Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  Winifred’s palm finds its way to the small of my back. “Be brave,” she reminds me.

  And suddenly, my feet find themselves clearing the small gap between us. My anxiety spikes as I hold on to Logan’s arm. I can only hope my most harrowing days are behind me.

  Logan and I walk through the ceiling of twinkle lights, under the bright glow of Sweetwater Falls’ rising moon.

  “Murder aside, are you glad you came to Sweetwater Falls?” he asks me as we approach the ring toss booth.

  I take a chance and blink up at him, noting that his stunning features only look more heroic and noble when illuminated by twinkle lights. “Murder aside, Sweetwater Falls just might be my new favorite place.”

  I have never belonged anywhere. Not really. But as Logan pays for two rounds of ring tossing, I realize that, surrounded by these cooky townspeople and all of their quirks, I just might have found my true home.

  The End

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  24

  Vanilla Cardamom Cupcake

  From the cozy mystery novel Vanilla Vengeance

  by Molly Maple

  “It’s a vanilla bean cupcake with a vanilla bean cardamom glaze, topped with Italian meringue that was made with vanilla bean and cardamom sugar.”

  -Vanilla Vengeance

  Ingredients for the Cupcake:

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  1¼ tsp baking powder

  ½ tsp salt

  ½ cup unsalted butter, softened

  ¾ cup granulated sugar

  2 large eggs, room temperature

  1 tsp pure vanilla extract

  1 vanilla pod, divided

  ½ cup buttermilk, plain yogurt or vanilla yogurt, room temperature

  Instructions for the Cupcake:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F and line a cupcake pan with cupcake liners.

  In a medium bowl, sift together 1¼ cups flour, 1¼ tsp baking powder, and ½ tsp salt. Set flour mix aside.

  In a large bowl, use a mixer to beat the butter and sugar on medium speed for three minutes. Beat until shiny, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed.

  Take your vanilla pod and split it lengthwise down the center with a paring knife. Then take your knife and scrape the seeds from the middle. Add half the pod’s worth of seeds into the butter mixture. Reserve the other half for the frosting and glaze.

  Add eggs one at a time while the mixer runs on low speed. Add 1 tsp pure vanilla extract. Mix until smooth.

  With the mixer on low speed, add the flour mixture in thirds, alternating with the yogurt. Mix to incorporate with each addition, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Beat until just combined.

  Divide the batter into your 12-count lined cupcake pan, filling each one 2/3 the way full.

  Bake for 20-24 minutes at 350°F, or until a toothpick stuck in the center comes out clean.

  Let them cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack. Cool to room temperature before frosting.

  Ingredients for the Glaze:

  Less than ½ cup water

  2½ cups white sugar

  13 cardamom pods

  The other half of the vanilla pod

  Instructions for the Glaze:

  Take the other half of the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into your food processor.

  Shell your cardamom pods easily by lying them flat on your cutting board, laying your knife atop them, and smacking the flat of the blade with your fist. The pods will crack, exposing the rows of seeds inside when you open the pods. Add the seeds (not the shells) to the food processor.

  Pulse the two ingredients together until the pods are broken to a powder.

  Add the white sugar to the food processor and pulse a few times, making sure not to overmix. You do not want this to become powdered sugar yet.

  Take out 1½ cups of the perfumed sugar and set aside for the frosting.

  Now pulse the remaining sugar mixture in your food processor until the perfumed white sugar becomes powdered sugar.

  Sift the processed powdered sugar into a small mixing bowl. Going slowly, add water two teaspoons at a time, mixing with a spatula until your desired glaze consistency forms.

  Dip the tops of your cooled cupcakes into the glaze, or drizzle over top. Then set back on the wire rack to cool.

  Ingredients for the Frosting:

  1½ cups of your vanilla cardamom sugar

  1/3 cup water

  5 egg whites

  ½ tsp cream of tartar

  Instructions for the Frosting:

  Combine your 1½ cups of perfumed sugar mixture in a medium saucepan with 1/3 cup of water. Over medium heat, stir steadily until the sugar dissolves, forming a glassy glaze (it should reach 240°F).

  In a clean, dry, large mixing bowl, whip your 5 egg whites with ½ tsp cream of tartar on medium speed until soft peaks form.

  In a steady stream while the mixer is on high speed, pour the sugar glaze down the side of the bowl. The meringue should still be warm while holding its shape. Whip until you reach your desired consistency (usually somewhere between soft peaks and stiff peaks).

  Place a dollop of the Italian meringue on your cooled cupcake and serve.

  Marshmallow Murder

  Enjoy a free preview of Marshmallow Murder,

  book two in the Cupcake Crimes series.

  Marshmallow Murder

  Marshmallow Murder Preview

  Chapter One

  It’s not easy being new to a town as small and close-knit as Sweetwater Falls. But in the few months I have lived here, I am lucky enough to have made some truly fantastic friends. Coming from a big city where everything moved fast and didn’t stick around long, life in Sweetwater Falls is a welcome change of pace.

  Though, I did not foresee stumbling onto a dead body my first day in town.

  I am new at most things around here, but as I flip the menu over and scrub it down, it is clear to me that waiting tables will always be old hat.

  Bill’s Diner isn’t exactly what anyone would consider fine dining, but a waitressing job pays what little bills I have, so I can’t complain too much. It shouldn’t matter that this place isn’t my dream. I’m sure most people don’t work a job that makes them come alive. The oldies music playing over the loudspeaker does the opposite of putting pep in my step.

  But I swear, every time I serve a piece of pie that tastes like the box it was shipped here in, a little part of my soul dies. For one brief week, I had an arrangement with the Spaghetti Scarf restaurant. But after the debacle I was involved in with the previous owner—finding him dead and then getting far too deep into solving his murder—I have been informed my culinary services are no longer needed.

  I am a baker, as I have told Bill several times before. But he is not interested in my baking skills, only my waitressing ability.

  The fact that it is dead in here this morning doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the current menu. This place looks straight out of the fifties, complete with a juke box in the corner. The booths are always in need of a wipe down, but no matter how many times I scrub them clean, the restaurant always looks worn and outdated.

  Bill comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a once-white towel. He tucks it into the apron that’s cinched around his pooched belly. Bill glances around the diner and sighs. “It’s the summer slump. Everyone is outside doing outdoor things.”

  “Maybe if you fixed the air conditioning, people would stay longer while they eat.” It’s meant to be said as a legitimate suggestion, but the way I mumble it makes me sound like I am being passive-aggressive.

  Bill raises a bushy eyebrow at me but doesn’t comment on my feedback. When the phone rings, he doesn’t move to answer it. He stares me down until I pick up the receiver.

  I guess when the hostess is sent home early, the only waitress on the clock is supposed to answer the phones. “Bill’s Diner,” I say, trying to sound chipper and inviting.

 
“I’d like to order a burger and fries to…” The person with a muffled voice rattles off the address.

  “Sure thing. Would you like to add a side of applesauce for a dollar?” I hate upselling. It makes me feel dirty. But Bill insists we do it, and he is currently standing within earshot.

  “That’s fine. What’s the name on the order?”

  “Amos Vandermuth.”

  I smile, grateful whenever I hear a name I know. “Oh, hi, Amos. It’s Charlotte. How are you? You sound like you’re coming down with a cold or something.”

  “Huh? I’m fine. I’ll pay when you get here.”

  I’ll bet you will. The man likes to argue over every penny that passes through his crooked fingers. Just last month, he was haggling over the two-dollar entry ticket to the Twinkle Lights Festival, claiming he shouldn’t have to pay anything, since his tax dollars go to the town anyway.

  I mean, honestly.

  I put in the order to Bill, who shuffles his feet when he walks back into the kitchen, no doubt wishing for a larger party.

  When the front door chimes, Bill zips back out, hopeful that more customers have forsaken the outdoors so they can sweat in here. “Oh. You. You’re ordering something, right?” His skin is reddened—from the heat or from his natural coloring, I’m never quite sure.

  My best friend shoots Bill a wry look. “I’m here on my break to see your best waitress. I’ll have a strawberry milkshake and two straws.”

  I grin at Marianne, grateful to see her face. She’s tugging on one of her two brown braids, which I know means she’s thinking hard about something.

  “I’m taking my break, Bill!” I tear off my apron and scamper to our favorite booth—the one in the far corner that smells least of French fry oil. Though, no matter how hard I try to steer clear of the stench, I always have to dart into the shower the second I get home.

  I love that my Aunt Winifred’s house has started to feel like a home to me.

  Marianne slides into our usual booth of choice, her shoulders slumped.

  “What’s got you down, babe?” I ask, my elbows propped on the table.

  “The library needs more funding to update our catalog, but of course, there’s no money in the city’s budget for it. The library doesn’t get enough traffic coming in and out, they say, so they can’t increase the budget to get new books. It’s either fix the leak in the roof or buy new books.” She tilts her chin back to let out a loud, exasperated moan. “Of course, with no new books this year at all, why would anyone come in? Not everyone loves the classics as much as I do.”

  No one loves the classics as much as Marianne. She always carries a book in her purse to read in her down time.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I take in the slumped nature of her petite frame. “Who can we harass to make this happen?”

  “The town selectman isn’t exactly open to suggestions on how he should spend the town’s budget. At least that’s what he told me when I tried yesterday.”

  My mouth pulls to the side in a frown. “Is this something we should stick the Live Forever Club on? Aunt Winifred, Karen and Agnes don’t exactly take no for an answer.”

  Our favorite elderly ladies have a penchant for causing the best kind of trouble.

  “They are busy putting together their roulette tournament. I don’t want to bother them about books.” The way she says it makes it sound like she is losing some of her passion for her favorite escape.

  I reach across the table and place my hand atop hers. “You aren’t bothering anybody ever. What’s going on? This isn’t you.”

  Though I have only known her for a few months, I feel confident in claiming that truth aloud.

  She rests her forehead atop the table. “I was hoping to buy all the books on the community center ladies’ book club list. The As the Page Turns club members are always asking for the year’s newest releases.”

  “That’s really the book club’s name? That’s cute.”

  “I love that they make it such a priority to read. To not be able to do this one thing for them feels like I let down the entire town. But there literally isn’t any room in the budget.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I remind her, squeezing her wrist.

  “I am the head librarian. It has to be someone’s fault. The buck stops with me. I can be frustrated with the town selectman, sure, but maybe I didn’t push hard enough. Maybe I didn’t budget well enough.” She picks her head up, only to bang it over and over on the tabletop. “I know that’s not it. Not a penny gets wasted. I had Amos Vandermuth go over my books again just last week to see if we could squeeze any additional funds that might have been misspent.”

  I chuckle at the idea of the old, crotchety miser sitting down with the spunky librarian while they pour over ledgers. “Did he have any good insight?” I place my hand over her head, so she stops banging it.

  Marianne picks up her head but keeps her chin low to the table. “My budget passed the Vandermuth test, so I know it’s solid. The money just isn’t there, and it isn’t coming.”

  My lips purse as I share in her frustration. “We’ll think of something.”

  Bill calls from the back. “Carryout order up!”

  I narrow my eyes at his form that peeks out through the half window. “I’m on break, and I’m not your delivery girl. I’m your waitress.”

  Bill points at me with a dirty wooden spoon. “You’re my carryout girl until we get some hungry customers in here. Address is on the bag.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I murmur. “Feel like going on a delivery with me?”

  Marianne sits up. Her olive skin is slightly rosy in the center of the forehead where she was banging it on the tabletop. “Sure. If you feel like replacing the radio on your drive with my whining.”

  “Music to my ears.” I grab up the carryout bag, my purse and her milkshake to go.

  The sunshine is warm and welcoming, if not a little too hot as we step outside. There is no breeze, so the air is stagnant and soupy. Still, I don’t mind the discomfort because I love the sunshine on my skin. I can practically feel the vitamin D soaking into my pours, lifting my spirits as natural happiness is supposed to do. Enough sunshine, and maybe my blonde hair will lighten a few shades naturally.

  Marianne remains glum, but she still makes for good company while we drive the eight minutes to Amos Vandermuth’s home.

  I have never been here before, but the one-story abode couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else. The tall man in his seventies has a hooked nose and a scowl that I’m guessing he was born wearing. His brown cardigan was ratty and unkempt when I saw him last, and his lawn matches perfectly.

  I kinda like the guy, angry though he always is. Marianne is closer to him, though. She tolerates his gruff, miser ways better than most.

  I am not expecting a tip on this order. I’ll be lucky if he pays for it without a fight.

  Marianne is my shadow as I trot to the front door and ring the bell, which of course, doesn’t work. The porch is cracked. The gray shutter is hanging at an odd angle. The window is opened and flies are filtering in and out like they are frequenting an all you can eat buffet.

  “I hate that he lives like this,” Marianne comments, though not with an ounce of judgment, only compassion. “I came over last week to help him get his garbage can out of the garage because it had fallen over and he couldn’t manage it. Didn’t look much better then.”

  No one comes to the door, but I don’t fidget too much while we wait. I figure when I am in my seventies, I will need people to be patient with me getting anywhere.

  Marianne curls one of my blonde locks around her finger, seeing if she can make it spiral without a hot iron. “Do you think he forgot he ordered food?”

  I shrug and ring the doorbell again. “I would just leave it, but he didn’t pay. He said he would pay when I dropped it off.”

  When it is clear no one is coming, yet his golf cart is in the driveway, Marianne reaches out and turns the knob.

&nbs
p; “What?” she asks of my scandalized gasp. “No one locks their doors in Sweetwater Falls. It’s a very safe town.”

  “Right. Where the only people breaking in are librarians.”

  “I’m just checking on him.” She opens the door and cranes her neck inside. “Amos? Amos, it’s Marianne. Are you alright?”

  I lean forward too, because in my mind, I am not officially breaking and entering if the door isn’t locked, and I don’t actually step a toe inside.

  I’m not sure how solid my logic is, but that caution is overridden when a pungent stench hits my nose. “Oh, what is that?”

  Marianne gags. “I don’t know. His trash isn’t that old. I just took it out for him last week.”

  “Maybe his refrigerator broke.” Amos is the type to not replace a broken appliance even if his house smells like rotting garbage. Spending money is worse than a bad stench in his mind.

  Marianne calls his name twice before the flies find us. There is a buzzing coming from the back of the house. Apparently, Marianne takes that as an invitation to come inside. “Amos, it’s me. Are you alright?”

  She veers away from the flies and goes toward the room to the left, which I am guessing is the bedroom.

  I, however, am too curious not to investigate the source of the horrid smell.

  I call out his name once more before my footsteps falter and then come to a stupefied stop.

  “Marianne!” I mean to shout for my best friend, but my voice loses all sound. Over and over, I say her name, hoping she will come in here and tell me that what I am seeing cannot possibly be real.

  I’m cold all over, frightened because there is no way to undo what has been done.

  The flies have found their feast, alright, but not in a broken fridge.