Potts Better Butter Bakery Read online

  POTTS BETTER BUTTER BAKERY

  A Cozy Cape Cod Mystery

  S. D. Anderson

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to our magical Cape Cod and to my Daughter, Tina, my Son-in-Law, Jay and Grandson, Cameron who let me live with them while I grow up.

  Chapter One

  Spring was springing with abandon over Cape Cod this sunny April Day. An unusual balmy breeze wafting its way over from Nantucket Sound infusing the residents with a half-hidden hope that warmer weather would finally be here and shorts, neatly folded and stored away during the long winter months would be the dress of the day!

  The sun, finally showing its worth, had poked its way through the cranky clouds sending them north where they belonged. A brilliant cerulean blue, as only a Cape Cod sky could be, was cloudless. The dark, still-leafless oak trees in stark defiant contrast were silhouetted against it.

  “Sativa are you almost finished with the window?” her twin, Indica, called as she peered around the door. “The second batch of brownies are cooling. Want me to start on the Better Butter chocolate chunk cookies?”

  “Good idea, I’m almost finished here. Be there in a few minutes.”

  Indica waved, flashed a lopsided grin and withdrew back through the door to return to her beautiful newly remodeled stainless-steel kitchen.

  Sativa Potts, a pretty woman in her just turned fifties with a curvy figure and abundantly frosted blonde hair, was standing on a stepladder perched precariously against the front window of the about-to-open shop. Her sleeveless blouse was tucked into an unbuttoned faded blue cardigan, the short denim skirt, covered with a large white apron, fluttered in the mild breeze revealing well shaped legs.

  Another soft gusty breeze coming off the Sound was an indication of a positive change in the weather.

  A brown woven basket with window cleaner, wiping cloths, and a squeegee was balanced on the ladder’s top step. Sativa’s black flip flops, which she refused to trade for a pair of those ‘ghastly’ running shoes everyone wore here were clinging tightly to the rungs. She was struggling to wash the large store front window of their new ‘Better Butter Bakery’ they were opening in the next few days.

  Sativa sprayed more window washer fluid on the middle part of the window and swiped it leisurely with a cloth as her thoughts faded back over the last three or four months.

  When Mom died and then Grandma died two months later, we knew it was time to make a change. We had come back to the Cape, first for Mom’s funeral and again for Gram’s. Sad times. Besides, my son Bubba was alone, now, the sole occupant of Grandma’s old house.

  Our musical careers in Las Vegas were successful but not brilliant. Indica and I talked endlessly about what we should do, exploring all options. We were more than ready to leave all that glitter and chaos behind. Fortunately, we had saved more than enough to buy a new SUV, so we packed our meager belongings and headed cross country to Cape Cod once again.

  I laugh when I think of how many times, while we were in Vegas, we talked about opening our own bakery because we never could find Better Butter Cookies like Mom used to make. Now the dream is finally happening. We were so excited when the realtor showed us this little run-down building which at one time had housed a small family restaurant with the apartment above and a finished one in the basement. Immediately, we agreed to sell grandma’s house with too many sad memories and purchase the shop. It was an ideal location a short distance from the actual center of town at the end of main street in Barnstable Village. Perfect for a new start and our dream for the bakery right in the same town where we grew up. Fortunately, Indica inherited mother’s baking talents. I’m good, but she is so much better.

  I miss Grandma and Mom. I’m sure Indica does too. When we were little Mom used to tell us the story about how she and Dad met at Woodstock. “That’s where you were conceived,” she said. Years later we understood what that meant. Our parents decided that Woodstock was no place to raise a family, so they travelled from Bethel, New York to Cape Cod and moved in with Grandma. Dad found a job locally in a restaurant and Momma and Grandma raised us and years later raised my son Bubba, too.

  Bubba’s knowledge in growing marijuana plants was something of a revelation. We never knew about it until we got home and saw his twelve-pot garden in Grandma’s basement. It’s hard to believe he will be twenty-three next month. When he graduated from Texas A. & M, last year, he had several opportunities and job offers because of his background in Botany and Agronomy. His decision to stay with Gram and Mom was unexpected, but as it turned out, wise.

  Repairs to the apartment and more important, to the bakery and the modernization of the kitchen were completed over the past month, and now we’re waiting for the final inspections scheduled for later today or tomorrow.

  As she polished the window to a sparkling shine, she noticed a reflection of someone behind her in the glass. A man running on the sidewalk across the street. In his arms were several packages wrapped in brown paper. He was well dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. This was unusual for the Cape. Most everyone here wore jeans and t-shirts or sweatshirts, even visitors dressed casually, rarely a suit. Tourists and visitors would jokingly say that they left those suits and business attire on the other side of the bridge.

  A tourist? she wondered as she swiped away at some of the accumulated dirt in one of the corners. It’s still early April. The tourists haven’t arrived full-force yet so he is probably a visitor. Wonder where he came from?

  The man staggered a little losing his balance, only to straighten up and continue running.

  Hmm, that’s odd, wonder where he’s going?

  She turned back to her window washing, humming a tune from the 1970’s, by Neal Sedaka, Laughter in the Rain…

  Again, in the reflection of the glass, she watched as the man looked at something in his hand, abruptly changed direction and was now running across the road dodging main street’s two-lane traffic, which at this time of day was sparce. His running had changed to staggered footsteps straight towards her and the shop.

  Holding onto the sides if the ladder, Sativa quickly climbed down from her window-washing perch and watched in shock as the man reached the curb, stumbled over it right up onto the pavement in front of the store and fell flat, face down on top of the packages he had been clutching.

  “Oh, no, are you, all right?” she called out and rushed over to help, the wiping cloth still in her hand. She crouched beside his prone body and reached to turn him over withdrawing her hand quickly.

  Shocked, she stared at the pool of blood in the middle of his back and shuddered at the long, ivory-handled knife protruding from the center.

  That was when she let out a yell, which turned into a screech, which turned into a scream.

  “HELP!” she shouted, “SOMEBODY HELP!”

  Chapter Two

  Swallowing a gag, she heard the pounding of running footsteps behind her.

  “Mom are you all right?” Bubba yelled as he ran up beside her and the body. “I told you I would wash the window later. I thought you fell off the ladder.” He came to a screeching halt and looked down.

  “Who’s that?” He pointed at the prone figure,

  “I have no idea. Where’s your phone?”

  “Right here,” he pulled it out of his pocket. “Should I call an ambulance or something?”

  “I think we need the police. I’m certain our friend here doesn’t need an ambulance. I think he’s dead.”

  A few of the neighboring shop keepers and assistants who had heard Sativa scream rushed out to see if they could help. Aghast at the scene before them, some stared spellbound, their faces pale and frozen, others turned their eyes away not wanting
to see the macabre scene before them. Gradually, as the initial shock wore off and they began to rationalize their thoughts, they unconsciously formed in a circle like a football huddle around the body, asking the usual questions:

  “Are you OK, Sativa?”

  “Where is Indica?”

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  “Is he dead?”

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘What’s in the packages?’

  “Why was he killed?”

  All good questions and ones that the police would surely ask as their sirens could be heard coming up the street. Two silver and blue Barnstable squad cars came to an abrupt halt in front of the store and a third unmarked car, a black SUV, tires squealing, pulled up curbside.

  Each squad car held two blue-clad officers equipped with protective vests, cuffs, two-ways and all of the necessary paraphernalia police need to wear today. They spilled out of the cars onto the street and proceeded to coax the on-lookers back in a larger semi-circle to make room for the occupants of a third car.

  Detective Sargent Matthew (Matt) O’Mara and his Detective Corporal Archibald (Archie) McInnis pulled their well-toned builds from the front seat of the unmarked car and walked assertively over to the scene.

  Their rank of detective permitted them to dress sans uniforms to blend unnoticed into crowds and stop any crimes before they happened. Instead, they wore khaki pants, cordovan dress shoes, navy polo jerseys and their well-worn mackintoshes, perfect attire for the Cape. Occasionally they were called upon to wear business suits.

  I knew things have been too quiet lately. Matt thought as he glanced around at the scene before him.

  What have we here? A body? The murder weapon is still attached. Makes our job a little easier. Wonder who it is? Suit and tie??? Not from around here. Interesting.

  The group of on-lookers started to visibly relax now that Matt and Archie had arrived and were in charge of the situation. They began to chat amiably among themselves as they greeted the two detectives. Most of the spectators were long-time friends of Matt and Archie. In this small village everyone knew each other, their families, their children, and their business.

  Detective O’Mara knew everyone circling the scene. Many of them were close to his age and he had been friends with them since grade school, especially one. Sativa.

  His heartbeat quickened, and he hoped his discomfiture wouldn’t show on his clean shaven face. His thoughts were in chaos.

  I knew she and Indica had purchased this old restaurant out near the end of town. Why did she have to settle here in my district? It would have been better if she hadn’t. We could have avoided each other indefinitely if she had moved to another village. The Cape is certainly big enough. This will just stir up unwanted memories for both of us. Damn Destiny. Landed me right in the middle of ‘you can’t avoid her now’ which I knew was bound to happen eventually. Although this isn’t at all what I expected for our first meeting. Definitely not over a dead body!

  Sliding those thoughts to the back of his mind and turning his attention to the scene before him, he walked unhurriedly over to where the body was sprawled on the pavement, his skilled eyes scanning the scene, immediately bringing his training and intuition into focus. This is not a typical homicide. No homicide ever was, though. This one has a different feel to me. He moved his focus from the body up to the person standing beside it. Sativa, her face drained of color, was valiantly trying to hold down her breakfast, a window wiping cloth hanging from her fingers, forgotten.

  Even now she’s incredibly beautiful, her figure is fuller and curvier, her legs are still long and shapely peeking below the hemline of her skirt. Wow! she’s gorgeous and still very ….. Damn. How long has it been? Almost thirty years? He gave his head a vicious shake to clear those thoughts as he heard voices behind him. Matt moved his eye level up to meet Sativa’s hazel ones.

  “Hallo, Sativa, nice to see you again,” and knew immediately he would regret saying that. He took a breath to steady himself, motioned to the body and asked, “What happened here?” striving to keep his voice “detective” professional and to curb any personal interaction between them, at least not right now.

  “No idea,” she answered cryptically, her heart beating an already fast tattoo on her ribs. as if he expected her to solve the crime for him. He hasn’t changed much since we were sweethearts in high school. Old buried memories. I would have recognized him immediately. Always stood out in a crowd. He’s still the handsome guy I loved then. I knew when we moved back that our paths would have crossed eventually, although over a dead body would not have been my choice.

  Pushing those long-suppressed memories back down, she took a deep breath, swallowed hard, hoping her breakfast would remain in her stomach and her Irish blush, which always betrayed her feelings, wasn’t visible as she struggled to answer the question as intelligently as possible.

  “He was running on the sidewalk on the other side of the street,” she pointed with a finger that wasn’t too steady. “I saw him in the reflection of the bakery window. He staggered across the street, dodging through the traffic, and landed here, face down. Dead.”

  Matt O’Mara, mindful of his role of detective, pulled out his ever-present notebook from the pocket of his well-worn mackintosh and rummaged around in another pocket for a pen or a pencil. Archie came up behind him and handed him a ball-point pen from his own raincoat pocket.

  Matt nodded his thanks and stooped down to survey the body, taking his time to fish in all the pockets he could reach because of the position of the murder weapon, then jot notes on a page in his frayed notebook. He was about to roll the body over, thought better of it, tucked the notebook away and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Williams, get the Doc and Casey here on the double!” he ordered.

  “Sorry, Sarge, Doc is on the golf course and Casey is doing a wedding!” came the instant reply.

  “Hell!”

  “You need Forensics?”

  “Later, get hold of Doc and Casey anyhow. Send McDougall over if you have to and tell them they are needed here.”

  “Address?”

  “Better Butter Bakery on South Main Street.”

  “Wow!” was Williams reply, “Right away, Sarge.”

  Matt ended the call and turned to his corporal.

  “They will take some time to get here, Archie, the Doc is out on a round of golf, and the photographer is doing a beach front wedding. Rotten luck,” Matt explained in an undertone, “I don’t want to move him until they get here.”

  “Right, Sarge, want me to string some tape?”

  “Not yet, but these on-lookers should probably go back to their business. Let’s question them first, though. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Matt stood and faced the crowd of onlookers, “Anyone here see anything or hear anything?”

  They mumbled almost in unison, “No, nothing, Matt.”

  “We just heard Sativa scream and came to help.”

  “We wanted to make sure she was not hurt.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “Does Sativa know him?”

  “Does anyone know who he is?”

  Matt pulled the notebook from his pocket and made notes as he spoke directly to each one. He nodded to Archie, “Please give your name and cell number to Archie and then you can go.” He turned to Sativa, “not you, Sativa, I’m hoping you can give me a little more information.”

  He turned a page in his notebook and watched Sativa closely through half lidded eyes.

  “I told you everything, Matt,” she avoided his look and surveyed the sidewalk as she felt the nausea finally recede, but now her betraying blush was creeping up over her cheeks.

  “This isn’t some guy from your past, is it?” Matt asked trying not to think of that possibility.

  “A guy falls dead in front of our bakery and you think it’s someone I am supposed to know? Really, Matt?” Sa
tiva was outraged. Her blush turned a shade darker this time from a flush of Irish temper. She was about to give Matt a caustic comment when they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  An older Buick convertible, once a baby powder blue, now faded to a mottled blue gray from the Cape Cod climate chugged its way down the street. The once-black, now more of a dusty gray, slightly frayed rag-top was neatly folded open to the new burst of Spring sunshine. Tires screeched as it lurched to a tilting stop at the curb.

  A thin young man dressed in a shiny dark blue polyester suit, blue-white shirt and navy-blue striped bow tie pushed open the drivers’ door, leaped out and reached into the back for a large black case. He set it on the front seat, unzipped it and hauled out a Canon digital camera which would have done Jack “Flashgun” Casey proud.

  This Casey adjusted the settings, holstered the Cannon, and nodded to the two detectives. He walked over and started studying the angle of sun light and checking around the body with his light meter. Tucking the meter in one of his suit jacket pockets, he hiked the camera to eye level and started snapping shots.

  “I thought you were doing a wedding, Casey,” Matt commented as he watched the kid circle the body, taking a shot at every angle.

  “I am. The bride and groom are on their way from the church to the reception on Sandy Neck. I had a narrow window and decided to get this done. I have time for a few more shots. Can we turn him over so I can get his face?”

  “Might as well,” Matt said and walked over to help.

  “Who is he? Any idea?” Casey asked as they rolled the corpse onto its side, careful not to dislodge the knife, exposing a partial view of the face.

  Behind them they heard Sativa gasp.

  Matt looked up; a questioning look on his face.

  “Recognize him?”

  Sativa nodded; her eyes glazed.

  “Well?”

  Sativa’s blush turned ashen white, her face a mask of disbelief. Her knees began to shake as her whole body started to tremble. She cleared her throat, her thoughts chaotic.