Murder is a piece of cak.., p.1
Murder is a Piece of Cake, page 1
Praise for Valerie Burns and her first Baker Street mystery
TWO PARTS SUGAR, ONE PART MURDER
“Snappy dialogue, a well-drawn supporting cast and an irresistible canine companion all add delicious flavor. Gulp this book down or savor it, but consuming it will guarantee a sustained sugar high.”—The New York Times Book Review
“With a one-of-a-kind heroine and a plot that’s just as addictive as checking Instagram, Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder is a fresh take on the cozy genre. I couldn’t help but root for influencer Maddy Montgomery whether she was trying to solve a murder or just not burn the cake. The Baker Street Mysteries has already become one of my favorite series! #MorePlease.”—Kellye Garrett, Agatha Award–winning author of Hollywood Homicide and Like a Sister “
A lively series launch, with an edgier heroine than the baking-framed novels by Jenn McKinlay and Joanne Fluke.”
—Booklist
“Valerie Burns sweetens the pot for cozy mystery fans with this debut in her new series. City transplant Madison Montgomery finds her small-town tribe and new strengths in a delicious story of baking, backstabbing, and murder.”—Maddie Day, author of the Country Store mysteries
“A blend of quirky characters, intriguing mystery, and mouthwatering baked goods makes Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder a great start to Valerie Burns’s delicious new series.”
—Ellen Byron, author of Bayou Book Thief
“Everyone is a suspect in Valerie Burns’s entertaining new mystery, filled with surprising twists, suspicious characters and a mastiff named Baby who will win your heart. Top that off with humor and delicious recipes and you have a delight of a cozy.”—Valerie Wilson Wesley, author of A Fatal Glow
Books by Valerie Burns
Baker Street Mysteries
TWO PARTS SUGAR, ONE PART MURDER
MURDER IS A PIECE OF CAKE
Books by Valerie Burns writing as V. M. Burns
Mystery Bookshop Mysteries
THE PLOT IS MURDER
READ HERRING HUNT
THE NOVEL ART OF MURDER
WED, READ & DEAD
BOOKMARKED FOR MURDER
A TOURIST’S GUIDE TO MURDER
KILLER WORDS
BOOKCLUBBED TO DEATH
Dog Club Mysteries
IN THE DOG HOUSE
THE PUPPY WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
BARK IF IT’S MURDER
PAW AND ORDER
SIT, STAY, SLAY
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Murder is A Piece of Cake
A Baker Street Mystery
VALERIE BURNS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
Recipes from Baby Cakes Bakery
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Valerie Burns
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3826-4 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3823-3
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jessica Faust at BookEnds Literary Agency. John Scognamiglio, Michelle Addo, Larissa Ackerman, Carly Sommerstein, and all of the other wonderful people at Kensington Publishing.
When you write crime fiction there are a lot of unusual questions that most people will think are bizarre. I have been fortunate to have met many experts who have been generous enough to share their expertise with me without judgment, no matter how crazy the questions. Thanks to Alex Savage for the military advice, Dr. Alexia Gordon for medical advice, and Carson and Christopher Rucker for their fashion expertise. Thanks to Michael Dell for editing assistance, Debra H. Goldstein for legal advice and always providing honest, critical advice and suggestions; also thanks for listening. And thanks to Kellye Garrett for the sprints and for all of the unicorns who lent a critical ear, a kind word of encouragement, and a laugh when needed.
In addition to professionals, I have been blessed with good friends and family who have supported me in so many ways. Thanks to Ben Burns, Jackie, Christopher, Crosby, Cameron, and Carson Rucker, Jillian, Drew, and Marcella Merkel. As always, I have to thank my close friends Shelitha McKee and Sophia Muckerson, who provide both emotional support and tough love.
CHAPTER 1
For a moment—one moment—I forgot who I was. In the heat, nay the thrill of filming, baking, and acting, something switched. In an instant, I was no longer the inexperienced, non-baking owner of Baby Cakes Bakery in New Bison, Michigan. No, I was Shonda Rhimes and Julia Child all wrapped up in one. In my commercial-style kitchen, with my ring light casting a soft pink glow while it held my iPhone perfectly angled over a bowl of frothy egg whites, I knew that I not only looked like a chef, but I felt chef-ish. Despite Southwest Michigan’s humidity, my natural hair was perfectly curled with zero frizz. I’d spent extra time on my makeup, and my newly arched brows were inverted Vs of perfection. And even though New Bison was far from McMullen boutique, thanks to the marvels of modern technology, my stylist had hooked me up with the latest in high fashion. Wide-legged Khaite jeans, simple white T-shirt, and my crisp chef’s apron, branded with our new logo featuring the face of my English mastiff, Baby. Add in the latest in athletic footwear—black and blue Pyer Moss Sculpt sneakers—and I was set. I knew I looked fantastic. I was a fashion maven. An Iron Chef of cakes and pies! I smiled into the camera.
“Pride comes before the fall,” Hannah Portman said. Hannah was a sixty-something-year-old Black woman who had been best friends with my great-aunt, Octavia, for more than fifty years. She’d worked side by side with Aunt Octavia in the bakery for most of those years. She was spirited, sassy, and an excellent baker. Now in the early stages of dementia, Hannah continued baking and working whenever she was able. She also happened to be my new boyfriend Michael’s grandmother, so I couldn’t blow her off, no matter how much I wanted to.
“You need to focus when you’re baking or you’re going to have a mess on your hands,” Hannah said. She made the best sweet potato pies I’d ever eaten, but when it came to videos and social media, that was my wheelhouse. Videos of me learning to bake were trending on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter, not to mention a host of other less well-known social media platforms. I was even doing well on Facebook, which was popular with New Bison residents. I was a social media influencer long before I inherited my great aunt’s bakery and moved across the country to Southwest Michigan. Now, I’d found my niche and was putting Baby Cakes on the map.
I turned away from Hannah and rolled my eyes at the camera. Even at twenty-eight, I knew better than to let an older Black woman catch me rolling my eyes. Confident that beating egg whites would be a breeze, I smiled and turned on the stand mixer.
My first mistake was failing to secure the bowl. The moment the power was turned on, the bowl rocked and thumped against the counter. My second mistake was failing to turn the mixing speed down after the last time I’d used the beast. My third mistake was screaming when the mixer started flinging the slimy liquids in my face, hair, and around the kitchen. Note to self, Never open your mouth while egg whites are flying through the air.
With one eye closed and eggshell innards dripping all over my previously sparkling clean kitchen, I managed to get close enough to turn off the mixer.
Hearing my screams, Leroy Danielson, my head baker, rushed into the kitchen in time to see me with egg whites dripping from my hair and Hannah Portman laughing like a hyena. Leroy was five feet ten, thin, with shoulder-
My fourth mistake was taking time to remove the egg whites from my hair before reaching for my iPhone. Leroy beat me to it. With a wicked grin and a few quick swipes, I knew that video was on its way into the cosmos.
“Your followers love these outtakes.” He chuckled as he handed me my phone.
I glared, but it didn’t do any good. He’d pulled out his phone and was watching the video from the beginning. Even without the sound, I knew when he got to the egg-white debacle because he guffawed.
Baby, the two-hundred-fifty-pound English mastiff I’d inherited from my great-aunt Octavia, along with her house, bakery, and a bit of cash, had followed Leroy into the house. Baby glanced in my direction and then loped over to the corner and hoisted himself up onto the custom-made corner dog bed that I’d ordered for his lounging pleasure. It was the size of a twin-sized bed and upholstered with a soft gray velvet that looked great in the adjacent white custom kitchen.
I stared at the massive canine that I’d grown to love in the short time that I’d been in New Bison.
He put his massive head down on his paws and sighed.
That sigh made my eyes water. “Something’s wrong with him.” I rushed over and climbed into the dog bed and put my arm around him. “What’s the matter, boy?”
He gazed at me, lifted his massive head, rested it in my lap, and sighed again.
I gave Leroy an accusing look. “I thought you were going to take him to the vet?”
“I did, but the place was chaos. Michael had to do an emergency C-section on a goat, and the staff were rescheduling everybody else.” Leroy saw the concern in my eyes. “I sent him a text, and he promised he’d come by as soon as he could.”
“A goat?” I wiped the tears that had welled up in my eyes and leaned down and rubbed my chin on Baby’s head and kissed his nose. “It’s late. How long does a C-section take? Where is he?”
“Right here.” Michael Portman, Hannah’s grandson and my boyfriend, hurried in. “I got here as fast as I could.” Michael placed a backpack that I knew contained his most-needed medical equipment on the counter. He looked tired but still smiled as he walked over to me.
He stood in front of me and stared down. “Hey, Squid.”
I took the towel that I kept near the dog bed to take care of Baby’s drool and swatted him. “Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for Navy slurs . . . any slurs.”
In addition to being my boyfriend, Michael was a veteran of the Army, and Baby’s veterinarian. As the daughter of a Navy admiral, I often bickered with him and tossed around military slurs without hatred or ill will. There’s a frenemy kind of relationship between all branches of the military. He called me “squid” or “swabbie.” I called him a “grunt” or “a dumb Joe.” No bad feelings, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Don’t pay her no mind,” Hannah said, chuckling from the seat in the dining room. “She’s just upset ’cause she’s got egg whites all over her expensive new shoes.”
I looked down at my Sculpts. Before moving to New Bison, I never would have thought twice about spending six hundred dollars for a pair of shoes. In the circles I hung around with in L.A., I would have not only bought the latest Pyre Moss Sculpt sneakers with bright blue bottoms, but I would also have bought a pair in every primary color. My dad wasn’t Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos rich. But U.S. Navy Admiral Jefferson Augustus Montgomery had served in the military for more years than I’d been alive. He earned a good living but didn’t spend it on anything except me. He didn’t need to spend a lot of money. The military provided his clothes, housing, and travel, and the Admiral had few vices. An occasional cigar and a taste for good cognac didn’t break the piggy bank. My life as the only daughter of a too-busy-to-raise-a-kid-alone Navy admiral who could command thousands of men without breaking a sweat was one of financial indulgence and emotional neglect. I was determined to prove that I was a responsible adult, capable of taking care of myself and making important decisions when necessary, and that meant paying my own credit card bills. At least, that’s what my new friends told me responsible adults did.
“I’m not upset about my shoes. I’m upset because I have egg whites dripping from my ceiling.” As if on cue, a wad of the slimy whites fell from a pendant light, just missing my shoe.
I stared at the glop and used Baby’s towel to wipe it off.
Michael squinted at me. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
I pulled a compact from the pocket of my jeans and looked at myself. One glance was all it took to see that I was missing one of the false eyelashes that I’d carefully applied earlier. I glanced at Baby, who was using a paw to swipe at what appeared to be a spider on his nose.
I reached down and plucked the now limp and badly mangled lash off his nose.
Baby gave me a brief glance and then sighed and put his head back down.
With one quick tug, I removed the remaining lash. “Can’t you see Baby’s sick. He’s been moping around here for two days. He doesn’t play with his toys, and earlier today I opened a bag of potato chips, and he didn’t even bother to lift his head.”
Michael’s lips twitched, and he worked to keep from smiling. “That does sound serious.”
I glared at him. “I’m serious. He barely eats and he’s lost his . . . his . . . zing.” I turned to Leroy. “Hand me that T-R-E-A-T we put away for him.”
Leroy was an excellent cook and was teaching me to prepare basic meals. Of course, the fact that he had a massive crush on my tenant April Johnson was probably another motivator for him to spend as much time here as possible. He went to the fridge and pulled out a large bone that we’d saved from dinner last night. He handed the bone to Baby, who sniffed it but didn’t bother to look at it.
I gave Michael an I told you so look, but I didn’t have to say a word. I could see that his demeanor had changed. In a few seconds, he switched from boyfriend to veterinarian, and he was now staring at Baby with concern.
He grabbed his backpack from the counter, walked over to the dog bed, and sat next to Baby. He stroked his head and his body, but I could tell that his petting had a purpose as he gently poked the gentle giant. Eventually, he pulled out a stethoscope and listened to Baby’s heart and lungs.
The mastiff barely moved.
Despite my best efforts to contain myself, a few tears overflowed and ran down my cheek. My makeup was ruined, but I didn’t care.
Michael asked about his input and output and a host of other questions, which I answered to the best of my ability. Input was something I could speak to, but I had to admit that I hadn’t been watching his output. Yuck!
Baby lay listlessly by his side until Michael put on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a large thermometer out of his backpack and inserted it where the sun don’t shine. Baby wasn’t pleased, but Michael spoke softly to him. When the indignity was over, Baby put his head back down.
Michael took alcohol wipes and cleaned the thermometer before returning it to his bag along with the stethoscope. “Temperature is normal. Heart and lungs sound clear. I can run some blood work tomorrow, but . . . he looks healthy.”
“Healthy? How can you say he’s healthy? Look at him.” I spread my arms toward the mastiff.
Baby took that moment to sigh loudly.
A thought ran through my mind that made my heart skip a beat. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Could it be an infection from getting shot?”
Michael looked at the scar that was the only sign of Baby’s heroic attempts to save me from a deranged killer. “I doubt it. Everything appears to have healed well. He doesn’t seem to have any tenderness.”
While Michael probed the area, I couldn’t help but stare at his arm, which bore a similar scar where he too had been shot saving my life.
