A Crusty Murder Read Online Free Page B

magical, mysterious garb that reminded me of a gypsy fortune teller from the old days.
    I had returned home when I heard a greeting called out. I scanned the yard to where George Carly stood waving at me.
    “You got a minute, Melina?” he yelled.
    I nodded and met him midway through the lot.
    “Had company today, huh?” George asked with a frown.
    I nodded. “Yes, the media hung around outside the bakery for hours. They didn’t come inside, but then Seanmhair would have made short work of them. Did they bother you?”
    George rubbed his lightly whiskered jaw and said, “They visited every shop on the block. When I asked them to leave, they almost refused until I said I’d call the police and have them charged with harassment.”
    “Seanmhair thinks I should have given them an interview. I wasn’t aware they’d been to speak with everyone. What do you think I should do?” I was interested to hear his thoughts.
    George was an Ivy League baby boomer who’d had a successful career in finance. On his fifty-fifth birthday, he’d retired and opened an antique shop a couple doors down from the bakery. I respected his business savvy, his passion for antiques, and generally liked him all the way round.
    His expression intense, George said, “We could get our group of fellow renters together and have a discussion. What do you say?”
    I agreed. “Why don’t you arrange a meeting and we’ll speak with the other tenants? I haven’t heard who will be taking over the landlady’s position. Have you?”
    George shook his head and said he’d be in touch. He sauntered off toward his shop. I watched as he stopped to pet a stray cat that hung around, mainly because he fed it. I smiled at his tender handling of the multi-colored animal. George swore like a trooper, could be short tempered, but underneath his bluster, there was a warm-hearted soul.
    Back in the bakery kitchen, I wrestled a huge mound of dough onto the stainless steel table. I sliced off chunks and gathered each one into a bowl. My class would begin any time now and I wondered if the students would appear or if the news of Mrs. Peterson’s demise had put them off. My answer came when the bell over the door jingled and laughter filtered through the shop.
    Hurriedly, I swung the kitchen door open and met several smiling students. Grateful for their commitment, I ushered them toward the coat rack. After they’d discarded their jackets and accessories, I handed out white aprons and asked them to scrub their hands in the corner sink. Willing to follow directions, they sped off to get ready amid jokes and more laughter.
    The bell jangled again, announcing more pupils. Once more, I rushed to greet them and found Aidan among them. His wit and charm had captured the group’s attention. They were hardly aware I’d entered the room. I stood with my hands clasped waiting for them to notice me.
    “If you’ll come this way, we’ll get started,” I said with a smile.
    Aidan grinned, his blue eyes sparkled, and he murmured, “Do you have room for one more, lass?”
    What the hell, the more the merrier. I couldn’t refuse such a handsome man, and didn’t want to. I nodded, pointed him toward the kitchen, and followed along behind, repeating apron distribution and hand washing instructions.
    The evening flew as pupils watched my demonstrations for mixing, and then for kneading. After I finished one demo, the students would repeat what I’d taught them. For this class, we were making Monkey Bread, a pull-apart loaf that resembled rolls. The dough would be rolled into hand-sized balls, then dipped in butter and tucked tightly into a tube pan for baking.
    Chatter abounded as classmates worked. The bread baked and every student taste-tested their results. I’d put out the butter, a bowl of jam, and the jar of honey. Tea and coffee made the rounds.
    During a brief silence, Phil Curry, a considerate and loyal student, asked, “Were you hounded by the media today, Melina? I