Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  Malcolm approached, gray hair sparkling in contrast to the deep black wool of his peacoat, though his usual smile was missing. He’d stopped coming to Petunia’s for tea shortly after he handed me the woman’s name on the card in the back of his black car. As if doing so divested him of the need to show me kindness. Instead, he glared at me like I was some kind of obstacle in his way before he spoke, Irish accent harsh.

  “Fiona,” he said. “Looked up that name yet, have you?”

  He didn’t have to be so blatant about it. “I haven’t had a chance,” I said, knowing it sounded weak and pathetic. He scowled darker while I glanced at the doors to the set. “What are you doing here?” He wasn’t the only one with a corner market on blunt.

  “My business,” he snapped, “not yours.” He strode off then, leaving me to gape after him, his two dark suited and long coated bully boys trailing behind him, though one turned and met my eyes, his expression almost… what? Sad?

  Weird. What was he upset about?

  I let it go, knowing I’d somehow let Malcolm down but refusing to feel badly about it. I’d get to it in my time, when I wanted answers. Right now I was here for my mother.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  I passed through the doors to the dining room while a young woman with a clipboard argued with an older gentleman in a bright yellow ski suit about breakfast being relocated to another part of the lodge, knowing it was very likely I wasn’t supposed to be sneaking past her without checking in. Whoopsie, my bad. On the other side of the heavy curtain and crappy rear of a wall of plywood I was transported from the back side of what looked like a huge mess and into the polished and familiar set of Cake Or Break.

  Amazement froze me for a moment when I looked around, brilliant lights hanging overhead, three big cameras hunched like bulky robots waiting for commands in the corners, a variety of crew hustling around with headphones and walkie talkies while I did my best to pull myself together in the bright white and yellowness of the décor and act like I was supposed to be there.

  The trio of kitchens set up parallel to each other stood on my right side, stainless steel counters and appliances flanking shelving stuffed with every imaginable baking item known to humanity, and likely a lot that weren’t. The show was known to push bakers to use unusual ingredients at times, and I wondered how Mom would handle a tin of anchovies like I’d seen tossed at one baker in the last episode I’d seen.

  On my left, the judges table stood at least a foot higher than floor level with matching white leather stools waiting for the official butts to warm them. I’d never been on a live set before so I kept my head down and set my sights on Mom who stood next to a young woman in a pretty pink dress, her light brown hair curled around her face.

  I almost stumbled at the sight of Vivian French as she entered at the side of another woman—one I recognized as Janet Taylor, last year’s winner—the two with their heads together, whispering. I didn’t like the look of their closeness, or how Janet seemed to command the stage, showing Vivian through her kitchen like it was her kingdom.

  Whatever. Vivian looked up, caught me watching and scowled while I scowled right back before jabbing my finger at my mother, then at her. The message had to be clear. Screw with Mom, play her false? She’d pay.

  Vivian tossed her head and turned her back on me, leaving me to fume as I stalked the rest of the way to Mom’s side without lunging for the arrogant Queen of Wheat while my mind unwound ways to make her suffer. Mom was too wrapped up in her own chat with a slim young woman with honey-brown hair to notice my mood. I quickly wiped the frustrated snarl off my face—look at me, putting Mom first—and managed to smile when she spun on me and beamed.

  “Fee!” Her fingernails dug into my arm even through my winter coat as she tugged me close to her hip, almost shoving me forward at the smiling woman. I recognized her, too, from the shows Mom made me watch the last three weeks. Molly Abbot shook my hand, her fingers cold to the touch, angular cheekbones and overlarge hazel eyes making her seem ethereal. I often wondered how someone who made a living from sugar and wheat could ever be so tiny, hating the jab of jealousy as I thought about my own backside and the cake Mom had been forcing down my throat.

  Yeah. I was so done with dessert from now on.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fleming,” Molly said. “Your mother tells me you have a lovely bed and breakfast in town?”

  My mother nodded, answering for me, her excitement obvious in the rapid fire chatter she couldn’t seem to hold back. “I love working in her kitchen,” she gushed. “And the new annex will have an even bigger space. I can’t wait to start baking there.” Really? She hadn’t said as much to me. Nice to know she was so excited, though. “Fee, this is Molly Abbott, this season’s star.”

  She’d clearly forgotten she’d forced me to sit in front of the television for a binge session of the last and this season so I’d know everyone by face and name. Molly flushed slightly, shrugging a bit as if Mom’s label made her uncomfortable.

  “I haven’t won yet,” she said, thin lips quivering. “It certainly would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?” What made her so nervous all of a sudden? The way she rubbed one thin arm with her free hand across the front of her body like she was subconsciously protecting herself from something? Or how she glanced around, ducking her head when she did? If she just harbored a nervous personality she’d chosen the wrong vehicle for her success. Being on a reality show wasn’t exactly for shrinking violets.

  Mom didn’t seem to notice, those nails digging into me again. She needed to clip them or something. “Everyone knows you’re going to win, dear,” she gushed. “I’m just so delighted to get to meet you before you do!”

  Molly laughed, a quivering sound. “You’re too kind, Lucy. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  Mom swatted the air between them. “This is just a silly special,” she said. “I have no illusions.” Oh, really? Since when, Lucy Fleming? “But I do have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

  Molly seemed to relax as the conversation turned to baking, hand falling from the death grasp on her upper arm while she leaned in to Mom. “Just please, don’t let them give us anything fishy for the challenge!” She rolled her eyes while Mom groaned. “I almost died when I had to use oysters in my cheesecake three episodes ago.”

  Ew. I forgot about that. But the judges loved her savory concoction and gave her top marks.

  “Are you always nervous or is it just me?” Mom fanned her face with her free hand, and I was a bit shocked she chose to be candid with Molly. But the young baker’s kindness radiated from her as she grasped for Mom’s wrist and gently held it, smile back in place, hazel eyes locked on my mother.

  “Every time,” she said. “Every single time, Lucy. First show? I had to keep a bucket back stage just in case.” She tossed her long hair as she laughed. “You’re going to be great. Just focus on baking. That’s all that matters.”

  Mom gulped but seemed comforted by Molly’s support and I nodded pointedly at her when my mother turned with a beaming smile and looked over the three kitchens. Molly’s answering, knowing grin told me she was about as good a person as I could hope for.

  The crew had settled into their positions while we talked, a handsome young man in a headset and carrying a tablet smiling his approach to us. I instantly flinched, knowing he was about to kick me out, when he instead spoke to Molly.

  “We’re about ten minutes out,” he said in his smooth tenor. An actor, perhaps, working behind the scenes? I heard it was common. Molly flushed slightly, looking away while he did the same. Adorable, these two. Did either of them know the other was totally infatuated or were they both trying to hide it? Surely this kind of innocence couldn’t survive reality television.

  I could dream, though.

  He then turned to Mom with a smile just as sweet, if without the underscore of longing. “Lucy, are you ready?”

  She tittered. Seriously tittered, the tiniest little
vibration of a sound that made me stare with my mouth open such a mouse-like squeak could come from my mother.

  “As ready as I’m getting, Dale,” she said, hand on his forearm like he was an old friend. “Let’s bake!”

  He met my eyes, his a lovely sea green, square jaw clean shaven, blond hair short enough to be professional but just long enough to be stylish. His dark blue golf shirt, the show’s logo over his heart, pulled tight across his broad chest and while he wasn’t overly tall, he’d do. Not to steal a metaphor while standing on a baking show stage, but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating cupcakes.

  “Dale Lewis, my daughter, Fiona.” Mom hadn’t lost her gushiness or her manners, apparently. “Dale’s our production assistant.” She giggled like that was funny for some reason. I shook Dale’s hand while he reciprocated, pausing a moment with his eyes far away before dropping my fingers from his.

  “Roger that.” His smile and attention returned. “Ladies, if you’d please make your way to the green room?”

  Mom clapped in visible excitement, turning to blow me a kiss before hurrying off with Molly. It was nice to see the taller, slim form of the young woman leaning over Mom, paying her close attention. At least she seemed lovely enough. Some of my concern for Mom’s wellbeing faded as they disappeared around the corner of the set and out of sight. It sounded like my mother wasn’t gunning for top spot and would be perfectly fine losing to her new bestie.

  At least, I hoped that was the case. As long as she wasn’t fooling herself. I was here, just in case of a meltdown, though again I frowned at my watch and looked over my shoulder. Where was Dad?

  “Your mother is a doll,” Dale said, winking with a grin.

  “My mother,” I groaned, “has lost her mind.” I hesitated before asking my next question in a hushed tone of voice. “Is the show fair, Dale?”

  He flinched, smile fading, mouth open to answer when we were interrupted. The short, stocky woman in thick black glasses, her hair dyed an amazing color of pink, scowled up at me before jerking her thumb at the door.

  “No visitors on set.” She stalked away without another word, black t-shirt and pants both with a dusting of what looked like flour across her waist.

  Crap. I really wanted to watch. Shouldn’t have been worried, though. Dale rolled his eyes at me, winked again and led me with a gentle hand on my elbow to a far corner of the set, just off the white flooring and tucked behind a large shelving unit.

  “Clara Clark,” he said. “She’s the show creator.” I nodded. “And showrunner, big boss lady. She’s usually nice, but stress can make her a bit of a you-know-what.” He sat me on an extra stool and grinned. “Someone put a giant-sized bee in her bonnet over this special, let me tell you.” His eye roll was legendary, low whistle to match.

  I grinned. “Pretty sure the offending insect is our town mayor.” Speak of the queen buzz, she swept onto the set from back stage, embracing Clara like they were old friends. I wasn’t watching her, though, could care less about Olivia’s political routine. Instead, I watched the tall, handsome older gentleman in the three piece suit and bow tie who strode onto set like he ruled from a sugar throne, towering over everyone, his booming laugh unmistakable.

  Dale didn’t seem impressed, about as much as the tall, slender woman standing next to the laughing judge, glaring up at him. “I take it you recognize Ron Williams?” I nodded. “And his wife, Bonnie.” I hadn’t seen her before, assumed she wasn’t part of the show. It was apparent as she turned away from him and joined Olivia and Clara that was the case. Ron, on the other hand, his thick head of silver hair swept back into a stunning coif, air of charisma reaching me across the set, seemed in his element, shaking Olivia’s hand, waving at the crew who unenthusiastically waved back.

  Interesting dynamics. Dale turned back toward me, hand going to the mouthpiece of his headset.

  “On my way.” He backed up a step, waving a little. “Just stay out of sight and no one will bother you, okay?”

  I huddled there, thankful partly but actually wishing I could be anywhere but there, hiding in a corner behind equipment while my mother was alone and vulnerable. I had to shake that off. Dale hadn’t answered my question about the show’s fairness, but this was a special. Surely the normal shenanigans of the season wouldn’t be in evidence. Mom would bake, they’d eat it and like it or not like it and we’d all go home.

  I spotted Dale at the door, scowling, a familiar looking middle-aged woman trying to push past him. Wait, I knew her from the show, didn’t I? Wasn’t she on last season? The episodes all ran together and I honestly hadn’t been paying as close attention as I should have. She looked upset, regardless, near tears, and though he was gentle enough with her he finally succeeded in banishing her from the set. I didn’t get to ponder what she was doing here or what her problem was, because a moment later, to my shock and acute discomfort, I was no longer alone.

  With his handsome face in a tight mask of unhappiness, Sheriff Crew Turner nodded down at me like he would rather be anywhere else but next to me.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  I was about to take it personally, deeply hurt in that instant of his crankiness, just as he cast his blue-eyed gaze over the set with a twist to his wide mouth.

  “Hollywood,” he grumbled. “I thought I left this crap behind in California.”

  I swallowed my moment of agony with the kind of surprised zing that made me blush. Okay, and maybe it was the scent of him hovering there, coffee and chocolatey caramelish deliciousness that reminded me my last relationship was about a year and a half ago. A relationship that ended badly with me swearing off men forever and ever that lasted until I saw Crew for the first time when I returned home to Reading and found he’d taken Dad’s place as sheriff. Not to mention the fabric softener he used on his clothes mingling with the natural scent of him that invaded my personal space and made me tingle in very private places.

  Why oh why was he just so yumtastic without a chance in hell I’d get to sample his wares? It had been two months since we talked, since the ill-fated murder of Sadie Hatch and Crew’s no-nonsense disappointment he expressed in a way that convinced me any chance I ever had to find out if we could be an item died with her and my need to poke my nose in where it wasn’t wanted. I’d given up on me and Crew and decided to explore other, less stressful, opportunities.

  That’s why I wasn’t expecting his slightly nervous smile, the sweet way he seemed to soften as he ran one big hand through his dark hair when he relaxed next to me, the soft sigh of his sheriff’s jacket loud in the quiet between us. His black waves always seemed in need of a trim, the shining silkiness of it hanging over his collar, the faintest stubble darkening his broad jaw. There was nothing arrogant or angry about him when his blue eyes met mine again, soft around the corners. Considering he usually had a tic under his left one and a vein standing out on his forehead when he addressed me, it was a nice change to see him smile.

  Now, the question was, could I keep it together and not screw up this seeming change of demeanor and attitude when it came to me? I wasn’t holding my breath. No, wait, I was, but for different reasons tied to my silly heart going pitter pat.

  “Here for Lucy?” He kept his voice pitched low, almost intimate. I shivered just a little, smacking myself internally for my reaction. We were trapped in a limited space and he was forced to make it work, not whispering sweet nothings. I really needed to start dating so I could let go of this ridiculous obsession I seemed to have with wanting him to like me. It was obvious, really, nothing had changed and he’d chosen to be nice and make small talk because the alternative was an uncomfortable silence.

  Yeah, I really went all the way from one end of the spectrum to another in less than two seconds.

  “Yes, for Mom. She’s baking.” Oh my god, what was wrong with me? “I’m worried about her.” Okay, yes, I was blurty, had a blurtiness problem my whole life, so nothing new there. Guilty. But holy cow, Fee. Did I have to blurt
all over Crew like this? “You’re doing security?”

  Crew didn’t seem to take anything that tumbled out of my mouth the wrong way, didn’t snort or roll his eyes or act disdainful, bless his heart. Instead, he bobbed a nod, leaning closer, whispering as Dale’s voice called out on the set, prepping for filming.

  “Olivia wanted me here.” He sounded like he thought it was a waste of time. “I disagreed.”

  “And she won?” I winced, wondering if he’d think I was being facetious. Instead, blue eyes sparkling, he flashed his white teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl. I wondered if he knew just how freaking sexy he looked in that moment.

  Fiona Fleming. Stop it right now.

  “Like always,” he said, oblivious to my internal battle with hormones and longing and the need to pull up my big girl panties and shed this attraction I had for him. “Pretty typical of the strong women in this town, though.”

  That was oddly… complimentary, maybe? About Olivia? No, Mom, right? Um, wait, why was he looking at me like that. Was he talking about me? A spark of maybe, just maybe, flickered into life in my heart.

  “Should put it on our travel brochures,” I said. And I’d just taken awkward to a double face-palm level previously unachieved by a redhead in serious need of a date.

  Crew chuckled instead of my expectation he’d not get the joke. “A little warning ahead of time would have been nice,” he said. “Before I took the job.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t here to write the blurb. I’ll make sure the next handsome sheriff who moves to town has tons of advanced notice. You know, so he can run screaming before it’s too late.”