A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery Box Set Page 8

  “I can’t divulge that kind of information,” he said, giving me a level gaze. “And I want to repeat my warning about not getting involved in the investigation.” He gave Lucy the evil eye, but she was still trying to figure things out.

  He sure was bossy. I put my hands on my hips. “I got it already.”

  “Do I make myself clear?” he said to Lucy.

  “Huh? Yeah, sure,” she said. “I wish I knew what was going on here.”

  “Good. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you ladies around,” he said and took off down the trail in the same direction he had been going.

  “Oh! I get it now!” Lucy said. “Ol’ Ralph had someone on the side.”

  I rolled my eyes and started walking. “I can’t imagine who it would be.”

  “Some women are desperate,” she said, following after me.

  “I guess that explains why he got so mad when I questioned him about that night,” I said. “He didn’t want anyone to know what he’s been up to.”

  “It’s kind of neat, really,” Lucy said, taking a drink from her water bottle.

  “Neat? How so?” I asked, turning to look at her.

  “Well, one soul was lost that night, but another one came into the world. Oh, do you believe in reincarnation? Maybe that baby is Henry!”

  “Oh, Lucy, please! That’s a fairy tale. I don’t believe in reincarnation,” I said. “I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

  “Yeah, but who else could have done it? I wonder if Ralph would have had enough time to commit the murder and then get back to the hospital in time for the baby to be born? Labor can go on forever. He would have had plenty of time,” she said.

  “Maybe. But you know Detective Blanchard isn’t going to answer any more questions where Ralph is concerned,” I said. “We’ll just have to go back over what we already know and try to figure this out. I’ll check out that Elvis show Charles said he was putting on. He might have had time to get back and do the deed or he could have done it earlier in the evening.”

  This all was very worrying. If the other two suspects were cleared, then that left me. And I didn’t have an alibi.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Henry’s Home Cooking restaurant re-opened on Wednesday and I decided to drop by. I was curious as to how business would be now that everyone knew a murder was committed there. I pulled into the parking lot and the place was packed. I should have known. It was a small town and everyone wanted to know all the gruesome details. The Alabama town I had grown up in was a little bigger than Sandy Harbor and it was the same there. Everyone wanted to know all the gossip.

  I could still smell pine cleaner when I entered the restaurant. Maybe the smell was permanent now. Most of the booths were filled as well as most of the tables. Most people only had coffee or soft drinks in front of them. It figured. They were probably all wondering how they could get a tour of the kitchen.

  I was surprised to see Henry’s widow working the cash register. She had a smile on her face and was chatting with people as she took their payments. She seemed incredibly relaxed and happy. Hmm…maybe I had overlooked a suspect. If my husband had been murdered, the last place I would want to be was the scene of the crime. I also wouldn’t want to answer questions from the town’s nosy Nellies.

  I went to her. “Good morning, Cynthia, how are you doing?”

  I saw a hint of something in her eyes, but she recovered quickly. “I’m well, Allie. How are you?”

  “Good. I just wanted to check in on you. I’ve been thinking about you and saying a few prayers.”

  She looked grateful. “Oh, thank you so much, Allie. I do appreciate that. I feel kind of lost. I checked out your blog. It’s been very helpful.”

  Now I felt like a heel for wondering if she could be the killer. I smiled. “I’m so glad to hear that. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know, will you? Even if you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “I may take you up on that, Allie,” she said.

  She showed me to a table, and I realized I could see Charles in the kitchen through the pass-through. He glanced in my direction, and I gave him a small wave. He stopped stirring the pot in front of him and stared at me. Then he shook his head and looked away.

  I looked over the menu even though I knew what I wanted. I heard a familiar voice and looked up from the menu to see Martha Newberry standing near the register talking to Cynthia. Tucked under her arm was something pink. I wondered if she had cleaned this morning. I also wondered who had cleaned up the blood in the kitchen. I shuddered. I didn’t know if Martha had it in her to continue working here after what she had seen the morning of Henry’s death. I know I wouldn’t.

  Eileen Smith took my order, and I played on my phone until my food arrived. I had a notification of comments left on my blog so I signed in to read them. There were a couple of nice notes from people I didn’t know and one from the woman coming up on the first anniversary of her husband’s death. I was glad I could help people feel better at a time when things were so difficult for them.

  My heart stopped when I read the last comment.

  Don’t think you’ll get away with what you did. Justice will prevail. And if the justice system doesn’t take care of you, I will.

  My heart came pounding back to life, and I had to fight for that first breath. Breathe, I told myself. I glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone was watching me, but the only person looking in my direction was Martha. She raised a hand to say hello and turned back to Cynthia. I sighed and looked at my phone again. Why would the murderer send me messages like this?

  I needed to show these comments to Detective Blanchard. But then, he would question me harder, wouldn’t he? He might think that this person knew I was the killer. And if this person knew, or thought they knew, then that might be enough for Detective Blanchard to take a closer look at me. Since I had no real alibi, I couldn’t defend myself. Maybe that was what the murderer wanted me to do—tell the detective so it would keep him from looking for the real killer. I wasn’t sure what to do now.

  I left my breakfast untouched and went to find Lucy. My mind was in a panic and I needed a clearer head to help me decide whether I should tell Detective Blanchard about this or not.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I remembered Lucy was at her part-time job, so I went home and texted her to come over as soon as she got off. I made tea while I waited and watched the hands of the clock make their way around.

  I sighed and took another sip of my tea, then set it aside. I needed coffee for this kind of thing. I put a pot on to brew and checked the clock again. What was the murderer’s game? He had nothing to win by tormenting me with these comments. I hadn’t committed the murder, and I didn’t know who did. So why send the comments to me?

  I had just poured myself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of the chimes. Maybe caffeine was the last thing I needed right then.

  I went to the door and looked through the peephole before opening it. Martha Newberry stood smiling up at the peephole. I gave a sigh of relief and opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Allie,” she said cheerily. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine Martha, how are you?”

  “Good, good. May I come in?” She was dressed in a light jacket and had a pink knit hat on her head.

  “Of course, where are my manners?” I said, standing back from the door. She scooted her walker through the door. Her pink handbag and the same shopping bag I had given her with the apple pie were in the little basket on the front of the walker. I led her into the living room.

  “Oh my, is that freshly brewed coffee? That smells so good!” she said and hobbled after me.

  “Would you like some?” I asked. Maybe having company while I waited for Lucy would do me some good.

  “I would! Oh, and I brought you this,” she said motioning toward the shopping bag. “Take it out of the basket, will you?”

 
I did as she asked and removed the bag from the walker basket. “What is it?”

  “Just a little something I whipped up. I’m sure it doesn’t compare to that delicious apple pie you made for me, but it’s rather tasty if I do say so myself. May I sit down?” she asked and headed for the sofa before I could answer.

  “Yes, of course.” I reached into the bag and pulled out a pink Pyrex covered dish. Something about it triggered something in my memory, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Why, what is this?”

  “It’s a bread pudding. The recipe has been in my family for years. Do help yourself. I’ve just finished a late lunch and couldn’t eat another bite, but that coffee smells wonderful. Coffee goes so well with bread pudding, don’t you know?”

  “That’s so sweet of you,” I said and headed toward the kitchen. I removed the glass lid to the pink bowl. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafted out along with something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “What is that scent? Do you have a secret ingredient in your bread pudding?” I called from the kitchen. I loved everything to do with baking and this smelled wonderful. I needed to know her secret.

  “Oh yes, indeed I do. Indeed I do,” she said and chuckled.

  I got a cup out of the cupboard and poured her some coffee. “Cream and sugar?” I called, still trying to put my finger on what the secret ingredient might be.

  “Yes, please. Both,” she said. “Plenty of cream. My husband used to say that I took a little coffee with my cream.”

  I knew baking ingredients inside and out. In the South, people sometimes used ingredients that you wouldn’t associate with baking, like sour kraut in my mother’s super moist chocolate cake. I decided maybe older ladies from the North probably did the same and Martha’s bread pudding must be one of those recipes. I was going to have to pry the recipe out of her because the smell was making my mouth water.

  I put cream and sugar and two cups of coffee on a serving tray for us both. It would be nice to have someone to visit with and take my mind off the threats I had been receiving. Martha needed someone to talk to about her late husband, anyway. I had been feeling guilty that I had not followed through on my promise to spend some time with her.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said with a smile. Her Maine accent was thick and ‘dear’ came out sounding like deaya. “You get yourself some of that bread pudding and sit awhile.”

  “I’m going to do just that,” I said and headed back to the kitchen for a bowl of bread pudding. “This smells delicious!”

  “And it is!” she called. “But it needs to be eaten warm with cream poured over it. The cream brings out the flavor.”

  I spooned some bread pudding into a bowl and brought it to the living room, sitting on the sofa across from her. I rarely ate in the living room, but I thought it might be more comfortable for her in here. I poured cream over the bread pudding and inhaled. It was heavenly. I looked up and saw she was watching me intently. I put the bowl down and reached for my coffee and added cream and sugar. I felt odd eating in front of my guest, even though she had brought the pudding for me.

  “Would you like me to get you a bowl of bread pudding?” I asked.

  “No, no. I baked two. One for you and one for me. As I said, I’m much too full from lunch to eat another bite. I’ll warm mine up for after supper,” she said sweetly.

  “How have you been doing, Martha? Are you okay since Henry’s murder?” I asked, stirring my coffee.

  “Oh yes, I’m fine. It was a start, I’ll admit. Such a sad thing,” she said picking up her cup. “Why don’t you try the bread pudding, dear?”

  I looked down at it. I suddenly didn’t feel hungry, and I wasn’t sure why. Just then I burped up a little of the frozen pizza I had nuked and eaten for lunch. “Oh, excuse me! I’m afraid my lunch isn’t sitting too well.”

  “Then what you need is something bready like that pudding. It will absorb the stomach acids.” She smiled at me again and nodded her head.

  I wasn’t sure I had ever heard anything like that before. “So what did you put in it?”

  “Only the best ingredients. Real butter, none of that fake stuff, cream, sugar, a very nice brioche and an assortment of spices. I say if you’re going to bother to bake, then use only the best ingredients.” She took a sip of her coffee and leaned back.

  “I feel the same way,” I said and burped again. “Oh dear, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I rarely have reflux issues.” I got up and trotted to the kitchen. “Sorry, Martha!” I called over my shoulder.

  “That’s okay, dear. But you’re letting your bread pudding cool down.”

  I swallowed an acid pill and returned to the living room. “That should fix it. I’m afraid I shouldn’t eat any of that delicious bread pudding though. I should let my stomach settle.”

  “Oh, but you must eat it while it’s warm,” she said, frowning.

  “I think I’ll wait a bit. I can warm it in the microwave later.”

  “Oh, but that won’t be the same. You need to eat it now. While it’s still warm,” she said.

  “I’ll be careful when I warm it up. I’m sure it will be fine. I can tell from the smell that it’s a lovely bread pudding,” I reassured her but didn’t point out that she was going to re-warm her own bread pudding later this evening. I did feel bad about not eating it right away. We bakers could be particular about our desserts. We needed them to be appreciated.

  “No, dear, eat it now,” she said firmly.

  “I will. In a bit,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. Where had I heard this conversation before, I wondered guiltily.

  “No, dear. Right now,” Martha insisted, leaning forward on the sofa.

  I looked at her evenly. She stared right back at me, not budging. What was with her? Why did she want me to eat it now? I mean, I got the importance of eating certain desserts warm, but not at the expense of the eater’s health.

  “Are you going to try it?” she asked, pursing her lips.

  “Yes. Later,” I answered and smiled. I could be stubborn too.

  Martha tossed her walker aside and sprang to her feet. She produced a large butcher knife from her handbag and lunged at me. “I said eat it now!”

  I screamed and dodged the knife, jumping to the end of the couch. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would never have believed that little old Martha Newberry could move so quickly. She was beside me in a minute, holding the knife to my throat. “Martha, what are you doing?” I squeaked out. I could feel the sharp blade against my neck.

  “I want you to eat that bread pudding. Now. Soon you won’t have any stomach issues at all,” she said and gave a small chuckle.

  “Why are you doing this, Martha?” I squeaked out.

  She gave me an eerie smile. “Because you’re nosy. Charles told me you had been asking around about Henry’s killer. Then Ralph told me the same thing, and that detective has made a couple of visits to my home. If it weren’t for you that detective would have continued thinking it was a transient that killed Henry. He told me so. But you just keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Now you get over there and eat that bread pudding.” She took a step back, just enough to let me move over on the sofa. She made a motion with the knife that said I better get moving.

  “But, why would you kill Henry?” I asked, thinking I might stall for time. “And what’s the bread pudding got to do with it?” I thought I knew what it had to do with it, but I needed time to think.

  She laughed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you. Henry killed my Walter. I have thought of nothing but revenge since that day. So I brought him some bread pudding. My special bread pudding. But you had brought an apple pie to him and he insisted he had eaten pie already and refused to try my bread pudding. So things got ugly. And they’ll get ugly for you too if you don’t eat up. I’d hate to make a mess of your lovely living room. I really like your throw rug.”

  I swallowed hard and remembered the pink Pyrex dish on Henry’s countertop. The
same pink Pyrex dish that was now sitting on my counter. Martha was crazy. I gave her a weak smile.

  “My, Martha, you move much faster than I had imagined you could.” I needed a plan, but as long as that huge butcher knife was staring me in the throat, I wasn’t sure what that plan would be. Maybe if I rushed her and knocked her down, I wouldn’t get more than a little scratch. But Martha had proved remarkably agile for someone her age, and I wasn’t sure what other tricks she had up her sleeve.

  She laughed again. “You’d be surprised how much lifting weights does for you. When I came home without my Walter that night, I knew I had to do something to occupy my time and keep from feeling depressed. I’ve been lifting weights and doing yoga ever since. Eventually, I came up with a plan to poison Henry. It was his fault Walter died. I didn’t want to do it immediately because someone might suspect me since Walter died at Henry’s restaurant. In the meantime, I kept up with the workouts. I feel so much better, you know.”

  “So were you the one sending me messages on my blog?” I asked, still trying to stall for time.

  She nodded. “I took a computer class at the junior college. For research purposes. You were kind enough to give me a business card with your blog address on it and I decided to have some fun. Now stop stalling.”

  She was nuts. Bona fide nuts. I reached for the bowl, not sure what I could do at this point. “Martha, you said that Henry killed your husband. How did he do that? I don’t remember hearing about a murder.” I slowly poured more cream on the bread pudding. May as well make my last meal a good one. I wondered what kind of poison was in it and if it would take long.

  “By serving him roast beef that was so tough he choked on it. Then he just watched my Walter die instead of helping him,” her voice cracked and she looked near tears. Ordinarily, I would have had sympathy for her, but I decided to keep my sympathy for non-killers.