Whispering Bay Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Maria Geraci

I wish I knew how Brittany felt about Will, but I haven’t had the guts to ask her. If Brittany tells me that she has feelings for Will, then it will put me in a terrible pickle because I’m not the kind of girl who goes around trying to steal her friend’s crush. Even if I’ve been crushing on him longer.

  “I just went to see Tara,” says Brittany. “Lucy, she’s threatening to kick you off the show. She says you gave The Gazette an unauthorized interview and that according to your contract, it’s grounds for dismissal.”

  Before I can say anything in my defense, my timer goes off. I open the oven and pull out the tray—six perfectly golden on the outside super-size apple walnut cream cheese muffins baked to absolute perfection.

  The man sniffs appreciatively. “Smells good.”

  “Oh!” says Brittany. “So sorry! I almost forgot. This is Darren Winters. He’s the head of the chamber of commerce for Catfish Cove. He’s here in town for a few days to get some PR pointers from me.”

  “Will Cunningham.” Will reaches out to shake Darren’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I follow Will’s suit. “Lucy McGuffin. Go Noles!” I add, pointing to his sweatshirt.

  Darren chuckles. “You a Seminoles fan, Lucy?”

  “I grew up in north Florida, so yeah, I’m definitely an FSU fan.”

  “Fingers crossed we win the big football game tonight.” He gazes around my kitchen. “You’re the owner of this place?”

  “Co-owner. My friend Sarah Powers and I are partners, but I also live here in the apartment above the café.”

  “Lucy is a brilliant baker,” Brittany gushes. “She makes the best muffins in town. Probably in the whole world.”

  Darren looks impressed.

  I feel myself flush. “Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  “Can I try one?” he asks, reaching out for a muffin. “They smell fabulous.”

  I pull the muffin tin out of his reach. “Sorry, but these need to cool. Besides, they’re a special batch just for Tara.” I pull out a container from the bottom shelf and pull off the lid to show him the muffins we didn’t sell today. “These are all fresh from this morning. Take your pick.”

  He studies them carefully like he’s deciding.

  I’m pretty good at matching muffins with people. Take Will. His boy-next-door good looks and sturdy character make him an apple cinnamon. Travis, on the other hand, is a mango coconut—exciting on first taste, but you can’t eat more than one without getting a sugar high.

  I channel my inner baking goddess to try to figure out what kind of muffin Darren is. What I get surprises me. Zucchini chocolate chip—a muffin that blends two flavors that should never go together. I’ve always thought of them as somewhat flashy and unpredictable.

  He looks over the variety of muffins, inspecting them carefully, then pulls out a boring blueberry. I only make blueberry muffins because it’s expected of me. I find them completely uninspiring. I study Darren’s features again. He’s the sort of man that you’d never notice in a crowd. I suppose the blueberry makes sense.

  “Delicious,” he says between bites.

  Paco sits and raises a paw in the air, capturing Darren’s attention. “Who do we have here?”

  “Paco, stop begging,” I scold. “Sorry,” I say to Darren. “This is my dog, Paco, but he knows better than to ask for food.” Actually, Paco begs for food all the time. It’s kind of cute, but I’m probably the only one who thinks that.

  Darren breaks off a tiny bit of his muffin. He stealthily gives it to Paco, and I can’t help but like him for it. Paco gobbles it down like he hasn’t eaten in days.

  “How are things in Catfish Cove?” Will asks. “I hear it will be another few days before they’re done with cleanup.”

  Darren’s expression turns grim. “Not good. A lot of the downtown businesses are struggling right now, but we should have things cleaned up by the end of the week.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I say sincerely.

  He shrugs. “It is what it is. I came over here because Brittany was gracious enough to offer us some help.”

  “We’re brainstorming PR ideas that will be of mutual benefit to both cities,” Brittany says.

  “Good idea,” says Will.

  “So, Lucy, what do you plan to do about Tara?” Brittany asks, getting back down to it.

  “Well—”

  She clutches my hand. “As your best friend, I have to give you the same advice I’d give myself. You can still salvage your place on the show if you apologize. Grovel. Plead. Beg. Do whatever you need to do, but you have to get back on the show, otherwise … well, she’s threatening to replace The Bistro with that new sushi bar that just opened on Main Street.”

  “That place hasn’t even been open two weeks!”

  “I know. It would be totally unfair to knock The Bistro out of the competition just because you had a hissy fit.”

  Hissy fit? That’s not exactly how I see it, but whatever. I’m too tired to argue my point.

  “I’m going over to see Tara this evening, and I’m going to throw myself on her mercy. Aided by this special batch of apple walnut cream cheese muffins, of course.”

  Brittany looks uncertain. “Yes, that might help.”

  “Sure it’s going to help,” Will says firmly, “but first, Lucy needs to take a long nap. As a matter of fact, she was on her way upstairs to her apartment when you knocked on the door. Right, Lucy?”

  “I think that’s our cue to go now,” says Darren.

  Brittany reluctantly makes her way toward the door. “Remember, Lucy, plead, beg, grovel. Do whatever you need to do. But get back on that show.”

  4

  Will practically tucks me into bed, but I’m so tired I can’t even let myself get tingly about it. When I wake up, it’s dark. I check my phone. It’s almost eight. I’ve slept for over three hours. After I splash water on my face, I put on my sneakers and grab Paco’s leash.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” I say to him. “We’re going to see Tara, and we’re going to throw ourselves on her mercy, which means you have to be on your best behavior. Got it?”

  He wags his tail in response. When he chooses, Paco can be extremely charming. It’s shameless, but I’m not above using my dog to score brownie points with Tara.

  I carefully place the muffins in the back seat of the car. Paco hops up in the front of my VW Beetle, and we take off for the rented beach house where Tara and the rest of the production crew are staying.

  Gilly answers the door. “Lucy.” She wets her lips nervously. Gilly is definitely a cherry gluten-free muffin—a muffin that requires not just gluten-free flour, but almond flour and flaxseed meal too. A lot of fuss for a fruit muffin, in my opinion.

  “I’m here to see Tara.”

  “This probably isn’t the best time. She’s kind of in a mood, if you know what I mean.”

  I know exactly what she means, although I can’t imagine Tara being in a worse mood than the one she was in this afternoon. “I’m here to apologize.” I show Gilly the muffins. “These are Tara’s favorite—apple walnut cream cheese. I made a special batch with extra walnuts, just for her.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to help.”

  “Sure it will.” If my apple walnut cream cheese muffins don’t put Tara in a good mood, then nothing will.

  Gilly shrugs as if to say, You can try, then ushers me inside the McMansion. This is one of those five-bedroom deals right on the gulf that gets rented out on a regular basis. It’s more than big enough to house the show’s production team, and it probably comes out cheaper than individual hotel rooms.

  “She’s in the den, going over schedules.” Gilly points to the door. “Good luck,” she says before slinking off. Poor Gilly. She’s not even in the same room as Tara and she’s still intimidated by her.

  I stare at the closed door, thinking hard of what I’m going to say. Beg, grovel, and plead just aren’t my style, but I have to come up with something humbling enough to sat
isfy Tara’s bloodlust.

  The sound of hushed voices drifts from the back of the house. Probably Gilly and one of the camera guys. I have to admit I’m getting nervous here. This isn’t how I pictured the crew spending a Saturday night in Whispering Bay. The whole house feels sad and gloomy.

  I knock on the door, but I don’t wait for Tara to answer before slipping inside because I don’t want to give her a chance to send me away.

  She’s sitting on a couch with mountains of papers all around. Her short blond hair is standing on end like she’s been running her hands through it, and her skin looks unnaturally pale. Is this what she looks like without makeup?

  Her face crinkles in annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

  “I come bearing muffins.” I place the container on the coffee table in front of her like a peace offering. “And to apologize. I was completely out of line. Very unprofessional of me. I promise it won’t happen again.” Paco barks to reinforce this.

  “I know it won’t because I’ve decided to take The Bistro out of the competition.”

  When I was six, two days before Christmas, I found an Easy Bake Oven hidden in the back of my mother’s closet. It was the only thing on my Christmas wish list. Sebastian tried to reassure me that it didn’t mean there wasn’t a Santa Claus, but I could see right through that lie. I remember feeling cheated. I feel the same way right now.

  “But I brought muffins and everything.” Which sounds lame, but it’s all I’ve got.

  Tara eyes the muffins. “And I appreciate that, Lucy. But it doesn’t change anything.”

  She waves me to sit in a chair across from her. Paco lies down at my feet, but he stays on alert. “Want a drink? I’ve got whiskey. And whiskey.” She laughs at her own joke.

  “No, thanks. Look, I know I behaved badly and there’s no excuse for losing my temper, but you can’t kick The Bistro by the Beach out of the competition. Sarah and I have only owned the place for six months, but it’s been around forever. It’s practically a Whispering Bay icon!”

  “I realize that. And I want you to know it’s not personal. Yes, you were extremely unprofessional this afternoon, but that’s not why I’m taking your restaurant out of the running.”

  “I don’t understand. If it’s not about my behavior this afternoon, then what’s the problem?”

  “The official reason? You breached your contract when you gave that interview today.”

  “But … I can call Allie and Roger. They won’t run the story. Not if I ask them to kill it.”

  For a second, I think I see a hint of sympathy in Tara’s eyes. “I’m afraid that won’t be enough. The damage has already been done. I can’t have the rest of the competitors see you breaking a clause in the contract and let you get away with it. I would have to make exceptions for everyone, and that isn’t going to happen.”

  The shock I felt a few seconds ago is replaced with a bone-weary realization that I’ve just spent an entire week of putting up with Tara and her antics for nothing. The idea that a major network will be hosting a cooking show in Whispering Bay and The Bistro by the Beach won’t be in it is … Well, it’s wrong. That’s what it is.

  I’m about to protest some more when something Tara says hits me. “You said that’s the official reason. Is there an unofficial one?”

  There’s a line of perspiration on her upper lip. It’s not warm in here, but it looks as if she’s been sweating. Tara shrugs wearily. “The network thinks you and your café have become too notorious for the show. Frankly, this whole town is a mess, what with one dead body after another, but after that unfortunate pipe burst in Catfish Cove, we had no choice but to film here.”

  “I can’t help it if some mobster decided to put a dead body in our trash dumpster!”

  “Agreed. But that still doesn’t stop the press from hovering around your restaurant, does it?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Don’t you see? Lucy, you’re infamous. Which, personally, I think is fabulous,” she says, stretching out the word so long that it almost becomes a slur, “for you and your business. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. But in the case of this show, it puts you at an unfair advantage as far as the other restaurants are concerned. If you win, they might claim that it was because of the notoriety surrounding your café. And if you lose, you might try to argue that it was that same notoriety that prejudiced the judges. It’s a total lose-lose for us as far as we’re concerned.”

  “And you just thought of all this now?”

  “Actually, it’s been a concern from day one, but we couldn’t eliminate you from the show without due cause, which you conveniently provided me with this afternoon. Sorry, but that’s just how it is. Welcome to show biz!” she cackles. She gets up to refill her whiskey and in the process ends up splashing liquor onto the carpet.

  “Maybe you should take it easy on the booze.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business,” she says, slurring her words. Good grief. I’m trying to reason with a drunk.

  “And that’s it? There’s nothing I can do about it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Sushi Planet will be taking your place.”

  Sushi Planet! They’ve been in business all of about six minutes, and now they’re going to get all this fabulous publicity, not to mention a chance to win the twenty-five grand. I feel numb. The whole thing is so unfair.

  Tara reaches out to take a muffin from the box. “I do appreciate this, Lucy. For what it’s worth, you make the best muffins I’ve ever tasted.” She bites into a muffin and makes what I like to call the yummy face.

  I search Tara’s expression for any signs of duplicity. Whenever I catch anyone in a lie, the little hairs on my neck immediately stand on end. But there’s nothing. Tara is telling the truth. She really does love my muffins.

  I feel a teeny bit better. But not much.

  “Now that you’re off the show, I guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you this, but if it’s any consolation, I think your place would have won.”

  Ouch. Talk about rubbing salt into the wound.

  She isn’t lying about this either.

  Tara takes another big bite of the muffin. “God, this is good. I’ve been so stressed out I haven’t had time to eat today. No wonder my stomach feels so messed up.”

  Something in her tone wakes up my Spidey sense. I glance around all the papers on the table and the couch. Apparently, there’s a lot more to producing a TV show than I was aware of. I’ve always thought of Tara as this creature from the TV land lagoon. Fangs out and ready to bite. Maybe it’s the whiskey making her more vulnerable, but this is a side of her I’ve never seen before. A more human side. I’m so used to her barking orders and running around making threats that I never stopped to think that the reason she acts the way she does is because she’s under a lot of pressure.

  Not that it’s an excuse. Or that I forgive her for kicking me off the show. Or that I’m just going to sit back and accept it all, either.

  She greedily finishes off the muffin. “Before you go, can I ask you a question? That whole business with El Tigre and the FBI—how did you do it?”

  My Spidey sense shakes its finger at me. This is the kind of question that could get me in trouble. If I answered it honestly, that is. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve cracked two cases that trained FBI agents haven’t been able to solve. What do you have that they don’t?”

  Paco looks up at me with his how-are-you-gonna-answer-that face.

  A dog that sees ghosts, for one thing.

  “I guess I was just in the right place at the right time,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes. “That’s it?”

  “Well … I’m pretty intuitive when it comes to reading people.” Ha! If she only knew just how intuitive I really am.

  “Does that mean you can tell when someone’s bluffing?”

  Her question makes me sit up straight. “You mean, like in poker?” I ask carefully.

  “Something lik
e that.”

  It’s not like that at all. Whatever she’s trying to get at isn’t about poker or any other game. I’m not sure what she wants to know, but I get the feeling that she’s talking about something serious here.

  “Sometimes I can tell when someone’s bluffing, but not always,” I lie, because of course I can tell. Just like I can tell that something has her on edge.

  “Oh.” She sounds more than casually disappointed.

  “Why do you ask?”

  She looks away but not before I think I see a tear slip down her cheek. I must be hallucinating because this is Tara. She doesn’t cry. She makes other people cry.

  I’m immediately ashamed of myself. She’s human (sort of).

  “Tara, are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask gently. “Because … maybe I can help.”

  Her head snaps up. “Trouble? Why would you say that?” She brushes the crumbs off her chin. “I’m a very busy person, Lucy. I don’t have any more time for your groveling. It’s pathetic, really. You can go now.”

  And just like that, it’s the old Tara. I take it back. She’s not even partially human.

  Paco sticks his nose in the air as if to say, Good riddance to you too.

  I leave the same way I came in. Gilly is standing by the front door, looking like it’s the end of the world. “So did she tell you?”

  “That The Bistro by the Beach is off the show? Yep. I even brought her muffins. Too bad I didn’t poison them,” I mutter.

  Gilly sucks in a breath. “Why would you say that?”

  “Lighten up. It’s just a joke.”

  “Did she seem … okay? I mean, is she in a really bad mood?”

  “I’d say she’s pretty much the same as always.” Gilly winces, and I can’t help but feel sorry for her. “You don’t have to put up with her screaming and snapping at you. Stand up for yourself, Gilly.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I mean, I really need this job. What if she … what if she—”

  “Fires you?”

  Gilly nods.

  “Then you’ll get another job. Screw Tara. She can’t treat people like dirt and get away with it. If you don’t demand respect, then you won’t get any.”