Brownies & Betrayal (Sweet Bites Mysteries, Book 1) (11 page)

“Spooky,” the forty-something redhead across the room agreed. “I wasn’t sure if I should come back to work after that. What if the hotel is cursed or something now?”

The third woman, a short Latina in her fifties, crossed herself and muttered something in Spanish.

That kind of thinking was exactly what we didn’t need, not if the hotel was going to get lots of bookings and send me scads of new clients. “Are you kidding? A murder gives the place character. What’s a hotel without a little juicy story here and there? Lots of high-class resorts are proud of their history, even the bad stuff. Besides, this could end up being interesting, don’t you think? Was it a lovers’ quarrel? A dispute over work? Maybe an illicit deal gone wrong? It’s practically a made-for-TV movie.”

The Latina moved a pile of towels off the folding table onto a set of shelves, and I sat in the empty space.

“Yeah, and the psycho could still be hanging around here, waiting to off another one of us,” the redhead said.

I hoped it was something personal against Valerie and not some new serial killer, but I wasn’t going to even think about that possibility. I didn’t have to feign a shudder at her suggestion. “Was there anything . . . off or unusual going on? Anything you remember?”

The Latina woman approached, opened a dryer and pulled out a gleaming white towel, starting to fold. “Dere was da tableclot.”

“Tablecloth?” I hadn’t heard anything about this yet.

“Yeah,” the younger woman piped up. “All the tables were covered with the centerpieces and everything Friday night when dinner finished up. But when we came in again the next day, one of the tables—one close to where the brownies had been set up—didn’t have the tablecloth anymore. The centerpiece had been moved to another table, and there was no sign of the cloth. And someone forgot to take away the leftover brownies the previous night—what few were left. I had to haul them off before the wedding party started coming down.”

She started up a washer at the end of the row and turned to help fold the fresh towels. “Anyway, we thought someone had stolen the cloth, so we pulled another one from the closet. Sunday morning, though, when we were cleaning, they found it stuck under the stairs in the corner exit. It had blood all over it, like they’d used it to clean up the floor in there—though polyester would be my last choice for that kind of job. I heard the detective say he thought that was what happened. They said someone, like, cleaned up the original mess because they found traces of blood smeared all over the floor.” She looked a bit sick when she added this.

I didn’t blame her, as I felt a bit sick myself. “That’s awful. I wonder why they didn’t stash the cloth with the body?” It seemed odd that the killer had carried the cloth anywhere when someone might have seen him or her with it. If they had the presence of mind to cover up the crime by hiding the body and cleaning the floor, why would they wander around with the tablecloth?

“Maybe they didn’t want it to be obvious that they’d moved the body. Someone didn’t want her to be found, I think. At least not until after the wedding.” The redhead started stuffing sheets into an open washing machine in the middle of the row.

“I’m sure Analesa would have thrown a fit about her maid of honor disappearing, but the ceremony would have gone on without Valerie if I hadn’t found her.” That was an angle I hadn’t considered. Did the killer want the wedding to happen before the body was found? That would make it who? Analesa herself? Her parents? Tad’s family? So many options, so little apparent motive for the murder. They all seemed like petty complaints to me.

Except no one but the married couples seemed to have alibis, and who trusted the spouse’s word, anyway? “Did any of you see or hear anything else odd?”

“Nope.” The young woman looked around her; the other ladies shook their heads as well. That was it, then.

“All right, thanks. Never a dull moment around here, is there?” I hopped off the counter.

They agreed and I said goodbye, hoping they thought I was just curious and that they wouldn’t make a big deal out of my visit.

Now I had to look more closely at all the people who had a stake in getting the wedding out of the way before the body was found. Who would want to kill Valerie, but hide her until the end of the day? One of the parents? A member of the wedding party? They had already been on my list, with few exceptions, as it was. Instead of leaving me with answers, the discussion only created more questions.

I spent hours that afternoon taping off the windows and fixtures in the kitchen. Singing off-key—the only way I could sing—as I prepared to paint, I took extra care with the natural gas lines that stuck out of the wall, and the lever that kept the gas turned off until it was hooked to my new oven. I had gotten a call from someone who was interested in the grill, which thrilled me no end. The money would come in handy in stocking my kitchen without having to dip into my savings for it.

I moved to the front window, where customers would be able to watch me decorating cakes, building flowers, frosting and check out the fun and flashy projects I imagined in my future. The purple tape—I love it that you can buy painting tape in every color under the sun—contrasted nicely against the yellowed once-white paint. I bobbed my head to the tune coming through my headphones when Detective Tingey came to stand in front of me on the other side of the glass. I paused as he pointed to the door and I nodded. Great. What did he want this time? To arrest me?

As I turned, I bumped one of my razor blades into the crack in the middle of the ordering counter. The blade was pointed down, and it was wedged in there. I tried pulling on it, but decided I’d deal with it when the cabinets came out. I made a mental note to cover it with tape later so I didn’t cut myself on it.

I unlocked the front door and let the detective in. “Miss Crawford, sorry to bother you again. I wondered if you’d thought of anything more that might be helpful from Saturday morning.”

I could have told him about the things I’d picked up from poking around, but there wasn’t anything concrete, so I kept my conjectures to myself and stuck to the facts. “Not really. I’ve been trying to remember more but haven’t come up with much.”

He nodded. “I did have one other thing I’d like you to do. Could you go get fingerprinted?”

I took a step back at his request as my heart began to race. I’d known he was considering me, but the request still took me by surprise. “So you
do
think I did it?”

“It’s a formality. We found prints on the murder weapon, but they don’t match anything in the database. We’re asking everyone we know who had access to the room to please come forward and be printed so we can eliminate suspects.”

Cold washed down my back. He said it so casually, as if it was an unimportant request, and not the serious expectation I read in his eyes. “But I already told you I touched that vase.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I don’t know why you’d have been wandering around the hotel at that hour.” He leaned against the counter and studied the dining area. “Looks like this place is going to keep you busy.”

“Yes, there’s lots of work to do before I open.” I pressed my lips together as a frisson of fear rushed through me. “I can go have the fingerprinting done.” What difference would it make? I definitely wanted to appear cooperative, and he could always get a court order. I gripped the tape roll in my left hand until the cardboard center left impressions in my fingers. “I’ll be in as soon as I finish taping off this window.”

I had no real choice, unless I wanted to go on the lam in some country that wouldn’t extradite for capital punishment. Besides, he had to have better suspects than me. Hadn’t Jeff suggested that everyone had motive to kill Valerie? Still, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back and had to feign indifference to worry.

“I appreciate that.” He tucked his notebook back in his pocket and headed out. Before he closed the door, he reminded me to lock up behind him. After all, there was a killer on the loose.

I gave the lock a vicious twist. Thanks for the reassurance, detective.

Getting fingerprinted wasn’t nearly the ordeal I’d expected. The officer at the precinct was friendly, chatting with me about the weather, asked about any hiking trails I’d been on. He sounded interested in the business when I opened it and asked what kind of daily offerings I would have for purchase. I admit, I had expected something out of a hard-boiled detective show with gruff jailers and hard stares pinning the guilt for everything on my shoulders. I’d seen way too much television, I guess.

I left there grateful that the detour had been quick and that it was over with, then popped by the hardware store to order the paint for my building.

Painting, I decided, was not my strong suit. It only took me twenty minutes before I realized I’d gotten in over my head. Maybe renting a sprayer would have been better after all, I thought as I dipped my roller in the paint yet again. I ended up with drips on the newspaper I’d spread across the floor and a lopsided application to the wall.

I was nearly ready to throw the roller when the bell over the front door rang. I poked my head around the corner to find Shawn standing there in clothes that had seen better days. “Hi. What are you doing here?” I asked.

His dimple popped into existence with his grin. “You said you were painting this afternoon. I thought maybe you could use a hand.”

“You’re on vacation and you’ve come over to help me haul around large appliances and paint? What kind of saint are you?”

“Saint, me? Not hardly.” He walked through to see what I was doing and pressed his lips together, as though trying not to smile. His dimple gave him away, though.

I nudged him with my elbow, not the least amused. “I’ve never done this before. I thought, hey, it looks simple. How hard could it be?”

“It is simple; you just need a little direction.” He took the roller from my hand and put it back in the tray on the floor. “First, you want to cut in the edges with a brush.” He lifted the three-inch brush I’d purchased and painted in the edges along the ceiling and outlets. “Then you roll over the edges. That way, you don’t leave as many brush strokes on the wall, and it makes it easier later.” He loaded the roller with paint now, coating it evenly and slid it up and down the wall. “It’s better to put on a little extra up front, and roll it smooth, than to be stingy and realize you have to do another coat because you can see through it. Here, you try it.”

I felt like a complete idiot. Was I really too stupid to figure out painting on my own? Still, this was my business and I wanted to do everything I could myself, so I took the roller from him. Shawn set his hand over mine on the handle and helped me maneuver the implement. He stood behind me so his breath feathered against my ear and I felt the heat of his chest on my back. He talked to me as we rolled on the paint. His free hand found its way to rest at my waist.

His lips brushed against my ear. “Like this. How’s that?”

“Better. Thanks for the lesson.” I tried to keep my voice level, calm, but could hear the shakiness in it. I knew he must be gloating at his effect on me, but I was a little too mesmerized to care.