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

by Christy Murphy

  More people asked to take photos with me. Maybe they knew I cowrote that song, or they could’ve just wanted to get a picture with the woman in the bee costume. Either way, I was glad to continue my celebrity-at-a-party fantasy.

  “Are you performing with the band tonight?” one of the older, male muckity-mucks asked me. I could tell he was important by the way other people deferred to him, his age, his fancy suit, and the fact that he and I were the only two people not wearing lanyards.

  “No,” I said. For a moment I felt like the jig was up. Like they’d know I was just the caterer, but then it struck me. I was proud of the work I did with Mom and Wenling. “I’m catering the party with my mom and her best friend.”

  One of the men nearby was eating a honey bun. I pointed to it. “We made that.”

  “And it’s delicious,” the man said, but his tone was condescending.

  I told myself that I didn’t care what he thought, but a part of me was deflated.

  “Isn’t she talented?” Trey Jacobs said, coming up from behind me and taking me by the shoulders. I hadn’t seen him in the room, but of course he’d be here. He managed the band. “Not only can she write great lyrics, but she has one of the most successful boutique catering businesses here in Los Angeles. They even do mail order.”

  The mogul nodded. “Are you writing any more songs?”

  “I’m catering right now,” I said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “I heard there was a bit of a rift between you and your cowriter,” the condescending man in the suit said.

  “That would be our divorce,” I said.

  Everyone laughed. Madison swept back over to our group. “As you can see, there’s no animosity between her and Robert.”

  “Rumor has it she sent those crazy death threats,” Mr. Condescending said.

  Everyone stared at me. “I’m a catering bee, not a killer bee.”

  “Or more like a crime-solving bee,” another man added. I looked over and saw the reporter from the airport.

  “Hello again,” I said. “Small world.”

  “She’s the one that was on the news for solving that crime in the Valley,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re those caterers!” the mogul said. “Is your mother here?”

  “She’s in the other room.”

  “My wife is a big mystery fan,” the mogul said. “It’s a shame she isn’t here.”

  “She’s welcome to come to the restaurant anytime. We meet with a mystery reader club practically every month,” I said.

  “Are you working on a case right now?” the reporter asked.

  “Let’s just say she agreed to help us out,” Trey Jacobs said.

  The mogul stepped closer to me. “Could the person who made the threats be in this room?” he whispered excitedly.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Mom thinks he or she might show up some time tonight.”

  The mogul slipped me his card. “Please call me. My wife just needs to meet you.”

  I can’t say the name of the man on the card for legal reasons, but he’s a bigwig. He’s worked with a Beatle and definitely could get us a meet-and-greet with Engelbert Humperdinck. And I had his card!

  “Well,” I said, deciding that it wasn’t going to get any better than this. “I better get to work.”

  Trey beamed, and Madison nodded, but she didn’t look all that happy.

  The night had looked like it was turning better, but as you know, things got so much worse. I was part of a brawl. Honey drove off and got into a terrible accident, and the police came.

  I WOULD’VE THOUGHT HAVING the police coming to the record release party would’ve been a disaster for the band, but it turned out to only be a disaster for me. The reporter who’d been so eager to write about our catering/crime-solving adventures had taken video and several photos of my brawl with Honey.

  Once again, I graced the cover of a newspaper. But this time instead of it being a friendly article on the cover of Fletcher Weekly, our small, hometown paper, I was on the cover of the local section of the LA Times under the headline “Killer Bee?”

  The picture of me sprawled on the club dance floor was huge. The only thing bigger was my bare stomach all muffin-topped over my tights. All my nightmares in black and white.

  Mom, Wenling, and I sat at our usual booth in the back of the Lucky Dragon, exhausted from catering the party. The police had kept us there late with questions. That Benedict Arnold of a reporter had stayed to ask us questions, but he’d turned my answers around to make me look guilty.

  “You’re so famous,” Wenling said, scrolling through our Facebook feed.

  People had tagged our catering company and shared the YouTube videos from that night to our page. I’d opted to delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts. Between the death threats and unflattering photos, I figured it was easier that way.

  “I’m just glad we got paid in advance,” I said. We hadn’t heard a word from Trey Jacobs, Madison, or even Robert since last night.

  “They’re loving the publicity,” Mom said. “Your song is rising in the charts again.”

  “How much do you think she’ll get?” Wenling asked.

  “I thought they didn’t want people to think that I was threatening the band,” I said. “Now no one will even call us back to tell us if Honey is okay.”

  “People don’t think you’re threatening the band,” Mom said. She’d been reading Wenling’s iPad. She turned it around for me to see.

  It was that darned Wiley Jenner column again. Her headline: Songbird Turns into Killer Bee.

  And the still from the video that she used made it look like I was the one fighting Honey! How many people were going to use that killer bee pun anyway?

  The new theory was that I’d cut the brakes on Honey’s car to get her out of the way and have Robert back.

  “So I guess they aren’t concerned about the death threats anymore?” I asked.

  Mom shrugged. “Maybe the police are looking into it because of the accident, or they never really cared about it. They seemed most concerned about the song for the band.”

  “If I go to jail I can’t write another song for them,” I said.

  “You can write from anywhere,” Wenling said. “There’s that rapper who released an album from jail.”

  “That’s true,” Mom said. “I think there’s been a few of those since he died, too.”

  Were they talking about Tupac? How on earth did Mom and Wenling know about Tupac Shakur?

  I sighed. If it had to do with crime, Mom and Wenling knew about it. My mind turned back to everyone’s theory about me and my alleged crime.

  “It just doesn’t make sense that I’d sabotage those brakes to get back at Honey. Robert and Honey share that car,” I said.

  Mom nodded. “When they figure that out, people will think you wanted vengeance on both of them.”

  Wenling’s face brightened up.

  “Don’t say it,” I said. “I don’t want revenge.”

  On our last case Wenling had gotten obsessed with the movie Braveheart, which manifested in her declaring Mom needed to get revenge “in this life or the next.”

  Here’s the ridiculous thing: Even though I knew most people thought I was the one who tampered with the brakes on Honey’s car, including the police, my mind continued to linger on the fact that DC hadn’t called me. I’m sure he must’ve seen the paper by now. Didn’t he care that I was being called a potential killer?

  “So who are our suspects?” Wenling said.

  “Let’s just leave it to the police,” I said.

  Mom and Wenling stared at me.

  “They’ll haul you to the pokey,” Wenling said.

  “I’m innocent.”

  “They have entire shows on the Crime channel about innocent people in jail,” Wenling said.

  I sighed. The fight had been sucked out of me. I couldn’t help feeling like a failure. It felt like the whole world hated me—including DC.

  The bell o
ver the front door rang. “Ai-oh!” Dar called from the other side of the restaurant. “We’re here.”

  I wondered what he meant by “we,” but then he and a bunch of the ladies from the San Fernando Mystery Readers were behind him.

  I turned to Mom and Wenling.

  “They wanted to come and help us brainstorm the case,” Wenling said.

  “Prove you’re innocent,” Mom said.

  “And have the special,” Wenling said, motioning to Mom to slide out of our booth so she could get to the kitchen.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind,” Mom said. “We don’t have to do this case if you don’t want to. You can take the van home, and I’ll talk to everyone.”

  I turned around and looked at the group. A few of them waved. I waved back. Here was a whole group of people that believed in me and wanted to help me. I decided not to focus on all of the people who didn’t believe me, even if that included DC. I turned back to Mom and gave her an affirmative nod.

  “Then that settles it, kid?”

  “Yup,” I said. “We’re on the case.”

  WENLING HAD the waiters serve everyone the special. Darwin took it upon himself to push two tables together for us in the center aisle. Our seats all faced the group. “That way the extended portion of the Nancy Drew Crew can see us.”

  “I can’t sit here and have everyone watch me eat,” Wenling said.

  “You can see them eat,” Dar said.

  “I don’t like that part either,” Wenling said.

  I agreed with Wenling. I didn’t want everyone watching me eat either.

  “Besides, our booth is tradition,” Wenling added.

  “Last time they were here we stood at the front if you remember,” Mom said. “This way is good. We can sit and lead, and no one on the other side of the wall can see us.”

  “They’ll hear us,” Wenling said.

  “But not as clearly, and it’s all about Christy being innocent anyway. It’s good that they know that so many people are on our side,” Mom said.

  It didn’t occur to me until that moment there might be people in Fletcher Canyon that believed I was the infamous “killer bee.” I reminded myself that I was concentrating on people who believed in me and not the DC Coopers of the world. Not that I assumed he thought I’d tried to kill Honey. It’s just the part where he didn’t believe me about Robert.

  Dar-Dar handed us name tags like we were at come kind of business conference. Mom’s said “Mom,” which I found funny.

  “Why do we have to wear these?” I asked.

  “The rest of the group has them on, and there are a few new members, and they had elections so there’s new leaders,” Dar explained. I felt silly putting on my name tag, but if the rest of the Nancy Drew Crew wanted it, I wouldn’t be a spoil sport.

  Wenling and I decided we’d eat later. Dar went to the back and used the fancy new espresso machine to make us both very large mochas to tide us over. Wenling’s happiness at getting something close to five mochas for free made me believe she was warming to the new machine. She’d texted Dar to have him bring the special mocha mix.

  After everyone had eaten, Darwin took his fork and banged it against the glass. I was seated to the left of Mom, and Dar-Dar was to the left of me. Wenling sat on the other side of Mom.

  “Here here,” Dar said. “Ladies, and a few of you gentlemen, I now call to order the meeting of the San Fernando Valley Readers Group and the Nancy Drew Crew.”

  Everyone quieted, turned the chairs toward our table, and waited for us to speak. I had to admit that it made me a little nervous.

  Dar turned to Mom to lead the meeting. Thank goodness.

  “First of all, we want to thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed your lunch,” Mom said. Compliments regarding the food and reasonable prices followed, which made Wenling happy. Mom continued. “I also want to thank you for not forgetting about us while we were out of the country on our last case, but we really need your help on this one. First, we have some evidence for you to consider. Were you able to make copies, Dar?”

  “Right here,” he said, holding up a folder. He stood and handed out stapled papers to the group.

  “These are threatening letters that have been sent to Robert,” Mom said. The crowd oohed.

  I whispered into Mom’s ear, “Are we allowed to share those with people?”

  “They never told us not to,” Mom whispered back.

  I nodded. The readers pored over the letters. It didn’t take long.

  “If the police think that these letters and the accident with Honey are related, these let Christy off the hook. Do you they think they’re related?” Jerri, the new president, said. Dar-Dar was right. The name tags were handy.

  “We know that Robert’s manager gave the police the letters last night, but from the way they were questioning us at the club, they’re not acting like the two matters are related,” Mom said.

  “Wait, how do these letters clear Christy?” a woman asked. I didn’t recognize her and couldn’t see her name tag.

  “The postmarks on the envelopes,” Lacey said. She’d been here to help us before. “They were all in the Philippines when these were sent from different towns across the US. You wouldn’t know that, because you just joined.”

  “Ah, thanks,” the new member said.

  “Do you think these notes and the car accident are related?” Jerri asked Mom.

  “I don’t want to rule it out,” Mom said, and then she continued addressing the group. “As you know, the police think that Christy may have been the person who tampered with the brakes on Honey’s car.”

  “I don’t even know how to do that,” I said.

  “Tampering with brakes is a pretty inefficient way to try and kill someone,” Lacey said. “If you cut them, the pedal will drop to the floor. And even if you damage them just enough, the driver will have an emergency brake. It’s not likely to work unless the person is driving fast on a windy road or something.”

  “Robert and Honey share a place in Studio City, and the club is right on Sunset not far from Laurel,” I said.

  “That makes it a slightly better way to kill someone,” Lacey said. “There are way better.”

  “These notes are straight out of an eighties movie of the week,” Rebecca said. The other members laughed.

  It struck me that the San Fernando Mystery Readers weren’t the kind of group a person would want to make angry. They could take someone down, and not even Mom could solve it.

  “Okay, so whoever did this would likely had to have known where Robert and Honey lived,” Mom said.

  “Another reason why the police might suspect Christy. She knew that,” said the man who’d pretended to be a dead body during a reenactment of the murder on our last case here in Fletcher Canyon.

  “How did you know where they lived?” Dar asked me.

  “From the divorce papers. I remember it because Robert always refused to live in the Valley, and then when he left me he went to live in the Valley. It made me so mad.”

  “Did they find brake fluid in the parking lot at the club?” Jerri asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. This was the part that really didn’t look good for me. “She was parked near our catering van, and I was in and out of the parking lot getting stuff from the van all day that day. Other people even saw me out there.”

  “Who saw you?” Mom asked.

  “Dragon, the drummer for the band, and Nick, the guitar player,” I said.

  I could see everyone out there writing their names down. Of course! If they were out there, they could’ve done it.

  “Also,” I added, “Robert was out there making out with that brunette, Fiona.”

  “You found out who the brunette was?” Wenling asked.

  “She’d snuck backstage to the VIP party. She recognized me as the songwriter,” I said.

  “Interesting,” Mom said. “How did she recognize you? Had you seen her before?”

  “No,” I said.

 
“If she knew enough to recognize you, then maybe she also knew where Robert and Honey lived,” Mom said. I saw everyone in the group taking more notes. “And I’m guessing the drummer and guitar player knew where they lived, too.”

  “Madison, the publicist, was at the club before we were,” I added. “She would’ve had access to the parking lot and probably knows where Robert lives.”

  “The guy who hired us, Trey Jacobs, parked in the lot earlier in the day, and later,” Wenling said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “So, the intended target might have been Robert and not Honey,” Jerri said.

  “Or both of them,” Wenling added.

  “Don’t forget to put Robert on the list,” Mom said. “He and Honey had been fighting, and he’d been cheating on her. Maybe he never intended to go home with her that night.”

  “True! Sometimes he would get a ride home from the gig from one of the members of the band or say he was going to take an Uber,” I said. “But I don’t know if he would attempt to kill her.”

  “It could have been anyone on Sunset, or even someone hired to take care of the car while everyone was in the party,” a man said.

  “That’s true,” Mom said. “But at least we have a few suspects to interview to get more clues.”

  And for a moment, I thought everything was great until I saw an LAPD police car pull up in front of the restaurant.

  JENNIFER LED the police officers over to see me.

  “Is she the dark-haired one in the back sitting with the two smaller ladies and the—” The officer paused. He couldn’t seem to decide how to refer to Darwin. Dar wasn’t wearing a wig, but he was wearing makeup. He could’ve been a very masculine woman, or what he was, a feminine man.

  “Yes, I’m Christy,” I said, getting up from the table and approaching the officers.

  “Can you come with us, please?” he asked.

  I stopped walking and looked to Mom and Wenling. They shook their heads no. I looked back to the cops. “I’d rather not.”

  “Ma’am, we need you to come with us,” the officer said.