Murder is a Piece of Cake (A Baker Street Mystery Book 2)

“What do you think the mayor’s big surprise is going to be?” Leroy whispered as we sat in the hard folding chairs that were arranged in the public room of the New Bison City Hall building. The front of the room had a raised platform and seats where the mayor and city council members sat. Each of the board members had a microphone. There was a standing microphone on the floor facing the council where the public were allowed five minutes to speak their piece. Behind the microphone were about fifty folding chairs for the public.

“I have no idea.” I looked around the room. Every chair was filled except the one Michael, Leroy, and I were saving for our friend Tyler Lawrence.

As if on cue, Tyler made his way through the crowd. He strained his neck as he looked around the room. We made eye contact, and he wove through the standing-room-only throng to our row. Then he sidled past several people to take his seat.

I leaned across Leroy and whispered, “What took you so long?”

“Business has been booming. Thanks to you.” He nodded toward me. “Since you’ve been posting pictures online, I’ve been crazy busy. Not that I’m complaining. I’m grateful, but it’s exhausting.”

Tyler was a small-framed man with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. He was a wizard with yarn and owned a custom knitwear shop.

“I wish I could take credit, but your bespoke knitwear sells itself. I just helped folks find you.”

“Bespoke.” Leroy chuckled. “It sounds so much more expensive than homemade.”

The council members entered and went to their seats at the front of the room. The conversation level had reduced to a low rumble as the crowd prepared for the main event.

Jackson Abernathy was a red-faced man with wisps of blond hair on either side of his head. Abernathy was new to the role of mayor, having fallen into the position after Paul Rivers, the previous mayor, was murdered.

New Bison was a small town with a population of less than two thousand, so the mayor wasn’t a paid position. Abernathy supported himself by breeding English mastiffs and managing his father’s insurance agency, New Bison Casualty and Life. He liked being the center of attention, so the role of mayor was perfect for him.

I glanced around at the crowded room. I was struck by the amount of flannel and denim. It was spring, but still a little cool beside Lake Michigan, so most of the women had a denim jacket or a sweater to combat the wind. Sadly, one glance told me the sweaters were not from Tyler’s knit shop. The quality of the yarn and boring machine designs screamed blue-light special. In my past life, I would have chosen death before I’d have allowed myself to be seen in those outfits. However, my past life hadn’t worked out so well. In fact, six months ago my life was night-and-day different from what it was today. Six months ago, my highest aspiration was to marry a doctor and be a good trophy wife. I never dreamed I would be living in a town that wasn’t a metropolitan hub, like New York City, Los Angeles, Paris, or London. I saw myself at the center of a bustling, exciting life, dressed to the nines in the latest in haute couture. I’d have a huge diamond on my left ring finger. The stone would be so large that when the sun hit it, I could use it like a laser to blind my enemies. I smiled. I’d had that life. Most of that life. I’d lived in Los Angeles, built a career as a social media influencer, snagged a doctor, and was on my way to the altar, when everything came to a screeching halt. My former fiancé, Elliott, dumped me at the altar in the middle of our live-streamed wedding, and I thought my life was over. #HumiliatedBeyondBelief

I planned to find a big rock to hide under for a few years until things died down, but my great-aunt Octavia died. Now, instead of hiding out, I was running a bakery, dating a vet, and sitting at town hall meetings in New Bison, Michigan.

A nudge in the ribs brought me back to the here and now. I glanced at my friend, head baker, and assistant, Leroy. “What?”

“What’s wrong with April? She looks like she’s seen a ghost.” He nodded toward a door near the front of the room.

I followed his gaze and had to agree. Just a few minutes earlier, my rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed friend looked like a tough-as-nails cop, which she was. In just a few minutes, the blood had drained from her face. Her eyes were wide and a bit wild, as though she was ready to run. “You’re right. She looks . . . frightened.” I followed her gaze, which was focused on an older man who had just walked up to the front of the room.

The man looked to be in his forties, but I was willing to bet my new Telfar bag that he was in his midfifties and well preserved. He wasn’t as tall as Michael, so I’d put his stats at five foot ten and two hundred pounds, give or take a pound. His thick dark hair was cut to perfection. In fact, I doubt that your layperson would have guessed that his hair color came from a tube. However, I had spent too many years in high-end salons not to recognize the signs. His hair was perfect; too perfect. There were highlights and lowlights in the exact right places, which was my first clue that it wasn’t natural. Nature isn’t perfect. He was tanned, and I knew with every fiber of my being that he wouldn’t have tan lines. However, the most dazzling thing about him was his teeth. When he smiled, those on the front row would need to shield their eyes or suffer from retina damage. He wore a dark blue English-cut, bespoke suit that fit like a glove, and money oozed from every pore.

April wasn’t the only woman in the room whose gaze was fixed on the stranger, but she was the only one whose gaze he returned. His stare reminded me of the leopards I’d seen on a safari in Botswana. Our guides warned us never to stare at the leopards. These large cats will lie perfectly still, relying on their camouflage to hide them. It’s possible to walk right by a leopard without seeing it. However, if you stare into a leopard’s eyes, he knows his cover is blown and will attack. Leopard-like, this well-groomed stranger looked ready to pounce, and his target was my friend.

I squeezed Michael’s arm.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

At the front of the room, Mayor Abernathy whispered something to the man and laughed.

The man turned away from April. He gazed at the mayor and forced a smile, which looked more like a grimace. The spell was broken.

April fumbled with the doorknob of the door behind her, but finally wrenched it open, stumbling through the door and out of the room.

For a split second, I was torn between staying to find out who the man was and helping my friend. My normal indecisiveness didn’t have time to kick in. I got up and started sidling my way out of the aisle. “Excuse me.”

Outside in the hall, I saw the back of April’s head as she turned a corner that I knew led to the ladies’ room.

I hurried after her and arrived just in time to hear her retching in a stall. I waited at the sink until she finished, flushed, and came out.

She bent down and used the sink like a water faucet and cleaned her mouth and then splashed water on her face. When she finally stood, I handed her a mass of paper towels and waited.

April took several deep breaths. “I look horrible.”

I tried not to notice her hand shaking or her ragged breath. “You want to tell me who that man was?”

“Not really.”

I waited.

“You’re not going to let sleeping dogs lie, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Then, I suppose I’ll have to.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Yep.”

“His name is Clayton Jefferson Davenport. CJ to his friends, but I don’t know if he has any of those.” She paused for a few moments.

“Okaaay, but who is he?”

She chuckled. “Never heard of him?”

I thought for a moment. “It kind of sounds vaguely familiar, but . . . no. I don’t know him.”

Her laugh increased and sounded a bit strange.

“April, are you hysterical? Do I need to slap you?”

She shook her head, held up a hand, and forced herself to calm down. “You don’t need to slap me. I’m not hysterical. It just struck me as funny. You not knowing who he is would really irritate him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So, he’s someone who I should know?”

She stared. “Clayton Jefferson Davenport is one of the wealthiest men in the Midwest. He’s not as wealthy or as well-known as Bill Gates, and I’m sure that’s eating a hole in his gut. But he’s wealthy.”

“Okay, he’s got money. Great, but who is he to you?”

She paused so long I was about to repeat my question when she said, “Clayton Jefferson Davenport is my husband.”

I stared at her. I knew April had been married, but she didn’t talk about it. If asked, her response was always, It’s complicated. I hadn’t thought much about her ex-husband, but given that April wasn’t wealthy and the little bits of information she’d shared about her life before I moved to New Bison, I had made assumptions about his wealth that were obviously not true.

“He’s not exactly what I envisioned your ex-husband would look like, but—”

“No. Not my ex-husband. We never got divorced. CJ is my husband.”