Death by Chocolate Cake: A Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery (9 page)

I swallowed.
Just accept that it's a write off, Rachael. It's not worth getting upset over. At least it wasn't anything more serious. At least Marcello only stabbed himself.

"I'll keep packing while you're gone," I assured them as I followed them out to the car.

"Rach, you don't have to do that."

"Trust me, if I know the Belldale Hospital Emergency Room, you won't be getting out of there for six or seven hours."

I caught Marcello wince. "Well, maybe five if you're really lucky," I tried unsuccessfully to reassure him.

I closed the driver’s side door for Pippa and she sped off into the night.

"I guess it's just you and me now," I said to my glass of wine as I took several gulps, hoping it would calm my nerves a little after the sight of all that blood. I thought back to my earlier conversation with Dawn, thinking how funny it was that she thought I would purposely pursue crime solving when I would faint at the first sign of blood.

With my disposition returning to normal, I sighed a little as I looked around at all the carnage strewn across the floor. "How did he manage to make this much mess when his bags only arrived a few days ago?"

I stopped myself. I knew perfectly well how he had managed to do it. He was Marcello.

Trouble followed him.

I supposed I could relate to that, so maybe I should be a little more understanding of his trials and tribulations. Pippa sure seemed to have infinite patience for him. But they were newlyweds. What was going to happen when the sheen wore off and Pippa was stuck living with a walking disaster?

I opened a box and started filling it with the odds and ends that were littering the floor. Books, postcards, old notepads, and photos.

I was still a little shaky, so when I scooped up the first handful of books and photographs, they slid out onto the floor. I slumped down on the sofa and placed my head between my knees for a second.

Come on, Rachael. Pull it together. You've got a long night of packing ahead of you.

I lifted my head and forced myself to keep going. But as I scooped the pile up again, another photo slid out and fluttered to the floor before it landed face down. Once I'd stuffed the rest of the items into a box, I reached down and picked up the photo, turning it over absentmindedly, expecting, I suppose, to find a photo of Marcello as a child in Italy or maybe a more recent photo, perhaps one taken at his and Pippa's shotgun wedding.

But that's not what I found.

Staring back at me was a smiling Marcello with his arm wrapped around Pierre Hamilton.

What the?

No. It can't be.

I turned the photo over again. As though the back of it might give me some clue as to whether it was real or not. To be honest, it had been some time since I'd held a real photo in my hands. But as far as I could tell, it wasn't doctored in any way.

How on earth did Marcello know Pierre Hamilton?

And why had he arrived in Belldale the day before Pierre was killed?

Suddenly the weariness returned to my legs, and this time it wasn't caused by the blood stains in the carpet.

M
y head was still spinning
the following morning when Marcello and Pippa finally returned home from the emergency room at 5:00 AM. Even when I closed my eyes, the dizziness remained, my bed becoming a life raft that I tried to cling onto. Trying to sleep was fruitless.

Pippa poked her head in my room to whisper that Marcello was all stitched up and ready to survive another day. "Well, maybe," she whispered.

I was lying with my back to her, facing the wall. I pretended to be asleep, trying not to breath or make a single movement.

"Well, goodnight then," Pippa said before tiptoeing away. She flicked the hall light off and I finally breathed a little.

This was not how I wanted our last night living together to go. And I wasn't just talking about Marcello's accident.

I didn't want to be lying in the dark, wondering if I was living with a killer. Wondering if it was even safe to close my eyes.

But how could I possibly bring this up with Pippa? She was smitten with the guy. She'd only take my accusations as more proof that I didn't like him, or that I thought she'd rushed into the marriage.

I had to remember my nana's adherence to methodology. She would never get two steps of herself. Or go off recipe.

I had to apply that to the case.

Take a deep breath, Rachael.

Think of the facts.

All I had was a photograph. That didn't prove anything.

But it did prove that Marcello knew Pierre. And, from the looks of it, they were close.

Why then has Marcello not shown any grief or sorrow, or even any interest in Pierre's death?
The thought sent ice up my spine.

And his marriage to Pippa. It had all happened so suddenly. What were the odds of Marcello turning up in town the day before the murder?

I sat up in bed.

Maybe I should call Jackson.

I had my finger hovering over his name in my phone, just about to press the call button.

I stopped myself.
And tell him what? That I found a picture of two men in my living room?

He'd probably think I was insane. And I wasn't sure he'd be wrong.

I needed to get some sleep. Maybe things would look clearer in the morning.

* * *

"
H
oly
..." I started to say as I looked at the time on my phone. 11:00 AM? I hadn't slept that late since I was a teenager. I threw off my blankets and ran into the living room where Pippa and Marcello were still fast asleep on the sofa. I glanced at the boxes of Marcello's items. They were missing something. I reached into my gown and almost cut my fingers on the sharp edges of the photo that seemed to burn a hole there.

"Pippa," I said, shaking her awake and trying to ignore Marcello for a moment while I roused her.

"Huh?" she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "What's going on?"

"It's 11:00 AM! That's what! Who is running the bakery?"

Pippa waved her arm at me and closed her eyes again. "It's cool, it's cool. Branson is there. Don't worry, Rach. I figured we could all use a morning off after last night."

"Aren't you planning on moving this morning?" I said in an urgent whisper.

"I don't think we'll be able to. We might have to stay for another few days, if that's okay."

I sighed. "Fine," I mumbled.

None of this noise seemed to have woken Marcello. He was in a deep sleep that I suspected might have been aided by painkillers the way he was drooling on a cushion. I glanced down at his finger. There seemed to be over a dozen stitches there.

"They saved the finger then?"

Pippa's eyes were still wired shut as she snuggled into the back of him. "Yep," she said. "But they say it's gonna be numb for a while, which might make it hard for him to find work in a cafe or restaurant."

That wouldn't be the only thing holding him back.

Well, now that I had the morning free, I figured it was time to pay a visit to Renee. But as I pulled my jeans and t-shirt on, I felt my energy draining towards that line of inquiry.

The person I really wanted to be investigating was Marcello.

I glanced out the window and was surprised to find that it was gray. From the look of the dark clouds forming in the distance, it was clear that we were in for a summer storm.

I crept out the front door and grabbed an umbrella on my way. I didn't want to wake Pippa. Not before I had decided what to do.

* * *

T
he rain had already started
by the time I pulled into Renee's driveway, making everything humid and sticky. I'd only been out of the house for fifteen minutes and I already felt as though I needed a shower. And I didn't even want to think about the state of my hair. I just hoped I didn't bump into any handsome men out this way.

"Renee?" I called out through the screen door after I'd knocked and no one had appeared. I could hear the sound of kids running and playing inside, knocking over toys and trampling on each other. I assumed Renee was home and hadn't left five kids to fend for themselves.

But clearly she didn't want to speak to me.

I was just about to leave when I saw a silhouette behind the screen, jolting me a little. My nerves were clearly still shot after the events of the night before.

"Hi there," Renee said quietly. I wondered if she was going to pull the door back, invite me in. The rain was coming down heavy now and I was wearing a rather thin t-shirt.

"I wouldn't be able to come inside, by any chance, would I?"

Renee pulled the door open slowly. She was still wearing that nice floral dress she'd been wearing a few days earlier. It suited her with her new short bob hair cut. "I didn't think you'd want to come inside here," she said softly.

I glanced around the old house. "It's not that bad in here." From the look on her face, I'd clearly misunderstood what she meant. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything."

"I mean, I didn't think you'd want to talk to me after..." Renee stopped talking. "Well, I assume you know what I did?"

I nodded. "I do. That's why I want to talk to you, Renee."

She pulled the door back all the way and sighed gently. "Come in then. I suppose I do owe you an explanation."

Renee pulled some cookies out of a plastic packet and arranged them awkwardly on a plate while I waited for her a few feet away at the dining room table.

"Sorry, this is all I've got," she said, a bit ashamed. "Usually I bake my own fresh, of course. I suppose cookies from a packet don't hold much appeal to you."

I smiled at her. "Usually they would be fine, don't worry. I mean, it's not the packet that's the issue for me. I'm afraid I have been diagnosed with an allergy to gluten."

Renee looked stunned. "But how do you get by with the bakery?"

"I've introduced a lot of gluten-free items," I said, gratefully accepting the tea she placed in front of me. "So I can at least taste test some of what we are serving."

Renee was quiet for a moment. "When I found out that you had got through the audition ahead of me..." Her voice trailed off and she had to clear her throat before wrapping her own hands around her mug of tea for moral support.

"It's okay," I said. "I'm not here to accuse you. Or judge you. I just want to find out what happened."

"I just saw red," Renee explained, staring down into the depths of her teacup. "I wanted to get through more than anything. You know how much the prize money is, right?"

"Of course." I bit my tongue when I thought about how unlikely it was that any of us there on that day were going to win, though. Even if we'd gotten through—and that was a low chance in itself—then we had to beat twenty-three other bakers, all of them more ruthless than the next, to get right to the end.

Renee waved a hand around her house. "You can see how much that money would have meant to me, and my kids." I could hear them watching TV in the next room, the box temporarily sedating them.

I nodded, feeling guilty now. Maybe I'd never deserved to be cast over Renee. I thought back to Justin and all his quotes and sound bites about what made good TV, but what about the people who really needed the experience? What about the people it could be a matter of life and death for? Was good TV more important than any of that?

"And when Justin let slip that Pierre hadn't actually liked your cake," Renee said, finally looking up at me to cast me a suspicious look. "Well, I just looked at you, young and pretty, and my mind started putting two and two together...even though the answer probably didn't add up."

"I only met him that day," I said quietly.

"I know," Renee said.

"So why did you tell the story to the press then? Were you really that mad at me?"

Renee shook her head. "It was nothing personal, Rachael. The press descended as soon as Pierre was killed, you probably know that. They wanted anything, any little tidbit or gossip from the contestants, and they were willing to pay us for our stories." Renee gulped. "They were offering money. And the juicier the story, the more money they handed out. Even if it had nothing to do with Pierre's actual death."

I sucked in a small breath. Suddenly Renee's outfit and fancy haircut, the ones that didn't quite match the rest of her surroundings, all made sense. "How much did they pay you?"

Renee took a sip of her tea. "Enough." She looked at me. "Let's just say I don't need to win a reality TV show competition anymore." She offered me a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Rachael. But I'm sure you would have done the same thing."

I wasn't sure I would have, but I didn't have five kids under twelve. Under the same circumstances, I probably would have done anything to provide for them. I just nodded. "It's okay. I can handle the rumors, and the gossip. But Renee, I just have to know what happened to Pierre. Did you see anything that day?"

Renee shook her head. "Nothing. I was alone, crying in the green room when it happened."

"And can anyone confirm that?"

She shot me a look. "No. I was alone. But I spoke to Dawn Ashfield soon afterwards. She comforted me. Ask her, she can tell you just how upset I was about the whole thing."

* * *

S
o much for
not running into any handsome men out this way.

I groaned when I saw the police car pull into the driveway, leaving enough room for my car to get out, but not leaving me enough time to scramble into it to check that my hair looked okay.

"Jackson. I'm surprised to see you here."

He gave me a wry look. "I'm not surprised to see you," he said rather pointedly. But his tone was a little jocular. He cleared his throat. "I hear that you've been poking your nose around?" He raised an eyebrow as he waited for my response.

"And how did you hear about that, exactly?"

"Well, from everyone I interview. Seems you're always there half an hour before I am."

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Oh. So I’m there before you, am I?"

He cleared his throat again. "Anyway. I thought you didn't want to help out?"

I didn't say anything.

"Right. You just didn't want to help me out. I see how it is."