Guilt & Galaxy Cake

  Contents

  Guilt & Galaxy Cake

  Get A FREE Book!

  Did You Miss It?

  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

  One More Thing

  Let's Connect!

  Disclaimer

  A COMFORT CAKES COZY MYSTERY

  BOOK 2:

  Guilt & Galaxy Cake

  By

  Nancy McGovern

  Get A FREE Book!

  At the end of this story there is an offer to join my mailing list, through which you will receive updates, special offers & discounts on my future books as well as information about joining my Street Team. Plus, you will receive a FREE BOOK as a Thank You for signing up! If interested, the link is immediately after this story…

  Did You Miss Book 1?

  If you missed the first book in this series, Murder & Marble Cake, it is available on Amazon! You do not have to read book 1 to enjoy book 2 but, just in case you are interested, here is a link:

  Comfort Cakes, Book 1: Murder & Marble Cake ON AMAZON!

  Now, on to the story…

  Chapter 1

  Electric-Blue Paws

  "Scooter! Scooterrr . . . wherever are you?" Rachel had checked under her bed twice already, and still not found any trace of her little, black Labrador pup. She gulped. Scooter was a hyperactive little terror, prone to wriggling his way into any nook and cranny that might possess an interesting thing to sniff at. He was also prone to eating everything he sniffed, including, at last count, her eyeshadow, her chapstick, her leather shoes, and on one particularly memorable occasion, a leg off her aunt's old rocking chair. She knew by now that if he wasn't constantly trailing her around the house, it was a sign that he was doing something little puppies aren't supposed to.

  Still, all he had to do was give her one mournful look through his large melting-chocolate eyes, and Rachel would forgive him immediately and cover him with kisses. Smiling, Rachel raised herself off the ground and planted her hands on her hips.

  As she went down the stairs, it became immediately clear that the silence was a bad sign. Electric-blue paw prints were visible on her hardwood floors, leading from the kitchen into her study.

  "Oh, no . . . no no." She gulped.

  There was a knock on the back door, and she heard a "Hello?" followed by "What the—" from her kitchen. Rushing in, she saw Scott Tanner, full-time sheriff and part-time friend, standing in the doorway with one leg inside the kitchen, and a confused look on his face.

  An upturned bowl lay at the bottom of a counter, with an electric-blue puddle spreading out of it. Rachel covered her face with a palm. "I knew it!" she said. "That little rascal."

  Scott gave her his signature crooked grin, a dimple forming on his cheek. "Has the criminal mastermind struck again?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the puppy paw prints leading from the blue puddle and out of the kitchen. "If only all my cases were this easy to solve."

  Rachel groaned, and grabbed some wipes. Squatting down, she began to clean up. Scott placed his hat on her counter and kneeled down to help.

  "What is this blue stuff anyway? Alien blood?" Scott asked.

  "It's mirror glaze for a galaxy cake." Rachel sighed.

  "A what for a what?" Scott raised an eyebrow. "I was only kidding about aliens, and you're talking galaxies."

  Rachel grinned. "It's a trendy new type of cake that takes a lot of work to prepare, but then comes out looking absolutely gorgeous. I used a... you know Tricia Crane?"

  "Owner of the Cranium bookstore?" Scott nodded. "She ordered it?"

  "Yep. I have to deliver it for a book release tomorrow. Some sci-fi author is coming to town."

  "Not some sci-fi author," Scott stopped midway through wiping up a blue streak, and his mouth fell open. "The sci-fi author: Stan Stickman himself." His eyes brightened, sending off sparks. "Come on, Rachel, you can't tell me you've never read the Nebula Next series? There's even a movie on it now."

  Rachel gave him a little shrug as she rose up to throw away the now soaked wipes. "I guess I was never much of a science fiction fan. I've never even heard of the guy."

  "Oof." Scott rocked backward, and put a hand to his heart. "You lucky girl. Nebula Next is like the best series of all time. I mean literally. The. Best. It's a murder mystery set in this space empire with a background of interstellar war, and get this—there's cake too."

  "Cake?" Rachel gave a little laugh.

  "Cake! In the first book, the emperor is found dead face-first in a cake and the young prince has to run from his evil uncle while figuring out who killed his father. Nobody can ever guess who it was, the final twist is crazy. But I mean, the book is so much more than that, it's philosophy and fighting and hilarious one-liners and . . ." Scott paused to think, "and just a rollicking, good time."

  Rachel couldn't help but shoot him a smile. Even though he was in full uniform, Scott looked like a teenager trying to tell her about his latest fandom. He'd nodded his head so hard to emphasize his word that his well-groomed hair was flopping down his forehead now. His entire face had brightened at the mention of Stan Stickman, and his body was quivering with excitement in a way that reminded her of Scooter wagging his tail when she held a treat just out of reach.

  "Sounds like you really love the book."

  "Oh, I'm not the only one. Emily was the one who first read it when we were teens, and she forced the book into my hands, telling me to read it too." Emily Frank, who owned the café across the street from Rachel's bakery, happened to be Scott's sister. Rachel and Emily hadn't started out on the best terms, but they'd soon become good friends.

  Scott continued, "I remember she and I stayed up all night talking about it. Dad was a little annoyed the next morning when he found our beds untouched and both of us dozing out on the balcony instead. I was never much of a reader, unlike my sister, but that book really changed me," Scott said. "Emily and I have read every single one of his books since. We're both big fans."

  "So you'll be there at the book release tomorrow, then?" Rachel asked.

  "You bet. Especially if I'm going to get a slice of that galaxy cake of yours." Scott grinned. He stood up, dusting his hands off. "Give me a sneak peek?"

  Rachel laughed and shook her head. "It's just a plain old vanilla and chocolate cake with buttercream frosting right now," she said. "The mirror glaze is what makes it special. I melt some sugar and white chocolate together, add in food coloring and by the time I'm done, it should look like one of those high definition NASA photographs of star clusters and galaxies in a dark backdrop."

  "Sounds . . . pretty." Scott sounded doubtful.

  "Wait till you get a glimpse of it tomorrow, I'm going to take about a million photos and post them on facebook anyway." Rachel smiled. "Thankfully, Scooter only got to one part of the glaze."

  Scott stood up and looked at the five different bowls on the counter, each filled with a thick liquid in different bright colors. "Black, white, pink, purple . . . they do look delicious. Think I can dip my finger in one?"

  "Not a chance." Rachel brandished her mop at Scott.

  "Okay, okay." Scott raised his hands in
a gesture of peace. "Speaking of which, where is the little rascal? Scooter! Come out here!" He put two fingers in the corner of his mouth and let out a shrill whistle.

  "He's hiding, no way he's going to . . ." Rachel's words trailed off as a sheepish-looking Scooter dragged himself into the kitchen. His dark body was covered with little splashes of electric-blue glaze which had now dried out, and a huge chunk of it was on his snout too. Scooter, however, pretended complete innocence, markedly ignoring the fallen bowl, and instead wagging his tail and trying to push his nose into Scott's pants.

  "Oh, no you don't." Rachel grabbed him and pulled him away before he could get the glaze all over Scott's uniform. "It's bath time for you, young lad, and no more visiting the kitchen without me. Who's been in my bowls? Who was it then?"

  Scooter looked away, blinking. He wagged his tail slightly, trying to pretend nothing had happened, even though his hunched shoulders and guilty eyes gave him away.

  Scott laughed. "Alright, looks like I'd better go. I'll see you tomorrow at the book release. Oh, and before I forget why I came; there's a prelaunch party for Stan Stickman tonight at Emily's place. You'll be there, right? I can come pick you up."

  "I don't know . . ." Rachel said. "Parties aren't really my thing."

  "Rubbish, it'll be good for you to get out of the kitchen and into the dining room for once," Scott said, "You work far too hard, Ms. Rowan."

  Rachel rolled her eyes. "Well I'm new and the business is still shaky. I need every order I get, and I need to keep each customer very happy."

  "You need to keep yourself happy too," Scott said. "I'll see you tonight, pick you up at eight!"

  *****

  Chapter 2

  Cranium Books

  The town of Swaddle had stood along the rugged central coast of California for two hundred years. For seventy of those years, Cranium books stood on Main Street, inviting visitors to step in and browse. The bookstore was housed in a half-timber house with a steeply sloping clay tiled roof and an adorably crooked chimney. A large chalkboard sign stood outside, and every day there would be a witty new saying in neat handwriting chalked upon it. As Rachel passed by it on her evening walk with Scooter, she paused to read that day's sign, written in purple chalk.

  Reading a good book is like having a conversation with a friend that loves and understands you! Come have a conversation with Stan Stickman tomorrow at 11 AM, right here in Cranium!

  The door opened as she was reading the sign. Tricia Crane came stumbling out, hit her shoulder against the doorknob, apologized to the doorknob, and hastily adjusted her foot, which was half in and half out of her sneakers.

  "Rachel, Rachel! So good to see you. I was about to give you a call. Want to come in for some iced tea?" She'd already bounded up to Rachel and grabbed her arm, leaving her no choice but to nod assent. Tricia was a head shorter than Rachel, and from a distance looked like a thirteen-year-old. She dressed like it too, generally wearing t-shirts with obscure band names or Harry Potter emblems. Her hair was colored neon green, and she tended to either leave it loose and bounding down her shoulders, or tied up in twin pigtails. It was only when you saw her face up close with its peculiar mix of hard-businesswoman and spaced-out hippie, that you'd see the full experience of Tricia's forty years reflected in it.

  Inside, the store was red carpet and old leather, with that particularly delicious smell of fresh ink on paper wafting through it. Although the walls were crowded with shelves, the bookstore was wide and spacious—a good place for events.

  "It's store bought and probably filled with chemicals, but it's delicious just the same." Tricia led Rachel over to the cash counter, and reached into a mini fridge behind it. She poured out peach iced tea from a plastic bottle into two brightly colored sippy cups with their caps off. She took a moment to look apologetic and added, "Everything else is in the dishwasher and I always have about a hundred extra sippy cups thanks to my nephews running in and out."

  "Personally I love bright plastic glasses way more than boring glass ones," Rachel said, picking up her magenta-colored glass.

  "Well, you always struck me as a smart woman," Tricia said. "Now about that cake. I know we agreed to have it delivered at nine a.m., but do you think there's any possible way you could do it at seven instead?"

  "Oh . . . sure." Rachel blinked. "I'll have to get up a bit earlier to do the final assembly, but it won't be an issue."

  "Thanks, Rachel." Tricia wiped her forehead dramatically. "That Stan Stickman and his assistant are driving me absolutely crazy. Would you believe they've already called me about forty times just today? Stickman is a perfectionist, apparently, and so superstitious; he has rituals before book releases. Can you believe it?"

  "Authors can be strange people, I suppose . . ." Rachel said.

  "Oh, most of them are insane on the inside but perfectly normal and sweet on the outside," Tricia said. "At least in my experience. Stickman is a different breed altogether. He's absolutely unbearable."

  "Do you know him well?" Rachel asked.

  "Sure. He has a home right here in Swaddle, you know. Lives here six months and then in New York the other six months. Of course . . . he's probably going to move down here permanently now. After what's happened."

  "What's happened?" Rachel asked.

  "Big scandal. He divorced his wife last year, or rather, she left him. There's all sorts of rumors about why it happened. But never mind that . . . the cake. Are you sure it's going to be alright? I really hate to make you go out of your way, but I can't help it. It has to be here by seven, and then I have to arrange all the chairs and the podium. The man said he wants to see the entire bookstore at nine, cake included, and then spend an hour alone writing the final draft of his speech. Can you believe it? I'm being kicked out of my own store!" Tricia's lower lip quivered at this indignity. "I should have given him a piece of my mind. What a diva!"

  Rachel gave Tricia's hand a sympathetic pat. "The things we have to do for business!"

  "You said it." Tricia sighed. "The book business is never an easy one anyway, and authors like Stickman just make it harder. Did you know he sent his assistant over thrice to check that I'd arranged his books properly in the picture window display?"

  Rachel laughed. "Yikes."

  "You said it. We have a prelaunch party tonight in a few hours at Emily Frank's house, as a matter of fact. Do me a favor and come, would you? It's only half a dozen people, and I'd love to have you too."

  "Oh-I—"

  "Sheriff Tanner will be there too." There was a mischievous light in Tricia's eye.

  "I know," Rachel said. "He already asked me to come."

  "Did he now?" Tricia looked as though she were filing this bit of gossip away for a lunch with her friends.

  "Yeah. I guess I'll come." Rachel smiled. "I'd love to see Stan the man myself, now that I've heard so much about him."

  "Oh, you haven't heard anything. I'd heard he bought Kurt Vonnegut's old typewriter last year for a hundred thousand dollars, and then smashed it with a hammer because he dislikes the man's books! Can you believe how arrogant . . ." She paused as a shadow appeared in the door.

  "Tsk. Forgot to flip the sign to Closed," Tricia said.

  "I'll do it for you." Rachel smiled, and headed to the door. "Sorry, the store is—" She froze with the door half open, and all the blood drained out of her face. Her grip on the doorknob tightened until her knuckles were white. "Brandon?"

  Her ex-fiancé stood at the doorway smiling at her like she hadn't thrown a lamp at his face the last time they met. She'd missed, of course, it had been a weak throw, mostly propelled by her frustration at his selling her start-up without even telling her. The speed with which that single action had destroyed their relationship had been breathtaking. Since he’d financed ninety percent of her start-up, all Rachel had received were crumbs in return for the sale. When confronted, Brandon kept saying that he would share the profits, since they were going to be married and have a joint bank account anyw
ay. He had acted like he'd sold the company for her own good. He'd even had the nerve to tell her that her workaholism had prompted him to do it. Rachel's fury had caused her to break up with him, move to her aunt's town and start life anew.

  "Rachel . . ." The sound of her name on his lips was enough to have all her anger come flooding back. Some of it was also directed at herself. After all this time, and after all the vows she had made, the sight of him still sent a little thrill through her. Brandon was as handsome as he'd ever been. Blue-eyed, with thinning, blond hair that formed a widow's peak on his broad forehead, Brandon looked like a frat boy turned college professor. He wore a crisp-white button-down paired with a thin maroon cardigan and dark jeans. Quite a change from the old Brandon, who had always lounged around the house in shorts and a ratty old college t-shirt.

  "Look, Rachel, I . . ." He leaned forward, trying to say something, but Rachel felt her brain slowly unfreeze. In one motion, she had recovered herself and swung the door shut on his face.

  She leaned her head against the door, shaking a little, as he knocked upon it. Why did he have to come back now? Just when she'd started settling into her new life!

  "Oh, Rachel, the store is closed for customers, but you can let that Brandon in." Tricia chirped from behind her. "That's Stan Stickman's assistant that I was telling you about. Nice fellow, isn't he?"

  *****

  Chapter 3

  The Part-Time Model

  Instead of opening the door for him, Rachel took the coward's way out, slipping out the back door on the pretext that she wasn't feeling too good. She was careful to avoid the main road, and used alleys all the way back home, feeling relief when nobody saw her. Once back in the house, she sank into an armchair and drew a blanket around her, staring off into space. Brandon! Why on earth was Brandon Stan Stickman's assistant? He'd never shown interest in books or writing before. Plus, it wasn't like he needed the money—selling off her company had made him plenty. He could probably live the rest of his life without ever needing a job. She winced. She'd been such a trusting idiot, letting him sign all the official documents while she did the work of building the company. Why? Because she thought that they'd be married and what was hers was his anyway. Well . . . it was all over now. Perhaps even for the better, after all, she had her new bakery; she had her new friends and a new hometown. There was a little whimper, and a cold nose poked at her palm. She looked down to see Scooter standing by the armchair, his eyes large and watery.