Pink Velvet Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 9 (Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries) (6 page)

Carlton
Dobbs leaned casually across the counter of Missy’s Muffins and More, clearly
flirting. Cheryl, the manager was in the back, boxing up orders to be
delivered, Grayson was on his lunch break, and Missy was manning the front
counter by herself.

“I
just had to stop by and partake of a little bit more of your sweetness,” he
grinned.

“I
get that a lot. Which flavor strikes your fancy?” she asked, looking pointedly
at the cupcake selection in the cases.

Carlton
chuckled. “I’m sure they’re all delightful. Tell me, Missy, how is it that a
lovely woman like you doesn’t have a ring on that delicate finger?”

“It’s
a long story, but suffice to say, I’ve had other goals that don’t leave much
room for that sort of thing,” she replied dismissively. “The Cupcake of the Day
is quite good, it’s called Margarita Madness – I created the recipe while on
vacation in the Caribbean,” she deftly changed the subject.

“Sounds
delicious, I’ll take two. So, are you and Dudley Do-Right, whom I met on your
porch the other day, dating?” he persisted, while Missy pulled two of the
cupcakes out of the case.

Missy
was beginning to get a bit uncomfortable. She didn’t like talking about her
personal life with strangers, even charming, handsome ones, and didn’t
particularly appreciate Carlton’s mocking reference to the detective. “I don’t
see why that matters,” she said breezily, handing him a plate with his
cupcakes. “How’s your ankle by the way?” She’d noticed when he came in that he
didn’t have even so much as a trace of a limp, and thought that he must heal
very quickly, despite the chronic nature of his injury.

“It’s
much better, thanks. So, are you two exclusive, or would you agree to go out to
dinner with me sometime? We could take a trip down to New Orleans, take in some
jazz…” he offered.

“I’m
flattered, really, but I can’t,” Missy replied, busily rearranging cupcakes in
the case to indicate that, as far as she was concerned, their conversation had
ended with the completion of his transaction.

“Well,
can’t blame a man for trying,” he gave her a tight smile. “Listen, sugar, why
don’t you go ahead and put these in a bag for me?” he glanced at his watch,
handing the plate of cupcakes back to her. “I just remembered that there’s
someplace that I need to be.”

Missy’s
encounter with the suave Mr. Dobbs left her feeling a bit unsettled, not
because he tried so desperately to flirt with her, she’d been politely
rebuffing male attention as long as she could remember, but because there was a
certain something that seemed to be lurking beneath his impeccable manners that
just didn’t sit well with her. Realizing that it was silly to dwell on the
encounter, and knowing that she had far more disturbing things to think about,
she shook it off and went on with her day.

Missy
knew that the LaChance PD hadn’t cleared her to return home, but she had only
brought enough things to Chas’s house to last her a couple of days and needed
to pick up more clothing. She felt that she was imposing on the detective as it
was, and was more than reluctant to ask him to gather her clothing and bring it
to his house, so she tried to think of ways to slip in and out without notice,
now that the police were patrolling the area in hopes of spotting Donna if she
came back to do more damage. She felt ridiculous being just a tiny bit scared
of encountering the teenager, but, if the girl was capable of murder, her fear
was more than justified.

Grayson
came back in from his lunch break, and Missy pulled off her apron, hanging it
on a peg in the kitchen on her way out. She grimaced as she grabbed her purse,
dreading the meeting that she was about to attend with Priscilla Chadwick.
Apparently, the mayor had been just as persuasive with his daughter as he had
been with Missy, and had railroaded them both into agreeing to a meeting. Missy
refused to meet at a fancy restaurant this time, figuring that if dear Prissy
threw another tantrum, it would at least be less embarrassing in a less
ostentatious venue.

Pulling
up in front of the Perfect Pig BBQ, Missy saw a very expensive imported
convertible in the parking lot, and correctly assumed that Priscilla had
arrived before she did, giving her a small glimmer of hope that this meeting
would go better than the last. She had to suppress a giggle when she walked into
the smoky-scented eatery and saw Priscilla Chadwick peeling paper towels off of
a roll on a red and white checkered tablecloth and putting them down on a rough
hewn bench before sitting. Missy was wearing the same jeans and short-sleeved
polo that she had worn to work, poor Prissy was dressed in white designer
capris and a second-skin white camisole, not exactly the best choice for a
barbeque joint that was known for its “sloppy satisfaction.”

“Hello
Priscilla,” Missy grinned, approaching the clearly uncomfortable socialite.

“What
were you thinking, having a meeting here?” she asked, taking in her
surroundings with disdain. “I don’t think Daddy would approve,” she sniffed.

“On
the contrary,” Missy replied smugly. “Your father has his meetings here pretty regularly
from what I understand. It allows him to relate to his constituents, and the
barbeque here is out of this world.”

“I
bet it is,” Prissy grimaced. “I feel like I’ve landed on another planet. My
fiancé will be joining us shortly, he had some work thing,” she waved her hand,
unable to relate to having the responsibility of an actual job.

“Great,”
Missy was pleased, thinking that dealing with Priscilla might actually be
easier with the presence of another adult, assuming that her fiancé wasn’t just
as spoiled and entitled as she was. “Let’s go ahead and order, then we can get
started with a few basics before he arrives,” she suggested, taking a seat on
the bench across from the bride-to-be.

“Order?
Are you serious? I’m sure there’s nothing here that I’d be interested in
putting in my mouth,” she made a face.

“Suit
yourself,” Missy replied, looking at the menu. She placed her order when the
server came over, for an unashamed southern lunch of pulled pork, Cajun
coleslaw, collard greens and jalapeno cheddar cornbread. Priscilla ordered an
iced tea, cattily remarking that it must be difficult to maintain one’s figure
with such a voracious appetite. “And yet, I manage,” was Missy’s oh-so-sweet
response. She was determined not to let the mayor’s daughter get under her
skin. Knowing full well that she was the responsible adult, and that the mayor
was confident that she could reign in his headstrong offspring, she had vowed
to take control of the situation and keep it.

Missy
thoroughly enjoyed her down-home lunch, savoring each bite while young Miss
Chadwick sipped delicately at her iced tea, complaining that it wasn’t freshly
brewed.

“So
let’s start off with something easy,” she suggested, sopping up a puddle of
sweet and smoky barbeque sauce with the corner of her cornbread. “What colors
were you thinking for the bridesmaids?” she asked, thinking that this was the
safest possible question. Most girls had their wedding color scheme dreamed up
from about age 10.

“I’m
sorry, but is this how it’s going to go? Am I going to have to think of
everything?” Priscilla huffed, offended. “I thought that was your job.”

Missy’s
forkful of greens stopped halfway to her mouth. She was utterly astounded that
this difficult creature who proclaimed to know exactly what she wanted, hadn’t
thought far enough ahead to even know what her color scheme was going to be.
“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know, or care, what colors are used in
your wedding? That’s something that most brides are very passionate about,” she
replied, not letting her astonishment color her tone.

“Okay,
I don’t want to have to remind you of this again, but I am not
most brides
,
and my wedding is supposed to be special and perfect. That’s why you’re here,
right? If you’re not capable of handling it, you should just say so,” she
snipped, examining her perfect manicure.

Missy
refused to take the bait, and ignored the socialite’s pathetic jibe. “Do you
have a favorite color?” she persisted.

“Mmmm…no.
I refuse to limit myself by choosing one favorite color.”

“Okay,
let’s table that subject for now,” Missy said, jotting down a note on her pad
that said, “rainbow.”

“Do
you know who you’d like to have as your bridesmaids?” she asked, wondering if
the difficult creature actually had any friends.

“You’ll
have to ask Daddy about that, I think he has some hags from good families that
we’re supposed to include,” she leaned her head on her hand, poking her straw
up and down among the ice cubes in her tea. “How long is this going to take? I
have a wax at 2:00,” she said, clearly bored.

Missy
was relieved to know that there was a constraint on their time together,
preferring to deal with Prickly Prissy in small doses. “We’ll be done in plenty
of time for you to get to your…wax. How many guests are you planning on
inviting?”

“Don’t
know, don’t care, ask Daddy,” she muttered, then suddenly sat up, brightening,
and smiling the first smile that Missy had ever seen from her. “There he is,”
she cooed, looking past Missy and waving at someone behind her. Missy turned
and nearly choked on her sweet tea when she saw Carlton Dobbs making his way
toward them.

The
art broker never broke stride when he saw Missy sitting with his
15-years-younger fiancé, but instead, came up to the table, kissing Priscilla
lovingly on the cheek and extended his hand to Missy in greeting.

“Missy
Gladstone, what a pleasant surprise,” he said smoothly, sliding onto the bench
next to his fiancée.

“A
surprise indeed,” Missy nodded, stunned.

Priscilla’s
eyes narrowed. “You two know each other?” she addressed Carlton exclusively,
the demand in her eyes not the least bit softened by her plastic smile.

“Why
yes, poppet,” he oozed, touching Prissy’s chin with a fingertip. “I have a bit
of a sweet tooth, you see, and Missy’s delightful little cupcake shop is
located conveniently between here and New Orleans, so I occasionally pop in for
a morning treat on my way to the city,” he explained, drawing her hand to his
lips and kissing it.

“Oh,
I didn’t know,” her tone was faintly accusatory, but she seemed to be pacified
for the moment. Carlton’s presence had significantly changed her demeanor for
the better. “Ewww…baby, what is that icky stuff on your suit?” she scooted away
as though not wanting to be contaminated.

“Hmmm…I
must’ve sat in something,” he said, running his hand over the red, waxy
substance, and taking off the offending suit coat so that his beloved would sit
closer to him.

Missy
was at a loss for words, wondering if her day and this nightmare of a wedding
could get any stranger. She put another bite of cornbread in her mouth, just so
she’d have something to do, feeling entirely awkward in the presence of the
engaged man who had just asked her out this morning.

“So,
Missy, I’m assuming that you’re going to be baking our cake?” he asked
pleasantly, as though nothing had ever happened between them.

“Umm…no,
I’m planning the entire wedding,” she replied, needing a swig of tea to wash
down the cornbread that seemed stuck in her throat.

“Well,
splendid!” he exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased.

“She’s
only done this once before, and for some reason, Daddy hired her,” Priscilla
complained, snuggling closer to Carlton with a pouty look on her face.

“Well,
princess, I’m sure that we’re in good hands. Your father is very intuitive
about most things,” he soothed.

Missy
did her best not to gag at the sickly sweetness with which he treated his
impossible fiancée. With Carlton present, they were able to at least get
through some of the basics, however, so no matter how awkward Missy felt, she
was glad that he had attended the meeting. Thankfully, because of Prissy’s
waxing appointment, the meeting was mercifully brief, and Missy came away from
it with more of a plan than she had believed was possible, so she counted the
time together as a success.

She
called the mayor to report that things had actually gone much better than she
had anticipated, leaving out her feelings about having been hit on earlier in
the day by the prospective groom. The magnanimous official told her that
whatever she had been planning on charging him, she should double it.

Because
she had handled the difficult situation with aplomb, Missy felt that she was
certainly brave enough to handle slipping into her own home to gather some
personal items for her stay at Chas’s, and headed for her neighborhood, despite
repeated warnings from Chas and the police that she should stay away.

Rather
than pulling into her driveway and parking in the garage, she parked on the
next block and took a path between houses to approach her stately Victorian
from the rear. Her heart rate sped up as she slipped stealthily onto the back
porch and unlocked the door, hoping that the police had retrieved all the
evidence that they needed, so that she wouldn’t be impeding the investigation
by disturbing the scene.

Missy
walked quietly through the kitchen, tiptoeing as though she was the intruder,
then, realizing how silly she was being, she made an effort to breathe and move
normally. Sure enough, the basket of dog toys was missing, which made her
unreasonably sad, and when she crossed into the living room to look at the
space where her grandmother’s painting had hung, she gasped in horror, fumbling
in her purse for her phone.

Chas
Beckett sped to Missy’s house frustrated that she had gone in when he’d
strongly advised her not to, and concerned because of her reaction to what she
had found. He saw her sitting on the front porch, head in her hands when he
pulled up, and when she raised her head, hearing his car in the drive, her
expression was a strange mix of fear and relief.

“What
is it? What’s wrong?” the detective asked after mounting the porch steps two at
a time. His eyes darted about, looking for anything amiss.

“Donna
didn’t do this, Chas,” Missy stated, wide-eyed.

“What
makes you say that?” he asked, frowning. All evidence seemed to indicate that
the teenager was the murderer and burglar. He was still waiting for results
from the autopsy and handwriting specialist, but had assumed that they would
merely confirm what was already assumed.

Missy
took him by the hand and led him to the living room, coming to a halt in front
of the spot where her grandmother’s painting had hung, and where the burglar
had scrawled a threatening message. “See this?” she pointed at the message, “
Your
next,
” that was scrawled in red crayon on the wall in place of the missing
painting. “Donna couldn’t have done this. She was a straight A student, and
even though she wasn’t awarded the scholarship for cooking school, she was the
editor of the school paper and was nominated for several other partial
scholarships.”

Chas
looked at the wall, then back at Missy, figuring out what she was saying. “So,
if Donna had written this, it would’ve been spelled correctly,” he nodded,
frowning.

“Exactly!
She would never have confused
your
and
you’re
, but that’s not
all…” Missy said excitedly.

“Okay,
what else?” the detective asked, his admiration for her growing by the second.

“I
had lunch today with Priscilla Chadwick, and found out that her fiancé was
Carlton Dobbs.”

The
detective grimace upon hearing Carlton’s name. “And?”

“And,
when Carlton sat down, Priscilla remarked that he had something on his suit,
and I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but from where I sat, it certainly
looked like exactly this shade of red crayon,” she pointed at the message
again.

“I’m
certainly not averse to the idea of putting Dobbs behind bars for a very long
time,” Chas admitted wryly. “But why would he do something like this? He seemed
to be quite fond of you,” the detective observed, gritting his teeth.

“He
probably did it to make it look like Donna was guilty, and, not knowing that
the girl who worked at the ice cream shop just happened to be an honor student,
he wrote a misspelled message in red crayon on the wall to point the
investigation in her direction so that he’d have the freedom to steal artwork
for his business without scrutiny from the police,” she explained.

“When
the Home Ec teacher’s house was robbed after her murder, it was art that was
taken,” Chas nodded.

“And
my grandmother’s painting is what was taken from here,” she reminded him.

“But
what about the dog toys, and your clothes?”

“Carlton
has Chauncey, so that would explain the dog toys. The clothes…who knows, maybe
he’s just creepy,” she shuddered.

A
light dawned in Chas’s eyes. “Or maybe he’s holding Donna Chesman captive,” he
proposed. “I need to make some phone calls. Pick up what you need and head back
to my house, I’ll catch up with you when I know what’s going on,” he
instructed. As she turned to go upstairs, he caught her by the hand, bringing
her in close. “Hey,” he said softly.

“What?”
was her breathless reply.

“You’re
pretty terrific, you know that?” he smiled tenderly, brushing the back of his
hand along her jaw and kissing her.

“Must
be the company I keep,” she grinned and danced away, heading up the stairs. “Go
solve a murder!” she called out on her way up.