A Murder Yule Regret: A Bread Shop Mystery, Book 7

Book 7: Bread Shop Mystery

by Winnie Archer

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A holiday costume party in the sleepy coastal town of Santa Sofia could be just the boost Ivy needs for her fledgling photography business. At the party, Ivy enters a Victorian fantasy come to life, all courtesy of the fabulous Ms. Eliza Fox. Ivy gets to play shutterbug while hanging with Scrooge, Marley, the Cratchits, and other classic Dickens characters. 

But what begins as the best of times turns out to be the very worst for one of the party guests - a tabloid journalist with more enemies than Ebenezer himself. When the man’s body is found sprawled across the jagged rocks below the house, the fingers begin pointing at Eliza. Meanwhile, Ivy gets roped into helping prove the starlet’s innocence. Her festive photos are now official evidence - and the Ghosts of Christmas Present could mean the party for Eliza is over, once and for all.

 

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Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Dreamscape Media, LLC

Sample

Chapter 1

Christmas on the California coast isn’t a picturesque greeting card of a snowy scene. Knitted hats and gloves are optional. But our old-fashioned street posts are adorned with wreathes and red ribbons, we have a night dedicated to wassail, and Christmas spirit abounds in storefront windows and holiday parties.

It was present in my Tudor house in the historic district of Santa Sofia, too. Just a little bit, but it was there. I’d just settled down for a long winter’s night, a mug of steaming tea cupped between my hands, when my phone rang. Olaya Solis’s name flashed on the screen. She was the owner of Yeast of Eden, the artisan bread shop in Santa Sofia, my boss, and a woman I admired. She had become my mentor about a minute after I’d first met her. I glanced at the clock—just after nine, which meant it was her bedtime, not chat on the phone time. Something was up.

“We must make bread for a holiday party,” she announced after I greeted her with a surprised, “Hello?”

“What party?” I asked.

“It is for tomorrow evening.”

I was curled up on the couch, wearing red-and-black-plaid pajama pants and a red Henley. Agatha, my little tan and black pug, lay on her side on the couch beside me. She extended her front legs in a long stretch and emitted a squeak. At the words tomorrow evening, I sat up from my reclined position. “That’s pretty last-minute.”

Less than twenty-four hours’ notice for a party wasn’t something Olaya would normally book. She required at least forty-eight hours to plan an event, and even that was cutting it too close for her comfort. Olaya Solis was a planner. She liked to have all her Is dotted and her Ts crossed.

“It is,” Olaya agreed. I could hear how tired she was, so why was she breaking her own rule? Before I could ask her, she said, “It is a high-profile client. I could not say no.”

But that wasn’t strictly true. Santa Sofia was a touristy coastal destination, even in winter. Business was booming, and while holiday parties during December were the bread and butter, so to speak, of most of the town’s businesses, the earnings for the month offsetting any slow months during the town’s off-season, that didn’t really apply to Yeast of Eden. Stories of the bread’s magical properties brought people from far and wide—all year long—to the bread shop. The bread shop was a destination, with people desperate to partake of Olaya’s particular loaves and rolls. If they had heartache, the pain lessened. If they sought true passion, they discovered it. If they were lonely, that feeling abated. That kind of magic didn’t depend on sunny beach weather. The fact of the matter was, Yeast of Eden didn’t really havean off-season.

“Are you sure?” I asked, glancing at the wall clock again. “Tomorrow evening is . . . well, tomorrow. That’s not a lot of time.”

“I am sure, Ivy,” she said. “Pero I do need your help.”

Her Spanish accent always thickened when she was tired or stressed. At the moment, she was both. “Of course,” I said, wanting to alleviate her anxiety. “What do you need?”

“Felix and I, we will be here at three thirty.”

I couldn’t help flinching. She meant three thirty a.m. She’d also said here, which meant she hadn’t actually left the bread shop for the day. And she’d be turning around and going right back in a little more than six hours. No wonder she sounded exhausted.

I worked part-time at Yeast of Eden, mostly to absorb all that Olaya had to teach me, but also for a little extra income as I grew my freelance photography business. Olaya had grown up in Mexico and had learned traditional long-rise bread techniques. When I’d first returned to my hometown, she had helped save me from the grief of losing my mother. I’d become fascinated by the breadth of her skills and the power of her baking. And I’d caught the fever. From making a proof with yeast, sugar, and water, to digging my hands into a mound of soft dough, to shaping and baking, the entire process was cathartic and healing.

Still, the early mornings were not my favorite thing about the job, and usually I didn’t have to get up before the roosters.

Felix Macron was Olaya’s right-hand man and true apprentice. He and his small crew came in at four thirty every morning, excepting Sundays and Mondays, the shop’s days off. That was bad enough, but three thirty was cringe-worthy.

“What are we baking?” I asked, trying not to let my lack of enthusiasm at the early hour creep into my voice.

She rattled off a list of four or five holiday breads, then added a few cookies. “Cookies?” I repeated when she’d finished. Olaya made chocolate croissants and the occasional sweetbread, but other than her ever-present skull cookies, she didn’t do traditional bakery items.

“The woman hosting the party is . . . mmm . . . private. She wants only a few servers at the event. The person I spoke with—the assistant—she requested cookies, so I agreed.”

Just because someone asked for cookies didn’t mean Olaya would provide them. The fact that she had agreed showed just how unusual this situation was, but I went with it. “Okay. Cookies it is.”

“And anyone involved, we all must sign a paper of some kind.”

“What kind of paper?”

“A legal paper.”

Something clicked. “Oh, like a nondisclosure agreement?”

“Precisamente,” she said. “Nondisclosure. That is what she said.”

Interesting. “Who’s hosting this party?”

“That I will tell you tomorrow, after you sign. Six thirty for you, yes?”

Inside I heaved an enormous sigh of relief at the three extra hours of sleep I’d get. “See you then,” I said, and went off to bed, all the while contemplating who this high-profile party host was.

* * *

Eighteen hours later, I stood in the festively decorated dining area of Yeast of Eden. Evergreen garlands tied with blue and silver bows hung in swaths around the windows. Delicate snowflakes hung from the ceiling. And Maggie Jewel, a part-time worker, was dressed like an elf, complete with bells on the tips of the curled toes of her green shoes. She stared at me as if I had just granted her a dying wish. “Are you serious?” she asked. “A holiday party?”

I fiddled with the settings on my camera, looked through the eyepiece, and snapped a picture of her, mouth agape. “Dead serious.”

I pressed a button to look at the image on the camera’s digital screen. Maggie had recently graduated from high school, started at the local community college, and cut her dark hair, taking it from shoulder-blade long to pixie short. She’d added a thin nose ring to her array of ear piercings, each more visible now with her boyish haircut.

She generally kept her small dragonfly tattoo on her collarbone covered, but once in a while, like now, it peeked out for the world to see.

Her hands fluttered frenetically. “But Eliza Fox is a bona-fide movie star!”

The bell on the bread shop’s door dinged, and a woman in a red sweater, a young boy in tow, came in. Maggie pulled herself together, put her fingers to her lips, and turned an imaginary key of silence, but her excited grin stayed firmly in place as she greeted the woman, then told the boy to search the display cases for a skull cookie. Olaya baked a batch of her skull-shaped sugar cookies every few days, decorating them and then hiding them like Easter Eggs amidst the loaves of bread, rolls, croissants, and other goodies on display. Kids of all ages begged their parents to come into the bread shop just to search for one. Like all of Olaya’s bread, the cookies seemed to hold a magical element, filling the children who found them with giddy joy.

“I see one!” The boy tugged on his mother’s sleeve, pointing to a crevice between two loaves of batard.

“You got it!” Maggie pulled a sheet of waxed tissue from a pop-up box and reached into the case to retrieve the cookie.

I laughed as I caught sight of the cookie she handed to the boy. Olaya had decorated it with a red Santa hat, outdoing herself—which was saying a lot. The boy was charmed. He nibbled away at the white pompom as his mother requested a Twisted Star Loaf for an upcoming party. He moved to the red hat as she added a loaf of crusty Italian to her order.

The moment mother and son left the shop, Maggie spun back around to me, bells a-jingling, and jumped right back into our conversation as if we’d never stopped. “I heard Eliza Fox bought a house here, but I didn’t think it was true. But it is? Really?”

“True?” I asked. She nodded, wide-eyed, and I said, “Apparently.”

“And Olaya’s catering the party? O.M.G. This is so exciting! She’s better at keeping secrets than Santa Claus!”

“I imagine she didn’t mention it because she just got the order last night. It’s kind of last-minute.”

Understanding clicked behind Maggie’s eyes. “So that’s why you all have been holed up in the kitchen all day. Santa’s workshop, all for Eliza Fox.”

“Yep, that’s why.”

The bell on the bread shop’s door dinged again, and a group of twentysomethings came in. “Olaya said you’re helping me set up?” I asked Maggie in a low voice before she was pulled away to help the customers.

“I didn’t know it was for Eliza Fox, but yes!”

She scurried back behind the counter, her cheeks rosy with excitement.

I had to admit, I was pretty thrilled about meeting a real-life movie star, too. Eliza Fox had risen from obscurity to become the Hollywood It Girl as part of the ensemble sitcom The Beach. When a reporter asked her why she spent so much time in our little town, she was quoted as saying, “We filmed some of The Beach last season in Santa Sofia, and I fell in love.”

I could understand her love of our magical piece of heaven. I’d moved back to stay, and Miguel Baptista, my beau, had a place on the other side of town. He’d bought his house as a major fixer-upper. After years of sweat equity and tender love and care, it was now the quaintest bungalow with a million-dollar ocean view. It didn’t surprise me that Eliza Fox had bought a place here.

I’d been afraid the early morning call time to help with the baking would leave me needing a midday nap. I’d stifled a few yawns early in the day, but even if I did need a lie down, there was no time. The baking was done, and it was getting close to go time.

“What’s with the camera?” Maggie asked after the customers left with armfuls of bread.

“I’m the official photographer for the party tonight,” I said. Eliza Fox’s assistant had asked Olaya for a recommendation when they’d talked. Olaya had mentioned me, and just like that, I was hired. My fledgling photography business wasn’t exactly booming, but it was steadily growing. Photographing Eliza Fox’s party was sure to give it a boost.

Maggie giggled and rubbed her hands together. She was going to wring as much excitement from what would probably be a star-studded Christmas fiesta as she possibly could. “So, I’ll see you there? Or, no, I’ll see you here, right?”

“Right. We’ll leave from here in”—I glanced at the wall clock—“one hour.”

“Got it,” she said, still bouncing on her toes. More customers arrived, and in minutes, a line had formed ten people deep. “Can I help?” I asked, but Maggie waved me away. She managed to put her anticipation aside and served the customers, getting them their bread and moving them out with quick efficiency.

As I passed the display case on my way back into the bread shop’s kitchen, my stomach grumbled. I grabbed a sourdough roll to tide me over. I tore off a hunk with my teeth. The crusty outside and pillowy inside instantly satisfied my hunger. All I needed was a healthy slab of butter to slather on the roll. Next time. I pushed through the swinging door between the front of the store and the kitchen and ran smack into Felix Macron. There was an oomph, and the roll flew from my hand, straight up toward the ceiling. No!

Before I could react, Felix stepped back and tracked the roll, snagging it with one nitrile-gloved hand as if he were an outfielder easily catching a fly ball.

“Dude, good thing that wasn’t your camera,” Felix said, handing the roll back to me.

He got that right, but losing the roll would have been terrible, too. “Thank you!” I took another bite and spoke through the chunk in my cheek. “It’s so good. Better than the stuff they sell at the wharf in the City.”

He looked offended as he said, “God, it had better be,” but a dimple etched into his cheek. “Ready for tonight?”

Felix’s white chef’s shirt with its three-quarter sleeves and buttons running up the right side still looked fresh and light, despite the long hours he’d put in today. His round belly and smiling eyes gave him a Pillsbury Doughboy look. He wore a perpetual grin, and you couldn’t help but smile back. The young man was a study in contrasts, his luminescent light eyes looking like pools of glassy water glowing against his rich, dark skin, his easy demeanor belying his immense baking skills. An old soul lived in Felix’s mid-twenties body.

I nodded, swallowing the bite of bread I’d taken. “As ready as I can be.”

“Have fun. And say hi to the Hollywood stars for me,” he said with a wink.

“Hey!” A young woman backhanded him on his arm.

Felix let out a belly laugh, his squinting eyes looking lovingly at his girlfriend, Janae. “Not that she’d ever look my way, but if she did? You have nothing to worry about. Eliza Fox isn’t my type.”

Janae was petite—five feet on a good day—and had sable skin that was several shades darker than Felix’s. Her brown eyes glowed with a rim of gold, and her hair was braided and piled high on her head, giving her another five inches in height, at least. She wore a chef’s shirt similar to her boyfriend’s and threaded her arm through his.

The adoration on Felix’s face made it clear that Eliza Fox, a five-eleven, blond-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned porcelain doll starlet couldn’t hold a candle to Janae.

“Get some sleep, you two,” I said. They deserved it.

“Can’t wait to hear all about it,” Janae said. “At least what you can tell us without breaking the law.”

We spent thirty minutes loading everything to go, and twenty minutes later, we left. Olaya drove to Eliza Fox’s beach house in the Yeast of Eden white van, with Maggie, no longer dressed as an elf, as her passenger. The shop’s simple logo—“Yeast of Eden” written in a classic font, “Artisan Bread Shop” in a neat cursive just beneath it, framed in an oval—adorned both sides of the vehicle. I followed them in my white Fiat crossover.

A short while later, we arrived at what was less of a beach house and more of an oceanfront mansion. Olaya stopped briefly at the open-gated entrance before proceeding through it and down the driveway. We parked on the left side of the house, out of the way to allow plenty of room for the guest’s cars.

I couldn’t help the nervous pounding of my heart. Ever since I’d been a child, I’d had occasional celebrity sightings in Santa Sofia. My mother had once pointed out one of the Brady Bunch kids—a show I knew from old reruns—now middle-aged, holding court in a diner. An actor known for his role in a TV medical drama lived here and had a reputation as a curmudgeonly old coot. And stars drove up from Los Angeles to experience the quaint town just like regular people did. Still, being the official photographer for Eliza Fox’s spontaneous holiday party and meeting the actress herself had butterflies flapping their wings double-time in my stomach.

As I’d rolled up to the house, I’d taken in the details of the home’s exterior. It was contemporary, with glass walls in the front that gave an unobstructed view through the interior and straight out the glass walls in the back that overlooked the ocean. The main floor jutted out over a slightly smaller smooth black cement foundation. It was like a transparent box sitting atop a smaller box. Minimalist shrubs dotted the front landscape. Clearly nothing was meant to deter from the main attraction, which was the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I got out and immediately snapped a collection of pictures. I was going to approach the photographs I’d be taking throughout the night as if they were a hamburger. The opening shots of the home’s exterior would be the bottom bun, the party itself would be all the fixings, and a parting shot or two of the exterior once night had fallen would be the top bun, completing the set.

I swallowed my nerves, grabbed the rest of my camera equipment, and made my way to the opposite side of the house, which was created from opaque stone walls. The walls formed what looked like cement boxes of varying sizes stacked haphazardly on top of each other. While I’d taken photos, Olaya and Maggie had gotten to work unloading the van. Now I knocked on the side door so I could join them.

The woman who answered the door had a clipboard in one hand and wore glasses attached to a clear crystal beaded lanyard. She took one look at my camera and heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “Ivy Culpepper, I presume? Ms. Solis said you were here, too.” She stood back and held the black door open. “Come in. I’m Nicole Leonard, assistant to Eliza Fox. You can put your things over here.”

She was all business as she directed me to a tucked-away space with a black bench and a door at the end leading to what I guessed was the garage. Stacks of Yeast of Eden’s plastic bins sat just inside the door.

“Ms. Solis and her helper are setting up in the library. Let me show you around,” she said, taking her glasses off and letting them dangle around her neck. She was somewhere in her forties, I thought, but I couldn’t say on which end. Her dark hair was pulled into an old-fashioned chignon. She would have fit in perfectly in an old Marilyn Monroe film.

I left my camera bag, but brought my Canon and the flash in case there was something I wanted to shoot on my tour of the glass house. “It’s beautiful,” I said, but I wouldn’t have wanted to live here. I’d been inside for a single minute, and I already felt like a fish in a fishbowl. ...