Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) by Kennedy Chase Page A

pulled on the gloves with a snap that meant business.
    “As far as I’m aware, they don’t use fancy washing-up gloves, though,” I said, trying not to laugh.
    “Improvisation is the grandmother of invention!” She tapped her nose and gave me a cheeky little wink.
    Renholm’s bedroom smelled of cat pee and sweaty socks. I opened the window, but then closed it again. You never know what unscrupulous type might see it and break in.  
    I had a poke around in Renholm’s wardrobe. He had some pretty fancy 1920s-style suits hanging up. I went through the pockets of the jackets, just in case the cops had missed anything, but they hadn’t.
    I checked under the bed, lifted the rug, looked behind the wardrobe, but all I found were dead spiders and dust bunnies. I was about to give up when I noticed the laundry basket. I lifted the lid and was hit by the smell of cheesy socks. I held my breath and tipped the contents onto the floor. There were, of course, several stinky pairs of socks, some underpants, a tie, and a pair of trousers. I checked the trouser pockets.  
    There was some loose change and a crumpled letter, which read:

    Dear Mr. Renholm,
    With regards to your celebration the other night.  
    Though I’m grateful for the custom, I have to say that I find it most unusual that you’ve won the Artisan Business Award twice now. Those less charitable than myself might think it was your, shall we say, ‘elite’ connections that have stood you in good stead, others that, perhaps the judges who have been seen eating in your establishment were bribed by delicious free cakes. I just thought, as a word to the wise, that I’ve got my eye on you, sir, and if there has been any bribery shenanigans going on, I’ll damn well find out and expose you!

    Yours, Rex Farquar.

    “Wow,” I said aloud. I guessed Rex Farquar must be the owner of Farquar’s Emporium, and the note made it abundantly clear that he was bent out of shape about not winning the business award.  
    The question was, was he angry enough to kill? I put the letter in my pocket and was just about to go tell the others what I’d found when a blood-curdling scream rang out from downstairs. I headed into the corridor that ran the length of the apartment to see Michael and Cordi doing the same thing.
    “What the hell was that?” I said. Before either of them could answer, another scream echoed around the apartment. We headed downstairs, Michael first, with Cordi in the middle and me bringing up the rear.
    I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t a woman with her back to the gallery wall, being hissed at by the big ginger cat that I’d first encountered the night that I broke in.

Chapter Ten

    “Get that horrible monster away from me!” the woman hissed as she pressed herself against the wall of photographs. Quite rightly affronted, the cat hissed back.  
    The woman clutched an overlarge bag tight against her chest, like a Gucci shield. “Please, save me!” she cried. She was wearing killer, patent black heels and a plaid suit. Her hair was drawn up into a tight chignon pinned at the nape of her neck.
    I crouched and rubbed my fingers together. “Come here, puss,” I said.  
    Much to my surprise, ginger padded over and nuzzled my hand with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. I picked him up and was relieved to find that he was heavy—perks of being a chef’s cat, I guess.
    “Urgh!” The woman brushed herself down. “I need a drink. Do you mind?” she asked Michael.
    Mike turned to me. “Do we?”
    “No. Go right ahead, Miss?”
    The woman click-clacked across the tiled floor. “Kessingworth, Caitlyn Kessingworth.” She fished a card out of a tiny pocket in her wasp-waisted jacket and handed it to Cordi before going behind the counter and helping herself to a drink.  
    I noticed that she knew her way around the place as she pulled a dusty bottle of cognac from under the counter. She poured a finger, thought about it, then poured