Murder is a Piece of Cake

Book 2: Baker Street Mystery

by Valerie Burns

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Perfect for readers craving the cozies of Joanne Fluke and Ellery Adams, the acclaimed Agatha award-nominated author returns to her charming small-town culinary cozy series featuring a social media expert turned bakery owner and sleuth.
“Snappy dialogue, a well-drawn supporting cast and an irresistible canine companion all add delicious flavor. Gulp this book down or savor it, but consuming it will guarantee a sustained sugar high.” —New York Times Book Review on Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder

With small town New Bison’s Spring Festival just around the corner, the pressure is on Maddy to continue her late great-aunt Octavia’s legacy. That means scoring the top prize and transforming Baby Cakes into Southwest Michigan’s must-visit bakery, even though her inexperience in the kitchen brings nightmares of humiliating tagged photos and scathing reviews.

There’s another reason for lost beauty sleep. A second bakery is opening in town under the ownership of CJ Davenport, a shrewd investor with a reputation for sabotaging anyone who gets in his way. And savvy, flashy Maddy tops his list. It’s a sticky spot to be in—more so when Davenport turns up dead with a Baby Cakes’s knife stuck in his back.

Maddy’s whole life just went from #thriving to barely surviving. Now, supported by the crafty Baker Street Irregulars and her new boyfriend, she must find the courage to face off against a killer who could very well get her name trending for the first and last time . . .

Release date: June 27, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

For a moment—one moment—I forgot who I was. In the heat, nay the thrill of filming, baking, and acting, something switched. In an instant, I was no longer the inexperienced, non-baking owner of Baby Cakes Bakery in New Bison, Michigan. No, I was Shonda Rhimes and Julia Child all wrapped up in one. In my commercial-style kitchen, with my ring light casting a soft pink glow while it held my iPhone perfectly angled over a bowl of frothy egg whites, I knew that I not only looked like a chef, but I felt chef-ish. Despite Southwest Michigan’s humidity, my natural hair was perfectly curled with zero frizz. I’d spent extra time on my makeup, and my newly arched brows were inverted Vs of perfection. And even though New Bison was far from McMullen boutique, thanks to the marvels of modern technology, my stylist had hooked me up with the latest in high fashion. Wide-legged Khaite jeans, simple white T-shirt, and my crisp chef’s apron, branded with our new logo featuring the face of my English mastiff, Baby. Add in the latest in athletic footwear—black and blue Pyer Moss Sculpt sneakers—and I was set. I knew I looked fantastic. I was a fashion maven. An Iron Chef of cakes and pies! I smiled into the camera.

“Pride comes before the fall,” Hannah Portman said. Hannah was a sixty-something-year-old Black woman who had been best friends with my great-aunt, Octavia, for more than fifty years. She’d worked side by side with Aunt Octavia in the bakery for most of those years. She was spirited, sassy, and an excellent baker. Now in the early stages of dementia, Hannah continued baking and working whenever she was able. She also happened to be my new boyfriend Michael’s grandmother, so I couldn’t blow her off, no matter how much I wanted to.

“You need to focus when you’re baking or you’re going to have a mess on your hands,” Hannah said. She made the best sweet potato pies I’d ever eaten, but when it came to videos and social media, that was my wheelhouse. Videos of me learning to bake were trending on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter, not to mention a host of other less well-known social media platforms. I was even doing well on Facebook, which was popular with New Bison residents. I was a social media influencer long before I inherited my great aunt’s bakery and moved across the country to Southwest Michigan. Now, I’d found my niche and was putting Baby Cakes on the map.

I turned away from Hannah and rolled my eyes at the camera. Even at twenty-eight, I knew better than to let an older Black woman catch me rolling my eyes. Confident that beating egg whites would be a breeze, I smiled and turned on the stand mixer.

My first mistake was failing to secure the bowl. The moment the power was turned on, the bowl rocked and thumped against the counter. My second mistake was failing to turn the mixing speed down after the last time I’d used the beast. My third mistake was screaming when the mixer started flinging the slimy liquids in my face, hair, and around the kitchen. Note to self, Never open your mouth while egg whites are flying through the air.

With one eye closed and eggshell innards dripping all over my previously sparkling clean kitchen, I managed to get close enough to turn off the mixer.

Hearing my screams, Leroy Danielson, my head baker, rushed into the kitchen in time to see me with egg whites dripping from my hair and Hannah Portman laughing like a hyena. Leroy was five feet ten, thin, with shoulder-length dark wavy hair. His brown eyes were hidden behind a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses, but even buried behind the frames, his eyes sparkled with laughter.

My fourth mistake was taking time to remove the egg whites from my hair before reaching for my iPhone. Leroy beat me to it. With a wicked grin and a few quick swipes, I knew that video was on its way into the cosmos.

“Your followers love these outtakes.” He chuckled as he handed me my phone.

I glared, but it didn’t do any good. He’d pulled out his phone and was watching the video from the beginning. Even without the sound, I knew when he got to the egg-white debacle because he guffawed.

Baby, the two-hundred-fifty-pound English mastiff I’d inherited from my great-aunt Octavia, along with her house, bakery, and a bit of cash, had followed Leroy into the house. Baby glanced in my direction and then loped over to the corner and hoisted himself up onto the custom-made corner dog bed that I’d ordered for his lounging pleasure. It was the size of a twin-sized bed and upholstered with a soft gray velvet that looked great in the adjacent white custom kitchen.

I stared at the massive canine that I’d grown to love in the short time that I’d been in New Bison.

He put his massive head down on his paws and sighed.

That sigh made my eyes water. “Something’s wrong with him.” I rushed over and climbed into the dog bed and put my arm around him. “What’s the matter, boy?”

He gazed at me, lifted his massive head, rested it in my lap, and sighed again.

I gave Leroy an accusing look. “I thought you were going to take him to the vet?”

“I did, but the place was chaos. Michael had to do an emergency C-section on a goat, and the staff were rescheduling everybody else.” Leroy saw the concern in my eyes. “I sent him a text, and he promised he’d come by as soon as he could.”

“A goat?” I wiped the tears that had welled up in my eyes and leaned down and rubbed my chin on Baby’s head and kissed his nose. “It’s late. How long does a C-section take? Where is he?”

“Right here.” Michael Portman, Hannah’s grandson and my boyfriend, hurried in. “I got here as fast as I could.” Michael placed a backpack that I knew contained his most-needed medical equipment on the counter. He looked tired but still smiled as he walked over to me.

He stood in front of me and stared down. “Hey, Squid.”

I took the towel that I kept near the dog bed to take care of Baby’s drool and swatted him. “Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for Navy slurs . . . any slurs.”

In addition to being my boyfriend, Michael was a veteran of the Army, and Baby’s veterinarian. As the daughter of a Navy admiral, I often bickered with him and tossed around military slurs without hatred or ill will. There’s a frenemy kind of relationship between all branches of the military. He called me “squid” or “swabbie.” I called him a “grunt” or “a dumb Joe.” No bad feelings, but I wasn’t in the mood.

“Don’t pay her no mind,” Hannah said, chuckling from the seat in the dining room. “She’s just upset ’cause she’s got egg whites all over her expensive new shoes.”

I looked down at my Sculpts. Before moving to New Bison, I never would have thought twice about spending six hundred dollars for a pair of shoes. In the circles I hung around with in L.A., I would have not only bought the latest Pyre Moss Sculpt sneakers with bright blue bottoms, but I would also have bought a pair in every primary color. My dad wasn’t Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos rich. But U.S. Navy Admiral Jefferson Augustus Montgomery had served in the military for more years than I’d been alive. He earned a good living but didn’t spend it on anything except me. He didn’t need to spend a lot of money. The military provided his clothes, housing, and travel, and the Admiral had few vices. An occasional cigar and a taste for good cognac didn’t break the piggy bank. My life as the only daughter of a too-busy-to-raise-a-kid-alone Navy admiral who could command thousands of men without breaking a sweat was one of financial indulgence and emotional neglect. I was determined to prove that I was a responsible adult, capable of taking care of myself and making important decisions when necessary, and that meant paying my own credit card bills. At least, that’s what my new friends told me responsible adults did.

“I’m not upset about my shoes. I’m upset because I have egg whites dripping from my ceiling.” As if on cue, a wad of the slimy whites fell from a pendant light, just missing my shoe.

I stared at the glop and used Baby’s towel to wipe it off.

Michael squinted at me. “What’s wrong with your eye?”

I pulled a compact from the pocket of my jeans and looked at myself. One glance was all it took to see that I was missing one of the false eyelashes that I’d carefully applied earlier. I glanced at Baby, who was using a paw to swipe at what appeared to be a spider on his nose.

I reached down and plucked the now limp and badly mangled lash off his nose.

Baby gave me a brief glance and then sighed and put his head back down.

With one quick tug, I removed the remaining lash. “Can’t you see Baby’s sick. He’s been moping around here for two days. He doesn’t play with his toys, and earlier today I opened a bag of potato chips, and he didn’t even bother to lift his head.”

Michael’s lips twitched, and he worked to keep from smiling. “That does sound serious.”

I glared at him. “I’m serious. He barely eats and he’s lost his . . . his . . . zing.” I turned to Leroy. “Hand me that T-R-E-A-T we put away for him.”

Leroy was an excellent cook and was teaching me to prepare basic meals. Of course, the fact that he had a massive crush on my tenant April Johnson was probably another motivator for him to spend as much time here as possible. He went to the fridge and pulled out a large bone that we’d saved from dinner last night. He handed the bone to Baby, who sniffed it but didn’t bother to look at it.

I gave Michael an I told you so look, but I didn’t have to say a word. I could see that his demeanor had changed. In a few seconds, he switched from boyfriend to veterinarian, and he was now staring at Baby with concern.

He grabbed his backpack from the counter, walked over to the dog bed, and sat next to Baby. He stroked his head and his body, but I could tell that his petting had a purpose as he gently poked the gentle giant. Eventually, he pulled out a stethoscope and listened to Baby’s heart and lungs.

The mastiff barely moved.

Despite my best efforts to contain myself, a few tears overflowed and ran down my cheek. My makeup was ruined, but I didn’t care.

Michael asked about his input and output and a host of other questions, which I answered to the best of my ability. Input was something I could speak to, but I had to admit that I hadn’t been watching his output. Yuck!

Baby lay listlessly by his side until Michael put on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a large thermometer out of his backpack and inserted it where the sun don’t shine. Baby wasn’t pleased, but Michael spoke softly to him. When the indignity was over, Baby put his head back down.

Michael took alcohol wipes and cleaned the thermometer before returning it to his bag along with the stethoscope. “Temperature is normal. Heart and lungs sound clear. I can run some blood work tomorrow, but . . . he looks healthy.”

“Healthy? How can you say he’s healthy? Look at him.” I spread my arms toward the mastiff.

Baby took that moment to sigh loudly.

A thought ran through my mind that made my heart skip a beat. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Could it be an infection from getting shot?”

Michael looked at the scar that was the only sign of Baby’s heroic attempts to save me from a deranged killer. “I doubt it. Everything appears to have healed well. He doesn’t seem to have any tenderness.”

While Michael probed the area, I couldn’t help but stare at his arm, which bore a similar scar where he too had been shot saving my life.

“Maddy.” Michael stopped poking Baby’s scar, reached over and gently lifted my chin. “You didn’t shoot Baby or me. And we’ve both healed just fine.”

I nodded and wiped away the tears that were flowing faster now.

“Now focus, Squid. When did you first notice the change in his eating habits?”

I took a deep breath and thought. “He’s been this way for about two days.”

“Two days ago, he was at the clinic, and he seemed fine. In fact, he was frolicking around like a puppy.”

“Frolicking? My two-hundred-fifty-pound English mastiff doesn’t frolic. You must have been busy and gotten Baby confused with some other large dog or pony at the clinic.”

“Not likely. I could never confuse Baby with any other dogs.”

“I’ve never seen him . . . frolic.” I stared down at the mastiff.

Michael grinned. “He was definitely frolicking.”

Something in his smile made me curious. “What happened?”

He stole a glance at his grandmother, who was sitting at the counter.

Hannah intercepted the look. “Don’t mind me. I care about Baby too.” She sipped a cup of tea.

Michael rubbed his neck. “Baby was there to fulfill his . . . contractual obligations with a young beauty named Champion Xena Warrior Princess.” He gave me a pointed look. “He took care of business, but he also met a little cutie named Daisy.” He winked. “That’s when our boy here got a twinkle in his eye. Some bounce in his step. And the frolicking commenced.”

Baby was a champion show dog with good health and many fine characteristics of the breed. Before she died, my great-aunt Octavia set him up as a stud dog. A few days ago, Michael had given him a physical and introduced him to a dam named Daisy. Daisy wasn’t under contract to mate with Baby, but her owner had heard good things about him and had reached out to me. Before inheriting Baby, what I knew about dogs was less than what I knew about baking. And that isn’t saying much. I couldn’t look at a dog and tell if she met the breed’s standards and would produce champion-worthy pups, so I’d asked Michael to do the introductions. Besides, I found Daisy’s owner to be pushy and arrogant, and I’d initially declined her request. But my friend and tenant, April Johnson, suggested that I cut the dog some slack. She reminded me that few people get to pick their families, and Daisy couldn’t pick her owner.

“I thought you said he liked Daisy,” I said.

“He did like Daisy. He really liked Daisy.” He raised his eyebrows.

It took a few seconds for his meaning to sink in. “Are you trying to tell me that Baby’s in love?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that I’d go as far as love, but he was strutting around like he was the king of the world. Now you’re telling me that he barely eats. He has no interest in playing or treats. It sure sounds like he’s at the very least infatuated.”

I stared at Baby. “This isn’t the first time he’s . . . mated. Did he act this way the other times?”

Michael shook his head. “Not that I recall. If he did, Miss Octavia never mentioned it.”

I glanced over at Leroy and Miss Hannah. “Well?”

They exchanged a glance and then shook their heads.

I looked into Baby’s eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you miss Daisy?”

I don’t know if he understood me, but he raised his head for a second, snorted, and then put his drooly jowls back down on my leg and sighed, again.

“What did you think about Daisy?” I asked.

“She seems to be in good physical health,” Michael said. “Her heart and lungs sounded good.” He hesitated.

“What?”

He paused and shook his head. “Nothing. Everything sounded okay, but I can’t say for sure without an ultrasound. Sometimes a heart condition can’t be detected without really looking at it. But that would just be a precaution. She’s got paperwork from her veterinarian that states she’s OFA certified.”

“What’s that?”

“Responsible breeders have their dogs checked out and certified with the Orthopedic Foundation for Animals to confirm there’s no signs of congenital heart problems.”

“Was Baby checked?”

“Miss Octavia took care of that, and all of Baby’s certifications are current and up to date. Of course, the certifications only last for one year, but I just automatically complete his paperwork.”

“Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed him. “If Baby is pining after Daisy, then I want to make sure that she’s healthy before I let him . . . well, you know . . . mate with her. Great Aunt Octavia entrusted Baby to me and I have to make sure that I’m doing the right thing for him. What about Daisy’s certification? Is she healthy?”

“Daisy was registered, but her OFA certification is out of date. It may not mean anything. Her owner just may not have gotten the paperwork done yet. Anyway, her eyes were clear. She’s one-hundred-sixty pounds, which is a little small, but otherwise, she looked healthy. I’m a veterinarian. I can tell you if she’s healthy, but I’m not an expert when it comes to winning dog shows. I’d suggest you talk to a breeder like—”

I was already shaking my head before the words left his mouth. The only English mastiff breeder I knew was Jackson Abernathy. Heck, the only dog breeder that I knew, period, was Jackson Abernathy. When I first arrived in New Bison, he made an offer to buy Baby, which I rejected. Even if I wanted to sell him, Aunt Octavia’s will stipulated that in order to inherit, I had to live in New Bison and run her bakery, stay in her house, and keep Baby for one year. It hadn’t taken more than a day before I realized that selling Baby was the last thing I wanted.

“Look, I’m not suggesting you sell Baby to him,” Michael said. “All I said was talk to him and see if he knows anything about the owner and the quality of her dogs. The dog show world is fairly small, especially in Southwest Michigan. You could just see if he knows the breeder and find out what his opinion is of her dogs.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Miss Hannah said. “Octavia knew all the mastiff breeders in the country. Her issues with Jackson Abernathy were personal.”

I glanced at Leroy.

Leroy cleared his throat. “It couldn’t hurt to talk to him. There’s the town meeting tonight. It’ll be his first since he took over as mayor.”

“He’ll be strutting around like a turkey on the day after Thanksgiving,” Hannah said and then sipped her tea.

“That should put him in a good mood,” Leroy said.

I wasn’t good at making decisions. As an admiral in the Navy, my dad said I needed to assess the situation thoroughly before making a decision. He should know; he made important decisions that impacted thousands of people every day. I, on the other hand, had a long history of bad decisions that I’d made hastily or based on emotion rather than facts. But I didn’t have time to research and assess all of the facts objectively. Doing nothing could jeopardize Baby’s health and well-being. “Okay, I’ll talk to. . .