Dying For a Cupcake: A Devereaux's Dime Store Mystery Page 2

  “Hmm. We can look into removing the walls.” Ronni took her iPad from her tote bag, brushed her finger over the screen, then said, “Or we could use the offices for the judging and maybe a lounge area. And we could have the big reception and award ceremony in your actual store on Sunday since you’re closed that day anyway.”

  “That might work,” I agreed, visions of rent money and new shoppers running through my head. “Removing a couple of the walls would be okay with me, too.” With that area cleared, I could put merchandise up there. Maybe stock a whole new kind of product.

  “Good. If we make the second-story space larger, you’ll be able to extend your store’s hours and open up on Sunday to take advantage of last-minute customers.” Ronni turned to Harlee and said, “Since the majority of people interested in a cupcake contest will probably be women, we thought one of the additional activities could be a fashion show. Would you be up for that?”

  “Definitely.” Harlee pursed her lips. “I’ll need to find models, but that shouldn’t be too tough. I can put an ad in the local paper.”

  “When will the contest take place?” I asked. It was already the beginning of June and I wondered if this would be a fall or winter event.

  “The July Fourth weekend.” Ronni didn’t look up from her iPad.

  “But that’s not even a month away!” I yelped, then checked my math. Yep. Less than four weeks. “How are we going to be ready in time?”

  “No problem.” Ronni grinned. “I’ve got the workers lined up to start on your second floor whenever you give them the go-ahead. The PR campaign is ready, and the preliminary rounds of the competition have already started.”

  Ronni tossed a contract into my lap, and as I flipped through the multipage document, I heard a strident voice from the stairs yell, “Devereaux Sinclair, don’t tell me you’re alone on a Saturday night.”

  Gossip Central had started out life as a cattle barn, and when Poppy remodeled the building, she’d decorated it to reflect its origins. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, and off to the sides, the stalls formed secluded lounges, each with its own individually themed decor. We were in the Hayloft, the second-story space reserved for private parties, but this didn’t stop my archenemy, Gwen Bourne, from marching uninvited up the steps and zeroing her malevolent gaze on me.

  Gwen had quite a crush on Noah, and that he preferred to date me, someone she considered inferior in both looks and social status, drove Gwen bat-shit crazy. I could have told her that even if I was out of the picture, she wouldn’t have a chance in hell with the handsome doctor. The problem wasn’t that she was a few years older than he was; it was that she was too much like his mother—a high-maintenance snob.

  “I’m hardly alone.” I swept my arm around the group. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t consider other women people, do you? To you they’re just rivals.”

  “Gwen.” Poppy slid from her stool and took the intruder’s arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go back down to the bar. You know the Hayloft is a restricted area.”

  “What’s the big secret?” Gwen narrowed her color-contact-lens-enhanced blue eyes. “Are you witches stirring up trouble in your cauldron?”

  The witch reference was Gwen’s favorite metaphor when attacking me—although generally, she pronounced the b instead of the w—so going along with her theme, I said, “Yes, we are. We’re brewing up love potions, and from what I hear about your lack of beaux, perhaps you’d like to put in an order.”

  “You little—” Gwen interrupted herself, then smiled spitefully. “But of course you really aren’t little, are you? Have you gone up a size . . . or two since the last time I saw you? Not that you were ever exactly slim. What did my cousin tell me they use to call you in high school? Stay Puft Marshmallow Girl, wasn’t it?”

  Her cruel words took me back thirteen years to the end of my sophomore year. I’d always been a size 12—and sometimes a 14—in a size 2 world, but until my family went from prosperous and respected to poor and humble, that hadn’t bothered me and no one had teased me about my weight. However, once my family’s circumstances changed, the mean girls had sensed weakness and descended on me like vampires on the last bag of plasma in the blood bank. That was one of the problems with living in the same town you had grown up in—there was no hiding from your past.

  Coming back to the present, I gathered my wits and retorted, “You’re right, Gwen.” I ran my hands down my hips. “I’ve always been on the curvy side. Then again, the men in this town seem to prefer rounded to scrawny.” I put a suggestive purr into my voice. “At least Jake and Noah seem to.”

  Gwen’s plastic-surgery-smoothed face turned an unbecoming shade of magenta. It was always dangerous to stand up to someone like her, someone who thought she was better than the rest of us. She’d never been one to be able to handle what she dished out, and even as she snatched a half-full bottle of wine from the table and swung it at my head, I knew she was plotting an even worse retaliation.

  As I tried to scramble out of Gwen’s reach, Harlee leaped from the couch, and before I could blink, she had the Botoxed brunette flat on the floor. I’d never seen anyone move so fast—at least outside of an action movie.

  How on earth had Harlee done that? She’d been a blur. To top it off, not a hair of her calico-colored spikes was out of place and there wasn’t a drop of perspiration on her impassive face. Still waters may run deep, but clearly, consignment shopkeepers ran even deeper. What exactly had she done in the service? Were women allowed in the Special Forces? Maybe she’d been a Green Beret.

  I glanced down at Gwen, who was threatening to have Harlee arrested for assault, and I shivered, remembering that Noah’s previous girlfriend had been murdered. It seemed that a lot of women wanted to be Mrs. Dr. Underwood, and didn’t hesitate to get violent in pursuit of the position.

  At that moment, Gwen glared at me with such venom that I wondered if I might become the next victim in the battle to walk down the aisle with Noah. Which would really suck since I hadn’t even decided if I wanted to marry him yet.

  CHAPTER 2

  A loud thump from overhead rattled the glasses lined up on the shelf behind the soda fountain. I cringed, then smiled apologetically at the two older ladies who were seated on stools in front of me. They were trying to enjoy their hot fudge sundaes, but the transformation of my second story for the cupcake contest was interfering with their Tuesday afternoon treat.

  Slightly more than three weeks had passed since I’d agreed to the remodeling, and the noise level seemed to increase with every passing day, as did my worry that I had made a bad decision. The deposit that Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes had given me for the rent was substantial, and the terms of their leasing contract were generous, but I didn’t want to lose my regulars.

  That morning, both the Quilting Queens and the Scrapbooking Scalawags had cut their weekly meetings short, complaining about the racket. I had an agreement with several of the local craft groups that in exchange for my providing them with a meeting space, they bought the materials for their projects from me and contracted for refreshments. As a bonus, the members often also picked up other bits and pieces that caught their eye while walking through the shop to get to their alcove. Upsetting valuable customers like my hobbyists was not a smart business move.

  Ronni had promised me that the renovations were almost finished, and I hoped she was right. I couldn’t afford to have any of the clubs that met at my store decide to find a new location.

  After another thunderous bang from above, the elderly women abandoned their remaining ice cream and nearly ran out the front door. Sighing, I cleaned up the soda fountain and headed over to the old kitchen table I used as a workbench. It was located in the space behind the register, and from that vantage point, I could see the entrance. Not that I was expecting any shoppers. The hours after lunch were usually slow. Often, I didn’t see a s
ingle customer from one to three, which made it the perfect time to work on my sideline—custom-made, personalized gift baskets.

  When I bought the dime store, I’d known I would need something besides the sale of merchandise in order to stay profitable, so I’d added the baskets. That part of my enterprise was extremely lucrative since I was selling my creativity more than the actual items included in the basket, and I wished I had even more time to devote to promoting it.

  I had one steady customer, Oakley Panigrahi, who bought upwards of twenty thank-you gifts a month. Noah had introduced me to the Kansas City real estate tycoon a few months ago and I’d been providing him with premium baskets ever since. Oakley sold luxury properties and was a demanding client, but he paid top dollar, and I wanted to complete his contract before the cupcake contest started.

  I also had a request for one of my special creations that I needed to finish before the late-afternoon crowd showed up. I usually made that kind of basket before the store opened, but this client hadn’t placed his order until nine that morning and was paying extra to have it ready for him to pick up at six p.m.

  Swallowing the last bite of my lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich on Gran’s homemade bread—I put the final touch on the basket in front of me. Each design included my trademark—the perfect book for both the occasion and the person receiving the gift. This thank-you present was intended for a municipal judge, and I carefully positioned a beautiful copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in the exact center of the basket. Months ago, I had found a first book club edition at an estate sale for fifty dollars, and I’d been saving it for just the right recipient.

  I took a quick picture of the finished product for my store’s Web site and Facebook page, then moved on to the anniversary basket, which was my next project. The guy who had ordered the rush job had forgotten that he and his bride had walked down the aisle five years ago today. And when his wife had handed him a beautiful package at breakfast, he’d panicked and said her gift was a big surprise that she’d receive that evening. His problem was that his wife was the kind of person who went out and bought something if she wanted it, so he was stumped as to what to get her.

  Looking over his questionnaire—half of which he’d been in too much of a hurry to complete—I frowned. He was fortunate that I had an extensive stock of items that would please any woman or he’d be out of luck, because he hadn’t left me any time to order additional products.

  As I gathered the supplies, “Torn Between Two Lovers” started to play from somewhere beneath the mountain of stuff on my worktable. I dug hastily through the piles until I located my cell phone. Then I touched the speaker icon and said, “Hello.”

  “Are you busy?” Jake’s sensual baritone sent a delightful shiver down my spine.

  “Nope.” I could picture his deep blue eyes smiling into mine, his silky black hair against my fingertips, and the feel of his muscled arms holding me close.

  The chemistry between Jake and me was so strong that I could feel the pull through the telephone. Which should have been enough to make me choose him as the man I wanted in my life. But Noah was more the steady good guy that I could depend on to be home every night rather than off chasing criminals. In short, Noah was someone I could actually see myself marrying, while it was difficult to picture Jake waiting for me as I walked toward him in a wedding dress.

  The irony was that before Jake had entered my life and Noah had reentered it, I’d seldom dated, and the thought of settling down rarely crossed my mind. Now it was always lurking in the back of my head. Which guy could I visualize in a tuxedo at the front of the church waiting for me?

  “I have some news,” Jake said, breaking into my inner debate.

  “You’re coming home?” Technically Shadow Bend wasn’t Jake’s home. He had an apartment in St. Louis. But I hoped his permanent residence was about to change, because just before his ex-wife was abducted, he’d submitted his resignation to the marshal service and taken his great-uncle’s offer to manage the family cattle ranch just outside of town.

  “Not yet.” Jake sighed. “However, we finally have a lead on the Doll Maker.”

  “That’s great,” I said, my breath catching at the discouragement I heard in his voice.

  I couldn’t blame him for feeling disheartened. More than six weeks had passed since his ex-wife was kidnapped, and as hard as it was for any of us to acknowledge, odds were she was dead. I knew how horrible this whole situation was for Jake. While Meg had divorced him when he was injured in the line of duty, Jake was the kind of guy who would never turn his back on someone who needed him.

  Despite Meg’s callous treatment of him when it looked as if he’d never walk again, Jake would feel as though it was his duty to save her from the Doll Maker’s ghastly clutches. Which meant that Jake was pretty much trapped in St. Louis at the beck and call of a madman, because every three or four days, the Doll Maker demanded that unless Jake showed up at a specific spot, he’d receive pieces of Meg in the next mail delivery.

  Nope. I couldn’t blame Jake for trying to rescue her. He was a true hero. Someone who did what had to be done regardless of the consequences to himself. But it was his sense of duty that made me question whether he and I could ever have a life together in Shadow Bend. The kind of life that I could have with Noah.

  “Yeah,” Jake agreed, bringing me back to the conversation. “He’s been communicating with me via burner phones, but our forensic team thinks they’ve figured out the general area where he’s been buying them. We’ve got eyes on the three most likely stores where we think he’ll get the next one.”

  “So you just have to wait.” I tried to keep the impatience out of my tone. “Any idea when he’ll get in touch with you again?”

  “If he keeps true to his pattern, it’ll be tomorrow or the next day.” Jake blew out a frustrated breath. “He never goes more than five days between calls and always seems to know exactly where I am and how long it will take me to get to his chosen location.”

  “Do you think he’s watching you?” I wanted to tell him to be careful, but that was just plain silly. I knew he’d be as careful as he could, but if it came to giving his life to save that of an innocent bystander, he’d sacrifice his own. That was what a U.S. Marshal did, and nothing I said would change his instinct to serve and protect. So I bit my tongue and tried to inject encouragement into my tone as I said, “I’m sure you guys will nail him.”

  “So, what’s happening in Shadow Bend?” Jake said, ignoring both my question and my attempt to play cheerleader. “How are the cupcake contest preparations going?”

  Before I could answer, a deafening boom came from upstairs. Startled, I knocked the phone off the table. As I searched the cluttered tabletop for my cell, the string of curses cascading down from above made me glad there weren’t any kids sitting at the soda fountain.

  By the time I retrieved my phone, there was a thread of anxiety running through Jake’s voice when he demanded, “What happened?”

  “The crew working on my second floor must have dropped something,” I said. “Either that or the ceiling is about to fall down on my head.”

  “Are you sorry you agreed to the remodeling and rental?” Jake asked.

  “I guess not.” I continued to work on the basket, placing a tube of strawberry-flavored Skin Honey against the folds of a red satin kimono. According to the package, the gel was an edible personal lubricant that would soften your skin and liven up your libido. The instructions said to smooth it on wherever you wanted to be kissed. Picturing Jake next to me, I could think of several locations where his lips would be welcome.

  “So you’re not having second thoughts?” Jake asked, clearly detecting the hesitation in my tone. “It must be distracting having the construction guys there.”

  “A little.” I kept working on my special order. In twenty minutes, when summer school was dismissed for the day, a swarm of starving tee
nagers would take over the store, and I wouldn’t have time to do anything but serve them ice cream, candy, and sodas. “But with the construction crew removing several walls, I now have a nice open area where I can put shelves and display cases. And they left one office suite intact so I can still rent it to someone.”

  “Then you’re good?” Jake didn’t sound convinced.

  “Ronni says they’ll be done today, tomorrow at the latest.” That didn’t exactly answer his question, but it was as close as I was willing to admit that I might have made a bad decision. “Kizzy and her entourage arrive Thursday afternoon and the contest activities start bright and early Friday morning.”

  “That means a lot of strangers are about to pour into Shadow Bend,” Jake said. “Did the cupcake company hire any security?”

  “I doubt it.” Chuckling, I added, “Seriously, what do you think will happen? A food fight?”

  “Just be careful,” Jake ordered. “Make sure you aren’t alone with anyone you don’t know.”

  “Okay.” I stretched the word out. Why was Jake being so paranoid? Oh. Yeah. He was a marshal. Most law enforcement officers tended to think that in any given situation, the worst would happen.

  After a long pause, Jake asked, “How’s your father adjusting?”

  My father had recently been released from a long prison sentence. Although he had committed the crime of which he’d been convicted, it wasn’t his fault. At the time, someone who had been attempting to frame him for embezzlement roofied him. Only recently had that person admitted to having drugged my father. After the other guy’s confession, Dad had been paroled rather than pardoned, because despite the fact that he hadn’t willingly taken the Rohypnol, he had run over and accidently killed a woman while under the drug’s influence. He might have been able to get the conviction overturned, but taking parole had been cheaper and quicker than a new trial.