Wicked as a Christmas Fruitcake (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery: A Cozy Mystery on Kindle Unlimited Book 10)

by Lotta Smith

  Wicked as a Christmas Fruitcake

  Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery:

  Book 10

  By Lotta Smith

  Copyright

  Wicked as a Christmas Fruitcake© 2017 Lotta Smith.

  Cover copyright 2017 Viola Estrella

  Editing and proofreading: Hot Tree Editing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author/and publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. None of the characters in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and an unintentional.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Table of content

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  EPILOGUE

  About the author

  Books by Lotta Smith

  Did You Like Wicked as a Christmas Fruitcake?

  PROLOGUE

  3:15 p.m., December 3rd

  At Charmed and Sprinkled, the air was warm, literally filled with hustle and bustle. They hopped with joy and the excitement and anticipation for the holidays to come. Early December—sandwiched between Thanksgiving and Christmas—was the season when smiling and being kind and generous was almost obligatory for everyone.

  Holiday spirit wasn’t dead, even among the gathering members of Manhattan Avenue Arts and Heritage Association, a local organization working to cherish and preserve the arts and history of the locale. With Keith Schuyler as the chief director and a dozen members of the board of directors practically aiming point-blank for his chair, the organization—aka MAAHA—wasn’t known for its friendly, amicable relationship between the members, but on this special afternoon tea gathering, no one was even frowning, much less arguing.

  Observing the group of people happily munching on a smorgasbord of baked goods ranging from tea sandwiches, pastries, cakes, and more cakes over an eclectic selection of tea, Harriett Palmetto, the manager at the venue, let out a sigh of relief. Assuming from the smiles on their faces as they sample each baked good, they were loving the creations on the table—especially the newly offered fruitcake, Nutty Nutcracker’s Christmas Delight, specially created for the holiday season, which disappeared from the plates as soon as it was served.

  MAAHA members were known for having a huge network of friends and family in the tightknit community, and Harriett was certain they would recommend everyone buy the Christmas Delight. The Christmas-themed fruitcake rich in nuts and fruits was so going to be her first-ever bestselling original recipe.

  Just like other small mom-and-pop bakeries in the neighborhood located between the Upper West Side and Hell’s Kitchen, Charmed and Sprinkled was owned and operated by generations of family. As the newly appointed general manager and owner of the bakery, Harriett was especially conscious about making good sales. According to her great-grandma, Charmed and Sprinkled was already in business in New York City when the World War—not WWII, but WWI—erupted. The store had been owned and run by generations and generations of the Palmetto family so far, and Harriett wasn’t going to become that person who ended the bakery’s long history and legacy.

  Charmed and Sprinkled was where she grew up. Having eaten her first cannoli at the age of six months old and listening to all those entertaining stories about the history of the shop and the baked goods, Harriett was well aware of her purpose in life: inherit Charmed and Sprinkled and make it blossom even more.

  She planned to go to baking school when she was a little girl, but her parents persuaded her into pursuing a business degree, saying that higher education in business was what a baker in the twenty-first century needed to have under her belt. So, she went to college, majoring in business administration with minors of restaurant administration and culinary arts… and there she was, finally inheriting the bakery from her parents who decided to visit Maui to spend their first-ever pre-Christmas season not in charge of the store.

  Not that her parents had completely retired, but for Harriett, the upcoming few weeks were a test to see how well she could manage the store without relying on her parents. So far, she was doing nicely.

  Standing in the corner of the bakery while cherishing her achievement so far, she was zoned out—until a voice jerked her back to reality.

  “Hi there, Harriett.” Anna Linton, one of the directors of MAAHA and the owner of an antique shop, waved at her, prompting Harriett to approach her table. “This party is such a hoot, isn’t it? And this new fruitcake is absolutely divine!”

  “Thank you so much!” Harriett beamed, looking around the bakery sparkling with glittering gold and silver ornaments on top of Christmassy green, red, and white. “I have a hunch that your assistance here with the decoration helped make this gathering a really friendly occasion.”

  “Of course.” Anna winked. “Everyone loves Christmas, and older folks love Great Gatsby-themed everything. So basically it was a simple recipe—mix Christmas and Great Gatsby together in a bowl, whisk until nice.”

  “Thanks again for your genius in decoration.” Harriett’s smile grew wider. Indicating the bakery turned into an ultra-posh ballroom that looked as if it popped up from the 1920s, she went on. “You have to start offering interior decorations to your customers at your shop. Your talent is super-impressive, and it’s a sacrilege to keep it just to yourself. I know you have a knack for growing plants, but dahlias in December? Wow… I can’t find any other word to describe how impressed I am.”

  “Come on, Harriett. You’ve given me enough praise to last for the next three years or so.” Anna chuckled lightly. If Harriett recalled it right, Anna was fifty-something, but if you didn’t know her age, she was often mistaken to be in her thirties. Born as the only child, Harriett always felt Anna was like an older sister.

  “Anna, you should seriously consider opening a little flower shop at the corner of your store,” Harriett said enthusiastically. “Everyone will love it even more. And of course, I’ll love it.”

  “Oh come on. Stop cajoling me so much.” Anna fanned herself with a hand. “Gardening is fun to do as a hobby, but as soon as you try to make it into business, it becomes a drag.”

  “Oh… okay. Gardening isn’t an easy task to incorporate in your business.” Harriett smiled, cocking her head. “Then how about periodically offering party planning services?”

  “Oh no. In that case, I’d need three of me.” Anna threw back her head and let out a hearty laugh, her long, shiny blonde hair swirling like
waves.

  “Look, Anna. You’re a real genius.” Harriett took Anna’s hand in hers. “When you brought me this offer to do the annual afternoon tea gathering for the arts and heritage society here instead of some fancy hotel, I was way more scared than excited. But look at this! I’m not making a total mess of everything, and the people seem to be enjoying this occasion. You have no idea how much it means to me. As the new manager of this bakery, I was dying to survive the holiday seasons without my parents’ help, but at the same time, I was almost scared to death. I know it’s just the beginning, but I guess I’m starting to develop some kind of confidence. Of course, it’s premature of me to be confident while the show is still going on, but… oh my God, I’m babbling.”

  “It’s okay.” Anna affectionately patted Harriett’s blushing cheek. “You’ve been doing great, and I’m sure your mom and dad will be so proud of you when they’re back from vacation. They’ll definitely see people literally lining up in the storefront wanting to purchase this new Christmas fruitcake.”

  “You think?” Harriett asked sheepishly.

  “I’m sure.” Anna nodded. “Speaking of the tasty delight, can I have another piece of sausage pastry? Sweets are so divine, but at the same time, when I eat salty food between sweet pastries and cakes, I feel absolutely refreshed, like I can go on eating forever.”

  “Of course. Nothing is yummier than a salty-sweet combination. Let me bring the sausage bread.”

  Harriett turned on her heels to go to the kitchen, chuckling as Anna said, “That’s so true. Oh my goodness, I might be sent to Hell for gluttony.”

  On her way, Harriett passed Woody Napoleon in the hall as he came back from the men’s room, practically flying back to the Christmas fruitcake that had been awaiting him on the table. From the corner of her eye, Harriett caught him digging in to the cake and apparently savoring every bite of it, and she smiled contentedly.

  Indeed, he was loving the sweet delight. Before he went to the john, that young cute waitress who also happened to be a member of MAAHA—Meg was her name—served him a large piece. “It’s called Nutty Nutcracker’s Christmas Delight,” she explained to him, smiling and blushing a little. Woody suspected she might have the hots for him. He was a ladies’ man, and his charm didn’t seem to be wearing off as he aged. Before moving to the Big Apple, he used to be a successful real estate developer in Florida, and he was determined to take the Big Apple as well. Any woman with a pulse could fall in love with him.

  On this special day, he had managed to have a friendly conversation with the fellow board members of MAAHA. He knew that Keith Schuyler, the chief director of the group, hated his guts, but so far, even that shmuck was acting as if he was truly fond of all the members, including Woody.

  “And the funniest part is—” The always grim-faced Keith Schuyler was smiling as he pretended to be listening to Mrs. Burgandy’s nonstop chatter, which was supposed to be the most hilarious when it was indeed boring as hell.

  Hell, even a dead man would jump out of his grave from boredom, Woody thought, killing his desire to yawn and focusing his attention to the fruitcake.

  When his stomach started to feel heavy, he wondered if he’d had too much cake and pastries. Some champagnes and wine were served, but it was an afternoon tea party and the beverages were more on the dry side, so he was sure it wasn’t the alcohol. Woody decided to shrug it off, trying to enjoy this occasion and, hopefully, be accepted in the community. He had a big business plan on his to-do list, and being a respected member of the neighborhood was going to help him a lot.

  Ten seconds later, he realized something was wrong with him. The heaviness had grown into full-blown pain up to his heart. His fingers felt numb, and his vision was blurry.

  He tried to put the fork down, but it fell off the table onto the cold marble floor, making a ka-ching noise. He reached for his heart, suspecting he was having one mother of a coronary attack. Hell, he wanted to puke so much, but at the same time, openly puking at the table in the middle of a tea party wouldn’t make a good impression.

  In an attempt to avoid humiliating himself, he stood up. At least, his brain was ordering his body to stand up—except his body wasn’t cooperating anymore.

  Instead of gracefully standing up, Woody’s body leaned to the side and slowly fell to the floor. December in New York was cold, and the floor should have been cold, but he didn’t feel it or the pain of banging his head onto the hard stone. At that point, his whole body was hot as hell, as if someone had set him on fire… or he’d been transported to midsummer Miami.

  Meg, the cutesy waitress, was the first person to notice the commotion. “Mr. Napoleon, are you o—” She must have tried to say “okay,” but her words dropped off midsentence and morphed into a shriek as he vomited, retching like a drunken idiot.

  Others at the party joined her and started shrieking as well, topped with panicky tones of voices saying things like “Dial 911!”

  Before feeling bad about himself, Woody realized his whole body now felt cold. It was like he was trapped in the freezer.

  “What was that shrieking?” Harriett Palmetto scurried out of the back room to the café area, carrying a basket full of loaves of bread containing sausages, ham, and cheese. It didn’t take long for her to join the screaming.

  It occurred to Woody that it was like a really awful Christmas choir, but then Anna Linton, who was sitting at the table next to his, fell onto the floor.

  Woody’s blurry vision became darker with every moment. The last thing his eyes caught was a stem of dark purple flowers in the bouquet of red, white, and green blossoms.

  He wondered if it was an illusion or hallucination caused by his messed-up vision, but before he could decide, he was in total darkness.

  An ambulance and the paramedics were called, but all they did was confirm his death.

  Woody Napoleon used to want his friends and loved ones to throw a huge party when he died. Then again, he’d never really expected to literally drop dead in the middle of the party.

  CHAPTER 1

  On a lazy Thursday afternoon, the newly installed fireplace in the living room was gleaming with the flames of bioethanol, illuminating the cozy Christmas tree. Hot chocolate smelled divine in the mug, and the Hallmark Channel was running a Christmas movie marathon all day long. Out of the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the famous Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center could be seen attracting more tourists than usual, each person taking the selfies of a lifetime and hoping for more likes on social media.

  I was in the kitchen adjacent to the living room, whisking the ingredients for gingerbread cookies in a bowl. Jackie was floating by my side, humming the opening tune of The Nutcracker and flourishing in ballet dancing moves, with occasional oohing and aahing at the sight and smell of the brown dough.

  Under normal circumstances, I would hate to have someone dancing beside me when I was in the middle of a baking process that involved flour and sugar, but I didn’t mind having this flamboyant dancer in the same room. Not that I was feeling exceptionally generous thanks to the holiday spirit, but Jackie—my BFF in the form of a drag queen sporting a rainbow tutu and extra-heavy makeup, topped with her signature necklace with its charm literally screaming FESTIVE in all capital letters—happened to be a ghost. As a result, she didn’t run the risk of making a mess with the flowing dust and dancing flour no matter how enthusiastically she danced.

  “Oh my God. At this time of the year, I can’t help but wishing I could eat human food! And I mean, real human food in front of me!” she exclaimed, looking into the bowl of cookie dough.

  “But look at the bright side. You get to eat food for ghosts that humans like I don’t have access to. That’s incredible in its own way. Don’t you think so?” I said teasingly.

  “Right.” She grinned contentedly. “Hey, Mandy, why don’t you sample the dough and tell me what it tastes like?”

  “No, I can’t do that.” I shook my hea
d. “I don’t sample raw cookie dough. It runs the risk of getting you sick, ranging from salmonella and a lot more.”

  “Excuse me?” Jackie’s heavily lined eyes widened. “Eating raw cookie dough is a tradition we can’t ever abandon, no matter how big the risk of infection is. When you were little, you always sampled raw cookie dough, didn’t you?”

  “No way.” I chuckled. “Nana and Mom were so adamant about their no-touching policy over raw dough. They used to tell Alicia and me things like ‘You can find pleasure that doesn’t involve raw cookie dough, but when you have a salmonella infection and its aftereffects, it’s hard to find other pleasures.’”

  “And Alicia listened to them?” Jackie tilted her head to the side. “Younger siblings are almost always the ones the parents have more difficulty talking sense to, and I have a hunch she wasn’t a kid who was easily convinced.”

  “You’re right. She was a handful,” I admitted, recalling how my little sister used to pout and throw temper tantrums. “Still, before she learned to protest, Mom and Nana used to tell us the hazards of eating raw cookie dough, saying that we’d bloat like balloons and turn dark purple with a hint of brownish green until we exploded like rotten grapefruits and died. So basically we were afraid of raw cookie dough when we were little.”

  “Wow! They’re so progressive in terms of microbiology and avoiding infections. I have a hunch the reason you went to med school has something to do with your scientific upbringing.” Jackie whistled, changing into a purple mohair sweater dress with just a snap of her fingers.

  “Actually, that’s a part of the reason why med school wasn’t for me.” I tilted my head to the side. “Thanks to having Nana and Mom giving me lectures about how not to catch germs, I was like a hardcore germaphobe when I went there. And guess what? By the time I actually started seeing patients, I was like ‘Oh my God, do I really have to stay in the same room with all the people sneezing and coughing? I have to hold my breath!’ I knew I was being selfish and mean, bordering on evil, but I couldn’t help but hold my breath whenever I did physical exams.”