Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (13 page)

"Maybe we should look at this from a different angle? Lacy Leigh was up to something. Maybe if we figure out what that was, it'll give us a clue as to who might've wanted her dead? Or Presley?"

"It's worth a shot," Bree responds, jotting a few more things down in her notebook.

"Like on Friday, when Lacy disappeared all day," I start. "I can't be sure, but I have an idea of where she might've gone."

"Plastic surgery?" Bree guesses. "Don't laugh. It's a real thing, and lots of stars try to hide it." She grabs a strand of her strawberry-blonde hair. "At least that's what the magazines say."

"At lunch Presley mentioned Lacy getting a phone call from someone named Raymond," I explain. "I've heard that name before."

"Raymond. Raymond. Raymond." Bree twists her mouth, attempting to come up with an answer first.

"Raymond is the name of Gracie's brother," I answer. "He's Lacy Leigh's uncle."

I take a sip of my coffee, satisfied with our brainstorming session. Bree's eyes go wide as she writes down Raymond's name. I close my eyes, remembering the way Gracie spoke about him. She made him seem like a hermit who feeds trespassers to his gators.

"Sounds like we should pay Raymond a visit," Bree responds. "It sort of worked when we visited Gracie. Do you know where he lives?"

"You're not going to like it," I answer. "There's lots of mud."

*   *   *

The kitchen goes silent as Hattie Mae Scott enters the room. Gilly and Ford stand at attention. Frankie is alive and on time for her shift, and as usual, Cherie is at her mother's side. Hattie Mae is wearing her usual, lightly-colored skirt suit, but her face is paler than usual. The stress of the investigation must be taking a toll on her.

"I just want to say how proud I am of all of you," she says. Her voice is shaky, and she grabs onto Cherie for support. "This past week hasn't been easy on us, but I swore to Detective Sugars that my staff would never dream of harming anyone." Her eyes dart around the room.

"Thank you, Hattie Mae," Gilly politely replies, accepting the compliment.

"I am happy to announce that a man was arrested today," Hattie Mae continues. "We will never forget the tragedy that happened here, but now that the police have caught the person responsible, things can return back to normal around here."

"Except they're not so normal anymore, are they mama?" Cherie smiles, stroking Muffin who is nestled snuggly in her arms like a newborn baby. "We received so many booking requests over the weekend that our website crashed."

"What is good for business is not always good for the community, my dear," Hattie Mae responds. Cherie's smile slowly fades. "I would like to hold a service on Lacy Leigh's behalf. I think we should find a way to honor her memory here at Magnolia Harbor. After all, she did spend her very last moments here. If any of you have suggestions for me, I'll be in Cherie's office today."

The wrinkles underneath Hattie Mae's eyes crease as she smiles sincerely. She looks to Bree and I and points her finger. My stomach churns. Is it possible Hattie Mae knows that Bree is planning on quitting? I am too stunned to think of a good response.

"You two," Hattie Mae says.

"What did we do?" I blurt out.

"Would you dears care to bring me some tea and sandwiches, please?"

"Yes, of course." Bree accepts her request with a friendly nod.

 Hattie Mae turns to leave, but Cherie stays behind. She sets Muffin down and lets her peruse the room as she pleases. The faint jingle of her collar, and the way she glares at me sometimes, makes my skin crawl.

"Also, as a precautionary measure, we will be hiring some security to help us out with crowd control," Cherie says—arms folded.

"About time someone did something about that," Gilly quietly responds. "I can't stand the questions when I step out for my breaks in the morning."

"My typical beach spot is usually taken by lurkers," Bree adds.

"I'm glad we're in agreement," Cherie concludes. "Unfortunately, I can't get anyone here until the weekend. The police department can't help us unless there's a dispute, and Presley has informed me that he'll be leaving us tomorrow. Some of our guests have complained about the crowds."

"They shouldn't have booked a room during the investigation then," Gilly responds.

"I need a volunteer to walk the property tonight," Cherie continues. "Fans and journalists aren't allowed to camp out on the beach overnight. They know that, but we still get occasional rule breakers."

"So we're just supposed to shoo them away and hope that they listen?" I chime in.

"If they don't listen, then we can call the police," Cherie informs me. "Thank you, Poppy, for volunteering. Our guests will greatly appreciate it."

I roll my eyes as Cherie exits the kitchen. Bree places a hand on my shoulder. Our jobs as pastry chefs had started out mellow, with multiple days off and plenty of time to soak up the sun. It doesn't feel like that anymore.

"Do you want me to help you?" Bree replies.

"No. One of us needs to be coherent in the morning." I sigh. "Besides, I won't be able to sleep anyway."

Magnolia Harbor is peaceful at night. The waves crash along the beach, but I can't see them against the night. I walk barefoot with a flashlight in one hand, looking up and down the shoreline for anyone suspicious. I walk past a couple holding hands and a father-son duo scouting the shallows for crabs.

"Poppy!" a voice shouts behind me. It gives me chills. I turn around and see Presley running toward me. "Hey, can I join you?" He flips on his own flashlight.

"Oh…" I'm not sure what to say, but I force myself to smile.

"You owe me," he responds. "I've never had a girl get out of the car and run off like that before."

"Sorry about that," I apologize. "It felt better to walk rather than sitting in traffic for another hour."

"Thirty minutes," Presley corrects me. "I only had to wait another thirty minutes, but I figured as much. I just hope you didn't run because of what we talked about at the Steam House."

"I'll admit, it's weird thinking about you and Lacy together," I answer, "but I think I can get past it."
Mostly because I have more pressing things to worry about
.

"I see Cherie has put you to work tonight." Presley walks alongside me. Although I have mixed feelings about him at the moment, it's nice to have him next to me. If I spot a lurking journalist or die-hard Lacy Leigh fan, Presley can do the shooing for me.

"She's gone a bit overboard with this one," I admit. "I like to think I'm doing it for Hattie Mae."

"I saw you through my window," he comments. "I thought maybe you could use some help."

"I heard you're leaving tomorrow." I push the sand around beneath my feet. A tiny sand crab surfaces from underneath the sand and scurries away from me.

"I guess the police caught the person responsible, which means I am free to go." He glances up at the night sky.

"Dave, the owner of Amberjack's," I clarify. "Do you believe he's the one who did it?"

"Do you want my honest opinion?" Presley looks back at me—his flashlight aimed straight ahead of us. I nod. "The paper said they found a bunch of photos of Lacy at his apartment along with the poison that killed her. I think it's a setup."

"That makes two of us." My chest goes tight as I think back to my brainstorming session with Bree. There are too many loose ends that need tying, and there are too many questions left unanswered, like who would have known that Lacy Leigh was sleeping in Presley's room that evening?

"I still think those tartlets were meant for me," Presley says quietly. "There is no other explanation."

"Why would Dave try to kill Frankie?" I say, thinking out loud. "That makes absolutely no sense to me."

"Me neither." Presley sighs. "Let's just hope the killer doesn't follow me home."

"Don't you worry about that," I blurt out. "Bree and I are on it."

Presley nudges my shoulder. A simple gesture that makes my heart race, even though I don't want it to. But I can't help it. He knows how to steal my affection.

"What are you talking about, Poppy?" he asks. "Are you two planning something? You should be extra careful, whatever you do. If Dave really isn't the murderer, then that means the real killer is resting easy tonight. It also means that he'll stop at nothing to keep his secret buried."

"I understand." I hold my head high. It might not be the best idea, but Detective Sugars seems to have taken the easy road. As soon as we have some time off, Bree and I are going to get some real answers. None of us are truly safe until we do.

"Well?" Presley shrugs. "Care to share at all?"

"Bree and I are going to find out what Lacy Leigh was up to the day before she died," I respond.

"How do you plan on doing that? You would have to interview the entire town, and there are still no guarantees you'll find anything."

"Luckily, we don't have to start from scratch," I say. "I have you to thank for that."

"Me?" Presley grins.

"You know that phone call you told me about? The one from a man named Raymond?"

"Yeah," he answers.

"You were right." I nudge him back. "Lacy was trying to hide it from you because Raymond is the name of her uncle."

"Uncle?" Presley wrinkles his nose. "I didn't know she had an uncle."

"Apparently, he keeps to himself. Gracie mentioned that he lives on a gator farm just outside of town."

"So you're planning on paying him a visit?" Presley guesses. "Poppy, I don't know if that's such a good idea. For one, have you ever been to a gator farm?"

"Have you?" I bite back.

"It's dangerous," Presley goes on. "Besides, you have no idea what sort of guy Raymond is. What if his way of saying hello to strangers is with a sawed-off shotgun?"

"I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine." I continue walking, breathing in the ocean breeze to calm my nerves. The beach is clear from what I can see. It's possible that Cherie is just on another one of her power trips—like the time she made us start greeting guests by bowing. That routine didn't last very long.

"If this job has taught me anything, it's that everyone has an ugly side," he adds.

"I'll keep that in mind next time I compliment the sweet old woman who runs the Seashell Boutique."

"Go ahead," he responds, "crack a joke about it."

I frown, but someone jogging through the sand catches my attention. His feet flail as he runs, making tiny sand clouds. I walk a little faster as I stare at the familiar button-down and fishing hat. Mr. Wheeler just arrived at the beach, and he's in a hurry to get somewhere. He continues running until Magnolia Harbor is just a beacon in the distance.

"Come on," I whisper.

I jog after him, and it doesn't take me long to catch up. Presley stays at my side with little effort. It seems as if he's managed to stay in shape all these years. I watch Mr. Wheeler stop to catch his breath. He arrives at his destination, where a small crowd of people have gathered.

"What are they doing?" Presley whispers.

The closer we get toward the crowd, the more I realize they are all gawking at something. Mr. Wheeler stands frozen. His eyes are fixated on the water. The beach is almost silent, and my flashlight catches Mr. Wheeler's attention. He slowly walks toward me.

"Would you mind turning that light off?" he mutters. It is more of a command than a request. Mr. Wheeler studies my face. "Oh, it's you."

"Evening," Presley greets him, switching off his flashlight.

"Your hotel might've been subpar, but this is the moment I've been waiting all summer for," he responds.

"Your sea turtle research?" I guess.

"The nest is hatching," he says with a wide smile on his face. It's the happiest I've seen him since he first arrived in Gator Bay. "Look." He points to the clear stretch of sand that was once blocked off to the public. I make out tiny bits of movement.

Presley and I join the crowd, and Presley even gasps as a group of baby sea turtles emerge from the sand and wiggle their way towards the ocean. It's amazing that every single one of them seem to know which direction to go, and I find myself cheering them on as some of them struggle to push themselves close enough to the water.

The tide washes against them like they're miniature sea shells being tossed around in the waves. The ocean pulls them forward and, just like that, months of planning, waiting, and watching are over. Mr. Wheeler studies each sea turtle very closely. The smile never leaves his face.

Presley takes a deep breath and places his arm around my shoulder. For him, this is the sweet ending to his trip to the South. For me, it's a ray of sunshine compared to the storm headed my way tomorrow. I let Presley keep his arm around my shoulder, and I think of old times. That's how I prefer to remember Presley.

"I wish we could just pick them up and put them in the ocean," Presley whispers in my ear.

"I know." I glance at the moon's reflection against the water. "But the journey prepares them for what lies ahead."

For a sea turtle, what lies ahead seems pretty black-and-white.

I wish I could say the same for myself.

"Oh, no. Are we out of flour again?" I walk into the kitchen and find that the counters are filled with more cupcakes. Bree wipes her hands and checks the time.

"I got up early and couldn't fall back asleep," she admits. "Wandering around on the beach last night was a stupid idea. I should've gone with you."

"You might want to hide all these before Gilly gets here." I observe her choice of flavors. There's a batch of classic chocolate with rainbow sprinkles and one that I assume is peaches and cream flavored.

"Where?" Bree shrugs, looking around the kitchen. We barely have the counter space we need to knead breads as it is.

"I guess you can display them in the dining room like you did last time," I suggest. "Those police officers ate them pretty fast."

"Which was ironic seeing as they were investigating a death by poison," she points out. "All right, help me set up the cake stands."