Murder at the Taffy Shop Read online

  THE PRIME SUSPECTS

  Flo gazed at her pad for a moment. She looked up and surveyed the room. “We have a hand’s worth of people who might have wanted Beverly Ruchart dead.” She ticked names and reasons off on her fingers. “Ron inherits.”

  “So he says, anyway,” I pointed out. “He could be just assuming he gets Grandma’s estate.”

  “Granted,” Flo said. “Then there’s Isadora with her anger about the potential of losing half her own inheritance.”

  “I’ve met an Isadora.” Derrick gazed over my head out the window as if he was thinking. “She always seemed to wear expensive-looking things.”

  Flo went on. “We also have Eli, who might or might not have hated Beverly.”

  “Gin, you also mentioned Beverly acted really drunk last night,” I said, “and that she said she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Somebody at the dinner probably poisoned her with a substance mimicking being intoxicated,” Derrick said.

  “Maybe. But what substance?” I asked. “What poison can do that?”

  Books by Maddie Day

  Country Store Mysteries

  FLIPPED FOR MURDER

  GRILLED FOR MURDER

  WHEN THE GRITS HIT THE FAN

  BISCUITS AND SLASHED BROWNS

  DEATH OVER EASY

  STRANGLED EGGS AND HAM

  NACHO AVERAGE MURDER

  CANDY SLAIN MURDER

  Anthologies

  CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER

  (with Carlene O’Connor and Alex Erickson)

  Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries

  MURDER ON CAPE COD

  MURDER AT THE TAFFY SHOP

  And writing as Edith Maxwell

  A TINE TO LIVE, A TINE TO DIE

  ‘TIL DIRT DO US PART

  FARMED AND DANGEROUS

  MURDER MOST FOWL

  MULCH ADO ABOUT MURDER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Murder at the Taffy Shop

  MADDIE DAY

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE PRIME SUSPECTS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  RECIPES

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Edith Maxwell

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3169-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1509-8 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1509-8 (ebook)

  For Dru Ann Love, who, with her Dru’s Book

  Musings blog, has done more to promote the cozy mystery

  than almost anyone else. Thank you for your dedication

  to our stories and for your friendship!

  Acknowledgments

  So many people help with the writing and publishing of a book. As always, the crack team at Kensington, headed up by John Scognamiglio, produces a well-edited and gorgeous product. Thanks to my agent, John Talbot, for connecting me with Kensington.

  Sherry Harris again gave the book a sanity and reality edit—thank you, dear Wicked. She and the rest of the Wicked Authors—Jessie Crockett, Julie Hennrikus, Liz Mugavero, and Barbara Ross—are my backup crew and sounding board, and we hope you’ll visit our blog, wickedauthors.com.

  For this book I consulted the fabulous Book of Poisons: A Guide for Writers by Serita Stevens and Anne Bannon. My friend Kathleen Stearns kindly gave me access to her African gray parrot, Jewel, and took note of some of the things she says for me to use. I so appreciate the Wi-Fi–free West Falmouth Quaker retreat house, where I worked on this book and ones in the other series that I write, and where I soaked up Cape Cod scents, sights, and sounds. My consultant on Massachusetts police procedure, Lieutenant Kevin Donovan of the Amesbury PD, provided me with several key tips. Any errors in procedure are entirely of my doing.

  Gratitude always to my menfolk: Allan and JD, my bicyclist sons and biggest fans; and Hugh, who helped with astrology in this book and who makes me laugh. To Sisters in Crime, without whose support and inspiration I never would have achieved whatever successes I have gained. And to my mystery-fan sisters Barbara and Janet, and all the readers and librarians out there—thank you for enabling me to enjoy this best and last career. I hope you’ll check out my Edith Maxwell author hat, too, and keep letting me know when you’ve read and loved one of my books.

  Chapter One

  In my opinion, only the coldest heart could resist a puppy. Beverly Ruchart apparently possessed an arctic heart. She marched through the gap in the hedge between her property and my parents’ yard behind the church parsonage. Beverly held the wriggling, yipping three-month-old puppy at arm’s length. My father had acquired Tucker for his granddaughter, my niece Cokey, to play with when she visited. A curly-haired rescue, the little guy was all sweetness, energy, and enough wile to slip his collar and go exploring.

  “This, this creature has been digging in my garden.” Beverly’s crisp white shirt bore dirt smudges. Her florid neck contrasted with her cap of silver hair, which was definitely not as perfectly styled as usual. She caught sight of me where I sat with my mother, our brightly colored—but empty—plastic margarita glasses in hand.

  “Good evening, ladies.” Beverly was a regular at Mac’s Bikes, my bicycle repair, rental, and retail shop here in our small Cape Cod town of Westham.

  “Hey, Beverly.” Mom smiled, ignoring Beverly’s tone. “Have a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Beverly kept her arms extended.

  My father, Joseph Almeida, took the puppy. “We’re very sorry, Ms. Ruchart. He slipped out of his collar. It won’t happen again.” He stroked Tucker’s silky dark coat and smiled kindly at his irate neighbor.

  “Please see to it that it doesn’t. I pay good money to my landscape service and I grow prize-winning roses.”

  “Tucker! Bad boy.” Cokey, with a five-year-old’s frown, shook her little finger at the pup. Her curly blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but escaped ringlets framed her face like angel curls.

  “The dog was extremely bad, young lady. I don’t intend to have my grounds ruined by him again.” Chin held high, Beverly turned and slipped back through the hedge a moment later. She’d bought the property adjoining the Unitarian Universalist Church years earlier and had had the house and grounds renovated to her expensive liking.

  Cokey stared. “Am I a lady, Athtra?” she lisped to her grandmother, who loved Cokey, calling her Astra instead of Grandma.

  “Of course you are, honey,” Mom said.

  “I guess she doesn’t like puppies,” I said, gazing after Beverly. “Have you h
ad trouble with her before?” I looked from Mom to Pa and back.

  “I don’t believe she thinks much of our modest lifestyle, but we haven’t had this kind of run-in prior to today.” My father gazed at the gap Beverly had disappeared through. “I’m wondering about installing a fence, Mackenzie. What do you think?”

  “So Tucker can run around freely?” I asked. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Yes, and so Ms. Ruchart won’t have cause to complain again. Fences make good neighbors.” Pa, the UU minister, had a steady, quiet presence reflected in the deep tones of his comforting voice.

  “I hear you,” I replied.

  Cokey dashed off. She came back to us holding Tucker’s leash and collar. “Abo Joe, here.” Abo, the Kriolu word for both “grandfather” and “grandmother,” came from Pa’s father’s Cape Verdean heritage. Pa had grown up speaking the language with his father.

  Pa knelt and helped Cokey securely refasten the collar. From the lawn chair where he’d been sitting, he picked up the little harness that went around Tucker’s chest. “We have to put the harness on every time, Coquille, not just the collar. All right?” He was the only person in the family who used Cokey’s full name, bestowed on her by her French mother.

  She nodded solemnly. “Cuth I don’t want that lady mad at uth anymore,” she lisped.

  “Neither do I,” he said. Together they fastened on the harness, which framed the puppy’s white chest, and hooked the leash to it.

  Mom, otherwise known as Astra Mackenzie—thus my first name—piped up. “I’d be willing to bet she’s an Aquarian. Not the most touchy-feeling of signs.” Mom was a professional astrologer and was astonishingly accurate in assessing personalities. She leaned over and refilled my glass from the pitcher, which she’d lifted out of an ice chest.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I didn’t believe in astrology myself, but it’s a big world, and my mother’s profession made her happy.

  I stretched out my legs. I often stopped by my parents’ place after closing the shop. Mac’s Bikes, which I’d opened a year and a half ago, kept me busy, especially in the height of the season, but it was thriving, and I liked the multifaceted challenge of keeping a business afloat. I sipped the frosty, citrusy drink. A cold drink at the end of a busy mid-summer Saturday and a dose of family was almost never the wrong choice.

  “Where’s Derrick?” I asked. Cokey’s single-parent dad worked in the rental-retail side of my shop. “He left work at five today.”

  “He’s at a meeting,” Pa said.

  “Good.” I nodded. Derrick, my older half brother, was a recovering alcoholic but was stable again. Attending AA meetings regularly was much of the reason why. Pa’s being a solid support for his stepson was another. I watched Cokey walk the puppy around the yard. “Derrick’s doing great, isn’t he?”

  “He sure is.” My mom stood. “Are you eating with us, Mac?” She tossed back her nimbus of flyaway blonde hair that included more than a little gray.

  “Thanks, but no. Tim’s cooking for me. I’d better get home and clean up so I’m not late.” I glanced at Tucker, who had run toward us with Cokey barely managing to hold on to the leash. Tucker, a Portuguese water dog, rubbed against my leg and I didn’t have to recoil. Pa had been careful to find one of the few breeds of dog that didn’t make me sneeze, wheeze, and reach for my antihistamine eye drops.

  “Titi Mac, I want to go to Tio Tim’s, too,” she said, using the Cape Verdean words for aunt and uncle.

  “Not tonight, querida.” When I saw her lip push out, I added, “But he wants to meet Tucker, so we’ll get together soon, okay?”

  Her expression brightened. “Hold Tucker, Athtra, so he doesn’t get away.” She thrust the leash at my mother and ran over to the swing.

  Life was good in August here in Westham. I had family and a thriving business, not to mention a devoted—and handsome—boyfriend. What more could a woman want?

  Chapter Two

  Tim and I walked hand in hand along the beach at nine the next morning on another cloudless summer day. A sea breeze brought a fresh tang of salt and seaweed, and kept the sun from feeling too hot. Tim had taken off his shirt, and I wore only a tank top and my EpiPen bag with my shorts, a pink cap over my short black curls. I normally power walked with Gin Malloy, a friend from the Cozy Capers book group, early in the mornings, but I saved Sundays for Tim. He also took precedence over attending the UU services my father conducted, about which I felt the tiniest jab of guilt.

  “I’m glad your assistant baker is working out.” I squeezed his hand. My guy owned Greta’s Grains, an artisanal bakery in town. When we were first going out, he had to be at the bakery by four every morning, including Sundays. He’d finally found another baker to take over weekend mornings.

  “Me too.”

  “How’s your training going for Falmouth?” A row of plovers at the water’s edge ran ahead of us, poked sharp beaks into the wet sand, and ran again when we approached. Tim had entered the Falmouth Road Race, held next week, but he’d be running straight ahead and fast, not zigzagging like these energetic little birds.

  “Eli is a great running buddy, and we push each other. I think I’m ready for the race.”

  “It’s a week from today?”

  “Yep, and Eli thinks he might actually place in the top ten.”

  “Wow. He must be fast.” The race was a big deal on the Cape, with a seven-mile route that started hilly but also led along a beach on Martha’s Vineyard Sound before heading back into town. It had been taking place since 1973 and attracted over ten thousand runners.

  Tim laughed. “He just turned forty, so he’s the youngest in his age category. That makes it easier to place in his age group than me in my thirty-to-forty group.”

  “World-class runners come to compete, don’t they?”

  “They do. Some well-known, elite racers are coming this year. Mostly from Kenya and Ethiopia, as usual.”

  “Do you know what Eli does at the Woods Hole lab?” I asked. Tim and I had done a little matchmaking with my friend Gin and Eli. They’d only been dating for a month, but Gin seemed pleased with the guy.

  “He’s some kind of marine researcher at the Oceanographic Institute. I’m not quite sure what his area is.” He pushed his shoulder-length dark blond hair back off his face, but the wind blew it back again. “I should have tied my hair. I’m going in the water. You?”

  I shook my head. “You go.” I plopped onto packed sand and set my arms on my knees. I hadn’t brought a towel. Anyway, I had to open the shop at eleven and didn’t want to have to shower again.

  He jogged in and dove when the water was deep enough. Here on the bay we didn’t have waves except small ones lapping the shore like a caress. Tim popped up and ambled back out. He was an extraordinarily fine specimen of his gender. He kept his abs toned and pulled in, and had broad shoulders, with a small patch of chest hair at his sternum. He had a luscious set of lips—and knew how to use them—and big baby-blue eyes. More important, he was kind and smart and adored me. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d lucked out.

  He leaned over, shaking the water out of his hair. He tossed his head up, tucking his hair behind his ears, and sank with grace to sit next to me.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Much.”

  A boy and a girl a little older than Cokey dashed by in front of us, shrieking as they chased a seagull. I held my breath, waiting to see if Tim would bring up the question of starting a family yet again. Every few weeks he raised the issue, and every time I said I wasn’t ready. My life was good. Happy, busy, in order. I wasn’t sure I wanted to disturb the status quo by getting married, getting pregnant, figuring out how to live with a baby. It wasn’t like I wanted to be with anyone else, and I supposed one day I’d want a family. Tim, on the other hand, couldn’t wait. And I probably shouldn’t, either. I was thirty-six to his thirty-two, and my eggs weren’t getting any younger.

  But the moment passed. We sat quietly looking out to sea, our lives at peace for the moment.