A Crusty Murder (2 page)

Sounds of orgasmic joy brought on a fit of laughter as I watched each student munch and crunch chunks of warm bread. One by one, each student bundled their remaining glorious creation into bags, donned their jackets, and left with well wishes for next time. A couple of students said they’d spread the word about the classes and would bring a friend next time round.

Feeling a bit of joy in the students’ offers, after the appalling event earlier, I closed the front door. BettyJo made a hasty exit, while Aidan hung around until I asked, “Did you enjoy your bread-making experience?”

“Yes, lass, it was great, to be sure. I must be going, but I’d like to return again, if that’s good for you?” he answered with his usual charm.

I agreed, thanked him for his participation and help, and watched as he walked into the night.

Quickly, I closed up, shut down the lights, and raced next door. Perched on a stool inside the door, BettyJo stared at yellow crime-scene tape plastered wall-to-wall. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

She sniffled and asked, “What am I going to do now? The detective acts as though I’m the guilty party. My father’s going to throw a fit when he hears of Mrs. Peterson’s death and that I’m involved. Hell and damnation.” BettyJo stamped her foot on the floor. I could see her anxiety level had hiked to an all-time high.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs to your apartment.” I took her by the arm and gently pushed her toward the nearby staircase.

She mumbled about her father’s reaction all the way up the steps. I pulled wine from the fridge when she refused tea and poured us each a hefty glass of Chablis.

We relaxed on the sofa, each of us at opposite ends, sipping wine and thinking. I watched my long-time friend and wondered how we’d become implicated in the murder of our landlady, which begged the why and who of it all.

“Your father will be more worried about you than Mrs. Peterson, surely?” I tried my best to reassure BettyJo that her father, a banking guru with deep pockets, would have her best interests at heart.

“You have no idea what a miserable man my father is. I couldn’t wait to escape his heavy-handed rule when I was growing up. He was determined that I follow in his footsteps and become a banking bully, like he is. He considers Wall Street a vacation destination.” BettyJo rolled her eyes.

I snickered, though the situation she found herself in was far from humorous. My grandmother, who I had always called Seanmhair, supported me, never judged, and was always there for me, no matter what. Who could ask for more? I sympathized with BettyJo’s family predicament.

“There’s only one thing you can do, then. You must stand up to him. You have to live your life the way you see fit, not the way your parents want,” I recommended.

“Easy for you to say,” BettyJo said. “Seanmhair is everything a kid dreams of in a parent. You’ve no idea what Father has put me through. He drove my mother to leave us. He wouldn’t even allow her visitation.”

Surprised at the revelation, I gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

BettyJo nodded and said, “When I was twelve, I went to the library every Saturday. My mother would wait amidst the bookshelves until I arrived. We’d sneak out to the park nearby. After doing that for a few months, Father figured out what was going on.” Using her fingers, BettyJo ruffled her hair at the roots and sighed. “Apparently, one of his friends saw us and ratted me out. The next thing I knew, I was shuffled off to a private boarding school. When I met you in college, I realized I’d found a good friend. Thanks for that, Melina.”

“My pleasure,” I said and then I grew serious. “I’m wondering who killed Mrs. Peterson, why they did, and why try to incriminate us. Frankly, I’m surprised somebody didn’t do away with her before this. She was a nasty piece of work, but nobody should be murdered.” I emptied my glass and set it aside.

“The detective was cool and calm, he didn’t make any accusations, but he did ask pointed questions.” BettyJo rose and placed her wine glass in the sink. “What did he say when he went to your place?”

I shrugged. “He’ll be back if he needs more information.”

I walked around the living room admiring the art hanging on the walls. “Unfortunately, we’re both suspects. It may be smart to lawyer-up before the police come back. You can never play it safe enough. We also have to consider how we’re going to prove our innocence. The saying
innocent until proven guilty
really means
guilty until proven innocent
, BettyJo.”

At the look of disbelief on her face, I knew she hadn’t thought the implications through. Sometimes being from a wealthy family insulates people from the realities of life. I guessed BettyJo didn’t watch the news, and she was unaware of how many innocent people were incarcerated for crimes they hadn’t committed.

BettyJo gave a snort and said, “You must be kidding. I know you’ve been watching re-runs of
Law & Order
again, haven’t you?”

I chuckled, wagged a finger at her, and said, “No, no, not
Law & Order
, just reading the newspaper and watching the national news. You might try that sometime.”

“We can’t figure everything out tonight,” BettyJo moaned. “I’m going to try and get some sleep and tackle what needs doing in the morning. I suggest you do the same,” BettyJo advised.

Unable to sleep, I deliberately turned my thoughts away from my present worries. Instead, I considered my first meeting with the man of my dreams. Tall, dark, and oh, so handsome, Aidan had the most startling blue eyes I’d ever seen. The thought entered my head the second I lay my own green eyes upon him. My heart beat erratically, just thinking about him.

He’d casually entered my bakery a few days ago and requested my current bread-making class schedule. I’d thought I’d died and instantly gone to heaven. This man was interested in taking a class in my bakery? It had to be a joke or maybe a class for his wife. That was it, his wife was interested.

I’d handed the schedule to him and asked, “Would this be for your wife?”

The attractive stranger had shaken his head and regarded me over the top of the tri-fold pamphlet announcing class times and dates.

“No, no, this would be for me.” His silky voice had sounded like a well-tuned piano, the lilt of his accent a delight to my ears.

His brogue was Scot, no mistaking that. My own lineage hailed from Scotland over a century ago. The remains of my heritage consisted of furniture handed down through the generations, a gorgeous plaid we could call our own, my own grandmother, and my many times removed grandmother’s bread recipes.

My bakery was a tad bigger in size than a hole-in-the-wall, thus the name. My grandmother and I operated the business. I baked bread and she sold it. I also taught others to make artisan breads. I’d begun teaching in order to make up the difference for the loss of wages a tanked economy had foisted on us. Sadly, it might never recover, but I digress . . .

My gran, known to me, the entire neighborhood, and our regular customers, as Seanmhair, Celtic for grandmother, and pronounced
shen-u-ver
, is seventy. She’s spry, quick, and a fantastic bread maker in her own right. I was raised by Seanmhair when my parents died in a car crash shortly after my first birthday. I don’t remember them, but I adore her and think of her as the mother I’d never known.

Whenever Seanmhair waddled into the storefront, her rosy cheeks and happy smile made even the crankiest customer smile. All who meet her say she reminds them of a sweet little gnome. At a bare five-feet tall, she sports a shock of white hair, and sharp bird-like brown eyes that miss nothing.

Her hands spread on the glass counter, Seanmhair had stood quietly, taking in the handsome devil perusing the class schedule. He’d glanced at her, then at me, and smiled. To say I’d been wowed by him would be a mild statement. It was as though sunshine streamed through the room, although, outside a light rain had been drizzling on that gray day.

He’d stretched out his hand and introduced himself. “Aidan Sinclair,” he’d said.

“Melina Cameron, nice to meet you,” I answered and shook his hand before I introduced Seanmhair.

“That’s a bonnie Gaelic name if ever I heard one,” Aidan exclaimed as he gave Seanmhair a slight bow.

“That, it is. And Sinclair is, as well. You’re from the old country, then. Visiting the States, are you?” Seanmhair had wanted to know.

“Aye, I’m here on business.” His brogue grew heavier as he’d gone on. “Bored to death at night, I asked around for something interesting to do, other than hang in the pubs, that is. Your classes were recommended.”

It had taken a moment or two for me to figure out what he’d said, but I’d finally gotten it squared away in my mind. The words
around
and
program
came out as aroond and proogram, with a heavy burr added for good measure. Pubs sounded like
poobs
and the word
interesting
. . . well, you get the idea.

“Have you made bread before, Mr. Sinclair?” Seanmhair had asked.

“No, not a crust.” Aidan had chuckled and said, “I’m willing to try, though. There’s no experience necessary for your class is there, lass?”

I’d smiled and assured Aidan that he’d be among other newbie’s. He’d offered me a strange look and then smiled. I guessed I wasn’t the only one with difficulty understanding accents. Aidan had then registered and paid for the next class before he left. That was the night before the disaster struck, and what a night it had been.

Finding Mrs. Peterson’s dead body in BettyJo’s shop, I’d been questioned by the cops, and now avoided the news media dallying about outside the shop. I was in for a bad time.

A sigh escaped me as I turned to Seanmhair. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned. “Did Mr. Sinclair come to class? He’s a catch, that one.”

“He did. He was also helpful when I found Mrs. Peterson,” I answered. “Seanmhair, I’m not shopping for a man, so don’t get started on that subject.” I smiled and shook my head as I loaded a basket with fresh rolls.

“It’s never too late to shop for a good man, and I’ll bet he’s a fine one . . . or you could try speed dating,” Seanmhair noted.

Where had she learned about speed dating? Good grief. I fiddled with the last roll, removed my gloves, and asked, “Trying to marry me off, are you?”

Seanmhair smiled, her skin crinkled in folds at the corners of her eyes while her cheeks bunched, reminding me of rosy apples. “I’m merely making a suggestion. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t you want a family?”

I scooted behind the counter, gave her a quick hug, and whispered, “You’re my family.”

Seanmhair’s shoulders shook as she chuckled. “You’re a sweet girl who needs more than just me for a family. Give it some thought. He’s not likely to be here forever.”

“I’m not sure how the bread will come out if I concentrate on him instead of teaching,” I told her with a wide grin. There were no two ways about it. Mr. Sinclair had upset my applecart. My pulse raced at the sight of him, my heart thumped against my ribs at his touch, and his blue-eyed gaze rocked my boat. Could he really be the one? The one man I’d been waiting for all of my twenty-six years? I gave a snort, shook my head, and went back to work.

The Hole in the Wall remained open until two o’clock every day except Monday, my one day off. Sunday’s hours were few. I’d bake the bread early and then handle the customers until noon. By noontime, those who hadn’t gotten their daily bread or rolls would likely not want any, or I’d be sold out completely. Either way, the
closed
sign went on the door and leftovers were brought to a homeless shelter. I considered the donation as doing my part to help those in need.

My memory of the last encounter I’d had with Mrs. Peterson played like a film in my head as I shuffled through the bread recipes for the next day’s offerings.

Seanmhair had hung the closed sign on the glass pane of the front door just as my landlady, Edith Peterson, approached. She wagged her finger at Seanmhair and stood outside scolding her.

“I’m here to speak to your granddaughter. We have business to conduct, so step away and let me in.”

Opening the door, Seanmhair reminded the woman, “You could have come earlier. You know we close at two.”

“I’m well aware of what goes on with all my tenants. If you’d stay open longer, maybe you’d make more money, but maybe you earn more than enough now.” Mrs. Peterson sniffed and stared down her elongated, beak-like nose at Seanmhair.

Standing just inside the kitchen door, I’d listened to their exchange. Growing increasingly annoyed by the second, I knew I’d have to interrupt them before words turned into actions.

Reluctantly, I smiled and pushed the door open. “How nice to see you, Mrs. Peterson. What brings you by? The rent isn’t due for two weeks.”

“Of all people, I should know when the rent is due. I wish to speak to you concerning this shop.” Mrs. Peterson glanced at Seanmhair and then turned her imperious attitude toward me. “Is there a private place where we can speak?”

I gave her a nod, glanced at Seanmhair who rolled her eyes, and invited Mrs. Peterson into the kitchen. I’d finished clearing up for the day and had been about to tackle the work on my desk. I used a tiny alcove just off the kitchen as an office.

Leading the way, I held the swinging kitchen door open for Mrs. Peterson and watched as she marched in like the military. Good grief, what now? I could only imagine what lay in store for me from the mean, calculating woman. She taunted all of us on the block facing Wickendon Street. Mrs. Peterson owned the humongous building and rented out space to a myriad of businesses, including my bakery, BettyJo’s tarot-card reading shop, and an antiques dealer among others. We, the tenants, had gathered more than once to gripe about our treatment by our landlady. Griping didn’t solve our problems, but seemed to help us feel we weren’t alone in our misery.

I pulled a stool forward and perched on the seat after Mrs. Peterson took the chair at my desk. She gazed around the neat kitchen, taking in the streamlined ovens and work tables, the huge mixer and flour filters. Finally, she turned her attention to me. A sense of dread swept over me. From the gleam in her eyes, I could tell the news would be devastating.