The Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 8

  “Did you ever see anyone threatening him?” I asked. “In person?”

  “You mean apart from Miller?” Benjamin asked.

  “That was different. Miller was protecting my honor.”

  “Oh right,” I said. “The lobster event.”

  The Pelletiers stared at me.

  “What?” Hannah asked. “The what?”

  “The lobster event. Miller told me that he had to protect your honor when Owen threw a lobster at your face.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Miller told—”

  “Miller likes to tell stories,” Benjamin cut across my words. “It’s part of who he is as a person. Listen, are you ladies going to finish those cookies anytime soon? I’m starving. I’d like to get my dinner done before five.” He checked his watch.

  I hesitated. “Just one last thing.” I reached into my pocket and drew out the threatening note we’d found on Owen’s car. “Do you know who might have written this?”

  Hannah took it from me and scanned it. A frown wrinkled her brow.

  “What?” Bee asked. “What is it?”

  Hannah got up and walked to the kitchen counter where she’d dropped off the homework assignments she had to grade for the baking class. She brought them back and plopped them on the table then began rifling through them.

  Benjamin shrugged and rooted around in the fridge for something else to eat.

  Bee and I shifted, sitting on the edges of our seats.

  “I think…” Hannah removed one of the papers from the pile. “Yes. This is the same. I’d recognize it anywhere. I’ve been tutoring these students for over a year now.” She placed the paper in front of us then slid the threatening note into place on top of it. “See? The curl of the letters? It’s the same, right?”

  She was right. It didn’t take a handwriting expert to recognize the similarities between what was on the page and the note. It was a recipe, scrawled out hastily, the edges of the page crumpled.

  “Whose it?” I asked.

  Hannah shifted the note aside.

  The name of the student had been written across the top of the page.

  Grace Allen.

  “The waitress?” Bee asked. “But that doesn’t…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Grace.

  The same Grace who had given us information on Miller. Who had served us food. Who took a baking class! Of course. Hadn’t the lady next door said that Owen had a sweet tooth? After all, he’d come out to my food truck before work in search of something sweet to eat.

  And Owen had been sick for days before he’d died. Grace had been feeding him baked goods. This had to be it.

  I scraped my chair back, and the kitchen fell quiet.

  “Ruby?” Bee asked. “Are you all right?”

  “We have to go. Now.”

  “Where to?”

  “The Lobster Shack.”

  18

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Bee asked as we charged onto the pier. “I’ve already called the police, you know. Detective Hobbit-face says he’s going to find Grace and bring her in for questioning. From there, it’s only a few short searches away from the truth.” She paused, patting me on the forearm. “We don’t have to go to the Lobster Shack. And Benjamin said she would be on her shift within the hour. Do we really want to run into the murderer?”

  “We’re not even sure she is the murderer,” I said, but the words tasted of a lie.

  Grace was definitely the one who’d killed Owen. She’d been a baker, she’d potentially poisoned him, but why? That was what got to me. Why had she done it? And why with the lobster mallet? Had the poison she’d used not been effective enough?

  And why had Owen invited me to the restaurant when it had been closed?

  Bee jogged along beside me, her sneakers squeaking on the pier’s wooden boards. It was just past four, and from what Benjamin had said, the restaurant had been closed all day. He’d been avoiding serving people because he still didn’t have a lobster supplier.

  But the restaurant opened at five. This was the time to talk to her, to figure out what had really happened, and, if necessary, make a citizen’s arrest.

  My nerves bubbled and boiled.

  “She might not be there yet,” I said.

  “Then why are we going?” Bee asked.

  “I don’t know. It just feels like the right thing to do.” We hurried past the late shoppers on the pier, drawing a few odd looks here or there because of how we rushed. Or maybe it was my pink cheeks and wild eyes. I felt a little crazed.

  I had to know why, that was the point. I’d always wanted to understand why people did things, whether bad or good—it was part of the reason I’d become a journalist in the first place.

  We finally reached the Lobster Shack and found the front doors unlocked. We entered, and my heart got caught in my throat, pattering away, frantically.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “We should leave this to the police, Ruby,” Bee whispered. “It’s only going to cause more trouble if we get involved. Trust me, I know how these types of things work.”

  How did she know? That was a question for another time.

  “We’ll be fine.” It was my stubborn streak. I couldn’t help myself. I had to know the truth! “Hello?” I called again.

  But the interior of the restaurant was eerily silent. The lights were on overhead, the tables still with the chairs upturned atop them. The bar was empty too, a few glasses stacked atop the polished wood surface, and the view out of the windows—the sun sinking toward the ocean—was idyllic.

  “I mean, honestly. I haven’t exactly been the most trusting of the detective,” Bee continued, “but we have bigger cakes to bake. Quite literally. The truck isn’t going to fix itself.”

  “We’ll worry about the truck later. It’s no use fixing it up if the murderer is just going to come back again to break into my room or—” I cut off, frowning. Grace wasn’t particularly tall. And the person who had broken into my room had definitely been tall.

  I shook the thought out of my head. “Hello?”

  The kitchen doors opened. Miller appeared, wearing his chef’s whites and a hat. He took a step then stopped at the sight of us.

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he said, shying backward.

  “I know, I know, but it’s fine. We spoke to Hannah, and she’s not worried anymore. Is Grace here?” I asked, looking around.

  “No, the serves won’t arrive for another half hour.”

  My shoulders sagged.

  Miller took a step forward, dragging the chef’s hat off his head and revealing his glistening golden locks beneath. It looked as if he’d had an accident with a bottle of hair gel. “Why do you want to see Grace?” he asked, his voice thin.

  “Because she murdered Owen,” I said, without thinking.

  “Ruby.”

  “Bee?”

  “You probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  Miller had gone pale as his uniform. “She-she what?”

  “She murdered him.” There was no use crying over spilled milk. Perhaps I’d bathe in it like Cleopatra, instead. “We think.”

  “That’s… that’s impossible. Grace wouldn’t do that.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Because she was—she just wouldn’t do that. Grace is a good person. She’s an amazing person. She—”

  I gasped. “You’re having an affair with her.”

  Miller bowed his head, looking off to one side. No wonder poor Hannah was so jumpy about other women near Miller. He was as flirty and duplicitous as the gossip in town said. “Ain’t none of your business who I date.”

  “That’s why you were fighting with Owen,” I said, on a roll now. “Not because he threw a lobster at Hannah. That was a front. A fake story. Because you didn’t want anyone to know the truth. You were having an affair, and Owen an
d Grace…” I got lost, blinking. “Owen flirted with Grace. He always did that with the servers, right?”

  “Yeah.” Miller barely spoke the word.

  “And you two got in an argument.”

  “It ain’t none of your business!”

  “But it’s true,” I insisted, as Bee placed her hand on my arm and tried to tug me away. “So, let me piece this together. OK. Owen had been flirting with Grace. You got angry and fought with him because of that. And you… you didn’t like him either because—” But I couldn’t quite piece it together.

  If Owen had been flirting with Grace, why had Grace poisoned him? Was it out of sheer anger because he’d dared try to ask her out on a date? But that didn’t make sense either. And the lobster mallet? How did that factor into it all?

  There was something missing.

  The only thing I was sure about was that Miller definitely didn’t want me to know the truth. And that he’d been lying.

  I charged across the dining area toward him. Bee hurried along beside me.

  “Ruby, you’re as stubborn as a mule. Leave this to the police.”

  The mention of the cops drained even more blood from Owen’s face. “You called the police?” he asked. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because Grace deserves to be brought to justice,” I said. “She was poisoning him. Did you know?”

  “No, I swear, I didn’t know it.” Miller wet his lips.

  But I didn’t quite believe him. There was something in his eyes, a glint that was neither fearful nor ashamed. Had Miller been involved somehow? Had he...?

  The door to the restaurant opened behind us, letting in a rush of cold air.

  “Grace,” Miller said, quietly. “You’re here early.”

  “I couldn’t let you deal with these two on your own, now, could I?”

  19

  Ice dropped into my belly.

  Grace was here. She entered the restaurant, calmly, and shut the door behind herself with an ominous click.

  “I did mention that we should have left this to the police,” Bee whispered.

  “Thank you, that’s a very helpful note. I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Bee didn’t smile, but she did slip her hand into mine and squeeze my fingers, briefly. I took strength from the gesture, and from the fact that there were multiple windows that looked out on the pier, and that if we stalled Grace for long enough, Detective Jones would surely arrive and stop anything untoward from going down.

  Assuming he did arrive.

  What if he’d decided that Bee’s call had been a hoax or that he didn’t want to believe us? Or… any number of other horrible eventualities I didn’t want to confront now.

  I took a step back, and Bee did the same, her arms now at her sides.

  If only we’d thought to bring my mace with us. But what would that help? Grace might have a weapon hidden on her person.

  “You couldn’t just butt out, could you?” Grace asked.

  “I’d like to point out that represents a certain degree of irony coming from you,” Bee replied. “You were the one feeding us information.”

  “Feeding them information? What’s that about? Grace?” The chef rounded the bar, lifting a lobster mallet from behind it.

  If I’d thought my stomach was icy before, it was nothing compared to the Antarctic situation going on in there now.

  Of course. Why hadn’t I considered it before?

  They’d worked together.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why did you team up to kill Owen?”

  “We didn’t,” Grace replied. “I didn’t really want to hurt Owen, I just wanted to make him a bit sick, you know? Because he’d cheated on me. Just a little bit of revenge. I didn’t mean for it to go as far as it did or… I don’t even know how it happened. I hadn’t given him any baked goods for a day before he died.” Her gaze switched to Miller and then back to me. “Owen was...”

  “Just say it,” Miller snapped. “It’s too late. They already know too much. This is your fault, Grace. You’re just as culpable as I am, now. The deaths of these two women will be on your hands now, too.”

  Grace bowed her head, a few strands of blonde hair falling in front of her pixie-like face. “Owen was my boyfriend. Or he pretended to be my boyfriend. Really, he was having an affair with so many other people, and I couldn’t bear it any longer, so I did the same to him. I had an affair with Miller.”

  “And that’s why you argued?” I asked, swiveling toward Miller.

  My only directive, now, was to stall the pair of them until the detective arrived. If I could do that, well, I could save us. Or the detective could, much to Bee’s chagrin.

  “Owen and I had a history of trouble,” Miller said. “So, yeah, of course, we argued. But things got out of hand when he hurt Grace. She was supposed to be mine. Mine alone, and he decided that he wanted her to be his girlfriend instead.” He patted the lobster mallet against his palm. “It was so easy to fool him too. I told him that he could bring a date to the restaurant on Monday night to have a special time. I expected him to bring Grace. I was going to confront them both, but then he turned up and told me that he’d decided to bring someone else, and I lost my temper.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What did it matter if he was dating someone else?”

  “I told you, Grace is mine. And he was making a fool out of her and a fool out of me by cheating. And that’s why she’s kept quiet all along, Grace has. She knew what was good for her, and I’m it.”

  “But…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “But you’re in a relationship with Owen’s sister.”

  Grace’s jaw dropped. “What? What did you just say?”

  This was all so complicated.

  Grace had poisoned Owen but hadn’t managed to kill him. And then Miller, who was just as much of an adulterer as the victim himself, had swept in and finished up the job. And he’d done it, not out of self-defense or even in a passionate rage, because he wanted to save face. He didn’t want to be embarrassed by dating a woman who had been cheated on and made to look like a fool.

  Yet, he’d been doing that exact same thing to that exact same woman.

  Sheesh. Talk about a soap opera drama. I guess everyone was right. There were loads of people who wanted to kill Owen.

  “You’re cheating on me?” Grace asked, her face screwing up. “You’re cheating on me?” Tears glistened on her cheeks, but she gritted her teeth instead of breaking down. “How dare you! How dare you do that to me after everything that’s happened?”

  “Shut up, Grace. You’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not true. I’m not dating Hannah. Think about it for a second. If I was dating her, everyone in town would have known, and they would have been talking about it.”

  But Grace wasn’t in the listening mood anymore. She let out a terrific yell and launched across the room toward Miller.

  He got such a shock he dropped the lobster mallet, and it clunked to the floor. “Grace, relax. It’s just a misunder—” The last part of the word was lost to Grace’s tackle.

  They fell to the floor and rolled back and forth on it, Grace scratching at his face while he tried to hold her back.

  “We were supposed to be partners!” Grace shrieked. “You told me that we were partners in crime. In love!”

  “That’s our cue, I should think,” Bee whispered.

  We backed away from the scuffling pair. I couldn’t look away. It was like watching a Shakespeare-style tragedy unfold in real life. Everyone was having affairs with everyone, a man had been murdered in cold-blooded revenge, and there had been cake. And lobster mallets.

  So, less like a Shakespearean tale and more like… a tragedy with lobster mallets. I’d have to look up the literary term for that later.

  My back bumped into the door, and I fumbled it open. We struggled out onto the pier, just as a cry rang out to the left. Police officers dashed down the boardwalk toward the Lobster Shack, their weapons at the ready. Detective Jones led the pack.

&n
bsp; “There we go,” I said. “They’re in there. They’re both involved. Kind of.”

  But my words were lost on the officers. Detective Jones spared us a brief, thin-lipped glance before disappearing inside to make the arrest.

  And that was that.

  The mystery was solved. We would no longer be blamed for it. Maybe we’d even get a few intrigued customers at the food truck. I let out a sigh and sat down heavily on one of the pier’s many benches, my hands shaking.

  “Are you all right?” Bee asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, but the panic had finally caught up with me. “I will be fine.”

  “Good. Because I think we might be here a while. Detective Hobbitfeet will want to talk to us,” Bee said.

  I threw back my head and laughed. After all, things could’ve been worse. We could’ve been lobster malleted to death or forced to eat fake lobster or any number of horrible outcomes. The mystery was solved. And I could go back to the food truck and do what I’d always wanted to do—serve delicious treats and travel the country.

  After we’d fixed up the truck.

  20

  The scent of salt was on the air, the ocean waves rolled and crashed against the beach, and the wind was brisk and chill. Luckily, the sun and the activity had warmed me to the point I barely needed my coat.

  I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand then dropped the rag into the bucket of water at my feet with a satisfying plop.

  “That’s it,” I said, spreading my arms. “She’s done.”

  It had only taken us three full days to repair the truck. That had included getting the tires replaced, having the windows and windshield repaired, and cleaning out everything inside. Now, there was the small feat of restocking, baking, and prepping everything for our first day back on the truck.