A Bite of Blueberry Page 3

  —Priscilla Pratt

  Ingredients:

  1 ½ cups flour

  1/3 cups milk

  ½ tsp salt

  2 tsp baking powder

  1/3 cup oil

  1 egg

  ¾ cup sugar

  1 1/2 tsp cinnamon

  1 cup blueberries

  Directions

  Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and prepare your muffin tins with either grease or muffin liners.

  Next combine the flour, sugar, salt, cinnamon and baking powder in a medium sized bowl. Put the oil into a 1-cup sized measuring cup and add the egg and enough milk to fill the cup. Slowly mix this into the dry ingredients. Once combined, gently fold in the blueberries.

  Fill the muffin tins and sprinkle the tops with additional sugar and blueberries. Bake in the oven for about 20 to 25 minutes. Use a toothpick to determine when they are done. If the toothpick comes out clean, you’ve got a slab of perfect (but dangerously delicious) blueberry muffins on your hands!

  Chapter Two

  Priscilla had been informed by members of the Worcester County’s Debutante Society that it was inexcusably rude to wear her sunglasses indoors. After she’d told them that their choices were either that, or a self-serve buffet while their caterer projectile vomited in the bathroom, they’d chosen the former.

  The community center was not the glamorous setting that the members of the society were used to. From what she’d been able to gather, they usually met in country clubs or rented out ballrooms for the event. This year, the responsibility for finding accommodations had fallen to Nora Montgomery, who had failed to procure any of the preferred locations in Worcester. So, at short notice, she’d rented out the community center for the morning.

  Priscilla had to admit that the place looked a little woebegone. The floors had recently been carpeted, and someone had come up with the bright idea to make the place monochrome. The floors were gray. the walls were slate, and the drapes were light silver. Perhaps that was why someone had pulled them back and opened all the windows.

  Sunlight flooded the room, increasing Priscilla’s headache a hundredfold. Sunlight didn’t kill her, as some vampire myths purported. But, as all vampires were photosensitive, it would make her very sick. A shaft of light fell onto her table from the skylight above, so Priscilla had been rubbing mint onto her wrists since eight in the morning. Anna insisted that it should help with nausea, but all it was doing so far was making her smell like toothpaste.

  Worse, she couldn’t just serve and flee, which had been her original plan. The debutantes weren’t allowed to eat until after the meeting was over and they’d had a chance to change out of their finery. So she’d been slumped in a chair in the back for thirty minutes, listening to one of the society ladies dress down the florist before the event even began.

  The young man sitting beside her turned to give her a small smile. She wished his hair wasn’t blond. It reflected the light, and made her head ache all the more. His gray eyes were kind, though, and that made her feel less enmity toward him.

  “You look beat.”

  “I am,” she said. “I should have been in bed at dawn.”

  “Sorry about all this,” he said, gesturing at the crowd of tittering women. “My mother finally pushed the caterer past his limits. He quit. Go figure.”

  “So you’re a Montgomery?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t look like his father at all.

  Priscilla had had the displeasure of meeting Dr. Lucas Montgomery last year, during a follow-up visit following a poisoning. He’d given her a clean bill of health, and a patronizing speech about chemical safety, as if she’d chugged a pint of poisoned blood on purpose. The doctor was attractive enough, with a head of dark hair and hazel eyes. But he was too arrogant to consider handsome.

  “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “I take it you’ve met my parents?”

  “Sort of,” she hedged. The young man appeared to be quite nice, and she didn’t want to disclose her true opinion of his parents.

  “I’m Benedict, by the way.” He extended a hand to her. “Like the omelet. But most people call me Ned.”

  “I’m Priscilla.” She took the offered hand. “And I’m sure you’ve heard of my reputation by now.”

  “Local baker and hero, from what I hear,” he grinned. “Did you really catch a murderer?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Shh!” a woman hissed at them from a few rows up.

  Priscilla sank lower in her chair and Ned chuckled. Priscilla fought the urge to scowl. The event hadn’t even started yet. What was their problem?

  “Looks like we’re in trouble.”

  An elderly woman took the stage a few minutes later and stood behind a makeshift podium, addressing the crowd at large. Priscilla was too tired to wonder who she was or what she was talking about. The only thing she did note was that the woman’s face was set in hard frown lines. She wondered if a smile would crack the old lady’s face right in two.

  “You can lean on me,” Ned whispered. “No one will be able to tell you’ve dozed off under the sunglasses.”

  “I shouldn’t.” But she wanted to.

  Ned let out a soft laugh. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

  Reluctantly, Priscilla did as she was bid. The young man’s shoulder was bony, and a less than ideal pillow. But as soon as her eyes fluttered closed, Priscilla succumbed to sleep almost instantly.

  It seemed like only a few seconds later when Ned shook her awake. She yawned, stretched, and mumbled, “What time is it?”

  “Ten,” Ned informed her. “And my, what big teeth you have.”

  She flashed him a sleepy grin. “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

  Ned let out a delighted laugh. “I hope they get you to cater these events more often. It’s an absolute bore to sit here weekend after weekend.”

  “Then why do you come?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mom would kill me if I didn’t. Dad’s never around to take my sister Clarissa to these events. My uncle Benjamin could do it, probably, but why would I want to make him? It’s best only one of us has to suffer.”

  “You’re a very kind young man. Come on. I’ll serve you the first muffin.”

  He shook his head. “I need to use the restroom. I didn’t want to move earlier. It looked like you needed the sleep.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her stomach squirming in sudden guilt. It was obvious the young man didn’t want to be here. And she’d slept on top of him for who knew how long, forcing him to stay in his seat.

  He patted her hand. “It’s fine. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take you up on your offer of breakfast later, all right?”

  “Sure,” Priscilla said faintly as he sat up.

  All around her, the members of the Debutante Society were rising to their feet. Some stretched, and others yawned. Priscilla wasn’t sure why the meeting needed be held so early in the morning. She trudged back over to her table as people began to form a line around it. The debutantes had their choice of mixed berry, blueberry, or banana nut muffins, as well as a glass of water or orange juice that Anna had squeezed until her hands were raw. It was a nice personal touch that Priscilla was afraid would go unappreciated, especially after a snobby girl in a pink dress commented that there was too much pulp in her glass.

  Priscilla received a few other dirty looks, one in particular from Justine Brighton. Granddaughter to one of the ladies on the historical society, it wasn’t altogether surprising that she was here, or that she disliked that Priscilla was the new caterer.

  “Freak,” Justine muttered as she strolled away with a plate of muffins, linked arm in arm with her twin sister, Joanna.

  Priscilla resisted the urge to make a face at the retreating girl’s back. She was already considered unprofessional, so why add to the list of charges being leveled against her?

  She smiled so hard it hurt. If she wasn’t careful,
her face might get stuck in a perpetually false grin. Clarissa Montgomery and her mother were the last to file through the line. Priscilla snatched one muffin from the quickly diminishing tray of blueberry, before either of them could make a selection.

  “For your brother,” she explained to the affronted girl. “He’s in the bathroom, and I don’t want him to go without.”

  The girl looked mollified, but the mother still squinted at Priscilla as she took the last remaining banana nut muffin.

  The hall buzzed with conversation as the girls made their way to the back of the room, where tables had been set up the night before. Priscilla still wasn’t sure why they needed to be decked out in tablecloths and topped with centerpieces. The roses were going to die long before the actual debutante ball was set to take place. That didn’t bother Priscilla. According to some vampire myth, wild roses could immobilize vampires. She’d never tested the theory, but wasn’t eager to find out if it was true. She gave the florist and the centerpieces a wide berth.

  Priscilla didn’t even try to eavesdrop on the talk going on around her. She was sure none of it would be pertinent to her life, and most of it was sure to be banal. Instead, she set about tidying up her work station. Nora Montgomery had insisted on using the community center’s china to use breakfast, so she had to be extra careful about the cleanup. The metal trays, all plates, and the glass punch bowl would need to be washed and returned to their rightful places before she could finally go home and get some much-deserved rest.

  Scrounging up a paper plate and some saran wrap so she could salvage Ned’s breakfast, Priscilla glanced back at the hall where the restrooms were located, wondering what was taking the young man so long. Maybe he’d snuck out the back way? She’d envy him if he had. Still, he had said he’d be back for breakfast. She’d take him at his word.

  The crowds began to disperse within the next fifteen minutes. Apparently, no one was staying afterward to clean up the community center. Priscilla couldn’t help but scowl. She’d never been very affluent, and usually couldn’t stand those who were. There was a sense of entitlement that came with that style of living that she didn’t like.

  Then again, Ned hadn’t seemed like a bad kid. His parents easily made $300,000 dollars a year, more than she’d make in ten years as a baker. Yet, somehow, he’d managed to turn out all right. She’d have to ask him the secret when she saw him next.

  “Where is he?” Clarissa marched up to the table a few minutes later. “You saw him last. Where is Ned?”

  “In the bathroom,” Priscilla said. “Like I told you he was.”

  “He’s not answering the door when I knock,” Clarissa accused, as if it were somehow Priscilla’s fault. “Did he sneak out? If he took off, we don’t have a ride home.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Montgomery. Would you like me to go check on him?”

  “You can’t go in there. It’s the men’s room!”

  Priscilla sighed. “Then what do you suggest we do? Call someone of the male persuasion to go in and fish him out? I think that’s a waste of time. All the menfolk seem to have cleared out with their daughters or wives.”

  Clarissa glared around the almost-empty hall. Nora Montgomery was waffling in the doorway of the community center, apparently unsure of what to do.

  Priscilla gathered up the small care package and her purse. She wasn’t going to be able to leave just yet, but she could call in help to get the cleanup done more quickly. As soon as Benedict was out of the building, she could call in the cavalry.

  She strode toward the back corridor, package in hand. Clarissa huffed in disgust behind her. She ignored it. The hall lights were off, which struck Priscilla as odd. There were no windows, and only a thick wooden door back here. The sullen red light of an exit sign was all she had to navigate her way. It was enough for her keen senses, but surely not for a typical teenage male to see anything clearly. Priscilla took off her sunglasses and stuffed them in her purse. She could see well enough without them now.

  The hallway smelled, though not of anything rancid, as one might expect from a lavatory. It smelled damp, like stagnant water and mold. Priscilla took a hesitant step toward the men’s room and found herself suddenly ankle-deep in water. It sloshed into her dress shoes and soaked her tights.

  A large part of her wanted to kick them off at once and change. Instead, she pushed the door open. The water sloshed against her ankles. Her hand groped for the light switch. She was almost positive that Benedict hadn’t come in at all. He must have seen a backed-up toilet and decided to get out of Dodge.

  When her searching fingers found the switch, she flicked it on and saw, to her horror, that she’d misjudged the situation badly. The standing water was tinged lightly pink, and stood out starkly against the shining white tiles of the bathroom floor.

  Priscilla’s hand flew to her nose, blocking out any scent that might entice her. With the other, she placed the care package on the sink. One of the pipes appeared to be badly mangled and the water was still leaking from it.

  Benedict Montgomery’s left foot was sticking out of a partially open stall. Dreading what she’d find, Priscilla strode forward and pushed the door open, squeezing her eyes shut when what she was seeing registered.

  Ned’s body was lying at an awkward angle, head lying amongst the debris of a broken toilet bowl. His gray eyes were wide open, staring at a fixed point on the ceiling. Blood bloomed in a scarlet pool around his head. His chest was utterly still, and Priscilla could detect no breath or heartbeat.

  “Oh Ned,” she whispered, opening her eyes again. “What happened?”

  There was no reply, of course. Priscilla dug in her purse with shaking hands, pulling out the cell phone that Arthur Sharp had given her to use in case of emergencies.

  “Pratt,” he said gruffly. “This better be good. You’re calling me on my day off.”

  “Sir, I’ve found Benedict Montgomery dead in the community center bathroom. I think he might have been murdered.”

  There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Then Arthur swore. “Get out of there, Pratt. And don’t let anyone else in until I arrive. I don’t want you contaminating the crime scene.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lie to them, if you have to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re being awfully agreeable, Pratt. Is something the matter? Besides the obvious?” he asked.

  “I’m just tired, sir.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t doze off—I’m going to have some questions for you.”

  She sighed. “I thought you might. See you soon.”

  “Goodbye, Pratt.” He hung up.

  Priscilla knew she ought to leave, but something in her wanted to stay right where she was, staring down at the dead boy. What could she have done to prevent this? A part of her felt guilty for not knowing him better, for not talking to him more before his life was so brutally extinguished. But only a few words came to mind as she stared at him, and they were cold comfort to the dead.

  “I’m going to catch the person who did this to you,” she whispered.

  There was no answer. None that the living or undead could interpret, anyway. So, with a sick feeling in her stomach, Priscilla strode out of the bathroom to stall his sister and mother until the police could arrive to do their jobs.

  She’d been wrong. Things could get worse. Things could always get much, much worse.

  Chapter Three

  Priscilla didn’t raise her head from the cradle of her arms. She could hear Arthur perfectly well, and he knew it. At least he’d shown her the courtesy of shutting the lights off for this interrogation.

  “Let’s go over it again,” he prompted.

  “I don’t see what more there is to tell, Arthur,” she said wearily. “He went to the bathroom. I served the guests. I went to go check on him after a half hour and I found him dead. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And you say you didn’t touch anything excep
t the door and the sink?”

  “Right. I left a blueberry muffin on the sink.”

  “It’s been admitted into evidence,” Arthur said wryly. “So we can at least corroborate that part of your story.”

  She raised her head a fraction. Arthur’s face was illuminated only by a thick Yankee candle that sat between them. It reminded her of an older time, when candlelight was all one had when the sun went down.

  “You don’t really think I’m guilty, do you?”

  “No,” Arthur said, leaning back in his chair. “But you’re a witness. We’re questioning everyone today. It’s going to be a scheduling nightmare, so I’ve had to pull all the boys in for this one. We need to know if anyone saw or heard what happened. I’m surprised nothing registered with your vampire senses. Aren’t you supposed to be better than us mere mortals?”

  “I was mostly trying not to throw up, Arthur. I’m not very astute in the morning. I haven’t slept since yesterday evening, and we’re coming up on lunchtime. I’m telling you, just let me go home. I’m useless in this state.”

  Arthur ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked as tired as she felt. Had he gotten any sleep at all? She knew he had a tendency to wait up for his daughter when she worked shifts at Fangs in Fondant.

  “The thing is, Priscilla, no one really knows what happened yet. You’re the most reliable witness we have thus far. If you can’t give us anything, then we have no leads.”

  “What is your gut telling you?” she asked. “I know you have a theory.”

  He frowned. “I know you think it was a murder, Priscilla, but I just don’t think so. It looks like he fell in the water and bashed his head in. It’s tragic, but I’m pretty sure it was an accident.”