Murder is a Piece of Cake (A Baker Street Mystery Book 2)

Our waiter brought our food, and all conversation about murder ceased. The food looked fantastic, and I managed to stop Michael from digging in long enough for me to snap a photo. #GoodFood #GoodCompany #ItsWhatsForDinner #NewBisonWineryCooks

Both entrées were delicious. The braised short ribs were tender and flavorful, but my favorite was the pan-seared rainbow trout. It was topped with crab, capers, and a lemon beurre blanc that was creamy, light, and refreshing. I didn’t have room for dessert, but Michael ordered cheesecake and two forks. Another reason why I loved him.

“Did you talk to the mayor about Baby?”

“He wasn’t at all helpful, but I decided to just swallow my objections and let Baby . . . service Daisy.” I still hadn’t come to terms with my dog’s life as a stud dog, although his fees were quite substantial.

I shared the weird conversation I’d had with Daisy’s owner. “Is that common? I mean, the other breeders that contract for Baby’s services are all very knowledgeable and at least know when their dog is going to be in heat.”

“Maybe she’s one of those wealthy dog owners who own the dogs and pay for everything, but they pay a professional handler to take care of the dog.”

“Is that a thing?” I asked as I took my fork and sliced a generous portion of cheesecake.

“It is, but generally the handler is the one who makes arrangements for the stud services.”

The cheesecake was light and melted on my tongue. I must have moaned. When I opened my eyes, Michael was smiling. “Do you need a moment alone with that?”

I licked my fork and put it down. When I glanced at the cheesecake, I saw that I’d eaten about two-thirds of it. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “I don’t need more than this. I’ve got that half-Ironman coming up.”

“Don’t you need to put on weight for that?”

“Not all calories are created equal. I need the right type of calories.”

I listened while he talked about the competition and his training. Michael was in good physical condition but wanted to test his limits.

I sipped my coffee and my mind wandered.

“Earth to Maddy.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. What were you—”

He waved away my protest. “When I went home to change, my grandmother was making sweet potato tarts for Marjorie Rivers. I just wondered if you’d figured out what you wanted to make for the Spring Festival.”

“Not yet. I was leaning toward entering Aunt Octavia’s Chocolate Soul Cake, but Clayton Davenport got the rules changed.” I told him what I’d overheard while at the mayor’s office.

“Well, Clayton Davenport’s dead. That should take some of the pressure off. You don’t have to enter the baking competition at all, if you don’t want to.”

I sighed. “I know, but . . . I want to. I mean, I want to prove that I can do it.”

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, but if that’s what you want to do, then let me know what I can do to help.”

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone more. The Admiral was great at making sure all of my material needs were met. However, never had I had anyone who cared so much about making sure that I was emotionally supported. I was on the verge of tears. “I’m going to cry. Excuse me.” I got up and hurried toward the ladies’ room.

The ladies’ room was part of a newer addition to the farmhouse, which meant it was built in the twentieth century instead of the nineteenth century like the rest of the stone building. It was surprisingly large for a restaurant this size, with stalls that turned a corner and wrapped around the back of the room. I was further surprised to find the room empty. Sadly, the ventilation wasn’t the greatest, and the staff usually propped a transom window open to help the airflow. The tissue dispenser hadn’t been refreshed recently, and it wasn’t until I turned the corner that I found tissue to clean away the raccoon rings left by my mascara. In the spirit of not letting the opportunity pass, I entered one of the back stalls to take care of business. The stalls were narrow, and women the size of an anorexic supermodel would have had to turn sideways to squeeze past the toilet-paper dispenser and a mammoth-size box that had been added for disposing of feminine products, while still navigating around the toilet. You had to be thin and extremely agile. Having spent most of my life on naval bases, I’d seen much worse. On the positive side, it was indoors. There were no snakes. And it didn’t require the use of a Folger’s Coffee tin. All positives. Plus, I am fairly agile, so I managed the acrobatic entry with ease. I was just finishing when I heard what sounded like a whispered argument coming from outside the open transom window next to my stall. I didn’t think anything about it until “Clayton’s dead” drifted through the window and over my door stall. I strained to hear more.

“Look, love. I was hired to do a job, and I’ve done it. Now, Clayton’s dead. Job over.”

I didn’t need to see her face to recognize Sybil Castleton. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person she called “love,” “sweetie,” and “dear.” The other voice was softer and harder to recognize.

“No. No way, dearie. I want to get my money and get out of here. I’m done. I must have been a nut to agree to this craziness in the first place. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, you can bet your life that I never would have gotten myself messed up in this crazy scheme.”

The other person said something else that I couldn’t make out. Frustrated, I slipped the lock on the stall and gently eased the door open, careful not to let it swing too loudly. Unfortunately, the door hinges hadn’t been oiled, and the door squeaked.

“What was that? Oh, Lawd, someone’s here. I’m gone. I want my money. You can keep the horse and everything else. You got that, love? Either I get my money or I’m going to do what I should have done in the first place, go straight to the police.”

The door opened, and two women entered the restroom. They were laughing and not paying any attention to me as I hurried around the corner and outside. There was a door a few feet from the ladies’ room that led outside. I hurried through, but I was too late. Sybil Castleton and whoever she was talking to were gone. I rushed back inside and back to the main dining room and took a good look around. Sybil Castleton was nowhere to be seen.

Michael rushed over to where I was. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That’s the problem. I didn’t see a ghost or anyone else, but I might have just overheard a killer.”