Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  “This was a terrible idea,” he said, like it was my fault.

  I could have started a fight. Didn’t have the energy to spare. I had other intentions for my anger than yelling at Dad just yet. Instead, I let him go, marching after Mom, my own jaw bunching, teeth aching from grinding my molars together, hands fisted at my sides. I was going to go hunt down Ron Williams and punch him and to hell with the consequences. Right before I knocked Vivian and Olivia silly.

  I’d just worked up enough steam to get moving again, my knees locked despite my need to stomp out and just smack someone already, when Crew’s head popped into the bathroom, his blue eyes narrowing while he eased further inside, hands raising in front of him as if warding off some evil spirit. He had no idea.

  “Fee.” He sounded sad, though he looked stern. “Just let it go for now, please.”

  I shook my head, throat working, unable to speak. I needed to yell, to throw things, to act. But I couldn’t. My whole body was frozen in place, the anger and sadness and disappointment for my poor mother making it impossible to control anything at the moment.

  Probably just as well he showed up. Who knew what I’d have done if he hadn’t?

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Olivia is on it. She’s livid about how Lucy was treated.” I was sure there was more to it. She was probably pissed at me for interfering. Who cared? I certainly didn’t. Crew’s calm, empathetic demeanor did help unwind me from the tightrope of inaction holding me in place, unravelling the tension keeping me rooted in the spot.

  I felt myself untangle and sag slightly, the tears returning. “Mom,” I said.

  “Your father took her home,” Crew said, slowly coming to my side, one hand gently taking mine. I was surprised it didn’t feel awkward, that his skin felt so warm and realized my own hands were icicles from clenching them tightly. “Let me escort you out, okay? We’ll get this sorted and find out what happened.”

  I didn’t care what happened, but I nodded rather than say that out loud and let him lead me to the door. He didn’t let me go while he escorted me through the lobby. I stared at my feet, stumbling a little in reaction to what just happened, amazed that my need to protect Mom was so powerful it could render me this useless. I shook off the reaction as we hit the halfway point to the front doors, but held onto Crew’s fingers anyway, squeezing faintly to thank him for his support.

  I looked up as someone hurried to my side, exiting the dining room set. Dale bobbed a quick nod to Crew before shoving a small paper bag into my free hand. He didn’t say a word, spinning and trotting back to the set, leaving me staring after him.

  Crew got us moving again, out to my car and, to my surprise, slipped into the passenger’s seat while I opened the bag and peeked inside.

  One of my mother’s cupcakes sat there, slightly squished, the icing spreading on the side of the bag. I looked up into Crew’s eyes and the two of us, without speaking, reached in and took a finger full.

  I knew the moment it touched my tongue something horrible happened. Vivian was right. Mom used salt in place of sugar. But how could she have made such a huge mistake?

  Crew’s frown as he swallowed with a grimace deepened. Was he thinking the same thing as me? Apparently not, because while my mind spun over how Mom could have done something this wrong during such an important event, he spoke.

  “Someone sabotaged your mother’s baking,” he said.

  Fireworks shot off in my head, partly anger at myself for even considering Mom might have made a mistake, but mostly in realization he was absolutely right. I gasped in response, hand clenching around the cupcake.

  “I asked Dale if the show was fair,” I said. “I think he was going to warn me.” I looked down at the cupcake. “He must have known. But why?” I was on the edge of crying all over again. “She’s just a small town woman with a wonderful heart. Why hurt her like this?” And why hadn’t Mom tasted her batter?

  Crew shook his head, hand on the door handle. “I’m going to go ask some questions,” he said. “You’re okay to drive?” Those blue eyes, so full of concern. It was obvious, the way he looked at me, I’d misjudged how much I’d screwed up my chances. Either that or he was just a really good person who actually cared about other people and now I was overreacting in a wash of excessive emotion.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I need to see Mom.” And let her taste this cupcake.

  Crew hesitated a moment before nodding. “I’ll let you know what I find out,” he said before exiting the car, closing the door behind him. I watched him cross the snow-edged parking lot, my breath misting in the cold air and didn’t start the engine until he disappeared inside the Lodge. Kicked myself I meant to say something, to tell him to come see me tomorrow night. Sighed over the lost opportunity but grateful this event at least seemed to have wiped the slate clean again. I decided to text him later, after I dealt with my mother’s broken heart.

  No fair the fluttering in my tummy over him had to come at such a high price.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  Dad’s truck and Mom’s car were both in the driveway when I pulled up, so I knew they were home. I tucked my own car in behind Dad’s to make sure I was off the street—stupid parking laws drove me nuts sometimes—and hoofed it to their front door. I didn’t knock or slow down, barreling my way through and into the front entry. I did pause long enough to shed my boots, hopping and swearing softly under my breath as I tugged at the zippers and kicked them off sideways before sliding over the polished hardwood floor in my socks on my way to the kitchen.

  Balancing the paper bag full of evidence in one hand.

  Dad watched my progress with both eyebrows raised over the rim of his coffee mug and for a moment I thought I’d overreacted. That Mom was totally fine, likely laughing over the whole thing herself. But when I came to a panting halt at the counter, my jacket hanging askew and my cheeks hot from the change in temperature, I realized there was no sign of her and that Dad was alone.

  I tossed the bag down on the granite countertop, glaring at my father, wanting to yell at him for not being there for Mom but instead shoving the offending bag toward him. Dad set down his mug, all calm and whatever that stoically frustrating attitude of his actually was, before carefully opening the top of the paper bag and peeking inside. When he met my eyes again, he didn’t seem any more upset than he had a moment ago.

  “One of your mother’s, I presume?” He didn’t try to taste it, didn’t lose his temper or ask me anything else. All good. I had the pissed off reactionary fireworks payload built up for the both of us.

  “Someone sabotaged Mom’s baking.” I felt myself shudder when I said it, spitting the words out in hissing clips of syllables strung together like tiny arrows of accusation, choosing to trust Crew’s assessment over my own judgmental first thoughts. “Where is she?”

  Dad’s gaze turned toward the hall beside him and their closed bedroom door. “I had that part figured out,” he said, softer this time, sad at last. His reaction didn’t lessen my anger any. If anything, his sorrow felt like acceptance and just fired me up further.

  “What are we going to do about it?” I smacked the bag with the back of one hand, utterly offended by its presence now. “Does Mom know?”

  “I told her what I thought,” he said, shrugging faintly.

  “Wow, nice effort, Dad.” I snapped that at him before I could stop myself. “She doesn’t need sympathy right now. She needs someone to go punch that asshole judge in the face.” Okay, so my redheaded temper was getting the better of me. I had no idea I had this kind of protectiveness inside me, either. It startled me so much when it manifested I actually stopped for a second and took a deep breath while Dad watched me with careful eyes.

  “As much as I’d like to do just that,” he said, “it won’t do any good, Fee. We both know it. Aside from landing me in a jail cell. Something Crew Turner would find far too satisfying for my liking.”

  I grunted agreement. “Is she okay?�
�� Yeah, there was my own empathy and sympathy, though I hated to let go of the burning rage that kept me moving and not crying for my mother. I’m sure she was doing more than enough of that she didn’t need me adding to the tear fest.

  Dad finally crumbled a bit, his hand shaking so much he had to set down his coffee mug and I realized in that moment his whole calm attitude was a façade. My father’s typical reserved nature hid a wealth of emotion behind it, that much was clear and I wondered then how much he’d masked over the years. How many times he’d felt so deeply but had been unable or unwilling to express it and how much damage that had done to him.

  Dad’s eyes met mine, tight around the edges, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly while he swallowed harder than usual. “I tried to talk to her,” he said, choking up just enough I did, too. “I’ve never been good at this, Fee. I don’t have the words.” His hands spread before him like he offered me something but there was nothing there. “I’d never tell your mother not to do something that she wanted to do but, damn it. This time I wish I had stood my ground.”

  I nodded, looked away, my own hands digging deep into the pockets of my puffy coat while I struggled against tears. Okay then. Up to me, apparently. I shed my jacket, laying it on the counter—a chargeable offense if Mom had been here—and turned toward her bedroom door. Squared my shoulders, pulling on the anger I’d felt for her and marched down the hall.

  She had to listen to me.

  The door was locked, naturally. I wiggled the handle anyway, knowing it wouldn’t do any good but needing her to know I was trying at least. “Mom.”

  I could hear her inside, ever so softly crying, like she was doing her best to hide it from both of us and maybe even from herself. “Go away, Fee.” The repeated words from the Lodge bathroom didn’t work here, either.

  “Mom. I tasted your cupcake.” I let that hang for a moment. “It wasn’t your fault.” I was positive of that. Thank you, Crew. “Mom, someone must have switched the sugar for salt.”

  Silence. And then thudding feet on the floor and the rattle of the door handle as she released the lock and jerked the door open. I took in her tear-stained face and her mottled complexion, the way her normally perfect hair was mussed and partially flattened, her makeup tracking down her cheeks. She looked frail to me, wasted, as if she’d given up the best of herself for that dumb show and they’d sucked her dry and left the remnants to blow away like a husk of my Lucy Fleming.

  But anger burned in her green eyes as she snarled at me. “I didn’t taste the batter,” she said, like she’d murdered someone’s puppy and liked it. “It’s my own fault.” She slammed the door in my face, locked it again and stomped away, leaving me to lean my forehead against the cool wood surface and sigh out my anger until all that remained was sorrow.

  At least now I understood Dad’s expression when I got here. It didn’t matter if it was sabotage or not. Mom had already decided she was guilty of a crime someone else committed.

  I returned to the kitchen, found Dad staring into his coffee. I retrieved the cupcake, dumped it firmly in the trash beside the counter and left, slipping on my jacket and hopping back into my boots, stumbling outside into the cold without a word. I finished zipping my coat in the front seat of my car, but it took me a long moment to turn the key in the ignition, to actually drive away, heading for home. How could I leave my mother in such a state?

  As I pulled out into the street, a cargo van honked a warning. My stomach turned over, but not at the sight of the driver. No, it was the logo on the side that soured the bile in my middle. French’s Handmade Bakery.

  Vivian.

  She’d been in the kitchen when I got there, had been wandering through all three of them. She could easily have made a label switch, couldn’t she? Purposely sabotaged Mom’s efforts to make herself look better. Hadn’t she taken a smaller bite than the other two? Olivia’s fork had been full, even Ron’s was laden. Vivian had barely a quarter of a sliver. She knew not to eat too much.

  I was going to kill her.

  I spent the rest of my day fuming, pacing Petunia’s with my faithful pug trailing after me. The Jones sisters avoided me after hearing about Mom’s disaster. Turned out, actually, they already knew, the whole town did. Poor Mom. I was surprised when Daisy didn’t show up and felt a zing of anger she wasn’t here for me, for Mom. Not fair, and not like her, but I was on a jag and a roll and no one was safe, good excuses or not.

  By the time the sun set fully, the sky darkening across the mountains, I had worked myself into the kind of frenzy I recognized as inescapable. I could have tried to find a way to smother it, to pull back and examine my growing need to act in the kind of logical problem solving breakdown I was sure most people employed to keep themselves out of trouble.

  But to hell with that. I was done dodging my inner detective and if I’d learned anything from the past eighteen or so months living back here in Reading it was regardless of what happened around me, I always seemed to end up in the middle of it. So, why not make the choice rather than fall into it by accident?

  I left Petunia behind, the quiet of the B&B’s emptiness a relief, my January respite now an even bigger blessing. The pug whined at me as I closed the door in her face and hurried to my car, focus so intent I barely remembered the drive up the mountain or how I found myself striding around the outside of the Lodge toward the back door.

  Thanks to Bill Saunders and his faithful Newfoundland dog, Moose, I’d learned the back way into the Lodge. Though I doubt the caretaker of the place ever expected me to break in like this. If anything, he’d showed me the way in to the chair lift area only to make sure if I ever found myself trapped in the snow again I could get to safety. The lock on the door gave way to the key he’d secreted on the top of the ledge over it and I slipped inside, letting the quiet darkness of the back hallway engulf me a moment.

  Weird how I’d been here this morning but it felt so different now. I’d been full of hope, optimism for Mom. Now? Now I just wanted to find the source of the sabotage and rub it in Vivian French’s face. Of course, as I padded toward the side door to the dining room and the set, I was well aware finding evidence didn’t mean Vivian did it. Or that she would confess even if I did turn up a mistake. I caught my breath as I pulled the door open and hovered on the threshold. What if I, instead, discovered Mom made a mistake and that it wasn’t sabotage after all? What if it was Mom’s fault?

  I clenched my teeth as I let the door swing shut, scowling into the dimness of the back of the set, grateful it was quiet. I would never, ever tell my mother or anyone. A brief hit of insanity even informed me internally I’d switch the labels myself if I had to, just to protect Mom from any final assault on her confidence. As I crept toward the stage and her kitchen, the weight of the darkness punctuated by a few red glowing security lights, I told myself Mom came first.

  Would I commit a crime for her? You betcha.

  Except, as I crossed the stage to her area and bent to the shelf under her work station, I knew what I’d find. The cover of the sugar was firmly in place, the faintest trace of flour on the edge of the rim visible in the low light. I twisted it free, stuck my nose in the glass jar and inhaled. The scent of sugar made me cringe. But wait. What was that ionized tang under it? I wet one finger, stuck it in the crystals and tasted the tip. Sugar, yes. Cut with enough salt it was no wonder her cupcakes were ruined.

  I shouldn’t have felt good about what I found, but the sigh of relief that escaped me made me dizzy and faintly nauseated. I sank to the floor, hugging the glass jar of evidence and stared up into the dark ceiling, thanking the Universe or the baking gods or whoever it was looked over me in that moment that this much, at least, was covered. Mom hadn’t made a mistake. Except, of course, she hadn’t tasted her batter. But that truth could be combatted. Especially with this fact in hand.

  Now what? What exactly did I plan to do with the evidence, anyway? I tsked softly to myself, staring down into the white crystals. If it was Vivian she�
��d just claim I was here to make her look guilty. I shouldn’t have come alone. What was I thinking?

  I spun the top back on and set the canister on the shelf, staring at it for a long moment before breaking out into a short fit of giggles. This was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I’d broken into a film set to uncover a crime that really wasn’t one. Unless a sodium overdose was an indictable offense? Sabotaging someone’s cake batter was reprehensible, but it wasn’t illegal. Heartbreak couldn’t be converted to prison time, at least in this instance. Seriously, I’d lost all contact with reason and reality.

  Speaking of which, this was a dumb, pathetic TV show that had zero bearing on the world as a whole. I would talk to Mom, make her see how silly this entire thing had been and help her thumb her nose at Ron Williams and this whole idiotic episode. In fact, it was time to do so right now. She’d listen, you better believe it.

  I stood, turned toward the exit, shaking my head at myself, looking up as I headed for the way out again. And froze in place, heart stopping in my chest as I realized I wasn’t alone. Someone sat at the judge’s table, perched on one of the stools, watching me.

  Busted. I hurried forward, mind spinning, wondering what to say when, for the second time, my poor, abused heart stuttered, jerked twice as it skidded over the truth and pounded back to regular rhythm while I came to a halt in the face of the truth.

  Saying I wasn’t alone? Not exactly accurate. While he was with me physically, tall, suited body slumped forward with a plastic bag tied tightly around his thick neck, the soul who had been Ron Williams was long, long gone.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  I’d seen that look in Crew’s eyes so many times it wasn’t surprising anymore. But what was surprising? I no longer gave a crap how he judged me for stumbling over things that maybe I shouldn’t have been involved in.