Bakery Bump Off

Spring is in the air, and not one but two unexpected visitors arrive at the Moon River Boarding House, each causing their own form of chaos. When murder is added into the mix, Anna St. James finds herself spinning in every direction. Frostfall Island’s newest resident and bakery owner has stirred up no small amount of trouble. So, when the talented pastry chef is found dead in his bakery, Anna has to gather up a list of suspects, and it’s no small task. For this case, she’s even had to add a few of her good friends to her investigative corkboard. One thing Anna knows for sure, she needs to find the killer before the ridiculous local detective once again arrests the wrong person.

The sky was a mix of coral and peach as the great glowing orb lifted its head above the horizon. I was alone, the last woman on earth, watching as the new dawn sun grew from the sea. It would be up to me and me alone to restart humanity. I had so many ideas, so many plans to make it different from the first try. Kindness would prevail. Suffering would be banished. Reading would be required, and there would be a law against wearing those weird plastic Croc shoes. Granted, the last one was on a more personal level, but if I was to lead the world back from the brink, I would insist upon it. Huck's cold nose pushed against the back of my hand, and my big, mostly altruistic daydream vanished.

I patted Huck's soft head. His thick fur was wet from the spray of salty water along the shore where he'd spent the last fifteen minutes trying to snuffle horseshoe crabs out of the wet sand. His long legs were coated so thickly in sand it looked like he was wearing gray boots. Huck had chosen this morning's adventure. Once across the Moon River, he trotted with full determination toward Chicory Trail and Thousand Steps Beach. My original plan was to hike down to Finnegan's Pond and wait to see if the newly arrived red-winged blackbirds would cooperate for a quick watercolor. Every spring they returned to their favorite towering reeds at the end of the pond. Their throaty trilling sounds were quite possibly my favorite part of a new spring.

Two plovers landed near the water with their neat little black and white neck scarves and white tummies. Huck stared at them, apparently debating whether the two birds were worth another gallop down to the water. But his breakfast would be waiting at home, and a hungry, wingless dog was no match for the plovers. He barked once to let them know he was giving them the day off and then raced ahead toward the impossibly long flight of splintery wooden steps that would take us back to the trail. His sandy boots slowly fell away with each exuberant stride.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps and stared up at them as if I was staring up at Everest's peak. My tray of paints and paper pad, both untouched this morning, were tucked under my arm, ready for the journey skyward. "Small step for mankind," I muttered as my semi-wet shoe landed on step number one. First, I was restarting a new world, and now, I was an astronaut taking a step on a new planet. I wasn't sure where all the delusions of grandeur were coming from this morning. It might just have been the frenetic energy that came with a new spring. I loved Frostfall Island and rarely found fault with any of it, but winter was long and harsh and, for lack of a better word, suffocating. It seemed that every time the layer of snow had flattened to insignificance, a new, fresh blanket would fall. The whole island was layered with ice and powdery dust the entire season. I loved a snowy landscape, but after a few months, it felt as if nature, trees and all, had been erased. Even now, with spring already in firm control, small clumps of stubborn snow still clung to the succulent leaves of the sea sandwort that dotted the cliffs.

I'd always found it easiest to climb the endless flight of rickety steps by occupying my mind with other things, mostly edible things. Something about strenuous exercise always triggered thoughts of food. This morning there was a tray full of thick slices of fluffy brioche waiting to be dipped and battered and griddled into French toast. A bowl of strawberries waited to be sliced for topping, and, of course, whipped butter and powdered sugar would be added to the list. I normally saved French toast for the weekend and never for a Monday, but the beauty of spring had inspired me, and strawberry topped French toast drowning in maple syrup and butter seemed like a perfect way to start the week.

I reached the top of the steps and had a sudden urge to pump my fists and dance around triumphantly like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky. There were no lights on at Olive's house. My dear friend and most sought after confidant liked to sleep late. She preferred the hours before and after midnight for her artistic endeavors. She'd created a unique niche for herself with paint by number artwork. Olive had also learned to tune out the criticism that poked at her from every corner of the internet. She'd found her calling, and she had enough fans and art customers to keep herself financially sound. It helped that her rock and roll singing parrot, Johnny, was an internet sensation. My best buddy's talent, on the other hand, was scaring squirrels and leaving muddy footprints in the kitchen. This morning there would be more sand than mud.

Huck trotted ahead. The dog was equally pleased to be out from the heavy mantle of a long, dreary winter. Spring meant new critters to harass and fresh smells to follow. He paused for a second and wiggled his nose in the direction of the pond and Beach Plum Trail, our usual path. Huck and I had made it a tradition to stop at the curve on Beach Plum Trail and stare out at the rippling ocean. It was the last place we both stood to watch Michael's boat, Wild Rose, motor out to sea. We continued the tradition long after Michael's disappearance. It had to be much harder, more confusing for an animal. All Huck knew was Michael sailed off that day, and he still hadn't returned. He didn't realize that his friend was never coming back. Lately, it seemed, I looked that direction less and less. The hurt, the agony of losing Michael lessened with time. And… if I was being brutally honest with myself, something I wasn't apt to do… my broken heart had been distracted by a new person in my life.