The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse: Books 1-3 (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Box Sets) Read online

  “Mom, my column is hardly a career. Besides, I thought you liked the idea of some free publicity for Bell’s.”

  “Oh, I do,” Mom said vaguely. “It’s just that I don’t want you to do anything you might regret later, honey.”

  “I’m writing a baking column Mom, not joining the Foreign Legion.”

  “Well, you never know. You start writing for the Gazette and before you know it you’re getting sucked into this whole…” She gestured ineffectually. “…newspaper business.”

  Felicity had to laugh. The way Mom went on, she seemed to feel that newspapers were only one step removed from the Cosa Nostra. “I can promise you,” she stated emphatically, “that I’m not turning this into a full-time job.” She covered her mother’s hand with her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I like it here at Bell’s. I’m not going anywhere, Mom.”

  Her mother offered a weak smile. “That’s very nice, dear. As long as you don’t run off with some reporter type, I’m happy.”

  “I won’t,” she promised fervently. Reporter types were the furthest thing from her mind. As were men in general, to be honest, but she bit her tongue before she let that bit of information slip out. No need to add to her mother’s worries.

  Chapter 2

  Half an hour later Felicity was splashing through the puddles as she walked along Lake Street, an umbrella held aloft. The perpetual rain didn’t depress her in the least. She was of Belgian descent, and Belgians are known for cherishing their wet climate. She’d always found there was something utterly relaxing about the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing down from the skies above and echoing on roof tops, pavements and umbrellas.

  On days like these she liked to roam around town and run her errands, mainly because the streets were quieter—sometimes even deserted—and stores practically devoid of shoppers.

  There were a number of items she needed most urgently. They were all part of the ‘second career’ her mother wasn’t all that keen on. There was a recipe she was dying to publish in the weekend edition of the Happy Bays Gazette but first she needed to prepare the treat herself. She’d tasted it countless times, and watched her grandmother make it, but had never actually tried her hand at it.

  That morning when she rose she’d decided that tonight was the night she was going to put her food processor to work and finally prepare that strawberry shortcake she loved so much. Stephen Fossick, the Gazette’s editor, had given her carte blanche when it came to her column, so each week she needed to come up with something fresh. That sounded a lot harder than it was. As a fourth generation baker there was a treasure trove of recipes to dig into, and if she wanted to—and Stephen allowed her to—she could keep this column going for years to come.

  As she’d always kept a diary, writing came easy to her and it fulfilled a childhood dream of wanting to be a reporter. As a kid she’d loved the adventures of Tintin, that intrepid Belgian reporter, always on the go with his little doggie Snowy, and she’d dreamed one day of following in his footsteps. Well, writing about strawberry shortcake wasn’t perhaps the same thing as toppling South-American dictators or fighting pirates but it still satisfied an itch she’d been yearning to scratch.

  Humming a cheerful tune, she entered Rafi’s Deli & Grocery, where she was sure to find the ingredients she needed. She pushed her cart in the direction of the fresh produce section and took her time to select the finest strawberries. Taste was important, but looks even more so. At her best friend and flatmate Alice’s suggestion, all the baking experiments were carried out in front of a camera, taped and uploaded to the YouTube channel they’d created.

  This way people could actually see the recipe being prepared if they wanted to. Stephen Fossick had loved the idea, and so had, apparently, ninety-six of her readers, for that was how many subscribers they’d collected so far.

  It wasn’t that she imagined herself the second coming of Julia Child or Paula Deen, but she enjoyed the process, and so did her videographer, the perpetually enthusiastic Alice. It could even further cement Bell’s reputation as Happy Bays’s premier patisserie. Talk about whipping up two eggs with one whisk.

  And she was just picking up a quart of heavy cream from the dairy section and lifting the lid to have a whiff when a powerful voice arrested her attention. Whirling around, she found herself staring at a dark-haired stranger. His bedraggled appearance was unfamiliar to her, and she eyed his shaggy clothes, his bushy beard, and his red-rimmed eyes with distaste. At the center of his forehead he sported a purple wart sprouting three black hairs. The man could have been a vagrant eager to convince her to bear the burden of his livelihood, if it hadn’t been for the large gun he was holding in his hand, the business end pointing in her direction.

  “Your wallet, lady,” he repeated, “and be quick about it!”

  Felicity thought about the big wad of cash tucked away in that wallet. As she did every day, she’d picked it up from the cash register at Bell’s, intending to deposit it into the account at the bank as soon as she’d loaded up on strawberry shortcake necessities. Now every fiber of her being revolted against the notion of handing over her family’s hard-earned money.

  “I—I don’t have a wallet,” she blurted out, the first thing that came to mind.

  If her brain had been firing on all cylinders she probably would have found something less inane to say. But then it’s very hard to think straight when there’s a huge gun pointed at your face. As it was, the grubby stranger merely lifted an upper lip that seemed made for snarling, and produced a low, growling sound that reminded Felicity of an unfriendly species of canine.

  He gestured with the gun and grunted, “Your money or your life!”

  In spite of the situation Felicity had to stifle a giggle. The peculiarity of hearing those words uttered outside of a movie theater strongly affected her funny bone.

  “You think this is funny?” the man growled. He didn’t seem to share her sense of the comedic, for he was waving that gun again.

  “No. No, of course not,” she said, flustered now. As this was the first time she’d ever been in a situation like this, she was unprepared for what happened next. For some reason she would later find impossible to explain, instead of digging into her purse for her wallet, she found her fingers tightening around the quart of heavy cream she was still holding in her hand.

  She’d removed the lid, and without thinking things through and measuring the consequences as any sane person would, she simply swung her arm up and decanted the contents of the container into the man’s face.

  To prove that she wasn’t completely crazy, she simultaneously dropped to the floor in an attempt to avoid the bullet she was sure would now be fired off, then scurried over to the yogurt section. And so it was that she found herself flat on the floor while her attacker yowled in agony as the cream stung his eyes.

  In her defense she’d actually aimed for the wart decorating his brow.

  Felicity felt for the guy. Judging from his howls of agony it wasn’t a pleasant experience. And to make matters worse, he even dropped the gun he’d been holding, needing both hands to clutch at his face.

  It fell to the floor and skittered to where Felicity had taken cover.

  She stared at the thing, and blinked. She’d never handled a gun before.

  Tentatively, she picked it up and weighed it in her hand. It felt nice and heavy, and was a perfect fit. Then she pointed it at the stickup man, who was now dancing around like a hip-hop artist, clearly not in the best frame of mind.

  Felicity cleared her throat. She felt that now was a good time to let this fellow experience something of the Happy Bays spirit. Happy Baysians are not all that keen on strangers, especially when they come bearing arms and issuing threats.

  “Stick em up!” she yelled.

  Then, when the man didn’t stick em up but kept on rubbing his eyes, she aimed the gun at the ceiling, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 3

  Rick Dawson
was having a bad day. Not only had his editor just called to tell him he was fired, but he’d also just discovered that in spite of his determination to stop smoking, a pack of Newports had miraculously appeared in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t the heart to throw it out so he’d smoked first one, then another, and now knew he would have to smoke the whole pack before he could even think about quitting.

  He was a handsome young man and with his rugged good looks, crooked smile, shaggy blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he had talked many a person into divulging secrets they should have known better than to divulge. It was a trait that had helped him greatly in his career as a reporter for the New York Chronicle.

  He’d come to Happy Bays both for the happiness the small town’s name promised and to work on his piece on Chazz Falcone, that well-known real estate tycoon and, in his estimable opinion, first-rate crook. Staying at the Happy Bays Inn, coincidentally the only inn in town, he’d been feverishly burning the midnight oil when Suggs Potter, the New York Chronicle’s editor-in-chief, had called to tell him his services were no longer required, nor was the Chazz Falcone piece, which had been nixed.

  So here he was, trudging through Happy Bays in the pouring rain, grumbling strange oaths under his breath, and generally feeling sorry for himself and a world where editors-in-chief answering to unlikely names like Suggs could sabotage the careers of brilliant reporters such as himself.

  A rumbling sensation in his stomach told him that his body needed more than cigarettes to live on, and as it so happened that he was passing a deli, he decided to stock up on liquor. He might not be a reporter any longer but he was still an artist and as everyone knows, artists subsist on cigarettes and alcohol.

  Entering the store and shaking the rain off his person like a mangy mutt, he took one good look at the place and set a course for the liquor section he thought he could hear whispering to him in the back. And he was just musing on Jack Daniel’s perennial appeal, when a loud voice crashed into his meditations.

  Yes, there it was again. Some guy yelling. Then it seemed as if the world ended. Loud screams of agony were added to the chorus and then a loud bang assaulted his eardrums.

  “Christ!” he yelled, recognizing the sound of a firearm being discharged. Instantly, he hit the deck. As he studied the checkered tile floor, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his journalistic instincts kicked in. He’d been in Iraq, after all, and Afghanistan. He’d even survived more than one Black Friday shopping with his mother.

  Crawling across the floor the way he’d learned from a friendly marine, he slithered toward the source of the gunfire. Finally, he reached the end of the aisle and ducked his head out. There, pointing a large gun at some hapless bum, stood a robust woman, her face a mask of determination while she held the weapon in both hands.

  Poor guy, he thought. He’d never met a stick-up woman before but he knew just how her victim must feel. He’d once joined a troop of marines doing reconnaissance when they’d come under fire. He’d sweated bullets and wasn’t too proud to admit he’d nearly wetted himself.

  This guy hadn’t wetted himself as near as he could tell, but he was definitely sweating. His face was simply covered with some sort of white secretion.

  He surveyed the scene, trying to decide what to do. A little voice in the back of his mind told him to stay put. For one thing he was unarmed and at an obvious disadvantage, and for another he was a reporter not a cop, so heroics wasn’t required on his part.

  But then again, he couldn’t just let the poor schmuck die.

  Deciding he had the element of surprise, and priding himself on his great aim—he’d been something of a prodigy in Little League—he selected a can of Bush’s Baked Beans from the rack behind him and weighed it tentatively. It had the kind of heft he was looking for and he decided it was go time for Rick Dawson.

  He drew a bead on his target. He only had one shot at this, so he made sure his aim was true. Finally, with a soft grunt, he let rip with all the power of his right arm.

  The can sailed through the air and described a perfect arc. Before the woman knew what hit her, Condon Bush’s gift to bean lovers had done its work and the gun was slammed from her hand.

  She let out a yelp of surprise, and the figure kneeling at her feet saw his chance. Moving quickly and without hesitation, he went for the gun. And he would have reached it if the woman hadn’t raised her foot and given the man a kick in the trouser seat that landed him in the prepared foods section.

  Rick winced. That must have hurt. Cool as dammit, the woman picked up the gun, and towered over the man, her face set in an expression of contempt.

  “Try that again and it’s game over, buster!” she thundered.

  Rick couldn’t help but admire her sheer chutzpah. She acted as if she owned the place. Shaking his head, he took out his cell and snapped a few quick shots of this latter-day Bonnie Parker.

  He figured if he sent these to Suggs Potter, the editor just might reconsider Rick’s untimely termination.

  He crouched down and out of sight, not wanting to be discovered by the mad bandit, and while possible headlines presented themselves to his practiced reporter’s brain, he made sure to keep a low profile. He didn’t want to miss a thing but he didn’t want to become her next target either. He’d risked life and limb trying to save the poor bastard now immersed in Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo, but he wasn’t going to be so foolish again.

  The woman was a seasoned pro, that much was obvious.

  Moments later, he heard the telltale siren of an approaching police car and he relished the coming showdown. He wondered how the boys in blue would respond to this situation. And he had a first-row seat. Talk about luck!

  He picked up a Dr. Pepper and a bag of Pop Crunch and hunkered down. This was going to be a great show and he might as well sit back and enjoy it.

  Chapter 4

  Rafi Papandreou stared frantically from one security monitor to the next. Though he’d never really expected his deli to be the target of a hostile takeover by armed bandits, he’d heeded his mother-in-law’s warning several months before and had installed the expensive security system. Now he was holed up in his ‘safe room’ behind the counter, the door locked and bolted, and was trying to assess the damage this gang was wreaking on his precious store.

  Rafi’s Deli had only been open for business six months when a thunderstorm wrecked the shop window. Barely a few months later there had been that idiot who’d plowed his truck into the shop and then there was the freak accident with the tree being hit by lightning and taking out the front window yet again.

  And now this.

  He was starting to believe Mami was right when she told him the place he’d selected to launch his business was cursed. He hadn’t believed it before, but this fourth attack was clearly a sign that she’d been onto something.

  According to her, he didn’t have a head for business anyway and should have been a garbage man. It was safe to say Mami didn’t think her son-in-law was marriage material. Mixed marriages were apparently not her bag and when her daughter Leticia had first deposited Rafi on the mat, she’d stared at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a flat stone.

  Her behavior throughout that first meeting had been to induce him to return to the rock which she figured had been his home. The relationship had continued strained until Leticia announced she’d selected him as her husband-to-be. When finally the greatest day of his life had arrived—the day he walked down the aisle to link his lot to Leticia’s—he’d stiffened when the priest had asked the congregation if anyone wished to object to the union. Both he and Leticia had turned to Mami, but the latter had merely smiled sweetly from under the black veil she’d selected to wear. She was, after all, in mourning for losing a daughter.

  When he’d started Rafi’s Deli it was mainly to show his beloved that he was capable of so much more than Mami gave him credit for. He wanted to keep Leticia in the style she’d grown accustomed to and already saw himself as the n
ext Sam Walton, Rafi’s Delis popping up all over the place like warts on a hog.

  Now, two years after opening what was still the one and only Rafi’s Deli, he was making good coin and things were going swimmingly. And now this crazed maniac had come charging in, waving his gun around and shouting something about handing over all his cash. Before the man got to the ‘life’ part of ‘Your money or your life’, Rafi had pressed the big red alarm button concealed beneath the counter, which locked the till, and had ducked for cover inside his safe room.

  The unsavory-looking crook had cursed a great deal and then decided to venture into the store to hold up any and all customers he could find!

  Wide-eyed, Rafi watched the altercation between the gangster and one of his most cherished clients, Felicity Bell. To his chagrin, just when he was about to break into song and praise the Lord that Miss Bell had managed against all odds to subdue her assailant, he discovered that there was a second gunman! This foul accomplice, dressed in a trench coat, was holed up in aisle two, and using a stack of canned beans to take potshots at Felicity.

  He balled his fists and raised his eyes heavenward, wondering what would happen next. He just hoped that the authorities would arrive on the scene promptly and put an end to the suspense. It was quite frankly killing him.

  Chapter 5

  Felicity was staring down at the man and starting to think she was a little out of her depth. Not only had he apparently brought along an accomplice but the guy was pummeling her with cans of beans!

  A quick calculation told her the man was probably unarmed. Why else would he use baked beans as a weapon?