A Catered Bake-Off

Book 19: Mystery With Recipes

by Isis Crawford

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

When sisters Bernie and Libby Simmons bring their culinary prowess from A Little Taste of Heaven catering company to a baking competition in Upstate New York, it’s murder that takes the cake . . .

What’s the worst that could happen on a reality show bake-off filmed at a picturesque estate? As it turns out, a whole lot. Thrown into the fray against four seasoned competitors, the Simmons sisters face more than just cameras broadcasting their frosting mishaps on local TV. Right from the get-go, their small screen debut sours with suspicious ingredients and malfunctioning appliances. Then there’s the inexplicable invasion of goats that sends the entire production into a tailspin, followed by a flurry of ominous notes delivered anonymously to the cast and crew.

Tensions really reach a boiling point when one of the judges meets a grisly end—death by exploding espresso machine!  With a dangerous mystery solidifying, Bernie and Libby whisk through the vast property on a mission to uncover who could have taken down the show’s discerning food critic. But when the bake-off serves another victim, the sleuthing siblings find themselves racing to catch a mixed-up killer before the final timer dings . . .

Includes Original Recipes for You to Try!

Release date: June 24, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“Can you imagine living here when Michael Billings was still alive?” Libby asked Bernie as they passed through the gate of the old Kenmore Estate. A onetime notorious bootlegger, Billings was renowned for his lavish lifestyle, but time had taken its toll and had reduced the estate to a shadow of its former self.

Bernie laughed. “Only if I had staff,” she said as she drove down the winding paths that led to the tent, which, she decided, looked like a giant billowing marshmallow from the distance. “You’d definitely need them for a place like this.”

“How big do you think the estate is?” Libby asked.

“Maybe an acre, two at the most,” Bernie guessed as she parked the van, and then she and her sister hurried toward the tent. Everyone stopped chatting when they ducked inside. They were the last ones to arrive.

“I’m nervous,” Libby whispered to her sister as she stopped at the entrance and surveyed the group.

“It’s just a run-through,” Bernie reassured her while she blinked sweat out of her eyes. Even though it was seventy-five degrees, the humidity made it feel as if it was in the nineties.

“I know what it is. I just wish you hadn’t said yes,” Libby continued.

“You agreed,” Bernie reminded her.

“What if we lose?” Libby asked.

“We won’t,” Bernie replied with more confidence than she felt as she studied the people gathered together. All of them were around the same age as the Simmons sisters, all of them had the same skill sets as they did. There were nine in the group if she counted herself and her sister. There were six contestants, two judges, and one producer of The Longely Bake-Off. It was an interesting mix, not to mention a colorful one. Literally speaking.

There was Nell Pinto, wearing her signature polka-dotted leggings and blue hair. She owned a catering operation called The Best, along with Lori Peterson, who had recently dyed her hair neon green and complemented it with bright red lipstick and blue eye shadow. Then there was Mike Goodman, in his Hawaiian shirt and red hair. He ran a shop called The Cookie Corner, which specialized in late-night deliveries of warm chocolate chip cookies. Adam Borat was there, too—a short, round guy with a mustache, a pronounced limp from a motorcycle accident, and a penchant for plaid pants. He’d worked in several restaurants and was now the owner of The Sheffield, a wannabe English pub.

Bernie knew she and Libby had as good a chance as anybody here, if not better, to win the contest, but she’d never competed in anything like this before, let alone been on television as a contestant. She took a deep breath and let it out, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach. Hopefully, the judges would be nice.

There were two of them: Ellen Green, who hosted a cooking show on local TV, and Doug LaForte, who had owned a restaurant called The Potted Pig in Seattle and was now making a living teaching cooking courses at the local community college and judging culinary contests. Bernie was thinking about everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, when the producer of the show clapped his hands, signaling for silence. Everyone stopped talking and focused on him.

“Thank you all for coming,” Sam Levine told them, clearing his throat. He looked around, ran his hand over his chrome dome, and began to speak. “This run-through should take two hours, as will the next one—”

“I don’t see why we need two run-throughs,” Adam muttered, interrupting him.

“Because,” Sam patiently explained for the second time, “I want you to be familiar with your environment.” He pointed to the wires and cables snaking across the floor. “For instance, I don’t want anyone tripping on those.”

Nell rolled her eyes.

“People have, you know,” Mike said. He’d been watching cooking shows ever since he’d been invited to participate in The Longely Bake-Off.

Hosted by a flour mill called Red Fern, the bake-off was supposed to take place over the course of three weekends. It was loosely based on a show called The Great British Bake Off, and each weekend’s filming consisted of three baking assignments: the signature, the technical challenge, and the showstopper. However, there were differences between the two shows. For one thing, The Great British Bake Off had individual contestants pitted against one another, while The Longely Bake-Off had teamed people up with each other for the three episodes. Also, there were fewer people competing. Bernie was wondering why that was the case, when the producer started talking again.

“And,” he said, continuing with his explanation, “I want to make sure everyone knows how to operate the equipment and where your supplies are. Don’t forget you’re going to be timed and there are going to be cameras circling you and bright lights to deal with.”

Ellen jumped in. “And us coming around and talking to you,” she said. She adjusted her rhinestone cat-eared headband. “Don’t forget that. We know it can be distracting, but it’s part of the show.”

“I suppose it can be,” Libby allowed as she studied her surroundings. Cooking here was going to be different from at their shop, A Little Taste of Heaven. There were three separate prep stations set up in the middle of the tent, while the pantry, the ovens, and the refrigerator were arrayed along the sides. She watched Sam point to the pantry and the refrigerator.

“Hopefully, this rehearsal will allow you to familiarize yourself with the equipment. Each team has been assigned a specific work area.” He indicated who was going where, before he went on speaking. “We have done your shopping for you. Your ingredients are in the pantry and the refrigerator, along with everything else you might need to construct your dish, but”—here he paused for a moment to emphasize his point—“be advised that there are limited quantities of many items.”

“Meaning?” Bernie asked.

“Meaning,” Sam replied, “that if there’s no more butter in the fridge, that’s it. You can’t get more.”

“But what if we need more?” Lori inquired as she wound a lock of her hair around one of her fingers. “What if someone takes our portion?”

“Too bad for you,” Adam told her.

Lori turned to Sam. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

Sam grinned. “Think of it as a test of your improvisational abilities.”

Mike pointed to himself. “Improv. My favorite thing to do,” he announced.

Nell snorted.

Mike turned to Nell. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“I’m just remembering the Franklin wedding when the icing melted because it was so hot and you used Betty Crocker,” Nell told him.

“No one could tell the difference,” Mike protested.

“They most certainly could,” Nell told him. “Lulu told me all about it. I heard they didn’t want to pay you.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He was about to reply, but before he could, Sam clapped his hands together again.

“Children,” he said, “settle down.” When everyone had, he continued with his advice. “As I was saying, make sure you take what you need on your first pass, because it might not be there when you come back.”

“Good to know,” Bernie said, making a mental note to take a few extra eggs—just in case. She and Libby were making a cheese soufflé, topped with a mushroom-and-sherry sauce.

“And don’t forget to take the humidity and heat into account,” Sam went on. “They can affect the way ingredients react. Flour absorbs moisture.”

“What about the technical challenge?” Libby inquired.

Sam cleared his throat before replying. “I’m glad you asked. We’re doing that tomorrow. We will be giving you the ingredients for a surprise dish that you will be expected to re-create.”

Nell groaned. “And the recipe for it?”

“You’ll be given a general outline,” Sam told her. “The rest is up to you.” He rubbed his hands together, then moved the ring on his forefinger up and down. “Today, because this is the first time you’re doing this, we’re holding off on the camera crew, but they will be in full attendance tomorrow.”

“And remember, people,” Ellen chimed in, “time is not your friend. Factor it into your calculations.” She smiled, exposing the small gap in her front teeth. “I know you can do this.”

“Appearance is also important,” Doug added. He resettled the baseball cap he was wearing. “We expect your creations to be as wonderful to look at as they are delicious to eat.”

Sam looked around. “Any questions?”

No one said anything.

“None?” he asked again.

“Not from me,” Adam said.

Sam nodded. “Oh. One last thing. In case my two judges can’t agree, I will render the final opinion.”

Ellen stepped forward. “Are we all ready?” Everyone nodded. “Fine. Then let’s do this.” And she lifted the whistle that was hanging on a lanyard around her neck and brought it up to her lips. The contestants assumed a running position. Then she said, “Bakers, on your mark, get set, go,” and blew the whistle.

The contestants took off.

“You get the eggs and the butter and cheese, and I’ll get the wild mushrooms, chives, onion, and sherry,” Libby told Bernie while they ran for the pantry and the refrigerator.

“Will do,” Bernie said as she made for the pale blue vintage-style fridge. I love this thing, she thought as she grabbed a carton with a dozen eggs. She was just reaching for a wedge of Swiss cheese, when Nell slammed into her.

“Watch where you’re going,” Nell snapped.

“Watch where I’m going? How about you watch where you’re going,” Bernie squawked. “You ran into me.”

“Did I?” Nell said as she grabbed the wedge of cheese Bernie had been reaching for. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, I was going to take that,” Bernie protested. There was no more Swiss left.

Nell shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t help it if you’re slow,” she told her. “I guess you’ll just have to make do with the Romano. Maybe you’d be faster if you weren’t wearing those heels of yours.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Bernie asked, looking down at her four-inch stilettos. Nell didn’t answer; Mike did, instead.

“I like your shoes,” he observed as Bernie took the wedge of Romano and stuffed it into her apron pocket, before grabbing a pound of salted butter sitting on the second shelf.

Bernie thanked him and closed the refrigerator door. Then she scurried off to her and Libby’s workstation.

“Where’s the Swiss?” Libby asked Bernie as she put the butter, eggs, and cheese down on the table.

“Nell took it,” Bernie told her. “We get the Romano.” She rubbed her side where Nell had bumped into her. Somehow she’d never thought of cooking as a contact sport. Then she went over to the nearest oven, set the temperature to four hundred degrees, and turned the oven on. Afterward, she went back to her workstation and began looking for a quart soufflé dish, a whisk, and a copper bowl in the cabinet next to the prep table.

Hopefully, they would have those—they should. They were pretty basic, but one never knew. If they didn’t, she’d have to change her battle plan. Of course, she could use the electric mixer on the table, but using a copper bowl and a balloon whisk ensured a fluffier, lighter soufflé, especially since the eggs weren’t room temperature. Plus, if she didn’t use a copper bowl, she would need to use cream of tartar to stabilize the egg whites, and she hadn’t seen any in the pantry.

“Yes,” she crowed a moment later when she found a soufflé dish, a copper bowl, a whisk, and a grater, then laid them on the table.

“So, I take it, you’re doing the soufflé and I’m doing the sauce?” Libby asked her sister as she started cleaning mushrooms and separating the stems and the caps.

“If that’s okay with you,” Bernie said, reaching for the butter. She cut off a tablespoon’s worth from the pound she’d gotten from the fridge and began smearing it all over the bottom and sides of the dish. Then she took a half cup of the unflavored breadcrumbs she’d found in the pantry and sprinkled them over the butter, after which she turned the dish upside down and tapped the bottom. Then she turned the dish right side up and inspected the inside. The inside surface was now evenly coated. That would ensure the soufflé would come out easily, as well as give it a little extra flavor and texture.

“I haven’t had one of these in a while,” Bernie noted as she put the prepared dish off to the side.

“Not since Dad’s birthday,” Libby said.

“And that was chocolate,” Bernie said.

“God, was that good,” Libby reminisced. She could still taste it. Sweet, with a tiny bite from the pinch of red pepper.

“Indeed, it was,” Bernie agreed as she reached over, took a stick of butter, put it in a small saucepan, and turned the stovetop burner on to low. It wouldn’t do to have the butter burn, she thought. Then she’d have to start all over and there wasn’t time for that. Here every minute counted. She was about to begin measuring out the flour for the béchamel sauce when she noticed that Libby had stopped chopping mushrooms and was staring at one. She had a this-isn’t-good expression on her face.

“What’s going on?” Bernie asked her sister.

Libby pointed. “This mushroom.”

“What about it?” Bernie asked, puzzled. “It looks perfectly fine to me.”

“I think it may be a destroying angel,” Libby told her.

Bernie laughed. “Funny thing, it doesn’t look like a destroying angel to me. Where’s her flaming sword?”

“I’m talking about the mushroom, Bernie,” Libby said.

“Oh.” Bernie raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were telling me the zombie apocalypse had arrived.”

“Ha. Ha. This is serious,” Libby told her, holding up the mushroom.

“The mushroom’s name is serious?” Bernie asked. “Is serious a new species?”

Libby ignored her and continued with what she’d been saying. “Or it could be a death cap. They’re in the same family.”

“What family?”

“The killing-people family.”

“I knew you shouldn’t watch those foraging videos on TikTok,” Bernie told her sister as she walked over to where Libby was standing and took a better look at the mushroom in question. “Are you sure?” she asked her sister. The thing Libby was pointing to looked like a regular mushroom to her. “It looks okay to me.”

“Of course, I’m not sure,” Libby snapped. “If I were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Bernie sighed. “Where did you get it from, Libby?”

“Obviously, the paper bag marked mushrooms, Bernie.” Libby grimaced. “Its stem is too long.”

Bernie managed not to roll her eyes. “The stems on the mushrooms look the same to me. You know, we don’t have time for this.”

“For checking? Would you rather be dead?” Libby asked her.

This time, Bernie did roll her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.” Libby held up the stem of the alleged destroying angel and the stems of two other mushrooms, then laid them side by side. “See the difference?”

“No, not really, Libby,” Bernie answered.

“There’s a quarter of an inch difference, Bernie. I measured them.”

“Even if what you’re saying about the height difference is true . . .” Bernie began.

“It is,” Libby told her.

Bernie tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear. “What you’re saying seems unlikely.”

“It’s not that unlikely,” Libby replied. “People make mistakes identifying mushrooms when they’re foraging all the time. I looked it up on Google,” Libby said, and she waved her phone in front of her sister’s face. “See, the pictures look the same.” She pointed to the mushroom on the table.

“Well, if Google says it, then it must be true,” Bernie remarked.

“Take a look,” Libby demanded.

Bernie sighed, took Libby’s phone, and studied the picture on the screen. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “These two do look similar,” she conceded. Then she pointed to three other mushroom pictures. “But so do these.” And she handed Libby’s phone back to her.

“Okay. I could be wrong,” Libby allowed, “but if I’m right and we poison the judges . . .”

“. . . that would be bad,” Bernie said, finishing her sister’s sentence for her.

“What are you planning to poison them with?” Adam asked. “Cyanide? Atropine?”

Bernie and Libby jumped. Neither one had heard him coming up behind them.

“That,” Libby said, pointing to the offending item.

“A mushroom?” Adam asked.

Libby nodded.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked. “It looks okay to me.”

“That’s what I said, too,” Bernie told him.

“Hence, the problem,” Libby said as she took out her phone again and showed him the pictures she’d found on Google. Then she said, “I’m calling Sam.”

“You should ask Lori before you do,” Adam suggested. “She’s the one that picked them. She used to teach a course over at Monroe Community College on foraging, with an emphasis on fungi,” he added. “Check with her.”

“Check with me about what?” Lori called over from her workstation, having heard her name from across the room.

Libby held up the mushroom. “About this.”

Lori put down the bowl with the eggs she’d been whipping, wiped her hands on the tea towel slung over her shoulder, and walked over. “Why?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”

“I think this might be a destroying angel,” Libby replied.

Lori laughed. “The thing you have in your hand is just a look-alike.”

“Are you sure?” Libby demanded.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Lori told her, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks. “Do you think I’d make a mistake like that?”

Libby opened her mouth to answer, but Sam walked into the tent before she could.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking around. “Why aren’t you guys cooking?”

Lori pointed at Libby. “She thinks I’m trying to kill her.” Then she explained why.

“I didn’t say that,” Libby protested.

“You implied it,” Lori countered.

“I most certainly did not!” Libby cried. She pointed to the mushroom in question. “I just wanted to make sure this was safe to eat. I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”

Lori put her hands on her hips. “I’m not.”

“You’re acting like you are,” Bernie pointed out.

Lori turned and faced her. “Listen, I’ve been doing this forever and I haven’t made a mistake yet. Did you know that specific mushrooms grow around specific trees?”

“Like truffles and oak trees,” Bernie said.

Lori nodded her head in agreement. “Exactly. Although it isn’t only oak trees, it’s oak tree roots, too.”

“What’s the difference?” Adam asked.

“None really.” And Lori explained. “After a tree dies, the tree’s roots remain in the ground for a long time.” Lori flicked a piece of pasta off her shirt. “So even if you don’t see the tree, the roots might still be there, hence truffles. Which is why people use dogs and pigs to hunt them. They’re not always visible. Sometimes, lots of times, you have to dig them out.”

“What does that have to do with what they were talking about?” Mike asked.

Lori put her hands on her hips and leaned toward Mike. “If you had paid attention, you would realize that I was merely trying to point out that you can identify mushrooms by where and how they grow. A destroying angel is usually taller than most of the other mushrooms growing around here—”

Libby interrupted. “That’s what I just said.”

Lori turned toward her. “True, but you have to factor in the location as well, something you didn’t say.”

Libby opened her mouth to speak, but before she could reply, Nell did.

“So, partner of mine, is this or isn’t this the angel of vengeance?” Nell asked Lori.

Lori corrected her. “Destroying angel.”

Nell waved her hand impatiently. “Whatever.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” Lori said. Then she went over to Libby and Bernie’s workstation, gathered up the mushrooms, and threw them in the garbage. “There,” she said, “now you don’t have to worry.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Libby told her, thinking about how the sherry sauce was going to taste without the mushrooms.

“Yes, I did,” Lori said. “I always tell my class, ‘When in doubt, throw it out.’”

“If I didn’t know better, Lori, I’d think you wanted to sabotage our dish,” Bernie said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“How can you say that?” Lori said. “I’m just trying to make sure everyone is okay. Your sister wasn’t comfortable and now she is.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing how such a little thing can cause so much damage to a living organism. There’s no known antidote for eating one of those mushrooms, you know. Your organs start shutting down, one by one, and then you’re done.”

“I know,” Libby said.

Sam looked from Libby to Lori and back again. “So, are we all right here?” he asked.

“I guess,” Libby muttered as Doug appeared. The judge was holding a cup of coffee. “Sorry, I missed all the commotion. What’s going on?”

Sam explained.

“Well, it would have made great publicity,” Doug said. “I can see the headlines now: Destroying Angel Strikes Again. The tabloids would love it.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Mike countered.

Sam laughed. “But true.”

Nell shook her head in disbelief. “You guys have sick minds.”

Adam raised both hands in the air. “Hey, we’re just saying it like it is. Death always brings the ratings up.”

Lori grimaced. “And speaking of death, Mike, I suppose you’re going to throw your mushrooms out, too.”

Mike startled. “I wasn’t going to. Should I?”

“So, you don’t think I’m trying to kill you, too?” Lori asked him.

Mike smiled. “You would have done it a long time ago, if you’d wanted.”

“Hey, I never said that,” Libby protested again.

“You implied it,” Lori said, repeating her last comment.

Libby took a deep breath and counted to ten before replying, “No I didn’t.”

“Then what would you call it?” Lori demanded.

Sam put his hand up before Libby could answer. “Let’s stop bickering and get back to cooking,” he said, looking from Libby to Lori and back again.

“Fine,” Lori said. She was turning to go back to her station when there was a loud boom.

“What the hell was that?” Bernie cried out.

Libby pointed to the oven Mike and Adam had been using. The glass in the door had exploded. Everyone stared at it.

“Holy crap,” Bernie said.

Mike swallowed. “You can say that again.” He bit his li. . .