Wedding Cake Killer: A Fresh-Baked Mystery

by Livia J. Washburn

  4 (10-inch) flour tortillas

  8 thin slices ham

  Leaf or romaine lettuce

  Directions

  Combine the salad dressing and mustard in a medium bowl. Add the eggs, avocado, tomato, blue cheese, and bacon and stir until combined.

  Layer each tortilla with 2 ham slices and some of the lettuce. Place a heaping tablespoon of the egg mixture at one side of each tortilla. Starting at the side with the filling, roll up each tortilla.

  Makes 4 servings.

  Don’t miss the next Fresh-Baked Mystery!

  Christmastime has come again to Weatherford, Texas, and Phyllis has cookies to bake—and a killer to catch.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Gingerbread

  Bump-off

  by

  Livia J. Washburn

  Available now from Obsidian

  Phyllis Newsom lifted her head and frowned as she heard the unmistakable strains of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” drifting through the house.

  A baking sheet full of German chocolate cookies ready to go into the oven sat on the kitchen counter in front of her, but she left them sitting there as she walked out to the living room, wiping her hands on a towel as she went.

  Sam Fletcher stood in front of the stereo system, which rested on a shelf next to the television. His hands were tucked in the hip pockets of his jeans, and his head moved slightly in time with the music. He was tall and slender, in keeping with his background as a basketball player and coach, and although his rumpled thatch of hair had a lot more white in it now than gray, he still didn’t really look his age.

  “Sam,” Phyllis said, “you know I don’t really like that song. It just doesn’t seem very . . . Christmasy to me.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought with you out in the kitchen it might not bother you.” A smile spread across his rugged face. “I got ‘Jingle Bells’ by the Singin’ Dogs if that’d be better.”

  She was about to tell him that it wouldn’t be, when she realized that he was joking. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had almost fooled her, so she just waved a hand casually and said, “Play whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

  With that, she went back to the kitchen. By the time she got there, the music had stopped as Sam ejected the CD. A moment later, Nat King Cole started singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Phyllis smiled. That was one of her favorites.

  She looked down at the cookies on the baking sheet. The base was a dark chocolate cookie, each with a thumb-sized depression in the middle that Phyllis had filled with a mixture of German chocolate, grated coconut, and crushed pecans. The oven was ready, so she opened the door and slid the baking sheet onto the rack. If these cookies turned out well, she would make another batch. With any luck, this recipe would be her entry in the local newspaper’s annual Christmas cookie recipe contest.

  The past two years Carolyn Wilbarger, who also lived in the big house in one of Weatherford’s tree-shaded old residential neighborhoods, had won that contest, with Phyllis finishing as a runner-up both times. That was fine with Phyllis—she just enjoyed coming up with recipes and sharing them with people—but it might be nice to really give Carolyn a run for her money this year. Not that there was any money at stake, Phyllis reminded herself, only prestige, and she didn’t really care all that much about that, either. She had a good life here, with a lovely son, daughter-in-law, and grandson, and three good friends who were retired teachers like her to share this house with her.

  But that comfortable, well-ordered life was about to be shaken up, and although she knew she ought to be happy about the circumstances, she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

  “Everyone, meet Roy Porter,” Eve Turner had said when she brought the silver-haired stranger to the house on Thanksgiving. “Roy and I are engaged. Do you believe it? We’re going to be married!”

  That news had been a bolt out of the blue. None of Eve’s housemates had had any idea she was seeing anyone. It shouldn’t have been that surprising. Eve had been married several times before, and she always had her eye out for an eligible bachelor of the proper age. She had even pursued Sam for a while after he moved into the house to rent one of the vacant rooms. But she certainly had been more discreet about her courtship this time.

  “We met on the Facebook,” Eve had explained. “It turns out we have mutual friends. We started writing on each other’s door—”

  “Wall, dear,” Roy had corrected gently.

  “On each other’s wall,” Eve went on, “and, well, one thing led to another.”

  With Eve it usually did, given half a chance.

  Thanksgiving hadn’t necessarily been the best time to break the news of an engagement, but to be fair, when Eve and Roy came in, Eve didn’t know that Phyllis had just solved one murder and prevented several more from occurring. That had turned out to be a very busy Thanksgiving indeed.

  Now Christmas was coming up, but before then, a bridal shower on Christmas Eve, to be followed by the wedding itself on New Year’s Eve. An abundance of Eves, including the bride, Phyllis thought as she stood there in front of the oven for a long moment, thinking about everything that was going on this holiday season.

  “Well,” she said aloud, “at least nothing else—”

  “Don’t say it,” Sam interrupted sharply from behind her.

  She turned her head to look at him. “Don’t say what?”

  “You were about to say that with all you’ve got goin’ already this year, at least nothin’ else can happen,” Sam said in a warning tone. “Don’t you know that’s the surest way to jinx things?”

  “Oh, goodness gracious. I’m not superstitious. Anyway, you just said it.”

  “Yeah, but that’s all right. I can say things like that without all heck breakin’ loose. You’re the one who can’t.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Sam shook his head. “Fair’s got nothin’ to do with it,” he said with a solemn expression on his face. “It’s just the way the cosmos is. Some folks seem to attract trouble to start with. You don’t want to go makin’ the odds even worse.”

  “Well, that’s just silly.”

  But despite what she said, Phyllis had to wonder if there might not be something to Sam’s idea. There had to be some explanation why she seemed to keep getting mixed up in murder cases these past few years.

  That thought was going through her head when the doorbell rang.

  Sam spread his hands. “See? There you go. Trouble at the door.”

  “Oh, hush,” Phyllis said. She took her apron off and thrust it into his hands as she went past him. “Keep an eye on those cookies. Don’t let them burn.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t know anything about bakin’ cookies—”

  “Take them out if they start to burn,” Phyllis told him over her shoulder.

  “But . . . they’re chocolate. How will I know?” Sam asked as Phyllis went out of the kitchen and up the hall to the living room.

  She patted her graying brown hair to make sure it was in place as she went to the front door. It was the middle of the afternoon, and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Her son, Mike, who was a Parker County deputy sheriff, dropped by unexpectedly sometimes, and so did Mike’s wife, Sarah. Carolyn was out somewhere, and so was Eve. Neither of them would have rung the doorbell, anyway. This big old house was home to them now.

  When Phyllis looked out one of the narrow windows that flanked the door, she saw that the visitor wasn’t family or one of her housemates. Definitely a friend, though. She opened the door, smiled, and said, “Hello, Georgia. Please, come in. What brings you here?”

  December weather in this part of Texas could range anywhere from summerlike heat to snowstorms and wind chills well below zero. Today was on the warm side, but the air still had a pleasant crispness to it that came into the house with Georgia Hallerbee.

  Georgia was what pe
ople once called “a handsome woman.” She was about Phyllis’s height and well shaped despite her age. Her hair was dark brown, and she insisted she didn’t color it. Phyllis believed her. Georgia wore a dark blue skirt and a matching blazer over a white blouse. She was an accountant and tax consultant, and she was also very active in civic affairs.

  “How are you, Phyllis?” she asked as Phyllis closed the door behind her.

  “I’m fine. How are you?” They had known each other for at least ten years, and while they had never been close friends, Phyllis was always glad to see Georgia.

  “Busy as always,” Georgia replied with a smile and a sweet drawl in her voice. She wasn’t a native Texan, having grown up somewhere in the deep South, possibly even the state that bore the same name as she did. Phyllis didn’t know about that.

  She ushered the visitor into the living room and said, “Have a seat.” As Georgia sat down on the sofa, Phyllis stepped over to the stereo to turn off the CD.

  “Oh, let it play,” Georgia said. “Don’t turn it off on my account. I love Christmas music.”

  “So do I.” Phyllis settled for turning down the music to a level that wouldn’t interfere with their conversation. She sank into one of the armchairs and went on. “What can I do for you?”

  “Maybe I just came by to visit,” Georgia said.

  Phyllis shook her head. “You said it yourself. You’re one of the busiest women I know. You’re always up to your elbows in some project or other.”

  Georgia smiled and tilted her head. “You know me too well,” she said. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you. You may know that I’m in charge of the Jingle Bell Tour this year.”

  The Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes was an annual tradition in Weatherford, and in many other Texas towns, for that matter. Each holiday season, a dozen or so homes would be selected and beautifully decorated. Some might even say extravagantly decorated, both inside and out. Then, on one night a few weeks before Christmas, people could pay a small fee to go on a tour of those houses, with the proceeds going to one of the local civic organizations. There would be caroling, hot cider, and snacks at the homes on the tour, and it was a gala evening for everyone concerned . . . except perhaps the homeowners, who had to go to the trouble of decorating and then opening their homes to the public.

  “I did know that,” Phyllis said. “I’m looking forward to it, like always. There are such beautiful decorations every year.”

  “Yes, there are,” Georgia agreed. “And I’m hoping you can give me a hand this year.”

  “You mean in organizing the tour? I assumed all that was done already—”

  “It was. Or at least, it was supposed to be. But this year we have a . . . situation.”

  Phyllis frowned slightly. “Whenever someone says ‘situation’ like that, they’re usually not talking about anything good.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Georgia said with a sigh. “One of the homeowners had to drop out. Doris Treadwell was diagnosed with cancer yesterday.”

  “Oh, no.” Phyllis recognized the name but didn’t actually know Doris Treadwell. Still, it was a terrible thing to hear about anyone, especially at this time of year when everything was supposed to be festive.

  Georgia nodded. “She’ll be starting chemo right away and then radiation, of course. And naturally she’s not going to feel like participating in the tour.”

  “Of course not,” Phyllis said. An uneasy suspicion stirred in the back of her mind. “But you’re not asking me to—”

  “To take her place, yes,” Georgia said, nodding. “We’d like for this lovely old house of yours to be part of the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour of Homes this year.”

  Phyllis sat back, surprised and unsure what to say. Georgia was asking her to take on a big responsibility on short notice. Plus there was the notion of allowing strangers to troop through her house, and the bridal shower to get ready for . . .

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Sam said from the door between the living room and the foyer. “I hate to interrupt, Phyllis, but those cookies are startin’ to smell a little like they might be gettin’ done. . . .”

  Phyllis got to her feet. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I really need to check on that.”

  “Of course, go right ahead. I wouldn’t want to be to blame for ruining a batch of Phyllis Newsom’s cookies.”

  On her way out of the living room, Phyllis fluttered a hand in Sam’s direction and said, “I don’t know if you two have met. . . . Georgia, this is my friend Sam Fletcher. . . . Sam, Georgia Hallerbee.”

  Sam nodded, smiled, and said, “Pleased to meet you.” Then he followed Phyllis down the hall to the kitchen.

  Phyllis picked up a potholder, opened the stove, and leaned down to check the cookies. She reached in and took hold of the muffin pan, pulled it out, and set it on top of the stove.

  “They’re not burned,” she said.

  Sam heaved a sigh of relief.

  “But they are done,” Phyllis went on. “You did the right thing to come and get me.” She lowered her voice. “Now, tell me the right thing to do about what Georgia wants.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked, equally quietly.

  “She wants me to help her with the Jingle Bell Tour.”

  “You mean that thing where folks go around and look at all the fancy-decorated houses? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Phyllis pointed at the floor under their feet. “She wants this house to be one of the stops.”

  Sam’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. Well, it’s kinda late to be askin’ something like that, isn’t it?”

  “They had an emergency. Someone had to drop out of the tour.”

  Sam nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess that could happen, all right. What’re you gonna tell her?”

  “I don’t know. It would be a lot of work . . . and we already have this business with Eve’s shower and wedding coming up. . . .”

  “It’s gonna be a busy month, all right,” Sam agreed.

  “On the other hand, it’s for a good cause. And I do like to decorate for Christmas. . . .”

  “Yeah, but you’d almost have to go overboard for something like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You can have a lot of decorations and still be tasteful.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen some places so lit up with Christmas lights, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see ’em from space. But you know whatever you decide, I’ll be glad to give you a hand.”

  “I know.” Phyllis nodded her head as she came to a decision. “I may regret it, but I’m going to do it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sam told her. “You want me to, uh, sample one of these cookies for you and tell you how it tastes?”

  “Keep your hands off of them. They have to cool first. With that topping, you’ll burn your mouth if you eat one now.”

  “I’ll try, but they smell mighty good.”

  He wasn’t the only one who thought so. As Phyllis came back into the living room, Georgia Hallerbee said, “My goodness, those cookies smell delicious, Phyllis. Nothing smells much better than cookies right out of the oven.”

  “I know. They’re cooling now. If you can wait a few minutes, you can try one.”

  “I’d like that, but I really do have to be going soon.” Georgia paused. “So, have you thought about what I asked you?”

  “I have, and . . . I’m going to do it.”

  A smile lit up Georgia’s face. “That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Phyllis. I can’t tell you how much it means to me, knowing that you’ll step in and do a good job, like you always do at everything.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m not going to have as much time to prepare as the others. But I’ll do the best I can.”

  “I’m sure the place will be beautiful,” Georgia said as she stood up and started for the front door. “Thanks again. I’ll be in touch with all the information you need, like which stop you’ll be on the tour and when you can expect people to start showing up. And i
f there’s anything I can do to help you get ready, just let me know.”

  “An extra six or eight hours in the day would be nice.”

  Georgia laughed. “Don’t I know it! I’ve been wishing for that for a long time now, but it hasn’t come true yet.”

  Phyllis opened the door and followed Georgia out onto the small front porch. Georgia’s stylish crossover SUV was parked in the driveway.

  She paused and looked down at the pair of large ceramic gingerbread men that sat on the porch, one on each side of the doorway. “These are new, aren’t they? They’re adorable.”

  Phyllis nodded. “Yes, Sam and I were out driving around one afternoon, and we stopped at that place between Azle and Springtown that has all the ceramic things. These gingerbread men were cute, and I thought they’d look good up here.”

  “You were right.” Georgia gave Phyllis a look. “You and Sam . . . are the two of you . . . ?”

  “Goodness, no, we’re just friends,” Phyllis said. That wasn’t strictly true, but she had been raised to believe that it was best to be discreet about some things.

  “You know what you should do?” Georgia said, looking down at the gingerbread men again. “You should dress them up for the tour. You could make, I don’t know, elves or something out of them.”

  “Or Mr. and Mrs. Claus,” Phyllis said, getting caught up in the spirit of the thing. “I’ve thought from the start that one of them was male and the other female.”

  “Well, there you go. You see, I knew you’d be good at this.” Georgia lifted a hand in farewell as she started toward her SUV. “I’ll be in touch. Enjoy those cookies!”

  “We will,” Sam said from behind Phyllis, then added, “You think they’ve cooled off enough to eat yet?”

  Photo by James Reasoner

  Livia J. Washburn has been a professional writer for more than twenty years. She received the Private Eye Writers of America Award and the American Mystery Award for her first mystery, Wild Night, written under the name L.J. Washburn, and she was nominated for a Spur Award by the Western Writers of America for a novel written with her husband, James Reasoner. Her short story “Panhandle Freight” was nominated for a Peacemaker Award by the Western Fictioneers. She lives with her husband in a small Texas town, where she is constantly experimenting with new recipes. Her two grown daughters are both teachers in her hometown, and she is very proud of them.