How to Bake a Murder (A Cookie and Cream Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by K. J. Emrick

  “Okay. All right, I’m sorry. Jeez. Chillax, Grandma.”

  Chillax? She’d have to look that one up. Probably not an insult. At least she’d been called Grandma, and not That Old Bat. “Thank you. That’s better.”

  She resumed driving and Clarissa resumed looking out the window. There was a slight difference in the girl though, Cookie thought. She didn’t slump quite as much. She didn’t spend half as much time on her phone. It was progress, of a sort.

  Cookie turned on her headlights. Cream began to bark.

  “Shush.”

  He kept barking, but Cookie couldn’t tell why.

  “Can’t you shut him up?” Clarissa asked.

  “He has a name.”

  “Yeah, Cream. That’s a stupid name.”

  The insult pursed Cookie’s lips. She liked her little friend’s name. It was a good name for a baker’s dog. “Stupid? That’s not a nice word.”

  Cream barked some more. Cookie knew him well enough to know he was clearly upset at something. She was just thinking of stopping the car for him when Clarissa snorted.

  “I could have said a lot worse than stupid, you know.”

  “You shouldn’t have said anything.” Bark. Bark. “Cream, please be quiet. Clarissa, could you hold him? I need to find a shopping center or somewhere to pull over.”

  Clarissa looked at her, her face screwed up like Cookie had asked her to pick up a snake. “I’m not touching the dog.”

  “He’s not going to bite.” This was a city. Shouldn’t there be a parking lot somewhere?

  “I don’t care. I am not holding the dog.”

  “Then reach for him and put him on my lap.”

  “No.”

  Thankfully, Cookie was saved from having to find a creative way to make Clarissa do what she asked again when Cream climbed up between the front seats and folded himself into the lap of her dress. When he did, he quieted, and huffed out a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Whatever had been bothering him must have passed. Good, because there was the exit to the highway. The city was behind them.

  The summer was in front of them.

  A few miles later, Cookie tried explaining herself to her granddaughter. “Cream is a living animal. He’s a good dog. You have to have the same respect for my dog as you have for me.”

  Clarissa snorted.

  “I mean it, Clarissa. Whatever you did with your mother will not fly in my house. You will be expected to help me in the bakery and keep the apartment clean. You will have a curfew that I will enforce. You will be allowed to go out, only around town, and then only when you’ve asked me first.”

  “Sounds like what you expect me to be is your damn slave.”

  “You watch your mouth, young lady. I’m not above washing it out with soap,” Cookie warned her

  “You can try,” Clarissa grumped. “Look. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like being out in the country. I don’t like being kicked out of my own house for the summer, being made to leave my friends, or… or… any of this!”

  She slumped down in her seat again, and Cookie could almost feel the walls going back up.

  Home couldn’t come soon enough.

  Two hours later Widow’s Rest finally came into view. It was a collection of houses and lazy streets and small stores nestled among hills and trees. It belonged on a postcard or in a Norman Rockwell painting. It was quiet, and peaceful, and that was just the way Cookie liked it. When Madison had opted to move to the city, her heart broke a little. But, that was what children did. They grew up, they moved away, and then they called you up out of the blue one night to have you come help them with their own kids.

  “Here we are, dear,” Cookie said, happy to be here and hoping to at least get a little bit of a response out of her granddaughter. “Home sweet home!”

  Clarissa glared out of the window at the pools of light from the streetlamps. “What a dump.”

  “Oh, no dear,” Cookie chuckled. “The town dump is way over on Fenris Street.”

  The joke fell flat in the short distance between grandmother and granddaughter.

  It didn’t matter. Cookie loved her town. She remembered that Clarissa used to as well, back when she would come to visit at the age of five or six. A lot could change in just a few years, apparently.

  They drove through the heart of town, past the diner and the flower shop and the library. Clarissa had a snide comment for everything, or a glare, or a dramatic eye roll. The bakery was at the other edge of town. Humming to herself, Cookie took the left off of Main Street onto the much narrower Anthem Way. Just a few places down, she pulled into the driveway of the bakery.

  “Here we are! Oh, look. There’s the mayor out for an evening stroll.” She looked back at the man walking down the road away from the bakery, his collar turned up. Belvedere Carson had never been one for daily exercise, she reflected to herself. He must have been out to see someone. Everywhere in town was within reach of a good walk, when you didn’t mind stretching your legs a bit.

  Clarissa looked up at the building in front of them. Two stories tall, with windows framed in white against red bricks. The bottom floor was the bakery. The top floor her apartment. The pinstripe awning over the front door was rolled up for the night. In the big plate glass window out front was stenciled “Kiss The Cook Bakery” and under that, smaller letters spelled out “Where there’s cake, there’s happiness.”

  Cookie waited expectantly. She got nothing but a stony glare from Clarissa, but that seemed positive. At least it wasn’t an insulting remark.

  She popped open her door and stepped out, smiling like she did every time she saw her pride and joy. It had taken work, and it hadn’t been easy, but she was proud of it.

  Clarissa got out of the car, just a few seconds slower than Cream, and followed Cookie around to the side entrance of the bakery that led to the stairs behind the shop. At the top of the stairs was another door, painted blue, that entered into the living room of her apartment. She turned on the light and breathed in the wonderful smells of baked bread and sweet sugar that always filtered up from the kitchen down below whether her ovens were going or not.

  “Swell. Where’s my room?” Clarissa stood with her hands fisted at her sides, glaring at everything around her. There wasn’t going to be any talking to her right now.

  Cookie sighed and pointed down the slim passageway. The apartment was the same size as the bakery, which allowed for two bedrooms and a full bathroom and even a sitting room where Cookie liked to do her knitting and just sit with Cream and think. Out here was a little dining space with a small kitchenette. She led Clarissa to the first room down the hall on the left and threw open the door. “This will be your room. You can do some redecorating if you want, but no black paint.”

  The girl plopped on the bed, face down, and didn’t look back at Cookie. She left the suitcase inside the door.

  Now that Cookie looked at the room, she realized it didn’t have much that would appeal to a teenage girl. Mint green walls. A single bed with a brown comforter. An empty closet. Shelves that held a few of Cookie’s less valuable knick-knacks like the ceramic penguin family. Maybe she should have put some more thought into this when she agreed to take on Clarissa for the summer. Well. No changing things now.

  “It’s getting late,” she said to the back of her granddaughter’s head. “I’m going down to the shop for a few minutes then I’ll be back. There’s food in the fridge if you need a snack. Otherwise I expect lights out in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” Clarissa complained into her pillow.

  “Oh, yes. You have a bed time. Our day begins at four in the morning.”

  “Four?” Now she spun around, her long hair whipping wildly with the motion. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll be in to get you up, since I’m sure you don’t have an alarm clock.” Cookie smiled at the look of panic on Clarissa’s face.

  “That’s not fair! Four A.M. is still night!”

  “No, it’s the start of
my day and I expect you to be up with me. Hard work is good for the soul. Besides. It will keep you from being bored. Get some sleep.”

  She left the girl grumbling.

  ***

  Cookie made her way down to the bakery, using the back door off the stairs into the kitchen. She had to make out the bills before she went to sleep. A glass of iced tea would do nicely to wash away some of the day’s stress, too.

  Smells of sugar and cinnamon and baked bread met her as she turned on the lights. She inhaled deeply, and sighed with contentment. This was the smell of bliss. She simply couldn’t imagine working in a sterile office or working for someone else. Life was good, and she had to remember that.

  She opened the door to the walk-in refrigerator where she stored her leftovers. Most of her items were baked that day, but there were always a few things that didn’t sell. They got stored away for the church to pick up and distribute the next day. The reverend was grateful for the donations that went out to the shut-ins and those down on their luck in the community.

  Cookies and muffins sat on a tray, wrapped and ready to be picked up. They all looked good but there was a lobster tail pastry in the back she had her eye on. The proper name for those delicious creations was “la sfogliatella,” but it was so hard to pronounce everyone just called them by the sound-alike nickname. The sweet, flaky pastries were a favorite of her customers. Hers too. Over the years Cookie had seen her waistline expand more than a few sizes. She’d never been a Barbie doll, and she’d never been worried about making herself into one. More than a few men had told her she was pretty, and that was nice, but it would have been nicer if they’d followed through and fallen in love with her.

  She could put her husband in that category too, seeing as how he’d walked out on her and left her to raise Madison on her own. That had been a project and a half, and she’d done a splendid job if she did say so herself. No size two model could have done it better.

  Her new project was her granddaughter.

  When her snack was done Cookie cleared her plate and glass into the sink and went to the little desk off in the corner of the kitchen. The bills were laid out where she’d left them. Truth be told, she’d just as soon leave them there and forget all about them, but that’s not how a business was run.

  “I’ll take care of them upstairs,” she decided. That way Cream could sit with her while she spent away her hard earned dough.

  Bakery humor.

  Cookie turned off all of the lights in the kitchen and then went out into the front room where she sold the baked goods. There were a few tables out here as well for customers to sit and pass the time with a fresh muffin or a buttered croissant. When she checked the front door to make sure it was still locked, someone was standing on the sidewalk.

  It was a boy, just a teenager, dressed in black from his jeans to his long coat. This far away from the heart of town there were no streetlights, and the boy was cast in shadows by the dim glow from the few lights Cookie hadn’t yet turned off. He was tall, and he was lanky, but more than that she couldn’t say about him. She didn’t think she recognized him.

  The teen stared back at her until Cookie moved to open the front door. Then he ran off into the darkness.

  Whoever it was ran out of sight before Cookie could do anything else. She frowned, wondering why someone would be standing outside her bakery at this hour. Everyone knew she was closed by seven o’clock.

  She made a mental note to mention this to Officer Stansted. He came into her bakery every morning for a cup of coffee and an onion bagel. He’d know what to do about loitering teens. Especially now that she had a young girl upstairs to watch over.

  After double checking that the front door—and the back door, too—were locked, she headed up the inside stairs to her apartment.

  She listened to see if Clarissa was moving around. Silence. Maybe her granddaughter had actually listened to her and gone to bed. One could hope.

  Cream was curled up on his bed under the dining room table as Cookie set down her bills and checkbook and ledger. She had been thinking of using one of those fancy computer programs to keep her accounts for some time now. Lisa over at the ice cream shop used one and she swore by it. Cookie was just too afraid she’d start swearing at it if she tried. Computers were definitely not her friend.

  The table, a lovely solid mahogany, had been a garage sale find. The chairs had been from several different flea markets, straight-backed with mismatched cushions. The chaotic style involved in it all suited her very well.

  She frowned at the stack of work before her, doing eeny meeny miny moe to figure out which she would pay this month.

  “Cream,” she said, “I need to figure out a way to bring in just a little more revenue.”

  The dog snuffled in his sleep, but Cookie took that as support for her idea. Too bad her old friend didn’t add any specifics. Knowing something must happen was one thing. Making it happen, well, that was something else entirely.

  After writing out checks for the electric and three of her suppliers Cookie stretched, and stood to check in on Clarissa. She found her, still clothed, under the blankets. Her breathing was deep and slow and rhythmic. Amazing how peaceful she looked, when she wasn’t casting insults on everyone and everything around her. Cookie pulled the covers up tighter around her granddaughter and swept a strand of hair out of the girl’s face. Then she left her to her dreams.

  Humming to herself, she went back to the bills.

  When she got to the table, she stopped.

  Outside, through the window, she saw the kid again. The one dressed in black.

  After a moment where the two just stared at each other, the boy turned and walked away again.

  What was his deal? Maybe he lived nearby and he’d always walked out on the street. Cookie didn’t make a habit of watching the outside world once the sun went down. Still, she felt better knowing the doors were locked up tight.

  She looked down at Cream. The dog hadn’t even stirred. “Some watchdog you are,” she told him.

  He opened one eye, yawned, then went back to sleep.

  “Big help you are.” Still, Cream was more company than she’d had from most of the men in her life. She’d tried so hard with her husband. It was supposed to work out with him. Cookie had believed so hard, right up until the day that he’d walked out of her life forever. Once he was gone, life had been uncertain for her and Madison. If the owner of the only bakery in town hadn’t taken her in, Cookie wouldn’t have found her passion for baking. She wouldn’t have found a home to raise Madison in, either.

  But back to the task at hand.

  “So which bill, Cream? The milk bill or the flour bill?”

  The truth was she really couldn’t leave any of them unpaid. Not if she wanted to keep getting her supplies and keep the lights on. So. The milk bill, and half of the flour bill. That would cover things for now.

  She needed to get to sleep. What she’d told Clarissa about getting up early to go to work had been the truth. At her age, she needed more sleep, not less, but there was one more thing she wanted to do.

  Downstairs again, she tucked away the bills she’d finished to be mailed out tomorrow. The rest of it she’d bring back upstairs to go through later. Pouring herself a warm cup of tea she sat down out in the dark front room of the shop and watched out the window.

  It didn’t take long. The young man in the long black coat came back when he thought no one was watching and spent long minutes staring at the bakery. Not just out for a walk, then. He looked both ways up and down the street, and only then did he walk away into the shadows. Not for long. After a slow count of twenty seconds, he came back, watched the shop, and left again just like before.

  Whatever he was after, it must be important.

  And Cookie wanted to know what it was.

  She risked unlocking the front door. She opened it just a crack, not enough to set off the shopkeeper’s bell, and then scurried back to the chair where she was hiding, and waiting
.

  Sure enough, he appeared again.

  Cookie jumped up and ran through the door His eyes went wide as her ambush caught him completely unprepared. Before Cookie could say or do anything though, he took off down the street. Cookie gave chase, but it wasn’t long before she ran out of breath and he was out of sight.

  “I really need to cut back on those sweets,” she said to the night, bent over and holding the hitch in her side, trying to catch her breath.

  He’d disappeared. Again. She caught her breath on the corner and hoped none of her few neighbors had looked out their windows. She must have looked like a sight, this middle-aged, overweight woman running after a teenager in a long dark coat.

  When she was finally able to breathe normally she headed back to the bakery. Locking the door again she headed upstairs.

  Slipping into flannel pajamas, she crawled into bed. Cream came and joined her before too much longer, as he usually did. Stroking his back, she drifted off to sleep, reminding herself again to tell Officer Jerry Stansted about the teenager and their little late night dash.

  In her dreams, Jerry entered the bakery. They were alone. He was in his police uniform, the badge shining as brightly as his smile.

  Of course, this was her dream, and one she had often, so Jerry didn’t stay in his uniform for very long.

  Chapter Two

  Cookie woke with a start. Outside the night still blanketed the town in darkness. Not even a hint of morning light. She glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Middle of the night, even on baker’s hours. She cursed her age under her breath. Once upon a time she would have slept through an earthquake.

  Somewhere back around age fifty—and even that was in the rearview mirror now—sleep and her had developed a tenuous relationship. Like two lovers who had grown bored with each other, sometimes sleep would come to her, and sometimes it wouldn’t. Knowing she could toss and turn for hours or get up and get some things done, she reached over and turned on her light.

  Cream stirred at the bottom of the bed. He opened one eye, glaring at her.