A Murder Moist Foul: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery (Frosted Love Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

The brisk Fall breeze and the
thought of a dangerous person in town caused Missy to shiver involuntarily and
she pulled the lapels of her light coat up around her neck protectively as she
walked from her driveway to her front door, keys in hand.  She lived in a
lovely part of town that was quintessentially Southern, (right down to the
massive magnolia tree in the yard), in a sprawling, turn-of-the-century
Victorian that was a vibrant yellow with white trim.  Her corner lot was
bordered by an ornate wrought-iron fence that complimented the intricate
scrollwork on the house itself.  The house had been in rough shape when she
first purchased it several years ago, but she lovingly restored every inch of
the grand dame, and she knew every rustle, creek and sigh that the elegant lady
made in protest of growing older.

The day had drained Melissa.  Too
tired to even think about preparing dinner just yet, she started water for a
pot of tea and ran a warm bath in her oversized clawfoot tub.  After tending to
the needs of her exuberant Golden Retriever, Toffee, she sank gratefully into
the bubbles of her bath, mug of tea in hand, eighties music on the stereo. 
Closing her eyes, basking in the relaxing warmth of the water, she turned the
events of the day over and over in her weary mind.  Why would someone have
killed Darryl?  He might not be the most scrupulous of people, but he certainly
didn’t deserve that!  Who could’ve done such a heinous thing?  And why on earth
would anyone have suspected sweet, innocent Ben of such an act?  Melissa was
baffled and vowed to not think about it anymore, at least for tonight.  Letting
her mind drift peacefully to warm beaches and sunny days (her favorite mental
vacation), she was startled out of her reverie by the loud, ferocious barking
of the dog. 

“That’s strange,” Missy mused
aloud, “Toffee almost never barks.”  A chill went through her as she tried
desperately to remember if she had locked the front door when she came in. 
What if whoever killed Darryl is targeting local business owners?  What if she
was next?  “Calm down, be reasonable,” she counseled herself, intentionally
taking deep breaths in and out.  “You have no idea what prompted that reaction
from Toffee, just be calm,” she tried to reason with her fears, with limited
success.  She quickly pulled the stopper, draining the water from the tub and
silently slipped from the bathroom into her bedroom, pulling on the first warm
clothes that she found.  Hitting the button on the stereo remote, she turned
off the music, listening intently as Toffee alternately barked savagely and
whimpered.

“Hey darlin’, what’s got you so
riled up, huh?” she cooed to the glossy Golden, whose hackles were raised as
she stared fixedly out of the dining room window.  When Toffee turned back
briefly to glance at her, the whites of the agitated dog’s eyes were showing,
clearly indicating distress.  Moving to the her gentle pet’s side, Melissa
peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but Toffee’s low
throaty growls.

“Well, Toffee girl, if someone’s out
there, maybe we should just go say hello, don’t you think?”  She received a
brief swish of a feathery tail in response, but the dog refused to budge from
the window.  Grabbing a jacket and a flashlight, she snapped a leash on to
Toffee’s collar and headed for the door.

“Here goes nothing,” Missy said
grimly through teeth which chattered from a combination of cold and fear, “If
we go down, we go down fighting, right girl?”

Switching on the flashlight after
opening the front door, Melissa and Toffee headed down the steps of the
verandah and around the left corner of the house, where the bay window in the
dining room bumped out over the immaculate lawn.  Toffee put her nose in the
air, sniffing, straining at the leash, whimpering.

“I smell it too, girl…cigarette
smoke,” she observed, frowning. She let Toffee take the lead and the Golden
practically dragged her immediately to the space outside the dining room
window.  The smell of smoke was even stronger the closer they got to the
house.  Missy shone the flashlight at the patch of grass below the window and
saw a cigarette butt resting there.  Taking a tissue from her pocket, scared
and chilled to the bone, she carefully picked up the butt with the tissue and,
folding the tissue around it, stuck it in her pocket.  From the rear of the
house, she heard what sounded like the crack of a brittle twig snapping, and
Toffee’s low growl became a roar.  Terribly startled, Melissa twitched Toffee’s
leash to get her attention and ran for the front porch.  Mounting the stairs
two at a time with her faithful companion right at her heels, she charged into
the house, locking the door behind her and securing the deadbolt.  Shortly
after slamming the front door, she heard the telltale screech of her cranky
wrought-iron gate.  Too terrified to even go the window to see who or what was
leaving the yard, she crouched down and hugged Toffee tightly against her,
burying her face in the reassuring warmth of her furry friend.

“Thank you for seeing me, Detective
Beckett,” Melissa said in a hushed tone, taking a seat across the desk from
him.

“I was actually planning to call
you and ask you to come in, so you saved me the trouble,” Chas replied
politely.

“Glad I could help,” she smiled
despite her worries, as usual receiving no response or encouragement from the
handsome investigator.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’d
like to say, then I’ll have a few questions for you, sound fair?” he inclined
his head, waiting for her agreement.

“Absolutely,” Missy nodded
vigorously, nervous to explore her strange encounter last night.  She told him
all about the dog barking, the smell of smoke, the creaking of the gate and
gave him the cigarette butt that she had pocketed, and was astonished when he
proposed very commonplace explanations for that particular series of events.

“No, Detective Beckett,” she
insisted vehemently, “my dog does not bark at squirrels, my gate does not come
unlatched in the wind and none of my friends are smokers.  There was someone
lurking in the shadows around my house last night and I would really appreciate
it if you’d help me get to the bottom of it!”  Tenting his fingers beneath his
chin, he studied her for a moment before replying.

“Exactly where were you on Monday
evening between the hours of 8 p.m. and 1 a.m.?” he asked, pursing his lips
thoughtfully.

“I was at home, where I always…wait
a minute, what does this have to do with anything that we’ve been discussing? 
I told you where I had been the night before when we spoke at the shop.  And I
don’t see what that has to do with reporting an intruder,” Missy finished, eyes
narrowing.

“Don’t you?” Detective Beckett
questioned, leaning forward, so close that she could faintly smell his
expensive cologne.  “Doesn’t it seem awfully convenient to you that
“coincidentally” there’s an intruder lurking around your house the night after
your arch-rival is murdered across town?”

“That’s exactly my point, I could
be next on the list!”

“And who would have a motive to
harm you?” Chas quirked an eyebrow.

“I have no idea.  Who would have
motive to harm Darryl Davis?” she asked, firing back.  He looked at her
pointedly from across the desk, and she suddenly realized why he had wanted to
talk with her today.

“You think I did this???” she
demanded in a stage whisper, verging on tears.  “How dare you?” she accused. 
“Darryl Davis and I had our differences to be sure, but I would never wish
something like this on anyone!  I don’t even know how he died, the paper didn’t
say.”  Her lower lip trembled and she crossed her arms across her chest,
furious at Beckett’s rude insinuation.

The detective sat back in his
chair, staring at her thoughtfully and sighed.

“You’re not being accused of
anything at this time, we are merely treating you as a person of interest in
this case due to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Davis,” he spoke in
the least reassuring tone she’d ever heard.  “Don’t leave town, even to go
shopping, without letting me know where you’re going and why – we may need to
ask you more questions.”

“Why on earth would I leave town? 
I have a business to run,” Missy was incredulous.  “And let me tell you
something Detective Beckett,” her grey eyes turned steely, “I have worked hard
my entire life for all that I have, and I find your attempt to sully my
reputation with your ridiculous accusations offensive to the extreme!”  She
stood, shaking slightly with the force of her indignation and dug in her purse
for her keys.

“Noted,” he sighed, never taking
his eyes off of her.

Beckett frowned after Melissa
Gladstone stormed from the room.  On paper, she was the obvious choice for
primary suspect, but his gut told him that all was not as it seemed.  He
couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was telling him that suspecting
Cupcake Missy of a crime was seriously barking up the wrong tree.  He still
believed that there was most likely an innocuous explanation for the previous
evening’s events, but decided to take the cigarette butt to the lab, just in
case it turned up something interesting.  He hated the thought that the feisty
blonde might actually be in danger, so it only made sense to follow up on her
story.

“No rush,” Chas told the bored lab
tech at the evidence window, “check for fingerprints, DNA, chem, locators, the
usual.”

Missy fumed all the way back to the
store.  How dare that arrogant icicle of a human being accuse her of committing
a crime? Clearly, the police had no credible leads and were looking at her as
an easy target.  Well, she’d show them and show them good – if they were too
incompetent to find Darryl Davis’ killer, she’d have to do it herself.  Ben was
a Criminal Justice major – surely he’d have some good advice for her.

“Stay out of it Ms. Gladstone,” Ben
warned, shaking his head.  “The police know what they’re doing and are trained
to handle this kind of thing.  Seriously, what are you going to do if you come
face to face with a killer?” he raised his eyebrows at her.

“The police know what they’re
doing?  Are you kidding?  The police think I did this!  I have to prove them
wrong, I’m not going to sit idly by while they ruin my life with false
accusations,” she insisted stubbornly.  “And I have no intention of coming face
to face with a killer, I’m just going to figure out who did it and turn them
in.”

Ben was nonplussed.  “It’s really
not that simple Ms. G,” he frowned, concerned.

“Sure it is honey,” she patted his
arm.  “I have the truth on my side, and the truth shall set me free, just you
watch!” she nodded, determined.

Ben caved under pressure when he
realized just how determined Melissa was to seek out Darryl Davis’ killer.

“Ok Ms. G.,” he began, talking
around a mouthful of delicious Morning Glory cupcake, “the first thing you
should think about is: who would do this and why? You need to figure out if the
Donut Man had any enemies or bad debts, did drugs or engaged in any kind of
risky behavior that would drive someone to murder.  Lots of times the best
place to start is by figuring out whether he was in a relationship or had an
angry ex-wife or something,” the young man advised, washing down his mouthful
of cupcake with a swig of coffee.  “Wow, these are amazing today, what did you
do differently?” Ben asked, holding up the last bite of his cupcake.

“I used dates along with raisins,
it keeps them more moist,” she murmured absently, taking notes on Ben’s
instructions.  She left her sidekick to his cupcake and moved to the computer
to do some research – looking for any info that she could find on Darryl the
Donut Man Davis.

“Ben, c’mere and look at this!”
Missy ordered excitedly from the back office at the cupcake shop.

“Hang on Ms. G., I’m just finishing
up closing and then I’ll be back there,” he called while putting chairs upside
down on top of the tables.

She looked at her watch surprised
at how the time had flown.  She’d been poring over local archives and articles
for hours and finally found something that might be worth pursuing.  Ben was
puzzled when she pointed to a picture of 5 people holding trophies on a stage.

“What’s this all about?” he
queried, confused.

“This is a picture of all of the
winners of the contest that Darryl entered when he pirated my recipe and used
it to make donuts.”

“Okay, so why is it significant?”

“Look at the guy standing on
Darryl’s left – can you make out the look on his face?” she pointed to the
screen.

“He doesn’t exactly look happy,”
Ben observed.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Missy
crowed triumphantly, “He came in second!  If Darryl hadn’t stolen my recipe, he
would have won.”

“But does he know that?” the youth
asked, wanting to proceed cautiously and not jump to conclusions.

“I know for a fact that he does,
because he and another contestant who was later disqualified for hygiene
reasons overheard me when I confronted Darryl about it,” she finished, folding
her arms to underscore her point.

“Wow.  Well, that does seem like
it’s worth looking into, just try not to get too excited until we have our
facts lined up, okay?” he cautioned.

“You want motive?  Check out this
motive,” Melissa smugly tossed a copy of the photo that she had found online
onto Detective Beckett’s desk, along with several articles detailing the
checkered past of the 2nd place winner, Giacomo Andretti, who was rumored to
have ties with organized crime.

Chas raised a skeptical eyebrow at
her, glanced at the pile of paper in front of him and advised, “You might want
to have a seat and lower your voice, Ms. Gladstone.” 

“Why would I want to do that?  I’m
working for the best interests of the general public – that’s something to be
proud of,” she challenged, chin jutting out defiantly.  Beckett stood to his
full height then placed his hands on the desk, leaning toward where Missy
stood, hands on hips tapping her foot.  “From where a lot of these folks are
sitting, it looks very much like you are working for your own best interests by
trying to point the finger at someone else,” he said quietly.  “Now for my part
of things, I don’t believe you’re guilty of anything other than being slightly
paranoid and having issues with authority figures,” he almost smiled, “but you
can help me to help you by sitting down and showing me what you’ve come up
with.”  He locked eyes with her, then looked pointedly at the chair beside his
desk.  Chagrined, she sat, folding her hands in her lap.

She explained her findings to the
detective, who became very attentive when she told him that Andretti had
witnessed her argument with the Donut Man.

“I’ll check it out,” he promised,
clearly impressed that she had done her homework.  “Don’t get your hopes up,
chances are he had nothing to do with this, but I’ll have a little chat with
him and see where things go from there.”

Missy extended her hand, grateful
to have seen at least a shred of human compassion in this tough cookie.  “Thank
you so much Detective, I really appreciate this,” she smiled and gripped his
warm, iron-strong hand, butterflies fluttering madly in her midsection.  She
mused that it was truly a shame that this magnificent male never demonstrated
any personality traits aside from impeccable professionalism.

Chas Beckett was mildly shocked by
the tenderhearted reactions that this vivacious woman inspired in him.  He’d
never show it of course, he’d perfected the appearance of disinterested
impartiality over the years, but his encounters with Melissa Gladstone
rekindled an awareness of feeling in him that he would prefer remained buried
for eternity.  His life was straightforward, uncomplicated - he had no wife, no
kids, no pets, nothing other than a fantastic wardrobe, a modest house and car
and a job that consumed every waking thought.  Just the way he liked it.  Until
recently, that is.  More than once, his thoughts had touched upon the endearing
qualities possessed by the tiny but tough blonde, qualities that had begun to
tear at the corners of the impenetrable fortress that he had built around his
heart years ago.  Shaking off this dangerous train of thought, he focused on
the task at hand and reached for the phone. 

Beckett’s conversation with
Andretti left him suspicious, but unconvinced.  His gut told him that there
were likely many things of which the baker was guilty, but as to whether or not
the murder of the Donut Man was one of them was still a matter requiring
further investigation.  He received a phone call from an anxious Missy
Gladstone that evening and reassured her that he would be looking into the
matter further.  He hung up the phone feeling a bit sad and very much aware of
his singular status.  His simple cottage was sparsely decorated in neutral
tones and, while peaceful, was not exactly what one would classify as a cozy
retreat from the outside world.  He spent most of his time at home sitting at
the desk in his home office, working on cases, puzzling over clues and looking
for resolutions to loose ends.  He worked out at the gym every day and jogged
when the weather permitted it, but rarely indulged in personal time aside from
those pursuits.  He was smart enough to know that he was a shell of a man,
empty inside, but trying to make a difference in the world, and he was mostly
okay with that.

Melissa found herself trying to
think of creative excuses to meet with the dashing detective more often, but
refused to examine her feelings in the matter.  She had been just fine on her
own (thank you very much!) for years now, and the thought of allowing another
person into her world was somewhat preposterous, particularly considering that
the person in question was a human iceberg.  She went through the rest of her
week on automatic pilot, just going through the motions of daily life, while
waiting to receive some semblance of hope from Detective Beckett.