Killer Chocolate Pie (Pies and Pages Cozy Mysteries Book 2) Page 3
“Woo,” Bert gasped, putting a hand over her heart. That had given her quite the start. For a second, she’d thought it was a gunshot it was so loud.
The sign continued to swing for a second, and then finally stopped. Bert found it odd since she hadn’t felt a gust of wind. She guessed the popping balloon could have caused it to move.
Walking back down the block, her shop came into view.
Despite her earlier thoughts that all the books would be okay, she eagerly glanced to see if someone had made off with all her books. It was a silly thought, instilled in her brain by her friend, but she had been concerned, nonetheless.
Much to her delight, all the bins appeared to be completely full still, as did the main display.
There was, however, one item out of place.
“Oh, no,” Bert whispered. A man in a familiar ball cap and sunglasses sat in her lawn chair. What the heck did he think he was doing?
Hoping she wouldn’t have any trouble convincing him to move, she jogged the rest of the way to her shop.
“Excuse me, sir, but do you mind moving?” she asked in as a polite a voice as she could muster. If he gave her any flack, she wouldn’t hesitate to call security.
The man didn’t respond at all, but simply sat with a blank look on his face.
“Sir?” she asked, wondering if he was asleep. Touching him on the shoulder, he toppled over onto the sidewalk his glasses toppling from his face and cracking on the pavement. The boxed chocolate-almond tart in his lap went spilling everywhere on the sidewalk.
Bert let out a surprised shriek upon seeing the bloody gunshot wound in his chest.
Chapter 5
* * *
In less than five minutes, the street in front of Pies and Pages was filled with emergency vehicles. Two police cars, an ambulance, and even a firetruck all arrived, their lights flashing for all the patrons of the Autumn Walk to see. Crime scene tape cordoned off the entire entryway to the shop, leaving the pies inside to simply sit uneaten.
Detective Harold Mannor, a stout man in his late sixties, was rushing back and forth, giving orders, asking questions, and making ample use of any daylight he had left
Meanwhile, Bert stood off to the side watching all the chaos happen. The Detective, who had become acquainted with Bert recently, didn’t even acknowledge she was there. She figured he would want to question her eventually, so she was sticking nearby.
She could hardly believe it. A man had been murdered right out front of her pie shop and bookstore—shot in the middle of a downtown fair with not a single person noticing.
How was that possible? Was there just so much noise, so much going on, that the murder went unnoticed until Bert stumbled upon the body? Or, had the body been moved to the street and left in the chair?
If the latter were the case, how come no one noticed a suspicious person dragging a body over and plopping it down in a chair.
The victim didn’t look like he was lightweight in any sense of the word. He was tall, with a strong build and a beer belly. You’d have to be fairly strong to move a man of that size.
Bert shook her head. It didn’t make any sense.
At that same moment, a large black catering van from a local coffee chain pulled up. The name Koffee Hous was written on the side in bright red lettering and two girls dressed in matching black uniforms climbed out. Quickly retrieving multiple caddies full of coffee, the girls walked up to the crime scene tape and—without stepping into the area—started handing out the drinks.
Bert thought it was an odd display, but figured even the police needed their boost occasionally, especially during a homicide investigation.
“Can you believe the nerve of that company?” came a huff from behind Bert.
Turning around, she was surprised to see Reba standing there with a stern line for a mouth and her arms folded. “Reba, how are you doing?” Bert asked, aware that the woman didn’t much care for her, but trying to be civil anyway.
“That darn coffee chain shouldn’t be allowed to sell their drinks here. It’s against the historic code.”
Bert shook her head. “I’m sorry. I must be confused.”
Reba rolled her eyes. “Them, those coffee people. The Old Market has a strict code that no chain businesses are allowed to sell their product here.”
Bert glanced back at the two girls handing out the coffees. “Well, I’m sure that only applies to the actual store locations in the market, right? I mean, if someone orders a drink delivery and asks them to drop it off here, they should be able to do that, right?”
“No, it shouldn’t be allowed,” she barked.
“Oh, I see.”
“They’re stealing customers away from honest small businesses like ours.”
Bert thought about this complaint for a second and then returned with another comment. “Wait, do you sell coffee at your candy shop?”
Reba gaped at Bert with an open mouth. “Of course not.”
“Is there even a coffee shop in the Old Market?”
“That is beside the point,” she exclaimed. “I’ve met the district manager of that local chain. He’s a ruthless, hardened, rude man. If it were up to him, we’d all be out of business and replaced with Koffee Hous franchises.”
Bert rolled her eyes at Reba’s over-exaggerating. “If there isn’t an official coffee shop here, who are they stealing coffee from? I mean, I admit I sell plain coffee, or coffee with cream, in the pie shop—but I don’t have any kind of gourmet flavors or anything.”
Reba folded her arms. “I should have known you’d be on their side. Stealing business from me, and now you’re in cahoots with a company like Koffee Hous.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bert admitted, giving a sheepish shrug. Reba really knew how to blow things out of proportion.
“Them and their disgusting pumpkin spice flavored drinks,” she sneered quietly, not addressing Bert’s defense.
She paused, tapping her foot. “Well, I happen to enjoy pumpkin spiced coffee.”
Reba wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m not surprised.”
Bert held her tongue, realizing now was not the time for debate over chain brand coffee shops versus local coffee shops. She was honestly surprised that Koffee Hous was the one thing Reba was focusing on when there had just been a murder in the Old Market.
“Why am I getting the feeling of dejavu?” a man said from behind the caution tape.
Turning away from Reba, Bert spotted Detective Mannor heading her way. “Detective. I’m glad you’re the one assigned to this case,” she admitted. It was the truth. Back in August, the previous owner of the book shop had been murdered and Detective Mannor had helped in catching the culprit.
“Are you now?” he asked, not sounding convinced.
Bert titled her head, her eyelids drooping slightly. “Truly, Detective. A familiar face at a time like this is always welcome, even if it’s only yours.” She didn’t mean for her last comment to sound rude, but she realized it came off that way.
Mannor took the tone of the comment and ran with it. “I do find it a little odd that two murders happened at your shop now, each within a few months of one another.”
“I knew she was bad news,” Reba shot in without any qualms.
The detective raised an irritated eyebrow at the strange woman’s intrusion. “And you are?”
Placing her hand on her chest, Reba gasped. “Detective, I’m surprised at you. You don’t remember me?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, ma’am,” he admitted without a hint of care or remorse.
“I’m Rebecca Stallion, owner of the Candy Emporium around the corner.”
“I see,” he grunted, clearly not wanting any unnecessary people hanging around the crime scene. “And, did you happen to see the murder occur, or are you just an interested spectator?”
“Believe me, Detective. I would not be over here unless I absolutely had to be. Especially with the trash that seems to be hanging around.”
She motioned to the Koffee Hous van.
“Trash?” Bert groaned.
“Money grubbing companies like that one, aren’t allowed to sell here on the Old Market property.”
Mannor nodded humorously, holding back a smirk of enjoyment about what he was about to say next. “Well, it’s a good thing they aren’t selling anything.”
“I can see them handing out coffee as we speak,” she blurted out, pointing at the two girls who had just finished emptying the caddies.
“Oh, you see, that’s because whenever the police in this city have a large investigation like a murder, Koffee Hous tries to provide free drinks if they can.” He finally let the smirk through, causing Bert to chuckle under her breath. She had no idea that the detective had such a wicked humor about him. Of course, to face murder and other violent crime on a regular basis, she figured you just had to have a sense of humor.
Meanwhile, Reba was flabbergasted. “W-Well. They still shouldn’t be advertising here,” she attempted to argue, losing steam.
“Why not? I’m a fan of the pumpkin spice, myself,” he admitted, sipping his coffee and make a satisfied noise.
“F-fine. I see how it is. I was going to share what I saw today, but now maybe I won’t,” she threatened uselessly, turning to leave.
Bert was honestly appalled at her complete lack of regard for an official police investigation. If Reba truly had some piece of evidence to add to the case, she should present it without any precursor.
“Hold on,” he ordered, his serious tone coming back ten-fold.
“Yes?” she asked.
“You are aware that it is a crime to withhold any evidence, any at all, about a murder case such as this one?”
Reba bit her lower lip, suddenly turning red. “Of course, I knew that,” she lied.
Bert wondered how often Reba just lost her head like that, saying whatever angry thing popped into her head.
“Well?” he pressed, trying to assess the situation and see if the information she claimed to have was worth even hearing.
Reba stuttered slightly, but finally got started in her statement. “I-I overheard that the victim was an older man wearing a beer hat and aviators?”
“That would be an accurate description. Did you see the victim earlier today?”
“You said he was found sitting in a lawn chair in front of this shop?”
“That’s where I found him, yes,” Bert chimed in.
“Mrs. Hannah, please let me handle this,” the detective said, holding up a hand to silence her.
“Sorry,” she apologized.
“Well, he came over to my shop earlier and was arguing with me,” Reba admitted.
Bert wasn’t sure admitting you’d had it out with a murder victim right before they bit the dust was the best choice of action, but it wasn’t her place to judge. After all, the argument would probably come out later, anyway.
“Can you tell me what the argument was about?” he asked, setting his coffee down on the hood of the nearby police cruiser and pulling out a pad and pen. Clearly, he had decided whatever she had to report was important.
“Politics mostly. Feminism.”
“I see. You two disagreed on this topic?”
“Ha. I’d say we were night and day. He got so riled up that the security guard had to escort him off the premises.”
The detective scribbled something down, likely a note to check the story with the guard on duty. “What happened after that?”
“Well, I wanted to make sure that he had really left the Old Market. I didn’t want him coming back around, you know? Who knows what a crazy man like that might do for revenge.”
Bert couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this comment.
The detective shot her a scolding look before returning to his line of questioning. “Now. Did you see him again?”
“I did. I watched him come back up Jefferson Street. He stopped outside the book shop, looked around expectantly, checked his phone, and sat down in the lawn chair.”
Bert considered what reason the man might have for returning to the pie shop. She figured that maybe he was backtracking to find his son and daughter. It would explain him checking his phone, seeing if one of his kids had sent a text. Maybe they had driven together to the Autumn Walk.
“Now, just to clarify, the victim was alive when he sat down?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you see anyone at all come up to him? Any sign of someone recognizing the victim?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. After he sat down, I left to find the security guard again to have the man removed.”
“Anything else I should know about, ma’am?”
Reba twisted her face up as she thought. “I don’t think so.”
Mannor thought for a moment before posing his next question. “Own any guns, ma’am?”
“Of course, I do. Who wouldn’t in this day and age? I have a right to protect myself and my property.”
“I see. Where do you store these weapons?”
“I have a cabinet in my basement at home, but also have my concealed carry if you catch my drift.”
Mannor’s furrowed brow indicated he clearly understood. “And you’re adept at handling these firearms?”
“You’re darn right, I am. I just told you I had my carry license, didn’t I? What’s the point of having them if I don’t even know how to turn off the safety? I make sure to practice at least once a month out at my brother’s ranch house.”
Bert was surprised. She would have never pegged Reba as a hobby shooter.
The detective tapped his pen on the pad. “I see.”
Reba raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Now, just a minute. What are you getting at here?”
“Thank you for your time,” he replied, not answering her question. Thankfully, Reba let it slide. “I’m going to have one of my officer’s take down your information.” He waved over a younger man.
“My information? What for? I’m not a suspect, am I?”
“It’s preliminary measure, I assure you, just in case we need any more information.”
She paused, still unsure about handing out her info. The officer, however, was already getting a form ready. “Oh, very well,” she sighed, moving off to the side with the cop.
With her out of earshot, Detective Manor looked directly at Bert.
“Mrs. Hannah, I think you and I should have a private chat, now.”
Waving a finger, he instructed her to follow him into the shop.
Chapter 6
* * *
The scent of pumpkin spice coming off the detective’s coffee was strong. Bert started to crave a drink herself, and made a mental note to stop by Koffee Hous later. She took a seat at one of the small side tables in the pie shop.
“Don’t touch anything while you’re in here, got it? I realize this is your place of business, but until I reopen the crime scene to the public, you need to keep your hands to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she admitted, folding her arms to show her compliance. She was honestly surprised he was conducting this interview inside the shop, but guessed he must be tired and wanting a place to sit for a moment.
“Good.”
“Now why do I get interviewed in here, but Reba gets to give her statement on the street?”
The detective looked less than amused. “Number one, you’re the one who found the body—or so you say,” he speculated.
“I say?” she protested.
He glossed over her small outburst. “Number two, you were smart enough not to barge in with your two cents worth while I was questioning the other witness outside. I can’t trust someone like Ms. Stallion to do the same.”
Bert nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.”
There was a moment’s pause as Detective Mannor flipped through a few notes he had already taken about the crime scene.
“Did you get the apple pie I sent you?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“You can call me, Bert, you know? And, no. I’m not trying to butter you up—just offering a favor in return for a favor. After all, you did pay for my pizza a few weeks ago.”
He flipped his notebook momentarily closed. “That was simply a thank you for your assistance in the murder case. The information you gave helped immensely.”
“Of course. I just wanted to return the favor. That’s why I dropped the pie on your doorstep.”
The detective pushed his lips together, breathing out through his nose.
“Did you like it?” she pressed.
“Yes, it was one of the best pies I’ve ever eaten,” he admitted in a muted voice, like it was impossible for him to admit he enjoyed something.
“Great, I’m glad to hear it.”
“Great,” he muttered, clearly wanting to get a move on.
“Hey, I still have some great pies sitting in the warmer. Do you want a piece?”
“No, thank you. Remember what I said about not touching anything?”
“Yes, sorry.” She put up both hands defensively, showing she was being compliant. “I guess I just thought that, since the shop door was locked during the murder, maybe it was okay if we had the pies that I was keeping back here. If they don’t get eaten, they go to waste at the end of the day.”
The detective rubbed his lips together, licking them hungrily. Bert wondered if he’d had anything to really eat that day.
Finally, he shook his head. “No, just in case, I can’t let you do that.”
“He wasn’t poisoned, you know,” she said.
Flipping his notepad back open, he poised his pen. “Can we move forward with this interview now?”
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
“Now, first things first. You claim you found the murder victim?”
“That’s correct. He was sitting in my lawn chair out front.”
“And he was dead?”
“Well, I didn’t realize it at first. I thought he had just taken a seat to wait for his son and daughter and fallen asleep.”