Tastes Like Murder (Cookies & Chance Mysteries Book 1) (25 page)

I finally admitted to myself what everyone else already knew. I still loved Mike and probably always would. He'd put my safety first last night when he'd called Brian to rescue me, not able to be there himself. This spoke volumes about him. He was not the same person who once hit a guy for helping me clean soda out of my lap. Maybe if I'd given him a chance to explain the Brenda situation way back when, we'd still be together. I'd never know the answer now.

However, I wasn't sure love was enough to overcome all of the obstacles still standing in our way. Mike had matured, but there would still be jealousies and insecurities to deal with if we gave it another try. My relationship with Colin had made me gun-shy, and trust no longer came easy. Mike's painful childhood had affected his life in ways I might never fully understand. Could we make it work the second time around? Would love conquer all?

Then there was Brian. Sweet, sensitive, considerate. He was good at his job, and it was hard not to admire him and his profession. I looked forward to getting to know him on a more personal level. His world appeared orderly and uncomplicated. That in itself was something I longed for—and needed—in my life. He was everything a girl dreamed of. Sparks flew when we were together. I wasn't in love with him yet, but I could envision it happening.

When I first dated Colin, I'd been on the rebound and anxious to forget Mike. Years later, when he asked me to marry him, I thought I loved him. I'd invested five years in the relationship by then and didn't want to walk away. Had I been responsible for the divorce since I'd brought baggage into my marriage? No, I knew that was Colin's fault. I hadn't been unfaithful like him, but perhaps he always sensed my heart was somewhere else.

As I leaned over my purse to find my phone, I noticed a single fortune cookie sitting there. It must have rolled over the side of the table when I had spilled the bag earlier. I settled back onto the couch with both the phone and cookie in my lap.

As I rubbed the cookie between my hands, I marveled at how customers always made such a big deal out of the ridiculous fortunes. Some seemed to consider the words a personal horoscope for them. I'd never been a believer in the little strips of paper or any other type of magic, for that matter. Yet something niggled my brain to read the message inside.
Why not?
What have I got to lose?

Holding my breath, I snapped the cookie open. A chill drifted down my spine as I read the words.

The answer you seek is in your question already.

Yes, I had known the answer all along. There would be no mistake this time.

Choose with your heart.

I ran my hand over the face of my iPhone and scrolled through the contact numbers until I located the desired one. I touched the screen and with bated breath, waited to hear his voice come on the line.

He answered on the second ring. "Hey, beautiful."

"Hi. Look, I'm sorry, but I can't make it tonight."

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Fortune Cookies

2 large egg whites

½ teaspoon vanilla

⅛ teaspoon cinnamon

½ cup sugar

⅓ cup flour

Typed or handwritten fortunes (Make at least two inches long so that you can see where they are when the cookie is folded)

Approximately 4 ounces chocolate chips for dipping (Toll House, Reese's, or Heath-flavored, whichever you prefer)

Sprinkles (optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit, and grease a metal cookie sheet. In a medium sized bowl, stir together egg whites, vanilla, cinnamon, flour, and sugar. The batter should be very loose. If not, feel free to add a few drops of water.

Scoop about a tablespoon of batter and pour onto the cookie sheet in a circle. Use the back of a spoon to smooth the circle out and make a thin layer to form a medium sized cookie. Only bake a couple of cookies at a time since they harden quickly upon removal from the oven. Bake cookies for about 6-8 minutes, only until the edges begin to brown.

Remove the cookies from the oven. Then use a thin spatula to remove them from the tray. Immediately place the fortunes in the center and fold the cookie in half. Pinch the open edges inward and together to create the fortune cookie shape. Cookies harden instantly after they are formed, so you want to try to get this right the first time.

After all cookies have been baked and shaped, melt the entire amount of chips in the microwave for about 30 seconds on medium heat. Afterward, dunk the rounded edge of the cooled cookies into the chocolate. Immediately roll in sprinkles, and let harden. Place on parchment paper. Makes about one dozen cookies.

Josie's
Genettis

6 eggs

1 cup vegetable oil

¾ cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1½ teaspoon anise extract

4 cups flour

Confectioner's sugar and nonpareils

Preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Whisk together eggs, and then add vegetable oil, sugar, baking powder, and anise extract to the mixture. Stir together, then add the flour by small amounts until mixture is no longer sticky.

Roll out into a rope and then break out into six-inch long sections that should be about the thickness of a pinky finger. Wrap in coils upward like a beehive, and place on a parchment lined cookie sheet. Bake for 12 minutes or until the bottom is brown. Cool. Cookies can be frozen in an airtight container to be frosted at a later time or can be dipped in a glaze consisting of ½ cup confectioner's sugar with a few drops of water. Keep adding a few drops at a time until it's at the desired consistency. If the glaze is runny, just add more sugar. After topping, sprinkle with nonpareils before the glaze sets. Makes approximately three-dozen cookies.

Grandma Rosa's Braciole

For the rolled meat:

1 pound flank steak

2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

½ cup roughly chopped Italian parsley

3 ounces pesto

¼ cup grated Romano cheese

Salt and pepper

Pound meat to desired thinness. Spread pesto on top of meat. Sprinkle salt, pepper, parsley, and grated cheese over pesto. Roll the meat and secure with butcher's twine.

Pan fry the braciole in olive oil until browned on each side. After meat is thoroughly cooked, submerge the braciole in tomato sauce. Serve over pasta.

Grandma Rosa's Ricotta Cheesecake

1 box of yellow cake mix

2 pounds ricotta cheese, drained (the whole milk kind works best)

4 eggs

¾ cup granulated sugar

¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Prepare the cake mix according to directions on the box, and pour into a 13x9 inch greased pan. Mix together all the other ingredients. Pour ricotta mixture over the cake mix, leaving the outside edge open. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar and cut into cubes.

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Catherine lives in Upstate New York with a male dominated household that consists of her very patient husband, three sons, two cats and dogs. She has wanted to be a writer since the age of eight when she wrote her own version of Cinderella (and fortunately Disney never sued). Catherine holds a B.A. and dual major in English and Performing Arts. She has worn several different hats over the years, including that of secretary, press release writer, newspaper reporter, real estate agent, and most recently auditor. In her spare time she enjoys traveling, shopping, and of course, a good book.

To learn more about Catherine, visit her online at:
http://www.catherinebruns.net

* * * * *

Cookies & Chance Mysteries
:

Tastes Like Murder

Baked to Death (coming soon!)

A Spot of Murder (short story in the
Killer Beach Reads
collection)

Realtor for Hire Mysteries:

Killer Transaction

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this Cookies & Chance Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

DEATH BY SCONES

A DANGER COVE

BAKERY MYSTERY

by

JENNIFER FISCHETTO

&

ELIZABETH ASHBY

CHAPTER ONE

One, two, three dashes of pure lemon extract. I rarely measured when I baked anymore. I'd done it all my life and could eyeball a teaspoon or tablespoon perfectly. I breathed in a deep lungful and smiled. Raw dough smelled of hope and possibilities. The tanginess of the lemon trifecta—extract, juice, and zest—mixed with the olive oil, sugar, and eggs was heaven. Grams swore up and down that it was impossible to smell sugar and that it was the memory of the way it tasted that I thought I smelled, but hogwash. I had the nose of a bloodhound, and I knew the sweet raw scent of the tiniest grain.

I thrust my hips to the right and then the left. The skirt of my black-and-white, polka-dot halter swing dress made a whooshing sound. A glance to the other side of the bakery's kitchen showed me that our full-time baker, Joe, wasn't watching. Good. Food needed to be celebrated, but it didn't mean I wanted an audience. I'd prefer if Joe didn't see me getting jiggy with it this early in the morning.

I turned off the Hobart stand mixer and admired the yellow flecks in the gorgeous, pale batter. This was a new recipe. One that had come to me last night as I crawled into bed.

One of Grams' many friends had a farm in Southern Cali. The family had sent her a crate full of baby spinach last week. It was as if they'd forgotten only the two of us lived in the small, white-shingled house by the beach. We'd been eating spinach for days, and while I loved the tender green leaves, it would go bad before we finished it all. So last night I made a spinach, mushroom, and fontina frittata and a bucket of pesto. We still had enough for lasagna and several vibrant smoothies.

I reached for the container of nut-free pesto, dropped a couple of large dollops into the batter, and mixed just until incorporated.

After filling two jumbo muffin tins, I popped them into the oven, tucked an escaping strand of my long dark hair back into my hair net, and started cleanup. A quick glance at the clock told me I still had an hour before I needed to open the family bakery.
My
bakery!

I thought of the box of party decorations I'd left here yesterday, just waiting to be hung, and I giggled. I had purchased balloons, streamers, and a huge banner that read:
Re-Grand Opening!
Maybe it was cheesy, but it made me smile.

Grams, a.k.a. Cinnamon Templeton, had opened Cinnamon Sugar Bakery twenty years ago. I was ten. She'd built the shop with sweat, tears, and hard work. Not that I'd ever seen Grams cry. Except at Mom's funeral.

Today was the first day of her retirement. She had groomed me all my life and had handed over the keys yesterday afternoon. Today was my first official day as owner.

For my fifth birthday, Santa had gotten me an Easy-Bake Oven. That's when I'd known I'd bake forever. Once I'd run out of packaged mixes, Grams had helped me concoct my own creations. Pretty soon, the tiny pink oven had begun to collect dust in the corner of her kitchen while she and I used her real oven to make bigger, more lavish cakes, cupcakes, and cookies.

She always said, "Riley, dear, you are Cinnamon Sugar's inspiration. If it wasn't for your tiny pink oven, I wouldn't have remembered how much I loved baking with my mother as a child." I was just happy to work in the kitchen and create the delicious treats. I'd never thought about Grams retiring. She was too young for that. But during the last five years, she'd started talking about cruises and trips to Italy and France after she hung up her apron strings, and I started envisioning wearing those strings. Well, the apron too.

The bakery's back doorknob jiggled, and I flinched. Other than Grams or Joe, no one would be here this early or use the delivery entrance. And Grams wasn't in town. She'd left to visit friends last night. Her first official retirement vacation.

"Did you forget to lock it again?" Joe asked and picked up one of our French rolling pins.

He was a big guy. Six feet of bulk and heft and with a jagged scar that ran from the corner of his right brow down to the tip of his nose. He'd been in a knife fight as a teen and said cooking had helped him turn his life around. I loved him. Even when I'd been a kid and he'd first started working here, I'd never once feared him. The rolling pin looked like a toy in his beefy hands, and I had little doubt he'd know how to use it, even though he was up there in age—somewhere between Grams' sixty-nine and my thirty.

I opened my mouth to say I couldn't remember if I'd locked the door but just ended up acting like a fish gulping for air. There was nothing I could say to defend myself. I, Riley Spencer, was absent minded. I was known for forgetting where I placed my phone or keys and not locking up behind me properly. It wasn't an everyday occurrence but usually happened when I was also baking. What could I say? Tossing ingredients into a bowl and whipping up something decadent was foremost on my mind. Luckily, I was also known for my Death by Mocha Brownies.

The door pushed open, and standing on the other side was my best friend since third grade, Tara Fielding. Her straight black hair hung loose. She wore her usual garb of black leggings, black sneakers, and a yellow hoodie. She looked like a bumblebee.

I giggled in my relief that she wasn't an ax-wielding serial killer. Not that there were any serial killers in Danger Cove, Washington, ax-wielding or not.

Joe groaned, but I saw the relief on his face. He went back to rolling out the dough for cinnamon buns.

"Did I miss something?" Tara asked after stepping inside and shutting and locking the door behind her.

I shook my head. No sense in reminding her of my flaws. "What are you doing here so early?"

Tara ran the only dance school in town. She taught some afternoon classes, but most were held in the evening and night. She was not a morning person.

"I wanted to wish you good luck on your first day as boss lady," she said with a tight smile. As much as I believed her words, she was biting the inside of her cheek. This was only half the reason she was here.

I closed the distance between us, in case she didn't want Joe to overhear. "And?"

She glanced away. Something was definitely going on. Tara never shied away from anything. She was my brave rock. The one who held my hand during so many insecure moments. And there had been plenty. What if this was something serious? Oh my gosh, was she sick? She looked healthy. She got plenty of exercise and mostly ate right. Her skin was her normal tanned color, no jaundice or peculiar looking moles, from what I could tell.

The buzzer went off, jerking me out of my train of panic. Joe opened the oven with the oatmeal cookie bars, and I kept my attention on my best friend.

Somehow, in these few short seconds, I'd taken Tara's hesitation and turned it into a ginormous, life-altering problem that would require radiation, chemotherapy, countless cherry-chocolate cupcakes, romantic comedies, and an endless supply of tissues.

I swallowed hard and squeezed her shoulder. "Hey, whatever it is, we can get through it."

She stared me straight in the eye and whispered, "Duncan has a ring."

I blinked repeatedly, allowing my brain time to process her words. Unless he had a fatal case of ringworm, I realized my flair of drama had reared its ugly head. I was so glad I hadn't uttered any of my crazy thoughts.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I spent the night at Duncan's. When he got up to shower this morning, I was rummaging through his dresser…" She pointed a finger in my face. "No judgments."

I smirked and shook my head.

"And I found a small, red velvet box. The kind that house engagement rings."

My heart began to swell but in the opposite way from before. "Well, how many carats? Is it round, square, or ooh, oval?"

She took a step back and scoffed. "How the hell should I know? I didn't open it. I saw the box, slammed the drawer shut, and then hightailed it out of there."

Of course she did. Tara didn't do serious. She preferred her relationships light and fluffy, like meringue. She and Grams were the same in the romance department. I, however, wanted the fantasy. The white picket fence, the dog, and the two-point-five children. Well, actually three, 'cause half a child would be gross.

Duncan Pickles was a journalist for the
Cove Chronicles
, and in stereotypical reporter form, he was one of the more unscrupulous ones. He had a killer nose for news and didn't care how he gathered his information. But he was six feet of blond, blue-eyed, bulging, bronzed perfection, so Tara overlooked his lack of humanity. But they'd only been seeing one another for a month. As far as I knew, it wasn't serious enough for a ring, and Duncan hadn't seemed like a picket fence guy either.

"How would you feel if Will got down on bended knee this afternoon?" she asked.

Will Hendrickson and I had only been on four dates, so I immediately got her point.

I pulled her farther into the room and pulled out a stool at one of the steel counters. Then I went to the coffeemaker and poured her a cup. Joe glanced at me from the corner of his eye. He was too much of a gentleman to act like he'd heard our conversation, but I believed otherwise. I was certain he'd collected and stored bits of gossip over the years. All the times Tara and I cheered or cried over boys, college, and just life. But not once had he ever mentioned any of it to Grams.

Joe had been with Cinnamon Sugar Bakery since the first day, and despite never sharing holidays together, Grams and I considered him family.

I set the mug and a pint of half-and-half in front of Tara. She drank the stuff without sugar. I wasn't sure how. It was too bitter that way for me. I sat beside her. "So now what are you going to do?"

"Not see him anymore, of course."

Duncan was slimy, and Tara deserved better, commitment or no commitment, but I wondered if she was reacting too harshly. Plus, a tiny part of me felt sad for Duncan. Slimy or not, getting dumped sucked.

"Maybe it's an empty box," I said and waited for her to scoff.

She didn't though. She just stared into her cup. "We haven't been together long enough for him to propose."

There was my level-headed friend.

"Exactly. It was probably a misunderstanding. I mean, it's not like he got down on one knee."

She lifted the right side of her top lip. "What if he has someone on the side, and it's for her?"

Oh gosh, that wasn't any better. And technically, if this other supposed woman was the one he planned to marry, then wouldn't that have made Tara "the one on the side"? But I had no plans to voice that.

"I wouldn't worry about that," I said.

She stared at the wall across the room and had a faraway look in her eye. "Yeah, you're right. I won't."

I considered leaning forward to check her forehead for a fever. Tara never let go of a situation that quickly. Being a Virgo, she tended to become obsessive about some things. It usually started out from concern or analyzing something, and before you knew it, she couldn't let it go.

She sipped her coffee and changed the subject. "So what new concoction have you created?" She knew me well too. "Don't try to deny it. You wouldn't be here so early if your brain wasn't buzzing with a new recipe."

I chuckled and glanced at the timer. Eight minutes to go. "Lemon pesto muffins."

She grimaced. "Why on earth?"

"What? They'll be delish. I know my flavor profiles. You'll see."

She continued looking skeptical.

Grams never understood my desire to blend unconventional ingredients. It started a few years back while watching
Cupcake Wars
on the Food Network. Something about adding oysters to a cupcake really inspired me. Although that was bizarre, even for me.

Tara clapped her hands together. "So how are we celebrating your re-grand opening tonight? Where do you and Grams want to go? My treat."

Joe slid a tray of cinnamon buns into the oven and set the timer.

"Grams won't be joining us," I said.

"Why not?"

"She went to visit a friend in Seattle last night."

Tara's eyebrows shot up. "Last night? She couldn't wait one more day?"

I shrugged, not wanting to get sentimental, but the truth was that part of me wanted to cry. Grams didn't see today as a big deal like I did. I'd been working here since high school, so what was another Friday? But it was huge to me. Yeah, I knew it would be just a regular day, busy in the morning and then tapering off until a lunch crowd gathered. Some part of me, though, felt like it was my birthday, and I had the decorations to confirm that. Maybe I wouldn't be blowing out candles, but there was plenty of cake. And Grams not being here felt lonely.