Clambake Murder: A Rocky Cove Culinary Cozy - Book 2 (5 page)

“Becca,
you’re not going to believe this!” Katie was red-faced and indignant, thrusting
a newspaper and a notice of some sort into her boss’s hand when she arrived at
the office after Detective Reynolds left.

“What
is it?” Becca asked, alarmed at her normally cool, calm and collected catering
manager’s manner.

“Mrs.
Crestwood went to the newspaper with the story about the clambake theft, making
it sound like it was not only our fault, but that it ruined her event as well.
We’ve had two cancellations already this morning, and the answering machine is
full. On top of that, we have an order here from the health department that we
have to temporarily shut down until they can conduct an inspection of our
facilities. I’ve had Julio and the entire crew in the kitchen making certain
that everything is spotless and in order.” Katie was hopping mad and flung
herself into a chair across from Becca’s desk.

“And
so it begins…” her boss murmured, lost in thought.

“What?
What begins? What are you talking about?”

Becca
shook her head, coming back to earth. “Nothing. When is the inspection
scheduled?”

“Tomorrow,”
Katie growled in disgust. “We’re losing an entire day of productivity over this
nonsense.”

Becca
sighed, thinking. “That may not be a bad thing. We can make up the lost time
later in the week, and our ‘day off’ can be used to shoot down the bad
publicity.” She shooed Katie off to the kitchen to oversee the efforts there,
and looked up Amelia Crestwood’s phone number.

Becca
rubbed her head in frustration, having just hung up from a very non-productive
phone call with Mrs. Crestwood. When she had asked the pillar of the country
club set why she had gone to the papers with a bad review, the pretentious
woman, who seemed upset that she had even called, responded with, “I didn’t go
to them dear, they came to me, and I merely told them the truth. How they
presented it is none of my concern.”

When
Becca had called the reporter at the newspaper who had written the story, she
was sent directly to voice mail. Calling the two clients who had cancelled this
morning and asking them for the reason behind their cancellation, she received
a response from one that there had been a ‘change of plans,’ and the other had
simply said that they had ‘decided to go in another direction’ with their food
plan. Nearly in tears, Becca listened to message after message on her answering
machine from clients who either wanted to cancel their reservation outright, or
who expressed second thoughts about their decision to use her as their caterer.
Not knowing what else to do, she called Detective Reynolds, who asked her for a
list of names of the clients who had cancelled, and those who sounded like they
might want to. He told her that there was almost certainly nothing that he
could do, but that anything that might provide evidence of Foster’s involvement
in criminal or harmful activity could be helpful.

Detective
Reynolds seemed hesitant, but also brought up something else that had Becca
worried.

“Ms.
Rogers, I think I should let you know that I’m investigating another suspect in
connection with what’s going on,” he said.

“Really,
who?” she asked, intrigued and suddenly filled with hope.

“Your
ex-husband.”

As
much as she wanted to deny it, investigating Simon made perfect sense. He had
admitted that he’d had a business relationship with Gareth Foster, and that
Foster had called him about what was going on in Cape Cranston. Hubert had said
that there was a black SUV from New York parked behind Sally’s house before the
fire, and Simon owned a black SUV. Most of the people that were currently
cancelling their catering reservations belonged to the social realm that Simon
moved within when he lived here, and sadly, he’d been known to be rather
vindictive when crossed. But she had helped clear his name, and just the other
day, it sounded like he had been trying to warn her about Foster. All of this
was so confusing, Becca laid her head down on her arms and closed her eyes,
wondering what to do next.

The
reporter from The Tribune called back just before Becca left the office for the
day, and when Becca questioned him about his source for the Crestwood article,
he said that the tip had come in from an anonymous caller. She persisted with
questions, but the only information that the reporter had was that the caller
was male, sounded older and had a heavy New England accent. Now Becca was truly
stumped. Neither Foster nor Simon had a heavy New England accent. Foster’s
voice was clipped and precise and Simon’s was Harvard urbane if anything. The
reporter eagerly agreed to print Becca’s side of the story, and peppered her
with questions about her business, her interaction with Mrs. Crestwood, and the
events surrounding the ill-fated clambake. At the end of the interview, the
reporter assured her that the story would come out later in the week, leaving
her feeling somewhat relieved that she’d done her part to set the record
straight.

The
hearing for the Foster Development proposal was next week, and Becca was
beginning to wonder if fighting it was worth the heartache and danger involved.
All had been quiet since the fire, but she lived every moment looking over her
shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had risen like a phoenix
from the ashes of divorce, and although it would take a tremendous amount of
courage and hard work, maybe her best alternative was to close up shop, sell
her house and start over somewhere new. Reminding herself how much she loved
Cape Cranston and the people in it, she steeled her resolve, glad to have made
it through a tough day. Feeling like she’d triumphed, at least in some small
way, she drove toward home, looking forward to an evening with Poppy and the
television. A bit of peace would be a nice change.

Darkness
was descending as Becca pulled into her drive, but there was unmistakably a
figure sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on her front porch. Not putting
the car in the garage, she got out and headed for the porch, squinting to try
and see who was awaiting her arrival.

“Working
late, Becca?” Simon’s voice sent a chill through her, and she stopped halfway
up the front steps. Noting her hesitation, he taunted her. “Don’t stop now,
have a seat, chat for a while.” He was sitting casually, hands back behind his
head as though he had a right to be there, enjoying the early twilight air.

“What
do you want Simon?” she demanded, her voice barely audible.

“What
I want, dear Becca, is to know precisely why a detective from this charming
little burg tracked me down to hound me with ridiculous questions that have
nothing to do with me,” he shot back, annoyed.

“I’m
afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, her voice trembling
only slightly, but this man whom she had married picked up on it and pounced.

“Look
Becca, we may not have had the best relationship, and we certainly didn’t part
as friends, but I can’t believe you’d try to frame me for something in which
I’m not even remotely involved. Call off your dogs and call them off now, or
you’ll be hearing from my attorney,” he seethed.

Becca
was distracted momentarily. “Is that your car?” she asked, pointing to a red
luxury sedan parked at the curb.

“It’s
a rental, I always get one when I have to visit this godforsaken hellhole. What
does that have to do with anything?” he grumbled.

“Why
are you here?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

“I
still have clients here. So I decided since I was in town, I’d save myself the
trouble of making a phone call and just come reason with you directly, why do
you ask?” his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“How
long have you been in town?” she fearlessly held his gaze.

“We’re
done here Becca. I’ve already undergone an inquisition from your Detective
Reynolds, I will absolutely not tolerate another from you. Back off Becca, I
mean it,” his eyes darkened with menace.

“Or?”
she challenged, shaking inside.

“I’m
not even going to dignify that with a reply,” he shook his head in disgust,
charging down the steps, brushing by her rudely.

Still
shaken by the sudden and hostile appearance of Simon, Becca got back into her
car, pulled into the garage, and made her way to the back door. When she
stepped up into the back porch, the door leading to the house was ajar, and
some sort of substance was puddled just outside. Using her cell phone as a
flashlight, she dipped a fingertip into the congealing puddle and looked at it
in alarm. The red liquid looked like blood. Bringing it to her nose for a
sniff, she gagged a bit when she confirmed that it was indeed, blood. Not
daring to go inside, she called Detective Reynolds, who was out of the office.
Nearly hysterical, she explained the situation to the dispatcher, who promised
to send out a patrol car immediately and would notify Detective Reynolds as
soon as he was available.

Detective
Lance Reynolds shook his head in frustration as he discussed the case with his
veteran partner, Chester Gramble. “I spoke with Simon Langworthy, Becca Rogers’
ex-husband tonight, and not only does he have solid alibis for the times in
question, he just doesn’t seem the type. Don’t get me wrong, I think the guy is
an arrogant ass, but I don’t think he has the chops for this kind of thing. I
feel like he’s not one to get his hands dirty, you know?”

Gramble
nodded. “Besides, what would be his motive? Whether he wants to admit it or
not, the Rogers woman helped prove his innocence. Why would he go out of his
way to torment her?”

“Well,
he does have a history with Gareth Foster, but I agree, it just doesn’t add
up,” Reynolds replied.

“What
about Jenkins and Foster,” Chester pursed his lips, thinking.

“Nothing
solid that we can tie either one of them to yet. We gathered evidence that’s
being compared at the lab, but we won’t know what’s going on with it until we
receive their report.”

As
if conjured by Detective Reynolds’ words, Gonzales, the lab tech who had given
them the results that they needed to find Lacey Warrington-Langworthy’s
murderer, knocked softly on the office door, coming in with a thick file folder
of results.

“Bout
time, Gonzales,” Gramble muttered, taking the folder. “Where the heck have
these results been?”

The
unfortunate young woman flushed bright red. “Well, as it turns out, sir, we
actually had several of results back a few days ago, but the papers
were…misplaced. But now that we’ve compared everything, the findings are much
more conclusive,” she added before Chester could explode in a flurry of
epithets. The grizzled detective dismissed the flustered tech with a wave of
his hand, focusing his attention on the contents of the file.

He
looked up at Reynolds, amazed and impressed. “Well, it looks like your hunch
was correct again. Let’s go, I’ll explain in the car.”

The
detectives sped toward Becca’s house, parking their unmarked car across the
street. For once, instead of heading over to Becca’s or Sally’s, they stayed on
the other side of the highway and banged on Hubert Finch’s front door.

“Mr.
Finch, we’d like to take a look in your garage if you don’t mind,” Chester
Gramble said as cordially as he could.

“Yeah,
I do mind,” Becca’s cranky neighbor growled.

Lance
Reynolds stepped in. “Not a problem.” Taking a pair of handcuffs out of his
back pocket, he snapped one end on Hubert’s wrist, turned him around and cuffed
it to the other wrist behind his back and proceeded to read him his rights.
“Mr. Finch, you are under arrest for the murder of Sally Case, the arson of Ms.
Case’s home, and various acts of malicious vandalism. You have the right to
remain silent…”

While
Reynolds secured the prisoner, Gramble called for a forensics team and headed
for the garage.

 “Oh
officer, thank goodness you’re here,” Becca exclaimed when the patrol car
pulled up in front of her house. “I found something that looks like blood on my
back porch and the door itself was open when I got here. I’ve been calling and
calling my cat, Poppy, but she isn’t coming out or meowing or anything, and I’m
really scared.”

“I
understand ma’am. I’m going to ask you to please go have a seat in your vehicle
while I check out the house. I’ll come back out to let you know when it’s safe
to enter your home, okay?” the lantern-jawed uniformed policeman said, trying
his best to calm her down. Becca nodded and went to her car, locking the doors
just in case.

After
what seemed like an eternity, the officer came back out of the house and over
to the car. Becca stepped out so that she could see what he had to say.

“There’s
no one inside ma’am, and it didn’t look to me like there was anything
disturbed, so you’re okay to go back in. I took a sample of the red substance,
and will turn it in to the lab. I didn’t see a cat, but I have one myself, and
if yours is anything like mine, she’s probably hiding under a piece of
furniture, madder than a wet hen and waiting for you to come rescue her,” he
smiled kindly.

“I
hope so,” she said, moving toward the house. Avoiding the back door and the
puddle of blood in front of it, she went in the front door, calling for Poppy,
alarmed when she didn’t come running. She went into the kitchen and what she
saw stopped her in her tracks. Poppy’s bag of food, food bowls and dinner mat were
gone. “Officer, wait!!!” she screamed, running for the door. “My baby, they
took her!!”