Maple Syrup and Murder: Olivia Faulkner Mysteries

By Kathryn Lin

All Olivia Faulkner wanted when she left Chicago and returned to her childhood home in Grand Arbor was a fresh start and a safer life for her daughter, Vi.

 

But when a professor is murdered with a poisoned maple bacon pastry from her family café, Olivia Faulkner must dive deep into a murder investigation and solve the mystery. 

With the help of her daughter, an old flame, and the nosy old ladies who stitch and gossip at the café, can she catch the real killer before gossip spreads through tiny Grand Arbor and her business is ruined?

OLIVIA FAULKNER MYSTERIES
A Pie To Vie For (Book 0.5)
Maple Syrup And Murder (Book 1)
Dead As A Donut (Book 2)
Raspberry Tart Revenge (Book 3)
Tea Time Treachery (Book 4)
more titles to be announced soon!
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Road Less Unraveled Press
• Release date: Aug 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386362470

Book preview

1

Memories flooded my mind as I unlocked the heavy steel door at the back of the kitchen and flipped on the light switch. I couldn’t believe that after twenty years I was back in Grand Arbor and back in my parents’ cafe.

The kitchen was exactly the same as I remembered from my childhood. While most kids spent their afternoons after school in front of the television, I sat in the kitchen of the Faulkner Cafe and watched my parents work while doing homework. Pa would stand hunched over the long stainless-steel table as he rolled bits of dough in his cupped hands while Ma would whip up bowls of frosting in the electric mixer. I could almost smell the sweet buttery scent of pastries baking in the ovens.

I shook away the ghosts of my past. The only way this kitchen would smell of delicious baked goods was if I got to work and made them myself. This wasn’t my parents’ cafe anymore. It was my cafe. I hung up my purse on one of the hooks near the door and pulled my shoulder-length auburn hair into a ponytail. Donning a white apron, I pulled a tub of bread dough from the refrigerator and dumped it onto the clean steel work table.

I must have inherited the family talent for baking either through my genetics or through observational osmosis. After so many years behind a desk working as a pension insurance actuary in Chicago, I was afraid I had lost the magic Faulkner touch. It was stupid to think that way because it all came flooding back to me as soon as I sunk my hands into the pillowy soft dough and punched it down. Baking and pastry were in my blood.

The sun came up at six o’clock and by then I had a steaming hot pan of bear claws and a pan of cheesecake danishes on the cooling racks. The bell over the back door jingled just as I moved a batch of cinnamon rolls and sourdough boules from the proofing cabinet into the ovens.

Oh my gosh, Livvy! I jumped as a pair of pink chenille-clad arms wrapped tightly around my waist from behind. It was Carly, my childhood best friend. We had known each other since we were both in diapers. I twisted around and we bounced together and hugged all while making ridiculous squealing noises for women our age.

Carlotta Vitello, aren’t you a ray of sunshine on a gray morning, I exclaimed. It was true, Carly’s presence always lit up a room with happiness. She was like a swirl of frosting on top of a cupcake or the final flourish of sprinkles on top of a donut.

After I left Grand Arbor to go work in the city, Carly had helped my parents run the cafe as they got older.

Let me get a look at you, Carly said.

I humored her and posed with my arms up and out, turning from side to side as she gave me a look over.

Not bad. Not bad. A bit jaded and rough from the windy city, but we’ll have you mended and sparkling with Grand Arbor spirit in a month.

We both grinned like fools, unable to believe that we were going to be working together every day.

I’m sure it’ll all come back to me soon. I just can’t believe how everything is exactly the same. It’s like I never left.

I know. It’s going to be just like old times, she replied from behind the office door as she changed into her work clothes. Remember when Barb and Pat would… Carly’s voice drifted off at the end.

My gut twisted at the mention of my parents. Carly squeezed my hand in a show of support. Their death in a fatal car accident two months ago was sudden and unexpected. We both missed them terribly.

It’s okay. They’re still with me here, I said as I patted my hand over my heart. Carly nodded just as the timer on the workbench buzzed. We Michiganders aren’t much for talking about our feelings or other touchy-feely stuff, so that was the end of our conversation. It was back to the business of daily life.

That’s the cinnamon rolls and sourdough, I said. I grabbed a towel in each hand and pulled the sheet pans out of the oven.

Carly cut out slabs of cream cheese and dropped them into the mixer for our cream cheese frosting.

The heavenly fragrance of warm fresh bread mixed with the sweet scent of the frosting and the buttery aroma of hot pastries. The Faulkner Cafe never had to invest in advertising to win customers. The delicious smells that wafted from our kitchens all the way down Main Street did all the work for us.

Carly and I worked as a team to smear frosting onto the tops of the rolls and drizzle lines of icing over the pastries. While Carly decorated the maple bear claws with bits of crispy bacon, I plated the rolls and danishes onto display trays and placed them into the glass display counters out front.

Even though my back ached from working in the kitchen since the middle of the night, it was all worth it to see the gleaming glass display cases stocked full of our creations. Sunlight streamed through the white latticed windows along the front wall and landed on the blue and white gingham-covered tables in the front of the room. Exposed brick walls and original wooden beams along the ceiling made the room feel cozy and rustic.

Our family’s cafe was just one of the shops that filled the old brick buildings running along Main Street. Most of the businesses here were owned and operated by local families who had lived in Grand Arbor for generations like my family. Unfortunately, it was a tradition among local kids to leave town once they graduated from high school, leaving their parents and grandparents to run the family business. I was one of the few who returned home.

I walked to the front door and waved at the small crowd of regulars already lined up outside. After flipping the sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’, I held the door open and let the first customers in. I could feel my parents smiling down at me.

Excluding the students at the local university, the entire townie population of Grand Arbor Township totaled less than 600 people. Everybody knew everybody else’s business and the murmurs of condolences and well-wishes from the regular customers were both expected and bittersweet.

Olivia! The high-pitched voice of Maude Porter reached my ears long before I could pick her out of the throng of people outside the door. The last time Maude changed her wardrobe was sometime in the seventies, right around when I was born. She wore a harvest-gold dress with a wide-brimmed floppy hat covering her blue-tinted gray hair.

As she shuffled to the front of the line in her walker, people stepped aside for the unofficial matriarch of Grand Arbor. Maude always made it her business to know who was doing what, where, and with whom. You didn’t want to get on Maude’s bad side—that is unless you wanted to end up as the subject of town gossip for the next month.

Miss Porter, how lovely to see you again, I said, my voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. I beamed brightly, making sure to show all my teeth.

It’s about time you came back to town, young lady. I heard you’ve moved back into your parents’ place. Is that true? Even though she was a good head shorter than me, she managed to look down at me over the top of her tortoiseshell-colored horn-rimmed glasses.

Oh, yes. Vi and I are still busy unpacking. It’s good to be home.

Hmmph. Maude adjusted her glasses and pushed herself up on the edge of her walker as she leaned in closer. Speaking of your daughter…are you still single? A young lady should have a father figure at home. I know just the man—

Oh, Miss Porter, I would love to chat, but we’re really swamped this morning. Which was technically true.

I gestured to the line going around the corner behind her. Why don’t you stop by next week when we’re not so busy? You’ll have to catch me up on everything that’s happened in Grand Arbor since I’ve been away. I ushered her into the cafe and greeted the next customer even though she was just about to say something else.

I knew she wouldn’t interrupt me now that I was speaking with the next customer. Maude may be a nosy gossip, but she was never rude.

There were a few new faces that I didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t too unexpected as I hadn’t been back in my childhood hometown for more than holidays and birthdays after I moved to Chicago.

As soon as the first customer at the register looked like he was ready to place his order, I went behind the counter and took my position at the register.

Carly continued to work in the kitchen, moving nonstop to keep our counters stocked with freshly baked goods. We would have some help in the afternoon when school ended. My parents always hired a couple of teenagers to help out after school, but since it was still early morning, Carly and I were on our own.

Soon the cafe was buzzing with the clank of spoons against coffee cups and the steady hum of conversation.

Maude Porter and Trixie Roterman occupied their usual table by the front window. They had their cross-stitch supplies spread across the table next to their coffees and plates of maple bacon bear claws. Next to them sat an anxious-looking woman who sipped a cup of coffee while her son tore through a chocolate donut. She seemed distracted by her thoughts and her own pastry sat untouched in a to-go bag.

A group of older women—probably nurses or doctors on their lunch break judging by their scrubs—occupied the largest long table along the wall. Their table was covered with cups of espresso and plates of donuts and pastries. One of the women had waist-length red hair. The morning sun bounced off of her shiny tresses, making them look like a flowing stream of copper.

Some of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had met them before. They were busy tapping at their phones, most likely taking advantage of the free wi-fi we offered all of our customers.

I cleared a table of cups and empty plates and pocketed the dollar bills left as tips. The plates were so spotless that the customers had to have licked them clean of crumbs. The thought filled my heart with joy.

A man in a tweed suit and glasses walked in and waited at the cash register. He had to be about forty, but his salt and pepper hair aged him greatly as did the frown lines between his eyebrows. I quickly made my way behind the counter where I deposited the dirty dishes into our dish bin and placed the tips into our