A Crusty Murder Read online

  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.

  “My daughter is in need of space for her boutique. I want you to move out by the end of the month.” Mrs. Peterson picked a non-existent speck of lint from her coat as she stunned me with her words.

  I stammered, “But, but, I have a five-year lease. I have three more years left before I need to renew.”

  “Be that as it may, I will take you to court if I must and break the lease. Unless, of course, you’re willing
to pay more rent.” Her cold, hard eyes held a challenge. Her mouth pulled back in a sneer. Mrs. Peterson enjoyed being a bully.

  “I will do no such thing. It’s absurd to think you can get away with this. We have a signed and notarized rental agreement. I refuse to pay more rent, especially in this economy.” I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and said, “I know for a fact your daughter doesn’t have any interest in opening a boutique, or any other business. Now, I’ll ask you to leave, Mrs. Peterson, and in the future, I will mail the rent to you. Please don’t come here again.”

  Mrs. Peterson rose from the chair, straightened her coat, and remarked, “It’s my right as landlady to visit my properties whenever I wish. Don’t forget that, Ms. Cameron. I’ll see you in court.”

  Astounded, that’s what I was. I couldn’t believe the miserable bat could treat me so poorly. I paid my rent on time or before it was due, I never complained, and even made my own repairs since she refused to do so. Speechless, I stood watching her stride from the kitchen, and through the front door, which she slammed behind her.

  I’d followed at a slower pace, thinking of my options, my bank account, and my business. Paid off business loans had hit my funds hard. Banks offered less interest than ever and my savings had met the meager mark.

  “Can you believe that woman?” I’d complained to Seanmhair.

  “She’s a right piece of work, for sure. What will you do?” she’d asked with concern.

  “I’ll have to think about it. I suppose there’s no chance that she’ll croak in the near future, right?” I’d snorted at the thought.

  “Don’t wish that on anyone. Such things come back full circle,” Seanmhair had warned.

  “Just joking, I don’t wish death on anyone, truly, I don’t.” I tried to reassure her and myself with the words. “You know, Mrs. Peterson’s daughter, Cindy, is such a lovely girl. I wonder how she manages to be so sweet, when her mother is a wicked witch.”

  “There are many mysteries in the universe and that’s one of them, I guess,” Seanmhair had added as she closed up shop. She flicked the store lights off and wished me well as she readied for her afternoon card game of Hearts.

  Now, Mrs. Peterson was deader than dead. Crap.

  “So, tell me about finding Mrs. Peterson,” Seanmhair interrupted my thoughts. “You’ve avoided the subject all morning. With those news people outside, we have to talk about what happened and get our ducks in a row. You know those hounds won’t leave us alone until they’re satisfied there’s nothing left to be squeezed from the story.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Though, I have nothing important to tell them, especially after the police chief made his statement on the news this morning.”

  “So tell me what happened,” Seanmhair insisted.

  I then explained the scene and drama of fainting to the floor. I told her what happened with the police and said I hoped they wouldn’t come back. By the time I finished, Seanmhair had made tea, set a steaming cup of it in front of me, and added a buttered croissant to go with it. I thanked her and munched the buttery creation.

  When Seanmhair had waited on the final customer of the day, she locked up, swept the floor, and bundled the dozen or so remaining rolls into bags with the last loaves of bread.

  “I’m off to play cards unless you need me,” she said, a hint of mischief in her voice.

  “I’ll be fine. I have errands to run. I’ll drop these leftovers off at the homeless shelter. Enjoy your card game. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I answered with a smile.

  I scurried behind her, shut down the kitchen, and headed upstairs to my apartment. I’d lived with my grandmother until she’d sold her home and moved into senior citizens’ housing. Seanmhair’s lovely Georgian style house had passed down through our family over the years. With no male heir, coupled with my disinterest in having tax and repair bills I couldn’t pay, Seanmhair had asked if I’d mind if she moved the house on to a new owner. Saddened by the decision, I’d felt it wise to agree. Once I’d finished college, the house went on the real estate market. Seanmhair had moved, as had I.

  Through the apartment’s rear window, I watched her drive away. Seanmhair’s driving skills left much to be desired, but she steadfastly refused to surrender her license and give up the freedom it offered. In her shoes, I’d probably feel the same. With a shake of my head, I turned away and considered how I’d pay an attorney to save my ass should I be arrested for murdering Mrs. Peterson.

  My coat and gloves lay on the chair. I grabbed them and left the apartment.

  Chapter 4

  Baked goods lay on the passenger seat of my Fiat. I drove to the homeless shelter and handed them to Martin Mason, the manager. He offered his thanks and mentioned the morning news flash concerning Mrs. Peterson.

  To quell his interest and possible gossip mongering, I said I’d seen the news and was horrified by such a terrible experience. With that, I said goodbye and left him standing behind the serving counter before he could ask anything else.

  Bank deposit made, and my supplies ordered, I climbed the steps to my shop when I heard a car door slam. As part of our lease, tenants parked in the rear lot of our building. Who would handle the rentals now was anybody’s guess. I glanced over my shoulder. BettyJo Seever marched across the pavement, and I badly needed to discuss our dilemma.

  We’d been friends in college, had dated some of the same guys, compared notes on them, and now we lived next door to one another. The entire building stretched from one end of the block to the other. While each shop had its own entrance, a long, four-foot wide deck of sorts stretched across the back of the structure. Sets of stairs led to the parking lot.

  Hastily, I gathered a couple of empanadas, half-moon shaped bread filled with seasoned meat, from my kitchen counter and went to meet her. Leftover dough had given me the chance to make these luscious pastries. Rather than deep fry them, I baked my empanadas. It was one way to enjoy them without added calories. As it was, I tended to be a smidge fluffy around the middle.

  I’m not fat, but not rail thin, either. I’d given up dieting long ago. I realized that I needed to be happy with the way I was and accept the fact that I’d never be model material. I liked to call my bit of fluff pleasing.

  A nervous expression, and anxious brown eyes, met my smile as BettyJo stared at the bag in my hands. “Okay, what delicious fare are you going to feed me this time, Melina?”

  “I thought you could use sustenance after a tough day at the bank, so I made empanadas for us. Besides that, we should talk about Mrs. Peterson and the media.”

  BettyJo moaned, rolled her eyes, and motioned me into her tarot shop. I noticed the carpet was absent, and the yellow crime scene tape had been removed. I gazed at the unique doodads draped everywhere. Numerous fairies and glittering stars were suspended from the ceiling. I ducked my head to avoid hitting them. Gauzy, purple fabric swags curtained the reading area. A huge crystal ball was centered on the round tarot table. BettyJo used it when offering her clients the latest update in their love lives. The orb gave off a strange and creepy glow. I knew it was a prop, but nonetheless, it gave me the jitters.

  BettyJo led the way into her apartment. Her living quarters mirrored mine in layout, though our taste in furnishings and colors couldn’t be more different. I adored Celtic furnishings, designs, and knickknacks. BettyJo enjoyed ethereal furnishings and accoutrements. The slate gray walls, neutral tones, and soft brownish-green kitchen cabinets, left me wanting to splash color everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, BettyJo’s taste is quite nice, but bland to the palette I preferred.

  We’d settled at the table with a teapot filled with steaming Earl Grey tea and plates for our empanadas. I chewed mine thoughtfully, sipped tea, and waited for BettyJo to unwind from her busy day. Banking isn’t as easy as people think, and I’d seen her stressed from the job she disliked more than anything.

  “My boss is such an ass,” BettyJo complained. “I can’t find a way to get around her nasty at
titude. People think bullying gets them what they want in life, but it just makes people dislike them. On top of that, I think I’m about to be fired over Mrs. Peterson’s demise.” On that note, she stuffed a section of sandwich into her mouth.

  Surprised to hear her employment concerns, I gawked at her in silence, searching for the right words, but found none. I considered what BettyJo had shared about her father and then added Mrs. Peterson’s attitude to the mix. I knew what BettyJo was getting at.

  “When I last spoke to Mrs. Peterson, we had serious words. She was trying to jack-up my rent. The nerve of that woman was amazing,” I ranted. “She told me to move out by the end of the month, so her daughter could open a boutique. When I reminded her of our lease, she threatened me with court, and then added that I could always pay more rent if I wanted to stay. Imagine?”

  Her eyes wide, BettyJo exclaimed, “Cindy has a fabulous job in clothing design. I saw her last week and she’s been asked to work in the New York office next month. I don’t know if she will now, though. Mrs. Peterson wasn’t above using extortion to gain added income.”

  I’d finished the empanada, downed two cups of tea, and was into half of the last sandwich. “I’m not surprised the harridan has been done in. She looked for trouble wherever she went. Seanmhair admonished me when I said it aloud,” I remarked. I leaned back in the chair and asked, “You’re certain you’ll be fired over this?”

  BettyJo grimaced. “Pretty sure. My boss made several snide innuendos that implied relieving me of my position. Screw her. There’s nothing I can do about it. Look on the bright side. It’ll give me a chance to make this business,” BettyJo waved her hand around, “a huge success. How did your day go? I saw the news people outside when I left for work.”

  I told her I’d avoided the media and then shared Seanmhair’s words of wisdom where Aidan Sinclair as a husband was concerned. I laughed over how difficult it would be to concentrate on anything with him in close proximity.