A Crusty Murder (5 page)

“No, have you?”

I shook my head and said, “Maybe that’s a good sign. After you’re done with your father, come on over and we’ll talk a bit about Mrs. Peterson’s death and how we can find out who did the dirty deed.”

BettyJo agreed and held the door open as I left.

The clock struck nine, dough rested in the huge mixing bowl as I answered BettyJo’s knock. She raced inside like hell-on-wheels. I peeked around the door checking to see if she was being chased, but the porch and grounds were quiet.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing, I just wanted to come inside. I’ve been out there forever, you know,” BettyJo complained.

“I can’t hear when the mixer is running. Sorry about that,” I offered. “What happened with your father?”

BettyJo slumped in a chair. “We went forty rounds. I feel like I’ve been pummeled by the best of them, but I stuck to my resolve. I won’t go back to banking, and I refused his offer to help with another job. There’s always a string, or several, attached to his offers.”

I nodded and motioned her toward the nearest work table. I prepped the bread for baking and then asked if she wanted a drink or snack.

“A snack and wine would be great, thanks, Melina,” BettyJo answered.

I took wine from the fridge and brought glasses to the table. While BettyJo poured a healthy measure into each glass, I piled plates with Paratha bread, a flatbread popular in the Punjab region of Northern India. I’d stuffed cheese and veggies between layers before frying them up.

Without speaking, we chowed down the sandwiches, drank the wine, and then settled back, replete. I watched BettyJo twirl her glass using the stem. She seemed pensive. Rather than intrude on her thoughts, I cleared the dishes and poured more wine. By the time I took my seat, BettyJo had come out of her funky mood.

“You don’t think I killed Mrs. Peterson, do you?” BettyJo asked while she worried the edge of her napkin.

“Of course not,” I answered. “How could you have? You were here in class. Besides, Mrs. Peterson’s body was still warm when I got to your place. By then, you’d been here for an hour or more.”

A shiver shook BettyJo as she said, “Still warm? Ugh. How do you know?”

“She had a glob of bread stuffed in her mouth. When I touched the bread, my hand brushed her skin. She was still warm. Not real warm, but . . .”

“That gives me the willies,” BettyJo said and rubbed her arms. “I have goose bumps just thinking of it.”

“Nonetheless, we have to figure out who killed her.” I rubbed my temples. “She was married, right?”

“I can’t say for certain. I know her daughter, Cindy, doesn’t live at home, but I’m not sure if Mrs. Peterson was divorced or widowed, or what. Why?”

“I think the reason we haven’t heard from Detective Graham might be due to the investigation of Mrs. P’s spouse.”

I’d no sooner uttered the words when a rap at the door made me jump. My pulse raced like the wind as I peered through the door window. Detective Graham waited outside. Crap.

As he sauntered inside, I closed the door behind him. Graham glanced around the brightly lit kitchen, observed the dishes in the sink, the wine bottle, and our half-filled glasses on the table. He even peered into the mixer bowl. Good God, next he’d check my pockets and look down my bra. I brought my thoughts to a halt and asked him what he wanted.

“I saw the lights on and thought you might answer some questions.” Detective Graham’s eyes bore into mine before he swept a glance toward BettyJo.

“Sure, take a seat.” I ushered him toward the table and pulled another stool up for myself. He studied his previous notes and then began his questions, repeating them over and over in as many ways as he could think to ask them.

When BettyJo and I had answered him for the fourth time, I asked, “Are you going to keep this up much longer? How many ways can you ask the same question, Detective? It’s quite annoying.”

Graham smiled. It was a nice smile of even white teeth, sexy lips, and extremely light brown eyes that held a hint of humor. Even his sandy brown, very short hair was nice.

“Sorry, it’s a matter of routine. I can see the two of you have nothing to hide,” he said with a half-grin. “I’m curious to know why Mrs. Peterson had a chunk of bread stuffed in her mouth, though.” Graham flipped a few pages in his notebook and said, “The medical examiner said it was Boule bread. You sell that here, don’t you, Ms. Cameron?”

“Yes, but it’s also sold in markets all over the country. Just because I sell it here, doesn’t mean that bread came from my bakery.”

“We have the ability to analyze ingredients down to a point where we know exactly what was used to make the bread and the brand of those ingredients.”

“Get the hell out,” I said with a laugh that didn’t quite come out the way it should have. “You can’t tell that,” I stated with a wave of my hand.

“You caught me. I was fishing, I admit it. We’re able to do quite a lot to analyze evidence, but we aren’t that good.” Graham closed his notebook and then glanced at us in turn. “Who do you think killed Mrs. Peterson and why would that person want to incriminate you two?”

“We were just discussing that,” BettyJo answered. “We don’t have a clue. We have no enemies that we know of, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why anyone would be so rotten to us. Mrs. Peterson wasn’t a likable sort, but still, nobody deserves to be murdered.”

Graham adjusted his jacket after he’d tucked his notes away. “I must be going. If you ladies come up with any ideas, call me.” He handed cards to us and headed toward the door. He looked back, gave a nod, and left.

With a hoot of laughter, BettyJo said, “You’ve got men tumbling all over themselves for you. Did you see the way he stared at you? Holy hell, I’d give a free reading if somebody looked at me that way.”

“No way. He’s a cop, a detective, even. He’s not interested in me, and I’m certainly not interested in him. Graham’s looking for a way to solve his case,” I informed her.

BettyJo burst out laughing. “Right, and if you believe that, I’ll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Be serious. Think about it for a minute,” I insisted. “A good detective gains your confidence and then moves in for the final blow. I saw it on
Law & Order
.”

BettyJo burst out laughing, held her sides, and then wiped the flow of tears from her eyes. “You are just too naïve for words.”

“
Law & Order
is a great show based on real cases,” I said snidely.

“Oh, oh, I can’t catch my breath,” BettyJo said as she hauled in huge gulps of air. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her napkin and tried to keep a straight face as she stared at me.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s consider that theory for a moment. What evidence do you think Graham has that would point to either of us? I have no criminal record, nor do you, so why would he think we’d have a reason to rid ourselves of Mrs. Peterson?”

I shrugged, shook my head, and leaned an elbow on the table. My chin cupped in the palm of my hand, I suggested, “Let’s wait until we meet with the other shopkeepers before we become too engrossed in this mystery. They may be able to shed some light on our dilemma and offer thoughts on who’d have ended Mrs. Peterson’s life.”

Nodding, BettyJo glanced at her watch and said she had to go, but would be over in the morning for muffins. I smiled and watched her walk out and close the door.

*    *    *

Once the bread was ready, I loaded trays into the huge ovens and set the timer. I smiled when I glanced at the small hole-in-the-wall oven that was tucked into the alcove. It had supposedly passed for a fancy brick oven during Providence’s early days. How anyone would bake lots of bread in it gave me pause. I guessed the process would have been an all-day and night affair.

After baking, numerous loaves cooled on racks. I called it a night and headed up the stairs when the phone rang.

I glanced at the clock and answered the call. Who’d be calling at this late hour was a question I was afraid to answer. Maybe some nut couldn’t sleep, had seen my shop on the news, and decided to torment me about Mrs. Peterson? Was I paranoid? Hell, yeah!

“Hello?” I asked tentatively.

“Lass, would you meet me for a drink?” the Scot asked.

Weary, but interested, I asked, “Do you know how late it is?”

“Yes, yes, sorry,” Aidan said with a light chuckle. “I saw the lights on in the back room when I walked by and thought you might like to join me for a pint?”

A pint? Ice cream? Oh, no, he said a drink, so it might be beer. That’s right, beer. “Tell me where you are and I’ll be there shortly.”

Aidan snickered and said, “I’m right outside, lass, take a look.”

Sure enough, when I peered through the round glass in the kitchen-to-shop door, I saw his grinning face, his nose pressed up against the glass. I chuckled and thought maybe Aidan had already indulged in too many pints.

I snatched my jacket off the rack, locked the rear door, and sauntered out the front entrance, to meet the man of my dreams on the sidewalk. The evening was balmy. Moist air from Narragansett Bay blew gently, bringing with it the scent of salt and seaweed. The tide was in. Otherwise, the breeze would have smelled rank.

“Ah, lass, you don’t mind my calling you so late, do you?” Aidan asked with a smile.

“Not this time, but generally, I go to bed early. I have to rise in the wee hours to prepare for the day. Tonight, I got a head start, but . . . I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.” I grinned at his expression, and realized he probably hadn’t quite understood half of what I’d said. It didn’t matter.

“Right, right, let’s walk, shall we?” Aidan tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. We strolled toward South Main Street where I was certain he’d found a drinking establishment to his liking.

The sharp taste of the beer tingled my taste buds, the brew strong, but refreshing. Aidan sipped his ale appreciatively and talked of Scotland. I began to wonder if he was homesick. His voice held a hint of wistfulness.

“It must be lovely to live there. I always wanted to take Seanmhair to visit the area of Scotland where her family was from,” I murmured.

“Absolutely beautiful, it is. You’d like it there, and your gran would, too. You both must plan a trip and stay at my home.” When I was about to refuse, he said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. It would be a pleasure to show you the sights and beauty of Scotland.” Aidan swigged his ale and grinned widely. Could it be over the idea of our visit to his homeland?

I shook my head and said it was impossible at the moment and Seanmhair wouldn’t want to impose on his hospitality.

He’d hear none of it. I chalked his enthusiasm up to his ale intake. Aidan wouldn’t likely remember the offer in the morning at the rate he was drinking. I finished my beer and said I should go home. Aidan paid the tab and we started out arm-in-arm on our trek to the bakery.

“I wasn’t jesting with you, lass,” Aidan assured me. “You’ve shown me such hospitality, inviting you to my home is the least I can do to repay you for your kindness.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said as I stared up at his handsome features. “I’ll speak to Seanmhair while you’re away. Upon your return, we’ll discuss a date. Happy now?” I grinned at his nod of satisfaction.

We walked along the Providence River, finding pleasure in the city lights and spring breeze.

Aidan drew me to the rail overlooking the canal and said, “How’s the investigation going over your landlady’s death?”

His interest seemed sincere, so I answered, “The detective dropped by and asked the same questions over and over until I wanted to smack him upside his head. Geez, how many times can you ask the same thing in so many different ways?” I huffed a sigh and leaned against the hand-rail. “When I asked him that, he smiled and said he was only doing his job. He wasn’t mean or anything, but his persistence annoyed me to no end. BettyJo and I want to do our own snooping, that way we’ll be ahead of the police.”

I glanced up at Aidan when I felt him stiffen. His face was unreadable from my point of view. A heavy cloak of wariness settled over me.

“Do you think that’s a mistake on our part?” I asked him.

“You might consider the dangerous aspects of hunting a killer, lass. Murderers aren’t warm and friendly like you are.” He leaned down and brushed my lips with his own.

My heart fluttered while my knees turned to jelly. Aidan Sinclair found me attractive enough to kiss. Yikes. I stepped back and stared into his face, unable to discern his expression. He’d had too many pints, that’s all there was to it.

I turned toward home and said, “I’ll give it more thought. You’re probably right. We should let the police handle things.” Not.

Aidan fell into step with me. Before I knew it, we were at The Hole in the Wall. I admired the storefront, satisfied with my ownership of such a popular business. It made enough money for me to live richly, not financially, but rich in other ways. I was proud of my commitment to the shop and my accomplishments.

We parted at the door. He kissed my cheek and watched me enter the building. Aidan grinned when the lock clicked in place. I waved goodbye and sauntered into the kitchen to finish a few details.

Our conversation lingered in my head while I started up the stairs. I glanced out the rear window in the staircase wall. I stopped cold, my heart thumped. The stairwell lights were off, leaving it dim. Lamp light streamed a pale glow from the parking lot. I wondered if I could be seen standing here, pressed against the wall, stiff as a test car dummy.

A shadowy figure watched the building from below. I may have been overreacting, but I thought he looked straight at me. Moving toward the middle of the car park, he stepped into a pool of light. I recognized him. It was Aidan Sinclair. My heart thumped erratically, my breathing was shallow and fast. Chills skittered up my spine, leaving me cold and shaken.

Backed tight against the wall opposite the window, I sidled up the steps, feeling my way into the apartment. I turned on every light and lamp I had. When I’d changed into my pajamas, I shut the lights off and tiptoed to the window. The grounds were empty of everything but the neighborhood cat that slunk across the huge space.