Tastes Like Murder (Cookies & Chance Mysteries Book 1) (27 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Oh my God, this wasn't happening!

Panic swelled in my chest. For a second I was frozen, stuck to the cement, and I couldn't breathe or think. Fear ping-ponged throughout my body, hitting each organ and blood vessel on its way from my roots to my toes. Then one of the townsfolk looked in my direction, and I snapped out of my trance.

As I hurried inside, my first thought was,
Why are they traveling down the street in a herd
? This was like a B movie—or a nightmare, but as far as I knew, I was awake.

I ran past the tables and slid on the shiny floor while turning into the kitchen. I stared at the trays of cookie bars, muffins, and brownies, all cooling down so they'd be ready for this afternoon's crowd. Plans suddenly changed.

I reached for a silver tray, set a sheet of parchment paper on top, and grabbed a knife. If we were going to do this, I couldn't cut into the profit too much. And I could bake another batch of whatever we gave away. I slid the knife into a brownie, cutting it into four bite-sized pieces.

Amber followed me into the kitchen. She stood near the door, watching me wide eyed. "What are we going to do?"

"Get a tray and a knife and get working. Cut the desserts down into smaller pieces. We'll serve this as their free samples."

My gaze spotted the cinnamon buns Joe had recently made. Their dough required proofing. If I handed them out now, I wouldn't have time to make more later. "Only cut bars, muffins, and cupcakes."

Amber followed my instructions. "Wouldn't it be easier to tell them the e-mail is a fluke?"

I nearly sliced off the tip of my finger and willed myself to slow down. "If I wait until everyone is in here and then tell them 'Sorry, it was just a joke,' we'll look like a couple of idiots. You know how people like free stuff. I don't want to tarnish our reputation." Especially when I didn't have Grams to smooth any ruffled feathers. She was exceptionally good at persuading people to see things her way.

Amber nodded. "You're right."

As we filled each tray with miniature samples, we rushed them out to the four tables. Back and forth from the kitchen to the front of the store, and by the time we were done, sweat trickled down my back, and I panted like a dog. I glanced down to my dress, making sure I wasn't covered in flour or crumbs.

After a semi-thorough inspection, I stood in front of the counter, feet together, hands clenched behind my back, and I plastered a welcome smile onto my face.

The bell above the door jingled. They'd arrived.

The first person to enter was Mallory Winchester. She was a PTA mom, and her youngest daughter took a couple of dance classes at Tara's studio. She wore black yoga pants and jacket, a light-blue top, and white sneakers. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. She gave a tight-lipped smile and walked over to the tables, seemingly hesitant about taking one of the items.

I didn't know her well—just what I'd observed over the years. You didn't hang out with her unless you wanted your conversation plastered around town. She was very generous and community-minded though. A gossip with a heart of gold was what Grams called her.

After her entrance, everyone else entered in a blur. The small bakery filled almost immediately. The crowd was so thick that I couldn't see the front windows anymore. Bodies even extended past the register and front door, to the narrow corridor that led to the public restroom.

This had to be a fire hazard, but I had no intention of commenting and possibly getting trampled. If the fire marshal showed up… Well, I just prayed he wouldn't.

"Welcome, everyone," I shouted, but no one seemed to hear me.

I looked to Amber, and we exchanged a fleeting glance of panic. I stepped behind the counter, wanting to get out of the way and to get ready for all of the orders we'd ring up. One taste of our baked goods always left people wanting more. My mind drifted to the e-mail. Who had sent it out? Certainly not Grams. If she had, she would've told me about it. And she had never done anything like this before.

She wasn't a believer in freebies. She felt everything should be worked for in some way, even if it meant bartering. I didn't agree with her, especially in this day and age. Sometimes you had to give away a sample so people knew how good your product was. She'd be mortified if she knew what was happening in her store right now.

But it wasn't her store anymore.

The left side of my mouth rose. I could do whatever I wanted. She'd made it perfectly clear that handing over the keys meant I was fully in charge, and she was no longer responsible for any of it. I could get up on the counter, strip, and sell dollar bills for a quarter, if I wanted to. Not that I would be that foolish. There wasn't enough room on any of the counters.

Mallory finally acknowledged my presence. She glanced my way, raised her half-cookie bar, and smiled. "These are excellent, Riley."

I nodded, smiled, and went in for the sell. "None of the recipes have changed. These are all mine and Cinnamon's original creations. I will be adding some new variations over time, but they will all remain nut and preservative free."

Amber had been just over a year old when Grams gave her a small bite of a peanut butter cookie. Amber's chubby, pale face and neck broke out in bright-red hives. We'd discovered she had a peanut allergy, and Grams removed all nut traces from the bakery.

A trio of older women in pastel-colored tracksuits smiled and nodded while chewing. I could never remember their names, Bitty, Batty, Babs, something. Despite the fact that they were also in their midsixties, Grams wasn't close to them. Their idea of a hot night out was bingo at the church, while Grams preferred salsa dancing. But Grams loved talking to them and making a big deal out of their arrival every time they came into the bakery. She said everyone who entered deserved to feel special, and Grams was the queen of small talk. While she preferred spending her days surrounded by people, I preferred cozying up to the flour, eggs, and sugar. They were more predictable. And delicious.

The shortest woman, in yellow, swallowed fast and said, "Tell Cinnamon we'll miss seeing her spunk when we come in here. It won't be the same without her."

Amber snorted.

The woman in pink swatted her friend's arm and whispered, "That's rude."

I just smiled. I was no Cinnamon Templeton, ex-Playboy bunny, charismatic Leo, and sweet talker. I knew this. I just hoped people stopped in more for the cupcakes than seeing Grams.

A tall, younger woman stepped forward. She had a sleeping infant strapped to her chest in one of those Babyb
jö
rn contraptions. She pointed to the banana muffins in the display. "How many calories are in a whole muffin? And what about the fat grams? Do you cook with butter or applesauce, because applesauce has fewer calories?"

She was aware this was a bakery, right?

"Everything is preservative free and made from scratch, but we don't calculate calories, and we use unsalted butter, olive oil, and canola oil, depending on the recipe," I said.

She looked downright offended, as if I'd just said her newborn was fugly.

Amber stepped forward. "Bakeries are fun. They're not supposed to be about calories and fat. It's a treat."

That didn't help. The woman huffed and turned back to the crowd.

I raised a brow to my cousin. She smiled.

When I'd started working here full time after college, I asked Grams about offering items on the menu that were more health conscious. I hadn't cared if our items were made with real, unsalted butter, or applesauce, but I'd had some classmates who severely restricted themselves and wouldn't go near a grain of sugar. Grams had refused to tamper with our recipes, a few of which were handed down from her own grandmother. I understood that. They were awesome recipes.

The bell above the door jingled again, and I turned my attention to it, as did everyone else.

Chatter lulled as an older man stepped into the bakery.

Immediately, everyone grew silent, as if their talking was controlled by a switch. They all seemed shocked, standing with their half-eaten muffins and cookies in hand. A gasp echoed from within the crowd.

What was the big deal? Who was he?

As if reading my mind, he turned and stared at me. He was a squat man, barely five eight or so, and close to three hundred pounds. He sported a thick white crop of bed hair, a wrinkled, light-blue button-down, and gray trousers that were so tight he had to fasten them below his bulging belly.

"Who is he?" I whispered to Amber.

Eyes wide, she shrugged.

One of the Bitty-Batty women leaned toward me. "That's Nathan Dearborn," she whispered so softly I almost didn't hear her.

Seriously?

I'd never met the man, but I knew of him. Everyone did.

Nathan Dearborn was Danger Cove's resident recluse and grouch. He lived in one of the huge houses up on Craggy Hill. He was wealthy, although I wasn't sure how. I wasn't aware of a job, but maybe he'd inherited it. I didn't know much about him personally, but his house was the one you didn't knock on for trick-or-treating at Halloween.

He came farther into the bakery, and the sea of people parted. Several of them stepped away and walked closer to the counters. They whispered about what he was doing here. We all seemed to have the same thoughts. As far as I knew, he didn't go out much, and I'd never seen him in the bakery before.

He squeezed his way through the crowd and stopped when he reached the register. The way he gazed at me raised the hairs at the back of my neck. It wasn't threatening or creepy, just odd. Like he wanted to say something or expected me to. Maybe he needed to place an order and hadn't expected the crowd.

"Can I help you?" I asked with a smile.

He leaned forward and cleared his throat. "Where should we do this?"

Oh my God, do what exactly? I hoped he hadn't considered that to be flirting. No. Nobody would think that line was romantic, not even a recluse.

I must've widened my eyes or showed my confusion and slight disgust, because he flinched and stood straight. Then he glanced around, noticed everyone staring, and shouted, "Get back to stuffing your faces, and mind your damn business."

Everyone did exactly as told. Buzzing chatter resumed, and although they tried to pretend Nathan wasn't there, they continued to glance at him from their peripheral vision or from beneath their lashes. It was covert but still obvious.

He didn't look at me again. Instead, he walked to the closest table, picked up something, and shoved it into his mouth.

I knew most of the people who resided in this town during the off-season. I'd lived here all my life. There were a few newer residents I wasn't familiar with, like that calorie-counting new mom, but if you'd lived here for at least ten years, chances were that I pretty much knew you. That wasn't the case with Nathan Dearborn though. Probably because he had the reputation of being as mean and stubborn as wine stains and never interacted with anyone. Why would anyone send him an invite, and more importantly, why would he show up?

One of the older women said, "What's he doing here?" She turned to me. "Did you invite him?"

I opened my mouth, not sure what to say. I hadn't invited any of them. I shook my head. "I didn't send out the e-mail."

They frowned. My name was on the e-mail. But they didn't push it. They went back to the table of cookies.

For the next fifteen minutes, people talked, ate, used the restroom, and someone had the audacity to ask for a bottled water…for free. Instead, Amber served hot coffee, which seemed to please the masses. And I tried not to calculate the money flying out the door. I hated thinking about money, but I no longer had Grams' persuasive and electric personality if needed.

Finally people started to trickle out of the bakery. And as they left, I cringed at the mess they'd left behind. I didn't want to think about how we hadn't made one sale. Not one.

Mallory, the PTA mom, stopped at the register, and my heart swelled. Would she buy something? "Riley, everything was superb. I'll be sure to tell all of my friends. Thank you for inviting me."

"You're welcome," I said with a half smile. Hopefully her recommendation would create future sales, and today's loss wouldn't be a big deal.

She waved and stepped into the crowd headed for the door.

Then suddenly Mrs. Hendrickson was standing there. She startled me because her short, dark-blonde hair was slicked back in a very '50s John Travolta from
Grease
kinda way. Normally, she simply kept the sides tucked behind her ears. What was she doing here so early? Her shift didn't start until three.

Karen Hendrickson was the bakery's night manager. She was a couple of years Grams' junior, and they'd been friends forever. She was also the grandmother of Will Hendrickson, the man I'd gone on four dates with. He and I weren't super close yet, but he was definitely a white picket fence kinda guy.

She eyed the empty trays and scattered crumbs. She turned to me with a frown. "I was driving by and noticed the mob. What's going on?"

"I'm not exactly sure. Some e-mail went out about free samples. Do you know who sent it?" I asked, even though I couldn't have imagined it had come from any of us. The bakery employed three full-time people—me, Joe, and Mrs. Hendrickson—and two part-time ones, Amber and another girl who helped out on the busier nights. The only ones who would've felt they had a right to send out that e-mail was Grams or me.