Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  The last two months had been amazing and gratifying, the house full almost constantly up until the last week or so when the Christmas rush ended and the new year vacationers went home. With Betty still bouncing back from her knee surgery, she and her sister, Mary, had gone into semi-retirement, Mom taking over for the silent Jones and Daisy helping me with the day-to-day. When the annex was ready—still no name, I had to do something about that—I’d have to hire some staff. But, for now, the four of us, with Dad for added assistance, seemed to have the whole thing handled.

  I loved it that way. Me and my family and my business. I shivered in the chill of the January evening. The odd depression of last summer and fall had faded since I’d come to terms with being alone, or at least feeling like I was that way. Since I bought the annex and Jared started the demolition I’d thrown myself into the life I’d fallen head over heels for, a life I never expected but was loving now that I’d embraced it fully.

  Sure, I still felt a bit down about Crew. He hadn’t said a word about our last conversation, nor about how disappointed he’d been in me intruding in his case when Sadie died. I knew from poking around he’d been under a lot of pressure from Olivia and the council to include me and Dad into the murder cases we’d helped him solve. While I’d suspected as much that day in his office, a few questions broached over coffee here at Petunia’s for the occasional local official to come for Mom’s cooking had given me the answers I’d been looking for.

  It was likely he’d never ask me out now. And I found I was okay with that. Mind you, I hadn’t yet explored the dating site idea. The first time I’d dipped my nervous toes in those shark-infested waters had led me to deleting my listings after three unsolicited pictures of private parts and a handful of request for the same of mine triggered my gag reflex.

  Whatever. I wasn’t going to let loneliness get to me. I drew in a breath of sharp, cold air, Petunia waddling toward the kitchen door, soft puffs of mist rising from her panting mouth as she led me back inside. My gaze settled on the dark bulk of the annex next door and I smiled at its quiet potential.

  No Crew? No problem. Didn’t need him or anyone else. My life was coming together. Oh, and one more thing I’d decided since the fake psychic’s murder was resolved in the arrest of Amos Cortez. If I was unlucky enough to stumble into another death by foul play? No one—not a single soul and certainly not Crew Turner—was going to stop me from being a busybody. I refused to apologize for my natural aptitude for curiosity ever again.

  Mind you, not being part of a murder investigation because I either found the body or had the victim die in my lap? Yeah, that would be good, too.

  As I turned back to the house, I couldn’t help but think about Mom. And then Dad as I locked the door and shucked off my coat, hanging it by the exit. Petunia waited at the fridge for her night snack of fruit while I considered my dad. He’d been great to have around, so helpful and eager to do whatever I needed. I wondered if he felt lost, if retiring had been a bad choice. Then again, having him here had been a blessing, so I hoped he loved it as much as I did.

  I just wished I could shake the anxiety I felt when I thought about the business card with the woman’s name written on it in Malcolm Murray’s handwriting. It still sat in my music box, with the scrap of map and the gold coin Grandmother Iris left me, waiting for me to hunt down Siobhan Doyle and find out what her connection was to Dad.

  I’d meant to investigate, honest. And every time I’d decided it was the right moment I distracted myself with other things. Did that mean I was a coward? Or that the past didn’t matter to me as much as I thought it did?

  Whatever the case, as I closed the fridge door and handed Petunia her half a banana and six strawberries in a small dish, I shrugged off the impulse to judge myself for not following my nose.

  That was the best part about deciding no one got to tell me what to do. It worked both ways, right?

  Right.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  The house felt quiet, anticipating guests who were a week away. Funny, it felt almost like a living, breathing thing when it was full of visitors and a sleeping giant when no one filled the rooms upstairs. But I never felt uncomfortable here when I was alone. I guess that was as good a sign as I was getting I’d fallen in love with my life.

  I went downstairs to my apartment, Petunia huffing her waddling way in front of me. Two pounds lost or not, she had a way to go yet, but I was hopeful I had her on track. I loved her fat little butt and wanted to keep her around as long as possible.

  As I passed the bottom of the landing, I remembered the lock on my door wasn’t working as well as I’d like, sticking on occasion. My mind turned over the possibility of having Jared’s crew do some small jobs around this place, too, in prep for the busy spring season, a list growing in my head.

  If Vivian was planning to open her own place next year, I’d have to be sure Petunia’s and the annex were both in top shape. Though I did admit her plans for a boutique hotel sounded a lot like something I couldn’t contend with, nor would want to. Hers would likely be the epitome of prissy princess, pink and ivory and sparkling like an uber-modern palace for those who could afford it. My setup was more on the nostalgic, quaint side. Impossible to compare, like shining treasure held up against whatever steaming pile of crap she came up with.

  Snort.

  I wasn’t fooling myself as I sank into the cushions of my sofa, Petunia hopping up next to me, groaning softly while she settled in, chin on my lap, bulging eyes locked on me until I rubbed her black ears. Whatever Vivian came up with would be gorgeous, I had zero doubt of that. I’d just have to deal with it when the time came and be grateful for the head start on my own reputation.

  Besides, there was a good chance she was going to do her best to hurt my mother tomorrow and that would mean I’d be in the middle of another murder investigation with her as the victim. Likely the guilty party at last.

  At least it would mean the end of Vivian French.

  I flipped open my laptop to check my website, grinning at how great it looked. While Denver Hatch had done well for himself selling the design for his holographic invention to a game company, he’d chosen to stay here in Reading fulltime. Might have had something to do with the fact he and his grandfather, Oliver Watters, were now thick as thieves. The old historian and antique dealer had vastly improved his attitude since he and Denver met. More likely, though, Denver’s choice to stay was due to the fact Alice Moore moved into his grandmother’s place with him. The sweet couple ran their own psychic investigation company from the house, which cracked me up, considering Sadie had been a hack and a fraud her whole life. Having those two take on the fake psychic’s kind head on was my sort of sweet revenge.

  Whether he felt gratitude for me saving his butt at Halloween from the gun of Amos Cortez or he just liked me, Denver was kind enough to help me with my site and optimizing my social media—whatever that meant—that increased my visibility online.

  I’m sure Alice would agree when I said he was a total keeper.

  Trouble with focusing on the internet was my access to instantaneous reaction from my clients. While a good thing to know if they enjoyed their experiences or not in our town and my B&B, the positive reviews inflated my ego far too much while the nasty ones could knock me down just as fast. Honestly, I really needed to stop reading them.

  Taking my own advice (yeah, right) I skimmed the current crop of comments posted the last three weeks, most of them delightful, though I scowled in irritation at the one that mentioned Petunia—the pug, not the house—and her flatulence. The woman’s dislike for my dog’s “disgusting farts” got my back up, as did her snide comment about the “revolting poop” problem in the garden.

  Excuse me. I cleaned up after my pug. Oh, and said client wasn’t ever coming back to my establishment until I did the right thing and did away with Petunia and her biological processes?

  Then she’d be waiting a very long time while my darling
girl and I carried on. Seriously. The woman could suck it.

  I snorted at my reaction to the one-star and patted Petunia who opened her sleepy eyes in response to the touch. “What do you think of that review, missy?”

  She groaned and closed her eyes again, farting faintly.

  I laughed. “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

  It was nerve wracking, though, if I was going to be honest with myself. I hated that clench of my stomach when I got an email about a new review, the constant concern I’d bitten off more than I could chew and that I was missing things, not getting it right. And now there was the annex to worry about. I’d already started taking bookings based on the timeline Jared gave me and fretted occasionally about doing so. May was a long way off but not that long and the pending deadline loomed over me in a growing swell of anxiety. I couldn’t just wait until the work was done to start filling the rooms that were lucky if they had plumbing yet. I had to pay for the place, after all, even if it meant pushing my comfort and trusting Jared.

  While I’d gotten a great deal on the house next door thanks to his kindness, I still had a large chunk of money invested in it and a rapidly growing line of credit to cover.

  Kind of fun, too, though. Especially looking at designs with Daisy and colors with Alicia. Both had impeccable taste, way better than mine. The annex was going to be stunning when it was done. Now I just needed a name already.

  I headed to bed at last, Petunia creaking her way up the stairs to the bed, settling next to my pillow while I stared down at my music box and shook my head.

  Daisy had taken the letters Daniel Munroe wrote to Grandmother Iris, looking for a good name for the annex. And, she admitted, for clues to the Reading hoard, neither of which I held out much hope for. Two big treasure hunters had been in town last fall and both debunked the idea that the pirate founder of our home even had anything to hide. My grandmother’s secret she passed to me was likely just a scavenger hunt to nothing. Otherwise, why wouldn’t she have tracked the treasure down herself?

  Bed never felt so good, though as I drifted to sleep I thought again about Dad, about Malcolm and Siobhan Doyle.

  Was it the overload of sugar in my stomach or the thoughts in my head that gave me nightmares?

  ***

  Chapter Four

  Dad’s text woke me early. Something came up. Pick up Mom? Meet you at the Lodge.

  Hrumph. He’d better not miss her debut as a baking superstar or neither of us would hear the end of it. The original chime was followed by a rapid-fire slew of musical pings as my phone delivered texts from my mother that told me, in no uncertain terms, I was in for a very, very bad morning.

  8AM sharp

  Wear something nice

  Don’t be late

  Bring my red spatula

  Never mind found it

  Where’s my diamond earrings?

  That was for your father

  8AM SHARP

  And that was just a selection of the madness. Sigh.

  Mom was waiting for me at the door when I pulled up to her front walk. I didn’t get to exit the car to help her down the path, even though there was no need. Dad did a great job clearing snow and ice from the stone. Still, I was positive if Mom wasn’t careful she’d fall anyway she was moving so fast.

  She skidded into the street in her boots, throwing herself into the front seat and slamming the door, face intent and cheeks pink. “Let’s go, I don’t want to be late.”

  Um, it was 8AM and she wasn’t supposed to be there until 9:30. “Mom, we have lots of—”

  “Fiona.” She snapped my name the instant her seatbelt buckle clicked home. “Drive!”

  Okay then, crazy lady.

  I yawned into the chill air, the heater of my car catching up slowly as we cruised through town. The faint snowfall of the two nights ago still clung to people’s lawns, making everything crisp and white, the cold temperatures not allowing for it to turn to the brown slushiness I hated about winter. The mountains towered over us, more white punctuated by evergreens, paths cut into the forest where the White Valley Ski Lodge dominated. Our destination beckoned, my car chugging up the highway toward the main lodge while Mom squirmed and fretted.

  I normally rose at 6AM so her seven o’clock call hadn’t been all that intrusive. Still, I’d been forced to abandon Betty and Mary to the local breakfast crowd to hustle to Mom’s early, thinking I had way more time than she planned.

  “Excited?” I tried to crack the chill of our trip—the heater had kicked in but Mom’s temperature hadn’t shifted—with a question, but my mother just grunted at me and stayed quiet. From the small circles of red at the tips of her cheekbones and the paleness of the rest of her, she was working herself into a frenzy of nerves that could lead her to disaster.

  This was going to stop right now or I was turning this car around and taking her home and she could find her own ride to the Lodge. Before she could stop me, squeaking her upset at my grim determination, I pulled over to the side of the road, waving off a truck that laid on the horn and turned to face her. Mom met my eyes with her own wide in shock and frustration, spluttering at me.

  “Keep going! I’m going to be—”

  I shut her down with a hug. “Mom,” I said. “Breathe.”

  She tried to brush me off but I wasn’t having any.

  “Fiona Fleming,” she said.

  “Lucy Fleming,” I answered.

  She giggled a bit, uncoiled just enough I felt it was safe to let her go.

  “Oh, Fee,” she said in a tiny voice, “I’m so scared.”

  That had to have been one of the hardest things she’d ever said. I’d seen my mother face down a lot of things in her life with determination and courage and the kind of cheerfully firm optimism that I aspired to. For her to admit to me she was afraid? Epic.

  “Of what?” I didn’t tease her, asked her point blank. “Tell me specifically.” Did she recognize her own beginnings of a pep talk in my command?

  She swallowed, touched her hair with one gloved hand. “Failing?”

  “The only way you can fail is if you quit.” That was her line, verbatim. She’d said it to me so many times as a kid I knew it by rote. Just like what came after. “Next?”

  Mom finally recognized what I was doing, who I was being for her, because she smiled. “Being judged.”

  “Are you going to do your best?” I waited while she nodded eagerly. “Are you going to cheat or lie or do something you can’t be proud of?” She shook her head this time, eyes laughing, lips twitching. Much better and a delight to turn Lucy Fleming loose on Lucy Fleming. I really was morphing into my own mother, wasn’t I? “Are you ready for this?” Another nod. “Then the only judging you have to worry about is your own. Because as long as you do your best no one gets a say. Anything else?”

  Mom embraced me. “When did you get so smart?”

  “I learned from the best.” I kissed her and grinned. “Ready?”

  She squeezed my hand, beamed a real smile. “Ready, Mom.”

  Giggle. Awesome.

  The rest of the drive we cranked some music on the radio and sang at the top of our lungs. I hadn’t done that with my mother for years, not since we used to drive to the coast with Dad behind the wheel, me and Mom and sometimes Daisy belting out our favorite songs while my father grinned and tried to join us though he sounded like a bullfrog with a serious case of tonsillitis.

  By the time we reached the front entry of the Lodge, Mom was relaxed, composed and herself. I followed her inside, so grateful I had the chance to help and that proud of her for being amazing I could have exploded.

  Instead, I followed her through the lobby, waving at Alicia behind the front desk who waved eagerly back, gesturing for me to wait. Mom moved on ahead of me, following the signs for the taping into the dining room while I watched her go, Alicia hurrying to my side. She hugged me quickly, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  “Your mother is going to clean up,” she said. I grinned back,
hoping she was right, that Dad’s pessimism wasn’t more accurate. I frowned a little that he wasn’t here yet, though I was happy I had the chance to diffuse Mom before she baked.

  “Everything ready to go?” I glanced at the entry to the dining room across the lobby, guests drifting past in their puffy coats and ski pants, the Lodge clearly packed for the week even if I was getting a break. This resort had suffered no end of issues since opening, but it seemed like I was receiving fewer calls to take on guests due to problems cropping up, so hopefully Jared had reversed the bulk of his cheating father’s fraudulent construction practices and that the Lodge was now fully operational.

  “All set,” Alicia said, eyes sparkling. “It’s so exciting. Oh, and don’t forget to pop over to the annex and check out the flooring, would you?” Right, I had to get on that. “I know you said to just pick one, but I want to be sure you love it before it’s installed. And I left you some cutlery samples, too. Have you decided about the spa in the basement yet?” Did she have any idea she was making my head hurt? Doubtful. Nervousness woke in my stomach for me instead of Mom as I thought about just how much there was to do and the giant leap I’d taken. “We need to order some equipment if you think you want to go ahead.”

  Mind spinning, I managed a grin despite myself. Not caving and crumbling under pressure. This was fun, right? Absolutely. “I promise I’ll get right on it. But Mom.” I gestured at the dining room doors.

  Alicia laughed. “I’m sorry, of course. Go! I’ll talk with you later. Wish her luck for me.” She bustled off in her dark suit and heels, another confident and powerful woman in my life. I’d take as many as I could get.

  When I turned to head for the set, I spotted Malcolm Murry heading toward me and froze in place, shocked to find him here. Especially as he was exiting the dining room. What business did he have with the TV show? The guy was practically the head of Reading’s Irish mob. Okay, not practically. He was the mob. Who was he here to see?