Pudding Up With Murder

Book 3: An Undercover Dish Mystery

by Julia Buckley

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Secret chef Lilah Drake has a killer casserole to deal with in the latest Undercover Dish mystery from the author of Cheddar Off Dead . . .



Customers trust Lilah Drake to keep her mouthwatering meals under wraps, but when a millionaire meets his untimely end, some sinister secrets become the main course . . .



Spring is right around the corner, and with the warmer temperatures come plenty of food requests from Lilah Drake's covered-dish clients. Lilah pulls out all the stops with a sweet new casserole for the birthday party of Marcus Cantwell, a wealthy curmudgeon who has some angry ex-wives and more than a few enemies.



When he's found facedown in Lilah's casserole, it's anyone's guess as to who might have wanted the old man dead. A possible new heir to Marcus’s fortune adds some unexpected spice to the investigation, but Lilah fears that the old adage is true, and "the proof is in the pudding."

Release date: September 5, 2017

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One

A warm breeze wafted in through my car window as I drove down Breville Road. My companion, Mick the dog, sniffed the layers of air, sorting them with his exceptional and complicated nose. “You like that smell, huh, buddy?” I asked him, reaching out with my right hand to ruffle the fur on his large brown head. “I think we’ve both had enough of winter.”

The snow seemed mostly melted away on the streets and parkways, and on this bright and sunny Saturday, the twentieth of March, spring flowers were poking shyly out of flower beds, promising that a new season was upon us. Along with the earthy smell of spring was the delicious cinnamon-sugar aroma of my latest concoction, a rice pudding casserole of my own invention. I had become accustomed to not getting credit for some of my best dishes, dependent as I was on the regular money I earned from letting other people get the applause for my work. In fact, it was the credit they received for my dishes that made my cooking so valuable to these clients—and I had developed quite a list of them over the last couple years.

Mick and I, accustomed delivery companions, were heading to an event to which we were, for once, actually invited, although the dish we were bringing was officially going to be attributed to my friend Ellie Parker. As I squinted against the surprisingly bright sun, I reflected on the serendipitous events that had led me to Ellie—and to her son. Ellie lived in North Pine Haven in a sweet two-story home with a large and lush garden behind it. She and I had met once at a Tupperware party, and although she was old enough to be my mother, we had formed an instant bond and had continued to meet—for coffee, for book chats, for Saturday lunches. Somewhere along the line Ellie had decided that I would be perfect for her son Jay, a Pine Haven police detective, but instead of telling me that, she arranged for Jay and me to meet at her house one day. That had occurred what seemed like a year ago but had actually been in October. Jay and I did hit it off, but then we fought and separated. We had reconciled at Christmas, although we found that our schedules were surprisingly incompatible. Still, we’d had some lovely times together, my favorite of which had been a winter visit to the zoo, where we’d shared hot chocolate and learned that we both loved tapirs and outrageously expensive but weirdly delicious zoo hot dogs, and I’d had many opportunities to gaze into Parker’s blue eyes at close proximity.

Then, just as things were at their most romantic, Parker was sent away to some sort of training event in New York, and he had been gone for a dismal two weeks. I had never been overly fond of texting, but I had probably sent Parker about a thousand texts in the time he had been gone. He wasn’t as prolific, but he assured me that he liked mine, and would respond when he could. He texted complete sentences in his careful Parker way, so it was like getting a beautiful letter when I did hear from him.

Today I had not received anything, and my eyes flicked restlessly to my phone every few minutes, willing it to ping and tell me that Parker was thinking of me.

Mick rustled in his seat and sighed, seemingly with pure happiness. Mick loved spring because there was so much to dig out of the dirt and sniff at length. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. We had been through a great deal together, Mick and I. “You’re the best, Mick,” I said.

Mick nodded. I had never trained Mick to do this as a puppy; he had taught himself this way of responding to what I said to him. His special ability to gesture this way made our relationship seem even closer—as though Mick truly understood the things I said and wanted to offer me his affirmation.

“You know, it’s quite an honor for you, being invited to this party. It’s because Ellie loves you so much, and I guess her neighbor is a huge dog lover. It’s his birthday, and he wants to see you nod. Make sure you do it, now. Don’t make liars of Ellie and me.”

Mick seemed to be thinking about this. I tapped my hands on the steering wheel. I always had a song in my head; I hadn’t decided if this were a blessing or a curse. In today’s tune, Green Day asked me when September would end. I wondered why my brain didn’t stay in season.

As we neared Ellie’s house, I worried over logistics. I needed to get the casserole to her without anyone next door seeing the transfer. Her neighbor Marcus Cantwell was a retired businessman of some sort with a house twice the size of Ellie’s and a rumored fortune. He had been married three times and had five children, all of whom, Ellie assured me, would be at this birthday party—his sixty-fifth. Ellie had also told me that Marcus had a gruff exterior and people misunderstood him, thinking him rude and unfriendly.

I interpreted this to mean that he was rude and unfriendly, but had been won over by Ellie’s many charms. Ellie had spoken to Cantwell about Mick because Cantwell had four dogs of his own, and he had been “enchanted” by her stories of my dog and his ability to converse with people in his silent way.

This had earned Mick and me an invitation to the birthday party of a rich man we had never met. One of Cantwell’s children had young children of her own, and Ellie had wanted to make something special that the little ones would enjoy. That’s where I came in, with my new and wonderful rice pudding casserole. I’d made it with very kid-friendly ingredients, with raisins in only half of it in case some little tyke found them repulsive. My favorite child, a boy named Henry whom I had unofficially adopted as my own nephew, had taste tested the casserole and proclaimed it “pretty yummy,” so I felt confident that Ellie would receive her due praise.

I pulled into Ellie’s driveway, centered between two flower beds that were mostly raked earth; I saw a few tulips and crocuses, though, showing their yellow and orange noses to the world. I drove the car as close to her door as I could, then got out with Mick and retrieved the casserole, hidden inside a large, sturdy canvas tote. Mick and I ran to the door, where Ellie stood waiting.

She looked pretty, and I wondered if the thrice-­divorced Cantwell had designs on the widowed Ellie. Her white hair was pulled back in an elegant twist, and her makeup, expertly applied, made her look ten years younger than she was. She wore a pair of gray slacks and a white blouse, over which she’d donned a light gray cardigan and some long silver necklaces. It looked terrific.

“Uh-oh,” I said, hugging her. “I think I may have dressed down more than I should have.” I had been in a hurry, so I’d grabbed a pair of khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt with appliqued roses at the neckline.

“You look beautiful—like a little buttercup,” Ellie said, studying me. “Oh, what I would give for that long blond hair.”

“Your hair is perfect.”

A necessary and rewarding component of my friendship with Ellie was our willingness to validate each other—­sometimes at great length.

Ellie smiled her thanks, eyeing my bag. “Is this my contribution to the party?”

“Yes. Rice pudding casserole, tested by Sir Henry of Weston.”

“Your little friend Henry? Your friend’s nephew?”

“Yes. He loved it.”

“Good. There are three little ones, I’m told, and I want to be their favorite person.”

“You will. Plus you’re bringing Mick, and kids love him.”

“Oh my, yes!” she said, stooping to pet Mick, who had been waiting for some attention. “You are a special boy, aren’t you?” said Ellie affectionately. “Marcus can’t wait to meet you.” She turned to me. “He just loves dogs.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that the only thing that Marcus loves?”

Ellie made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve lived side by side for years, but we always keep our neighborly distance. Just some nice chats over the garden fence now and then.”

“Huh.” I slipped a hand into my pocket and ran it over my cell phone, willing it to make its familiar buzzing sound. “Have you heard from Jay?”

Ellie had been putting her nose against Mick’s, but she lifted her head sharply. “No, why?” She studied me with a wise expression. “Is someone feeling twinges of lovesickness?”

“It’s a little early for lovesickness,” I said briskly, setting the bag down on her table. “But yes.”

Ellie laughed. “Oh, I am so glad you two are finally together. I really had a vision of it ever since I met you. But I couldn’t quite figure out how to best introduce you. Jay is so—Well, you know Jay.”

I did know him—or at least I was getting to know him. He was wonderful: smart, handsome, hardworking, but perhaps a bit antisocial. He had made an exception for me, and now I was his girlfriend. This was still so new that sometimes Parker and I just sat and grinned at each other, glad, as Ellie was, that we had ended up together.

Ellie gave Mick one final pat and stood up. “Ugh—my knees,” she said. “They’re pretty creaky.”

“You should sit in a chair and pet him. He’ll be happy to come to you.”

She shrugged and nodded. I pointed at the casserole. “There it is. Do you want to carry it in the pan or leave it in the bag?”

“The pan, I think. Looks very homemade. Oh, I do feel guilty taking credit for your work. But I also love the looks on people’s faces when they eat it—and in the past, it was always my own food they were eating.” Ellie’s arthritis had grown painful enough to prevent her from creating anything too complicated in the kitchen.

“I know. And you pay for the right to see those looks on their faces. Enjoy it.”

“Which reminds me,” Ellie said. She walked across her kitchen to a cookie jar in the shape of a chubby monkey. My face grew hot looking at it, because the first time I had met Jay Parker was when I was taking money out of that jar and he had found me doing it. He had halfway suspected me of being a thief in his mother’s kitchen. It was still embarrassing to contemplate the memory.

“Here you go,” Ellie said, handing me a small stack of bills.

“This looks like too much,” I said.

“It’s not. Now tuck it away, and let’s go to a party.”

“I think I smell food from over there. And—is that music?”

“Oh yes. There’s a live band in his backyard. I truly think his children are competing for his attention, because each one has tried to outdo the others with birthday gifts. The oldest boy paid for the band, I think, and the second-oldest boy had bagpipers here this morning. Can you imagine? Bagpipes playing ‘Loch Lomond’ at ten in the morning.”

I giggled. “Sorry I missed that.”

“And the girls came marching up the walk with huge packages and baskets and boxes. I’m not one to gossip, but I do wonder if they all want special treatment in the will. Marcus has always joked to me that he’s richer than God but not as ostentatious.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“He doesn’t spend a lot. He has a big house, but not a mansion. He drives a nice car, but it’s not a Mercedes. He told me he’s always been a saver. Maybe his children are counting on that.”

“If he’s rich, then there’s enough for all of them.”

“You would think,” said Ellie, leading me toward the back of her kitchen and the door into her yard. “We can go in through his garden,” she said. “There’s a little arbor tucked into his fence, and it’s like a lovely, fragrant doorway to his yard.”

“Okay, then.”

I followed her, and the sound of music strummed on multiple guitars, to the Cantwell backyard. It was perhaps four times the size of Ellie’s yard, and filled with activity. The musicians, three men with guitars and a woman with a mandolin, stood against a fence and played Beatles tunes. I had heard “I Will” from Ellie’s kitchen, and now they were playing “Hey Jude.” My father, a Beatles fan since way back, would have been in heaven listening to this group.

The yard was a chaos of milling bodies, running children, wandering dogs, barbecue smells, and white-smocked caterers. A photographer wandered here and there, snapping pictures of the crowd. I didn’t recognize any of the servers, which meant my employer, Haven of Pine Haven, had not handled this event. A young woman with a red perm and a stiff white apron came by with a tray of punch glasses; Ellie and I each took one, thanking her, and she moved on into the crowd. I held Mick’s leash with my free hand, and Ellie held the rice pudding with hers. Thus encumbered, we plowed ahead.

“Let’s find Marcus before things get too crazy,” Ellie said.

She led me into a spacious house dominated by dark polished wood. Here some more caterers moved surreptitiously in and out of rooms; I caught a glimpse of a large kitchen and a long, empty dining room before we entered a front room with a wall-mounted flat-screen TV that dominated the space like an electronic idol; everything else was centered around it.

The television was off, but a man in a large red armchair sat staring at it with a rather blank expression. He took occasional sips from a fancy-looking drink on a table beside him. There was no one else in the room.

“Marcus?” Ellie said. “Happy birthday!” She moved forward and touched his arm. “Thank you for inviting us to the party.”

“Of course,” he said in a gruff voice as though he hadn’t spoken for a while. “And who is your friend?”

“This is Lilah! She brought Mick, the dog I told you about.”

The man’s face grew slightly animated. “How are you, boy?” he asked, talking to Mick.

Mick obligingly moved forward and thrust his skull between the man’s knees. That earned a bark of laughter from Marcus Cantwell. He had a big lionlike head with a sheaf of white hair; I realized in a flash of insight that he reminded me of Andrew Jackson.