Murder Has a Sweet Tooth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  PRAISE FOR THE COOKING CLASS MYSTERIES

  Dying for Dinner

  “Love it! Dying for Dinner stands out from the crowded culinary mystery genre . . . Laced with delicious recipes [that] complement the book perfectly.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “Annie and Eve make a great duo . . . Should appeal to a wide variety of readers.”

  —CA Reviews

  Dead Men Don’t Get the Munchies

  “Another highly entertaining culinary mystery . . . Miranda Bliss does an exceptional job creating a light, whimsical read.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “I would recommend this book to anyone who likes fun, adventure, and a bit of the unexplained.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “Bliss entices readers with captivating characters and a fun, scintillating mystery. A host of mouth-watering recipes is the perfect addition to the zany adventures of protagonist Annie.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Lighthearted fun.”

  —Cozy Library

  Murder on the Menu

  “A nice blend of culinary mystery and romance. Murder on the Menu winds up nicely with a surprising twist and a number of scrumptious recipes.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fun, entertaining mystery . . . Recommended reading—but be sure to eat first!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Cooking Up Murder

  “Charming . . . A blissful whodunit that is filled with some very funny scenes and characters who care about each other.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The writing is spellbinding. The blend of mystery, humor, and romance keeps the reader hooked to the pages. The characters are entertaining, and it is not surprising that I find myself eager to read more about this duo. The addition of recipes in the back of the book only adds to its charm. Culinary-mystery fans will need to add this book to their reading piles.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fun, quick read. A new twist on the favorite culinary mysteries.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Light and breezy, touched with humor and a bit of romance. The protagonists are spunky and adventurous, and readers will be cheering for this delectable duo to crack the case.”

  —Romantic Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Miranda Bliss

  COOKING UP MURDER

  MURDER ON THE MENU

  DEAD MEN DON’T GET THE MUNCHIES

  DYING FOR DINNER

  MURDER HAS A SWEET TOOTH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  MURDER HAS A SWEET TOOTH

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15574-5

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For all the friends and relatives who’ve helped Annie and Eve in their own way by contributing recipes to the Cooking Class Mysteries

  One

  BELIEVE IT OR NOT, THERE ARE ACTUALLY SOME people who think I’m a jim-dandy detective.

  Even after solving four cases, it blows me out of the water just to think about it.

  I mean, I don’t look like a detective. I’m short and curvy, a former bank teller whose hair is too curly and a shade of brown as ordinary as acorns. I’m a conservative dresser, a careful thinker, and as cautious about investigating murders as I am when it comes to everything from deciding what to order for Saturday night takeout to choosing the flowers for my upcoming wedding. I love clothes—as long as they’re as matter-of-fact as I am. I love shoes—provided the heels aren’t too high and the toes aren’t too pointy. I love color, all color—as long as it comes in shades of beige.

  And private detectives are supposed to be daring and flashy, right?

  But talk to my best friend, Eve, and she’ll tell you that there’s a lot more to me than meets the eye. Eve’s investigated a few cases with me and though she’s been there at my side through thick and thin, she doesn’t always get it, not when it comes to clues and suspects. She doesn’t understand that for me, solving a murder is like putting together a puzzle. Since I’m all about neatness, all about order, and I refuse to move forward until I find every one of those flat-sided pieces that make it possible to build the frame and from there, to fit all the funny-shaped pieces inside, I don’t stop until I have all the answers. I’m logical and I’m methodical, and I don’t like when things are out of place.

  And private detectives are supposed to be freewheeling free thinkers, right?

  Then there’s Jim MacDonald, the love of my life and the hottest hunk to come out of Scotland since Mel Gibson wore a kilt. Jim may not always be happy when I get involved with a murder investigation, but he’s always supportive. He’s as impressed by my detective skills as I am baffled that he (or anyone, for that matter) loves to cook. When it comes to trying to wo
rk out the details of a crime, he’s a great brainstormer, and more times than I like to remember, he’s put himself in harm’s way to save my neck. Yeah, I’m nuts about him.

  And private detectives are supposed to be loners, right?

  Even Tyler Cooper, Arlington, Virginia, homicide detective, has had to admit (well, a time or two, anyway) that I’m smarter than the average PI and I get better results. In his own hard-nosed, hardheaded way, Tyler lets me know that he values my help. For one thing, now that he and Eve are dating again (they were once engaged and when it ended, it wasn’t pretty), Tyler’s treating Eve like a queen. Just like she deserves. For another, he’s actually admitted that sometimes, an amateur can gain access to places and people that a professional can’t. He shows his appreciation by dropping hints about where I should go to investigate and who I should talk to.

  And private detectives aren’t supposed to get along with the police, right?

  I’ve even heard our friend Norman Applebaum sing my praises as a detective and, believe me, I didn’t think that would ever happen, not after I found out in the course of an investigation that he wasn’t who we all thought he was, and that he’d once been in prison. Of course, since then, Norman realized that he could turn the missteps of his youth into a whole new career. In addition to running his gourmet cooking store, Très Bonne Cuisine, Norman now hosts The Cooking Con, a wildly popular cable TV show. In fact, since I’m all about details, I’ve just proofread the final manuscript of Norman’s new cookbook, Prison Potluck. It is destined to be a best-seller, and I am thrilled for him.

  And private detectives (well, at least the ones on TV) are often disgruntled malcontents, right?

  It’s all so crazy, sometimes I have to tell myself I’m not dreaming. I mean, me, Annie Capshaw, once divorced and now engaged and the business manager of Jim’s wonderful restaurant . . . me, a detective? But then, maybe that’s why I find solutions to cases when even Tyler can’t: I’m not the kind of detective anyone expects. It certainly helps encourage me when I think how much my friends admire what I do. They provide a boost, and, sometimes, backup. They believe in me, even when I don’t always believe in myself.

  That afternoon as I stood on Jim’s front porch, I wondered what they’d say if they knew that my detective skills had failed me completely.

  The thought sat in my stomach like the remains of the BLT I’d tried to make for lunch that afternoon. I’d burned some of the bacon to a crisp. Some of it, I hadn’t cooked enough; it was floppy and greasy. When I tried to slice the sandwich into perfect pieces the way Jim always does, the tomato squished.

  I pushed off from the window where I had my nose pressed against the glass and grumbled. Just like my stomach did.

  In fact, I was so busy feeling inadequate and incapable of looking into even this, what should have been the simplest and the easiest-to-investigate mystery, I didn’t hear Jim’s car pull into the driveway.

  Which explains why I jumped a mile when I heard him behind me.

  “You’re not trying to do something you shouldn’t be doing, are ye, Annie?”

  I pressed a hand to the front of my navy spring-weight jacket, the better to keep my heart from bursting through my ribs. When it comes to my investigations, I can tell a lie with the best of them. After all, a detective has to be good at that sort of thing. When it comes to Jim, though, there’s no way I could even try to prevaricate. There was no way I’d ever want to. That’s the wonderful thing about our relationship: Jim and I are completely honest with each other.

  Most of the time.

  I smiled in the way I knew from experience made a tingle shoot up his spine, and just to make sure I kept him off guard, I gave him a hello kiss. “I just wondered if you were home, that’s all. Nothing wrong with the bride checking on the groom, is there? I wanted to talk to you. About the menu for the reception.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was three weeks before our wedding and Jim was waiting until the exact right moment to get his hair cut so that it would be perfect for our big day. When he nodded, a curl of mahogany-colored hair flopped into his eyes. He pushed it back with one hand, then looped an arm around my waist. “If ye were interested in talking about food, you could have done that at Bellywasher’s,” he said. “You knew I’d be there all day.”

  “But . . .” I put my arms around his waist and hooked my fingers behind his back. “You’re not at Bellywasher’s. You’re here, at home. Which means if I wanted to talk to you, I knew I’d have to do it here.”

  “Aye, but you didn’t know I would be here, did you?” Did I say I was the detective? It looks like Jim is pretty good when it comes to noticing details, too. He tugged the cuff of his shirt over his hand, reached around me, and wiped my nose print off the front window. “You’re trying to get a look inside the house.”

  Of course I was.

  Oh, how I hated to admit it!

  “It’s not fair,” I wailed, stepping back and out of the circle of Jim’s arms. “It’s going to be my house, too. I should at least have the right to see what’s happening inside.” Just in case anything had changed in the time since I last made an attempt to check on the renovations going on inside the house, I stood on tiptoe and tried for another look. Call me paranoid, but I was sure that was why Jim had tacked a bedsheet inside the living room window. The only thing I saw was the pattern of blue and white flowers. My shoulders slumped, and I didn’t have to try to sound disappointed. “I should have some say-so when it comes to the renovation.”

  “You’re in charge of the wedding.” Jim had said these words to me dozens of times since he’d announced that he was redoing his house in honor of the wedding, and believe me when I say I was not complaining. Not about the renovations, anyway. Jim lives in a wonderful ramshackle house in Arlington’s Clarendon neighborhood. He’d bought the house for a song from the elderly woman who’d lived there previously, and since he’d sunk all his money into buying it—not to mention into keeping Bellywasher’s open and thriving—there was little he could do in terms of updates. Last I’d seen it, the living room was papered in cabbage roses and violets. The dining room was red. The kitchen had aqua appliances and an avocado countertop. Or was it avocado appliances and an aqua countertop? The fact that I honestly couldn’t remember said something about how paranoid I am when it comes to cooking.

  Needless to say, I am not a cabbage roses, violets, red, aqua, or avocado kind of girl.

  And (just as needless to say) one of the reasons I love Jim is that he realizes it and he’s willing to change things to accommodate my tastes.

  “But shouldn’t I have some say?” I lamented, as if he was following my train of thought.

  Jim, ever patient, took me by the shoulders and turned me away from the window. “I’m in charge of the renovations.”

  “But—”

  “Uh!” Like I said, he’d reminded me of our agreement a couple dozen times already, so I guess that gave him every right to shush me. He knew continuing our conversation would get him nowhere so he smoothly changed the subject. “Did ye go get your dress fitted this morning like you were supposed to do?”

  “Yes.” Was that me sounding so peeved? About what I knew was going to be the happiest day of my life?

  I shook off my disappointment and crossed the porch so I could flop down on the front steps. “The dress is beautiful and it fits perfectly.”

  “But?” Jim sat down beside me.

  I sighed. “But Eve is taking this wedding and turning it into a coronation.” Jim laughed; I wasn’t trying to be funny. I made a face. “I told her just what I told you last fall when we got engaged. I’m not looking for the social event of the season. That’s not what this wedding is supposed to be about.”

  “And I’ll tell you what I told you then. If Eve’s involved, things are bound to get . . . well . . . involved.”

  “I should have listened.”

  “And kept your best friend from being a part of your wedding?”

  He was right. H
e knew it, and so did I. I gave in with as much of a smile as I could produce. “I’d never leave Eve out of the loop. I adore Eve. And besides, she’s planned so many of her own weddings, I figured she’d be the perfect one to do all the groundwork. I just never thought . . .”

  Jim patted my knee. “You need to stand up to her.”

  I groaned. “I’ve done my best. When she wanted that flock of doves—”

  “She wanted a flock of doves?”

  He turned so pale, I had to laugh. “It was a passing fancy and luckily, it passed quickly. So did the idea about the limo, and the candlelight procession and Doctor Masakazu as ring bearer.” I shivered at the very thought of Eve’s beloved and incredibly spoiled Japanese terrier being part of the ceremony. “I’ve reined her in. Honest. But now she’s talking champagne toasts and floral bouquets and—”

  “Well, there will have to be champagne toasts.” Jim made it clear that the subject wasn’t open to discussion. “You can’t expect me to celebrate the best thing that ever happened to me without a champagne toast or two. Then”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“I will happily switch to a nice dark and foamy beer.”

  “It’s not the toasts I’m objecting to, it’s the silver-plated champagne fountain. And I don’t mind flowers. Of course I don’t mind flowers at a wedding. But carnations can be just as pretty as orchids, and there isn’t room in Belly-washer’s for the kind of gigantic floral sprays Eve is talking about. They’d fill the bar and leave no room for guests. And she wants your cousin Fi’s children in the wedding, too. All of them!” It’s not that I dislike children. In fact, I’d like to have a couple of my own. But I knew Emma, Lucy, Doris, Gloria, Wendy, Rosemary, and Alice all too well. When they stayed with Jim for a couple weeks the previous spring, Eve had taken them under her wing and transformed the girls from hellions into well-behaved young ladies. These days . . . well, without Eve’s constant tutoring and with a new little brother to tease, the girls were back to their couch-jumping, sister-pushing, careening-through-the-house selves. I knew this for a fact because Fi and Richard had just moved to the area from Florida and we’d seen them the previous weekend. My head was still pounding.