Ruby.” Bee got out of the truck, and I followed.

  Back when we’d first encountered our first dead body—a man I’d been set to date back in Carmel Springs, Maine—I’d nearly passed out. Since then, I’d managed to tamp down on my squeamish side. But it rose once in a while, and the thought of entering Mr. Grace’s house and finding him—

  The glassblower rushed out onto the porch.

  Bee and I stopped on the garden path.

  “Mr. Grace!” Bee waved. “Hello. How are you?”

  His expression was blank, and he sat down heavily on the wooden boards, practically collapsing. He rested his back against the front wall, blinking on repeat.

  “Mr. Grace?” I ran up the path and onto the porch, dropping to my knees beside him. “Mr. Grace, can you hear me? Are you OK?”

  “I’d say he’s decidedly not OK,” Bee said, mounting the stairs much slower than I had. “Mr. Grace!” Her stern tone snapped him out of his reverie.

  The glassblower met Bee’s gaze. “—emp—fi—” Half-words whispered past his lips.

  Bee seated herself on his swinging seat, primly. “You’ll have to speak up, Mr. Grace. Right away, now. If you’ve got a problem or need medical assistance, it’s best you tell us.”

  “The emporium,” he yelled.

  I shrieked at the sudden increase in volume and jolted backward.

  “The emporium’s on fire! My business!” He looked as if he was about to jump up, but I placed a hand on his arm.

  “It’s OK, Mr. Grace. We know. We saw the plume of smoke.” Odd that he only received the news now. Surely, the police would’ve called him the minute it happened? Or come over here?

  Bee’s frown said she figured the same thing.

  “When did you find out?” I asked.

  Mr. Grace shook his head, the back of it bumping against the wall.

  “Bee, I think he’s in shock.”

  My friend pursed her lips but handed me the box of marshmallow cupcakes. “Give him one. I’ll get a glass of water from inside.” She headed inside the house—and she’d snoop while she was in there too, if I knew my friend.

  “Mr. Grace?” I popped open the lid on the box of cupcakes. “Take one. They’re good and sweet. It will help with the shock, I promise.”

  His blank stare shifted to the beautiful cupcakes, covered in caramelized marshmallows.

  I removed a cupcake, carefully, and placed it in his hand. “Here you go. Come on, Mr. Grace. Try it.”

  He lifted the treat, peeled back the wrapper, and took a bite. He chewed mechanically, but soon, his expression changed. “This is good,” he said. “It’s really good.”

  Bee emerged from the house carrying a glass of water. “Feeling better, are we?” She handed it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, and sipped it. “This is… thank you. I’m sorry for yelling, I was shocked. My business—my… who would do this?”

  “That’s exactly what we were wondering,” Bee replied, offering him a brief smile.

  “I’m so sorry about your emporium, Mr. Grace.”

  He finished his cupcake then took another and ate that one greedily. “Who made these?” he asked. “They’re unbelievable.”

  “Bee did,” I said.

  “Much better than anything Henry ever—” he broke off, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should I?”

  “Do you think Henry’s murderer might’ve wanted to harm your business?” Bee asked, bluntly.

  Mr. Grace paled yet again, and his chewing slowed. He’d gotten a splotch of melted marshmallow on his top lip but didn’t notice it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I—that’s a terrible thought.”

  “It is. But there’s got to be an explanation for this, right?” Bee asked. “Someone must’ve wanted to cause you pain.”

  Mr. Grace was clearly out of it, and us questioning him now worked to our advantage. Should I have felt guilty that he was in a state and we were asking him intrusive questions? Probably. But as Bee had said, we had to make hay. And, boy, was the sun shining now.

  “I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything apart from getting Henry’s business shutdown.”

  “Can you think of anybody who might’ve done this?” I asked. “Anyone?”

  Mr. Grace chewed on his lip, the marshmallow threatening to drop off. “I think—yes.”

  “Who?” Bee and I asked, in unison.

  A long pause followed. “It’s got to be Carl.”

  “Carl Anthony? The butcher?” Bee asked.

  “Yes. He’s the only one who would’ve done this. That or his wife. They were both friends with Henry and they probably wanted revenge because I had his bakery closed. Or—I don’t know. But if anyone would do this, it’s them.” He took an emphatic bite of his cupcake and the marshmallow on his lip finally fell free.

  “Carl Anthony,” Bee whispered. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  If only we could prove it.

  13

  Later that evening…

  Bee and I strolled down the sidewalk together, winding away from the guesthouse and toward the entrance to the nature preserve. Obviously, we wouldn’t enter and check it out—it was still cordoned off—but it was better than hanging around at the guesthouse and waiting for dinner.

  Jamie had arrived home a half an hour ago, utterly exhausted but pleased about his day. Bee and I needed to discuss what had happened, so we’d left him to rest in his room before the doubtlessly amazing meal that would be prepared for dinner at the Squeezed Grape Guesthouse.

  “So, Mr. Grace was feuding with our victim, the baker. Our suspicion was that he might’ve burned his own building to the ground, but his reaction was legitimate,” Bee said.

  “If he’s acting, he missed out on a fruitful career in Hollywood.” The evening air was cold, and I tucked my coat against my chest. “You know, that was the second time that he pointed us in the direction of the butcher and his wife.”

  Bee grunted but didn’t say anything else.

  We walked on in silence, finally arriving at the entrance to the preserve, but keeping back from the parking area.

  “I believe,” Bee said, “that we have a predicament on our hands. We now have so much information about the main players that we can’t possibly walk away. And your boyfriend is not going to be pleased about it.”

  “Ugh. I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”

  “It’s the elephant in the room.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Obviously, I’ll have to tell him that we’re interested, won’t I? I’m not going to lie.”

  “Good idea. But maybe you tell him in a couple days. There’s no need to upset him yet.”

  I wasn’t about to let Jamie tell me how I should live my life or what I should do, but at the same time, I wasn’t going to lie to my boyfriend about our investigation. A thin line to walk. I’d deal with it later.

  For now, we needed to figure out what to do with the information we’d garnered today.

  “So, if the butcher—”

  “Wait a second,” Bee said, putting up a hand. “Someone’s coming.”

  A lone figure jogged into view—a woman in exercise clothing and bright white sneakers ran down the road. She stopped near the entrance of the hiking trail, her hands on her hips and her face screwed up.

  It’s Miranda! It’s the butcher’s wife.

  A second suspect who had returned to the scene of the crime.

  What on earth?

  She grasped two handfuls of her short blonde hair and tugged, shaking her head. She hadn’t even noticed us.

  I nudged Bee, gently.

  “Ma’am?” I called out. “Are you all right?”

  She spun, dropping her hands to her sides. “Oh. I—I didn’t know there was anyone else around.”

  “You seem upset,” I said. “Do you need help?”

  Miranda held a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. “So
rry,” she said, after a minute. “Sorry. I just—I’m having a difficult time at the moment. I didn’t mean for anyone to see. I should go.”

  “No!” Bee and I nearly shouted it.

  Miranda blinked.

  “We can’t let a woman who so clearly needs help run off into the night,” I said, smiling at her, trying to soften our reaction. “Come on. Let’s sit down and talk.”

  “You know, we have some delicious baked goods back at our food truck,” Bee put in. “They’re sweet. Might make you feel better.”

  “Baked goods.” Miranda dissolved into tears again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just—”

  “What’s your name?” I asked. “I’m Ruby, and this is Bee.”

  “Miranda,” she said, regaining her composure. She extended a hand. “Miranda Anthony.”

  “Oh, you’re Carl’s wife.” Bee shook her hand next. “Nice guy.”

  “No,” Miranda hissed, her disposition shifting from grief to rage so fast I took a step back. “No, he’s not a nice man.”

  “Oh. Uh…”

  Miranda began pacing. “You’d do well to stay away from Carl. He’s a killer.”

  “Beg pardon?” Bee barely concealed her excitement at our suspect’s outburst. This was perfect—the more clues and leads Miranda gave us, the closer we got to solving the case.

  “He murdered Henry,” Miranda said. “Henry Hughes? The baker? Carl murdered him.”

  “But how on earth can you be sure?” I asked.

  “Because he’s a jealous, evil man! I should never have married him,” Miranda snapped.

  A silence followed the declaration, and the butcher’s wife wilted slightly, her anger fading once again. “The truth is,” she whispered, “this is all my fault.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Carl found out that I was involved with Henry,” Miranda said. “Things haven’t been right in my marriage for a long time, and no matter how much I wanted to fix it, well, it didn’t make a difference to Carl. And Henry was so lovely and sweet. Such a good friend. Carl found out last week that Henry and I had been dating for a while.”