Murder at the Blueberry Festival

Book 3: Beacon Bakeshop Mystery

by Darci Hannah

Genres: Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Living in a lighthouse with her dog, Lindsey Bakewell is lulled to sleep at night by the sound of Lake Michigan's waves—and gets up at the crack of dawn to start the day at her bakery café. But someone in Beacon Harbor is about to rock the boat with murder . . .



After a career on Wall Street, Lindsey is making a different kind of dough in a pretty lakeside village, and the upcoming blueberry festival—including the pie-eating contest her bakery is hosting—is the highlight of the summer. But soon Beacon Harbor runs into a patch of trouble.



A local real estate agent gets pranked. A parade float gets pelted with water balloons. It's all laughed off until the stunts start escalating—and looking more like sabotage. As the event turns into a debacle complete with rampaging goats, Lindsey's sweetheart, a former SEAL, starts investigating. But the juicy mystery takes a bitter turn when a man—dressed up as a Viking—is found dead in a boat, and it's no longer mischief but murder . . .

Release date: July 26, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Having lived in an old, refurbished lighthouse in Michigan for over a year, I had come to realize a few things. The first was that I loved falling asleep to the sound of waves: Be they gently lapping on the beach or crashing onto the rocks, waves had become my lullaby. The second was the realization that the first lightkeeper, Captain Willy Riggs, although dying on the job in the late eighteen-hundreds, had never really left the lighthouse. Not much I could do about that. The third was that I had a smoking hot neighbor, Rory Campbell, whom I was slightly obsessed with. Okay, more than slightly, but our relationship was still a work in progress. The fourth thing that was blatantly obvious was that my giant Newfoundland, Wellington, had a perpetually wet-dog smell that lasted all summer long. He loved the water. And since we lived right on the shore, it was nearly impossible to keep him out of the darn lake. My solution, barring a leash, was a nice-smelling doggie deodorizer. The fifth thing, and by far the most important, was that I loved the freedom of running my own business. Sure, there were easier businesses to run than a bakery. The early-morning hours could be daunting for the average person, but for me, owning and operating the Beacon Bakeshop was a perfect fit. Heck, my own dad liked to remark that I had a knack for making dough. This was a play on my former Wall Street career as much as it was on my new vocation of baker. But Dad was undoubtedly correct. I did have a knack for making dough, only these days the dough I made had to be baked before it could be enjoyed.

There was one more thing about living in a lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan that was hard to deny, and that was the fact that August is Michigan was spectacular. The lake was warmer, the weather dryer, and hordes of happy vacationers and tourists flocked to the village of Beacon Harbor. August was also the time when Beacon Harbor held its largest and oldest-running festival of the year, the Beacon Harbor Blueberry Festival.

This year I was especially excited because, thanks to Betty Vanhoosen, head of the Chamber of Commerce, owner of Harbor Realty, and head of the town gossip mill, I was on the festival committee along with nine other lucky, overworked townspeople. And, thanks to Betty and her antics of last Christmas during the town-wide Christmas cookie bake-off, I had been excluded from entering a pie in the highly competitive blueberry pie bake-off that was to be held on Saturday. This was because I owned a bakery and was considered to be a professional. I wholeheartedly agreed with the committee’s decision. I’d been making blueberry pies all summer long, much to the delight of our customers. One look at their faces as they took their first bite of the flaky, buttery crust bursting with warm blueberry filling that was the perfect balance between sweet and tart, and I knew that I had already won the only pie contest that mattered.

However, I wasn’t to be let off the hook so easily. Instead, because I was a professional, I had been tasked with baking lots and lots of blueberry pies, not to sell by the pie or the slice as we already did at the Beacon, but because on Sunday, the final day of the festival, the Beacon Bakeshop was to host the rip-roaring blueberry pie–eating contest on the lighthouse lawn.

As a member of the Blueberry Festival Committee, I was planning and executing the pie-eating contest. It was sure to be a raucous, messy affair. Space was limited to the first twenty contestants, eighteen and older, who filled out the entry form and signed the waiver, which warned that eating a whole pie in one sitting could be dangerous. (No joke!) Also, they acknowledged that they were doing so at their own peril. That being done, each contestant was to get a whole, freshly baked blueberry pie to devour as fast as they could. The first one to finish their pie without the use of hands or utensils was the winner.

I never understood the appeal of eating contests, but judging from the race to enter the contest, I was in the minority. It was already Friday morning and all twenty spots had been filled, with twenty-two more on the waiting list! It looked like my weekend was going to be filled with lots of prep work and baking, not only for the gluttonous pie-eaters, but for the Beacon Bakeshop as well.

Given the setting of my bakeshop—right on the shore of Lake Michigan and a stone’s throw from the public beach—and given the beauty of the season, the Beacon Bakeshop was busier than ever. I had also recently opened a pup café on the patio for those visiting with dogs. It was on the patio where we gave out free Beacon Bites, which were essentially day-old donut holes that the dogs loved. I used to reserve my donut holes for Welly until Ryan Wade, one of my intrepid employees, had suggested that other dogs might enjoy them too. I wholeheartedly agreed. Besides the Beacon Bites, we also made a Welly-approved treat of the month. Honestly, Welly would approve of any treat, being a dog who wasn’t above nibbling on rotting fish found washed up on the beach. However, we strived to do better than that by making a delicious dog biscuit of the month. This month’s dog biscuit was flavored with dried blueberries in honor of the festival.

Unfortunately, using so many plump, fresh, delicious blueberries since they came into season, I had taken for granted that I’d have plenty on hand for the festival. However, after a week of baking a prodigious amount of blueberry baked goods, I realized that we had used the last of the blueberries. In short, I was having a blueberry emergency!

“Those look delicious.” I had just plated a plump, blueberry-filled donut for a tourist, when Ginger Brooks, my friend and owner of Harbor Scoops, the town’s famous ice cream shop, came strolling up to the bakery counter. She cast the middle-aged man a winsome smile, which caused him to fumble with his wallet.

“Came to town for the blueberry festival,” he said, regaining his composure and his control of his wallet. He pulled out some bills.

“Well then, you’ll be wanting one of those too.” Ginger pointed to the tray of warm, giant blueberry muffins that Wendy had just brought from the kitchen. I could tell it was the baked good she had her eye on this morning. And, as a single mother, she might have had her eye on the handsome tourist as well.

The man, put on the spot, nodded. Smiling, I added a giant blueberry muffin to his order. He paid, said good-bye, and took his plate and coffee out to the patio and the morning sunshine.

“Way to upsell, Ms. Brooks.” Tom, our head barista, cast her a smile. “The usual?” he asked.

Ginger nodded. “You know me, Tom. I like my coffee like I like my men: strong, rich, and hot.”

Wendy and I, having heard variations of this line nearly every morning that Ginger came in, giggled, nonetheless. She slayed us every time with her sassy coffee order.

Tom handed Ginger her usual cup of freshly brewed house coffee. “Good,” he offered with a nod. “Because if you said bitter and weak, I’d have to send you down to the gas station. Come back before the parade today, and I’ll make you our special blueberry-pie cold-brew latte.” Tom, with his sun-streaked light brown hair, light brown eyes, athletic build, and charming smile, had a way with the ladies. To be fair, he also had a way with coffee. He and Elizabeth, the Beacon’s other talented barista, often put their heads together to come up with specialty coffee drinks. The blueberry-pie cold-brew latte was like drinking a scrumptious slice of caffeinated blueberry pie. Aliana, the shortest of the bunch, with her chestnut hair and sparkling green eyes also had an artistic flourish that we all admired. I had put her in charge of our menu board the moment I discovered it. Last night she had added the specialty latte, including an eye-catching drawing of what the blueberry-pie cold-brew latte looked like. She had also embellished the board with lovely, hand-drawn blueberries for the festival.

“That sounds sinful,” Ginger said. “Maybe I will, but for now just this and one of those warm, yummy muffins.”

I took a sheet of bakery paper and plucked a giant blueberry muffin off the tray Wendy had just put into the bakery case. “Here,” I handed it over to her, paper and all. “Try it and let me know what you think?” Ginger took hold of the warm muffin with dancing pleasure.

“It’s bursting with blueberries. I can already tell I’m going to love it. Bet you’re having a hard time keeping these on the shelves.”

“We are,” Wendy replied with a troubled look. “That’s already the second batch of the morning.” Turning to me, she added, “Lindsey, what’s the news on the blueberries? Our last quart went in there. And don’t forget that your mom ordered two pies for Sunday.”

Ginger’s head snapped up. “You’re out of blueberries? Already? And when does Ellie Montague Bakewell eat blueberry pie?” This was said with a slight mumble due to the sizeable chunk of muffin in her mouth.

Wendy, a year out of high school and one of my first employees, was intrigued by Ginger’s last remark.

I shrugged. “When all aging models do, I guess. Late at night when she thinks no one is watching.”

A little giggle escaped Ginger’s lips. “Wicked,” she admonished, grinning. “It must be hard for a former eighties fashion model and icon to have a daughter who bakes.”

“Typical of you to take my mom’s side,” I teased. “What about me? My livelihood relies on sugar and butter, and she moves to town and opens a high-end clothing boutique? What kind of message does that send?”

“You’re terrible.” She rolled her eyes as she said this, but she grinned all the same. My mom’s clothing boutique was across the street from her ice cream shop. “Ellie and Company sells adorable flouncy tops and chic pants with elastic waistbands. Your mom has both our backs.”

She was undoubtedly correct. I also loved the fact that my parents had recently moved to Beacon Harbor to be closer to me. Dad, although claiming to be retired, helped in the bakeshop three days a week. More when I needed him. We were still looking for an assistant baker, but with Dad and Wendy helping me in the kitchen, we were managing quite well. Mom, also having retired from modeling years ago, got the itch to get back into the world of fashion. She had opened her flagship clothing store, Ellie & Company, right on Waterfront Drive, also known as Main Street. Her business partner was none other than my best friend, Kennedy Kapoor. Unbeknownst to me, the two had cooked up the idea one day. I had to admit, they were doing quite well. Kennedy, still one of the country’s hottest influencers, split her time between New York City and Beacon Harbor. However, thanks to Tuck McAllister, one of Beacon Harbor’s finest men in uniform, our little town in Michigan was winning out.

“But what about the blueberries?” Wendy pressed.

“Don’t worry. I put Rory on it. A former Navy SEAL should be able to handle a little blueberry reconnaissance mission. Just in case, however, I gave him directions to the Kendall farm early this morning. He should have all we need for the weekend.” No sooner had I spoken than Wendy pointed to the front windows, where a black pickup truck was heading up the lighthouse driveway.

“Looks like mission accomplished,” she remarked. “Mr. Campbell’s a man you can depend on.”

“He is, indeed,” Ginger mused with a sigh. “I wish I had a Rory.” She winked, then took her muffin and her coffee out the front door.

“You are a lifesaver,” I said, running over to Rory, who was just emerging from his truck.

Rory Campbell was the type of man women craned their necks to get a better look at—and I should know, having dated him for over a year. He stood six-foot-four, his espresso-colored hair was smartly cut and just the way I liked it—short on the sides and longer on top—and, in my humble opinion, his eyes rivaled the color of the Caribbean Sea. Given all that, including his passion for fitness, his best feature by far was his kind, generous heart. I had never dated anyone like him, and truth be told, I was still trying to figure Mr. Rory Campbell out. Ironically, he was my nearest neighbor at the lighthouse. When I had first met him, he told me he was writing a military thriller. Having recently retired from his service as a Navy SEAL and finding himself the owner of a log home on the shores of Lake Michigan with nothing but time on his hands, writing a work of fiction seemed like the thing to do. Bless him, he actually was writing a book! He was also still involved in service to his country, as I later found out.

However, Rory was now finally done chasing down bad guys. What I’d never realized until two months ago was how difficult the transition to civilian life had been for him. That was because in June, Rory had finally let me read his so-called military thriller. I had stayed up late into the night, sitting up in the old light tower pouring over the pages beneath an old oil lamp. Rory’s novel depicted stomach-churning terror on foreign soil, and the heart-wrenching antics of a brave warrior named Ricky Camel. I must have dozed off at some point because I remember waking up at dawn with a vivid, terrifying dream still swirling in my head. I had smelled pipe smoke as well, an indication that I had not been entirely alone in the old light tower. I use the word entirely because, although I was alone, the light tower, as I had also learned, was still the domain of the first Beacon Harbor Lighthouse keeper, Captain Willy Riggs.

Oh, Captain Willy was long dead, but his eternal soul was still attached to his duty, which was keeping Beacon Harbor safe. I admired his pluck. And he admired mine, I believed, as well. At least I assumed that was why he liked to meddle in my affairs from beyond the grave. Captain Willy was harmless, but he’d been trying to tell me something that night. It took me a moment, but I finally understood what it was. The captain was a military man, like Rory. And what he’d been nudging me toward was the fact that the fictional Ricky Camel of my dream looked and acted exactly like the Rory Campbell I was dating. Confused, and with terrible thoughts pinging around in my head, I had left the lighthouse and went to confront Rory at his cabin. Once I’d arrived, Rory finally admitted that although he wanted to write a fictional military thriller, his memoir just kind of popped out instead.

“What!?” I had cried, trying to keep my inner New Yorker at bay. It was useless. My nerves had been stripped raw. “You said it was fiction! That . . . that was all real?” And then I burst into tears because it was both terrifying and heartbreaking at once. Hiccupping, I added, “A . . . all that time you . . . you spend alone in the woods? Now . . . now it all . . . makes sense!”

I believe my reaction had frightened him. And although he should have warned me that he’d written a memoir, I did come away from the experience with a better understanding of who he was and what he had been through. His eighteen-month sojourn into writing might have been cathartic for him, but publishing the book was out of the question. I was pretty darn certain that Rory had divulged some highly classified information in there.

That left me with my current predicament. I had finally found Mr. Right, only Mr. Right was in the middle of an identity crisis. Rory admitted he was struggling to find meaning in his life after such a harrowing, adrenaline-rush-filled career. He wanted to make a difference, but he wasn’t sure how.

Honestly, I didn’t know how to help him. Finding meaning was a personal journey. Oddly enough, I had found mine in a lighthouse bakery. Although I didn’t have an answer for Rory, I had vowed to myself to be supportive—and to keep him busy. The moment I heard the Blueberry Festival needed someone to head up the annual Blueberry 5K run, I nominated Rory. Thankfully, he agreed.

I peeked into the bed of Rory’s pickup truck and saw it was loaded with crates of blueberries.

“Since Chuck Kendall has a stall at the festival that he needs to stock, this was all he’d sell me. Will it be enough, do you think?”

“Unless we get fifty more orders for blueberry pie by tomorrow, this should do just fine.” I stood on my tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. A wry smile appeared on his lips.

“I drive out to a blueberry farm at the crack of dawn, and all I get is a peck on the cheek? Oh, Bakewell, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

He was right. Although my apron was covered in flour and he was wearing a form-fitting black tee, I wrapped him up in a big hug. We were just about to kiss when Wellington appeared out of nowhere, launching his 150-pound frame at Rory and me. It was like being hit by a hairy NFL tackle running at full speed. The impact threw us apart. Rory, bouncing off his truck, remained on his feet. I landed on my backside on the hard gravel of the parking lot.

“WELLINGTON!” I cried, seething at my dog. I then realized why he was spooked. Someone had tried to put clothes on my dog. I say “tried” because the coat he was wearing was hanging off his side, and the floppy-brimmed squall hat was covering his eyes. On one of his giant back paws was a blue Wellington boot. While I appreciated the irony of Wellington wearing what the English refer to as a Welly, my pup wasn’t having any of it. The poor dog was frantically trying to shake the hat off his head, batting at the strap under his jaw with his paw.

“Are you seeing this?” Rory grimaced as he pulled the hat off Welly’s head, as if it demeaned them both. “Who in their right mind—”

“Welly. Here, good boy. Where did you run off to?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, Welly glanced back across the parking lot. Fear blazed in his intelligent brown eyes. Although Rory had ahold of his collar, Welly bucked and wriggled, trying to escape to safer quarters.

“That voice makes me want to head for the lake too,” Rory admitted to my dog. To me, he added, “Now we know what spooked him.”

“Well done, Sherlock,” I teased before turning to the sound of chunky heels stomping on gravel. Kennedy, always the fashionista in a floppy hat, large designer sunglasses, a flowing, floral-inspired Ellie & Co. dress, and holding Wellington’s leash, waved at us. Although my friend still owned an apartment in New York City, she lived with me in the lighthouse whenever she was in town, which, for the record, had been all summer.

“Hi, Linds. Sir Hunts-a-Lot.” This she added with a cheeky wink, using her favorite pet name for Rory. “I see you’ve found Welly.”

“Actually, he found us,” I told her. “I thought he was napping in the lighthouse. Why is he wearing a raincoat?”

“A blueberry raincoat,” she corrected, pointing to one of the tiny dark blue fruits on the light blue fabric. “And, to answer your rather obvious question, because Wellington is walking down the runway with you.”

What my friend was referring to was the Blueberry Festival Fashion Show she and Mom had talked the committee into letting them put on Saturday afternoon on the stage at the brat and beer tent. Being an aging yet still attractive eighties fashion model, Mom wasn’t used to hearing the word no. And the committee didn’t disappoint her, either. Actually, thanks to Mom’s minor celebrity and Kennedy’s marketing genius, tickets for their fashion show had sold out in two hours. Hearing that, they were inspired to start hunting for models.

Of course, being Ellie Montague Bakewell’s daughter, I had to partake in the event, even against my better judgment. There was no arguing there. Then Mom had sweet-talked Wendy, Aliana, and Elizabeth into modeling for her as well. Not only were my employees young and adorable, but they were also positively giddy to be a part of the sure-to-be-famous fashion show. I couldn’t tell them not to participate. Instead, I’d agreed to shut down the Beacon early so we could all get ready for the big event. That way Ryan, Tom, Rory, and Dad could watch the spectacle as well. And a spectacle I was certain it was going to be, because wherever Mom and Kennedy went, there was always a swirl of drama that followed. And now my poor dog was caught up in it too. The nerve of them trying to make my giant, dignified pooch a fashion accessory!

I stared at Kennedy a beat too long, then shook my head. “Did you tell me he was modeling with me?”

The look she gave me relayed the fact that I was being ridiculous. “Of course, I did.” Kennedy, a beautiful woman of English and Indian descent, gave her silky black hair a quick flip with her hand. Refocusing on me, she pursed her lips, adding, “Well, maybe not in so many words. But you agreed to model for Ellie and Company. Excuse me if I assumed you knew that we make clothing for both humans and their dogs.”

“Kennedy, my mom’s been dressing in matching outfits with her dogs for years.” This, unfortunately, was true. She had even named her two Westies, Brinkley and Ireland (collectively known as the models), after her runway rivals. “It’s what had inspired her to start Ellie and Company, so that others could partake in the same folly. It’s what she does, not what I do.”

“Lindsey’s right. Besides, I didn’t see Welly signing any contracts,” Rory added, sticking up for his favorite canine.

Kennedy manufactured a frown. “Didn’t Ellie tell you? She had that raincoat custom made especially for Wellington. Even you must know, owning this handsome guy”—she swept her hand in an arc that purposely encompassed both Welly and Rory—“that one cannot buy extra-extra-large doggie outfits off the rack. These were specially made for Wellington, and clearly he loves them.”

“Clearly,” I said, dripping sarcasm. Born with a doubly thick waterproof coat, Welly wasn’t the type of dog who needed a raincoat. In fact, swimming in ice water didn’t seem to faze him much at all. That Kennedy and Mom thought it would be appropriate was a bit comical. Although Rory was still glowering at the idea, I realized I had already lost the argument.

“Alright,” I relented, letting Kennedy clip the leash on Welly’s collar. “If you think you can dress him in this and get him to trot across a stage without him flipping out, I’m game. For now, however, I suggest you take off the raincoat. Take my word for it, Mom will flip out if it gets ruined before the big show.”

“True. And I will. Linds, you’re not going to regret this,” Kennedy said, ruffling the fur on Welly’s head. “Your dog is going to be the hit of the show.”

While Welly reluctantly trotted back to the lighthouse with Kennedy, Rory and I set to work unloading the blueberries. The moment they were safely in the cooler, Rory glanced at his watch.

“If you don’t need me any longer, I’m going to rescue Wellington and take him out to the patio with me. Don’t want to keep the boys waiting.”

“Right,” I said, noting it was nearly nine o’clock. The boys he was referring to were members of a group he had started in an effort to find meaning in his civilian life. “Before you go, take these with you.”

With an appreciative look at the goodies I had prepared for him, he took the tray.

Standing behind the bakery counter, I watched as Rory and Wellington made their way to the patio with the two loaves of warm, lemon-blueberry breakfast bread I had made for them. The bread, a lovely lemon quick bread laced with fresh blueberries and topped with icing, would be the perfect treat for the men. The early arrivals had already pushed three empty tables together. Bill Morgan, a Beacon Bakeshop regular, was making his way up the walkway with Dan, his yellow Lab, bounding beside him. Rory was still holding the tray when Welly, his busy tail waving joyfully, lunged on the end of his leash. Rory let go just in time to save the bread. Good move, I thought, and watched as Welly and Dan greeted one another nose-to-nose. Then, smelling another friend, both dogs turned, tails swishing the air like two feather dusters in the hands of a manic maid. Jack Johnson and his golden retriever, Libby, approached. Jack and his wife, Ali, owned the Book Nook, the town’s wonderful independent bookstore. Ali was obviously getting ready to open the shop, while Jack and Libby came for their Friday morning meeting.

I admit I’d had a little something to do with inspiring this friendly Friday morning group. After reading Rory’s tragic memoir, I realized it was literally going to take a village to give him the nudge he needed to fully embrace civilian life once again. Sure, he loved hanging around the Beacon Bakeshop when he wasn’t up north hunting or out on the lake catching his dinner. I had naturally assumed, like any other sane New Yorker, that hunting was a woodsman’s hobby—albeit one I didn’t understand. Then, however, I . . .