Mystery: A Crime at the Bakery: A Duncan Dewar Mystery Featuring Villagers from Taye (Duncan Dewar Mysteries) Read online

  A Crime at the Bakery

  A Short Story featuring the Villagers of Taye

  By Victoria Benchley

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Although some locations and businesses named may be real, any events involving them are fictional.

  Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Benchley

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Forward

  This short story is part of the Duncan Dewar Mystery Series. While Duncan is away in Spain working on his next case, something strange goes on in Taye. The bakery across from the Blue Bell Inn becomes the target of a thief. While Duncan does not appear in this tale, many of his friends from the village of Taye are featured. If you enjoyed reading this, check out my other, full-length Duncan Dewar Mysteries. Thank you!

  Chapter One

  "Donald, this is Robert. I want to report a crime."

  The baker sounded agitated.

  "What crime?" he asked, stepping around his desk in the lobby of the Blue Bell Inn and stretching the phone's cord as far as it would go.

  The innkeeper inched towards a window, ignoring the pain in his knees.

  "Can ye just pop over?" Robert asked his friend.

  Through the window, he could see his chum, the baker, across the street glowering at a female customer. Her back was to the window, but by the shape of her it was Abigail Neward, Donald's nemesis.

  "Aye," he said with a sigh. "I'll be right there."

  Tottering back to his counter, he grabbed his cane, or walking stick, as he had taken to calling it. He strode into the Blue Bell's pub

  "Skye," he shouted. He waited for an answer from his daughter, then continued, "Skye, where are ye?" raising the volume of his voice.

  "In here, Dad," she responded.

  Donald headed to the kitchen and saw Skye bent over a small dog near the back door. She was feeding him something and the pup stood on his hind legs waiting for the next morsel.

  "Don't encourage that mutt," he said to his daughter.

  "He's not a mutt, Dad. He's a Jack Russel Terrier," she responded, turning to face her father.

  Donald let the subject of the cur drop.

  "I need to go across the street for a minute. Can ye take over the front desk for me?"

  "Sure, take yer time, Dad," she answered.

  Skye waited until her father disappeared down the hall before giving the terrier a final treat… a chunk of poached salmon.

  Donald made his way across the lane to the bakery owned by Robert Abernathy. His arthritis was acting up again and the trek proved painful. He pushed against the bakery door with his shoulder and nearly lost his balance as the door gave way. After steadying himself, the innkeeper took several steps towards the counter.

  "Now what's this all about, Robert?" he asked without looking at Abigail.

  "I turned me back for one minute, just one, mind ye, and Abigail here helps herself to me cream puffs!"

  Robert's face turned red and his eyes bulged. He had not seen him like this since he lost the county bake-off to one of the cooks from a pub in Tyne.

  "Hmm," Donald said, turning his gaze to Abigail, who remained seated.

  Before Abigail could respond, she had to finish chewing whatever evidence was still in her mouth.

  Robert ranted, "Ye can't go around taking goods that don't belong to ye and then denying it. If ye were short on quid, I'd have given ye one of me puffs. But to just take all four and lie about it ain't acceptable!"

  His aimed this diatribe at Abigail.

  "Now, Robert, before ye go accusing a lady, why don't we sit over here and ye tell me what happened. Don't be leaving, Abigail, until I get a chance to question ye."

  The innkeeper glanced at Abigail, who nodded her agreement while still chewing.

  When Donald took the volunteer position of special constable, investigating cream puffs was not what he had in mind. He had sacrificed long hours to take official police courses. But, Robert was his friend. Abigail had been a longtime rival and an old flame from his youth. He would get to the bottom of this before the baker called in Police Scotland and things got crazy.

  They took seats at a small table in the opposite corner of the bakery as Abigail. He asked his friend to reiterate what had happened.

  "She stopped in for a raspberry scone. Ye know she loves those. I served her the scone and a cup of tea. Then, I went out back to have a cig," Robert said, holding up a hand between himself and Donald. He continued, "I know, I know. I've cut down to just a couple, er, a few a day. So don't give me a lecture. I had four cream puffs left in the case when I went outside. When I came back in, they were gone. The bell on the door never rang, I'd have heard that. So, I know no one else entered the shop. Abigail denied taking me puffs! Just go look at that tray," Robert said, gesturing towards the bakery case.

  "All right. Keep calm," he said, lifting himself with an effort from his chair and staggering to the case.

  He saw one empty tray.… empty except for the remains of a partially eaten cream puff. Donald turned and winked at Robert, then proceeded to Abigail's table. She was true to her nod and had not fled the scene while he and the baker talked.

  "Abigail, did ye take Robert's cream puffs? There's no need to be ashamed. We all succumb to temptation now and then. I'll be glad to pay him for the puffs. It will be my treat," he stated with mock gravity, enjoying teasing his nemesis.

  By now, she had swallowed whatever tidbit she previously chewed. She cleared her throat.

  "Ach! I certainly did not eat Robert's cream puffs!" she declared, indignation in her voice. "I'm a scone and napoleon woman and I have no problem admitting it, or paying me own way."

  Abigail spat out her words with vehemence.

  Donald's thoughts drifted to the scrumptious napoleons Robert sometimes baked. They were delicious. Concern over his waistline precluded the indulgence, most times. He had not sat down, for the benefit of his knees. He walked back to the table where Robert sat.

  "Now, Robert. We have no proof that Abigail took yer puffs," he began.

  "But they're gone. Who do ye think took them? The Blue Lady?" Robert yelled.

  "Well, that could be a possibility," Donald said, scratching his chin to make it appear he was thinking it over.

  He had to keep his amusement hidden or the baker might explode. The Blue Lady was rumored to be the resident ghost at the inn.

  "Pshaw!" Robert exclaimed.

  "Either way, there's no evidence. I suggest ye just let it drop this time. Dae ye ken? We don't want Abigail calling her nephew, Jimmy," he added in a hushed tone.

  Jimmy Smythe was an inspector with Police Scotland and quite protective of his aunt.

  "Ye can go now, Abigail," Donald said over his shoulder to the owner of Cat's Books.

  He had never known the woman to be a thief.

  "Thank ye, Donald," she replied with a satisfied smile before leaving the bakery in a huff.

  Robert shook his head at his old friend. Donald knew the baker would calm down.

&
nbsp; "Come over for a pint on me when ye close up fer the day," the innkeeper offered.

  Robert did not respond, but Donald knew he would see him later in the Blue Bell's pub.

  Chapter Two

  Around eight the next morning, Robert was back at the Blue Bell. He was in the lobby this time, tapping his foot and looking like he was ready to explode. Donald had just finished going over the last evening's receipts when he spied the baker at the front desk.

  "Looking fer me, are ye, Robert?" he asked, approaching the lobby.

  Robert clamped his lips together and his eyes bulged from their sockets. His tapping grew more intense as he nodded at his old friend.

  "Someone's targeting me, Donald," was all that escaped his clenched mouth.

  His lips did not move, but Donald caught a glimpse of nicotine stained teeth as he spoke.

  He patted his friend's shoulder and said, "Let's sit and discuss it."

  The innkeeper hoped Robert would calm down instead of going off like a rocket. By the time Donald had staggered to the couch, the baker had plunked himself down and appeared composed. The sight of his old comrade wobbling across the lobby on arthritic knees helped put things in better perspective for him.

  "Me bakery case has been hit again," he whispered as if discussing a jewel heist. He continued, "They left a mess this time and all me goods…" Robert's voice trailed off as he choked back his emotions.

  Donald lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

  "Start at the beginning, will ye, Robert? What time did ye get in this morning?"

  "I opened the kitchen before four a.m., went in the back as usual. I mixed the dough and left it to rise under the lights."

  The bakery had special heat lamps to help dough rise in cold weather.

  Robert continued, "I prepared raspberry scones and put them in the oven. Then I gave me phyllo one last roll out before baking. I reckon I whipped up some raspberry glaze for the napoleons and removed the custard from the ice box. I had a cuppa tea and a cig out back. Then, I assembled the napoleons."

  All this talk was making Donald hungry.

  "Did ye see anyone during this time?"

  "No, not a soul was about at that hour. Before six, I had the bread baking and was frying some special treats, fritters, to be served with me sister's raspberry preserves. By six, I had the cases filled. I checked on the bread at six-thirty. I'd had one customer by then, Mr. George. He took a scone and a coffee to go. After I checked on the bread, I went back to the counter and that's when I saw what they'd done to me. All me sister's beautiful raspberries destroyed. Come look."

  He hated to ask his friend to make the trek across the lane, especially seeing how he hobbled this morning. But the special constable needed to see the damage. Donald pulled himself up from the couch and the two made their way out of the inn and over to the bakery.

  The sight that greeted Donald in the bakery case was disturbing. It looked as though a grenade had exploded inside the glass display area, scones crumbled to bits, napoleons dismantled, custard and raspberries smeared everywhere. The red color of the fruit gave the appearance of a violent crime scene, all within the confines of the display box.

  "Where are the fritters ye mentioned?" he asked.

  Donald saw no remnants of the fried dough laying about. The baker stared at the remains of his work for a moment.

  "Must have took them," Robert said, his voice still full of emotion.

  He looked as though he might cry.

  "Robert, I'm going to have to think on this a while. Do ye want help cleaning this up? I can send someone over to do it for ye," Donald offered.

  "No," he sighed. "I'll do it meself. But thank ye, Donald."

  "One more thing, Robert," he said, heading towards the door. "How many cigarettes did ye have this morning, after ye arrived at the bakery?"

  "What does that matter?"

  "Just answer the question, please."

  Robert thought a moment.

  "Two or three," the baker finally stated. Then he added, "More after I found this mess. I needed to steady me nerves."

  Donald nodded and left the bakery.

  * * * * *

  "Sky!" Donald shouted. "Why do ye insist on mollycoddling that mutt? Ye know we cannot keep it. We are already babysitting that Lincoln mongrel."

  From the hallway, he had seen the Jack Russell slip into the inn's kitchen between the legs of a waiter. His daughter immediately rewarded the dog with a scallop.

  Skye jumped when she heard her father's voice. She was caught red handed and knew it.

  "I don't want the little fellow to starve is all, Dad," she said with pleading eyes.

  She knew her father could be a push over.

  "We can't have a dog in the kitchen. If ye must feed him, do it outside. And tell those waiters if they must smoke, to shut the back door!"

  He jabbed the floor with his cane several times to make certain the staff heard him, then limped back to the lobby.

  At the front desk, his thoughts returned to the vandalism at the bakery. It had been several days since Robert discovered his bakery case askew and no other trouble had followed, yet. It concerned the special constable that the delinquents might target more businesses in Taye. Then, he remembered Abigail's involvement. Perhaps she had seen something after all. He would speak to her in person. If she knew something, he'd get it out of her.

  The innkeeper let his daughter know he'd be out, and she'd have to cover the desk.

  When Skye asked her father where he was going, he'd replied over his shoulder, "To Tyne. I'm going to see Abigail."

  She stared out the window at her dad as he eased himself into their Range Rover. A worried look crossed her face. Whatever he was up to with Abigail would spell trouble.

  * * * * *

  Donald shuffled into Cat's Books, using his cane to keep from falling. His knee was getting worse, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. The drive between Taye and Tyne proved agonizing.

  "Hallo, Abigail. Ye here?" Donald shouted once inside Cat's Books.

  The bell attached to a spring near the door echoed ting, ting, ting, ting, but there was no sign of her.

  Abigail, Donald's childhood sweetheart, owned Cat's Books. While he had gone on to marry Skye's mother, she had remained single all these years. After his wife's death, he was single too, and wanted to remain so. A short, round woman with platinum blonde curly hair, the shop owner resembled a fairy godmother.

  Abigail's piercing blue eyes slowly rose above a bookshelf, two aisles from Donald. She must be on her tippy toes, he thought, feeling a bit unnerved.

  "Ahoy, Abigail!" he called.

  She stepped into the center walkway of the bookshop and said, "Whatever brings ye here, Donald?"

  She greeted him with a coy smile. Abigail had a way of getting under his skin, and he did not want her to gain the upper hand today. Donald couldn't remember the last time he'd stepped foot in Cat's Books. It had been years.

  "Oh, just in the neighborhood is all. Thought I'd come by and see ye," he lied.

  "Um hmm," Abigail muttered.

  She did not believe him.

  Donald, a man not accustomed to fear, felt a sudden panic as Abigail sauntered towards him.

  "What can I do for ye?" she asked, standing a little too close to Donald.

  She enjoyed seeing her old flame squirm. It was true, she held a torch for the innkeeper. But theirs was a strange relationship, part admiration, part rivalry.

  "Well, truth be told, I need yer help, Abigail," he admitted.

  "Ye need my help?" she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

  "Aye."

  "Weeell, why didn't ye say so. Are ye looking fer a specific book?" she asked.

  Of course, she knew he wasn't. The innkeeper stating he needed her help made Abigail's heart warm.

  "No, it's more of a professional call. I want yer opinion on what happened in the bakery the other day."

  "What happened was that I was insulted by Robert Abern
athy. Called a common criminal!"

  "Aye, Robert was in a bluster alright. Ye'll be needing to forgive him I'm sure," he said, trying to soothe Abigail.

  She exhaled and trembled all over as if she were shaking the bad experience from her memory. Abigail smiled again at Donald.

  "I'll try," she said.

  "The thing is Abigail, whoever stole those cream puffs, hit him again the following day and wrecked his case over some fritters. He lost all his sweets and his profit."

  "That's terrible," she commiserated. "I don't know who would do such a thing."

  "So ye didn't see anything when ye were in the bakery the other morning?" Donald asked.

  "No…. maybe. No, I didn't," she responded, pausing between each word.

  "Well, which is it, Abigail?" he demanded.

  A vacillating woman could not be trusted.

  "Hmm," she huffed, glaring at Donald, then softened her expression with another smile. She continued, "Just as I said. I did not see anything or anyone. Once, while I was enjoying my scone, I thought I saw some movement near the bakery case. When I glanced that way, there was nothing. I assumed I'd seen a reflection on the glass from the street. Then, when Robert Abernathy went all raving lunatic on me, I decided to say nothing."

  "I see. Well, if ye're sure ye dinnae see anything, I'll be on me way. Thank ye for yer help, Abigail."

  "Are ye sure ye don't want to stay for a cup of tea?" she asked, hoping to prolong his visit.

  "No, I best be getting back to me post. Skye is trying to adopt a stray dog and she'll have him all moved in, if I give her the chance. Have a good day, Abigail."

  Donald went over all he'd seen and heard on the drive back to Taye. Once in the inn's car park, he pried himself from the Range Rover and shuffled into the pub. He had a pint and continued thinking. He was certain he was on the right track. An arrest was imminent. He just needed one more bit of information.

  From the lobby, he called Robert Abernathy at home. The bakery closed about an hour prior, and Robert answered his phone on the first ring.