Pet Psychic Mysteries Boxset Books 5-8 (Magic Market Mysteries Book 2) by Erin Johnson (simple ebook reader .txt) 📕

She huffed, her ears flat. Fine. With that she slunk out the door, tail tucked, past the line of waiting customers who shrank back a bit from the enormous, and clearly disgruntled, German shepherd.

I straightened back up and hiked up my jeans. “She took that well.”

Peter only quirked a brow at me, then turned back to the worker. “We can keep Daisy outside, but we’re not here to order pastries.”

I held up a finger. “Let’s not make any hasty decisions.”

Peter smirked at me, then turned back to the green-haired guy. “We’d like to speak with Mimi Moulin please, in regards to Polly Pierre’s death.”

All three workers glared at us, but the guy rolled his eyes. “Fine—she’s in back.” He shook his head as we pushed through the waist-high swinging door and headed behind the counter. “She’s baking though. And we worked the competition all day, so this is a double shift for her.” He pointed at us. “So be nice—she’s old!”

“I heard that!” Mimi’s slightly gravelly voice called from the back.

Peter and I slid through the narrow hallway created between tall rolling racks of goodies, then pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen in back. I slid my bomber jacket off—it was even hotter back here with the baking fires roaring in the bread ovens. The back door was open, letting in some of the cool fall air. Daisy stood there behind a metal security door, her nose stuck between two bars. I grinned and waved at her, and she huffed.

Mimi stood at a table, kneading bread. Half a dozen other bakers bustled about, taking loaves out of ovens, decorating sugar cookies, and slicing cinnamon rolls. The workers moved quickly. A necessity, I guessed, given the line snaking around the building. Mimi wore a white apron tied over an ankle length pink muumuu.

A thin guy with a buzzed head looked up from cutting cookies and took in Peter’s uniform. “Uh-oh, Mimi, the man’s here to take you away.”

She grabbed a nearby rolling pin and shook it at him. “Don’t give me that sass!”

He grinned, and the rest of her workers chuckled.

Mimi’s lavender fauxhawk gave her a youthful appearance despite the wrinkles in her dark skin and the bags under her eyes. I couldn’t even imagine being on my feet all day for the competition on the royal grounds and then working all night—much less doing it in my eighties. Mimi had some real grit, and her mishmash of employees clearly adored her. As much as I wanted to find justice for the murdered Polly Pierre, I was hoping that Mimi wasn’t guilty.

27

Sourdough

Peter and I approached Mimi’s workstation. The pace slowed slightly around us as workers lingered nearby and moved more quietly. I glanced to my right and caught three bakers staring. They quickly dropped their eyes and got back to work.

“Mimi—we’d like to ask you some more questions.”

She glanced at us over the top of her cat glasses. “Well, better make it quick.” She worked the dough with her knobby knuckled hands. “You saw my line of customers? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Of course.” Peter glanced at Daisy, who stood at the back door, nose twitching. “I’m sorry to be so direct, but—did you have anything to do with Polly Pierre’s death?”

“Humph.” Mimi shook her head. “Like I already said—no.”

Peter and I glanced past the bakers, the flour-covered floor, and the racks of pastries to Daisy at the back door. She wagged her bushy tail. True.

I shrugged up at Peter, relieved. Guess Mimi wasn’t our killer. I glanced over my shoulder at the cinnamon rolls a petite gal was slicing. Did that mean I could take home some pastries, then?

Mimi dragged the heel of her hand through the bread dough. “I gave Polly a chance a long time ago—she was young and talented then.” She nodded to herself. “But also a thief. She stole my recipes—including my signature sourdough starter—and opened her fancy schmancy place on Main Street.”

The tall, thin guy clicked his tongue. “What a witch.”

I drummed my fingers on the floury butcher block table. “I don’t know—you sound pretty bitter. You’re sure that wasn’t enough motive to kill her—or maybe get one of your workers to do it?”

“Psh.” Mimi smirked as she lifted the dough ball, turned it, and slammed it back down. “Child, if I wanted to kill Polly, I’d have done it years ago.”

Daisy, still stuck behind the bars at the back door, wagged her tail and whined. True.

Mimi pointed a dough-covered finger at me. “And no, none of my employees did it either. They like me—but not that much.” She chuckled.

Peter licked his lips and kept his tone soft. “Good—thank you. We just needed to double check.”

She nodded but kept her eyes on the bread dough.

“We know about the court case.”

Mimi stilled.

Peter lifted his palm. “We actually have a sample of Polly’s sourdough starter. If you give me a sample of yours, we’ll test it and compare the two.”

Mimi narrowed her eyes at Peter. “Why? So you can use it to open your own bakery?” She huffed and went back to her work, shaking her head. “Man, you must think I’m some kind of stupid to let that happen to me twice. People from the upper tiers thinking they can just take advantage of us Darkmoonies and shifters.”

I understood her deep distrust of the police and the justice system. It had failed her before—why would she trust us now? I took a deep breath. “I get it, Mimi, but you can trust us. I’m a shifter, too.” It’d been a long time since I’d admitted that in public. A nervous jolt coursed through me.

Mimi studied my face. “Prove it.”

My throat closed up. “I—I can’t.” I’d lost the ability to turn into an owl a few years ago, when one of my colleagues cursed me—with a little concoction brewed up by Ludolf. I missed soaring over the island