Murder in the Mix (Books 1-3)

by Moore, Addison

  Maybe I’m the professional after all.

  Chapter 50

  With a chill in the air, a thicket of dark clouds circling Honey Hollow, fall tourist season in full swing, and Thanksgiving just around the corner, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery is at maximum customer capacity on Friday.

  Lily comes back to the kitchen where I’m frantically reworking my famous pumpkin pie recipe, trying my best to put some fancy spin on it for tomorrow’s contest.

  “You’ve just had another thirty orders for pies today. If this keeps up, you’ll have to bake five hundred pies by Thanksgiving—and that’s pumpkin and pecan.”

  “We’re not open on Thanksgiving. All pie orders are to be picked up by closing next Wednesday night—and don’t tell anyone, but I’ll be here an hour after closing in the event anyone gets stuck in traffic. As for orders”—I think on it for a minute—“keep taking them until next Monday night. I put in an extra-large order last week, and I’m pretty sure I can make whatever needs to be done twice over. I’ve never ordered holiday stock on my own, but Keelie helped me wrangle it together. We’re going to be fine.” I look to the staff and feel a pang of grief for them. “I’m fine with pulling crazy hours, but I feel terrible asking anyone else to do it with me.”

  “I’ll do it.” Lily shrugs. “It’s easy. I’ve seen you do it. You do the hard part and mix the ingredients, make the crust, and I’ll fill the pies and put them in the oven. It’s not rocket science, Lottie.”

  “You’d do that for me?” I must be bordering on delirium if this makes me happy.

  “Yes, I would do that for you. I happen to like my job. It’s easy, it smells like cinnamon all the time, and I eat a free cookie on all my breaks. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re content.” I scour the island and wrinkle my nose at the mess I’ve made. “I wish I was. I really want to impress those judges tomorrow.”

  “Please, you’re coming home with the van. We both know it.” She cranes her neck at the customers. “Isn’t your sister dating Tanner Redwood?”

  I growl just at the mention of his name. “Using the term loosely, yes.”

  “He’s been here for an hour pawing all over some girl just out of high school. He’s such a creeper. I have no idea what Lainey sees in him.”

  “Ditto to that.” I hustle my way over to the front and, sure enough, seated under my romantic twinkle lights are Tanner the hair flipper and some pretty young thing who hasn’t crested puberty. I’m about to toss the spatula in my hand as if it were a throwing star when the bell on the door chimes and in walks my mother and sister—and I couldn’t be happier to see them.

  Tanner jumps to his feet and wraps his arms around Lainey in a twirling embrace while his underage paramour makes a break for it, dashing into the windy evening with nothing more than half a sweater and a miniskirt. Doesn’t he realize where he is? Clearly, if he doesn’t fear me, I haven’t done my job right.

  Tanner presses a heated kiss over Lainey’s lips, and she pulls away with a half-hearted giggle.

  “Lottie”—he points hard my way—“you got good eats. I’ll put in a good word for you with the Parks and Recs holiday committee.” He nods my mother’s way. “Miranda. Lovely seeing you again.” He blows a kiss my sister’s way and jets out the door.

  “Good riddance,” I say under my breath.

  Lainey is quick to wave me off. “Tanner is a sweetheart.”

  I’m about to say something about the girl he was with but think better of it. Tanner is the two-timer. Who cares whether that girl has knowledge of my sister or not. He does. And he still chooses to behave that way.

  “Tanner is something, all right.” I lift a brow her way.

  “How are the pies coming?” she asks as both she and my mother head behind the counter and follow me to the kitchen.

  “I’m baffled. I’m thoroughly confused as to what I should do. A part of me says I should pull out all the stops. But another far more rational part of me knows you shouldn’t mess around with a pumpkin pie until it’s unrecognizable.”

  Mom takes off her coat and replaces it with an apron. “Oh, honey, you and I both know your standard pumpkin pie recipe is miles better than anyone else’s. In fact, it makes a store-bought pie taste as if someone pureed last night’s dinner.”

  “Mother.” Lainey groans. “That’s disgusting.” She looks to me. “But she’s right. And we’re still on for Thanksgiving, right?”

  “Yes, I’m determined to have it at my new home. I’ve already invited the two of you, and you’re both welcome to invite dates.”

  Lainey plucks an oatmeal raisin cookie off the cooling rack. “Who you bringin’?” She gives a playful wink as she takes a bite.

  Mom waves my sister off. “She’s bringing Noah. Lottie has an official plus one these days—a bona fide detective no less. And you better believe I’m telling everyone about it.” She giggles my way. “I’m just tickled to see you so happy. So, who did you decide gets the judge?” Mom shakes her shoulders as if she were throwing her hat into the ring.

  “I don’t get to decide that. In fact, I may not have an official plus one at Thanksgiving because I might not have an official plus one anymore.” My voice cracks, and both Mom and Lainey ensconce me on either side.

  Lainey pulls me over by the chin. “What happened? That boy is mad about you, and if you try to tell me something else, I may not believe you.”

  Mom gives my hand a quick tug. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I can’t tell you how many misunderstandings your father and I had. But, rest assured, the best is yet to come.” A naughty grin percolates on her lips. My mother and father rarely if ever raised their voices. The image I have in my mind regarding them was a happy, playful couple. How I wish my father were still here to have fun with her, with us all.

  “Trust me, it’s no misunderstanding. He thinks I’m getting in too deep with this investigation, and I think I’ve come across a few valuable tips that might actually help catch whoever is responsible for this.”

  Mom hums like a defunct motor, her entire body gyrating as she struggles to keep a lid on her thoughts. “I’m just going to come out and say it. You need to leave well enough alone. It’s a darn near miracle that the people of Honey Hollow didn’t shun you after something you made landed a woman dead right in front of a live audience.”

  Lainey gasps. “Mother! The woman was poisoned! And the sheriff’s department cleared both the bakery and Lottie of any wrongdoing.”

  “That’s not the point.” Mom picks up a spatula and begins stirring a bowl full of pumpkin pie filling, igniting the air with the scent of cinnamon and spices. “The point is, she nearly lost her business because of this maniac, and if he or she finds out Lottie is meddling, she might lose something far more valuable.” She shakes her curls my way. “We can replace the bakery. We can’t replace you.”

  “You sound an awful lot like Noah.”

  Lainey tips her head to the side and coos as if a kitten just crawled out of a bowl behind me. “He really does care about you, Lot. You are one lucky girl.”

  “I know I am,” I whisper as I look at pie shells waiting to be filled.

  Mom and Lainey help me bake a few pies, and while doing so we discuss who’s bringing what to my Thanksgiving party next week. Lainey suggested we eat at three sharp so we can spend the rest of the evening online shopping, and I wholeheartedly agree.

  Mom gives me a hug as we lock up the bakery. “Don’t worry about a thing tomorrow. Both your sister and I will be there to cheer you on. Rest assured, you’re going to win.”

  “I hope so,” I say, lacking the proper enthusiasm. It’s not the win I want. It’s the killer—and Noah’s killer lips back on mine. Not necessarily in that order.

  “You will. There is just so much to look forward to!” She gifts me a kiss before trotting off to her car. I stand there under the stars, the glacial wind nipping at my neck.

  There certainly is a lot to look forwa
rd to.

  But not for Collette.

  In fact, she may not even get to look forward to justice.

  Chapter 51

  The Thanksgiving Pumpkin Pie Bake-off is held in the state-of-the-art kitchen in the heart of Ashford Culinary School. There are thirty participants this year and a panel of nine judges, all of whom I’m sure will be hard to impress.

  “Thirty participants,” I lament to Keelie as we unload all of the ingredients onto my newly assigned workstation. The inside of the culinary school kitchen looks every bit like a studio, and good thing, considering the fact this event is televised on a local cable channel.

  I spot Crystal Mandrake looking every bit the superstar with her chef’s hat and army of sous chefs. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a hairnet, and her cinnamon-colored skin glows against the hot pink lipstick she’s got on. Her apron is encrusted with rhinestones with the word winner emblazoned across the front.

  Keelie leans in. “At least she’s subtle. Don’t worry. You’ve got this, Lottie.”

  My mother kept announcing spontaneously, my daughter, the star, over and over again on the ride to Ashford. She and Lainey commuted with Keelie and me, and now, looking at how serious my competition looks, I’m regretting not driving all by my lonesome in the event I want to cry all the way home. I usually do my best not to cry in front of people if I know it’s going to make them uncomfortable, and since I’ve never run into a situation where it wouldn’t, I usually do all of my boo-hooing in a closet somewhere, or in bed with Pancake. Although, I haven’t boo-hooed once since that furry handsome little man came into my life. I wish I could have had Pancake at every age and stage of my existence.

  “Relax,” Keelie whispers. “You’re going to do just fine.”

  “At least I have a great cheering section.” I glance up where Lainey and my mother are currently holding up a sign that reads Team Lemon.

  “You sure do. And it’s going to be expanding in about an hour or so. I’ve taken the liberty of inviting a couple of strong, handsome men to watch you drive home in that new ride of yours.”

  “You did?” I moan at the thought of seeing Noah and Everett here. “It’s going to make me nervous. And believe me, I’m plenty of that all on my own.”

  “Nervous? About what? Lottie, this is your element. Pie is a part of your cellular makeup. And have you tasted that crust you make? People would gladly have that as their last meal.”

  “That’s grisly.”

  “That’s true.”

  We finish up all the prep, and soon enough I make the crust and the fillings. I bake the crust shell just enough to give it some firmness before pouring in my signature recipe. It looks so smooth and creamy and smells as if the entire fall season were melted into this one delicious pie filling, I’m half-tempted to sit down and eat it with a spoon.

  Hey? Maybe I could bottle this and sell it as comfort food? Although, on second thought, you can catch all sorts of things from uncooked eggs, and Lord knows I don’t need another poisoning on my hands.

  Just as I’m finishing up and setting my two pies into the oven, all contestants are called to the front to meet the judging panel. It’s a blind reveal in the event we try to cater to the judges and their personal preferences. It’s not uncommon for judges to switch out from year to year just to keep those who participate in these kinds of contests on their toes.

  The emcee of the evening is a tall, stalky man who looks as if he’s a pie lover indeed named Jeremy Nicolson, a star chef himself and who also happens to teach at the culinary school.

  Jeremy introduces the judges down the line, along with their interests, and before he gets to the end, I do a double take at the woman with the tight bun, the excess skin on her face pulled back because of it, and those twisted tight bright orange lips. It’s none other than Patricia Rutherford. I’m both relieved and enlivened by the sight of her. And here I thought today would be a waste of the investigation. But as soon as we’re excused, I’m going to say a quick hello. Since the judges will sample the pies blindly, there are no restrictions on mingling with them.

  “And on the end”—Jeremy Nicholson gurgles out a drum roll—“we have the ever so lovely Mrs. Patricia Rutherford whose interests include baking, knitting, reading eighteenth century poetry, and horticulture.”

  I glance my mother’s way. Patricia would fit right in with her Horticulture Hotties. I’m about to laugh the idea off when suddenly my lungs seize, my muscles freeze solid, and I have very bad case of tunnel vision. All I see is Patricia Rutherford hunched over a patio table somewhere grinding up dehydrated wolf’s bane into a fine powder.

  “It can’t be,” I whisper as bodies begin to mill about freely once again.

  Someone from the stands calls my name, but I don’t turn around. I’m one hundred percent focused on the task at hand.

  Patricia gives a trace smile as I step in front of her.

  “I remember you.” I try to sound friendly, sound excited over this, but there’s not a cheery note in my tone. In fact, I sound frightened, highly disappointed that this poor woman would be driven so far.

  “Excuse me?” She takes a careful step back, her lips trembling with the question.

  “I remember you.” I shake my head at her in disbelief as I follow her to a dark corridor.

  “I remember you, too, Ms. Lemon. You certainly know your way around a kitchen.” She looks past me. “Now, if you’ll ex—”

  “And you know your way around a garden, don’t you?”

  She stops dead in her tracks, and her eyes widen a notch as she takes me in and inspects me from head to toe as if surveying what I might know.

  She tries to take a step to my right and I block her at the pass, but instead of bulleting past me, she turns around and bolts down the corridor. A door opens and closes in the distance, and I’m left with silence.

  “Patricia, wait!” I call out as I take off after her. The hall is painted black, and the doors lining the hall are painted the same dismal color. I quickly open and close a few of them, but they lead to a broom closet and a pantry. There are at least a dozen doors between me and the end of the hall. I pat my pockets down for my phone to call Noah, but I don’t have it on me. It’s buried in my purse, in Lainey’s possession for safekeeping.

  The figure of a man appears at the end of the hall, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of him.

  “Everett!” I run over and throw my arms out for a quick embrace, falling right through him.

  It’s not Everett. That would explain the fact he’s illuminated from the inside.

  “Edward! Do you know where she went?”

  He nods.

  “Take me to her!” I hiss.

  He turns to his left and touches his ghostly hand to the nearest door. I don’t waste any time. I simply speed right in. I take a few stumbling steps inside, then proceed with caution as I take a look around. There’s nothing but a dull blue glow of natural light streaming in from the tiny windows up near the ceiling. It’s an oversized kitchen, a classroom I’m assuming, and in the middle of the gargantuan space stands an oversized island made of stainless steel.

  “Patricia?” I call out but am met with silence. I glance back to Edward, but he’s vanished. A lot of good that does me.

  A tower of boxes lines my left. And in front of me, suspended on the wall, is a row of cutlery secured to a magnetic strip. I speed over to arm myself in the event I need it.

  “Stop right there.” Patricia emerges from behind the boxes, the steely blade of a chef’s knife secured tightly in her hand.

  “You did it,” I say breathless as I look to this crazed version of the demure woman I’ve come to know her as. “You killed Collette.” The words stream from me numb with shock. “You were the last person I suspected. But you did it because your husband was having an affair. You let the world think you didn’t care and you did. You very much cared indeed.”

  A ripple of laughter emits from her, something dark and maniacal. �
�You stupid little thing. I didn’t care about that silly girl, just like I don’t care about you.”

  “Of course, you didn’t care about Collette. That’s why she’s no longer with us,” I hiss, my adrenaline spiking to unsafe levels.

  “I didn’t kill her, you ridiculous idiot! None of it was intended for that girl. What a waste of all my precious time. Had I known he was asking for her, I wouldn’t have given it to him.”

  My mouth falls open. “Oh my God.” It feels as if the floor is slipping out from underneath me. “You were trying to kill your husband.”

  Those orange lips of hers flicker a short-lived smile. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “But he wasn’t the one with the headache. He passed the pills along to Collette. Only she didn’t do well with pills, so she had Everett dump them into her drink. Wolf’s bane.”

  She flinches when I say the name as if I struck her.

  “You grew it. You dumped the original contents of those capsules and filled them with the wickedness you grew for this very purpose.” I take a step in close, and she lifts the knife another notch. “Why not just divorce him? Isn’t that what you wanted? To get away from him?”

  “After thirty years of marriage? So some whore could get half of what we’ve taken a lifetime to build? I’m the only one who will reap any benefits when Bradford dies, and he will die.” Her eyes widen hypnotically as they remain pinned on mine. “As will you.” She snatches me by the wrist with her free hand and pulls me close with a violent yank. “Say your prayers. You will soon meet your maker.”

  I try to pull my arm out of her hold, but she’s remarkably strong. I reach up, pulling her head down hard by the hair as Patricia cuts the air next to me with the knife. The blade hooks into my sweater at the waist, and she struggles to free it for a moment.

  “Don’t do this!” I shout, hoping someone other than Patricia will hear.

  “You gave me no choice!” She slashes the knife over my stomach and I jump back, narrowly avoiding the blade. I lift my arm up hard and break her hold over me, my knee reflexively rising up with it in an effort to protect myself.