Til a Death Do Us Part: A Bakery Detectives Cozy Mystery (5 page)

P
ippa tapped
on my bedroom door at five the following morning. "Back to reality," she called out. "It's Monday."

I groaned. The bakery. I definitely couldn't take another day off from it. I threw my covers off and pulled my curtains open, wishing I was still back at the vineyard as the view of the alleyway greeted me.

My phone on the bed was already buzzing as Pippa left to make us both a coffee.

Jackson.

I answered it. "I've got a lead on Surfer Dude."

"Do you really?" I asked, covering up the receiver as I checked to see if Pippa was listening.

"Yes," Jackson replied. "One of the guys at the precinct recognized him and, get this, he's one of your kind."

"One of my kind?" I asked, confused. "What does that mean?"

"He's a barista in a cafe," Jackson replied.

"I'm a baker," I shot back. Did he really not know the difference? Did he really think I just made coffee all day?

"You know what I mean," Jackson said. I wasn't entirely sure I did. "Anyway. I'm going down to his place of work this morning. I'll pick you up in five."

"In five?" I whispered. Pippa came back into the bedroom and handed me a coffee. I took it from her and gave her an apologetic smile.

"Do you think you could handle the bakery on your own this morning?"

* * *

"
Y
ou've got
to be kidding," I muttered as we pulled up to the place where Surfer Dude apparently worked. Would I ever be rid of this place?

"I thought you guys got over your beef," Jackson said as we climbed out of the car and walked towards the front of Bakermatic. "That's all in the past now, isn't it?"

"It's never going to be fully in the past," I commented, raising my eyebrow. "Not while we are still in direct competition and located on the same street."

"Well, this is where our guy works."

I still couldn't believe it. What were the odds? We passed through the doors and were greeted by the manager, my long-time nemesis Simona. She gave me a strange smile. "Have you joined the force for real?" she asked.

"Miss Robinson is helping me out today," Jackson said. He looked around and I could have sworn he looked nervous. He fetched the photograph from his pocket and showed it to Simona. "Is this man at work today?"

Simona looked at it and shook her head slowly. "You mean Rich?" she asked. “No, he hasn't worked here in... I don't know, five weeks."

I could see the disappointment flood Jackson's face. "Five weeks you say?"

Simona nodded. "If not longer. It might even be six or seven."

"I guess my colleague hasn't done the coffee run in a while," Jackson said, placing the photo back in his pocket. He retrieved his pen and notebook again. "You said this man's name was Rich?"

Simona nodded again. "Rich Robinson."

Jackson spun around slowly and gave me a strange look. "Coincidence," I said. "He's no relation."

"Huh," Simona said. "Rich Robinson... Rach Robinson. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said flatly. I'd never met nor seen the guy before in my life.

"And do you have any contact details for him? Do you know where he is working now?" Jackson asked.

"I have his mobile number here somewhere," Simona asked. "But I have no idea where he’s working now. He didn't even quit officially. He just stopped coming in one day and after I'd tried his phone a few times and heard nothing back, I just gave up."

"You just gave up?" Jackson asked. "Didn't you think it was strange that an employee just disappeared like that?"

Simona laughed a little and I jumped in to her defense. "It's hospitality," I said. "There's nothing unusual about an employee who stops showing up and turns his phone off."

Simona shot me a grateful look. "He's not in trouble, is he?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "He's not really missing, is he? Gosh, I wish I'd reported it now. I'm sorry, I just..."

Jackson put his hand up. "It's okay. He's not missing. He's just a person of interest. I'd appreciate that mobile number."

Simona disappeared to her office to find it. "There's a good chance he won't pick up though," I commented, leaning against the counter.

"We've got to try," Jackson commented. "Should we grab a coffee while we're here."

I shook my head. "My place. The bakery, I mean. It's far better." Simone returned with the number. "Even though you apparently think we are all the same," I muttered under my breath.

"I didn't mean anything," Jackson mumbled as took the number from Simona and thanked her.

"It's okay," I said, as we headed out the door. "But we should really check in on Pippa. I'm not officially a police detective, remember?"

We walked the short distance to my bakery without bothering to climb back into the car. The sun was only just beginning to rise and I wrapped my red coat tightly around myself and shivered.

"Is it too early to call?" Jackson wondered out loud.

"I wasn't sure you cared about things like that while you're investigating a murder," I commented as we reached the front of my bakery.

"Well, I do want the guy to cooperate," Jackson pointed out. "He's not officially a suspect, just a person of interest. Calling him at 6:00am might tick him off."

I could tell that Jackson's fingers were still itching to make the call as I pushed on the front door of the bakery. I was shocked when the bakery door didn’t budge.

"What the..."

I pushed on it again, harder this time. "Why isn't it opening?"

Jackson tapped on the glass door. "The sign is turned to 'closed'," he pointed out.

I stepped back and placed my hands on my hips. "That can't be right. We should have been open half an hour ago."

"Well, it doesn't look like you are."

Thanks for pointing out the obvious,
I thought.

I pressed my nose up against the glass and squinted as I looked into the bakery. It should have been brightly lit up, the pink and white decor shining in the early morning light. But nothing was turned on. Not only were all the lights still switched off, the coffee machine was totally dead, and there was no sign of life in the back in the kitchen, either.

I turned back to Jackson and threw my hands up into the air. "Where the heck is Pippa!" I asked. "And why the heck isn't the bakery open!"

Jackson shook his head and pulled the phone away from his ear. "I don't know," he said as he put the phone slowly back in his pocket. I hadn't even realized he'd actually made the call; I'd been so busy wondering about Pippa's disappearance.

"I think we've got bigger problems than Pippa not opening the bakery on time," Jackson said flatly.

Well, I was glad he thought that my losing money and my best friend going missing were such small inconveniences to him. "And what is that?" I asked. "Did you call him? Did you call Surfer Dude?"

He shook his head. "That wasn't him on the line," he said quietly. "It was someone down at the station."

I noticed then that his face had gone completely white. "What is it?" I asked.

"There's been a body discovered out on the highway, about two hundred miles from the vineyard. Rachael, they think it might be Emma."

A
s soon as
the door of the Belldale Police Station opened, the familiar smells of old leather and burnt coffee hit my nose. It had been months since I'd been inside, but the place still had the uncanny ability to make me feel guilty.

I just stood there staring at the precinct for a moment, thinking how strange it was the way every one was just going about their jobs as though Jackson's whole future didn’t hang in the balance. I gulped. Didn't they care that their fellow detective might be about to receive the worst news of his life?

"Rachael?" he said, grabbing my arm. "Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there gulping like a fish?”

His eyes no longer had that bleary look they'd had since the wedding. They were wild, wide awake and alert. He looked like he was holding his breath as he gritted his teeth.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't really like this place." I rolled my eyes at myself as he looked away. What a stupid thing to say right at that moment.

He hurried inside and I raced after him. We swerved in and out of the desks until Jackson found the office of his sergeant. I stopped at the door, not knowing if I should come in with him or not.

Jackson held the door open for me. "Come on, you're a part of this now."

"Jackson," the sergeant, a man in his late forties with huge biceps and a bald head, said as he stood. I vaguely recognized him from the wedding.

Guilt was sprayed all over this guy's face and he shot me a nervous look like he really wished I hadn't been standing there. "Sorry," the sergeant said. "False alarm, I'm afraid."

Jackson looked like he wanted to reach out and wring the sergeant's neck.

I checked Jackson's face, waiting for the relief to flood it but there was only anger there. "What the heck were you thinking, calling me down here like this, telling me that over the phone before you were even certain?"

The sergeant looked down at his desk. "I'm sorry, Jackson. The body found..." He had to stop talking to clear his throat. "She was a woman of Emma's age, with red hair.”

Geez. I tried not to look horrified as I sucked in a breath.

"You can't blame us for jumping to conclusions."

Jackson shook his head. "How about you find my actual fiancé," he spat.

Was she still his fiancé?

"We’re doing our best, Jackson," the sergeant said with a frustrated sigh as though this was not their first time having this conversation. "I've told you a dozen times, we are doing everything we can."

I wasn't aware that Jackson had been so desperate to find Emma, though I don't know why I was so surprised. Of course he was. I looked around uncomfortably. The sarge wasn't the only person in the room who wished I wasn't there. Why had I ever gone in there with him?

"She can't just have disappeared into thin air," Jackson snapped.

The sergeant let out a heavy sigh. "You gotta come to terms with the fact that most likely, she doesn't want to be found."

"What does that mean?" Jackson snapped again.

The sergeant was patient and took his time in explaining. "She obviously doesn't want to hear from any of us. Nor from you." He pointed at Jackson, which I thought was a little harsh given his earlier mix-up just five minutes before. "Now, either she doesn't want to be married to you or there's something even worse she doesn't want you to know."

Jackson frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but there was a knock on the door and the sergeant got called away. "Now I apologize again for the mix-up before," he said as he left. "But Jackson, you need to get your head back on the job. Stay focused. Or I'll get someone else to do your job for you."

Jackson pushed through the door soon after the sergeant left and I followed him until he finally stopped. He leaned against the wall near a water cooler and let out a heavy breath. I could see he was sweating a little.

"You must be awfully relieved."

"It's still a dead body," Jackson stated without emotion.

"Of course, I only meant..." I started to follow after him.

He started pouring coffee out of a pitcher that had seen better days. The bottom of it was practically blackened on the outside. "Of course I'm relieved. It's okay. I knew what you meant." He offered me a weak smile as well as a cup of the weak coffee that had probably been sitting out all day.

It didn't really seem that appealing but I accepted it anyway. I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open, but I had the feeling that it was the kind of tired that no amount of coffee could fix. I took a sip and it was stronger than I'd expected, and very bitter. But somehow the bitterness was almost pleasant and I kept sipping at it.

"Do you think she'll come back?" I asked quietly, tapping my fingers against the mug as I stared down into the dark liquid.

Jackson shook his head. "I don't know." He coughed. "I'm a... Sorry, I'm still in a little bit of shock. I just keep wondering what if that really had been her that they found?" He shook his head. "That poor woman."

We were both silent for a moment until a woman pushed past us to get coffee and we had to move out of the way.

"What about Pippa?" Jackson said. "I'm sorry that this all distracted you from...well, your own troubles." He cleared his throat. "Looks like I'm not the only one with a missing person on their mind."

I shook my head. "I barely even want to think about that," I said, checking my phone. There was a text from my apprentice Bronson saying that he'd opened the shop, which meant we'd only missed an hour or so of trade. Still no sign of Pippa though, apparently. "It's not like her to not show up like that without any warning, without even a phone call, an explanation."

Jackson raised an eyebrow.

"Well, okay, it's a little like her," I had to admit. "It's a little like the old Pippa, I mean. But not the Pippa she's been recently. Not the new Pippa. She's changed since she got married." I cringed. Probably the wrong thing to mention to a man that had recently been left at the alter.

He didn't seem to take much, if any, offense. "Is there really such a thing as an old version of a person and a new version of them?" he asked skeptically. “People are who they are and they don't change."

I wondered if this was really true. Maybe Pippa was just back to her flaky old self. Or her true self. Or whatever it was that Jackson was going on about. A few years ago, I would barely have raised an eyebrow at Pippa flaking out on a responsibility like this. But, no matter what Jackson said, Pippa had changed. She wasn't that girl anymore. I could rely on her. Couldn't I?

"Come on," Jackson said, checking his own phone, which apparently held some interesting information. There was even a small smile on his face for the first time in a while. "I think I know where we can find Surfer Dude."

* * *

"
H
ow did
you find this address?" I asked, slinking down into the passenger seat of Jackson's car while he turned the light off so we couldn't be spotted. My very first official police stake out. And I was terrified. How long could we survive in the car without food or water? What if I needed the bathroom?

"That number your friend gave me—"

"Simona's not my friend," I corrected him.

"Well, the number wasn't active, but a buddy down at the station ran it and the owner apparently lives at this address."

I glanced up at the ten-story, grey apartment building to the left of the car. "Which one?" I asked. There were probably at least a hundred apartments crammed into the old building. Most likely, most of them were studios with barely enough room to swing a cat.

Jackson doubled checked. "Fourth floor," he said. "The one right in the middle."

I was a little skeptical that we would actually spot him. After all, in the short time we'd been sitting there, a dozen people had already come out of the building and even more had gone into it.

I glanced up at the middle apartment on the forth floor. "Looks like the lights are out," I commented.

"Well, we'll just have to wait for him to come home then."

I let out a small sigh.

Jackson offered me a bottle of water. "No thanks," I said. "We might be stuck in here for a while." I thought about Aunt Cassie at the wedding. If only she hadn't had to go to the bathroom that day...then maybe...

"Hey look," Jackson said, grabbing my arm. I had to admit, it was nice spending all this time with him. And it was very cozy in his car. Even romantic, kind of, in spite of the sketchy neighborhood.

"What?" I asked, trying to force my mind to stay on track.

He pointed up to the forth floor. "The light is on," he whispered.

I frowned. "But we didn't see anyone who looked like Surfer Dude go up." And it had been dusk since we'd arrived, so it wasn't like he just suddenly needed the light switched on now.

Jackson leaned forward against the steering wheel. "I know," he said. "Let's go."

"Go up there?"

Jackson already had the door open. I hurried after him, slamming my side of the door as I chased after him. "Is this really so wise? Do you have any good reason to question him?"

"Yes," Jackson said, hurrying forward. "He was seen acting suspicious at a major crime scene. Isn't that enough?"

I supposed so.

The elevator was broken so we had to climb up four flights of stairs. They were hard and concrete and I wasn't used to so much physical exertion. By the time we'd climbed three, I was already almost out of breath and I had to stop with a stitch in my side.

"Come on," Jackson said, impatiently. "Geez, you really are out of breath. What, do you have asthma or something?"

I shook my head as I gripped my side. "No. Just really out of shape," I wheezed.

Jackson waited a moment for me to catch my breath and held out his hand to help me the rest of the way up the stairs.

"I'm okay now," I said as we reached the door that apparently belonged to Surfer Dude.

"Are you sure?" Jackson asked, shooting me a skeptical look as he double-checked the address in his phone.

I nodded and Jackson reached out to knock on the door. He hesitated just a moment before he finally tapped on it. When there was no answer, he called, "This is the police. Open up."

That seemed to do the trick and within a few moments, a short man appeared at the door, pulling it back nervously as he looked out at Jackson and me. "You really the cops?" he asked. He had to peer up at Jackson, he was so short. He was about my height at five-four.

Jackson showed him his badge and he briefly looked at me to see if I would flash mine. I looked away and thankfully Jackson spoke. "What is your name?"

He shrugged. "Frankie. What is all this about?"

Jackson placed his badge back in his pocket. "We're looking for a man named Rich Robinson."

There was definitely a look of recognition—maybe even fear, if I wasn't imagining it—but Frankie straightened his face and shook his head. "I never heard of him," he said, eyeing Jackson with suspicion. "Officer..."

"Whitaker," Jackson said.

There was another flicker of recognition on Frankie's face, but he did his best to hide it. "Nope, never heard of no Rich Robinson."

Jackson crossed his arms. "That's strange, considering that you are living in his apartment."

Frankie shrugged. "I sublet this place from some dude off craigslist. It ain't my business whose name is on the rental. I pay my rent every week."

Jackson sighed a little at this apparent dead end and looked at me. He turned back to Frankie and handed him a card. "If you do happen to see Rich Robinson, give me a call."

Frankie looked over the card. I could see his mouth moving as he read the name "Jackson Whitaker," and he tried to wipe the look of guilt off his face when I spotted him.

"Let's go," Jackson said to me as we began our descent down the mountain again. "That was a waste of time," he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time.

I had to go a little slower. "Was it?" I asked. "He definitely seemed to know something."

"He was just acting guilty because there was a cop at his door," Jackson said dismissively. "Probably got drugs in there or something. Come on, I'll get you home."