Josie Carlson was the opposite to her sister, Lauren, in nearly every way. She had darker hair, was large, full of bluster, and liked conflict. Lauren always had a kind word to say about people in town, even if it was in the middle of a juicy gossip session, but Josie… she’d rather eat her own apron than say something nice.
The Little Cake Shop was on a street with several bakeries and patisseries, and those delicious smells wafted in the air, tempting passersby to stop and grab a bite to eat or a cup of coffee.
Funny how the smell of baking bread and cupcakes gave me anxiety instead. But, eh, that was just when I was in this street. Back at the Gossip Inn, I couldn’t get enough baked goods thanks to Lauren’s culinary stylings.
I passed a few familiar faces as I approached the bakery and smiled or greeted them. I was used to the warmth of the people in Gossip by now, but it still struck me as different every now and again.
I entered the Little Cake Shop, with its inviting glass front doors, cream and blue awning, and floor to ceiling windows, and joined the line arcing toward the counters at the back of the room.
The smell of cupcakes intensified accompanied by fresh-brewed coffee.
I spotted Josie exiting the office behind the counter and flagged her down like she was a particularly grumpy trucker and I was a hitchhiker.
“What do you want?” Josie asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
Yeah, we weren’t on the best of terms. I’d been honest with Lauren about how I felt about Josie, and the last time I’d encountered her, well, that hadn’t exactly gone well either.
“Good morning,” I said, as pleasantly as I could muster. “How are you today?”
Josie gave me a blank stare in return.
So much for the advancements I’d made in my people skills, right? “Mind if I talk to you for a second? Alone? It’s important.”
“Come to accuse me of murder again?” Josie asked.
“Thankfully, no,” I replied, bringing up a smile. “But I think you might be able to help me with a case.”
“And why would I want to help you?”
“Lauren would want you to,” I said, simply.
Lauren and Josie had an interesting relationship. I’d always figured Josie was the bossy, in charge sister until I’d seen her mess up and watched as Lauren took charge.
Josie wriggled her nose from side-to-side then sighed, at last. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. Come with me.”
I followed her around the counter and into her cramped office. She sat down behind her desk, watching me, warily.
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
“I haven’t helped you yet.”
“Right,” I replied. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to. I wanted to talk to you about Donny Braxton. Do you know him?”
“Sure. Donny comes by the bakery every week,” she said. “He picks up his regular order and leaves right afterward. Piece of trash.”
I blinked. “Trash?”
“Yeah,” Josie said, and studied her stubby nails. “He’s trash. Man trash, if you get what I mean.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he likes to date around. He thinks he’s a regular Don Juan. You know, always romancing women and then leaving them in the lurch when they need them most…”
“Did you date him Josie?”
“Me?” She colored, the tiniest tinge of pink in her cheeks. “When we were in high school, years ago. When he was still relatively OK. Now he’s trouble.”
“But you didn’t have a problem with him.”
“No, not really. I didn’t really talk to him. I’d see him sometimes when he came in, but other than that, we didn’t talk or know each other that well anymore. People change.”
I nodded.
“Why are you asking questions about him, for heaven’s sake? Let me guess, one of his girlfriends has hired you to tail him and find out what he’s been up to?” Josie’s eyes lit up at the prospect. Gossip was practically a currency in this town.
“Not quite,” I said. “Donny’s dead. I’ve been asked to find out what happened to him.” Technically, I’d been asked to clear a suspects name, but my ethical code—the same rather shaky code that allowed me to kidnap and question suspects when necessary—dictated that I find the killer instead. Even if that killer turned out to be my client.
“Dead.” Josie sat back in her chair, pinching the edge of her desk with her fingertips. “He’s dead? Really?”
“Really. I thought you would’ve heard. It’s big news. He was stabbed.”
“Stabbed. Wow. Poor Donny,” she said. “I mean, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. He caused trouble wherever he went.”
“Man trash?” I repeated her phrase from earlier.
She glared at me. “I wasn’t being disrespectful of the dead. I didn’t know.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Josie. I’m just interested in a few things, particularly when it comes to Donny’s behavior. You said he came by to pick up a regular order.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he buy from you?”
“Shortcake,” she said. “Every week on a Monday, he comes by to pick up an order of shortcake.”
“Do you know who it was for?” I asked.
“I assumed it was for him, but I don’t know. No. Sorry.”
So, Donny had been buying a box of shortcake for somebody—maybe himself—for weeks now. “Two days ago, when he came to pick up the box of shortcake, did you notice anything strange about his behavior?”
“No, not really. I barely registered he was here. I just gave him his order as usual.” Josie wrinkled her brow and squidged her eyes closed for a second. “Wait. Wait, I do remember something. He went out onto the sidewalk, and he kind of looked behind himself as he walked off. Like he was expecting someone to be there?”
“Which direction did he go in?”
Josie turned her head as she oriented herself. “Toward the Hungry Steer,” she said. “So left once you hit the sidewalk.”
“Great. Thank you.”
Josie rolled her eyes like she’d rather have done anything other than help me. Which was probably not far from the truth. I headed for the office door then paused and looked back. “One last thing.”
“Sure. I have… so much time to talk to you. It’s not like I’m a busy business woman or anything.”
“Do you know of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt Donny? Names, specifically.”
“I don’t know who he was dating and I don’t care,” Josie said, “but he had a brother. Noah. Noah Braxton. He’s a writer.” Josie snorted like that was the most ridiculous occupation on the planet. “Lives off his mother’s money.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Sure, everybody does. On Old Park Street. Number 534. He’s got one of those ridiculous flamingos in his front yard. You can’t miss it,” Josie said.
I thanked her one last time, receiving nothing but a disdainful stare in return, then slipped out into the bakery.
I had a thread to tug on, and I couldn’t wait to pull on it and unravel the case.