Brownies & Betrayal (Sweet Bites Mysteries, Book 1) (16 page)

“Someone needs to check on you.”

He was right. The doctor had said I needed someone to make sure I was okay every hour. I hate doctors. “You have my cell phone number. Call me. Now get out of here so I can collapse into bed.”

“Tess, sweetie—”

“No, Bronson. You’re not staying here. End of story. Call and wake me up if you must.”

“Fine. If you don’t answer, I’m getting the ambulance back here, though, so don’t even think about turning the ringer off.”

In my head, I grumbled about bossy men. “All right. Get lost. I need my sleep if you’re going to wake me up constantly.”

With a look that said he wasn’t pleased with my choice, he headed out the door, saying good night over his shoulder. I wasn’t even settled properly into sleep when the phone rang the first time. He called me dutifully every hour on the hour after that.

 Though I wanted to throttle him half the time, part of me was grateful to see he cared. He’d never acted so sweet and considerate before—or, not recently. It was almost enough to have me thinking maybe there was a way to put things back together for us. Almost.

My whole body ached the next morning, including several muscles I’d never realized existed. Though it took time to manage my morning routine and the stairs, I eventually made it to the restaurant. I came through the back door to grab the notebook off the front counter when my eyes were draw to the big picture window. On it in red spray paint, heavy with drips at the bottoms of the letters, was a message, the mirror image of “Leave it alone.”

As if the pain all over my body wasn’t plenty for me to deal with. My stomach tightened in a knot.
Leave it alone.
My neck and arms broke out in goose bumps as my breath caught. This hadn’t been there the previous night when we got home from the hospital. I knew it hadn’t, because we’d driven right past it and I would have noticed.

I didn’t move, frozen at the thought that someone had defaced my building. Well, my window anyway. I hoped that was all. I hurried to the front door and flipped the lock open, then stepped onto the sidewalk and studied the message, reading it again. I checked the brick for splatters, but was relieved to see that the paint was only on the window. It would be a pain to remove, but it would come off fine—which was good, because I didn’t have the money to replace the custom window or hassle with getting the paint off the bricks right now.

A black-and-white pulled up while I studied the vandalism, and Detective Tingey emerged from the front seat. “Do you know what that message is about?” he asked as he came over to stand beside me.

I shot him a look, but returned my gaze to the window. “I guess it’s about the murder.”

“Someone left you a message to leave the murder alone? What are you doing?” He crossed his arms over his chest, as all cops seem to do out of habit, even though he wore a blazer, rather than a uniform with the belt packed with cop paraphernalia.

Should I admit it? Jack had called me stupid the night before for trying to figure out what happened. Was he right? I wasn’t sure. “I’ve been curious about the murder, and talking to people about it.”

Detective Tingey’s irritated expression indicated he wasn’t happy with my answer, but perhaps wasn’t surprised, either. “Learn anything?”

I knew I should bring up the issue with Millie and the necklace, but wanted to feel out the conversation first. “Yeah, it sounds like half the people who knew Valerie had a reason to want her out of the way. Even the bride was upset about the way Valerie acted at the wedding rehearsal. It seems like the only people who didn’t have a grudge against her were her little girl and Tad’s family, and I’m not sure that’s true.”

 “Why are you asking questions, though? Don’t you think I’m doing a thorough job of checking into it? You can’t think I’m actually working on anything else right now—not when we have a murder, which hardly ever happens around here.”

I studied him. He seemed to be competent, but I still didn’t know if I trusted him to find the truth, rather than going with the easiest answer. I thought of Dahlia again, of the way she sobbed into Tad’s shoulder as he carried her away from the murder scene, and knew I couldn’t let it go. “And have you learned anything interesting?” I knew he wouldn’t tell me—the cops in detective shows never shared any of the juicy information.

“I think pretty much everyone has a grudge against her. Yours seems to be a mild one compared to some of the others, which puzzles me.”

Considering I had spoken with the woman for no more than a few seconds, I didn’t understand why he was confused. Shouldn’t my grudge have been mild? “What do you mean?”

He unfolded his arms and set a hand on each hip. “If you don’t have much of a reason to have wanted her dead, and all this bad stuff is happening to you because you’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, why is it that yours are the
only
fingerprints on the murder weapon?”

I felt the blood rush out of my head and had to put a hand on the building to steady myself. “What? How? That can’t be.” If I could get my mind to work at all, it would have been racing to try to understand. There ought to be the prints of the hotel staff, at least.

“You okay?” He reached out and touched my shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Really. Maybe.” I shifted and leaned back against the building as my head swam. “How come the murderer’s prints aren’t on the vase? Not even the shard in her chest?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station.”

“Are you arresting me?” I thought of everything I needed to do, and the likelihood that I’d spend the next twenty-five years rotting in prison. No way would I be allowed to participate in the regional cake show next year, in that case.

“No, I’m not arresting you. Not yet, anyway. I just want to talk to you in a more formal setting.”

I understood what he meant was that he wanted me in a more
intimidating
setting, even if he was trying to act nice about it now. “Would you take a report about the graffiti first?” I asked.

“How about if you get into the back seat of my car before you keel over from shock, and I’ll snap some pictures. I’ll take your statement while we’re at the station.”

I knew the reason he wanted me in his car: I’d be locked in the back seat, where he wouldn’t have to worry about me running away. I wanted to protest, but I wasn’t feeling too strong and could use a long moment to sit down. Could things get any worse? “I need to lock both the restaurant and my place upstairs. I only popped down here for a second.”

The detective must not have thought I was much of a threat, despite the fact that he saw me as a murder suspect, because he didn’t cuff me or anything. He followed me back into the building, locking everything behind him as we retraced my earlier steps.

I snatched up the notebook with my to-do list as we walked through. The walls looked beautiful with the new coat of paint, though the ceiling and trim hadn’t been done yet. I wondered what it would cost to replace the tables and chairs with something a little less dated and made a mental note to check restaurant auctions.

My mind should have been on the upcoming horrors of the interrogation room, the possibility of being locked up forever, but it wasn’t. This made me think I was either in shock, or there was something seriously wrong with me. Maybe the concussion had been worse than the doctor thought.

We finished locking up the building and Detective Tingey took me to his car, opening the door for me. I was grateful he didn’t handcuff me, but I still felt trapped in the back seat between two locked doors and a metal grate separating me from the front. I leaned my head against the seat, still tired from the previous night’s multiple interruptions, which left me groggy. Bronson had taken his job a little too seriously.

The detective seemed to dawdle over snapping pictures, studying the sidewalk for any evidence and disappearing around the side of the building for a while. He returned empty handed—or at least it looked that way.

“Any clues?” I asked when he sat behind the wheel.

“Nothing useful, but it could be tied to the murder investigation. I’ll have someone check into it.” He started the car and pulled onto the road.

“Great.” I settled into the seat and paid attention to how we got to the police station. If I ever needed to come here when I wasn’t a suspect, I wanted to know where it was.

In the interrogation room, we started with my movements of the previous evening, prior to the attack, then continued through bedtime and this morning when he found me studying the new artwork.

“Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?” he asked, a pen scratching at his notepad.

“Nothing. I use a white-noise machine to drown out traffic, so they would’ve had to be really loud to wake me.”

“All right, we’ll see if anything turns up. Now, I want you to go back to Friday night and tell me what you remember from the moment you arrived at the hotel until the next morning when police got there.”

He took me through that scenario twice, despite the fact that he had already grilled me on Saturday and had my three-page written statement. I thought about my near-run-in with Jeff. “As I was leaving Friday night after I set everything up, Jeff and I almost collided in the doorway. I moved out of the way and bumped the pedestal with the vase of flowers. I remember I dropped my box and grabbed the vase, managing to catch it before it fell. Jeff apologized, we introduced ourselves and he let me pass him.”

The detective wrote something in his notebook. He looked up at me without tipping his head up. “You didn’t have plastic gloves on when you’d been working with food?”

Right, because I wear them everywhere I go. “I had them on earlier, but I took them off when I finished. I’m sure if you ask him about it, Jeff will remember what happened.”

“Was anyone else in the room when you bumped into the vase? Anyone who would have seen you touching it?”

“You think Jeff won’t remember?” I supposed he had been distracted. Maybe it hadn’t made an impression on him. Doubtful, but possible.

Detective Tingey shrugged. “Either that, or maybe someone else saw you pick it up, and decided your prints might distract the investigator.”

That was a new thought—one that gave me chills. “You think someone tried to pin it on me?” I was nobody. Who would dislike me enough to frame me? Or was I just convenient?

“It’s possible. We’re still processing evidence.” He tapped the end of his pen on the top edge of the notebook. “I’m considering all the options.”

I thought about it and tried to remember who else had been in the room. “I think Analesa and Caroline were in the corner talking. Tad had already walked out; he was sent after Jeff and Valerie, and I don’t remember seeing him in the foyer as I left, but I can’t be sure. For that matter, Valerie might have been headed back and seen it as well.” I searched my mind. “I don’t know if Millie or anyone else was there—I wasn’t paying attention—but I know someone else was going to bring the rest of the family and friends in for dinner.” I shook my head. “I wish I was more help.”

“You did fine.” He crossed his arms on the table. “And now, you said you’ve been poking into the murder. Tell me what you’ve picked up, and maybe we can figure out who attacked you last night.”

I studied his expressionless face and wondered if he was prying for information to pin this on me, or if he believed me. I couldn’t tell. “I’ve talked to nearly everyone in the past few days. All the Plumbers, the Richardsons, Jeff, Millie, Lidia and Dahlia—that little girl is so adorable.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate she’s an orphan now. Either no one knows who her father is, or they’re not telling. No one can find the birth certificate. Dahlia’s aunt seems more than willing to take custody, though, so that’s good.” He lowered the notebook to the table. “Anyone say anything that stood out to you, seemed off?”

“Not really, but I did learn something interesting last night.” I filled him in about the necklace and how Millie said she’d gotten it. He wrote several things, but didn’t change his expression.

“You also said almost everyone had a grudge against the victim. I’m sure I’ve heard it all, but can you tell me what you know?”

“Let’s see—Valerie stole Millie’s college boyfriend when she said they had been getting serious. Though of course, if he was filchable, it probably wasn’t as serious on his end as on Millie’s. And Valerie owed Millie a big chunk of cash.” I started counting on my fingers. “Analesa had been upset with Valerie for being an attention hog, and because she thought Valerie was focusing too much on her baby brother, Shawn, who couldn’t care less about her.”

“Okay, who else?”

He’d made a couple of notes, as if there were a few tidbits he’d been missing, or maybe something I said sparked his memory, but most of the time he watched me. Was he looking for an indication that I was making this all up? Did he think I was trying to deflect the blame from myself? “I’m sure you know about her professional rivalry with Jeff. According to him, she fabricated evidence for a recent lawsuit between their clients, which had cost him some personal pride, if nothing else. They were going head-to-head again on another issue soon.” I studied him for a moment. “But you knew that already.”