Murder & Marble Cake Read online

  Contents

  Murder & Marble Cake

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  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

  RECIPE!

  One More Thing

  Let's Connect!

  Disclaimer

  A COMFORT CAKES COZY MYSTERY

  BOOK 1:

  Murder & Marble Cake

  By

  Nancy McGovern

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  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…

  Chapter 1

  Caking & Entering

  The sound shouldn't even have woken Rachel up. It was very faint, just a tiny clink, as though spoons had rattled against each other. Yet within seconds she was wide awake with her blanket hugged around her, and fear crawling down her spine. She snuck out her phone from under her pillow and groaned—three a.m. She wasn't going to go back to sleep anytime soon. She paused, straining her ears, but could hear nothing more from downstairs.

  "Steady, girl. It's only your second night here, you aren't used to it, that’s all," Rachel said aloud. "Let's just take deep breaths and think good thoughts. You'll be fine. You're just anxious about the opening, the day after tomorrow."

  Talking to herself was a little quirk she'd picked up since moving back to Swaddle, California. She told herself it was only because after years of living in cramped apartments with a rotating cast of roommates, the space and emptiness of her aunt's old house was palatial in comparison. Part of her, though, wondered if it wasn't a sign of impending madness.

  She hadn't so much moved to Swaddle as been driven to it. Only three months ago, she'd lived in a different universe. She’d been on the brink of being a millionaire, had been engaged to Mr. Right, and was regularly giving interviews to Wired Magazine about succeeding in start-ups. Like the stage of a play that changed within seconds of the curtain going down, her life had been upended too. And here she was in her Aunt Rose’s home facing an uncertain future in a strange town.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Rachel said out loud.

  The day after tomorrow, she'd be reopening the bakery that her late Aunt Rose had run all her life. There was a lot of pressure on her not to mess up. Goodness knows the locals hadn’t exactly been supportive when Aunt Rose had passed away a few months ago. Emily Frank, the owner of the café opposite her, had made Rachel a generous offer for Aunt Rose’s bakery. Rachel had considered it for a very long time and nearly signed on the dotted line—when disaster had struck. Her fiancé, Brandon, had betrayed her in the worst way possible, and Rachel had wanted nothing more than to run away from San Francisco. So here she was, back in Swaddle. Emily Frank had been less than pleased when her offer had been spurned, and when Rachel went to greet her new neighbor with cupcakes, she’d been met with a sniff and a frosty “Thanks.” Rachel couldn’t completely blame her; they had been so close to reaching an agreement. But on the other hand, the whole Brandon incident had given her no choice…

  She shuddered now, as she remembered it all. For two years she had put her heart, soul, and bank balance into creating a new business. And Brandon—her charming, handsome Brandon—had supported her every step of the way. They had gone through lean times together, with cornflakes for dinner, and twenty-five cent ramen for lunch, but Rachel had always known that the future was bright. She’d believed with all her heart that her company would succeed—and it had. Unfortunately, that was when Brandon pulled the rug out from under her.

  "You'll just give yourself anxiety if you rehash the past," Rachel said out loud. "Think positive. Think positive." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to conjure up something comforting.

  A memory floated up—herself, eight years old, in a strawberry-colored dress, with flour on her nose, and hands. Aunt Rose, wearing a green apron, thumbing through a yellowed book with dog-eared pages, and a brown-leather cover. "Now crack two eggs into the mix," Aunt Rose was saying. "Be careful not to let the eggshells fall in."

  It had been autumn, three days before her birthday; Rachel's eyes drifted shut, and her body relaxed as she remembered the scene. Outside the window, a gingko tree was laying a carpet of yellow under it, and stray leaves floated in the air as a cold wind blew through the town. Inside the warm, tiled kitchen, Fleetwood Mac floated through the air, sounding tinny as it emerged from Aunt Rose's vintage boom box.

  "Here, I'll help." And Aunt Rose had picked her up so that Rachel was floating above the bowl, eggs in hand. They'd both high fived when she cracked the eggs in one go, without letting any shells inside.

  "Excellent! You'll be a baker in no time." Aunt Rose had smiled. "Now mix it all up like you're a DJ!" And they'd raised their voices together to the song as Rachel furiously mixed eggs, flour, milk, and sugar together.

  Clink.

  Rachel shot up, instantly alert. She wasn't imagining this sound. It wasn't the creak of an old house settling or the hiss and groan of a refrigerator. Someone was in this house with her. An intruder.

  Still hugging the blanket to her, she stealthily tiptoed outside the room and stood on the landing, staring down into the darkness. She stood there for five minutes, breathing heavily, and wondering if she should grab a weapon of some kind. Her apartment in San Francisco had never been broken into, mainly because thieves wouldn't have found much they cared about. Back then, she'd been mugged once by a junkie, in a small alley off Mission Street, but she'd taken that in her stride as the cost of living in a big city. Swaddle was supposed to be safe—a small town covered in bubble wrap—where kids still walked to school alone and neighbors left doors swinging open in the daytime. The last thing she'd expected was burglars. Well, in any case, if the house had been broken into, the sensible thing to do was to call the police and hide in her room until they came.

  She was about to turn back, when something inside her protested. No. She'd already let her fiancé chase her away from San Francisco. She wasn't going to let anything—real or imagined—bully her inside her new home.

  She took a deep breath and let her blanket fall to the floor. Grabbing a small Ikea stool from her room, she cautiously tiptoed downstairs. She probably looked crazy, with her bedhead, pink-and-blue pajamas, and a stool for a weapon. Despite herself, a grin formed on Rachel's face. No doubt she'd be back in bed in five minutes and laughing at herself for being such a fool, in the morning.

  Her aunt's house stood on the edge of Main Street, the small strip of downtown that Swaddle proudly showed off. It was a two-story, red-brick structure with living quarters upstairs, and a small bakery downstairs. The stairs led down to a passage with her aunt's small study on one side and the kitchen on the other. Directly in front of her was the counter, behind which were two small tables standing in front of a picture window. Streetlights shone in, casting weird shadows on the walls. Rachel shivered. The front door was closed, and there was not a soul in sight. The kitch
en was empty too. Rachel’s heart gave a little gallop, though, as she noticed that the back door in the kitchen was very slightly ajar.

  Then she heard it again. This time, a scraping sound from inside the study. Her hands shook slightly as she paused by the study door. Someone was inside. Not letting herself think, Rachel pushed open the door and stepped in, brandishing the stool, and screaming at the top of her voice.

  "Freeze sucker! I got you—I got you!"

  She was met by an answering scream, thin and shrill, and a figure in black cowering behind her aunt's desk. Sliding her hand on the wall, Rachel flipped on the lights.

  "You?" She dropped the stool and stared.

  Emily Frank, dressed in dark jeans and a black turtleneck, had her hands up in front of her face and was doubled over behind the desk. Rachel's eyes swept around the desk, and immediately noted the messed up papers, and the open drawers. Anger pulsed through her. Emily Frank owned the café opposite the bakery, and she hadn't exactly been enthusiastic about Rachel moving into her aunt's house. But Rachel hadn’t imagined her displeasure would carry over into . . . whatever this was.

  "I can explain," Emily said, straightening up.

  "You will," Rachel replied. "Explain to the police, that is. Last I checked, breaking and entering is a felony."

  Not that Emily looked like anybody's idea of a thief, even now, with her hair up in a messy bun and no makeup, Emily was nothing short of gorgeous. Her green eyes perfectly matched her sun-streaked blond hair, and her doe-like neck would have made Audrey Hepburn jealous. Worst of all was her face. Emily's perfect face with its sharp nose, thin mouth and "I'm superior" expression. The only flaw you could really find in Emily—if you looked hard—was in her ears, which stuck out at a forty-five degree angle from her face, looking rather like cabbages in full bloom.

  “There’s no need to call the police, really,” Emily said. “Let’s just talk it out ourselves, OK?”

  Rachel sneered and turned away. In the last year, she’d been cheated out of her own business by arrogant, perfect people like Emily. As a consequence, Rachel had developed a special hatred for people who thought that the rules of decency didn’t apply to them simply because they were good-looking and charming.

  Keeping one eye on Emily, Rachel dialed the police.

  *****

  Chapter 2

  The Sheriff Asks Questions

  Sheriff Tanner would have scraped the ceiling if he'd been an inch or two taller. He and his deputy had been prompt. To Rachel's surprise, five minutes after her call, they were at her door. To her further surprise, the sheriff had spoken to Emily for all of thirty seconds before inviting Rachel into her aunt's study for a one-on-one.

  So now she sat in the study, blanket wrapped around her. Blue lights flashed through the window on the wall next to her from the cruiser sitting outside. It lit up her face intermittently and cast pulsing shadows around her. Now that she’d handed Emily over to the police, the artificial calm that had kept her going had vanished, and an adrenaline aftershock flowed through her. Her knees wouldn’t stop shaking and made a rattling sound as they hit the desk in front of her.

  To her surprise, she heard a woman’s laugh float in through the thin walls of the study. Was that Emily? Before Rachel could think about it, the study door clicked open, and Sheriff Tanner walked in.

  “Need some coffee?” He held out a coffee cup with dancing turtles on the rim. Her own cup. Rachel raised an eyebrow, and the man gave her a powerfully charming grin. The grin had the effect of making her entire body freeze from shock and then instantly thaw. Just the solidity of his presence made her feel safe and warm.

  “I hope it’s not terribly rude, but I took the liberty of making some coffee. I knew your Aunt Rose quite well. Heck, she was like a second mom, to be honest. So the kitchen is familiar territory, she’d often invite me in for a cup.” His voice was like melting chocolate poured slowly into a cake pan—thick and delicious. Rachel smiled, feeling even more relaxed. If Aunt Rose had liked the sheriff, he must be a good man.

  “Anyway, I thought it’d calm us all down a bit.” He handed her the coffee. The dark liquid slopped against the rim, spilling a little as she took it from him.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a small sip of the earthy roast. “It’s really good.”

  “My pleasure.” He gave her another smile, and Rachel noticed his left canine was slightly chipped, a single imperfection in an otherwise perfect smile, a white triangle with dimples on either side.

  “So,” he said. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Sheriff Scott Tanner. My deputy, Lewis Corcoran, is outside speaking to Mrs. Frank at the moment.”

  Another laugh floated through the walls, and as she recognized it, irritation clouded Rachel’s mind. “Speaking to, or flirting with? Emily seems to be in a good mood.”

  The sheriff’s lips pressed together, and his eyes narrowed a bit. Without answering, he plopped down on the chair in front of her, his long legs jutting out awkwardly. There was a moment’s silence as each sized up the other. Tanner was young to be a sheriff, Rachel thought. Early thirties, max. He had a full, dark beard that was meticulously groomed, with a few strands of grey already visible here and there. Thick eyebrows jutted out over a lined forehead topped off by a widow’s peak. He had a rough air about him, and yet this was clearly a man who cared about his appearance. His hair had been cut stylishly, and despite it being the middle of the night—his shoes were shiny. He was pleasantly handsome, though his ears stuck out a little too much and his nose had a bump on it.

  Tanner cleared his throat as he finished his own assessment of Rachel. “Well,” he said. “If I understand correctly, you were woken up by a noise, is that correct?” He flipped open a notebook and held a pen poised above it.

  “That’s right, and I caught that woman—“

  “Just answer what I asked, please,” he said.

  With coffee in her system and adrenaline still flowing, Rachel felt impatience beginning to flare. Why was the sheriff interrogating her as if she was a suspect? Why was Emily Frank laughing outside?

  “They do things differently down here in Swaddle,” Rachel drawled. “Everything feels upside down. You come to my house and serve me coffee. You come to arrest a burglar and interrogate the victim. Why?”

  “Hey, I’m not interrogating you, Rachel,” he interrupted. “Believe me, when I’m interrogating you, you’ll know it. This is just me asking questions. This is my job.”

  Rachel felt bad for a split second. Maybe the lack of sleep, and the excitement of being broken into was making her ungracious. She was about to apologize when the sheriff continued, “I’m just making sure I have all the facts so that I can catch whoever broke into your house.”

  “Whoever broke into my—? Are you nuts?” Rachel was incredulous. “Buddy, I got news for you. I already did your job. I caught her. She’s sitting outside flirting with your man at the moment!”

  “We can’t be sure of that,” he said.

  Rachel shoved back her chair, toppling it over. It struck a file cabinet on its way down and then fell to the floor, sending up a little volcano of dust.

  Sheriff Tanner, thoroughly unintimidated, said, “Rachel, there’s been a misunderstanding. I talked to Emily, myself.”

  “When? You were with her for thirty seconds, max.” Rachel fought to keep her voice from showing the emotions boiling inside her. She fought hard to be calm though her temporary peace was shattered. The sheriff wasn’t trying to help her, he was trying to adjust reality to suit his own purposes.

  “What do you mean misunderstanding?” Rachel asked. “I caught Emily red-handed rifling through drawers in my aunt’s study. That’s breaking and entering as far as I recall. Do your job and put her in handcuffs!”

  The tips of his ears turned red even though his face remained impassive. He tapped his foot rapidly against the desk. “Emily says she was taking a walk outside when she saw lights flashing in here. She says the door was open and she w
as trying to help catch—“

  “She’s lying!” Rachel exclaimed, and her anger leaked through. “Look buddy—“

  “Sheriff,” he said coldly. “That’s my title, and I’d appreciate if you used it.”

  “Are you really going to believe that pile of—“

  “Emily Frank is a solid citizen with no priors and no motive. I have no reason to disbelieve—“

  “Emily Frank is telling the most see-through, nonsensical lie! I could poke a dozen holes in her story with a straw right now and suck out the truth. You would too if you were any kind of cop!”

  “OK, ma'am.” The sheriff stood up too, and held his hand out, palm raised. “I can see your nerves are rattled, but there’s no need to—“

  But Rachel had gone quiet, all the energy suddenly sucked out of her. She knew Emily was the one who had broken into her house, and she knew the sheriff knew it too. She could see it in his eyes.

  “You’re not going to listen to me, are you?” she asked quietly. “Because I’m not saying what you want to hear.”

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. He adjusted his collar and rolled his shoulders. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

  “Fine,” Rachel said. “I’ll remember this, buddy. Swaddle’s got a real honest sheriff —a good ol’ boy.”

  “Insulting me won’t get you anywhere,” he said.

  “Trusting you didn’t get me anywhere either,” she retorted.

  “Uh . . . Sheriff? Everything OK?” The deputy poked his head in, and looked anxiously from one to the other.

  “Oh, it’s just peachy,” Rachel said, mustering all the sarcasm she could gather. “He doesn’t need backup in here; you can go out and tell Emily whatever new joke you’ve come up with. I haven’t heard her laugh in three whole minutes.”

  The deputy looked embarrassed but ignored her. “Chief? Need me to do anything?”

  “Just go back out, Lou.” Sheriff Tanner growled. “We’re finishing up here.”

  The tips of his ears were red again. It suddenly clicked together for Rachel. She looked at him carefully—yes, the resemblance was there—oval face, large ears, sharp features.