Honey Buns and Homicide: A Funny Culinary Cozy Mystery (Mom and Christy's Cozy Mysteries Book 6)

by Christy Murphy

  “No one reads this,” Mom said. “And it doesn’t mention your name even.

  My stomach sank.

  I rushed to read my Facebook comments. They all said stuff like, “Cut it out, you crazy” and then insert some pretty foul language. The rest were variations on that theme.

  “Looks like people do,” I said and showed my phone to Mom just as another comment appeared. This one threatened my life.

  OUR NEW CLIENT’S arrival put the kibosh on the debate as to whether or not we should take the case. I glanced at my phone to check the time. He was indeed forty minutes late. Mom was right as always.

  “It’s really nice over here. I’ve never been this deep in the Valley,” the man, who I assumed was the fancy manager, said.

  I realized there wasn’t room for him to sit down in our booth so I stood up and grabbed him a seat from a nearby table. His suit was so fancy that a part of me felt underdressed. Maybe I needed to rethink my daily sweatpants habit.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You must be Christy. I’m Trey Jacobs.”

  He extended his well-manicured hand, and we shook. He had the firm handshake and way-too-white teeth that one would expect. His whole overly packaged appearance had a hypnotic effect that could have passed for charm if I weren’t so cynical about the music business.

  My ex-husband had tried to con me out of the rights to a song I’d cowritten. I suspected that his label or maybe even this Trey Jacobs had helped him. But they didn’t get away with it. Robert may have had guys in fancy suits on his side, but I had Mom.

  “You didn’t mention that your client was Christy’s ex-husband,” Mom said. The wattage on his glowing smile dimmed. Mom’s directness surprised him, but he recovered.

  “I didn’t want to put his name in writing just in case you were talking to the press, but it looks like that doesn’t matter now,” he said.

  “We’re no tattletales,” Wenling said, folding her arms.

  “We find it very suspicious that suddenly Christy is being accused of sending the death threats on the same day that you’re coming to visit us,” Mom said. Unlike me, Mom was not afraid of conflict. “Not to mention the fact that you probably advised Robert to try and cut Christy out of her royalties for writing his only hit song.”

  The man smiled again. This smile seemed more genuine. I think he was impressed by Mom. Most people were. “That was business,” he said, “I don’t get 15 percent of Christy’s royalties. And to be honest, Robert heavily implied that she hadn’t written much of the song all.”

  “I wrote all the lyrics,” I said.

  “That’s apparent from the songs on the new album,” he said. “But that’s water under the bridge. The reason I’m here is because we’ve been receiving these.”

  Trey Jacobs reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope with a few dozen pieces of paper. “Now these are just copies,” he said placing the pages in the center of the table. “The originals are with the police. Although we can’t be sure that these are a real threat. The police haven’t found any fingerprints, and this whole thing could just be some hater troll.”

  “Unsa hater troll?” Wenling asked, reaching into the stack. We all grabbed a few pages each.

  “Someone who wants to feel important by writing mean things,” Mom said.

  “This is like that movie The Bodyguard,” Darwin said.

  I nodded in agreement. The letters looked just like the ones a serial killer would send in the movies. The person had actually cut out words from different magazines and newspapers and taped them onto a piece of paper to make the threats. Why not just use a nondescript font from a common printer? It would be just as untraceable. Maybe even more so.

  “We don’t do bodyguard work,” Wenling said.

  “He has security,” Trey said.

  “Was that the movie with Whitney Houston and the Dances with Wolves actor?” Mom asked.

  Darwin nodded yes. So did Trey Jacobs.

  “Does he have a jealous family member like in the movie?” Mom asked.

  “Not unless you count Christy,” Trey said.

  He was obviously joking, but the joke didn’t go over well with us.

  “These letters absolutely didn’t come from me. These are all delivered through the US mail,” I said, looking at a photocopy of one of the envelopes. “I was in the Philippines until just a few days ago. You can check my passport.”

  “And our Instagram feed,” Mom said.

  “Facebook too,” Wenling said.

  Trey Jacobs held his arms up in surrender. “No one thinks it’s Christy.”

  “That Wile E. Coyote girl does,” Wenling said.

  Trey Jacobs laughed. “I’m not even sure if that blog is run by a woman. No one knows who it is,” he said.

  Mom, Wenling, and Dar looked very interested in finding out who it was.

  “I assure you,” Trey continued, “none of us associated with the band suspect Christy. We all saw your social media posts from the Philippines when most of these were sent. Congratulations, by the way, on solving the case of your sister.”

  “We solve all of our cases,” Mom said.

  “So I’ve read,” he said, pointing to the framed newspaper articles about us that hung on the wall above our booth. “Robert himself suggested using you guys. It would be great publicity, and would also clear up any rumors that Christy is the person sending these threatening letters.”

  I didn’t like the idea that Robert had suggested “using” us. I’d had enough of Robert “using” me during our marriage. He was a real taker.

  As if reading my mind, Mom said, “But we don’t like Robert.”

  We all nodded in agreement.

  Trey mirrored our body language and nodded with us. “Understandable. Much cause for that feeling. I see that, but there’s also the issue of clearing Christy’s good name, and of course, we have a big budget.”

  “We’re not licensed private investigators,” I said. “We’re caterers.”

  “I know,” Trey said with a smile that made me feel like I’d walked into a trap. “And that’s why it would be so perfect for your company to cater our record release party at The Sunset Sound.”

  My stomach dropped when he mentioned The Sunset Sound. It was the new hot club. People were calling it the next Viper Room or Troubadour.

  “You mean the one mentioned in this note?” Dar asked, holding up the note in front of him. There was a photo of Robert with a big red X through him pasted next to a picture of The Sunset Sound.

  “That’s creepy the way they cut out his eyes,” Wenling said, shaking her head.

  I agreed. “This seems like a matter for the police.”

  “They’ve been called, but there’s not much they can do. So many of these notes border on threats, but don’t outright say anything. Like that one. It’s just a picture. It implies something might happen, but is the threat credible?”

  “And they’re all postmarked from other states,” Mom said, looking at the copies of the envelopes. “The police need to believe that Robert is in ‘reasonable fear,’” Mom said, using her fingers to indicate quotation marks, “that the threats will be carried out. With these coming from out of town, they’re not going to be that interested.”

  Wenling nodded as if she knew that, too. She might. Mom and Wenling spent most of their time here in the restaurant folding wontons and watching crime shows.

  “That’s exactly what the police said,” Trey said. His expression of amazement with Mom even looked sincere. Mom inspected the envelopes some more.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous. I just want your company to come cater the party and see what you can figure out. I want people to stop thinking it’s the co-writer of the band’s only hit song sending death threats. It’s not good for the album. It makes it look like you’ll never write another song with Robert again.”

  “But that’s true,” I said.

  “She’s never writing anot
her song with Robert again,” Mom added.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Trey said. “The point is we don’t want it to ‘appear’ like it will never happen. And besides, we’ve got a budget of five thousand dollars for the food and we’ll cover expenses like equipment rental if needed.”

  “How many people?” Wenling asked. We all turned to her. “Just out of curiosity. We don’t want your business.”

  Trey smiled. “The venue holds three hundred fifty people, and it’s a rock venue so we don’t want a full buffet or anything like that. Just some cupcakes or something. Or better yet, the album is called Honey Bun, so maybe those. There’s a bar so you won’t have to worry about beverages.”

  I could see Wenling doing the math. The margins on this gig were really good. We’d make five times what we usually did.

  Like the salesman he was, Trey continued his pitch. “The food is incidental. What we want is a show of the famous catering detectives there to save the day. Make the rumors go away. Get some photos. Work with our PR people. It’s a win-win for both our companies.”

  Mom’s expression was neutral. I could see that Dar and Wenling were fighting hard not to show their interest. I was on the fence.

  “So what do you say?” Trey asked, and then he did the thing that I learned that top negotiators do. He waited for an answer.

  All of us turned to Mom, and so did Trey. But he remained silent.

  I had to smile. The idea behind the silent technique is that you ask for what you want and then let the tension build. Mom hadn’t said no right away. So he couldn’t try to overcome her objections. Instead Mom just waited as if this uncomfortable two-minute gap was only a few seconds.

  When Mom did this negotiating for the price on a catering gig, I would have to be in the van. I always felt a need to cut the tension by speaking. But we were usually the ones asking for the sale. This time our client was asking, and he was playing hardball.

  He was no match for Mom.

  “Are you in?” he asked again. “I’m afraid I’ll need an answer right now.”

  “Then the answer will have to be no,” Mom said.

  Trey Jacobs smiled and threw his head back. “You’re tough. Robert said you were.”

  “He was always afraid of Mom,” I whispered to Dar.

  Dar smiled and nodded. I turned my attention back to the negotiation between Mom and Trey Jacobs. Trey nodded at me. Had he overheard what I’d said to Dar?

  Trey returned his attention to Mom.

  “You’re holding all the cards here. We could hire a private investigator, but it wouldn’t cure the rumors about Robert and Christy. And odds are this is nothing but a rumor that makes the band and your daughter look bad. All you need to do is show up. You don’t even have to solve the case.” He took his business card out of his coat in one smooth motion and placed it on the table.

  “How about your team here discusses it, and you give me a call,” he said.

  Mom gave him a solid nod yes.

  He smiled again. “I think that’s the best I’m going to get at this meeting. It was nice meeting you all,” he said with a nod to the rest of us. He turned to Mom. “I hope to work with you. I’m a big fan.”

  I knew showbiz types said that kind of thing all the time, but a part of me thought he was a fan of Mom’s.

  Mom absorbed the compliment with a pleasant expression but no other indicators of what she intended to do. Mister Fancy Pants Music Manager stood up and left.

  The four of us sat in silence until we heard the bell over the front door ring and watched through the window as he went to his car.

  “Are we going to do it?” Dar asked.

  “It’s a lot of money, and we might get to be on TV,” Wenling said.

  “What do you think, kid?” Mom asked me.

  I remembered the death threat on my phone. “It would be nice to clear my name.”

  “He said the budget was five thousand dollars plus expenses. We can mark up rental of the oven to bake the honey buns fresh for the night to make even more.”

  “We can’t move that heavy thing,” Mom said.

  “I can,” Darwin said. “And you can have special uniforms that you can expense, too.”

  “Yeah, charge double for the costumes. We can post on Instagram,” Wenling said.

  “Costumes! Even better! Leave those to me,” Dar said. “That is if we take the case.”

  All eyes turned to Mom.

  She picked up Trey Jacobs’s business card from the table. “Okay, we’ll take the case. But I’ll wait to call him back.”

  DATES AND DISASTERS

  Now that I shared a bathroom with Dar-Dar, I had a wide array of haircare and makeup products at my disposal. Being a former drag beauty pageant winner, Dar prided himself on showcasing his talents daily.

  He was more than generous with his stash. He’d even gotten me my own set of brushes to use. His professional, hand-crafted in Japan brushes were the only things he considered off-limits.

  Staring at the sheer number of beauty products overwhelmed me. I’m not at all makeup inclined. I’d have better luck getting a smoky eye look by setting my brows on fire than trying to use half of this stuff.

  I opted to use Dar’s fancy hair dryer and moisturizer and then went back to my simple powder foundation, blush stick, and cheap one-dollar eyeliner pencil. Taking Dar’s advice, I grabbed his “easy brow” powder and filled in my eyebrows. He was right. They do frame the face.

  I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes. DC would be here soon. He was never late without calling.

  I glanced in the mirror again and decided to wipe some of the makeup off my brows with toilet paper. I’ve always thought eyebrows that were too dark made people look mean.

  It would be our first big date since I came back. He’d been so great to meet me at the airport, and I’d rewarded him by falling asleep on the car ride home. But I’d caught up on my sleep, and we could make up for lost time tonight.

  The doorbell rang. Damn that DC! He was early, and I still wasn’t dressed.

  “Mom!” I yelled, dashing from the bathroom to my bedroom. “Can you keep DC busy while I finish getting ready?”

  “It’s good to keep him waiting,” Mom said.

  I opened my closet and stared at the oversized T-shirts and sweatpants that comprised the greater portion of my wardrobe. I did have two pairs of slacks that I used for job interviews and catering gigs, but I didn’t want to sport that business casual look on my date—again.

  I needed to go shopping, but I always found it depressing. Stores never seemed to carry clothes in my size. Dar had offered to take me shopping, but his style was so much more girly and put together than mine. I worried I’d just feel schlubby shopping next to him.

  There were a few dresses stashed in the back of my closet that I hadn’t worn in years. Attempting to squeeze into them always launched me into a sea of sadness. But everyone had said that it looked like I’d lost weight while I was gone.

  I reached into the back of my closet and pulled out my version of “the little black dress.” I like to think of it as my “smaller than the rest of my clothes black dress.”

  It was worth giving it a try. I was desperate and at least I didn’t live alone anymore. Last time I’d tried this thing on, I’d trapped myself in it for nearly twenty panic-filled minutes.

  I held my breath and pulled it over my head.

  A sense of relief washed over me as the dress slid down my outstretched arms and over my shoulders. I pulled at it and found it didn’t bunch up around my boobs or get stuck at my hips. So far so good. I prepared myself for the moment of truth. I reached around back and zipped it up.

  It fit!

  I stared at my reflection in the mirrored door of my closet in disbelief. A giggle escaped from my mouth as I turned to look at the dress from the back. I’d always hated my curvy figure, but after watching a million episodes of Mad Men, I felt I looked a bit like Joan minus the red hair.

&n
bsp; So, I did something I never did. I reached for the black cinch belt Mom had bought me and put it on.

  It did the trick. Va-voom!

  Smiling, I slipped on my sensible heels. I’m still me after all. I headed for the living room with a strange feeling in my chest—a mixture of happiness and confidence.

  “You look great,” DC said as he stood up. He and Mom had been chatting on the couch.

  “Thanks,” I said. DC looked great, too. He was wearing a blue shirt that brought out his blue eyes with dark dress pants and shiny black shoes. I was glad that I’d worn the dress.

  “I knew that belt would look good on you,” Mom said.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said.

  DC and I headed out to his truck. He opened the door for me as he always did, and I turned to thank him. He was right there standing super close.

  “I missed you,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  My stomach flipped with excitement. Just before I left, I’d told him how much I’d miss him a bunch of times, but he never said it back.

  “Me, too,” I said. And then he swooped in for a major, knee-weakening kiss. This kiss ended, and we remained close to each other.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  All I could do was nod. I slid into the truck, he shut my door, and got into the driver’s seat.

  “I’d thought we’d go someplace a bit nicer than usual,” he said.

  Now, here’s the thing about DC. We hadn’t dated long, but even in the few months we’d been going together, I’d figured out he was what we’ll just call a frugal man. So I didn’t have my hopes up for dinner regarding the choice of restaurants, but the company was everything.

  We hopped onto the freeway and headed to Mission Hills. It was after seven. Traffic had died down, but not completely.

  “I took a vacation day so they couldn’t call me in. Even took one for tomorrow,” DC said. “I didn’t want us to be interrupted like last time.”

  My heart pounded. This could be the big night for DC and me, or at least something close to the big night. Whatever it was, we had all night and parts of tomorrow, too.

  We pulled into the parking lot of The Starlight, an old-school steakhouse. A very nice place. I smiled. The thing about my smile is that when I do, I’m all teeth, gums, and cheeks. My eyes squinty up to little slits. I’d always been embarrassed by it. But I didn’t care when I was with DC. He loved my smile, and I really got the feeling that I loved DC.