Strawberry Tartlets and a Dead Starlet (14 page)

The two of us gather as many cake stands as we can and start filling each tray with cakes. We slowly transport them from the kitchen to the buffet table in the dining room that Cherie keeps stocked with complimentary coffee, tea, and pastries. The cupcakes become the room's new focal point.

"I like it." I admire the dining room setup. What guest wouldn't want to wake up to a sweet treat?

"Cherie is going to freak." Bree gulps as high heels clang on the hardwood floor. Cherie is already in for the day, which isn't surprising. Sometimes I wonder when she gets around to sleeping. Bree tries to escape back to the kitchen, but Cherie interrupts her.

"Oh, my," she gasps. Her southern accent gets stronger when she's frustrated. "What on earth happened here?"

"Ummm…" Bree looks to me for support, but my mind draws a blank. Not everyone appreciates Bree's nervous baking the way I do. She's suppressed the urge since we got here, but now there's no telling what she'll make next. A trait of hers that I happen to love.

"What am I supposed to do with all these?" Cherie asks. "I don't know anyone who would prefer a cupcake for breakfast over a nice scramble, do you?"

"Well," I murmur. Cherie hasn't been at the Calle Pastry Academy student bakery the morning of finals. A sugar high is the best high when you have a million things to do.

"I'm sorry, Cherie," Bree apologizes. "It won't happen again."

I frown. Bree shouldn't have to apologize for being Bree. I search my mind for a clever solution, remembering one particularly hot Oregonian summer when my neighbor Evie and I would go for milkshakes almost every day. It was the most ice cream I'd had all year—mainly because I wasn't allowed ice cream because it interfered with my training.

"What do you mean?" I blurt out, shaking my head. "No, Bree made all of these for this afternoon, remember?"

"Uh…" Bree's eyes go wide.

"I thought it was a great idea to beat the heat, and the guests will love it," I continue. "No one can resist a cupcake milkshake. All we need is ice cream, milk, and each guest gets to choose their own cupcake."

"Oh." Cherie tilts her head as if playing out the scenario in her head. "I've never had one of those before." She crosses her arms—gently rubbing the side of her cheek. "We'll try it out and see if the guests go for it. Very inventive idea, Bree."

Cherie nods and continues her morning walk through the inn to make sure everything is in order before guests start trickling downstairs for breakfast or placing orders to their rooms. Bree breathes a sigh of relief.

"Cupcake milkshakes?" Bree responds. I shrug. "What are we, a bunch of five-year-olds?"

"They're a crowd pleaser, and you know it," I answer.

"Thanks." She takes a deep breath and snags a chocolate cupcake to have with her morning coffee. "This is my reward for not being fired."

"Speaking of which," I add. "When are you going to give Hattie Mae your two weeks?"

"No idea." Bree heads back to the kitchen. "Every time I see her she calls me
darling
and treats me like the grandma I never had."

"I thought your grandma lives in Atlantic City?"

"Yeah, and she's not nearly as sweet as Hattie Mae," Bree replies. "She got shot once for cheating in a poker game. My parents usually avoid the subject of gambling all together."

"That puts so much into perspective," I tease her.

"Come on." Bree washes her hands again. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do, Poppy. I'm tired of thinking about it all the time."

"Why don't we focus on Lacy Leigh first, and then we'll talk through whether or not we should stay in Gator Bay after the summer season."

"I can deal with that," Bree responds, "with a good cupcake milkshake."

"Do you think we can sneak away today?"

"As long as we're back by dinner," Bree answers. "How far away is the gator farm?"

"Far enough that no one will notice what we're up to." I glance at today's menu. Tonight's dessert will require another case of Alabama, prize-winning peaches since Bree used the last of them in her peaches and cream cupcakes.

"Maybe you should invite Presley along, in case we run into some gators and need a human sacrifice," Bree mutters as she clears the rest of her cupcake mess.

"I don't think so." Last night was a perfect ending to a not-so-perfect reunion. "We already said our good-byes, and that's all I care to say on the subject."

"What sort of good-byes?" Bree pauses.

"Why does it matter?"

"You kissed him again," she proudly states. My cheeks go hot like two cherry cakes in the oven. "I can tell by the look on your face."

"In this case," I respond, "I'd rather let that remain a mystery."

*   *   *

Unexpected weather means Bree and I didn't make as many cupcake milkshakes as planned. But the cupcakes she made this morning are almost gone. The sky is overcast, and the local weather station announced a possible storm brewing in the Gulf.

A few tourists are still scattered across the beach even though there's not as much sunshine. Gilly is walking the inn's perimeter as per Cherie's instructions, and Bree and I have some time to kill before dinner preparations begin. Tonight will be another jam-packed night.

"It's now or never," Bree reminds me. I nod. I've only ever seen an alligator on television. I shudder thinking that I might see one today.

"I guess there's no turning back now," I reply.

A sudden knock on my door makes me jump. I place a hand on my chest. I'm not expecting company. Bree shrugs as she slowly opens the door. Both of us are surprised to see Presley escorting a rather frantic woman.

Frankie looks like she's about to have a full-blown panic attack. Her breathing is irregular, and her complexion is paler than usual. She hesitates as she paces my room before she finally retreats to the window. She opens it and breathes in the fresh ocean air.

"Sorry, Poppy," Presley says, checking his watch. "I was just about to leave for the airport, and I didn't know where else to bring her."

"What happened?" I ask.

"I was bringing my suitcase downstairs, and I found her crying in the corner of the sitting room." He shrugs. "I don't know why."

"She's lucky Cherie didn't notice," Bree mutters. "She must be having a busy day in the office."

"Frankie." I attempt to calm her down by placing a hand on her shoulder. Her first reaction is to jolt back, but then she looks at me and settles down. "Frankie, tell us what happened. Let's see if we can sort this all out."

"I came in to work this morning like normal," she begins—her voice shaking. "But after breakfast, I realized that my cell phone was almost dead, so I ran home to my apartment to grab the charger."

"Okay," I respond. "So far, so good."

"Someone was there, and it wasn't my roommate." Frankie shivers, even though the air pouring in from the window is warm and humid.

"And you know this for certain?" I raise my eyebrows, awaiting her reply. Bree and Presley move a little closer.

"My roommate is at work," Frankie confirms. "And I found my bedroom window open. I
never
leave it open. Not even the blinds. Not after finding out that my neighbor was a resident pervert."

"Was anything stolen?" I search for reasons to believe that it was a routine break-in cut short. My gut tells me otherwise.

"No," Frankie says quietly. "But the kitchen did seem a little funny. A few things were out of place." She pauses, eyeing each one of us. "I'm not crazy. Someone's still after me. That's the only explanation. I was freaking out, so I came straight here."

"You're one lucky woman," I point out.

"Eventually my luck will run out." Frankie wipes her face with the bottom of her shirt. A smear of makeup stains her uniform, but she brushes it off.

"So we were right," Bree chimes in. "The police arrested the wrong man."

"Which means that eventually the killer will come for me again," Presley adds.

"You wait here, okay?" I grab my purse and nod at Bree.

"Where are you going?" Frankie quickly replies. "I'm not staying here alone. No way."

"We're following a lead," Bree informs her.

"And what if that lead brings you all the way to the murderer's doorstep?" Presley steps in, checking his watch again. "I'm coming with you."

"Me too," Frankie announces.

"Both of you?" Bree gasps. "I don't think so."

"And what about your flight?" I say to Presley.

"I can reschedule." Presley folds his arms, steadying his stance. He's not going to budge.

"And I want to live to see tomorrow," Frankie comments. "I'm coming whether you like it or not."

I look to Bree. She must know as well as I do that too many people isn't a good idea. If Raymond really is a crazy old hermit, he won't like two out-of-towners showing up on his doorstep—let alone four.

"Ummm…" I gulp.

"You need as much help as you can get, especially if you run into a gator," Presley reassures me.

"What are you going to do?" Bree says as she glares in his direction. "Wrestle it into submission? No. I doubt we'll even see a gator."

"The town must be called Gator Bay for a reason," Presley retaliates.

"Wait a second," Frankie butts in. "Are you talking about visiting the old gator farm outside of town?"

"We have reason to believe that Lacy Leigh was there the day before she died," I respond.

"That explains the mud." Frankie glances down at the floor. "You're going to need me then. I've been there before."

"Great, it's settled then," Bree sarcastically states. "Let's
all
go and have a friendly chat with the one man this town has shunned for who knows how long." Bree rolls her eyes as she leaves the room.

"I'll grab my suitcase," Presley responds.

"Frankie," I say, "when exactly was the last time you've been to the gator farm?" It's just the two of us and the afternoon breeze.

"A long time ago," she informs me. "That place hasn't been open to the public in over ten years."

"Why?"

"One of the gators got loose." She cringes. "It bit someone's leg off."

Raymond's abandoned alligator farm is just outside of Gator Bay. The sky is still gray, but the humidity surrounds us like a circle of hungry gators. Presley drives us to the remnants of an old parking lot. It's surrounded by rich, green foliage and trees tall enough to touch the stars at night. Presley stops the car, and Frankie is the first one to get out. There's nowhere left to go but down a wooden boardwalk leading into the swamps.

"His house is through there," Frankie instructs. "Now you can see why he never gets visitors."

Presley steps out of the driver's seat and observes the gobs of mud on his tires. It didn't rain today, yet the ground is still moist. I dab my forehead as I study the path in front of us. Frankie takes a deep breath and starts walking. She's anxious for answers, and so am I.

"Are you sure there isn't another road that leads straight to his house?" Bree asks. "I mean, how do we know that boardwalk won't fall apart the minute we set foot on it?"

"If there is, no one knows about it," Frankie responds.

The four of us approach the wooden boardwalk leading into unknown territory. I hesitate to leave the comfort of the parking lot. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea? Bree glances at me with a worried expression on her face.

"If anything, the gators will go for me first," Bree whispers. "I smell like cupcakes."

"I'm not sure that's the smell they'll be looking for," I whisper back.

"Last chance to chicken out," Frankie says, stopping right in front of us. "I don't plan to."

I think of the morning I saw Lacy Leigh's body and the frantic expression on Frankie's face when she was almost hit by a car. I've already opened up a can of worms, and I don't want it following me wherever my culinary journey takes me next.

"Raymond's or bust," I declare. "Let's hope he at least answers the door."

We start our journey along the rickety footpath that once housed the pattering feet of hundreds or maybe even thousands of tourists. The wood wobbles slightly as we walk deeper into the swamp. The ground underneath us is muddy, and I can hardly hear myself think because the bugs are buzzing as loud as birds can chirp. Bree flicks a strand of hair and starts to spit.

"Gross," she exclaims. "I think something just flew into my mouth. When was the last time someone came through here with a weed whacker?"

"Try
never
," I mutter. Overgrowth crowds our path, and I reach my hand out in front of me to push aside a hanging tree branch. Presley stays at the back of the group, glancing over his shoulder every minute as if he's in the middle of one of his security gigs.

"Why would Lacy Leigh want to come here?" Bree continues. "I don't get it."

"Maybe we're overthinking this, and she really did come out here to visit with her uncle," I suggest.

"Not likely," Bree argues.

"I agree," Frankie chimes in. "This wasn't Lacy's sort of place. Too many bugs and not enough booze." Frankie chuckles to herself. "And it's just like her to send us on a wild goose chase even after she's dead. I'm sure she's looking down at us laughing right now."

"Or up," Bree blurts out. I nudge her shoulder, and she shrugs. "What? We don't know what kind of person she was."

"Misunderstood," Frankie responds, looking off into the distance. "I think I see something."

Frankie quickens her pace. The boardwalk shakes a little more with every step we take. I keep my hand over the railings, but realistically if the whole bridge was to fall over, a railing wouldn't help me. Frankie comes to a sudden halt, and Bree almost knocks her over.

"Ouch, my foot," Bree mutters.

"Look." Frankie points ahead of us.

It isn't long before the boardwalk ends and not because we've successfully navigated our way through the swamp. The wooden path is cracked and broken, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the walkway. It seems impossible to get to the other side without trailing through the mud.