Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  “I know he understood that, Mom,” I said.

  She shrugged, looked away. “Baking for Petunia’s, helping you with the guests, Fee it’s brought back so much to my life. I can’t tell you how much I’ve loved it.” She did smile again, at least, so I didn’t have to shake her yet. “And when Daisy had me make a few silly cakes for her, well, I got cocky.” She brushed off my protest before I spoke it out loud. “You don’t have to comfort me. I’m well aware of the fact I took on more than I could handle. This wedding? Seriously.” Oh, crap. Please, don’t tell me she was backing out? “While I’m not a fan of Vivian on the best of days, she’s right. I need to leave such an important event to the professionals.”

  So that was what she said to Mom two months ago in the privacy of my kitchen. After breaking into my place and being a bitch to my mother. I’d yelled at Vivian in the back of her bakery while the two of us had a screaming match but without any kind of real satisfaction coming from it. Looked like she’d done the damage she’d set out to do, though, hadn’t she?

  “She offered me a job.” Mom didn’t sound excited.

  I spluttered a second. “The hell she did.”

  Mom nodded. “Offered to apprentice me under some of her cake decorators. So I could see how the pros did it.”

  My head was about two seconds from exploding. Right before I hunted down Vivian and tossed her over the side of the mountain.

  Violence, Fee. So unbecoming.

  “Mom,” I said, barely keeping it together but doing it because she needed me to, “you listen to me right now. Right. Now.” I punctuate those two words with little shakes, finally getting to that point. Mom looked up at me from under her lashes, waiting but I’m not so sure willing to hear me. “You can bake circles around those store-bought, common, bland and dry bakery buffoons and we both know it. She’s so damned jealous of Lucy Fleming and her awesomeness she will do anything—anything, Mom—to make you feel like you’re beneath her.” Mom didn’t argue and she seemed to perk just a bit so I went on, hoping I’d get through to her. “This has nothing to do with how awesome you are and everything to do with her ego. She would just love to get you under her thumb and crush your heart. No way we’re letting that happen. No way, Mom.”

  I thought for a moment I had her, felt her trembling ease, her shoulders going back a bit, chin tilting upward. Until she sighed and looked away again, hands tugging free from mine.

  “I’ve never been so embarrassed,” she said. “I humiliated myself, let that man turn me into a laughingstock in front of everyone. I crumbled, Fee. I never thought I was that person. But I am. I’m the one who falls apart when tough times roll around. How can I ever trust myself again?” She spun on me then, angry, but with herself. “How can I trust my skills when a ridiculous man shouting at me makes me cry like a child in front of everyone?” She stood up, cramming her hands into her mittens, fumbling for her coat zipper, the wrong order of steps making her tsk in frustration as the fluffy ends couldn’t grasp the metal tab. “This whole baking as a business thing was a terrible idea. So was working for you at all. I should go back to learning to knit or maybe teach on the internet or something that I’m good at.” She hesitated while my mind spun with something to say, some way to stop her from leaving me like this. “I’m sorry, Fee. I got you into this mess. But you’re going to have to hire someone to run this restaurant. And to do the wedding. I’m done.”

  I sat there, stunned and cold from more than the chilly temperatures, unable to think of a thing to do or say to stop Mom as she fled.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Daisy was waiting for me in the kitchen when I came back, looking sad enough I knew she already guessed what I’d encountered at the annex.

  “You knew she was going to quit.” I tossed my jacket to the counter, frustrated and tired and angry for Mom while Daisy looked away.

  “I had a feeling,” she said. “She’s so hurt, Fee. I’ve never seen your mother like this. Not when she retired, not ever.”

  I sank to a stool, hard pit of unhappy in my stomach, realizing how much I’d missed out on when it came to Mom. “You were here for her all this time,” I said. Not bothering to add the caveat that I wasn’t, because it wasn’t necessary.

  Daisy shook her head then, dark blonde hair a halo around her face while she reached for my hand and squeezed it. “It’s not like that,” she said rather sharply, as if knowing where my head was, “and you can stop blaming yourself for missing out right now, young lady.” Okay, so she did know what I was thinking. “Your mother was so proud of you for standing on your own, for leaving like you did. I don’t think you knew just how much she wanted you to go, to find a life away from Reading.”

  “I’m back, though,” I said. “What does that make me?”

  Daisy sighed, more serious than I’d ever known her to be, as if all her bubbly delightful vivaciousness had been smothered by the darkness outside, that now lingered in the kitchen.

  “She’ll be okay,” my best friend said, not answering my question but maybe offering something better in her reply. “And so will you.”

  I hugged her, too, as I had my mom, so grateful she sat there with me, that she cared enough to be here for me. When I let her go I rubbed my face with both hands at the exact moment Petunia let a massive fart rip. It was so loud it woke her up from a nap, eliciting a yip of startled surprise while the horrifying stench that followed shifted our laughter to groans and hand waving to dispel the smell.

  Nice way to end our talk.

  Daisy headed home shortly thereafter. A quick check told me both Bonnie and Joyce were securely in their rooms, lights on, TV’s chattering. I retreated back downstairs without disturbing either of them. It wasn’t until I locked the front door and turned to go down to my apartment I remembered I’d failed to dish the happy part of my evening to Daisy. Despite my sadness over Mom and worry about her and her state of mind, my own guilt for not being here for her the way I should have been—going to change that, you betcha—my traitor mind drifted to Crew and his lips and the way his hands felt on my skin until I crawled into bed with the fragrant pug at my side, staring at the ceiling with a well of giggles fighting to escape as naughty thoughts won over sad ones.

  It was silly to linger over that kiss. More than likely he’d been just trying to shut me up, right? But the more I tried to explain away the closeness I now felt, the way he’d laughed like he really meant it, the further down the rabbit hole of holy crap maybe he does actually like me I fell. Smart or not, I could use the good feelings and tumbled into sleep to the memory of his voice.

  I was still smiling the next morning when I got up and couldn’t wipe the expression from my face as I showered, make coffee, ate a quick bite then got on with my routine. It wasn’t until Daisy arrived I sobered somewhat, almost resentful she shattered my mood by storming into the foyer with her purse swinging, slamming the front door behind her.

  “Your mother,” she said at a very unDaisylike almost shout, “is more stubborn than you are!”

  “You’re really surprised?” I fought to hold onto my happy and snuggled the memory of the kiss deep in my heart for further examination later. Because there would be further examination, and hopefully more memories to add to it if I had anything to say about it. “Don’t tell me you tried to talk to Mom.”

  She eye rolled and sighed so dramatically I laughed, not sure why it made me feel light hearted and blaming Crew for the easing of my worry.

  “Seriously,” Daisy said, then grinned. “But don’t you fret. I’ll wear her down. You leave Lucy Fleming to me.”

  While I had no intention of doing so ever again, taking responsibility for my relationship with my mother now a priority, I nodded and followed her into the kitchen, listening to her rattle on about prepping breakfast since Mom wasn’t coming.

  It was supposed to be my mother’s morning and the Jones sisters weren’t working since I hadn’t called them. That meant the morning meal w
as up to Daisy and me. Yes, I could have phoned Betty and asked her to come, but she’d slowed down so much since her first knee operation, she and Mary both seemed ready to ease themselves out of my employ. Especially when I told them about the annex purchase.

  Staff. Right. I needed to hire staff.

  The next hour or so was a whirlwind of Daisy bossing me around while, aproned and enthusiastic, she took over the spatula and the stove and commanded the kitchen like a wartime general. I kept meaning to tell her about Crew but she was having so much fun I decided to wait, not wanting to interrupt her ambitious plan for French toast and some kind of croissant creation I wasn’t sure she could pull off but came out surprisingly tasty in the end.

  Which relegated me to serving status, not that I minded. I’d been a barista and a waiter for enough years in New York that schlepping food wasn’t something I turned my nose up at. While we only had two guests, Daisy’s overabundance of cooking meant I’d get a real breakfast, too, so I wasn’t complaining. Neither was my pug who was a good girl in the fact she sat in the bed Mom insisted she use on the other side of the counter and waited with drool dripping from her jaws for Daisy to share the spoils. Poor thing would have to do with fruit, not that she cared. To Petunia, food was food.

  The sun beamed into the kitchen, the crisp cold outside brilliant white, more snowfall making everything in the back garden glow in the brightness. It was hard not to feel happy so I didn’t fight it, singing along with Daisy as she cranked the radio, shuffling out plates and fresh bread and the full coffee carafe on dancing feet.

  I paused outside the dining room door at the sound of voices, stopping myself in time when I realized the owners shouldn’t be on speaking terms.

  “Of course, if we decide to go ahead, it will be a contract hire, but I’m sure we can work out the details.” That was Bonnie, the clink of something metal on porcelain likely a spoon and teacup.

  “Did you already make this offer to Molly?” Joyce’s response didn’t sound angry or upset, more curious and definitely lacking in antagonism. Interesting.

  “I haven’t,” Bonnie said. “It’s likely she’ll have her own endorsements to deal with if she wins this season. Your comeback in the special tied to the controversy around Janet’s cheating could give us the exposure we need to promote the book.”

  Well now. I got moving again, smiling as I carried a basket of fluffy pastries fresh from the oven down the right side of the room, setting it on the buffet table while smiling at the ladies. They shared a table of their own, sitting close together, Joyce returning my expression while Bonnie waved with her spoon.

  “Fee, dear, the food smells delightful.” She gestured at the table. “Your mother?”

  I shook my head, wishing it had been. “So the cookbook promotion is going ahead then?”

  Joyce flushed a bit but seemed happy while Bonnie shrugged.

  “We’re in negotiations,” she said.

  “Nice to see you two have come to an agreement.” And weird, in my opinion.

  This time Joyce’s discomfort was clear on her face but Bonnie waved it off like it was yesterday’s dirty news.

  “There’s no place for grudges when business is involved,” she said. Wow, was she really that arrogant? I’d met her husband, so I guess his brand of awful came naturally to her, too. At least she sounded sober. Made me wonder if her drinking jag the day Ron died was in response to a specific stressor or a more regular occurrence. “And I need a strong launch for the book to ensure we make the lists.”

  “I’m still thinking about it,” Joyce said then, before gushing as she went on. “It’s a great opportunity and to get my hands on Ron’s recipes?” She clasped her hands in front of her while I groaned internally at the terrible wording—or maybe it was just my interpretation that made it sound oddly suggestive—though Bonnie didn’t seem to care. “I can’t wait to test them.”

  They clearly didn’t realize this partnership thing coming from what felt like left field gave both of them the appearance of guilt. They could have been working together long before now. And the whole animosity from Bonnie for a man she didn’t love against the woman he cheated with seemed flimsy in light of this conversation.

  “What makes his creations so outstanding?” Bonnie frowned at my curiosity but Joyce didn’t have her reticence. And missed the annoyed glance her new partner shot at her when she spoke, voice bubbling excitement.

  “The ideas, they’re old school, but with new combinations I’ve never heard before. Like someone took your grandmother’s old world recipes and turned them into masterpieces anyone can create.” Joyce glanced at Bonnie and only then seemed to notice she’d spoken out of turn. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “You haven’t seen the book yet?” I glanced at Bonnie.

  “The manuscript is a carefully guarded secret for now,” she sniffed at me. “Only the publisher has the final copy.”

  “Seems odd that Ron was able to write a book, considering I hear the filming schedule was so grueling.” That’s what Joyce said, didn’t she? Then again, maybe he’d been working on it for a while now?

  “Ronald’s brilliance was undefinable,” Bonnie said. “Honestly, I have no idea where he found the time. But he did, in a burst of creativity.” Did he, now? “I wasn’t about to question the opportunity to market him so widely.”

  Right, money talked.

  “Now,” she said like I was her servant—which, in fairness, I kind of was at the moment—“fetch me some of that delicious smelling breakfast, won’t you, Fiona, dear? Joyce and I have more business to discuss.”

  I took the hint and my leave without telling her where she could shove her new, self-congratulatory attitude.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Daisy paused in her cooking, likely thanks to the look on my face. Something I could only guess sat in between annoyed as all get out and introspective.

  “Spill.” She gestured at me grandly with her spatula like a good witch waving her wand.

  “Tell me if this seems sketchy to you.” I shared what I’d overheard and been told while she dished up two platters of varying items from more pastries to waffles to her delicious French bread. She finished when I did, handing me the plates which I balanced as she spoke.

  “Sketchy beyond the ability to sketch further into sketchood,” she said. “On all levels.”

  Thought so. “More importantly,” I said, “why are Bonnie and Joyce suddenly so chummy when just last night they were mortal enemies over the man who cheated on them both?”

  “I don’t know, Fee,” Daisy blinked her big eyes at me, “but I know someone who is going to dig until she finds out.” Her wink and huge smile made me laugh.

  Smartass bestie.

  I turned to deliver the food, only to find Bonnie standing in the doorway of the kitchen. My mind spun as I tried to figure out how long she’d been waiting there and just how much she’d heard while Daisy softly cleared her throat and turned back to the frying pan with a wicked grin on her face.

  “Despite the fact it’s none of your business who I work with, I know how this looks.” For the first time since her crying jag last night Bonnie didn’t sound arrogant. If anything, regardless of the content of her words, she looked a bit deflated, worn out. She had no problem meeting my eyes, though, as if to show me she didn’t have anything to hide.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Your business is your business. Unless you killed your husband.” She never flinched. “Because that would be the sheriff’s business.”

  “Especially if I hired Joyce to commit the murder,” she said. Nodded. “I’m aware of that, Fiona. But this entire incident has opened my eyes to a few truths I’ve had to accept.” She squared her shoulders, British accent deepening as if she rewound herself before my eyes, to an earlier time when perhaps she was more optimistic and less materialistic. “I’m done being angry all the time, I suppose. I ran into Joyce this morning and something just sn
apped.” She tossed her hands, smiled ever so faintly, like a real person lived in her heart. Didn’t make her innocent, but it certainly went a long way to softening my image of her, for what that was worth.

  “Fair enough,” I said, drifting past her. She took one of the platters from me but didn’t follow, forcing me to stop and wait for her to speak again.

  “I wanted to ask you about the man in the garden last night. Malcolm Murray, was it?” She glanced at Daisy then hastily moved through the door, into the hall outside the dining room. But she didn’t enter, keeping her voice down as I joined her. “Should I be worried for my physical safety?”

  Right. She probably didn’t have much contact with mob types in her world. “I don’t know,” I said. Thought about it a moment. “If not from him, then whoever hired him to collect, yes.” She paled again, knuckles whitening as her fingers tightened on the edges of the platter. Just what I needed, for her to break another of my grandmother’s china pieces. Selfish? Oh, yes. “I’d go to the police, if you’re willing to risk taking it through legal channels.” Good catch, Fee. Because I certainly hadn’t contemplated suggesting the woman pay off her husband’s bookie. Surely doing so was against the law or something.

  Bonnie’s hands clasped the platter in such a death grip I wondered if she’d break it in half from the pressure of using it as her gravity. Seriously? The damages would be added to her bill. “When he threatened me, when I found out Ron had gambled away and cheated the government out of so much money… I spoke to his accountant this morning.” She shuddered faintly. “I missed so much he was doing behind my back, distracted by the infidelities he let me see.” She seemed to gather nerve, rushing on. “It made many things clearer. That I’d held onto the past for too long. That it was time to just move on rather than waiting for things to arrange themselves into perfection before I did anything.” Bonnie smiled a bit again, softening further until her eyes shone with it. “I realized I’d been staying in one place out of fear. That if Ron hadn’t died, I never would have divorced him.”