Olivia Faulkner Mysteries Box Set Vol 1: Books 0.5-3

By Kathryn Lin

A Pie to Vie For
Olivia planned on a summer road trip across the country, but she ends up stuck in her childhood home in Grand Arbor Township when her camper van breaks down. Good thing there's a $1000 grand prize in this year's Grand Arbor Cherry Festival Pie Baking Contest... The problem is--somebody is determined to make sure nobody wins.

Can Olivia find out who's sabotaging the contest or will this year be the last cherry festival in Grand Arbor?

Maple Syrup and Murder
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?

Dead as a Donut
Business at Olivia Faulkner's family café is finally picking up, but when she stumbles on a dead businessman holding a box of her donuts, she is thrown headfirst into another murder investigation.

Meanwhile, there is a new lifestyle mall in Grand Arbor that is driving family-owned shops like hers out of business.
Armed with the help of three gossipy old ladies, her mischievous cat, and an old love, Olivia sets out to solve the mystery.

On top of all this, Olivia has to juggle sleuthing, baking, and her daughter's interview to get into a prestigious private school.
Can she find the killer before her life in Grand Arbor crumbles to pieces?

Raspberry Tart Revenge
Olivia Faulkner's life is Grand Arbor is finally looking up. Cheesecakes are flying out of her online store faster than she can bake them and her daughter, Vi is one step closer to her dreams of going to Harvard.

When an admissions officer at Vi's new school winds up dead, all of Olivia's plans begin to unravel. To complicate things further, while investigating the murder, Olivia makes a startling discovery about the disappearance of her sister.

Can Olivia solve the murder and find the truth behind the decades old family mystery, or will she become the next victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Road Less Unraveled Press
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005146603

Kathryn Lin

When I was a child, I spent most of my time in my room or the library reading the Boxcar Children and the Nancy Drew series among others. As I grew up, I dabbled around in several professions ranging from finance to owning a confectionery--and now writing. Though I no longer live in the Midwest, I still have fond memories of my childhood in Michigan. Many of my stories take place in settings which remind me of my hometown—though the places, people, and names may be made up. Sign up to my mailing list for new book announcements and to get free deleted scenes. http://eepurl.com/cYBNgn

Book preview

1

Oh my gosh, Mom. These cherries are amazing! Vi said as she plucked another ruby red fruit from the bowl on the kitchen table.

My daughter and I were back in my childhood home in Grand Arbor Township, Michigan, visiting my parents for the summer. This was something we did every year as soon as Vi’s school let out for summer vacation.

This year we flew out west to Nevada and took a little detour before coming home to the mitten state. There we found a vintage lemon yellow VW camper van for sale. It needed a bit of love and elbow grease to restore it to its former glory, but otherwise, it was cute as a button. Vi and I had already planned our summer road trips and glamping stops for the next two years.

The old car also needed an engine rebuild which we found out not long after we arrived in Michigan. The car jerked and bucked like a wild horse right before plumes of black smoke came out of the hood. I turned off the ignition immediately, fearing that the van was about to go up in flames. Thankfully we were already on Starmore Drive, where my parents lived. They called AAA and ten minutes later, our car was towed away to the nearest and only mechanic in town.

She’s right, Olivia, these cherries are especially sweet this year. Why won’t you try some? My mother, Barb, walked into the kitchen and set down the basket of flowers she had just clipped from the garden. Her strawberry blonde locks were streaked with silver and tied back with a blue bandana. Even though she had been working in the garden all afternoon, there was not a single smudge of dirt on her pastel yellow polo shirt and light blue jeans. She picked a red and yellow cherry instead of one of the dark red ones.

No thanks, I’m sure you two can finish them up by yourselves. I knew it was almost blasphemous as a Michigan native to hate one of our state’s biggest crops, but I just couldn’t stand the cloyingly sweet fruit.

Fox, our white and ginger tabby cat agreed with my feelings. She jumped up onto the table and gave the glistening red spheres an experimental sniff before scrunching up her face and presenting her butt to the bowl of fruit.

Fox! Get off the table! Vi plucked Fox from the table and held her in her lap.

Too bad…you don’t know what you’re missing. My mother shrugged and popped another cherry in her mouth.

The cherry festival is coming up next week. Will you enter the pie baking contest?

I don’t know. I’m not sure I can stand touching and pitting all those cherries.

I wasn’t concerned about making a delicious cherry pie.

I already knew my pie would be scrumptious, even if I hated the filling inside. My parents owned and ran the Faulkner Cafe which specialized in handmade desserts, pastries, and breads. I spent so many afternoons after school as a child in the cafe kitchen. There, I watched them create magic from simple ingredients. Their talent for baking flowed through my veins, no doubt about it.

Mom pulled out a flier from a kitchen drawer and handed it to me. You should think about it. Especially with the prize money up for grabs this year.

I looked closely at the flier.

A thousand dollars! I exclaimed.

Vi snatched the flier from my hands to confirm it for herself.

Grand Arbor hosted a baking competition each year during the cherry festival, but the winner usually got a lame ribbon or a year's supply of ‘all you can eat’ coupons at the Golden Wok Buffet.

Wow, Mom. We could use this money to fix up the van, said Vi.

My daughter was right. We could use that prize money.

The competition was only open to amateurs, so neither of my parents could enter as they were professional pastry chefs and bakers. Since I worked in Chicago as a bean-counting insurance actuary, I was technically an amateur.

I guess I can push aside my hatred for cherries if it means winning a thousand bucks. I sighed when I thought of all the cherry guts I would face in the coming week.

You better hurry and go to city hall to sign up. Tomorrow’s the last day to enter the competition, my mother warned.

She handed me a cherry pitter and pushed the giant bowl of fruit towards me. In the meantime, you better practice.

With the thought of the thousand-dollar grand prize in my head, I pushed aside my dislike for the fruit and began my quest to make the best cherry pie in the world.

Six hours later, the front of my previously pristine white apron was covered in dark bloody splatters of red cherry juice and my hands were stained bright pink. I brushed aside a lock of my shoulder-length auburn hair that had fallen in front of my eyes and sighed contentedly. The results were worth it though.

I had six different variations of pie on the tile counter in front of me. Each pie was slightly different from the others. Some were made with all butter pastry crust, some with lard, and some with a mixture of both. I also made different fillings for each pie. There was a runny and oozy filling with lots of juice, a drier filling with more cherry pulp, a filling flavored with almond and vanilla extract, a filling made with just dark sour cherries, and a filling made with a mixture of sour and sweet cherries.

Mmm, those smell amazing, said Vi as she peered over my shoulder at the piping hot pies. I’m volunteering to be your official pie taster.

My mother tutted from the sink where she was washing spinach and tomatoes. Not until after dinner. You’ll spoil your appetite. She shook off droplets of water from the vegetables and began chopping them.

Is that cherry pie I smell? asked my dad, Pat. He inhaled deeply and slowly let the aroma turn in his nose as he slowly exhaled, much like a sommelier would roll fine wine over her palette to pick up on the various notes and flavors in a wine. My dad was tall and skinny for a baker who loved his sweets. Even though he had a lush head of chestnut brown hair in his youth, his head had been as glossy as a freshly waxed hardwood floor for decades.

You’re too late, Grandpa. I already volunteered to be a taste tester.

Dad patted her on the shoulder. That may be true, but your mother needs a larger sample size than one for accurate results.

I met Mom’s gaze over the counter and we both rolled our eyes. She shooed both of them away from the pies on the counter. No pie for either of you until after dinner.

Vi, why don’t you go help Grandpa set the table, I suggested.

I gathered my dirty mixing bowls, measuring cups, and rolling pin that I had used and loaded them into the dishwasher.

I turned around just in time to see Fox jump onto the counter and reach for the open bag of pastry flour with one paw.

Fox, no! I tried to grab her but it was too late. She had already sunk her greedy claws into the corner of the bag and tugged it towards her.

I watched in horror as the bag tumbled over in slow motion.

Vi dashed over and caught the bag with the sharp reflexes only a teenager could possess.

I’ve got it! she exclaimed proudly as a puff of white powder escaped from the bag and covered her head to chest in flour.

I couldn’t help it. I let out an unladylike snort and broke out in uncontrollable laughter. She looked like the abominable snowman with her shoulder-length red ringlets covered in white. Bits of flour dusted the top of her eyelashes. I could hear Mom and Dad giggling behind me.

Haha, very funny, Vi grumbled. A bit of flour got in her nose, making her sneeze. Another cloud of flour rushed out of the bag she held in her hands.

Mrewww, meowed Fox who was content with the mischief she caused. Finally bored of us humans, she swished her tail at us and strolled out of the kitchen and into the living room.

I gently lifted the bag out of Vi’s hands and supported the bottom as I noticed a tear beginning in the corner. Thankfully, Fox didn’t succeed in tearing the bag completely. I made a note to myself to put the flour into a container later.

I’ll set the table and clean this up, I said as I nudged Vi away from the mess surrounding her. Why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up. Dinner will be ready soon.

2

The next day, I went to Grand Arbor City Hall immediately after breakfast to sign up for the pie baking contest.

Even though it was still early, a small crowd had already gathered by the bulletin board where the signup sheet was pinned.

Maude Porter and Trixie Roterman were huddled together, blocking access to the signup sheet. Everybody knew the two little old ladies were the source of all the latest gossip in town and accordingly, everybody treated them with respect and caution.

Hello, Miss Porter, Miss Roterman, I greeted them.

Olivia dear, I heard you were back in town, Maude said as she examined me from head to toe. Despite her aging eyes and cataracts, Maude was as sharp as ever when it came to spotting people’s secrets.

That was odd, I thought. Vi and I only arrived in Grand Arbor yesterday. My parents were the only people who knew we were here. I glanced down at Trixie who smiled and blinked owlishly up at me and I knew it was her.

Trixie was thin as a greyhound with bluish gray hair permed into tight poodle curls. She lived in the house across the street from my parents and everybody in the neighborhood knew she was always watching from her front windows, hidden behind the curtains.

Vi and I are stopping by for a couple of weeks and then we’re heading back to Chicago before school starts, I replied.

Maude nodded. Such a shame about your car, though. I had a van just like that back in the seventies.

Trixie continued to smile innocently. Like I said, we were all careful about what we said or did around Trixie. She was more effective at spreading news and gossip than even the official town newspaper.

I didn’t doubt that Maude had an original VW Westfalia. Maude was a living homage to the seventies. Her entire wardrobe was made up of original vintage pieces. Today she wore a dark brown and burnt orange chevron poncho despite the hot and humid summer weather. She had her silver-gray hair up in a twist and wore her signature tortoiseshell-colored horn-rimmed glasses.

That’s why I’m here. I heard there’s prize money at stake this year. We could use the money to fix up the van. I tried to maneuver around Maude to get access to the signup sheet. There were only a limited number of spots available and I wanted to make sure I secured one of them.

Maude and I are competing this year too, said Trixie.

I didn’t know you liked to bake, Miss Roterman? I asked as I rummaged around in my purse for a pen. I finally found one lurking at the bottom under my sunglasses and makeup bag. I scribbled my name on the signup sheet. I was the fifth name on the list after Trixie and Maude. Austin Parma and Steve Stafford had also signed up to compete.

Steve was one of the high school students that my parents hired to work at the cafe during the afternoons. It was natural that he would want to compete after learning so much from working there. Austin graduated high school two years before I did, so we weren’t too familiar with each other. I did know that he worked at his family hardware store which was located on Main Street two doors down from the Faulkner Cafe.

Oh, yes, Trixie replied. Of course, I’m not a professional like your parents, but I do dabble from time to time when my fingers are too stiff to cross-stitch.

I nodded politely while I shifted my purse strap and looked for a polite way to end the conversation with the old ladies.

My grandson is graduating next year and I could use the extra funds to buy a plane ticket out to Omaha, Trixie explained.

Maude sighed. At least you’re raising funds for a happy event, Trix. I need the money for my cataract surgery.

Poor Maude. I looked at her watery blue eyes and noticed that they were cloudier than I remembered.

I’m so sorry to hear that, Miss Porter, I said sincerely. While Maude could be annoying and nosy, she was still the grande dame of Grand Arbor.

Maude patted my hand gently. No need to be sorry, dear. It’s just a natural part of growing old.

Still, there had to be a way the town could help Maude get the treatment that she needed.

Excuse me, ladies! exclaimed a short man with a bad comb-over and bushy eyebrows. He wore a cream-colored long sleeve shirt and tweed pants pulled up around his gut. An old film camera hung on a strap around his neck.

It was Greg Hunt, the sole writer, editor, and photographer for the Grand Arbor Times, our local town newspaper.

Yes, Mr. Hunt? I wondered what he wanted.

Are you signing up for the cherry festival pie baking contest?

Yes… I answered hesitantly. I wasn’t really in the mood to give an interview.

Wonderful! Wonderful! he exclaimed, even though his tone of voice didn’t sound all that excited. A picture for the papers, please?

He held up the camera to his face and motioned with his hands for all three of us to move closer into the frame.

I quickly finger brushed my hair so that I looked reasonably put-together and posed for the picture. I heard the camera shutter click and then the flash blinded me, filling my vision with stars.

Thank you, ladies. You’ll be featured in next week’s special edition dedicated to the festival.

3

The booths and main attractions for the festival were still being set up when I parked my parents’ minivan on the lawn next to the large white tent where the baking contest was being held.

There were five work areas set up inside, each of them with its own wooden tables, ovens, mixers, and refrigerators. Each baker’s station was lined up in a single row. Maude and Trixie had already claimed two of the middle tables and there were three remaining unclaimed stations. I picked the one closest to the front stage. I wanted to keep an eye on the blue and white gingham cloth-covered judging table and the giant clock counting down our remaining time.

While the major appliances were supplied, each contestant was responsible for bringing their own ingredients and baking supplies. I turned off the engine and went to the back seat to unload the plastic storage container that contained my mixing bowls, measuring cups, and dry ingredients. After I placed the plastic box on the table, I went back for my cooler filled with butter, eggs, cream, and cherries.

The contest did not officially start for another forty-five minutes and we were not allowed to do any prep work until the clock started. I looked over at Trixie and saw that she was organizing her recipe cards across her table. Maude was at the station behind me and she was busy experimenting with the electronic panel on the oven. I could see that she was having trouble with it. The oven gave a series of sharp beeps as she rapidly jabbed the control panel in frustration.

I shared Maude’s dislike for fancy electronic gadgets in the kitchen. I personally preferred old-fashioned appliances with knobs and less than ten functions. After I placed all my perishable ingredients into the fridge, I followed Maude’s lead and fiddled with my own unfamiliar oven and mixer.

During this time, Austin had arrived and soon after, Steve arrived too. We were now all here and ready to begin baking as soon as the judges gave the signal.

More and more people gathered around the tent. A rope surrounding the perimeter of the baking tent kept them from entering. As we approached the start of the contest, I spotted my parents and Vi standing at the edge of the tent. I waved over at them and they waved back with Vi giving me two thumbs up. I could always count on my little girl to cheer me on.

Greg Hunt was also here and he darted to and fro with his camera bag slung over his shoulder and his bulky old camera in front of his face while he snapped pictures of us. Three people came over and walked under the rope separating the crowds from the inside of the tent. They were probably this year’s judges.

I recognized two of them. The rosy-cheeked man with a round gut and a bow tie was the mayor of Grand Arbor, Pete Nursey, who I knew had a sweet tooth from how often he visited the Faulkner Cafe. There was a tall lanky man with light brown hair dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt that I didn’t recognize. The third judge was someone I recognized and admired, Maria Coffee, the famous television chef. She was even more gorgeous in person than on screen. A twinge of jealousy passed through me at her slim but curvy figure. Nobody who ate that much butter and sugar should be that skinny.

They walked up to the stage at the far edge of the tent. The mayor picked up a microphone. Welcome to this year’s Grand Arbor Cherry Festival Pie Baking Contest, Pete announced. This year we have with us two very special guest judges. He gestured over to Maria and the male judge. "I’m sure all of you are familiar with Maria Coffee from watching Maria’s Baking School on television. We also have with us, Andy Bean, head of the Michigan Cherry Growers Association." The mayor waited patiently while the crowd clapped for the guest judges.

Next, he addressed those of us standing in the tent. The rules are clear. You will have two hours to bake us your best pie. The filling must consist of cherries and you are not allowed to seek help or advice from anybody not standing in the tent. Your pie must be plated and presented on top of your assigned cake stand at the judging table before time is up. Only what you present to us at the judging table will be judged. This means that nothing left at your station will count. All of you have been provided your own ovens, refrigerators, and mixers. You are allowed to use your own ingredients. If you have not gathered all of your supplies and ingredients, please do so now as leaving the tent after we begin the countdown will result in disqualification. Pete paused.

I looked around at the other bakers. Nobody was budging.

Bakers, please don your aprons, said Pete. I put on my apron and tied the strings securely behind my back. Adrenaline flooded my body. I was buzzed and yet keenly aware of my surroundings like a prizefighter before a big boxing match.

Excellent. Bakers, your time starts…now! He hit a switch and the numbers on the giant digital clock at the front of the stage began counting down.

I immediately turned my oven on to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. I didn’t want to worry about running out of time for my oven to preheat. Then I shot off toward my refrigerator. The first thing I had to make was my crust as it had to chill in the refrigerator for at least fifteen minutes before I could roll it out and lay it into my pie pan. Since I had arrived so early, my butter had plenty of time to chill to the perfect hardness for making the flakiest crust.

I was disappointed that we were not given a food processor. That meant that I had to make my pie crust the old-fashioned way. I had to work quickly before my butter melted and left my dough an oily mess. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Greg going from station to station with his camera, but I couldn’t let him distract me for a single moment. Working at the speed of light, I chopped my butter into tiny cubes and scraped the butter into a giant mixing bowl. Once that was finished, I reached over to my storage container and grabbed my flour, salt, and sugar. I had been so overwhelmed this week with preparing for the contest that I had forgotten to transfer the flour out of the paper bag that Fox had almost torn. Luckily the bag didn’t break.

After I sifted all the dry ingredients together, I gently rubbed them into the butter until the entire mixture resembled a loose mound of crumbly dirt. Despite my best efforts, the butter was starting to turn soft and oily. While the tent covered the baking area from the searingly hot summer sun, we did not have an air conditioner. The oppressive summer heat was conspiring against me to turn my pie crust into a greasy mess. I grabbed the bottle of water that I had thrown into the freezer earlier. The water was nice and cool with a large lump of ice floating in the center, but not yet frozen solid. I added a couple of tablespoons of ice water to my dough. I didn’t want to add too much water as that would make the crust tough. All I needed was just enough water for the dough to stick together.

I squeezed the crumbly dough together, taking care not to knead it too much. The texture should have been perfect, but to my horror, I saw my dough start to resist my hands with the familiar elastic tension that came from too much gluten.

This could not be happening! An elastic and stretchy pie dough would be tough and hard as a rock once it was baked. I must have made a mistake somewhere. I gripped the edge of the table and closed my eyes as I rapidly ran through the amounts of each ingredient I used. Three cups of pastry flour, two sticks of butter, three teaspoons of sugar, one teaspoon of salt, and three tablespoons of cold water. There was nothing wrong with my measurements. I was sure of it. I made this recipe all the time. It was the pie crust recipe that my parents used at the cafe and it was the recipe that I learned as a child. The problem had to be something else.

I examined my bag of flour. It was the same brand of pastry flour that I always used, but when I lifted it up, I noticed that it felt noticeably heavier than when I last used it. I turned the bag around and saw that there were no scratch marks or snags in the bag where Fox had stuck her claws in. My parents must have gone grocery shopping and replenished our pantry with a new bag of pastry flour. Unfortunately, it seemed like I got a bad batch of flour. This bag had way too much gluten in it to make a flaky pie crust. The dough I made was acting like something made with high-gluten bread flour instead.

I was going to have to remake the crust. There was no way I could serve this to the judges. To add to my nerves, the judges were walking from table to table, examining each of our pies in progress. It was just my luck that they would stop by my station at this very moment. Maria whispered something into Pete’s ear and pointed subtly at my heavy lump of dough. The mayor shook his head and the three judges moved on to the next contestant. My heart raced at the thought of losing my chance at a thousand dollars and embarrassing my family. I looked over at my parents and Vi. They had worried expressions on their faces and my daughter stood on her tip-toes as she strained her neck to see what was wrong.

I had to fix this no matter what.

Fortunately, I had a box of corn starch in my supplies. The corn starch was supposed to be the thickener for my cherry filling, but I could also substitute a half cup of flour with a half cup of corn starch to make my own pastry flour.

I looked around at the other contestants and noticed that their crusts were already resting in their refrigerators. They had all moved on to making their fillings. I was going to have to hustle to make up for lost time. I pushed aside my failed lump of dough and made my pie crust again. This time the result was perfectly crumbly like a good pie crust should be. After I shaped my dough into a disc, I placed it into a large mixing bowl and covered it in plastic wrap before I put it into the refrigerator.

The next step was to remove all the pits from my cherries and to make my filling. I looked up at the clock and saw that forty-five minutes had already gone by. Glancing at the other contestants, I could see that they were all stirring their cherry fillings on their stoves. I could still catch up! I worked like a madwoman, uncaring that my apron and table were splattered with crimson juice.

I added all my cherries into my pot and turned the heat to medium. Even though I was in a hurry, I didn’t want to scorch the sugars in the cherries by using high heat. While the cherries cooked, I made a slurry of sugar and cornstarch. I wanted the cherries to let out some juice before I added the sugar and cornstarch to the pot. I gave the fruit an occasional stir and stab with my wooden spoon to encourage the juice to come out faster.

Ms. Faulkner! I jumped at the male voice. I was concentrating so hard that I had developed tunnel vision and blocked out everything around me except what was on the stove in front of me.

It was Greg Hunt and he had his stupid camera with him again. I barely had a chance to look up at him before I heard the snick of the camera shutter and