Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  At least someone got a reasonably happy ending over this. Bonnie and Joyce departed this morning, the best of friends, already in talks with Julian Parker about an investigative cooking show to uncover stolen recipes. Seriously, how ironic could you get? And shortly after they’d departed? I’d gotten a call from Molly. Dale was going to plead guilty in exchange for a plea bargain and she’d been offered her own show, courtesy of Clara.

  Janet was the only one who’d ended up with the short end of the shortbread cookie. From what I heard, she’d slunk out of town with her tail between her legs. Hopefully that was the last I’d hear from her. Surely she was done, exposed as a cheater? Just her luck, she’d end up with her own show, too. Not likely, but the world was a weird, weird place.

  I shook my head to myself as I put the mugs in the dishwasher, turning to smile at Daisy who returned, Petunia trailing after her.

  The pug hurried to my side when she saw the dishwasher open, the disappointment on her face no crumbs escaped its confines during my task making me grin.

  “What are we going to do about your mother?” Daisy sank to the stool Pamela vacated.

  “Maybe I should tell her Vivian’s making the cake,” I said. “That might snap her out of it.” Or make things worse. I still hadn’t decided if I was going to tell my blonde rival about Gloria Kingsley’s fraud or not. There was a time I would have rubbed it in her face just to piss her off. Maybe I really was growing up because there had been enough hurt passed around lately.

  Daisy picked at a sugar cookie, absently offering Petunia a piece before wincing and wrinkling her nose at me. “Sorry.”

  Uh-huh. I sat next to her, taking the rest of the cookie she’d been massacring.

  “Oh!” Daisy perked. “You said you wanted to tell me something and to remind you about it.”

  I did? For a long moment I frowned trying to think. It had been a pretty busy few days, what with the murder and Mom and Dad and Crew kissing me—

  I could tell from the shocked look on Daisy’s face I was blushing hard enough it surprised her. She grasped my hand, leaning close, eyes huge.

  “What?”

  I coughed on a crumb of cookie before a goofy smile won. Daisy prodded me and I realized I’d been lost in the memory. I inhaled, flashed her a smile filled with hope and broke a cookie in half.

  “Crew kissed me.” Was giggling appropriate? Because I couldn’t help it. “Twice.” Or was it three times? Did multiple kisses in two instances warrant multiple kissing claims? I’d leave the details to mystery.

  Daisy’s face lit up and she clapped like a little girl in excitement before hugging me hard, knocking part of my cookie on the floor. And that made Petunia happy, so it was all good.

  I spent the next few minutes gushing over him and our possible future at her insistence. When I was finally done, Daisy sighed, resting her chin on her hand, dreamy look on her face.

  “Well, finally,” she said. Perked. “Or almost finally? No first date yet?”

  I was not going to let myself retreat from excited to worried. That was something that could wait until he was ready. I wasn’t in a hurry anymore, or doubting. He’d made it clear enough he cared, hadn’t he? And that he was putting my happiness first, ahead of rushing into something before he could give me his full attention. So whatever happened now, I was done worrying about Crew Turner.

  At least about his heart. Did I need to be concerned about how he seemed to think this town had it in for him because of Dad and me? Let Olivia just try to fire him or whatever was going on with town council now that I was this close to a date. We’d see who lost their job, wouldn’t we?

  Daisy hesitated and I almost groaned. Was she going to give me a hard time? Force the issue? Well, maybe she was right and I should march over to his house and see if he was home. If he had beer. If his lips still tasted so good—

  I jerked out of my reverie when her face fell and she squared her shoulders, turning to her big purse she’d abandoned on the next stool over shortly after arriving this morning. She fished out a stack of familiar looking envelopes, clutching them tight before setting them in front of me with a forced smile. I knew them immediately, of course. The letters Daniel Munroe wrote to Grandmother Iris, the same ones I found in my back yard a year and a half ago, buried in a metal box in a flower bed. Pete’s death came rushing back, along with the memory of Peggy and my first near-death experience when Daisy spoke.

  “Sorry to have these so long,” she said, a bit breathless.

  “No name ideas?” I frowned down at the letters, wondering why they’d upset Daisy.

  “No,” she said. Tsked softly. “And no treasure. I don’t think.” More hesitation, enough to make me head tilt.

  “What’s up, Day?” She seemed flustered, almost embarrassed. Well, from the few lines I’d read of a couple of the letters, they’d been pretty intimate. But Daisy wasn’t usually such a prude. That was my department.

  She blew out her full lower lip in a gust of air. “Thing is, I was sure I found something, but I couldn’t have because I’m not smart like you are.” I gaped at her while she flapped her hands at me, nostrils flaring as she tossed her dark blonde hair like she’d said too much. “Everyone knows I’m dumb.” Her little laugh came out brittle. “I just thought maybe I could find something about the treasure, you know? And I thought I did but I couldn’t have so let’s just drop it.”

  I’d never known my bestie to ramble and I was so shocked by her self-assessment and following diatribe of Daisydowner I almost didn’t catch her in time as she lurched to her feet, clearly trying to escape before she could say anymore. But I moved without thinking, the one time it really paid off to have good reflexes, and grabbed her, dragging her down again to the stool while I scowled at her with my best Lucy Fleming face.

  “My darling Daisy,” I said. “Don’t you ever, ever talk about yourself like that in front of me again. No, correct that.” I snapped my fingers in her face. “In the privacy of your own ridiculous head, either. Hear me, missy?”

  She blinked at me through her lashes. “You’re always so nice to me.” Was that a hitch in her voice? “You don’t have to be, you know. I’m fine with not being smart.”

  “Daisy,” I said, pouring all of my sincerity and everything in my heart into the next few words, “I’m not being nice. I’m being honest. You’re not dumb. And anyone who thinks you are can suck it. Okay?”

  She giggled faintly. Relaxed. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thanks, Fee.”

  “That’s better.” I grabbed the letters and shook them at her. “Now, show me what you found before I smack you with these.”

  She took them with trembling hands, sorted the envelopes as she spoke. “It’s not the letters,” she said. “I read them all before I realized that.” She blushed again, sparkling laugh delightful. “Your grandmother, Fee. I had no idea Iris was so passionate.” She fanned herself with a breathless laugh before her hands returned to their work. I watched as she shifted the envelopes around, eyes widening when a pattern fell into place, familiar as my own face when she finished. “The message wasn’t inside.”

  It was outside. Clear as day—no pun intended—when they were all laid out together.

  I’d noticed the pen strokes on the edges of the paper, but I’d thought they were all mistakes or slips of the nib. Inconsequential to the contents of the letters themselves. But when Daisy made a flower shape with the envelopes, layering them together into the rough shape of an iris—no, the symbolism was not lost on me—I realized the lines that looked abstract made up a symbol. One I knew very well and that sent shivers through me.

  The off center compass from the scrap of the map in my music box stared back at me. Along with a single word.

  “Markham.” Daisy said it out loud while I gaped. “I looked it up. Fee, there was a historian who wrote a book about the Reading treasure. And his last name was—”

  “Markham!” I lunged for her and hugged her. “Daisy! You’re brilliant.�
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  She beamed at me. I think it could have ended right then and there, in fact, and I’d have done a solid for my bestie she’d carry with her for the rest of her life. But this was far from over. I leaped up, grabbing her coat and tossing it to her, reaching for Petunia’s harness.

  Daisy watched me with huge eyes and a grin on her face as I grabbed my own puffy coat from the kitchen door hook, hopping into my boots while she laughed.

  “Where are you going?” She slipped on her own jacket when I tucked the fat pug into her boots.

  “The library, Day,” I said. Paused. “Unless you’ve already been there?”

  She ducked her head. Reached for her purse. “I wanted to wait for you.”

  Of course she did.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Six

  We bounced out the front door of Petunia’s, pug in tow, laughing and talking all the way to the center of town and the library there. All hail the conquering heroettes and all that. It was the kind of perfect crystal cold day January winters in these parts were famous for, the wind brisk enough I felt it but didn’t care, not while Daisy hurried along beside me, Petunia barking her happiness at being outdoors and our delighted, excited state. I even swung my arms in unbridled joy, embracing the moment of adventure, skipping a few steps to the sound of Daisy’s laughter.

  It wasn’t about finding the treasure on that sunny winter afternoon. Sure, finding it would be amazing, over the top awesomesauce with a dose of holy Hannah thrown in for good measure. If I thought Petunia’s was busy now… never mind the fact finding the hoard would mean I’d never have to actually work again if I didn’t want to. I’d never dreamed of being stinking rich, but the idea appealed nonetheless.

  No, that half skip, bubbling walk of joy was about being with Daisy, about feeling happier than I had in a long time, having a good laugh when the blues and loneliness tried for so long to win but failed miserably in the face of friendship and the hunt for pirate gold.

  It was a beautiful day in Reading, Vermont.

  When we reached the statue of our town’s namesake, I stopped, uncontrollable giggling taking me over before I saluted him, Daisy bouncing on her toes as she snorted over my gesture and pointed at the front of his bronze pants glittering with more than frost clinging to the metal. Someone had been regularly defacing the poor guy and today was no different, a terribly graphic phallic symbol spray painted across the front of his breeches. I found the fact oddly hilarious as we continued on, snorting into the cold air long after we passed him, all the way up the steps we ran two at a time to the door to the library.

  There was a great deal too much giggling and whispering and carrying on happening between Daisy and me for Mr. Lightmews’s liking, apparently, because we got the librarian death glare the moment we entered. I felt like a bad kid set loose in a candy store with intent to wreak havoc and didn’t care, Daisy hurrying me past the huffing older gentleman, Petunia trotting gamely between us. I was pretty sure dogs weren’t allowed and that we had about a minute of hunting to find the book in question before Mr. Lightmews did his best to kick our overly excited butts out, but it would be enough.

  I’d already gotten so much out of the last few minutes to keep me running on happy for a lifetime. Finding the treasure? Icing on this particularly tasty cake.

  Heh. You’d think I’d have had enough of baking metaphors by now.

  When I steered us toward the file catalog, Daisy grasped my arm firmly and jerked me toward the steps to the second floor.

  “I already know where it is,” she whispered so loudly it echoed. Good thing we were alone in here, then, at least from what I could tell. More giggling. Awesome. My cheeks already ached from grinning so hard I was sure my face was frozen that way. I followed her in a rush, scooting down a line of shelves until she stopped abruptly, making me bump into her and snort over the impact. She flapped her hands at me, shushing me loudly enough to be heard in the next town over, pulling me to a halt next to her while I snickered over anticipation of Mr. Lightmews’s imminent command to depart or else. The most fun ever.

  Daisy met my eyes before nodding to the shelf and the spine of a book right in front of me. I turned to her then, open mouthed and wanting to smack her as I realized not only did she know where the book was theoretically, she’d scouted its exact location and had the restraint to do nothing about it. I could only wish for that kind of self-control.

  “Why didn’t you look?” I reached for the thin spine and pulled it down, plastic covering the paper flaps crinkling in my hands. The image of a huge ship and a treasure chest layered over top framed by the name Alistair Markham and the title, The Reading Hoard: Fact or Fiction.

  She was still grinning, but now tears lined her big eyes as she blinked too fast. There was hurt behind her happy. I’d have to do something about that. “I wasn’t sure and I didn’t have the courage to check myself.” She squeezed my arm, grinned then, laughed out the last of her tension. “I’m an idiot. But I wanted you to be here anyway.”

  I winked at her, grasped the front cover. “Ready to find the treasure of Captain Reading, matey?” My pirate lingo was passing at best, but Daisy saluted anyway, much as I had the statue whose fortune we pursued.

  “When you are, Cap’n,” she said.

  Treasure or no treasure, wild goose chase or end of the road, whatever this book and the clues my grandmother left me meant?

  I’d take all the fun I could get.

  ***

  ###

  ***

  Find Book Six of the

  Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries at

  https://books2read.com/RopesandTreesandMurder

  ***

  Like what you read?

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  ***

  Author Notes

  I’m a terrible cook and an even worse baker, but I adore cooking shows and watch them until I lie to myself I’m actually decent at anything to do with the culinary arts. My family’s patience when I think—after several episodes of You Gotta Eat Here or Beat Bobby Flay—I can actually make food without a recipe is legendary.

  Didn’t stop me from wanting to dive into the world Lucy Fleming loves. Not just out of a misguided adoration for the food world I’ll never be able to bring justice to. I’ve been having so much fun tapping into the different people in Fee’s world, drawing out their strengths and weaknesses, finding out just how human and real and flawed they are that doing so is my temptation to create.

  Exploring Reading’s residents has been as satisfying for me as a delicious bite of the most extraordinary chocolate cake.

  Rich. Velvety. Fulfilling. With more servings to come.

  I hope you found this latest murder as delicious as I did.

  Best,

  Patti

  ***

  About the Author

  Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I’m doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I’ve tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), am an enthusiastic member of an all-girl improv troupe (if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible) and I get to teach and perform with an amazing group of women I adore. I’ve even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent film maker. My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.

  Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you’ve heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my multitude of pets.

  I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I’ll message back) at patti@pattilarsen.com. And if you’re eager for your next d
ose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren’t you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail.

  Last—but not least!—I hope you enjoyed what you read! Your happiness is my happiness. And I’d love to hear just what you thought. A review where you found this book would mean the world to me—reviews feed writers more than you will ever know. So, loved it (or not so much), your honest review would make my day. Thank you!