A Crusty Murder Read online

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

  Rockland, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2013 J.M. Griffin

  Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

  Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

  from the National Library of Canada

  Ebooks are available for purchase from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-927555-24-8

  Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

  Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Thanks Tom for being such a terrific guy,

  and a great fan!

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my editors,

  and

  LeeAnn Lessard,

  my publisher extraordinaire.

  Also Available

  The Esposito Series:

  For Love of Livvy (Book 1)

  Dirty Trouble (Book 2)

  Dead Wrong (Book 3)

  Cold Moon Dead (Book 4)

  The Esposito Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

  Coming Soon

  The Esposito Series:

  Bake Sale Sleuth (Book 5)

  A Crusty Murder

  Chapter 1

  Crusty bread protruded for her mouth, a dreadful halo of dark red blood pooled around her head. But it wasn’t a halo. It was a nightmare scene before me. I peered closer, touching the bit of bread. My fingers brushed her skin. I gasped and jumped back. Mrs. Peterson was dead.

  I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet in haste to escape the gruesome sight of my landlady. Somebody had dealt her a blow, more than one, judging by the amount of blood on the floor. I scanned the shadowy room for the instrument of death and wondered how to handle this disaster.

  “Are you coming back soon? BettyJo has a problem with her bread dough,” a student called from the door of BettyJo’s shop. I’d gone to fetch her cell phone while she prepared her sourdough for baking.

  Lost in thought, the words slowly penetrated my brain. “Uh, I’ll be right there,” I called. My voice sounded as wobbly as my knees felt. I grabbed BettyJo’s cell phone off the table and hurried out the door.

  When I’d rejoined the class, five people stared at me. No one uttered a sound at first. Then all hell broke loose.

  Madeline, a realtor who needed something less stressful to deal with than real estate in a poor economy, appeared startled. “Are you all right? You’re very pale, Melina,” she remarked.

  Aidan, the man of my dreams, stepped forward. He laid a flour-covered hand on my arm and said with his Scottish accent, “Lass, you’d best sit down.”

  BettyJo, not one to be easily excited, asked, “Was there a problem finding the phone?”

  “N-no, it’s Mrs. Peterson. She’s over there,” I thumbed in the direction of her store, “and she’s dead.” That’s when I passed out cold.

  Sometime later, I awoke on the floor, a cold, soggy cloth draped across my forehead. Students huddled, gaping, and a worried BettyJo was on the phone.

  When I began to rise, Aidan grasped my arms and lifted me to my feet. He motioned to a chair. I gladly slumped into it.

  “Lass,” Aidan said with a worried look. “Are ya fine, now?” He handed me a glass of water.

  I nodded and tossed the wet cloth onto the table. I sucked in a deep breath and stared at the concerned faces around me.

  “I’m fine, really. Just shocked at finding Mrs. Peterson dead.” I murmured, “Who could have done such a ghastly thing to her?”

  Heads shook, shoulders shrugged, they hadn’t a clue who Mrs. Peterson was. After all, other than BettyJo, she wasn’t their landlady, was she?

  Though shaken by my find, BettyJo insisted that she and I go to her shop. As reluctant as I was, I refused to allow her to go alone. The students hung about, waiting to see what would happen next. I asked that they return to working their dough and said we’d be right back.

  As BettyJo and I reached the door, I found Aidan was hot on our heels.

  I glanced at him. His concerned face told me he didn’t intend for us to go alone.

  “I’ll be going with you on this,” he said.

  The three of us strode toward BettyJo’s back door.

  Chapter 2

  Sirens blared, lights flashed, and a rescue truck arrived, followed by police cruisers. I heaved a mighty sigh and looked at BettyJo.

  “You didn’t touch anything, right?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Good. The cops can take it from here, then. You’re sure it’s Mrs. Peterson?” BettyJo peered at the woman sprawled on the floor next to her reading table in the tarot card shop.

  Unbidden tears dribbled down my cheeks. I wrung my hands, unable to speak as I stared at the appalling sight before us.

  I’m Melina Cameron, a bread baker and owner of The Hole in the Wall Bakery. My shop is on Wickendon Street, in the historic section of Providence, Rhode Island.

  Mrs. Edith Peterson was the bitchy landlady of shop owners and tenants in her building. The woman had entitlement issues, a nasty attitude, and a death wish, which had apparently been granted to her by a person or persons unknown. Unfortunately for me, her death wish had taken place the very day we’d had words. Holy crap.

  Arty Crews, a Providence firefighter, and all around nice guy, strode through the shop after BettyJo unlocked the front door.

  “What happened, Melina?” Arty asked as he checked Mrs. Peterson over.

  Once I explained how I’d found Mrs. Peterson, Arty nodded and stepped aside. Two uniformed officers and a plain-clothes man I took to be a detective took his place.

  A uniformed officer glanced here and there, taking in the shop, and asked “Whose business is this?”

  BettyJo raised her hand. “I run this shop, but I’ve been next door for a couple hours. Mrs. Peterson wasn’t here when I left. Melina Cameron,” BettyJo pointed to me, “found her.” Having placed me front and center at the scene of the crime, BettyJo glanced at me and whispered, “Sorry.”

  The detective beckoned me to the back door while the crime scene people assessed Mrs. Peterson and her surroundings. “Ms. Cameron, is it?” the man asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  With a nod, he scribbled in his miniature, spiral-bound notebook and introduced himself. “I’m Detective Jackson Graham, lead investigator from the Providence Police Department. What can you tell me about the victim?”

  Once I’d explained my relation to Mrs. Peterson, I waited for his next question. It didn’t take long. His face held my interest, though I was uncertain as to why. Maybe the warmth of his light brown eyes, the shape of his mouth, and the curved scar on his chin had something to do with it, I didn’t know.

  “Do you know if Mrs. Peterson had any enemies? Did you have reason to dislike her?”

  To avoid his eyes, I stared past his shoulder. I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and said, “Mrs. Peterson was my landlady. We didn’t have a social relationship, and I know practically nothing about her personal life. We weren’t enemies, just tenant and landlady.”

  “What do you mean by practically nothi
ng, Ms. Cameron?” the good detective asked, a look of interest gleaming in his eyes.

  Nonchalantly, I waved my hand. “I know she was married, has a daughter, and owns this entire side of the block.” I bit my lip, trying to remember if she was still married, but I wasn’t sure, so I said no more.

  Crime scene personnel took pictures, swabbed this and that, and gawked at the trinkets and card reading paraphernalia scattered about the shop. Graham spoke quietly to them. They nodded and gathered their tools of the trade before they left.

  Several rescue personnel brought through a neatly folded black bag, accompanied by a collapsible, wheeled gurney. The detective made a few more notes on his pad, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  You live next door and operate the bakery, is that right?” How he knew that was a mystery to me.

  “I do, and I have a class to get back to if you don’t mind,” I answered.

  Detective Graham glanced at Aidan, who stood silent in the background watching all that took place. I wondered if he memorized the entire scene and the people in it.

  “And you are?” Detective Graham asked Aidan.

  He explained his presence in the shop with BettyJo and me. With a nod, the detective said Aidan and I could leave, but he had more questions for BettyJo.

  Alarm crossed BettyJo’s features. It might have dawned on her that while I was the first to find the body, it was in her shop. I laid my hand on her shoulder and said if she needed me, I’d be next door. I gave her a hug and whispered, “Be careful what you say.”

  When I stepped back, BettyJo offered a slight smile and turned toward Detective Graham.

  A short while later, Detective Graham entered my kitchen and beckoned to me. He asked, “It seems Mrs. Peterson had a chunk of bread stuffed in her mouth. Do you know where it came from?”

  “No, I was shocked when I saw it,” I said. “I didn’t touch a thing, honest.”

  His eyes were so intense, I couldn’t read them. Graham gave me a keen look and said, “I’ll be back if I need any other information from you, Ms. Cameron. You’ll be around, won’t you?”

  I turned away when he left. I stood surrounded by a table full of bread dough, curious students, and a handsome Scot who turned my knees to jelly with a mere smile. No one smiled, or spoke, they waited. For what? I couldn’t be sure.

  “If you’re still game, let’s finish up, shall we?” I broke the silence as BettyJo scurried through the door. Her expression tight, her pale face showed signs of recent tears. With a slight shake of her head at the questioning look on my face, she washed her hands and stepped up to the table.

  BettyJo reached for her sourdough and began the process of shaping it into a ball. Boule bread, a crusty, round French loaf reminded me of peasant bread that smelled and tasted divine.

  My enthusiasm lagged, but the students had paid for the class, and were ready for the bread to bake. My feelings must have shown because Madeline stepped forward, rounded her bread, cut a crisscross in the top of it, and began sharing a humorous story of a client she’d recently met. Her classmates took up their dough, listened, snickered, and finished prepping.

  Madeline prattled on while the bread baked and the students cleaned the stainless steel counters where they’d worked. Crusty, mouth-watering Boule sat cooling on racks while students drank tea and waited to taste their handiwork. I pulled a tub of sweet butter from the refrigerator and added a jar of honey to the set of knives and plates on the countertop. I gave the go-ahead to indulge in their loaves of bread.

  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.”

&nb
sp; 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.

  Chapter 3

  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.