A SLICE OF DISASTER
A Bree’s Bakery Cozy Mystery
JESSICA LANCASTER
Copyright © 2019 Jessica Lancaster
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.
All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.
NOTICE: British English, using BE grammar and spelling. Example; Mr and Mrs - instead of Mr. and Mrs.
NON-PARANORMAL MYSTERIES
Bree’s Bakery Cozy Mysteries
A Slice of Disaster (Story 1)
A Dash of Terror (Story 2)
A Touch of Madness (Story 3)
PARANORMAL MYSTERIES
Witchwood Cozy Mysteries
Cryptic Curses in Witchwood (Book 1)
Secret Spells in Witchwood (Book 2)
Monster Magic in Witchwood (Book 3)
Reaper Rituals in Witchwood (Book 4)
Bad Blood in Witchwood (Book 5)
Wicked Witches in Witchwood (Book 6)
Cowan Bay Witches Cozy Mysteries
Muffins, Magic, and Murder (Book 1)
Cupcakes, Crystals, and Chaos (Book 2)
Pies, Palmistry, and Poison (Book 3)
Treats, Tarot, and Trouble (Book 4)
CO-AUTHORED BOOKS
With Hugo James King
Murder on Silver Lake (Book 1)
Murder on Red Rose Drive (Book 2)
Murder at Maple House (Book 3)
Join Jessica’s e-mail list for new releases by signing up!
A SLICE OF DISASTER
When Bree Dalton moves back home to Cranwell, the last thing she expected after taking over her late father’s bakery was to be the centre of a criminal investigation.
Uncovering a secret box filled with jewels, Bree believes they belonged to her father. As John Dalton had always been wary of banks and safety deposit boxes, it’s no surprise the floorboards are filled with heirlooms.
But they’re not his at all. They were stolen. Now Bree’s about to take the fall for it, unless she uncovers the mystery hidden beneath the bakery.
A cozy mystery short story that can be read in two hours. Served perfectly as a light read. Set in a sleepy village and featuring a bakery-owning amateur sleuth and her friends.
Written in British English. No cliffhanger, swearing, or gore.
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
Next in BREE’S BAKERY
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ABOUT JESSICA LANCASTER
ONE
Tuesday 16th April 2019
“This is your life now,” Bree grumbled. She looked through the haze of sleep in her eyes as she jammed a key into a lock.
It had been a month since Bree Dalton’s father had died. And in the same week, Bree quit working as a head pastry chef in London to take over the family bakery. It was where Bree grew up with a passion with baking and all things sweet, and where Bree spent most of her early mornings and weekends.
Dalton’s Baked Goods was in the centre of Cranwell, a village located on the outskirts of Landale, a city in the North West of England. The village was mostly used as a bypass lane through the A roads to get from one city to another, that city being Presham. Cranwell was also close to the large neighbouring market town of Peck, and a place where Bree and her father had once hosted a Saturday morning market stall—of course, no longer in service.
It was a 6 A.M. start for Bree, Monday through Saturday, the bakery opened from 8 A.M. until 4 P.M. and those had always been the hours, from since it was a bakery before her father had bought it thirty-five years ago.
Bree kept the shop in darkness as she walked behind the counter and into the sterile metallic kitchen area. She flicked the switches and the humming whir of lights broke out overhead, like a chorus welcoming her home.
The kitchen was large, housing three refrigerators, two for supplies and premade doughs, and the third for leftover product to be put out again at a marked down cost.
Bree washed her hands and splashed water in her face. “You did this for years,” she mumbled to herself. “You can’t leave again.” She grabbed her hairnet and apron from a hook.
There were four hooks, as there were four employees, including herself. There was her high school best friend, Sarah, she’d been working full-time at the bakery for almost as long as Bree had been living in London. Sarah also commanded two apprentice bakers four days a week; Monday to Thursday.
Bree’s father, John Dalton had tried to keep his daughter from leaving, he knew she’d take over when he retired. But that day never came, and Bree always told herself she had time to be in her father’s life after experiencing what the world had to offer—and from there, we find Bree steeped in guilt and regret.
In the centre of the kitchen, a large metal island counter gleamed with enough space for at least two more employees.
Bree pulled out a metal bowl of bread dough from the refrigerator. It had more than doubled in size from mixing it yesterday evening. She placed it on the counter before pulling her long black hair into a ponytail and easing the hairnet over it.
“What are we making today?” she mumbled to herself, offering a perplexed look at the whiteboard across the kitchen. Only faint red and green smudges remained. “Let’s start with coffee,” she offered herself with more enthusiasm.
It was different from how Bree had spent her previous ten years as a pastry chef in restaurants. There was no immediate need for results, and she could take her time here. She viewed the whole change of pace as a holiday of sorts, even if it meant waking before the sun.
Bree made her way to the front of the shop where she’d recently had a coffee machine installed. It had been great for business, and both apprentices received barista certificates over a weekend course.
With coffee in hand, Bree approached a second fridge, and to her surprise, the usual beam of orange light didn’t hit her face. It was dark and stale.
Had it been unplugged? she wondered, placing her cup on the counter.
Glancing behind the row of refrigerators, she noted the mess of soot and cobwebs collected in the metal coils at the back. She tssked her teeth and screwed her eyes.
“Please don’t be broke,” she mumbled as if in prayer.
“What’s broken?” a voice startled Bree. Sarah Hall walked into the kitchen, placing her handbag on the counter with a thud.
“The fridge.”
Sarah rushed to her side, looking in the fridge, she placed a hand against the inside. “Feels cool still, probably happened a couple hours ago.”
“Let’s move everything into the other one,” she replied with a nod. “I think I’ll need more than coffee if this one is broke.”
Sarah chuckled as she walked off to the sink. “Relax,” she called back. “The insurance will cover it, your dad had a great policy, and he’s been paying it for years.”
This was the first time Bree had ever run a business, and she might have known more about it if she’d stayed. It only added salt to the wound.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, Bree reached into the refrigerator for milk. “Luckily,” she said. “Because I don’t think we’ve got it in the budget for a new fridge.”
“Just be glad your dad filed with the accountant before he passed,” she said. “I’m clueless about all that.”
/> As was she. Bree chuckled, pouring milk into her coffee. “I actually spoke with the accountant before buying the coffee machine, he told me not to make any more asset purchases this month.”
Sarah shook her head at Bree. “And I’m sure when you tell him about the fridge, he’ll probably be able to give you better advice.” She collected her hairnet and apron from the hook. “Plus, your dad had a number for someone who used to fix odd things around the place.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “Given my dad’s approach to fixing was duct tape, I’m glad he had someone come in.”
“Or the place would be held up with those wooden lollipop sticks and glue!” Sarah added, pulling the hairnet over her head, collecting the short bob of blonde hair.
Their laughter grew into a hysterical cackle, just in time for the two apprentice bakers to walk in on them, as if someone had filled the place with laughing gas.
Lucy and Jack, both seventeen years old, glanced to each other and offered a smile to Bree and Sarah, as if welcoming their two crazy aunts.
Bree collected her coffee cup into her hands once again. “This fridge is broke, so we’ll need to use the dough from here and transfer the rest into the other,” she said. “I’m going to find a phone number for a fairly urgent electrician.”
They both nodded as Bree left them with Sarah.
From the front of the store, and behind the counter, there was a single door leading into an office where John had once worked. Bree hadn’t touched or moved much since taking over the business. There was a computer, used mainly for surfing the internet. Bree’s father had been a man of pen and paper, someone who didn’t like putting numbers into spreadsheets or anything of importance on the computer. He was a man of many conspiracies, never trusting technology, the banks, or anyone he came into contact with—especially salesmen.
There was no window in the office, only an overhead light and a desk lamp. Bree turned both on to maximise the coverage.
She placed her cup on a coaster, marked with rings from where her father had placed his cup many times over, spilling it and leaving the stains.
There were three filing cabinets and an entire bookshelf filled with books, journals, and the once yearly phone directories.
Bree took a seat and twirled in the office chair at the desk. She pulled the top drawer open, as she had previously when she took over, it was filled with empty pens and bits and bobs without anywhere specific to be.
Bree pushed the first drawer shut, then pulled on the handle of the second one. It was tougher, required two tugs before giving way.
The drawer was filled with birthday cards and Christmas cards Bree had sent over the years. There were also a number of instant noodle sauce packets hidden like buried treasure.
She closed it with a thud, knocking the coffee slightly, spilling over the rim.
The bottom drawer was large, one she hadn’t been able to get into before. She tugged at it, tugging, again and again, the coffee rippling and spilling more and more each time.
She kicked it and pulled it again, opening it with ease.
Inside the bottom drawer was a teddy bear Bree had as a child. Now covered in dust, it sat beside a recipe book. She pulled them both out, dusting away the cover of the book to see her name penned alongside her father’s.
Bree’s Bakes: recipe book. Written by dad (John Dalton).
She cracked open the inside to see the first recipe. “Chocolate cherry tarts,” she read, rolling a finger across the page. “I remember these,” she continued as her stomach let out a gurgling rumble.
But that wasn’t why she was looking around the office. She closed the book and continued looking until spotting something on the corkboard above the metal filing cabinets.
A business card. Harry and Son Electricians.
“Bingo!” she said with a snap of her finger.
Now, the only problem was the time. It was nearing 6:30 A.M. and not many people would like to be woken at such time. Bree sighed back into the seat at the desk and looked through the recipe book she’d created with her father.
.
TWO
After spending forty minutes reading through her old recipe book, Bree called the electricians, and to her surprise they answered. Apparently, they too were operational from the early morning until the early afternoon.
“Good morning, I’m calling from Dalton’s Baked Goods, the bakery in Cranwell,” Bree introduced herself.
“Morning,” a rough voice spoke back. “This is Harry Spencer on the line.”
“Hello, Mr Spencer,” she replied. “I’m Bree Dalton, my father had your card. You’re one of the—”
“John Dalton,” he sighed. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“What seems to be troubling you?”
Bree straightened out her shoulders. “The fridge is broken, I think.”
“I did tell him they need regular servicing,” Harry spoke back. “I can come over this afternoon, around noon. How does that sound?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
He chuckled back. “And if you could put aside some of those cream cheese Danishes, I’d be very happy.”
“I can do that for you!”
“See you then.”
Placing the phone back on the receiver, Bree smiled to herself. She loved the Danishes her father made, but they didn’t quite sell, so they weren’t making many of them, they usually went to waste.
Bree approached the staff in the kitchen, a weighted sigh expelled from her chest. “Someone’s coming over at noon to look at the fridge, hopefully they can fix it too!”
Sarah clapped. “Great! We’ve moved everything over, it’s a bit cramped, and we’ve already started on the baking.”
Jack and Lucy were both busy rolling and scoring out pieces of dough for bread.
“Can we also make some Danishes?” Bree said. “Just a small batch for the electrician.”
Sarah looked over the two apprentices. “After this, we’re moving onto pastries,” she said, turning her wrist to see her watch. “Right on schedule.”
Bree moved towards the refrigerator and opened it, glancing inside the emptiness. It had been emptied out completely. “Think it needs moving a little.”
“I’ll help you in a minute,” Sarah said.
“Are you wanting us to use all the dough now?” Jack questioned as he dusted a portion of the table with flour. “Because I’m not sure we have enough space to bake it all.”
Bree shook her head. “We can space it out throughout the day.”
“Starting with breads, of course, and then moving on to pastries and cakes,” Sarah added, she pointed to the whiteboard attached to the tiles stuck on the wall. “I wrote it down.”
They both nodded to Sarah.
Bree had never been an instructor before, and she wouldn’t admit it, but having two teenagers around scared her a little. The people who usually worked under Bree were adults with years of experience in their field.
Through the kitchen, there was another door, it led out onto a corridor with a toilet and another door to the stone-paved alley where the waste bins were kept.
Bree grabbed a black bin liner filled with rubbish from the metal bin, she tied it and pulled it out, removing it to the bins in the alley.
She took a moment outside. The cool spring air wafted over her, a gentle breeze. She closed her eyes and held her nose, trying not to inhale the filthy stench from the bins. Along the alley, there were other wheelie bins used by other shops along the main stretch of road running through Cranwell. The road was named Landale Road, after the city they were inched inside.
Beside the bakery, there was a local newsagent, and to the other side, there was a butcher. Further along the road, and there was the village pub. The alley was often used by late-night drinkers in their quest to find their home.
“Ew,” Sarah said, startling Bree outside. “I looked behind the fridge. Are you coming to move it? Probably needs a good clea
n before the electrician arrives.”
Bree could agree with that.
Inside, both women moved the refrigerator, shuffling it out from against the wall. The three of them were all just as dirty, but this was the only empty one. The only thing near the refrigerators was the metal waste bin, and that was easily moved.
Behind the refrigerators was dark-coloured lint, and the tiled walling was stained yellow; a dark contrast to the white tiling covering the rest of the kitchen walls.
“You’re cleaning this,” Sarah said to Bree, gently tapping her arm. “I’ll get you the sweeping brush.” She chuckled.
Jack and Lucy were quick to inspect, both shocked, slapping hands to their mouths.
“My mum’s fridge was like that,” Jack said. “She hadn’t moved hers in years.”
Bree glanced to Sarah.
She shrugged. “Your father was always too busy.”
“When was the last time?” Bree asked, her brow creased as she threw her head back. “If someone wasn’t coming out to look at it, I’d probably just push it back against the wall and save for a new one.”
Unfortunately for Bree, this was a job only in her pay grade.
With a sweeping brush in hand and a dustpan in the other, Bree attacked the mess, combing it down from the wall and against the metal rings at the back of the refrigerator.
Reaching the floor, as she swept the dust and dirt into the plastic dustpan, she noticed how stained the wall had become and how little the fridge had been moved since it was installed.
“Think I’ll need a bucket with bleach in too,” she said, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her forearm. “Can’t have him seeing it like this.”
After most of the dust was gone, the only thing left was the clear demarcation stains.
Armed now with a bucket of hot water and bleach, Bree scrubbed at the tiles, revealing a lighter shade of yellow and orange.
A Dash of Terror Page 1