by Diane Bator
"But why use my name when I had nothing to do with the company?" Gomes asked. "That's identity theft."
Mena pulled away when Thayer tried to put handcuffs on her. "He had to. There was no way my father would ever work with Sanchez. Dad liked Gomes, even if he is a lousy fighter. He hated Sanchez, no matter what he did. Most board meetings took place on conference calls. We hardly ever met face to face. When we did, 'Gomes' would call in sick."
"That's enough for me." Thayer snapped the handcuffs onto her wrists. "Gorgeous or not, you're under arrest, lady."
"You too." Fabio helped Sanchez to his feet then cuffed him as well.
"You and Kane were the ones who searched my house." Gilda pointed a finger at Mena. "You knew about the hidden strongbox and about the keys Charlie and your dad had. I'll bet you lured Charlie out to the beach and pretended to seduce him. You paid Sanchez to sneak up behind to kill him."
"Does this mean I'm a free man, mate?" Kane asked.
Thayer huffed in disgust. "For now."
"That also means your house should be safe from intruders again." Mick hugged Gilda. "So you don't have to move in with me after all."
She smiled. "Not under such extreme pressure, anyway.
"Good." Kane wrapped his long arms around them both. "Then I've still got a fair shot at winning the lady over."
"Ha! You don't stand a turkey's chance in hell with Gilda." Marion, still recording everything, barked from across the room. She lowered the camera and flashed a coy smile. "But I'm still available."
Kane paled and pressed his forehead to Gilda's. "I don't suppose you'd consider a time-share option, would you, love? Split your time between me and our sensei?"
Gilda's face burned. "That's flattering, Kane, but—"
"Not a turkey's chance in hell." Mick tugged her away from Kane's grasp.
Razi strolled into the dojo and grinned. "You will not have time for romance anyway. You will be too busy dealing with the New Age store."
"Why's that, mate?" Kane narrowed his eyes.
"Sanchez signed your name to the lease instead of his. Since he planned to disappear once the fights were over anyway, he decided to stick you with paying the rent for the next two years." Razi handed Kane a copy of a contract. "Now that Mena is going to jail for murder, you have the pleasure of owning a purple shop full of expensive rocks."
Kane swore then threw several punches at one of the heavy bags.
Gilda giggled once he'd stopped. "It could be worse. She could have painted the whole shop pink."
He groaned then roared as he chased her out of the dojo.
* * * * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Diane Bator is an avid hiker, yoga enthusiast, Reiki Master, wannabe runner, and martial artist, who loves to make a mess in the kitchen and putter in the garden. Moving across the country with three boys and a cat, then joining a writing group, was the catalyst for coming out of the creative closet and writing her first murder mystery series. Hard at work on her second series, she lives in Southern Ontario, Canada with her husband, three teenagers, and a cat who thinks he's a Husky.
To learn more about Diane Bator, visit her online at: http://penspaintsandpaper.com
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BOOKS BY DIANE BATOR
Gilda Wright Mysteries:
Can't Keep a Brunette Down
Hardheaded Brunette
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of another humorous romantic mystery 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, a
nd 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 ju
st 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.
After eating a muffin, which Tara admitted was tasty, I walked her out to her car. When I stepped back inside the kitchen, I got back to work. There was still tons I wanted done before we opened. This was going to be a long and awesome day.
* * *
The displays were stacked with gorgeous, mouth-watering cupcakes, muffins, and other delectable, single-served desserts. Grams had been adamant about selling items for one person. She said it was more tempting to buy a dozen mix-matched cupcakes than to buy a one-flavored cake. Not only did it offer more variety, but there were plenty of people who wanted just a slice and not the whole pie. I'd believed she'd been thinking about her love life when she'd concocted that plan, but it had worked all these years.
I straightened a tray of Vanilla Bean cupcakes with white pearls dotting their mountains of whipped frosting. All of the items always looked more like art than food. When I was a child, I'd lean against the display cases, press my face to the glass, and stare at the perfection.
Minus the face against the glass, I still did the same some days. And it took all of my willpower to slide the glass door shut and not swipe a fingertip across the frosting.
I continued surveying the room. The counters and four tables and chairs were dust and crumb free, and the ivory and dark-brown checkered floor looked clean enough to eat off of. I'd mopped it three times. If we had a surprise health inspection, we'd easily pass. When it came time to paint and design the store, Grams had asked for my opinion. It hadn't mattered that I was only ten. I had said the colors needed to be flavors, which was why she went with a vanilla-and-chocolate floor and muted strawberry walls. It was a Neapolitan bakery.