Maple Syrup Mysteries Box Set 2: Books 4-6

by Emily James

  Geez, she really shouldn’t scare someone who’d been released from the hospital early that way. My poor poisoned heart couldn’t take it. “That sounds like a good thing.”

  She chewed the corner of her bottom lip and shook her head rapidly. “I’m not stupid, and I had a lot of time to think last night. Drew wouldn’t be dead”—she shoved the word out like it wouldn’t have come unless she forced it—“if I hadn’t been so mad about the whole Amy thing. I shouldn’t get that money. Mrs. Harris should keep it, or she should give it to Amy and her dad.”

  Warmth filled my chest. That showed more maturity than I would have expected from Holly. I could see now what Nancy meant when she said Holly was more than she seemed and that she just needed some time to grow up. Drew must have seen it, too, and that’s why he loved her so much.

  “Drew’s mom will be happier to see you go to school than she would be to have the money. I’ve talked to her a little bit, and what she wants most is to know that Drew’s life counted for something. If you went to school and graduated and lived a full life, she could take joy in it because she’d feel like Drew made something good possible.”

  Holly gave one of those slow I’m-not-sure-I’m-convinced nods.

  She wasn’t going to be able to take the money and also overcome the guilt inside. “Could you give some of the money to the Powerses and still have enough to pay for at least your first year?”

  Her nod gained confidence. “I think that would make Drew happy.”

  I ushered her toward the door before she could second-guess herself. “I think so, too.”

  She threw another hug at me, and we met her family outside. Nancy dropped me off as requested.

  Grant didn’t come out to greet me when I entered Cavanaugh Funeral Home. He was probably meeting with a bereaved family. I was familiar enough with where Mark’s office was anyway that I didn’t really need an escort. It’s not like I’d go poking around in their freezer anyway. Shudder.

  Two male voices drifted out through Mark’s office door. I’d recognize the tone of Mark’s voice anywhere. The other one had a similar timber—probably Grant.

  I knocked while opening the door. If they were talking dead-body business, that would give them enough warning to stop.

  The door hit something solid, and a woman screeched. I let go of the doorknob, but my feet refused to move. The screech sounded much too much like…

  The door opened, and Mrs. Cavanaugh stood inside, one hand covering her nose. Grant sat on one corner of Mark’s desk, his mouth gaping open. Mark perched on the other side. He looked a bit like he might be choking. Or trying not to laugh. I wasn’t entirely sure which. It might have been a little of both.

  If there was any justice in the world, a hole would have opened up in the floor and swallowed me. That it didn’t was yet another proof that life wasn’t fair.

  “There are easier ways to keep from having to spend time with your boyfriend’s mother, sweetie, I promise.” Mrs. Cavanaugh rubbed her nose, but a half smile that looked eerily similar to her son’s twisted her lips. “I tried enough of them in my younger days that I should know.”

  The heat that flamed into my cheeks could have roasted marshmallows. Mark was definitely laughing now.

  If I became a permanent part of the Cavanaugh family one day, I was never, ever going to live this down.

  Bonus Recipe: Hot Mess Butter Tarts

  INGREDIENTS:

  16-18 unbaked tart shells (depending on the size of the shell)

  1 cup raisins

  3/4 cup brown sugar

  1/4 cup softened butter

  2 eggs

  1/2 cup maple sugar

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  1 pinch salt

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

  Set the frozen tart shells on a large baking sheet.

  Add raisins to the tart shells.

  In a medium-sized bowl, beat together the brown sugar and butter with an electric mixer until smooth.

  Whisk in all the remaining ingredients.

  Fill the tart shells about 3/4 of the way. (They puff up when you cook them and if you fill them more than that, they’ll bubble over when you cook them.)

  Bake until the tart shells are golden brown and the filling sets, about 16-20 minutes. If your oven doesn’t cook evenly, turn the baking sheet halfway through to help with even baking.

  Cool and eat.

  MAKES 16-18 tarts.

  For my dad—the original man in my life with dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

  I never lie because I don’t fear anyone. You only lie when you’re afraid.

  John Gotti

  1

  Hearing my mother’s voice on the phone was the last thing I’d expected when I grabbed my cell off my kitchen counter. In my focus on the maple syrup candy I was—unsuccessfully—attempting to make, I must have read the caller ID wrong.

  “Nicole?” my mom said. “Are you still there?”

  I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder, but it was too late. The maple syrup still on my fingers smeared all over both the back and the screen. That was going to be fun to clean off. “I’m still here. I thought the phone said The Sunburnt Arms, so I was expecting the owner.”

  “It probably did. This town is like the cell phone version of the Bermuda Triangle. I couldn’t get a signal, so I used the phone in my room.”

  I let go of my spatula, turned around, and leaned my head into my hand. Either some sort of weird inhaled sugar-fume high was muddling my brain or my mom had said she was here in Fair Haven, Michigan, rather than home in Virginia, where she belonged.

  “You’re where?” I croaked out.

  “It’s rude not to pay attention when someone is speaking to you.” Her voice carried the exasperated I-raised-you-better tone I knew so well. “I’m in Room 3. I’ll need you to meet me here. I don’t want to drive out to that farm on my own. My GPS had me on unpaved roads with no street lights when I came in last night.”

  I didn’t know whether to comment on the fact that she didn’t need streetlights now since it was the middle of the day or that she’d called Sugarwood that farm. Like it hadn’t been my business for over six months now, and like she still didn’t know that I made maple syrup rather than raising pigs.

  Knowing how my mother would respond to either of those observations, though, I swallowed down both responses.

  Besides, I had a bigger problem. My mother didn’t make jokes. She was really here. Unannounced, and expecting me to come right this moment to pick her up.

  The stench of something burning registered in my brain.

  I spun around. Black smoke curled from my pot. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I disconnected the call, tossed my phone on the counter, and grabbed the pot off the heat. The contents had turned a charcoal color. I tried to pull out my spatula, but the whole pot lifted with it. I dropped the pot into the sink. It clanged so loud that Velma barked softly in her sleep.

  I moved my hands up to ruffle through my hair but stopped before I got syrup in my hair as well as on my phone. I ran my gaze over the disaster that passed for my kitchen—I was 0 for 3 at trying to follow Nancy’s detailed recipe for making maple syrup candy—to the Bullmastiff snoring on my couch and the Great Dane on the floor among the remnants of her “indestructible” toy. There was no way I’d have time to clean my house up. I’d be lucky to clean myself up. And my laundry baskets full of unfolded, unsorted clothes were sitting on the bed in the guest room.

  At least I could hide those in my own bedroom before I left.

  I tucked the dogs into their crates, threw on a pair of clothes not covered in baking residue, and snagged my light jacket off the hook by the door on my way to my car. Despite seeing locals out in t-shirts, the May sunshine wasn’t warm enough to go coatless, in my opinion. Maybe after I’d been here a few years I’d acclimate, but I
wasn’t betting anything valuable on it.

  I waited for my phone to sync to my car’s Bluetooth and then called Mark. The egg-sized knot in my stomach grew into a watermelon. My parents needed to meet Mark eventually. I couldn’t have put it off forever. I’d just hoped for a little longer before they weighed in on our relationship.

  He answered with a smile to his voice. It was one of the many things I loved about our relationship—no matter why I called, he always sounded happy to hear from me. And I’d thrown quite a few unpleasant phone calls his way over our time together, so that was saying something.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t consider this call one of the unpleasant ones.

  “So I got a surprise phone call this morning,” I said.

  A slight rustling noise came across the line as if he were filing papers while we talked. “Good surprise or bad?”

  “Depends.” In my ideal scenario, we’d have dated a few more months and then we would have taken a trip to DC. Maybe we’d have even waited until we were engaged. But my parents always had their own idea of how things should work, and the definition of no in their dictionary was try harder. “How do you feel about meeting my mom?”

  He chuckled. “I’m ready if you are. Are they coming for a visit?”

  You could say that. Except for the tense. “How do you feel about meeting my mom tomorrow?”

  “What?” This time he sounded more like I’d said aliens had invaded—mostly disbelief mingled with a touch of barely concealed panic.

  If I hadn’t been driving, I would have squished my eyes shut. “My mom called me a few minutes ago from The Sunburnt Arms. I’m on my way there to meet her.”

  Mark let out a whoosh of air. “Are they both here, or just your mom?”

  I hadn’t asked, but it’d sounded like my mom was alone. She would have mentioned if my dad was with her. He hadn’t spoken to me in months. He had no more to say to the daughter who’d disappointed him so completely than he did to the brother who’d done the same. My Uncle Stan had died without them reconciling.

  The same might end up being true of me. I’d done what I could to bridge the gap between us, but my dad couldn’t forgive me for leaving DC and my career as a criminal defense attorney.

  The weight in my chest felt like I was being run over by my car rather than riding in it. “It’s just my mom,” I said softly.

  This time Mark sighed. “I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”

  I shrugged, then remembered he couldn’t see it. “Would you rather do lunch or dinner tomorrow since it’s Saturday?”

  The cheerfulness in my voice sounded forced even to me. My mom’s visit might have been abrupt and unexpected, but at least I knew she still loved me.

  “Let’s do lunch. Then we can show her around town together.”

  I thanked him and pulled to a stop in The Sunburnt Arms’ parking lot, alongside my mom’s scuba-blue Audi. Even if I hadn’t recognized the car right away, the Virginia plates would have given it away.

  Knowing my mom, she’d probably picked The Sunburnt Arms for its ambiance rather than because I’d stayed here before. The Sunburnt Arms was a “painted lady,” a large Victorian-style home that used a variety of colors to enhance the architectural detail. Mandy, the owner, had once told me that the house used to be the family home of her husband’s grandparents. When it became too expensive to maintain as a residence, his parents turned it into the only year-round bed-and-breakfast in Fair Haven.

  The painted ladies I’d seen in San Francisco were sometimes almost garish in their color choices, but The Sunburnt Arms was a muted dusty rose offset with pale blue, white trim around the windows and partial wraparound porch, and a slate-gray roof. Mandy had taken great care to make sure the inside kept the period charm while still providing the necessary modern amenities. Now that spring had come, the front flower beds were overflowing with tulips in more colors than the house.

  When I stayed here previously, I’d known it was exactly the kind of place my mom would love. I talked to her about it a few times.

  I paused two steps inside the door. The front desk and the lobby were both empty. I’d thought my mom would be waiting for me—impatiently.

  The breakfast room and stairway were equally empty, so I headed up the stairs. Good thing I knew my mom’s room number. Mandy’s staff seemed to have disappeared entirely.

  I passed Room 1, and Mandy stumbled out of Room 2 in front of me. Her broad-shouldered form practically filled the whole narrow hall.

  My smile and greeting died before they were fully formed. Mandy’s skin had the sickly gray cast of someone on the verge of passing out. “Are you—”

  She grabbed my arm and dragged me behind her into Room 2. Except for the color of the décor—warm yellows and browns—the room was identical to the one I’d stayed in when I first came to Fair Haven. The king-sized bed had an ornate headboard and a Victorian-era style canopy. A vacuum rested at the end of the bed.

  Nothing in the room seemed out of the ordinary, and Mandy wasn’t rubbing her hands together like a dastardly cartoon villain, so she probably hadn’t brought me in here to tell me about her latest conspiracy theory.

  Maybe she was upset because I obviously didn’t have the maple syrup candy samples for her. When we’d originally discussed her switching from the chocolate mints she’d left in the rooms since before her husband passed away, she’d said I had until this weekend to convince her to switch to a Sugarwood product. After the weekend, she’d need to place her next bulk order, and we’d be past the tourist season before she used it up. I’d promised her I’d have samples for her.

  I definitely didn’t want her bringing this up in front of my mom. It’d only make me seem unreliable, a huge character flaw in my parents’ opinion.

  “Nancy got the flu, so I’m running a little behind, but I have her recipe. I should still have samples for you by tomorrow.” Assuming I could find time to figure the recipe out with my mom around.

  Mandy wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. She pointed to the bathroom.

  Okay, so the candies weren’t the problem. The thought flashed across my mind that perhaps the guest this room belonged to had died in the bathtub. Mandy was an avid mystery reader, but as far as I knew, the only real dead bodies she’d ever seen were at funerals. Corpses prepared by the funeral home looked very different from natural death.

  Though why she’d insist on me taking a look rather than simply calling 911 was beyond me, so a dead guest probably wasn’t the issue. And thank God for that. I’d seen enough dead bodies. I didn’t want to add a naked one to the list.

  I headed back toward the bathroom. Whatever was going on in there, the sooner I looked, the sooner I could head to my mom’s room.

  My mom.

  My feet went numb, and my vision blurred. What if it was my mom dead in the bathroom? Would Mandy have recognized the last name and figured out our relationship?

  I swallowed hard against the burning sensation riding up into my throat. Whatever—or whoever—was in the bathroom, it couldn’t be my mom. She’d clearly said she was in Room 3, and this was Room 2.

  I sucked in a deep breath and threw open the bathroom door. It banged against the counter.

  The air came out of my lungs in a whoosh. The bathroom was empty. No dead body.

  I slumped against the door frame. This was ridiculous. I was done with guessing. “What am I supposed to look for?”

  Mandy slunk up behind me. “The toilet. Look behind the toilet.”

  I leaned sideways.

  On the floor behind the toilet was a large puddle of what looked like congealed blood.

  2

  “Do you think it’s blood?” Mandy whispered.

  I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her that all the mysteries she’d read had her mind playing tricks on her. I wanted to say that finding a puddle of blood in a room in her bed-and-breakfast was highly unlikely.

  I wanted to say all that, but underneath the layer of potpo
urri deodorizer from the bedroom, I could still detect a whiff of something sickly sweet and rusty.

  The red puddle had settled beside and behind the toilet, but a thin trail led to it from the middle of the bathroom floor, as if whatever was bleeding had lain there for a while and the blood followed the slope of the old floor. Whether it was human or animal, and whether the blood’s host could have survive losing that much, I didn’t know. At the very least, they’d have been too weak and dizzy to walk away under their own power.

  Heat flooded up my throat. I turned away and pressed a hand over my mouth.

  “It could be red paint, right?” Mandy said.

  It could be. But it seemed more likely that I was a femme fatale super spy. I ran a shaky hand over my eyes, but the image of the blood on the floor seemed to have burned itself into my retinas, like a camera-flash blind spot that wouldn’t fade. “Why would someone have poured red paint on the floor of your bathroom?”

  Mandy did a combined head shake-shrug. She rubbed her knuckles against her lips. “There’s more.”

  “More blood?” I asked stupidly. She couldn’t mean anything else, but my brain couldn’t quite come to grips with the fact that this was real and not another one of my nightmares. I shouldn’t have even been here today. If my mom hadn’t decided to make a surprise visit, I’d still be at home, blissfully making pot after pot of botched maple syrup candy.

  Mandy nodded.

  I wanted to sink down to the floor, but I couldn’t. If that blood was human, this room was a crime scene. The less either of us touched, the better.

  I imagined steel running up my spine and hardening. Mandy had latched on to me because I was her friend, and she needed help and support. Whether I wanted to faint or be ill wasn’t important.

  I glanced at the ceiling. It was clear of blood spatter. I hadn’t looked in the closet or behind the bed, but there wasn’t blood within my line of sight or anywhere I’d seen when I first entered the room. “Where’s the rest?”