Murder By Muffin (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 3)

“No more breaking into houses. Got it?” Before I can respond, Travis stomps off toward the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, nodding curtly on his way out.

“Well, that’s that,” says Will.

I spin around to face him. “You don’t think I’m giving up that easily, do you?”

“Lucy,” he warns, “there’s not anything else we can do. Travis is right. Without motive and opportunity, it’s just a bunch of people who don’t like Tara.”

“You’re forgetting I can find out motive and opportunity.”

“How do you figure?”

“I say we pull an Agatha Christie and gather all the suspects in one place. I’ll question them, and once I know who’s lying and who’s telling the truth, then we can figure this out.”

“And just how do you propose to gather all these suspects?”

“The killer has to be someone involved with the show so we get Gilly and the rest of the contestants together on some pretext, that’s how.”

“And they’re all just going to show up?”

“I’m going to make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

“And you think Travis is going to go along with this?”

“He isn’t going to know. Unless you tell him.”

Will puts his hands up like he’s surre

ndering. “I’m not telling anyone anything.”

“Leave everything to me. All you have to do is show up and look scary.”

“Why do I have to be there? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a librarian. I don’t scare anyone, Lucy.”

“You’re a pool-playing librarian. So you’re a little scarier than you think. Besides, you’re my best friend, and I need the moral support.”

Will groans. “I can’t believe I’m going to go along with another one of your hare-brained schemes.”

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning, I get up at four to make the muffins. Sarah is here by five, and together we prep for the breakfast crowd. The Bistro by the Beach is officially reopened, and everything is back to normal. Sort of. Because today, besides serving the best muffins in town, I plan to catch a killer.

I sent everyone involved with the show a text last night telling them that I need to see them at exactly 3 p.m. at The Bistro. So far, no one’s texted me back, but I’m pretty confident they’ll all show up. Like I told Will, I made them an offer they’re going to find hard to refuse.

By mid-morning, most of our regular customers have stopped by. Not that I was worried, but I wouldn’t want anyone getting too accustomed to Heidi’s doughnuts. And it’s not because I’m jealous. Knowing what I know now about Heidi’s Bakery, it’s unselfish concern. My customer’s lives are literally at stake.

Betty Jean Collins orders a large coffee and a bran muffin. “I’m so glad The Bistro is open again. I need to get back to my regular routine. If you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do.

“How’s the quest to get J.W. Quicksilver to your book club?” I ask, mostly because I’m curious but also because I want to steer her away from any discussion that might involve the word fiber.

“I’m wearing him down. Mark my words, I’ll have that man at my book club meeting before the year is out.”

My parents come in a few minutes later. Dad looks agreeably pleasant, like he always does, but Mom has a dangerous kind of twinkle in her eyes that immediately makes me put up my guard. “Now that you have a boyfriend, Lucy, we need to get know his family, so I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Jim Fontaine to dinner this coming Sunday,” she announces.

“You what?”

“You heard me. Travis’s father will be joining us for dinner on Sunday. I was thinking of making your grandmother’s shrimp Newberg recipe. I hope he’s not allergic to shellfish. He’s not, is he?” She turns to my father. “Does that kind of thing run in families? Considering how much we all love to go shrimping, it would be horrible if our own grandchildren were allergic.”