A High Tide Murder

Book 2: Cannabis Café Mystery

by Emily George

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The newest installment in the Cannabis Café cozy mystery series featuring twenty-eight-year-old, classically trained pastry chef Chloe Barnes—sure to appeal to millennial readers as well as lovers of classic cozy mysteries!

What a long, strange trip it’s been for Chloe. After her dream of becoming a Parisian pastry chef—and a wife—crashed and burned, she returned home to the seaside town of Azalea Bay, California and opened a cannabis café. Despite some residents’ misgivings about how such a business may affect the community’s reputation, Baked by Chloe has become a popular destination for tourists and locals alike. Nothing mellows out people like sweet edibles and frothy drinks with a dash of CBD.
 
But when it comes to surfers, the only high they want to ride is on a wave. The annual summer Azalea Bay Pro Challenger Surf Competition is underway, and fan favorite Aaron Gill is treading water. Plagued by professional and personal pressures, he finds himself no longer a top contender, and everyone is saddened when he takes his own life.
 
But his best friend Ethan Wilson knows that despite Aaron’s difficulties, suicide was not on his mind, and he begs Chloe to investigate. Against her better judgment, Chloe dives in and discovers Aaron was surrounded by people motivated enough to help him wipe out—permanently . . .
 
[Cannabis and CBD-infused Recipes Included (always consume responsibly)!]
 
Praise for A Half-Baked Murder

“This fun and fact-filled thematic entry into the cozy mystery genre has it all: a twisty murder investigation, a charming small town, a potential romance with the single guy next door, and recipes. . . Highly recommended.” —Library Journal, Starred Review

“[A] richly drawn mystery. . .George has laid the foundation for a series that feels fresh, young, and full of surprises.” —First Clue, Starred Review

Release date: February 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

I never thought I would say this, but I really relate to the scene in The Little Mermaid where Ariel washes up on the shore, with her shiny newfangled human legs, and is all, How the heck did I end up here? This is rad.

I get it. One day you’re living your normal life, going to work, thinking your fiancé is the best thing since sliced brioche, and then one thing leads to another and . . . boom! You’re single and running a weed café. Oh, and you get a write-up in the local paper because you solved a homicide and now people are calling you Murder She Baked.

But maybe that’s just me.

Isn’t life wild?

That question circled in my head all day long as I stood behind the counter of my very own business, Baked by Chloe, on the first day of opening. My baked goods had been selling out quicker than I could restock the shelves, and now I was serving my last macaron with weed-infused buttercream. With less than three minutes to closing, there were customers lingering at the tables my aunt and I had lovingly sourced from charity shops up and down the coast for the perfect Parisian café meets whimsical cottagecore aesthetic.

“Chloe, this has been marvelous.” Local real estate agent extraordinaire, Diane, sat at the corner table with her twin sister, Lucinda. Both women had a shock of frizzy brown hair and a knack for colorful style, with Diane wearing a bold magenta pantsuit and Lucinda wearing a sunflower-yellow dress with gold buttons down the front. “I knew from the moment your aunt mentioned the cannabis café that it would be a hit. You don’t seem to have stopped all day.”

“I don’t think we have,” I admitted, pushing a few loose strands of my blond hair away from my sweaty forehead. It was one thing to be in the kitchen baking all shift, but quite another to juggle that and serving customers. “It’s been . . .”

I couldn’t help the giant grin that spread over my face, nor the surge of satisfaction that flowed through my veins when I thought about how opening day had gone. Customer after customer had praised my baking. Some were completely new to edibles while others had tried the more traditional style gummies or basic cookie bites. A few had even attempted baking with weed at home, but none had made anything as luxurious as my Valrhona chocolate and gold-leaf brownies, which were made with a specially sourced strain of cannabis that had a naturally fruity flavor. All the while, I’d been working to educate my customers about safe and responsible consumption, as well as helping to destigmatize cannabis use.

There was nothing like adding pastry and chocolate to make something mass appealing.

“It’s been a wild ride,” I finished with a laugh.

“And we couldn’t be prouder.” Aunt Dawn came up beside me and slipped an arm around my shoulders, her patchouli rose perfume dancing in my nostrils and her wild dark purple curls tickling my cheek. “Baked by Chloe has started with a bang.”

“I, for one, am feeling very mellow,” Lucinda chimed in with an easy smile. She was slouched back into her chair, her eyes drooping a little. “You know, this is exactly what I needed. With all the stress of moving house and my daughter going off to college and my husband suddenly losing his job . . . I don’t think I’ve taken a moment to relax in weeks.”

I pressed a hand to my chest. “That is a lot to deal with.”

“She’s barely been sleeping.” Diane looked at her twin with a furrowed brow. “So I knew I needed to bring her here today, no matter how long we had to queue for a table.”

“I’m glad the CBD chai latte helped.” I clasped my hands together. “It’s been my personal go-to in managing the stress of getting the café ready to open.”

Lucinda had a dreamy look on her face. “My tension headache is finally gone.”

This was exactly what I’d hoped to achieve with Baked by Chloe—helping people to take a moment out of the humdrum and stress of the everyday, and give them a joyful chillout experience. Food and flavor had always been my passion and my own personal escape. Now, I could share that with the people in Azalea Bay.

I was quickly drawn to another table of customers, who wanted a moment to tell me how much they enjoyed the café and my creations. Pastel-pink and pistachio-green crumbs littered one plate, the only remnants of the macarons that remained. A pink-and-white–striped bag was filled with the goodies they purchased to take home.

Over the next few minutes I bid everyone goodbye, and when the last customer left, I flicked the lock on the front door and sagged back against it. I’d officially survived day one of being a business owner. Looking over the space—taking in the soft pink wallpapered room and painted white furniture, the vintage chandelier and the Parisian-themed art, including a beautiful watercolor painting of the Arc de Triomphe—I almost couldn’t believe I’d done it.

Well, we had done it.

Aunt Dawn was my business partner in crime and she had worked every bit as hard as I had to make today a success. And what a success it was!

A bubble of excitement rose up and I pressed my hand over my mouth to trap a giddy laugh inside. Mere months ago, I’d arrived back in my hometown with my tail between my legs. Heartbroken, humiliated and stressed, I’d abandoned my career as a pastry chef with dreams of Michelin stardom and left my cheating fiancé in Paris where he belonged. I’d come home to care for my beloved Grandma Rose after she’d received a devastating breast cancer diagnosis. In that moment, I truly thought my life was falling apart.

But sometimes things needed to break so that one could see which pieces were worth keeping.

Starting afresh wasn’t easy—I’d given up so much. All the training I’d hoped would make me a world-famous head pastry chef at a fine-dining restaurant felt like it had gone to waste. The happily ever after I’d hoped for as a Disney-obsessed little girl was nothing but a sham. And a renowned food critic had shredded my work in a very public and humiliating way, calling it “amateurish” and “a bitter disappointment better suited to a supermarket bakery than a five-star restaurant.” There were days where I wondered if I should get “failure” tattooed on my forehead. Not to mention, worrying about my grandmother twenty-four seven had taken its toll.

Yet here I was—still standing, still striving, still trying.

My troubles hadn’t beaten me down. I’d pivoted. Taken a new path. Chosen to support my family by fighting for a new dream instead of clinging to old ones that didn’t suit my life anymore.

And that made me feel pretty damn proud.

“Aunt Dawn?”

The shop front was empty and all the tables had been cleared of plates and cups. She was excited to get her hands dirty as much as I was, and we’d already put together a rotating schedule for the closing procedure. Tonight was her night.

But I was too wound up and excited to go home just yet.

I glanced at the empty pastry cabinet which had been filled with all manner of cannabis-infused treats that morning—everything from handmade chocolate truffles, to my “everything but the kitchen sink” cookies, buttery cheese and herb scones, macarons in every color of the rainbow, and, of course, three different types of brownies.

Rule number one of weed baking: you can never have enough brownies.

All that remained in the cabinet were some crumb-scattered plates and my handwritten signs. By the cash register, there were several pamphlets about how to consume cannabis safely, a dosage suggestion guide, and information on effects and benefits that my customers might find useful, including the differences between THC and CBD. Not only was I passionate about creating the best treats possible, but I was also passionate about education.

I realized that Aunt Dawn hadn’t responded when I’d called out and a flash of worry went through me. Recently, things had gotten a little tense in the usually calm and serene Californian seaside town of Azalea Bay. A murder had shocked us all and worse, my aunt had been the number one suspect! In the pursuit of trying to clear her name, I’d thrown myself into the path of the killer, who’d snuck into my shop and attacked me.

Murder investigation was not for the faint of heart or the soft of head, let me tell you. And, if I was being honest, there were moments now when I jumped extra high if I heard a noise in the shop while I was working.

I let out a breath. The killer was in custody and I had no need to worry. Azalea Bay was still the same charming little town I’d loved since I was a child, and the murder was thankfully behind us. It was probably one of those freak things that would only happen once in a lifetime in a place like this.

At least, that’s what I hoped.

“Aunt Dawn?” I called out again and headed behind the counter so I could get into the back of the shop, where the kitchen and storeroom were housed. “Where are—”

“Surprise!”

I almost leaped out of my skin at the sound of more than half a dozen people crammed into the kitchen shouting at the top of their lungs. The cry was punctuated by popping—both of a champagne cork and some of those things that shoot curly colored streamers into the air. With my heart almost thumping its way out of my chest, I let out a breathless laugh and shook my head at the group standing in front of me: my closest family and friends.

Grandma Rose was there, wearing her signature pink from head to toe, including a silk scarf over her thinning hair. My best friend, Sabrina, was pouring champagne into plastic flutes lined up on my preparation table. My grandmother’s closest friends, Ida, Luisa, and Betty, also known as my “other grandmas,” were standing there, all smiles. Plus my newfound friends from the local Dungeons and Dragons group—Sabrina’s boyfriend, Cal Kallis; Ben Wong and Matt Wilson, the most adorable couple ever; Archie Schwartz, the moral compass of the group; and the pint-sized, pixie-faced Erica Simms—were all covered in curly streamers from the poppers they’d set off.

There was also one person standing to the side. My next-door neighbor, Jake. I wasn’t sure quite how to classify him. Friend? Crush? Something more? We’d left things on uncertain terms recently, after he came clean about lying to me. But he’d also possibly saved Grandma Rose and me from a killer . . .

If I still regularly used Facebook, our relationship status would absolutely be “it’s complicated.”

“We wanted to get everyone together to celebrate your first day,” Grandma Rose said. She shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around me in a big hug, planting a pink lipstick kiss on my cheek. I was so happy I didn’t bother to wipe it away. “We’re so proud of you, my dear. Both of you.”

“Let’s toast.” Aunt Dawn passed around the champagne flutes with Sabrina’s help, and everyone raised their glasses into the air. “Wishing Baked by Chloe many years of happy baking. May our success grow like weeds.”

“Hear, hear!” The group cheered and laughed.

“Very funny,” I said, giggling before I took a sip of my drink. Being surrounded by all these wonderful and supportive people was truly more than I could have hoped for when I came home to Azalea Bay. “But in all seriousness, keep the puns coming. I love it.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen this town quite so excited about a new business in a long time.” Betty, who seemed to exist in a permanent cloud of Chanel No. 5, came over for a hug. Her coiffed silver hair was perfectly in place, as always. “You had a line down the block!”

“I’d say it was almost down two blocks,” Ida chimed in, her natural black hair and dark skin complemented by a vibrant red and yellow handknit shawl draped around her shoulders.

I’m sure some of the people who’d lined up were only there out of curiosity—after all, our little town wasn’t exactly the kind of place people had expected to be home to a cannabis café. There were some people strongly opposed to the idea, in fact. People who thought that I was going to bring the town into disrepute or be a bad influence on our younger residents. I’d even had a few nasty emails through the contact form on my website once it went live, people anonymously yelling at me because they didn’t agree with legalization and who thought I was nothing more than a lowlife drug dealer.

Those emails had stung, of course, and I’d taken great pleasure in hitting the delete button.

Their ire was misplaced. I’d seen firsthand how cannabis had helped my grandmother battle the nausea from her chemo treatments and sleeplessness from the stress of being ill. I’d developed relationships with local cannabis farmers who’d told me all about their own reasons for getting into the industry, including one woman who’d suffered severe seizures after a head injury sustained in a car accident and another who’d been able to support his family after needing to quit his office job to take care of his little boy who had a disability.

And if I could help people in this town to be less judgmental about those who used cannabis, whatever their reason, then I would be happy. As I always said, the way to a person’s heart was through their stomach and I specialized in happy stomachs!

“You’ve done such a fabulous job with the decorating.” Ben Wong took a sip of his champagne and smiled up at his boyfriend, Matt Wilson, who slipped an arm around his shoulders. “We were just saying the whole cozy Parisian vibe is chef’s kiss. So classy.”

“Too right,” Matt said, his Aussie accent loud and clear. “You’ve done a bang-up job.”

“Thanks, guys.” I grinned. “We really took our time selecting every piece with care.”

“Did we ever.” Aunt Dawn snorted. “I swear I drove back and forth between the same three antique stores to decide on the hutch for all the gift items.”

We’d come up with the idea to have a section of the store feature cannabis-themed gift products from local artisans, including some gorgeous hand-poured CBD candles, greeting cards on luxury cardstock featuring vintage botanical-style paintings of cannabis leaves and seeds, and even some stunning silver necklaces with a pendant fashioned to look like the molecular structure of THC. Chic, but subtle.

And, of course, I’d wanted the perfect place to display all these amazing items.

“It was worth the effort, right? That cabinet looks incredible.” We’d sanded it back and painted it white, using a dry brush technique to allow some of the wood to still peek through. Then we’d changed out the handles on the drawers for cute porcelain vintage knobs and lined the shelves and drawers with pink and white paper.

“It looks really amazing, Chloe. I knew you’d create something special.” Jake raised his glass and I flushed from the praise. I caught Grandma Rose nudging Aunt Dawn in the ribs and grinning.

“I sold at least four of the candles today and one necklace,” I said proudly. “I think the gift items are going to be popular.”

“Oh, did you say candles?” Sabrina’s eyes widened. “Put me down for one of those. I love candles!”

She came up beside me and hooked her arm into mine, squeezing me as I answered questions and shared my plans and generally basked in the spotlight and love from those closest to me. The champagne tasted even sweeter knowing I was sharing it with people who had my back and who wanted me to succeed.

Despite the winding and rocky path that had led me to this moment, I couldn’t imagine turning back now. I was at home in Azalea Bay and with every day that passed, I set more roots down, and created more bonds and friendships than I’d ever known possible.

It was probably the reason that I never saw disaster lurking right around the corner.

One week later . . .

Remember that thing I said about my hometown being “peaceful” and “calm” and “serene” and all that jazz? Yeah. Well, there’s one time of year where none of that applies and Azalea Bay essentially turns into a theme park, with business owners scrambling to capitalize on the influx of tourists and many locals getting the heck out of Dodge.

This is known as: surfing season.

Or, more specifically, the period of time when a pro surfing competition descended on our tiny town, packing the streets and every single café and restaurant with shell-necklace-wearing, shaggy-and-sun-bleached-haired folks who smelled like surfboard wax and ocean salt.

Love it or hate it—and there were definitely people on both sides—the Azalea Bay Pro Challenger Surf Competition was a mainstay for local businesses. It had gone through several names over the years, changing sponsors and branding, but for as long as I could remember, when it came to town our population swelled in size until it felt like a throbbing mass that was both terrifying and exhilarating. I never learned much about surfing myself, despite having lived with a glorious beach on my doorstep since I was a baby. But I enjoyed watching the people glide across the water like they were flying.

This year, however, I went from being a mere observer of the surf competition to being one of those local businesses hoping to fill seats and make myself a nice financial cushion that would last through the down season later in the year. So far, so good.

“That’s six THC-infused macarons in total—two passionfruit and chocolate, two strawberry and basil, and two lavender,” I confirmed with my customer as I showed him the colorful lineup nestled in a pink-and-white–striped box. “Plus one cheese and herb cannabutter scone, and a slice of ‘extra special’ brownie.”

“Right on.” The guy in front of me nodded as he tapped his credit card to my point-of-sale unit. He had thick chestnut-brown hair that hung down past his shoulders and deeply tanned skin which featured several tattoos on his right arm, including an image of a sun setting over a large wave. “I never thought I’d find a place like this in such a small town.”

I grinned. “You’re here for the surfing competition, I take it.”

“Yeah, me and my bro are hoping to make it to the Challenger level next year. I’m here supporting a friend who’s competing.”

“Make sure you tell your friends to pop in while they’re here.” I bagged his items and handed them to him over the counter. “And good luck to your friend.”

“Thanks.” The guy motioned with a friendly wave and headed toward the door.

As I glanced around the café, every table was full and yet I didn’t recognize a single face. It was Tuesday, which normally would be one of our closed days (my “weekends” were going to be Monday and Tuesday), but we’d decided to open every day this week to capitalize on the extra business of people being in town for the surf competition and to get some momentum for Baked by Chloe in these early days. Being busy enough to turn people away would mean a more sustained interest over the summer.

Although Aunt Dawn had insisted that we hire a part-time server to help out, which I agreed was a good idea. Luckily, I knew just the right person.

“You should take your break soon,” Erica said, as she walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray of fresh cheese and herb cannabutter scones that I’d stuck into the oven earlier. Her pixie-cut blond hair was slicked back away from her face, making her large brown eyes look even bigger than normal. “It’s almost two and you haven’t had lunch.”

Hiring Erica Simms was a no-brainer. She had been looking for work after being fired from her previous job when a vengeful colleague falsely accused her of theft. Which worked out perfectly for me! Erica was brilliant with customers and was the kind of person who always went above and beyond. She was part of the Dungeons and Dragons group, and we’d become fast friends. Bringing her on to support Aunt Dawn and me had seemed like a natural progression.

“You’re right. My stomach has been growling for the last forty-five minutes,” I admitted. “I might duck out and grab a sandwich from Casa Italiano’s.”

Really, I could easily make something for myself out in the kitchen. But I’d been baking up a storm from the wee hours this morning and I was starting to feel like a battery about to run out of charge. I needed fuel, stat.

“I grabbed some paninis on the way in,” Erica replied with a smile. “There’s a prosciutto and brie one with arugula that’s still wrapped up. I thought you might like that flavor.”

My shoulders sagged in relief. “You’re a godsend.”

“I stuck a few bottles of water into the fridge as well, so you can grab one of those if you need it.” She smiled. “Gotta stay hydrated in this weather!”

I wanted to hug her, but instead I headed right out the back, suddenly ravenous now that I’d stopped. I grabbed the sandwich and a bottle of water, and headed outside into the balmy, early-summer air. My café wasn’t on the main strip—the rent of those spots was a little too steep for my budget—but we were situated right off the main street, and still got loads of foot traffic. Nearby was a small patch of green space, with a few benches dotted around the base of a big cypress tree.

I dropped down onto one of the empty benches and sucked in a whiff of tangy ocean air mixed with the fresh, slightly resinous and sweetly balsamic scent of the many cypress trees around our town. Lord, how I’d missed that smell when I lived in Paris for five years. As great as it had been living in such a cool city—everything they say about Paris is true, the people are all effortlessly stylish and the food is amazing—there was nothing like the comforting smell of home.

Feeling content, I bit into my panini and chewed. The bread had a great texture, and the prosciutto was perfectly salty and chewy, which paired excellently with the rich, creamy cheese and slightly bitter taste of fresh arugula. As I sat there, enjoying the lunch Erica had kindly bought me, the sun beat down on the top of my head, melting my bones and softening my muscles. If I wasn’t careful, I would drift off for a nap. Given that I’d taken a few months off work when I returned to America while setting up the business, the super-early starts would take some getting used to.

I’d forgotten how hard it was getting up well before dawn.

“Chloe!”

My head snapped up at the sound of my name. Walking toward me were Matt and another man, who looked like he was in his early twenties. They both waved and I returned the gesture, sitting up a little straighter as they approached.

“G’day.” Matt grinned. “You having a lunch break?”

“Sure am.” I took another bite of my panini. “Want to join?”

“Love to. This is my brother, Ethan.” Matt gestured to the younger guy, whose grin mirrored his own.

“I can see the resemblance.” I shuffled along the bench to make space for them and they both sat. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Ethan replied.

Matt had told me previously that he and his brother had different dads and were about ten years apart in age, but the half brothers still shared a number of traits. Both were tall and lanky, with sandy hair and freckles scattered across their noses, and had stunning green eyes. While Matt’s features were a little sharper, like his square jaw and aquiline nose for example, Ethan had slightly softer features and a rounder face. Both men, however, had impish smiles and I expected they probably had well-matched cheeky senses of humor.

“You’re a surfer, right? Matt told me you’re quite the pro.”

“On my way to being one.” Ethan nodded. “The Qualifying Series is a really big deal, because that’s how they determine who makes it up to the Challenger Series, which is the step before you make it to the Championship Tour.”

“Aka, the Kelly Slater level,” Matt quipped.

“Don’t even joke about comparing any of us to the king,” Ethan replied. “I’m not realistically in the running for one of the top spots this year, I don’t think. There are a couple guys really duking it out. But it’s great experience and it should put me in good shape to attack next year when I’ve got another year under my belt.”

I listened to Ethan speak with curiosity. He had quite an unusual accent, as though it was a mix of Australian and American sounds. Some soft R’s, while others were hard. A little bit of an upward lilt at the end o. . .