The next morning, as Kate pushed two trays of sourdough rolls into one of the double ovens, the bell announced a customer in the shop.
“Hey, it’s just me!” a familiar voice called.
“Hey, Rosie,” Kate said, sticking her head over the swinging doors. “Have you got time for coffee? I just took a fresh batch of yeast rolls out of the oven.”
The antique dealer giggled. “I shouldn’t. I just had two at Sunny’s Stretch and Starch. But what the heck.”
“By the way, that bed is a dream,” Kate said. “It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a decade.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she said. “We kind of had to guess on the mattress. And Mrs. Allen picked out the sheets and the duvet. I love the deep green-blue. It reminds me of the ocean.”
“It’s perfect. I don’t think I was awake for two minutes after my head hit the pillow.”
She left out the part about sharing it with Oliver. By the time she’d cleaned up the bakery kitchen and gone upstairs, she’d found the pup curled into a downy ball at the foot of the bed, fast asleep.
“I’m so glad you’re settling in OK,” Rosie said. “Have you heard anything else on Sam’s case?”
“Nothing. The state attorney offered him a deal if he pled guilty, but he turned it down flat. Said he wasn’t going to confess to something he didn’t do. And you were right. He doesn’t remember ever meeting Muriel Hopkins. His lawyer showed him her photo.”
“I don’t think she ever mentioned the bakery, either,” Rosie said. “With her heart, she was pretty careful about her diet. Besides, chocolates were her weakness. And Sam doesn’t sell those.”
Kate set two full mugs on the table and followed up with a plate of yeast rolls, butter, and a jar of strawberry jam.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Not for me,” Rosie said, putting a generous dollop of jam on her roll. “This is plenty.”
“I don’t know if Maxi mentioned it, but we went to Stewart Lord’s office yesterday.”
“No! For real? Did you learn anything interesting?”
“Other than the man was even more of a tool than we thought? But there were a couple of new wrinkles. Stewart Lord claimed that someone sent him chocolates on the day Muriel died. Anonymously. He also told several employees that he saw Muriel putting them on his desk. He claimed she sent them because she had a crush on him.”
“That rat! If there was ever a man who deserved what he got, it was that pig. I don’t know how she put up with him. Or why she stayed.”
“If it makes you feel any better, his sister will probably inherit everything. And this is the sister he stole from to launch his business.”
“He stole from his own sister?”
“The payout on their late mother’s burial policy, to be precise.”
“That man was a real piece of work,” Rosie said, shaking her head. “I bet the sister is tap-dancing on his grave. So were those chocolates the poisoned chocolates?”
“No idea. But unless there were a few boxes floating around, it seems likely. Can you keep a secret? I mean a serious secret?”
“Yes, and I am totally intrigued,” Rosie said. “What is it?”
“The reason we went? I suspected that Lord might have been the one who broke into the bakery. Because of what you said about his breath mints. Right after the break-in, after the burglar ran out, I went into the shop. And I smelled cigarettes and anise and some heavy-duty cologne.”
“Was it him?”
Kate nodded. “Not a doubt in my mind. But that’s not the secret.”
Rosie put jam on the second half of her roll and took a bite.
“Stewart Lord’s office was like something from another age. Marble, gold, panoramic view, fireplace—and a bathroom larger than my Manhattan apartment.”
Rosie nodded. “Muriel described it pretty well. How did she put it? ‘How Marie Antoinette would have decorated if she’d had real money.’”
Kate grinned. “She nailed it. Anyway, while I was there, I snooped around a little.”
Rosie leaned forward as she reached for another roll. “Spill.”
“I found something that definitely didn’t belong in Versailles by the Sea. A woman’s bracelet. It looks like it might be an antique. I’d love to find out a little more about it—and maybe find the owner. If I show it to you, could you refer me to an antique dealer who specializes in, well, whatever it is?”
“Of course. Do you have a picture of it?”
“Not exactly. That’s the secret part. I brought it with me.”
Rosie’s face lit up. “Well, it certainly doesn’t belong to Lord Stewart Lord. And it’s not like he’s going to return it. I say this falls under a little legal code called finders keepers.”
“Ben Abrams would probably disagree. Peter Buchanan, too. And sooner or later, I’m either going to have to tell them or return it to its rightful owner. Probably both.”
“In the meantime,” Rosie said, sitting up in her chair, “let’s see this beauty.”