From the casebook of Beverly Sweet, owner and proprietor, Beverly Sweet: Cakes for all Occasions.
Part i here.
ii
We both let the accusation hang in the air a while; she seemed entirely serious.
“Well then, I suppose it’s just as well they didn’t go through with the wedding,” I tried, “it doesn’t sound as if the marriage would have worked out.”
She gave me an appalled face, naturally, but I couldn’t say just how much of it was a put-on. “That’s not funny, Mr. Sweet. That’s not even remotely funny.”
“I suppose not,” I said. “But what makes you think the fiancée killed your brother? Have the police got her?”
“The police don’t know where she is. No one does. But they’re searching for her.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
“It’s obvious that she did it. Why else would she have run? And everyone knew she was only interested in James for his money.”
“If she wanted the money, oughtn’t she have waited until after the wedding to knock him off?”
“Legally, they had been married for nearly two months. They ran off to Reno and got married without telling anyone shortly after meeting. She likely knew that the rest of the family would have tried to talk James out of his idiocy, and we might have succeeded, too. The ceremony on Saturday was just a means of placating our grandmother. Gran has title to most of the family fortune, so once the little tramp had her claws permanently into James, she had every reason to smooth things over as well as she could.”
“Hn. The little tramp have a name?”
“Lois. Lois Oswald. Lois Sosland now, I suppose.”
“Hn,” I repeated. I had meant it sincerely the first time and didn’t want any question on the matter. “Still, there must be more to it than that. How can you know this Lois actually killed your brother? If no one can find her, how do you even know she’s still alive?”
“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Sweet, but I don’t see how any of this affair concerns you, particularly.”
“The deposit concerns me. Your brother ordered a wedding cake and then died before he could accept delivery. Ordinarily, we’d just return the money to his next of kin, but the murder queers things. If his fiancée is really a suspect, I can’t pay her. You cancel an order due to a murder you yourself have committed, you lose your deposit. That’s store policy: no refund for murder.” I paused a moment. “It’s a fair rule, I think.”
“So…” Her eyes narrowed again.
“So, Ms. Sosland, I need to get to the bottom of this damned mess before I can work out what to do with the deposit. And it is a mess, because nothing you’ve told me so far makes sense.” She opened her mouth to object, but I continued before she could put anything to words. “If this Lois was going to murder your brother anyway, why bother with the hassle of a sham wedding? Have you ever tried to organize a wedding?” She shook her head. “It’s murder, torture. No amount of money is worth that. And if she actually had her eye on your grandmother’s fortune, then your brother was her meal ticket. Why on earth would she kill him?”
She studied me awhile, face tightly controlled, saying nothing.
“It doesn’t make sense, sister. You’re going to have to sit down and explain the whole thing to me from beginning to end.”
“You expect me to talk through my family’s ordeal, through all the private—”
“You’d be surprised the things people tell their patissiers. Besides, I’ll work it all out in the end, one way or another. It’d be better coming directly from you.”
She seemed to consider a moment. I cut in again before she could refuse.
“But come talk over here so I can finish piping these daisies. If you’ll wash your hands first, you can hand-mould some roses out of sugar paste. It’ll give you something to do while you talk.”
“I really don’t think that—”
“You’ll like it. It’s much easier than it looks. It’s fun.”
She gave me another long look. It really was difficult to work out what might be going on behind her eyes. Finally she sighed. “Very well, then,” she said, and started over towards the sink. Everybody wants to try making those damn roses.
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