Batter Off Dead

  Batter Off Dead

  A SOUTHERN CAKE BAKER MYSTERY

  Maymee Bell

  To Eddy:

  Odo nyera fie kwan.

  Forever …

  Chapter One

  Six months ago, if you’d told me I’d be living in Rumford, Kentucky, my small-town childhood home, I’d have given you all sorts of funny looks. I would’ve denied any part of your statement and claimed that you were one rung shy of a full ladder.

  After all, I’d been following my dream as a lead pastry chef in a swanky New York City restaurant for the last year. Little did I know, I’d been following the wrong dream.

  One of my mama Bitsy’s sayings was, “Sophia Cummings, don’t get above your raisins.” I didn’t really take the time to understand it as a child, but I sure knew what she meant now. Life takes you in a direction you never saw coming, and if you’re open to it, life can be pretty great. With the opening of For Goodness Cakes, my own bakery in the hometown I never figured I’d come back to, life couldn’t be better.

  “This beats anything I’ve ever seen before now.” I muttered to myself as I stood looking at the bakery display window in utter disbelief that this was my shop. My dream.

  An audible sigh escaped me, and a smile stretched across my face as I read the bakery name printed across the glass. I stared at my reflection and into my dark brown eyes. My mouth began to water at the creations I’d displayed there, and I wondered how on earth I’d always managed to stay a normal-size body weight considering I made it a policy to taste-test.

  “Are you lollygaggin’?” Charlotte Harrington, my best friend, asked as she pushed open the swinging door between the kitchen and the bakery. She tucked a piece of her long red hair behind her ear and stuck her palm on her hip. “We’ve got a lot of baking to do. Chop-chop.” She clapped her hands.

  “Quit your bellyaching—I’ll get it done.” I ran my hands down my white apron and pulled my shoulder-length brown hair up into a hairnet before I headed back to finish up some baking. “You’d think you were the boss,” I teased her after I walked back into the kitchen.

  “Someone’s got to do it.” She shook her head and went back to rolling out the red velvet dough that was just the perfect-color dessert for The Heart of the Town red carpet fundraiser we were catering for the new addition to the Rumford Library. I’d named the pastry Heart of Rumford and even used a heart cookie cutter to shape them.

  “Orders aren’t going to get made by you standing around all day,” she joked.

  Charlotte was my one and only employee at For Goodness Cakes. When I opened the bakery, there was no other person I could imagine being by my side. Charlotte and I had had each other’s back since we were in preschool. When I’d made the decision in kindergarten that I wanted to be a baker, she played and made dirt pies on the playground with me, and had been my biggest cheerleader since.

  She was a godsend because she was also a great baker. She was the type of person who could look around and know what to do without me even telling her what needed to be done. She’d even gone as far as doing some of her own baking and coming up with her own recipes when time allowed, and I loved that.

  “The red velvet roll is going to pair nicely with the Pinot Noir, Shiraz, Syrah, or Zinfandel Rose,” I said, mentioning a few of the wines Giles Dugan had sent over. The fund-raiser was at Grape Valley Winery, his winery.

  I thought Heart of the Town was a very clever name for the fund-raiser because it was true. Almost everything took place at the Rumford Library. It was the only building that had a couple of bigger conference rooms to accommodate town meetings. All the local business held their monthly meetings there; all the clubs helped keep the rooms booked; and even the Chamber of Commerce rented out a room each month. It was time we got a renovation and addition.

  “I know. I’m so excited for the new addition to be revealed.” Charlotte leaned on the counter. “Can’t you just give me a little hint of what it looks like?”

  “Mmmhhh,” I hummed with my lips pinched together. “It’s a big secret.”

  I’d seen the new library addition in person a couple of times because I needed to see the venue. Catherine Fraxman, the librarian, had booked For Goodness Cakes for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. It wasn’t going to be nearly as posh as Grape Valley Winery since the ribbon-cutting ceremony also included children. The Winery fund-raiser was hosting all the big donors and spenders in Rumford. The ones that belonged to the Rumford Country Club—RCC for short. There was going to be plenty of wine, whiskey, and other booze to help get residents loosey-goosey and open up their wallets.

  I was really excited Cat had asked me to do the desserts for the ceremony because it opened up my creative side, allowing me to make fun pastries with book and library-card themes. But it was Grape Valley Winery that’d help me pay the bills for a couple of months. Giles had ordered large quantities of expensive desserts.

  I’d yet to get a good system down for how my clients paid. It was always a hard thing for me to decide whether they should put down a deposit or pay in full. With the winery, I knew they were good for the money, so they paid ten percent down. Ingredients I didn’t keep in the bakery and had to order I put on my credit card, but I knew I’d be able to pay that off once Giles Dugan paid me for the event. So I wasn’t too worried. Plus, the exposure to all the wealthy people the fund-raiser would give For Goodness Cakes and my creations a considerable boost. I could see it now: I’d be booked for weddings, holiday parties, birthdays, and any special occasion that required a dessert. I was in a win–win situation all the way around.

  “You’re going to love the green roof space. It’ll be so nice to sit up there and read. Plus, Cat has lots of fun events planned,” I said, referring to Catherine Fraxman by her nickname. I scooped butter into the electric mixer and switched out the attachment to the paddle so it would beat the butter into a light and fluffy mix while I prepared to make the batter. I flipped the switch to medium and grabbed a few metal cookie sheets to line them with parchment paper. “She said they need at least half a million in donations to pay the renovation loan off completely.”

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “Half a million?”

  “Yeah. I thought it was a little steep too.” I didn’t know a thing about fundraising or how long it took to raise that sort of money, but I did know Grape Valley Winery was going all out for the big event, including bands, catering, and wine tasting. Plus, some of the wine sale proceeds would go toward the library. “If I know Giles Dugan, I’m sure he’ll do all he can to make sure he gets the money raised.”

  “Standing here gabbing isn’t going to get the pastries baked for the upcoming orders.” Charlotte nodded to our dry-erase board with the days of the weeks on it. It was perfect for writing down orders.

  “We have the Heart of the Town Fund-raiser tonight, which we’ll mainly focus on today. Then I know Bitsy will volunteer us to do something for the Garden Club meeting this week.” My brow twitched at the thought of how Bitsy volunteered me for anything and everything she was involved in. “I’ve got a meeting with Perry Dugan this week about doing an employee cake for Reba Carol. And we have a couple of kids’ birthday cakes.”

  A few minutes later, I started to wash the dishes and utensils we’d already dirtied up from the Heart of Rumford cookies. It was one of those times when you looked at something and didn’t even remember all the steps. I was on automatic pilot. Charlotte got the Heart of Rumford red velvet hearts in the oven. The bell over the shop door dinged, and I walked into the bakery to find Bitsy standing there.

  “Speak of the devil,” I muttered under my breath. Not that my mama was the devil; Bitsy Cummings—she just had some very Southern roots. That meant she wanted me to go to college, get an education th
at I’d shelve because I met a good Southern boy with solid roots, have babies, be a homemaker, and join all the clubs she’s in.

  “What on earth is all over your face?” I asked her after I noticed there was something on it.

  “For goodness sakes, is that any way to properly greet me?” she asked, using her favorite saying. It was how I came up with the bakery name.

  “I just saw you last night at the Junior League meeting,” I reminded her. “It was like ten hours ago.”

  “It’s the next day.” Bitsy was sassy and raring to go. “Good early afternoon. Now, get over here, and give me some sugar,” she said in her Southern voice, her arms outstretched. She was covered in dirt for no discernible reason.

  Trust me when I said Bitsy was the epitome of a Southern woman who never got her hands dirty, much less her face.

  “Oh, Sophia.” There was displeasure in her voice. “Must you look so”—her eyes ran up and down my body—“drab when you work?” She patted the hairnet and forced a smile. “Do you have to wear that?”

  “I’m baking,” I gently reminded her. “Working.”

  “Being well-dressed is a beautiful form of politeness, and you could stand to be a whole lot politer.” Bitsy had a way with words.

  It was no big secret Bitsy wasn’t the least bit happy that I’d decided to leave Rumford when I was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school. I set off to pursue my love of baking by enrolling in pastry classes instead of becoming a debutante. Not for a second did I believe she wasn’t proud of me. She was, and many Rumford residents and customers told me so when they’d come into the bakery.

  I could hear her now.

  “You’re not going to college?” She held her hand up to her chest like she was going to faint. Then she moved the back of her hand to her forehead. She cried, “You need an education. No one can take away your education.” Needless to say, it was a trying time, but we all muddled through it.

  “What have you been doing?” I asked her. Most of the things Bitsy said I had to let roll off my shoulders, or we’d never get along.

  “A little of this and that.” Her head tilted side to side.

  “What’s on your face?” I pulled the edge of my apron up and attempted to brush whatever it was off her face. “A new mud mask?” I joked. “I’m not sure, but I think you’re supposed to wash it off before you go out in public.”

  “Gardening.” She lifted her chin in the air.

  “You’ve been gardening?” I asked. You could’ve blown me over with a feather. The only “gardening” I’d ever seen Bitsy do was to open a bag of carrots from the refrigerator or pick through a salad when we went out to supper.

  “At this time of the day? After church?” There was something not adding up.

  “The Garden Club plant and flower exchange is coming up. We’ve got to bring in a few samples this week to the meeting. You’re bringing the sweet treats. Or have you already forgotten?” she asked, spacing her words evenly apart.

  She was a master at turning a bad spotlight away from her onto somebody else. In this instance, it was bad. Bitsy never gardened.

  She moseyed over to the glass counter that showcased some of my favorite cake designs, and eyeballed them.

  “Nope. I’ve not forgotten.” The Garden Club president, Dolores Masters, had contacted For Goodness Cakes and placed an order for the big event.

  I pointed to one of the apple scones, and she shook her head.

  “I’ve been planting,” she said as if she were offended. “And digging up so I can take the plants I’ve grown.”

  “You? Planting? Digging? Growing?” I burst out in shock.

  “What? I can plant a seed or two.” She glanced up at me as if she wanted to see if I’d fallen for the clear lie she was trying to feed me.

  “I know. You better be nice to me. You’re gonna miss me when I’m dead and gone. Now, give me some of your father’s favorite.” She huffed and took a look around the bakery. “I’m assuming we’ll see you tonight at the Heart of the Town fund-raiser?”

  “Yes, you will.” I turned around and took one of the white to-go boxes that had a logo with a domed cake stand in pink, and “For Goodness Cakes” written in teal where the cake was supposed to go. It was an adorable logo I was really proud of. “These were made this morning, so Dad will love them,” I said, referring to the Nanner mini pies my dad adored. I put them into the box and drew a heart on the top with a black marker.

  “Isn’t that so cute?” Bitsy tapped the heart after I handed the box to her. “We raised over two thousand dollars from the girls at the Junior League. I can’t wait to give the donation check to Cat tonight.”

  “That’s great.” Because I was an only child, when I moved away ten years ago, there was a little bit of guilt for leaving Bitsy here, though she still had my dad. I loved that she’d stayed in all of her groups and committees. “The new addition to the library is going to be so beautiful.”

  “Speaking of beautiful, you’ve got everything looking so nice in here.” Bitsy looked around.

  “I can’t believe that I own the old Ford’s Bakery.” It was a dream come true. “Remember all the times you would bring me in here?”

  “Do I?” Bitsy’s brows lifted. “I couldn’t get you out of that display window for anything.”

  “Oh, I’d get out with the bribe of one of the famous Ford’s Maple Long Johns,” I said.

  Both of us stared at the display window, remembering through different eyes. Fond memories for us. Well, for me at least.

  “You did love those Long Johns.” Bitsy licked her lips. “There was a line out the door with people waiting to buy them. I remember Dixie Ford always saying she felt like she was herding cattle, but with customers.” She laughed and looked around. “You could use some customers.”

  “We aren’t open today.” I pointed to the sign on the door, with the Heart of the Town flyer covering the bakery hours. “Remember, closed on Sundays?”

  “Oh, I might’ve remembered if you were sitting in the pew next to your father and me at church,” she said mockingly.

  “I had to get all the yummies made for the fund-raiser. The fresher the better.” Another thing Bitsy loved was going to church. She especially loved going to church with the whole family because she was a very proud Southern woman who loved to show off what she’d brought up. Daddy and me.

  I put the box of Dad’s treats on top of the glass case.

  “Speaking of Ford’s Bakery …” I motioned for her to stay put while I headed to the office space, through the door on the right when you came into the bakery. I didn’t use it as an office and figured it’d be a good storage room. “You aren’t going to believe what I found.” I wiped my hands down my apron and opened the door.

  “A stash of cash?” she asked, upbeat.

  “I found something much better than cash.” I flipped the light on, ignoring her questions, and picked up the old leather-bound journal on the desk. “The Fords’ journal.”

  I walked back into the bakery and handed the journal to her. She flipped through and barely looked up at Reba Gunther when she came through the front door.

  “Hi, Reba.” I gave a half smile. “I’m sorry. We’re closed on Sundays.”

  “I know you’re not open today, but I was wondering, since I saw you in here when I was walking past, if I could just go ahead and buy some pastries for tomorrow. After all, you know how cranky Giles gets if I don’t bring in a couple of those Cherry Flip-Flops.” She put her hands in prayer position. “Please? I’ve got something to do in the morning, and I’ll barely be able to make it to work on time.”

  “No problem,” I said. “But I do hope those Dugans know how hard you work for the winery. Even on your off day.” Reba was the secretary for the winery.

  I grabbed a box from behind the counter and filled it up with Cherry Flip-Flops. I’d intended to put them out the following morning, but my customer was here now. Besides, I had more in the freezer that I coul
d easily pop in the oven, and voilà—perfection.

  “I’ll see you two at the fund-raiser tonight.” Reba handed me the cash. Her soft red hair was cut in the cutest pixie cut that only she could pull off. Though she was about to turn forty, she sure did look a lot younger.

  “You don’t want me to put it on the winery tab you have open?” I asked. She came in every weekday to pick up some donuts and paid the bill once a month.

  “Not today.” She waved off and was on her way.

  I went back to my conversation with Bitsy. “It’s all of their recipes.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. When I’d been cleaning out the office to make it my own, I came across the journal. I put the cash in the drawer and walked back over to Bitsy.

  “I made a phone call to see if I could buy the some of the recipes from them.” Saying this reminded me to call again since I’d yet to hear back.

  “Why can’t you?” she asked. “You bought the place, and that includes everything in it.”

  “It’s not so simple.” I loved how Bitsy thought, and wished I could do as she said, but it was the Fords’ intellectual property. There had to be some sort of law against it. “Maybe I can check with Dad.”

  Dad was a lawyer and had taken over his father’s law firm, which made a great living for our family. So much so that Bitsy never worked outside the home. As in work for a paycheck, because she’d tell you she’d been working all day. Dad adored her nonetheless. He stayed busy but still came home every night to eat supper with her.

  “He would know.” She ran her hand down a page. “Their Long Johns. I wondered how they made them so perfectly.”

  When she gave me back the journal, I looked at the page. They did make the best Long Johns, and it was so tempting to recreate them, but it didn’t seem right. When I’d read the recipe after finding the journal, I hadn’t noticed anything special about the donut that wasn’t already common knowledge. But their Long Johns didn’t taste like the common recipe.

  “I still want to check with Dad. Are you both coming to the fund-raiser tonight?” If they were, I was sure I’d have time to ask him then.