by Rose Pressey
Death by Chocolate Cupcake
A Cupcake Whisperer Mystery
Rose Pressey
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, places, and brands are the product of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Index
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
I’d never forget the day that my grandmother first allowed me to help her make biscuits. I’d been four years old and could barely see onto the top of the kitchen counter, much less reach up there. She had hoisted me up to sit on the counter. I’d held the bowl while she stirred. Then she let me hold the rolling pin. Flour had ended up in my dark pigtails and covering the front of my pink and white gingham dress.
With the help of my grandmother’s hands, I’d cut out the dough and together we’d placed them on the baking sheet. When the biscuits came out of the oven, they were the most scrumptious things I’d ever tasted. She’d added a bit of butter that melted on top of the golden fluffy bread within seconds. Next, she’d spread either her apricot preserves or her homemade tomato jam.
I missed my grandmother. Being at her century old farmhouse now made me feel closer to her. Gravel crunched under the wheels of my red Mustang as I drove down the gravel driveway toward the two-story white house. A wide covered porch ran the length of the front of the house. The old rockers remained in the same spots where we used to sit and snap green beans and shuck the corn. This house was where she’d shown me so many of her recipes. We’d cooked together in this kitchen so many times that I’d lost count. Over the years, I’d perfected my skills. I was sure I’d never be as good as her. Being half as good was enough for me.
I’d been shocked when I found out that Grandma had left me her place. I wasn’t her only grandchild. There were five of us in total. My parents only had me, but my mother’s sister had two children and her brother had two children. Needless to say, my inheritance had caused a bit of a rift between us.
However, if Grandma wanted me to inherit her place, then that was what I’d do. She wouldn’t want me to feel sorry for accepting. Though I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d left me the house because she took pity on me. Like I didn’t have my act together and I needed the extra bit of help. To some extent she was probably right about that.
Things had changed drastically within the last week. I’d gotten a new car and driven back to Georgia from Kentucky. Plus, I was auditioning for a baking show. I would be the host of my own show, with an emphasis on desserts. Sure, I had to audition still, and I was extremely nervous about that, but I was going to give it my best shot. My own show on TV? It was hard to wrap my head around the thought.
The low hum of insects surrounded me as I climbed out from behind the wheel of the Mustang. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I stood on the gravel driveway and stared at the old house. Things were a bit overgrown now, but it looked the same as I’d remembered. Surrounded by a white picket fence, the white farmhouse was kind of out in the middle of nowhere. It was actually about a twenty-minute drive into Atlanta. There was quite a bit to take care of with thirty acres surrounding the house. I’d better figure a way to mow the grass myself or find someone to help me with the maintenance.
At one point my grandmother had had chickens, pigs, and horses, but that was when my grandpa had been around. It was doubtful I’d have animals either since I could barely take care of myself, much less another living creature. Grandma had spent the last five years out here all by herself. Well, my parents lived not far away so they spent a lot of time out here with her. I’d come back every chance I’d gotten.
Peering out over the acres, I soaked in the beauty of the green grass and trees. Maybe someone would want to use the land. Could I rent the barn? I certainly didn’t need all this room. Oh well, I’d figure that out later. Right now, I needed to get inside the house.
I was looking forward to getting into the kitchen and whipping up something delicious for lunch. It had been a long drive from Kentucky. That was where I’d gone to college. After graduation I’d just decided to stay, much to my parents’ disapproval. I’d found a job and figured nothing better would come along… until now.
I grabbed the luggage from the trunk and headed up the driveway. Many of my childhood memories were of this place. I missed Grandma and Pappy so much. Her pink rosebushes bloomed at the front of the house. The perfumed aroma wafted over to me across the breeze. She’d always loved those bushes. They needed a bit of assistance now, but as soon as I got a chance I would tend to them. My to-do list grew longer by the minute. Pulling the luggage behind me, I walked up the gravel drive to the side of the house. That door led right into the kitchen. I already felt as if I was home.
Stopping at the door, I pulled the key from my pocket and shoved it into the lock. As soon I opened the door memories flooded back. I saw my grandmother standing in the kitchen next to the stove. She was a petite woman. We’d been the same height at five foot two and barely one hundred pounds. She was tiny but mighty. She’d made all kinds of things in this kitchen, like the biscuits I described earlier. Also, gravy and the best potato soup I’d never had. My stomach rumbled with the memories.
I stepped into the kitchen, tugging my luggage behind me across the door’s threshold. When I stopped right at the door, the faint hint of those biscuits drifted in the air. I knew it was my imagination, but it was nice to remember. Afternoon sun streamed through the window above the kitchen sink. The same white curtains with cherries printed on the fabric remained on the window. Everything was just as she’d left it.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished she was still here. No doubt she would have made pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Often we’d eat breakfast food for lunch or dinner. We’d sit at the kitchen table and talk. I’d tell her about all the things going on in my life. I’d complain that there were no good guys out there. She’d remind me that I could make it just fine without a guy around. Though she would remind me that I would probably have to get someone to help move furniture and anything else heavy that might be too much for one person. I’d never had good upper body strength.
“Other than that, you’ll make it just fine, but it would be nice if you had someone to share your life with.” She’d pat my hand and then we would have more pancakes.
Opening up one of the cabinets, I discovered Grandma’s dishes—the white ones with the pink roses around the edges. Pots and pans hung on a rack above the stove just as she’d left them. Though when I opened the refrigerator, I realized that my mother had already been here and cleaned it out. A few essentials had been neatly arranged inside, waiting
for my arrival. My mother had said she’d gotten everything ready for my arrival, and she hadn’t lied. I knew they would be by soon enough to see if I’d gotten settled.
Grabbing the suitcase handle, I rolled it into the foyer and then lugged it up the staircase. Sun beamed through the window above the staircase landing, highlighting the dust motes floating through the air. My shoes clicked against the hardwood floors. Moving down the hallway toward the bedrooms, I stopped at the first door on the right. I wasn’t quite sure that I was ready to take my grandparent’s bedroom. In my mind it was still theirs, as if they would return soon. I would take the bedroom down the hall, the one I had stayed in when I’d visited Grandma and Pappy during the summers.
After staring at my grandma’s bedroom door for several seconds, I finally moved down the hall to the last bedroom on the right. It had a big window that overlooked the back yard, with a view of the woods, and in the mornings, it wasn’t unusual to see deer running around out there.
I stepped inside the room and paused. A flashback of the summer when I was sixteen and tried to sneak out the window to go to a party came to mind. I’d gotten stuck when the window shut on my rear. Pappy had heard my calls for help. I’d gotten extra chores feeding the pigs for that stunt.
An iron bed with a white chenille bedspread sat against the wall. White lace curtains flanked the large window straight ahead. A small side table with a cute little white lamp and an old-fashioned gold alarm clock sat beside the bed. I’d spent many nights in here reading under the covers with my flashlight after Grandma had told me it was time for bed. Yes, I’d occasionally broken the rules, but I thought I’d turned out okay after all.
I set my luggage by the closet. My mother had said she’d changed the sheets and left towels for me on the bed. What would I do now? This was the start of my new life here in Georgia. A new chapter for me, hopefully a chapter in my cookbook. Cooking was my passion. It was how I hoped to spend my days, making a career out of something I loved. Releasing a deep breath, I sat down on the bed. It was just as I remembered, like sleeping on a cloud.
My grandmother believed in feather beds. Sure, they pricked you with those little feathers, but it was worth the pain. I liked to sink down in the bed with the covers up to my chin on a cool fall day with the window open and take a nap. The cool breeze would blow right through the window and lull me to sleep.
I stared at the closet, thinking about putting my clothes away. The moving van would be here tomorrow. Most of Grandma’s furniture remained, although I had a few pieces I’d brought with me, like my desk and chest of drawers. At least with the luggage I’d packed I had everything I needed for a couple days.
As I stood from the bed and moved toward the closet, a sound came from somewhere in the house. What was that? My heart beat a little faster as I hurried over to the door. With my anxiety mounting, I tiptoed down the hallway. It was probably just the wind, I reminded myself.
Had a bear or raccoon gotten into the house? My footsteps were too loud. If someone was in the house I didn’t want the intruder to hear me. After slipping out of my shoes, I eased down the hallway, hoping that no one would hear me coming. If someone was trying to break into the house, then I wanted to give them the surprise of their life. My heart beat sounded in my ears as I moved down the staircase.
Halfway down the staircase, I had a partial view into the kitchen. So far, I’d seen and heard nothing unusual. Something had to have made the noise. I tiptoed the rest of the way down the stairs and to the kitchen’s entrance. With my next step I smacked right into someone. I screamed and she screamed.
The gray-haired petite woman clutched her chest. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, honey, you scared me.”
I’d scared her? She’d given me more jolt than if she’d hit me with a defibrillator.
“Who are you?” I asked breathlessly. “And why are you in my kitchen?”
The woman wasn’t alone either. In her arms was a small, pink, adorable little pig wearing a pink collar and leash. The pig wiggled in her arms.
“You can’t get down right now, honey, not in her house.”
“She can get down if she’d like,” I said. “What can she hurt?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said with a laugh. “My name is Lucille Wells and I live just across the street.” She gestured toward the front of the house. “I saw the car and I figured you were here, so I wanted to come and say hello. Do you remember me, dear?”
I studied her face for a moment. “Oh, I remember you now. Yes, Lucille Wells from across the street.”
Actually, I had no clue who she was. She seemed as if she’d be upset that I’d forgotten, so I figured it was easier to fake it.
“Do you have more than one pig?” I asked.
“I have several,” she said. “I have someone who comes by and helps take care of everything. He lives just down the road. I also have a cat. She may come over sometimes to visit you, so if she bothers you just let me know.”
“I’m sure I will love the company when she comes to visit,” I said.
She smiled. “Your grandmother was a dear, sweet woman. She’s greatly missed.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I certainly think she was the sweetest. Forgive me for asking… but how did you get in?”
“You left the door wide open.” She pointed. “I know it’s safe around here, but you never know what could happen. You really should lock the doors. I don’t want to scare you or anything.”
She was right about being afraid, but she hadn’t helped by walking right in the house. I supposed she’d been used to doing that with Grandma. Why hadn’t I seen her at the funeral? A lot of people had come to say goodbye to Grandma, so I supposed it was no surprise that I’d missed seeing her neighbor.
“I guess I didn’t latch it when I got here. It’s all new for me, even though I’ve been here many times. Now that I’ll be living here it’s different.”
“That’s understandable, dear. How are you holding up?” she asked, patting my hand.
I shook my head, giving the appropriate response. “I’m fine.”
But was I really fine? No, not at all. We stood there for several seconds just staring at each other. This was awkward.
“Well, if there’s anything you need don’t hesitate to ask. I’m right across the street.” She pinked up the squealing pig.
“Right across the street,” I repeated.
“I know what it’s like to live alone since my Henry passed away. Of course, the grandchildren come by occasionally and my daughter, but it does get lonesome.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “If you need anything please don’t hesitate to ask.”
She laughed and waved her hand. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“I’m expecting my parents soon. Oh, they would probably love to see you.”
“Tell them to stop by and see me, if you would.”
“I’ll certainly tell them,” I said.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said as she gestured toward the counter. “I brought you an apple pie. I thought you could use something good to eat after the move.”
I walked with her over to the counter and she pulled the red and white checked napkin away from the top of the pie. The scent of cinnamon and apples drifted up to my nose.
“Oh, it looks lovely,” I said. “I can’t wait to have a slice. It was so nice of you to bring it.”
“Well, I just wanted you to have it. I figured you won’t have time to cook right away.”
I wondered if she knew that the majority of my time was spent cooking. It was what I loved to do. Surely Grandma had mentioned this to Lucille. Maybe she’d forgotten.
“Thank you. That’s sweet of you,” I said.
“I’ll let myself out. I have some things I need to attend to at home. Plus, Honey is getting restless. Call me if you need anything. I left my number on the notepad there by the door.”
Honey the pig?
“I will,” I said. “The same to you.”
Lucille stepped out of the house and I watched as she walked down the driveway. A single-lane road was in between our homes, of course. Mainly the only traffic came from people who lived on this road.
After a few more seconds, I closed the door and picked up the pie. Once I’d sniffed it a couple times, I lifted the top on the glass dessert display stand. Grandma always kept her desserts in there. I’d have a slice later. I placed the pie underneath the glass case and smiled. Just having a dessert there already made me feel more at home. Kind of like I’d felt when Grandma was here. Now I supposed it was time to unpack. I was here to stay.
Chapter 2
I was almost finished unpacking my luggage when my phone rang. It was probably my mother calling to tell me that they were close by. When I picked the phone, I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway.
“This is Scarlet Baker,” I said as I placed the black dress I’d packed on a hanger.
“I hope you’re all ready for tomorrow,” the woman said.
“What?” I said in a panic. “Who is this?”
“This is Kristen Smith. The audition’s tomorrow.”
“What do you mean it’s tomorrow? I didn’t think it was until Monday. I just moved into this house. I’ll have to drive back into town. And you know how traffic is.”