A Burned Out Baker: Classic Diner Mystery #7 (The Classic Diner Mysteries) by Jessica Beck Page A

we’ll just have to do the best that we can.”

    “At least Rob Bester won’t be hard to find,” I told Moose after he picked me up at the house. It had felt good washing the smoke off me, even if most of it had just been in my imagination. At least that’s what I’d thought until I’d stripped down and stepped into the shower. As I shampooed my hair, the smell of the fire was strong, and it took a few rinses to get most of it out. Some of it would take a few days to finally leave. Did that make Susan brilliant in disguising her part in the fire, or was it just a coincidence? I wasn’t ready to name her a killer yet, but if it had been a cover-up, she’d done a brilliant job of it.
    “If he’s at work,” Moose said.
    “Why wouldn’t he be?”
    “Victoria, that fire was right beside his building. What are the chances that his customers could get in there even if they wanted new tires?”
    “I would think they’d come back,” I said. “Tire shopping usually isn’t that urgent.”
    “On the contrary, I’ve rarely shopped for tires when I didn’t absolutely have to have them.”
    “I wouldn’t know. Greg takes care of our cars, from tires to windshield wiper fluid to everything else in between.”
    “That’s kind of sexist, isn’t it?” Moose asked with a grin.
    “Seriously? You can’t honestly be asking me that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Moose, in case you’ve forgotten, I own the diner, and I run it every day. My husband works for me as a fry cook, and he has no problem with me being in charge. Besides, he enjoys keeping up with the cars, so why shouldn’t I let him?”
    “Take it easy. I didn’t mean to step on any toes.”
    “You didn’t,” I told him with a grin. “Besides, we both know who really runs your family.”
    “Funny, I like to think of it as a democracy,” Moose said.
    “You might like to think of it that way, but we both know that it’s a benevolent dictatorship, with your wife in charge when it comes to the things that really matter.”
    Moose smiled at me. “I never denied it for one second. Hey, he’s open after all,” Moose added as he swung into the tire shop’s parking lot. The barricades on the street were all down, though the crime scene where the fire had occurred was clearly roped off with police tape.
    As we walked in, we found Rob standing by the front door, and we actually got a bonus as well.
    Rob was deep into an intent conversation with Mike Jackson, the late Barry Jackson’s brother, and as far as we knew, his last living relative, and more importantly, his only heir.

Chapter 8

    “We’re so sorry for your loss,” I told Mike Jackson as my grandfather and I approached the two men. The overwhelming smell of cologne washed over me as we neared, and I had to wonder which man was wearing enough fragrance to make my allergies kick in. Maybe it was both of them. No matter, I was afraid to get much closer than we already were for fear of breaking out in hives. Besides, I’d just cleaned myself up, and I didn’t want to go around town smelling like men’s cologne. Whatever they were discussing so intently ended abruptly.
    “Moose, Victoria,” Rob said. “What brings you by my shop? Are you finally going to break down and get new tires for that truck of yours?”
    “If I did that, the tires would be worth more than the truck, and we can’t have that.” Moose turned to Mike and offered a hand. “Sorry about your brother.”
    “So am I,” he said. Mike was a run-down, beat-up version of his older brother, and if you’d asked me the week before, I would have said that there was no way that he was younger than Barry. It showed that he’d had a hard life, that was for sure, and it most likely hadn’t gotten any easier with his brother’s recent death.
    “It can’t be easy losing someone you were so close to,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “We shared a drink at the house after he got home from the hospital last night,”