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Authors: Jennifer Fischetto
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season. Stuff like that never happened in the off-season.
Giddiness filled my body. I ran to the office and rewound the DVR to Friday afternoon. From the angle of the camera, it was hard to tell who was who. Why hadn't the friend installed the camera facing the register so it filmed the customer's face rather than the back of his or her head? I made a mental note to change the direction and to add another camera to span more of the room. Except for a few people, everyone else was very indistinguishable.
Just as I was ready to give up, I spotted something out of the ordinary. Instead of the arms, hands, and torsos of people mingling and eating, I saw someone carrying a plate of food.
I paused the image and cocked my head, trying to make out what I was seeing. A black-gloved hand carried a small silver tray, similar to the ones we had in the bakery. On it were triangles of dough.
Scones.
I couldn't tell who was holding it, and then the person walked out of view.
There was a tray of scones Joe had baked that morning, but I hadn't served any, and they were chocolate chunk and cherry. The autopsy hadn't mentioned those two ingredients. The scones on the monitor hadn't come from the bakery.
Oh my God, somebody had brought in the scones on purpose. This meant he had been murdered. My stomach gurgled, and I thought I'd be sick. I ran to the bathroom off the kitchen. I wasn't sure when I'd go back into the public one.
I leaned over the sink and breathed slowly, waiting for my stomach to settle. When it did, I turned on the cold faucet and wet a paper towel. I pressed it to my forehead and then the back of my neck.
I returned to the office and scanned through the rest of that day, hoping to see the black-gloved hand again. And there it was. The person passed by the register on his or her way to the restroom. I still couldn't make out who it was or if it was a man or woman. But then I caught a glimpse of the person's feet. The figure wore brown suede moccasins. There was something odd about them. I zoomed, paused, squinted, cocked my head, and did all I could to make it out. On the tip of the right shoe was a weird yellow splat—a stain.
Holy macaroons!
I'd caught the killer on film.
CHAPTER FIVE
Out of respect, I closed the bakery the next day. Maybe I should've done that the day after Nathan died, but I hadn't thought he'd been murdered then. Today, the day he was being buried, I knew otherwise. The service was later this afternoon, which meant I had plenty of time for some sleuthing.
Last night I'd saved a copy of the security footage onto a flash drive, and as I was leaving the bakery, I'd noticed the Danger Cove Savings & Loan. Well, I hadn't just noticed the building. It had been there forever, situated diagonally across the street from the bakery. I'd passed it every day for years and barely noticed it anymore. But last night it sat on the corner like a giant smiley face. Its ATM machine, which wasn't separated from the building or covered in any way, faced the bakery. It had to have a security camera, which meant it might've caught the killer as well.
But going there and simply asking for that footage was out of the question. I needed to be craftier than that, which involved Tara, and she was busy with a tots' class this morning. So until she was available, I baked a batch of banana muffins with wheat germ, at home. Baking left me relaxed and no longer hungry, and the house smelling like cinnamon and bananas.
After cleaning up, I changed into high-waisted denim capris and a red-and-white checkered blouse. I plaited my dark hair into a single long braid down my back, tied a red scarf around my head, like a headband, and skated over to Nathan's. The whole trip over, I wondered why Grams never mentioned a connection between Mom and another Danger Cove resident. People knew her. There were a few old classmates, but after the well-wishers at her funeral left, no one came by to talk about her or to check on us.
Giddiness filled my body. I ran to the office and rewound the DVR to Friday afternoon. From the angle of the camera, it was hard to tell who was who. Why hadn't the friend installed the camera facing the register so it filmed the customer's face rather than the back of his or her head? I made a mental note to change the direction and to add another camera to span more of the room. Except for a few people, everyone else was very indistinguishable.
Just as I was ready to give up, I spotted something out of the ordinary. Instead of the arms, hands, and torsos of people mingling and eating, I saw someone carrying a plate of food.
I paused the image and cocked my head, trying to make out what I was seeing. A black-gloved hand carried a small silver tray, similar to the ones we had in the bakery. On it were triangles of dough.
Scones.
I couldn't tell who was holding it, and then the person walked out of view.
There was a tray of scones Joe had baked that morning, but I hadn't served any, and they were chocolate chunk and cherry. The autopsy hadn't mentioned those two ingredients. The scones on the monitor hadn't come from the bakery.
Oh my God, somebody had brought in the scones on purpose. This meant he had been murdered. My stomach gurgled, and I thought I'd be sick. I ran to the bathroom off the kitchen. I wasn't sure when I'd go back into the public one.
I leaned over the sink and breathed slowly, waiting for my stomach to settle. When it did, I turned on the cold faucet and wet a paper towel. I pressed it to my forehead and then the back of my neck.
I returned to the office and scanned through the rest of that day, hoping to see the black-gloved hand again. And there it was. The person passed by the register on his or her way to the restroom. I still couldn't make out who it was or if it was a man or woman. But then I caught a glimpse of the person's feet. The figure wore brown suede moccasins. There was something odd about them. I zoomed, paused, squinted, cocked my head, and did all I could to make it out. On the tip of the right shoe was a weird yellow splat—a stain.
Holy macaroons!
I'd caught the killer on film.
CHAPTER FIVE
Out of respect, I closed the bakery the next day. Maybe I should've done that the day after Nathan died, but I hadn't thought he'd been murdered then. Today, the day he was being buried, I knew otherwise. The service was later this afternoon, which meant I had plenty of time for some sleuthing.
Last night I'd saved a copy of the security footage onto a flash drive, and as I was leaving the bakery, I'd noticed the Danger Cove Savings & Loan. Well, I hadn't just noticed the building. It had been there forever, situated diagonally across the street from the bakery. I'd passed it every day for years and barely noticed it anymore. But last night it sat on the corner like a giant smiley face. Its ATM machine, which wasn't separated from the building or covered in any way, faced the bakery. It had to have a security camera, which meant it might've caught the killer as well.
But going there and simply asking for that footage was out of the question. I needed to be craftier than that, which involved Tara, and she was busy with a tots' class this morning. So until she was available, I baked a batch of banana muffins with wheat germ, at home. Baking left me relaxed and no longer hungry, and the house smelling like cinnamon and bananas.
After cleaning up, I changed into high-waisted denim capris and a red-and-white checkered blouse. I plaited my dark hair into a single long braid down my back, tied a red scarf around my head, like a headband, and skated over to Nathan's. The whole trip over, I wondered why Grams never mentioned a connection between Mom and another Danger Cove resident. People knew her. There were a few old classmates, but after the well-wishers at her funeral left, no one came by to talk about her or to check on us.
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