Dying for a Cupcake (14 page)

“Partly,” Harlee confessed. “But I also wasn’t at all sure that a cupcake contest would attract the kinds of crowds Ronni promised.”

“It is a little amazing that so many folks are interested,” I agreed. “But I think it’s as much an excuse to do something different, have a chance to taste some cupcakes, and not have to travel too far.” I hooked my
thumbs into the front pockets of my jeans. “From what I can tell, a lot of the visitors are day-trippers.”

“Which is great since that means they might come back if they find our merchandise to be unique enough.” Harlee’s eyes gleamed, and for a second I could have sworn I saw dollar signs in the pupils. Then she frowned. “I heard about this morning’s fire at the dime store. Where did it start? Was there much damage?”

“It started in the second-story office and luckily the only real damage was some singeing on the wooden floor.” I watched her expression carefully as I explained, then asked, “Were you working here when it happened? Did you see the fire trucks go by your shop’s window?”

“No.” Harlee shook her head. “I was at the school, packing up the rest of the clothes from the fashion show, but when I got back to Forever Used, my clerk told me all about it.” She grimaced. “And it’s been a hot topic of conversation among my customers.”

“I bet.” I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed that Harlee didn’t have an alibi for the time of the fire. I liked her, but I really needed a suspect. “Have the Cupcake Weekenders sounded scared, like they might decide to leave right away or maybe not to come back for tomorrow’s activities?”

“Some.” Harlee took out her cash drawer and started to sort through the bills. “Especially the ones that have connected the dots between Fallon’s death, the near-miss hit-and-run involving Kizzy, and the fire.” Harlee looked at me. “Any insight on what the police are thinking about the coincidence of those events?”

“I assume they’re considering that those three things are related, but my guess is that they have no idea where to go with that information,” I lied easily. Total
honesty had not been encouraged by my former boss. “The Shadow Bend cops don’t have much experience solving any really complex cases, let alone something like this.”

“That’s a shame.” Harlee started toward the back room. “Though I’m not surprised to hear you say that. The town never did have much crime and it doesn’t seem to have changed much since I left twenty years ago.”

“Speaking of that, you and Kizzy both went away right after high school graduation.” It was evident that Harlee was ready to close for the day, so I knew that I only had a couple of minutes at the most to get to the bottom of what had gone wrong between her and Kizzy.

“Yes.” Harlee’s expression was neutral. “Lots of kids do that.”

“But neither of you was planning on leaving until you went to college in the fall.” I paused, and when she didn’t deny what I’d said, I asked, “So, what happened? What changed both of your plans?”

“I’d had my doubts about college for quite a while,” Harlee hedged.

“Really?” I raised my brow. “Both you and Kizzy seemed to have your futures mapped out. Wasn’t Kizzy sure about college, either?”

“I can’t speak for her.” Harlee edged closer to the storage room entrance. “We didn’t keep in touch, so I never knew what she did.”

“I suppose twenty years ago without e-mail and cell phones being so prevalent, it was easier to lose track of people,” I conceded. Harlee had her hand on the exit’s doorknob, so I quickly said, “You know, I wondered if someone is trying to kill Kizzy for something she did in high school, but Chief Kincaid told me that Kizzy says
she was very popular and everyone loved her back then.” I tilted my head. “Being her best friend from then, is that how you remember it?”

“Think about it.” Harlee pushed open the door. “How did everyone really feel about the most popular girl in your class? I doubt love was the emotion the majority of the less popular kids felt.”

T
he trauma scene remediation company’s van pulled into the parking lot behind my store as I was unlocking the back door. After I showed them the areas that I needed cleaned and they got to work, I started the coffeepot behind the soda fountain brewing. While it dripped, I thought about my brief conversation with Harlee. She hadn’t answered my question about why she and Kizzy had changed their post–high school plans so abruptly, but she had made a good point about the most popular girl in class usually being more feared than loved. A consideration I should have thought of myself.

Recalling my own adolescent experience, I was fully aware of how cruel teenagers could be. Before my father was convicted, I had been on the fringes of the in-crowd. Although too curvy to be a real part of the clique that ruled the school, I was tolerated because of my last name. The Sinclairs had been one of the five founding families of Shadow Bend, and even though we weren’t as affluent as the other four had become, the fact that my ancestors were the original settlers of the town had been enough to protect me.

In addition to my family name, the inner circle had also overlooked my deficiencies because I was dating Noah, the most popular boy in our class. But once my dad went to prison and Noah broke up with me, my immunity was revoked and the clique turned on me like a tornado going after a mobile home. Their relentless bullying had been devastating.

Considering what I had witnessed of Kizzy’s adult behavior and attitude, my guess was that her kind of narcissistic callousness didn’t happen overnight. It made me wonder how Harlee fit into the scenario. As Kizzy’s best friend, she would have had to be mean, too, or at least willing to turn a blind eye to her BFF’s maliciousness.

That Harlee didn’t appear that way now was puzzling. She seemed a little distant and guarded, but not spiteful or unkind. Could someone’s basic personality change that much? Had her stint in the army reformed her? Or maybe getting away from Kizzy’s influence and twenty years of maturing had allowed Harlee to be her own person.

Or had she completely fooled me? Harlee didn’t have an alibi and had avoided answering my questions. During the last murder investigation, Jake had said that unless people had something to hide, they generally didn’t mind answering questions. Maybe what Harlee was hiding was that she was the killer.

The cleaning crew finished their work by the time my father and Hannah arrived for the store’s evening hours. We turned on the neon
OPEN
sign, put the standing sandwich board outside, and piped patriotic music out to the sidewalk.

At six o’clock, we unlocked the door, and the first people to push inside were reporters wanting to take pictures of the fire scene. They didn’t like my
nonresponses to their questions and they didn’t believe me when I told them the damage had been so minor that there was nothing to see. Instead of wasting my time arguing, I pointed them to the stairs and told them to feel free to look for themselves. They swarmed up the steps, but less than fifteen minutes later, they stomped back down, grumbling about the lack of photo ops.

As happy as I was that the media had lost interest, I was equally thrilled when the folks attending the cookout in the square started drifting into the store to browse. I manned the soda fountain, Hannah handled the candy case, and Dad took his favorite position behind the register, where he could charm all the lady shoppers. As I scooped ice cream and made sundaes, I chatted with the customers and eavesdropped on their conversations.

Most had heard about the fire and seen the news stories speculating that a killer was targeting Kizzy Cutler. There was a recurring theme of nervousness and concern for their safety, and I did what I could to reassure everyone that Chief Kincaid was confident that his officers would have the guilty party in custody soon. Crossing my fingers, I told them all that the police would probably arrest the suspect before the fireworks ended that evening.

Of course, I didn’t believe that line of bull for a minute. I briefly considered making another phone call to the chief to share my new theory that someone was trying to kill Kizzy because she had been a mean girl in high school, but quickly rejected that idea. I was pretty darn sure that I’d never convince Eldridge Kincaid, a man who’d undoubtedly never been teased, how destructive bullying could be.

If the police weren’t an option, that meant I needed to track down a list of those whom Kizzy might have
tormented during high school. With Jake and Noah out of town, and Poppy busy with Gossip Central, I needed someone else to help me. Especially since I didn’t have a clue as to how to find out about possible harassment that would have taken place over twenty years ago.

But my friend Boone might. He had a nose for gossip, and his genealogy hobby had made him a whiz at research. As an attorney, he wasn’t trying to sell anything to the tourists, so he hadn’t been as involved as Poppy and I in the whole Cupcake Weekend hubbub. But Boone loved a good mystery, and he would be more than eager to solve the case of the coldhearted cupcake queen.

As soon as the crowd thinned a little at the soda fountain, I sent Boone a text asking if he could come over to the store when we closed. His answer came in a few seconds later. He’d be there at eight fifty-nine, but he had to bring his cat along.

Since Tsar was adorable, I had no problem with him accompanying Boone, but wondered why he
had
to bring the Russian blue with him. Pushing aside my pet puzzlement, I went back to work. By eight forty, there were only a couple of shoppers left in the store, so I sent Hannah over to the square to enjoy the fireworks. She was anxious to join her friends and there was no pressing reason for her to stay the twenty minutes until we officially closed.

Dad left soon after Hannah to pick up Birdie, Frieda, and several of their pals. He’d agreed to chauffer the senior citizens to the festivities so they wouldn’t have to worry about parking. He’d return after the pyrotechnics were over and drive them home.

As I waited for Boone to arrive, I tidied up the shelves, locked the cash drawer in the safe, and poured myself a cup a coffee. A few minutes later, when the
sleigh bells jingled, I looked up, expecting to see Boone, but instead Lee Kimbrough hurried toward me. Her porcelain complexion had a grayish tinge and her rapid breathing made me wonder what new catastrophe had happened. Had the murderer succeeded in killing Kizzy?

“Dev, you have to help me.” Lee’s usual calm was completely shattered.

“With what?” I took her arm and guided her to the soda fountain. “Was Kizzy’s injury worse than we thought? Or did something else happen to her?”

“No. She’s fine. I just left her at the gazebo in the square, finishing up dinner.” Lee collapsed on a stool. “The police think I poisoned Fallon and that I’m trying to murder Kizzy.”

So Lee was the suspect that Chief Kincaid had referred to this afternoon. But since she wasn’t in jail, his evidence must still be lacking.

“I take it the cops are mistaken?” I filled a glass with water and handed it to the distraught woman.

“Of course.” Lee gulped down half the contents of the tumbler. “Why would I want either of them dead?”

“No idea.” I sipped my coffee. “How do you know you’re a suspect?”

“I got word from my accountant that the police obtained a warrant to exam my financial affairs.” Lee finished the rest of the water.

“Did they discover anything they could use against you?” I asked.

“There was nothing for them to find. The business is doing spectacularly well and my personal finances are doing even better.” Lee thumped her empty glass on the marble counter. “But several of my friends have texted me that they’ve been questioned regarding my relationship with Kizzy and Fallon.”

“Which is?”

“Purely business on both counts.” Lee raised a brow. “What else?”

“I have no idea.” I met her gaze without blinking. “You tell me.”

“Evidently, that small-minded police chief thinks that two single women can’t be just partners.” Lee sighed. “Kincaid’s theory is that Kizzy and I are lovers and she started an affair with her assistant, so in a jealous rage, I killed Fallon and am now after Kizzy.”

“Any part of that scenario a possibility?” I asked. “You do appear a bit subservient to Kizzy, which doesn’t seem businesslike to me.”

“No part of that scenario is remotely possible.” Lee crossed her arms. “Just because I pick my battles with Kizzy doesn’t mean I’m in love with her. Quite the opposite, actually. But she’s the talent. Without her, there is no Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes or all the lovely cash the company makes for me.”

“Okay.” I could certainly understand Lee’s reasoning. As a financial consultant, I’d always been happy to cater to the egos of my clients. Whatever it took to make money, as long as it was legal, I had been all in. “So we’ve established why the cops suspect you, but not what kind of help you want from me.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve solved more murder cases than the local police,” Lee said. “I want you to find the real killer and clear my name.”

“Well . . .” I thought about telling her that I couldn’t possibly do what she asked, but then mentally shrugged. I was already investigating; why not admit it? Unless she was the murderer and this was some sort of trick to find out what I knew.

As if she’d read my mind, Lee pleaded, “Look, you don’t have to tell me a thing. But if you figure this all
out before the cops, I’ll write you a check for five thousand dollars,” she offered. “If you do it before the end of the Cupcake Weekend, I’ll double that amount.”

“Deal.” I held out my hand and we shook. “In the meantime, I assume you’ve got a good criminal lawyer on speed dial?”

“Yes.” Lee rose to her feet. “Ronni gave me the name of an attorney who stayed at her B and B when he defended a friend of yours. I’ve got Mr. Pryce on retainer.”

“Smart move.” I escorted Lee to the door. “I’ll let you know if I figure anything out.”

Boone arrived a few minutes after Lee’s departure. After a quick hug, I locked the door, turned off all of the lights except for the one over my workbench, and carried two cups of coffee to the table. Boone had been wheeling a red cat carrier behind him, but now he parked the kitty transporter, pushed down the telescoping handle, and unzipped the mesh flap. Tsar poked out his nose, took a couple of sniffs, and trilled a greeting. Then having made sure that all eyes were on him, he exited the carrier and began to check out the boxes containing bits and pieces for my baskets.

With the elegant Russian blue occupied, Boone and I took a seat and I said, “Not that I mind, but why did you
have
to bring the cat?”

“Tsar’s therapist says he was traumatized by my absence when I was away on the cruise a couple of months ago and it would be a grave mistake to leave him alone again until he emotionally heals,” Boone said, a solemn expression on his handsome face, then added in a whisper, “He has abandonment issues.”

“Oh.” I struggled to keep a straight face. It was difficult to take the idea of kitty counseling seriously. “That’s a shame.”

“Doctor also recommends adopting a little brother
or sister for Tsar since he’s missing Banshee.” Boone grabbed a paper napkin from the table, reached down, and wiped a smudge from his Italian leather shoes.

“Really?” The Russian blue had formed an attachment to Gran’s Siamese when he stayed with me while Boone was on vacation. The two cats’ affection for each other still shocked me considering that Banshee hated everyone and everything except my grandmother. I had been pleased that the Siamese hadn’t eaten Tsar as his midnight snack, but also flabbergasted that the kitties had become friends. “Are you getting another cat?”

“I’m looking into it,” Boone said. “But he or she would have to be the perfect match for Tsar, both physically and personality-wise.”

“Right.” I bit back a giggle. Boone was a sophisticated man who wore designer suits and Serge Lutens Bornéo 1834 cologne; the picture of him as a feline matchmaker was almost too much for me.

“Don’t laugh,” Boone ordered. “It’s Tsar’s world. He just keeps me around to open his Fancy Feast cans.”

“So I see.” I reached down and scratched behind the pretty kitty’s ears.

“What’s up?” Boone asked me with a wide smile, his teeth strikingly white against his tanned face. He claimed that his skin was naturally bronzed from his Greek great-great-great-grandmother, but I knew about the tanning bed stashed in his back bedroom.

“How much have you heard about Fallon Littlefield’s death and the attempts on Kizzy Cutler’s life?” I asked, then took a sip from my freshly refilled coffee cup.

“Assume I have no knowledge and tell me everything from the beginning.” The corners of Boone’s hazel eyes crinkled. “I’m guessing the details are important or you wouldn’t have asked me to come here
and we’d be over in the square with everyone else watching the fireworks.”

“Oh, my God!” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t even think about that. Did you have plans with someone for the evening?”

“Nothing important.” Boone wrinkled his nose. “I was sort of glad to have an excuse to cancel. It was more business than pleasure.”

“Anything you want to share?” I asked. Boone dated, but never discussed his love life, and he’d never been serious about anyone.

“Nope.” Boone patted a strand of his tawny-gold hair back into place.

“Okay.” Even though I was dying of curiosity, I respected his desire to keep his love life private. “So here’s what’s happened so far.” I outlined what I knew about the two attempts on Kizzy’s life and the death of her assistant.

“Interesting.” Boone frowned, then used his thumb to smooth the line between his brows. “So the media was right about those three events being linked. I figured the reporters were jumping to conclusions.”

“Not this time.” My stomach rumbled and I wished that I had asked Boone to pick up dinner on his way. Generally, there were leftover bakery items at the soda fountain, but the crowds had completely cleaned out both my food stock and all my cupcake-emblazoned items. Good thing I had fresh supplies coming first thing tomorrow. It had cost extra for Sunday delivery, but I’d decided to take the risk and placed a large order to replenish my empty shelves.