Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (3 page)

"The Seashell Boutique and a salted caramel latte," Bree whispers. It's enough motivation to help me think straight as I follow Detective Sugars. All eyes are on me, but I pretend not to notice. Though part of me wants to run and hide in my closet.

"Have a seat." The detective points to an open chair in the inn's main dining room. It's a space overlooking the shore with various tables to accommodate guests who choose to dine in. Most of them do. "Name and title, please." He pulls out a voice recorder.

"Poppy Peters," I answer. "Pastry chef." It's still feels strange saying it all out loud, even though it has been months since I left the academy. Just a couple of years ago I would have been stating
Poppy Peters, ballet dancer
.

"I see." Detective Sugars seems to live up to his name with a friendly smile and personable attitude. His stubby fingers look as if they've seen lots of sunlight, and his light-brown hair shines with streaks of blonde and white. "Are you responsible for the strawberry cakes we found upstairs?"

"They're tartlets," I respond. "Yes, I made them." It might not have been smart to admit right away that I was the creator of the deadly dessert that stole Lacy Leigh's last breath, but lying has gotten me nowhere in the past. "But I didn't poison them, if that's what you're thinking. I didn't even know the girl. I'm from Oregon, originally."

"Some tests are being done on those tartlets of yours." He jots something down in his notebook. "When did you make them?"

"Yesterday," I continue. "I made the dough and the pastry cream in the morning, and I glazed the strawberries in the afternoon. The tartlets were served after dinner."

"To how many guests?" the Detective asks.

"Well, everyone in the hotel, I guess." I recount my memories of last night and how Frankie had stayed late just to deliver each guest their nightly tea tray.

"And did you deliver the food?"

"Not last night," I answer honestly. "That's Frankie's job. Though she was a no-show for work this morning, which is why I volunteered to do it. That's when we found…the body."

Detective Sugars observes my expression as I relay as many details to him as I can.

"You're taking this remarkably better than your peers," he comments.

"Oh." I clasp my hands together. I've been in this sort of situation before, and it always leads down a messy trail of trouble. But the image of Lacy Leigh lying stiff on the floor is one I'll never be able to let go of. "Well, like I said, I didn't really know her."

"Uh-huh."

Detective Sugars scribbles in his notebook and asks me a few more questions about my whereabouts yesterday. It feels like it's already lunchtime when his questions come to an end. Questions that he repeated more than once, hoping I would stumble over my responses. I shake his hand politely and take deep breaths as I head straight back to my room. I need to clear my head. I need to sort through the web of information that is cluttering up my brain.

I need that salted caramel latte.

I pass Bree in the hallway.

"Anything I need to know?" she mutters.

"We'll talk later," I whisper back. She twists her lips and looks at me the way she did our first semester of pastry school—with intrigue. Bree has a penchant for sleuthing. I have a knack for attracting trouble.

I speed towards my room, but my heart stops when I see an unannounced visitor sitting quietly on my bed. I gulp and shut the door. Presley looks up—a look of desperation on his chiseled face. He jumps to his feet when he sees me, towering over me like a leafy palm tree.

"Poppy, you've got to help me," he begins.

"Presley, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be…" I shrug. "I don't know. Somewhere else?"

"You're the only person here I know I can trust." He takes a step towards me, and immediately the churning in my stomach turns to butterflies.

"Please don't tell me you had something to do with this," I respond.

"Of course not." His skin isn't as tan as it used to be, but his eyes still light up when he looks at me. It pulls me back to years and years ago, before I joined my first dance company. Back when I was always in training and ate things like half a tuna sandwich on wheat and three celery sticks for lunch.

"I had to ask."

"Poppy." Presley reaches for my hand. The warmth of his skin shoots through my arm and makes my blood pump furiously. "Promise me you won't freak out."

"Okay." I narrow my eyes, glaring at his forehead in hopes that by some miracle I can read his thoughts. It doesn't work. "Look, you're really starting to freak me out. What's going on?"

"Someone is trying to kill me," he softly replies.

I pace back and forth, which isn't that effective seeing as my bedroom is pretty small. Presley runs his fingers through his hair for the thousandth time. At the start of our conversation, he still had gel in his hair. Now his hair is a mess, much like the situation he's in.

"Okay, even if someone was trying to kill you," I say out loud, "
why
would they want to kill you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Presley shakes his head.

"Be honest now." I take a deep breath. "Are you into anything sketchy that I should know about?"

"Meaning?"

"Do you owe anyone money?" I ask.

"No."

"Did you ever deal drugs?" I continue.

"No." Presley chuckles.

"Well, have you pissed off an ex-girlfriend recently?" I'm running out of motives.

"Not that I know of," he answers.

"Then maybe you're overthinking this," I suggest.

"Poppy, you know as well as I do that if those strawberry cake thingies—"

"Tartlets," I correct him. "They're called tartlets. It's like a tart only smaller."

"
Tartlets
," he repeats. "If those tartlets were what killed Lacy Leigh, then I'm in trouble. She was in
my
room. The tartlets could have been meant for me."

"I understand, but we don't know for sure that it was
my
dessert that killed her." A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. I thought my life would slow down after pastry school. I thought I'd find a nice, cushy job somewhere, go to work every day, mind my own business, and still have time to take up beading—Bree's alternative to nervous baking since she started collecting sea shells. For some reason I always seem to be wrong.

"We don't know that it wasn't," Presley argues.

"I hope it wasn't." I loudly exhale and close my eyes. There's still a chance that I won't be caught in the middle of another murder investigation. I just got my sanity back from last year's mobster fiasco.

"Oh, Poppy, I didn't mean it like that." Presley focuses on my expression. "I'm not suggesting that any of this was your fault."

"I'll be in just as much deep water as you if my tartlets come back tainted," I inform him. "Looks like we both have issues."

"All the more reason to find out what really happened," he adds. "Poppy, no one but me and Lacy Leigh knew about the room swap.
No one
."

"Unless she called someone in the middle of the night."

"Good point." Presley glances around the room. "If only there was a way to get her cell phone."

"The police have it by now," I inform him. "There's no way they'll give you that sort of information. Trust me. I've dealt with detectives before."

"What do you suggest?" Presley raises his eyebrows, hopeful that I can come up with a plan to stop the killer from coming after him again—though Presley is more than capable of defending himself. Maybe that's why the murderer used poison instead of force?

A light knock on the door drags me from my thoughts. Bree enters the room—straightening her shoulders when she sees Presley for the first time. Bree tucks a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear and smiles. She's dressed for a morning out in her beachy top and khaki shorts.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Bree says.

"Bree, this is Presley," I introduce her. "He's an old friend."

"I think we were more than friends once, don't you?" Presley winks, turning on his charm that probably catches as many girls now as it did back in college.

"It's good to finally put a face to the stories," Bree chimes in.

"Stories?" Presley repeats. "So Poppy has mentioned me before?" He fixates on my expression.

"Once," I clarify. "Thanks, Bree."

"Cherie wants us to handle lunch," Bree continues, shaking her head. "Apparently, Gilly stormed out after his interview with Detective Sugars, and the police team is getting hungry."

"You're kidding." I place a hand on my hip. "A woman has just died upstairs, and Cherie is still worried about being innkeeper of the year?"

"Also, Mr. Wheeler says you never brought him his breakfast," she adds. "He's threatening to post his complaints on the internet."

"Life was so much easier when all we had to worry about were classes and pies."

"I like that idea." Bree's smile grows wider. "I'll make my mother's triple-decker cherry pie—a cream layer, a nut layer, and cherry filling. It never fails to impress."

"Unless Mr. Wheeler hates cherries," I mutter.

"Nonsense." Bree tilts her head towards the door. "Well, looks like the coffees and bargain hunting will have to wait another day. By the time we finish lunch, Cherie will be wanting us to get started on dinner. And I was one conch shell away from the perfect summertime bracelet."

"I can help," Presley volunteers. Bree's cheeks turn rosy.

"Really?" Bree instinctively twirls a lose strand of hair as she looks at him. "Have you ever used an oven before?"

"I've buttered toast," he confesses.

"He's also
buttering
you as we speak," I chime in.

"Hey, I'll help you, and you'll help me." He crosses his arms. "What's so bad about that?"

"I'm missing something, aren't I?" Bree narrows her eyes as she studies me. Her glare makes me anxious, as if she's attempting to read my thoughts. I can't keep anything from her.

"Presley thinks the murderer was after him, not Lacy Leigh," I say out loud.

"What makes him think that?" Bree asks. She turns and faces Presley. "What makes you think that?"

"Lacy Leigh slept in my room last night," he admits. "Those strawberry tartlets had
my
name on them."

"We don't know that's how Lacy died," Bree responds.

"Thank you." I breathe a sigh of relief. At least Bree still has hope that my dessert isn't to blame. "That's exactly what I told him."

"So what?" Presley rubs his eyes in frustration. "Are we just supposed to wait around for bad news? Meanwhile, there could be a killer out to get me."

Bree glances at me, and right away I know what she's thinking. We've been in this sort of predicament before, and Bree's solution always involves sleuthing for clues. She convinced me to do it our first semester at pastry school after I was accused of stealing, and she helped me prove my innocence when a mad man almost stopped me from graduating.

Bree wants to investigate.

"Bree," I say quietly. "We've been down this road, and it's always an ugly one."

"You heard what he said, Poppy," Bree argues. "Do you want to just wait around for Detective Sugars to walk in and arrest you after his intel shows that it was
your
tartlets that killed her?"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"This time will be different," Bree continues, "and we don't have to worry about finals or making it to class all in one piece."

"What kind of school did you two go to?" Presley scratches the side of his chin.

"Why does part of me think you're saying this because you're bored of doing the same exact thing every day?" I guess, ignoring Presley's question completely.

"I am not bored." Bree purses her lips together. "I love it here."

"But it's not a cupcake shop," I point out, remembering the devastated look on her face when her old boss let her go right before graduation. Running her own shop back in her home state of Connecticut was all she could talk about, until she found out that her employer had sold the business to someone else.

"Do you want to go to prison or not?" Bree avoids the subject and retreats to the hallway. I have no choice but to follow her.

"Is that a trick question? Of course I don't." I wait for Presley to join us before shutting the door to my room.

"I'm just saying," Bree goes on, "it wouldn't hurt anyone to start asking questions."

Bree heads back to the kitchen, and Presley eagerly follows. We pass the dining room where Detective Sugars is having a chat with Hattie Mae. A couple of officers are pacing back and forth in the sitting area overlooking the beach, and instantly I notice the flashes coming through the blinds. Photographers are outside. Not only are they at the front door, but some of them have set up camp along the beach.

Bree ties her hair up when she enters the kitchen. She checks the fridge first, searching for what Gilly prepped for lunch time. She shakes her head, which isn't a good sign. The two of us are already in hot water since savories are not our specialty. Hopefully Bree has whipped up a mean mac and cheese in her day.

"Just tell me what to do." Presley is still standing in the doorway.

"Grab an apron, wash your hands—"

"Hang on," I interrupt Bree. As much as my chest pounds every time he's near, I can't let myself bend to his every request. As much as I want to. "We haven't agreed to help him yet. A favor for a favor. Am I right, Presley?"

"Even if there was nothing in it for me, I would still help." He follows Bree's instructions and heads to the sink to wash his hands. "Besides, it won't be long before you realize that I'm right."

"I never said you were wrong," I reply.

"Poppy, you know more about this town than I do," he goes on. "If anyone can help me, it's you."

Bree quietly gathers a few pots and pans while biting the side of her lip.

"Fine," I mutter. "Bree and I will chat with the staff, but I'm not doing anything crazy. There's still a chance I'm off the hook, and you're peddling conspiracy theories."