BLURB:
Meet Melina Cameron. Baker extraordinaire
and killer crouton maker.
When Franklin Seever, the father of Melina’s
best friend BettyJo, is poisoned from eating Melina’s fresh baked croutons at a
dinner party, a police investigation once again targets Melina.
But Melina has learned her lesson after finding
her landlady lying in a pool of blood, and with a crusty piece of bread
protruding from her mouth, just a few months ago. If there is one thing Melina is
aware of, it’s that you never really know people until you break bread with
them.
BettyJo’s dad, a wealthy banker, already
disliked Melina before the crouton calamity. What’s he going to think of her
now that his life is hanging in the balance? Out of the bread pan and into the
fire for Melina as she tries to keep BettyJo from freaking out about her dad,
and engages in keeping her safe from a weirdo stalker.
And wouldn’t you know it? Just when Melina’s
life couldn’t get more twisted than a loaf of braided bread, the sexy Scotsman,
Aidan Sinclair once again arrives on her doorstep with a smile on his face and
an offer that could change Melina’s life forever.
Chapter 1
Sounds of choking and gagging reached me as I
entered Bette Seever’s shop. She’d set the tarot reading room up for an
impromptu dinner. I gawked as her father grasped his throat, writhed on the
floor and suddenly lost consciousness. After I’d hurriedly called 9-1-1, rescue
personnel soon rushed
into the room to take over the scene. Alongside a police
officer, I stood and watched paramedics finger sweep his mouth for an
obstruction before they bundled Franklin Seever onto a stretcher and rolled him
out the door followed by BettyJo.
When she’d reached the door,
BettyJo glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be at the hospital. You’ll be right
along, won’t you?”
I said I would as soon as I locked
up for her. BettyJo glanced at the others before she hurried out. I turned to
the officer and asked, “What can I do for you, Bailey?”
Alan Bailey and I had taken college
courses together before I realized I wanted to bake bread for a living. Broad,
but fit, Bailey’s brown eyes took in our surroundings without missing a beat.
We hadn’t been close friends, but had attended the same parties, gone to the
same Providence Bruins hockey games and had even cheered for the same players.
“Good to see you, Melina, even if
it is under these circumstances. Tell me what happened.” His voice was rich,
not baritone rich, but even and soothing. A coercing voice that encouraged a
person to spill their secrets, so-to-speak. He glanced at the other guests who
waited to give their account of the event and then gave me his full attention.
“Franklin is BettyJo’s father. She
invited him and a few friends for dinner. I’m not sure what happened. I’d run
over to my shop for a loaf of focaccia bread and found Franklin choking when I
came back.” I tipped my head toward the guests and said, “They might be able to
tell you more.”
After he’d made notes, he asked me
to stay and beckoned the others forward. “What happened?”
Helena Bentwood, owner of The
Crafty Cupcake Shop, wrung her hands with worry while Charlie Franklin, an
antiques dealer spoke up.
“We’d settled at the table,
Franklin helped himself to salad and began eating. He’d popped a couple
croutons in his mouth and before you know it, he was choking to death. None of
us have touched any food,” George said.
“Can you bag the salad for me,
Melina?” Alan asked.
“I’d be happy to,” I answered and
reached for the cabinet to get plastic bags. Assured by Helena Bentwood’s
statement that Charlie was right, he let the two of them leave. The only people
who remained were Ezra Canter and Corinda Blake. They’d arrived with Franklin
close behind. Franklin had introduced them as work associates. Ezra was a
banker with nearly the same views and power as Franklin. I figured Corinda had
tagged along due to her fascination for BettyJo’s dad. It could have been
romantic fascination or maybe she wanted to be counted on the power scale. Her
avid interest in the man had been obvious to everyone in attendance.
“So you arrived at the same time as
Mr. Seever, then?” Alan asked.
“Just a few minutes before,” Ezra
answered.
“What are your relationships to Mr.
Seever?” Alan asked, giving them each a long look.
Ezra cleared his throat and said,
“I’m a fellow banker. Franklin and I have been friends since we attended
private school together.”
“I’m in charge of employee
relations at Franklin’s banking headquarters in Providence,” Corinda replied.
Her confident, steady gaze held Alan’s for a moment before she glanced away.
Cops don’t look away, they stare
you down. I believe it to be part of their training academy curriculum. I hid a
smirk at Corinda’s first lesson in her police interrogation experience. I’d
been down this road not long ago and knew better than to act mightier-than-thou
when faced down by a cop. Confidence is fine, but entitlement pisses them off.
A bag of salad awaited the trip to
the police lab. If Mr. Seever was dead, God forbid, or he’d had a reaction to
something he’d eaten, the lab would make note of it.
“You’re sure Mr. Seever only ate
the croutons?” Alan insisted.
With a nod, Ezra said, “Franklin
said he was hungry and helped himself to the salad. He ate a couple croutons
and maybe a chunk of tomato.”
“Who brought the salad?” Alan asked
me.
“BettyJo put the salad together. I
made the croutons for her and left them here earlier today. Other than that,
BettyJo did all the cooking, uh, except for the dessert. Helena baked cupcakes
for dessert.” I thumbed in the direction of her shop up the street. “She owns
The Crafty Cupcake Shop.”
Alan turned to Ezra and Corinda.
“That’ll be all for now. I have your information, should I need to reach either
of you.”
Looks of relief flooded their
faces. I watched as they gathered their coats and strode out the door in
silence. Once they’d reached street level, I noticed Corinda started talking.
Ezra grabbed her arm and kept moving toward his BMW parked at the curb across
the street.
Alan watched them, a serious gleam
in his eyes. I figured he considered them persons of interest, but then, maybe
we all were. Briefly, Alan glanced around the shop. He muttered, “Look at all
those doodads.”
I chuckled. He smirked and answered
his jingling phone. He listened intently for a few moments, glanced at me, and
then tucked the phone in the holder attached to his utility belt. With a bland
expression, Alan’s eyes always told the story. At least they did when I was
around. I always knew when he was about to blow-up, laugh, or any of the other
feelings one has. His eyes told me all of it. I was in trouble, big trouble.
“Mr. Seever has been poisoned. It
seems he would have died if he’d eaten much more. I’ll take that salad along
with the croutons, Melina.” His face impersonal, his eyes spoke volumes, saying
he was sorry to have to tell me this. “Don’t leave town without calling me
first. You’re a suspect. Sorry.”
“Wh-what? You think I poisoned
Franklin? I hardly know the man, I have no reason to poison him or anyone, for
that matter.” I drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to gather
my wits. Shut-up, Melina, just shut your
mouth now. If I was suspect number one, then I’d better keep my own
counsel.
“I’ll be handing this over to the
detective division. You’ll likely hear from them as soon as the poison has been
identified.” Alan tucked the notebook into his breast pocket and took the bag I
offered him before he left.
Worry weighed heavily me. The lock clicked as I closed BettyJo’s back
door. Racing from the parking lot in my Fiat, I rushed to Rhode Island
Hospital’s emergency department. BettyJo probably wondered if I planned to show
up.
Her eyes huge as saucers, BettyJo
paced the floor of the waiting room. She’d been crying, her make-up had smudged
in pools under her eyes where she’d wiped it away. I gave her a hug and
murmured, “Officer Bailey said your father had been poisoned. Will he be all right?”
She nodded and mumbled something
that sounded like, “He could have died, and it’s all my fault.”
“Your fault? Why would it be? You
didn’t poison the food, I know you didn’t.” I handed her a wad of tissues from
my purse.
“The police will figure out we argued
all the time and they’ll blame me, you know that, don’t you?” BettyJo wiped
away her new flow of tears and blew her nose.
“Why aren’t you in the cubicle with
him? I’m sure he’d want you there.”
“The nurse said I was to wait here
and they’d let me know when Dad was taken to a room. He’s being admitted for
observation.” BettyJo slumped into a well-used waiting room chair. She rubbed
her face, ran her hands through her hair and heaved a sigh. “Will Bailey handle
the investigation?”
“No, the department will assign a
detective to the case.” I patted BettyJo’s shoulder. “I’m so glad your father
is going to be fine. I’ll be the main suspect, BettyJo, because the croutons
came from me.”
BettyJo adamantly shook her head.
“Nope, not happening again. We just went through a murder investigation, we
can’t go through an attempted murder. Hell, I’ll lose my mind.”
“I feel the same way, so let’s get
serious and figure out who the hell did this and why. Otherwise, we might be
roomies at the big house for bad-asses.”
She’d opened her mouth to speak
when an orderly approached. “Your father is going upstairs now. Would you
follow me, please?” the slight man asked.
We both rose and walked quickly
behind him as he entered the elevator. Soundlessly the doors slid closed and seconds
later they reopened. Having advised us to stop at the nurse’s station around
the corner to the left, the orderly stepped back into the elevator and wished
us well.
Corridors stretched out in a couple
directions. We scuttled to the way our orderly had pointed and stopped short at
the nurse’s station. A dark haired woman with a name badge pinned to her
uniform glanced up.
“Can I help you?” Nurse Hadley
asked.
“Could you direct us to Franklin
Seever’s room?” BettyJo asked.
Checking a roster, Nurse Hadley
asked, “And, you are?”
“We’re his family,” BettyJo said as
she motioned to both of us.
Nurse Hadley checked her computer
and then said “He’s been put in room 14. You won’t stay long, will you? He
needs rest.”
We nodded in unison and skirted the
station to get to Franklin’s room. A policeman stood at attention at the door.
The single bed in the dismal private room held BettyJo’s father. His pale
features were drawn, he lay completely still while monitors beeped and his I.V.
dripped. I assumed that I’d look that way or worse if someone had just pumped
my stomach. I shivered at the idea.
The cop put his hand out to waylay
our entry. BettyJo gave him a sharp glare and said, “That’s my father, and I’ll
be going in there, so step aside.”
He asked for identification and
told me I wasn’t allowed in. Only family could visit. I nodded, gave BettyJo’s
arm a squeeze and said I’d be right here, awaiting her return.
Her angry glare directed at the
cop, BettyJo said she’d be back directly. I leaned against the wall on the
other side of the doorway, the cop took up the other side. He didn’t try
passing the time away with idle chitchat, nor did I.
Visitors and staff passed by,
glanced at me and then at the cop, curiosity on their faces. I didn’t speak or
smile, I just waited. Before long, BettyJo joined me and we left.
“He’ll be fine. His throat is sore
from where they stuck the tube down his throat, other than that, he’s pretty
chipper for someone in his circumstances,” BettyJo remarked.
We walked across the hospital grounds.
The car park was jammed with vehicles ranging from jalopies to Mercedes Benz
and Lexus SUV’s. My small car nestled among the low end of the money chain, as
did BettyJo’s. I’d turned to her when Ezra’s hurried figure caught my eye. He’d
scanned the parking lot, and then rushed across a service road, meant for
rescues, before he scooted through a private hospital entrance.
“How much do you know about Ezra
and Corinda?” I asked while we skipped down a flight of stone steps into the
parking area.
“Corinda’s worked for Dad for
years. Ezra’s been around since I was a teenager. He and Dad often go on
holidays together. Ezra likes to fish, my father, well, not so much, but he
goes anyway. I think it’s his chance to kick back and chill. Why?”
“Ezra couldn’t get out of your shop
fast enough. When he and Corinda crossed the street, she said something, he
grabbed her arm and pushed her toward his car. I thought his actions strange.
He could have been stressed over your father’s misfortune, though.” I left out
that I’d just seen him scurrying into the hospital.
“That must be it, Ezra’s upset over
Dad.”
“See you back at the shop?” I
asked.
She agreed and we parted ways. I
drove across the bridge toward India Point and veered toward the row of shops
where a group of us lived and worked. Mrs. Peterson, my former landlady, had
bequeathed the building and its shops to her daughter. Since her mother had
been murdered by that very same daughter, the court had given the building’s
operation over to an attorney to handle. The attorney never came around, but
left our rent collection up to his secretary. If repairs needed to be done,
they were addressed immediately. A sweet change from dealing with Mrs.
Peterson.
Traffic was next to none in this
part of town once office and shop hours had ceased for the day. My bakery, The
Hole in the Wall, was next to BettyJo’s shop, with an unrented shop on the
corner. The long building filled one side of the block on Wickendon Street, a
historical and famous neighborhood. South Main and Benefits Streets led off
from our string of shops which brought business both ways.
I idled into a parking space behind
the row of shops and saw BettyJo drive in and park. She walked toward me, her
expression one of worry. I suddenly felt the responsibility of an oncoming
investigation settle on my shoulders. It seemed not long ago all of us tenants
were faced with this sort of encumbrance. I heaved a hearty sigh and slipped my
arm through BettyJo’s.
“Let’s get a sandwich from Mack
& Mutt’s,” I suggested. “I’m famished and had to throw out dinner on orders
from Bailey. He took the salad to be analyzed and said I was a suspect.
Imagine? I’ve been back from Scotland for a week and we’re already been
implicated in poisoning your father? Sheesh!”
Her eyes on me, BettyJo missed a
step and tripped up the back stairs leading to the row of businesses. I grasped
her arm, hauled her upright and exclaimed, “You did realize that implication,
didn’t you?”
Her slight shrug baffled me. Had
she or hadn’t she figured that out?
“Just because my father had a
reaction to the salad doesn’t mean either of us poisoned him. I had time to
think while I waited for you to arrive at the hospital. It occurred to me that
we were absent from the room off and on while everyone got seated. Before that,
the salad sat on the table and could have been fiddled with while they had wine
and chitchatted. I brought dinner down from my apartment and you went for bread
which also offered a window of opportunity. Do you think Ezra or Corinda
dropped poison in the salad?”
It was my turn to shrug. The whole
thing didn’t make sense to me. Who was the intended target? Me, BettyJo, or one
of the five others? We would all have likely eaten the salad, so which one of
us was the killer after? I couldn’t picture George or Helena doing such a
thing, but then I’d never have suspected Mrs. Peterson’s killer either.
“Good question,” I said. “For all
we know, any one of us could have been targeted by one of the others. We should
look into Corinda and Ezra. Dig up whatever we can find out about them and go
from there. Until we have a plan, let’s eat and talk about something less
depressing than attempted murder. I think it’s safe to say our fellow renters
weren’t part of it, though if we don’t find anything of use on your father’s
friends, we’ll have to look at Helena and George.”
“Sound ideas, both of them. Let’s
talk about your trip to Scotland while we eat.”
We strolled into the pizzeria,
where Carl Mack stood behind the counter, his pen poised over an order pad. He
grinned and said, “Boy, it’s been really dull around here while you were gone,
Melina. Glad you’re back.” He grinned and then said to BettyJo, “Sorry to hear
about your father. You must have been scared out of your mind.”
She nodded, ordered a spinach
calzone and I ordered a pizza for one. When he’d disappeared into the kitchen,
we settled at a corner table which offered a view of both ends of Wickendon
Street. I noticed BettyJo glance up and down the street of and on while we
waited. I wondered what she was looking for, but didn’t ask.
Carl brought our meals over and
took a seat opposite us. “How was Scotland, Melina? Did you get married while
you were there?”
With a snort, I said, “Hardly.
Seanmhair was in her glory and didn’t want to leave. I had a good time, loved
the hospitality shown us by Aidan and his household staff, but thoughts of
getting my business back up and running worried me. Aidan is a great host, his
family tree is impressive and the home he lives in is amazing.” I picked a
slice of pizza off the plate and gobbled it up.
“Did Aidan stay in Scotland, or did
he return to the states with you?”
“He had business at home, so we
came back alone. How have you two been doing since Kristina was arrested?” I
murmured softly. Carl’s partner, Bill Mutton, had been dating Kristina when she
was found to be involved in Mrs. Peterson’s death.
“Bill moped around for a while,
mostly because he was so shocked over Kristina’s actions. He seems to be
perking up. We’ve been real busy, so that’s kept his mind occupied.” Carl
glanced at BettyJo and remarked, “I hear somebody will soon move into the shop
next to yours. Do you know what business it’ll be?”
“I don’t know. A few people have
looked at it while Melina was away, but no one has signed a lease as yet that
I’m aware of. A couple came to check it out today. They were in there with the
attorney’s secretary for quite some time.”
“Too bad to have it empty. It’s not
good for a building like ours to have an empty shop. It points to signs of
economic stress and shines a poor light on all of our businesses,” Carl said.
“I was hoping George would encourage one of his friends to rent the store. It’s
a corner, so it costs more to rent than in inner shop does.”
“It’s a perfect place for just
about any enterprise,” I added and finished off another slice of pizza.
We’d nearly finished eating when
Detective Porter Anderson strode through the door. He glanced at me, nodded,
and then read the overhead menu. Carl left us and took his place behind the
counter. After Porter ordered, he came toward us, taking in the shop and us in
one sharp look. His gray eyed stare, all serious and nerve wracking, rested on
me. I pushed a chair out for him and finished my pizza before his questions
caused me to lose my appetite.
“Evening, ladies,” Porter greeted
us softly.
Check out A Crouton Murder on Amazon.
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