by Darci Hannah
DEATH OF A DONUT-DUNKING DIVA
“Mia Long died under suspicious circumstances. You told me that you knew the victim. Sergeant Murdock and the county Crime Scene Unit will be arriving shortly. They’re going to cordon off the bakeshop and conduct a thorough investigation of the premises, gathering any evidence that might be pertinent to this case. In the meantime, I’m going to ask you to come down to the station with me for further questioning.”
“What?” I cried, feeling a welling of outrage. I wasn’t even at half-blown New Yorker and the poor man flinched. Rory, Kennedy, and Dylan were staring at me, urging me with their eyes to tone it down. The young officer, after all, was only doing his duty. Still, it rankled. “But I’ve already told you everything!”
McAllister’s gold-dusted brows furrowed, causing his handsome, boyish features to look either displeased or embarrassed, it was hard to tell which. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bakewell, I truly am, but you didn’t tell us that Mia Long was having an affair with your fiancé, Jeffery Plank.”
“Ex-fiancé,” I corrected.
McAllister cleared his throat. “Right. I understand that you caught them in the act, so to speak. She died on your property, Ms. Bakewell. Mia Long ate one of your donuts. You have motive and opportunity. Do you see how this might look bad for you?”
Unfortunately, I did. And, unbelievably, my day had just gone from bad to a whole new level of horrible . . .
Murder at the Beacon Bakeshop
Darci Hannah
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
DEATH OF A DONUT-DUNKING DIVA
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
RECIPES FROM THE BEACON BAKESHOP
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Darci Hannah
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-3172-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3175-3 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-3175-1 (ebook)
CHAPTER 1
I stared out the window, my stomach churning with remorse as I gazed upon what was undoubtedly the worst financial decision I’d ever made. My trembling hands were another sign that my good judgment was slipping. What was I thinking? Had I gone mad? Had I been drunk when I pulled the trigger on my successful Wall Street career? Obviously, I mused, unable to help a dramatic eye roll. But why . . . WHY had I thought this would be a good idea? I was still trying to figure it out when I caught the driver’s amused gaze in the rearview mirror.
I cleared my throat.
The beastly man smiled wider.
“Mike, is it?” I said, addressing his reflection in a no-nonsense tone. Mike had been waiting ten minutes for me to exit his car. If he wanted a good tip, he’d continue to wait. If he wanted an even better tip, he’d wipe that idiot grin off his face. “Again, I apologize. It’s just that . . . it looked different on the internet.”
A burst of ill-concealed mirth rumbled from the front seat. “And that’s a surprise?” Driver Mike was wheezing, he thought it so funny. Then, adding insult to injury, he said, “I thought all you New Yorkers were supposed to be street-smart and savvy. Guess I’ve been driving around the exception.”
That last remark threw my sarcasm meter into the red zone. I could dish it as good as I got, and often did. However, the amount of attitude coming from this man, this utter stranger, was irksome. I had just possibly made a terrible life decision—a terribly expensive terrible life decision—and he thought it was funny? It wasn’t funny. And it hadn’t been funny when I’d been expecting a limo to pick me up at the tiny Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City and got a sarcastic, squatchy-looking Midwestern Uber driver instead. After a quick call to Betty Vanhoosen, my Realtor and the person who insisted on handling my transportation needs from the airport, I was told that Mike not only had a GMC Yukon, but a five-star rating as well. He was obviously related to her or had pictures of her in a compromising position. The Yukon, aside from the prevailing smell of corned beef and wet wool, wasn’t bad; the five-star rating, however, I was beginning to question. I locked eyes with Mike in the mirror and gave him my best don’t-mess-with-me face.
“I have exceptional taste in clothing and a knack for making money. Those are my New Yorker qualities, Mike. And here’s another. I don’t like to be deceived. I distinctly remember reading the word renovated in the Realtor’s description.”
“Wow!” he said and commenced another bout of laughing. “Are you sure you’re from New York? Did you grow up under a rock or something?” Before I could reply, he mocked, “Hello! It’s the internet. Pigs fly on the internet, Ms. Bakewell. Literally. Nothing’s real on the internet.”
“I know that,” I snapped. “But you can’t use the word renovated in a real estate ad if the property wasn’t renovated! That’s misrepresentation!”
Mike stopped laughing. “Well, don’t get your panties all in a bunch just yet. The old girl was renovated . . . in the nineteen-seventies. That’s when they shored up the indoor plumbing. Then there’s our Michigan winters. Takes a toll on everything around here. How old do you think I am?”
He turned and smiled at me from the front seat. His cheap haircut and full, untrimmed beard were light brown, his eyes a twinkling blue. As far as I could see there wasn’t a gray hair on his head or a wrinkle on his cheeks.
“Fifty,” I said, aiming to in
sult. “Sixty, perhaps? I can’t tell with that beard.”
My bitch-tastic powers were useless on him. Mike grinned. “Thirty!” he exclaimed as if it was a wonder. “It’s our Michigan winters.” He beamed with pride.
“I have a good moisturizer. I think I’ll be just fine.” I waved at him to turn back around, then scanned the cold, frozen bay once again, shaking my head in dismay. A lighthouse? Correction, an old, run-down lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan. What had I been thinking?
I pulled out my iPhone and stared at the picture on the internet. The image before me depicted a large, historic, two-story brick house built on rolling sand dunes and perched on the shores of Lake Michigan. Sun glinted off the windows and white-painted brick. The entire structure was surrounded by cream-colored sand, flowering azaleas, and pink rugosa roses. The long, gabled roof, with not a shingle out of place, had been painted bright red. It was a striking contrast to the magnificent cylindrical light tower attached to the side of the house. Although the thirty-eight feet of brick had been painted to match the house, the cast-iron gallery and decagonal lantern room were matte black. It looked to be the perfect spot to watch a sunset or count the sails on the horizon. The image was not only a vision of tranquility, it was fodder for my dreams. No wonder I had been sucked in.
The lighthouse out the window, however, was another matter. The white paint, or what was left of it, had been sand-blasted away by harsh winds, revealing large splotches of dingy brick. The trim and most of the gutters had fallen off, and the roof was missing a quarter of its shingles. One of the two chimneys had crumbled away, exposing a rusty vent pipe, and the other was badly in need of tuck-pointing. The light tower was also in need of fresh paint and a new set of windows. But that was only half of it. The real gut-clencher was the fact that the entire building was caked in snow and covered in layers of dripping lake ice. It looked like something straight out of the animated movie Frozen, only without the talking snowman and catchy show tunes. My stomach gave another painful lurch, thinking that I had traded civilized luxury for this. Clearly the photo on the internet had been Photoshopped.
“Can’t slap enough moisturizer on that old thing to save it.”
Thank goodness he pointed at the lighthouse and not me.
“However, once the snow melts, a good coat of paint should help. Pity they were going to knock the old relic down and sell the land. I’m told your generous offer saved it.”
Saved it? Oh, he definitely had an in with Betty Vanhoosen! The moment I made an offer on the historic landmark, I learned that I had entered into a bidding war against a developer. He was planning on turning the prime lighthouse real estate into high-end lakefront condos. Knowing a thing or two about investments, his proposal was obviously the more lucrative choice. However, I wanted the old lighthouse. And I got it.
Running a critical eye over all the costly work yet to be done, I said, “I’m not so sure it should have been saved.”
Mike chuckled, thinking I was joking. For once he was correct.
Buying the old lighthouse sight unseen was a leap of faith. One that I needed to make. There was something about the old relic that had spoken to me. Perhaps it was just the fact that ordinary people don’t generally get to own lighthouses. The notion was as romantic as the thought of a fresh start, for us both.
“Old Beacon Point Lighthouse is a landmark around here,” driver Mike continued. “Did you know that at one point, Michigan had nearly two hundred and fifty lighthouses around its coast? The number’s dwindled to around a hundred and twenty-four since then. This old thing didn’t make the cut. Ironically, it was one of the last lighthouses to be tended by a real keeper. Another irony? Some say the first keeper never left.” Mike turned back at me and gave his eyebrows a menacing wiggle.
I smiled, refusing to take the bait. “Wow. You’re a font of Michigan lighthouse knowledge. I’m impressed. What else can you tell me about Beacon Point?”
“Coast Guard had it for a while. In the seventies the town purchased it, hoping preservation enthusiasts would keep it running. They fixed the plumbing, gave it a coat of paint, and restored the old Fresnel lens. But the old-timers are dying off, and our generation,” he said, lumping me into that category, “is too busy to care. Pity they had to sell it, but I’m glad it’s going to a hot chick with cash and not some greasy developer.”
I made the mistake of looking at the mirror. Dear Lord, had he actually winked at me? Yes. Yes, he had. And due to his suggestive look, he thought he had a chance. Must be those Michigan winters, I mused. Harsh conditions forced men to take risks. Fortunately, untrimmed beards and the smell of corned beef did nothing for me.
The truth was, I’d been blessed with good genetics. Mom had been a fashion model in the late seventies and eighties, and Dad a Wall Street hedge fund manager. Doesn’t take a genius to do the math there. Thank goodness I’d gotten my light green eyes, high cheekbones, and ash-blond hair from Mom and Dad’s affinity for numbers. Had fate not been so kind I’d have a receding hairline with a bad comb-over and a compulsion to wear matching designer outfits with my dog.
“But I have to warn you,” Mike continued, realizing I wasn’t taking the bait. “Not everyone’s happy that the light is moving into private hands. Truth is, the folks of Beacon Harbor don’t much like change. I certainly hope your knack for making money has followed you from the Big Apple, or else it’s going to be one long summer for you.”
The mention of summer reminded me that there was another season in Michigan other than arctic. It was early March, and snow was still falling. At Betty’s suggestion I had hired an interior designer and her contractor to spruce up my living quarters in the keeper’s house, making sure the plumbing, electric, and gas were up to code. Hopefully, the weather would cooperate for the other renovations yet to be started. I smiled at Mike’s reflection. “Never hope when there’s money to be made, Mike. It’s all hard work and meticulous planning.”
“Well, well, look at you, Big Town. Coming to our little corner of the world to show us how it’s done. So, what are you waiting for?”
What was I waiting for?
CHAPTER 2
Four months ago, I’d been perfectly happy with my life in New York City until the night I walked into my fiancé’s trendy Midtown restaurant and found him with that tart-of-a-pastry-chef of his in his office. He’d been covered in icing sugar and chocolate curls. She’d been sitting on a slab of Himalayan sea salt. And all I could think to say was, “I hope you’re not planning on cooking my birthday dinner on that . . . that thing!” I was pointing at the pricey slab of imported sea salt under Mia Long. He thought I was pointing at Mia. He also thought, albeit wrongly, that cheating fiancés were to be forgiven.
After keying the Jaguar I’d bought him for his forty-fifth birthday, I went home and anger-baked six dozen of the most decadent cupcakes on the planet—cupcakes the likes of Mia Long could only dream about baking, the tart!
My dirty little secret was that I’d always had a passion for baking. But I had pushed that passion aside to pursue a lucrative career in investment banking. I baked pastries and cakes for my friends, who thought it both ironic and hilarious that my last name was Bakewell. Three years ago, they had all pitched in and got me private lessons with a renowned chef. That’s how I’d met my ex-fiancé, Jeffery Plank, a rising celebrity chef on the verge of his first cookbook deal, the cheating pig!
Jeffery may have further inspired my passion for baking, but the talent was all mine, and it showed on all the intricately decorated, decadently rich cupcakes I’d made. I ate one, threw a half dozen at his picture, and gave the rest to the doorman. Mr. Rosenstein, used to my baking outbursts, kept a dozen for his kids and gave the rest away to my neighbors. The next evening, Martha Durand, a former Miss America turned America’s favorite morning talk show host, came pounding on my door.
“Did you bake this?” Martha was holding one of my cupcakes as if it was a Golden Globe. “Girl, we need to talk. This
, Lindsey Bakewell, is your destiny.”
Martha had gushed about my cupcakes and my talent for baking. I told her about my cheating fiancé and my looming depression. She then bolstered me up with a heartfelt speech on passion, and dreams, and how important it was to embrace the one and follow the other. I had a job I was good at, I reasoned, but admitted that finance had never been my passion. Opening my own bakery, as Martha kept hinting I should do, had never crossed my mind. That was because I had spent years and years carefully laying all the track needed to chug away on a safe and successful life. I never thought of jumping them and branching out in a totally different direction. Then again, I never thought Jeffery would be such an idiot.
Growth, Martha had said, didn’t come from complacency, but from living on the outer edge of one’s abilities and constantly pushing into the unknown.
“Bake, Lindsey Bakewell. That is your destiny.”
It was. Martha had made me believe it. She’d started the wheels turning. A broken heart, an empty apartment, and a bottle of wine did the rest. I opened my laptop, typed a few key words into Google, and began searching. When the old lighthouse filled my screen, everything clicked. I thought it was destiny. Now I wasn’t so sure.
An earsplitting howl from the third-row seating brought me back to the problem at hand—my cold feet, both literally and figuratively.
“Wellington!” My two-year-old Newfoundland had finally shaken off the heavy dose of travel sedation.
“Looks like that bear of a dog of yours is finally awake.”
He was. A drool-covered tongue licking my cheek was proof of that. I hadn’t known about the drool when I’d fallen in love with the pudgy little ball of black fur. I liked to joke that Wellington was the first financial blunder I’d ever made. He wasn’t exactly a good fit for New York City apartment living. He ate a lot, chewed a lot, pooped a lot, and required a team of groomers, trainers, and walkers. However, his unconditional love and companionship more than made up for it. And, if truth be told, he was part of the reason I’d made the risky internet purchase to begin with.
