A Crepe to Die For

By Felicity Collins

Meet Elizabeth "Libby" Perkins, a determined and ambitious 39-year-old who is the proud owner of Suzette's, a French-style crêperie. Libby's life takes a dramatic turn when the renowned food critic Andrew Poulter dies after eating at her establishment, and the police begin to suspect that her chef is the killer. With her business on the line, Libby must take matters into her own hands to clear her chef's name and find the true culprit.

As she embarks on her quest for justice, Libby's investigation leads her to six suspects, including a town kook, a new resident, and even the mayor himself. As she delves deeper into their lives, Libby discovers that everyone has a motive for wanting Andrew Poulter dead.

The closer Libby gets to the truth, the more dangerous the situation becomes, with twists and turns that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Who killed Andrew Poulter, and why? Join Libby in her race against time to solve the murder, clear her chef's name, and restore her beloved crêperie's reputation.

"A Crepe to Die For" is a thrilling mystery filled with unforgettable characters, unexpected twists, and a touch of French flair. With its mouthwatering descriptions of delicious crêpes and the quaint backdrop of a small town, this book is sure to satisfy your appetite for a great mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094460031

Book preview

1

Iducked underneath the server’s raised arm, deftly avoiding a collision with the tray he was transporting to the customers outside. On any other day, barely evading one of the waiters in the kitchen wouldn’t even have registered as anything close to a mishap. After all, I was a seasoned pro. Even before I’d opened Suzette’s, my French-style crêperie, I had funded backpacking across the world with the tips I’d earned on waitress jobs.

Today, though, my evasive maneuver only added to my jitters. My heart started hammering as I arrived at the plating area to pick up my latest order. The kitchen was barely-contained chaos as always, which was the way I typically liked it, but I couldn’t afford to make a mistake today. Hands shaking, I picked up the two plates of crêpes — one savory, one sweet — and edged my way to the double doors.

Suzette’s had been open for less than a year. I had returned to my hometown to make something of myself. To prove that, despite what everyone thought, I wasn’t the black sheep of the Perkins family.

Everyone included my own family. My parents had never forgiven me for leaving town the moment I’d graduated high school; they resented that I had gone off to see the world. My inability to hold down a job (or a boyfriend) for long probably hadn’t helped to improve their opinion of me. Hard to be pleased about a broke, unmarried, thirty-nine-year-old daughter.

But my past didn’t make me a permanent screw up. I was turning over a new leaf; trying to lay down some roots, to stretch the metaphor. I was finally back home in Honeywell, managing my very own crêperie after twenty years away. Surely, that had to count for something.

Well, I was going to make it count. Today was my chance to put Suzette’s on the map; my chance to take our little crêperie from a struggling restaurant to a thriving business.

I braced my shoulder against the swinging doors and stepped out of the kitchen. Since we were in the late morning lull right before the midday rush, the dining area was mostly empty, with just two patrons seated at separate tables. I recognized both faces.

In the corner was Nicolette Baxter, the town eccentric. Nicolette was currently digging through her enormous bag, taking out the cutlery stored inside. She made a habit of bringing her own silverware to restaurants, something I’d discovered pretty early on during her regular visits to Suzette’s. Sometimes she made two or three visits a day, making the exact same order every time: a crêpe filled with chocolate-hazelnut spread and slices of banana.

Thankfully, another member of staff was handling Nicolette’s order, leaving me to deal with the other customer — the reason I had been on edge all morning. Seated at the center table was noted food critic Andrew Poulter. He was scribbling in his notepad, salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

All morning I had been trying to guess at Andrew’s opinions on the food. Andrew was the region’s most renowned food critic, and his assessment could make or break a restaurant. Accepting his offer to review my crêperie had been a huge risk considering how recently we’d opened. But turning him down was probably the bigger gamble, because he could always decide to pay a visit of his own accord and trash us in his reviews as punishment for rejecting him.

Andrew’s reputation preceded him but, even if it hadn’t, I’d had prior run-ins with him as a fellow contributor to the town paper, The Honeywell Herald, where I worked part-time as a freelance forensic photographer. During my globetrotting days I had taken crime scene photos in big cities but, so far, Honeywell’s worst crimes had consisted of littering, and some high school pranks.

Meanwhile, Andrew ran The Honeywell Herald food column. In my dealings with him, I had learned that Andrew could be abrasive at the best of times, and my interactions with him had been… less than pleasant. Still, a glowing review from him brought customers. Andrew Poulter’s stamp of approval was better than any ad campaign, so I knew that I had to pull out all the stops to please him. Even if I had to steel myself.

I took a deep, fortifying breath as I approached his table. I’d already cleared away his previous order, so I arranged the two plates in front of him. Here we have our mixed vegetable crêpe followed by our classic crêpes suzette.

I’m well aware, since I made the order, Andrew said, voice sharp with irritation. His eyes remained on his notepad as he grabbed a fork and stabbed at the vegetable crêpe — olive, spinach, mushroom, zucchini, and caramelized-onion filling breaking out of the thin floury wrap.

There was an equally snippy reply on the tip of my tongue, but I bit back the retort. I was turning over a new leaf, after all. My days of responding to vinegar with vinegar were behind me. Besides, serving Andrew’s whims and putting up with his rudeness was for the good of the restaurant. That was more important. Even though the staff was small, I wanted to make sure that every last one of them would have a well-paying job for years to come. They deserved that kind of stability, and I was well aware of how precarious things could be in the food industry. That was why I wanted to do everything in my power to look out for them.

Well, I’ll leave you to it, I continued through gritted teeth.

Wait just a minute, missy, he ordered.

I paused. Ignored the urge to march off, instead plastering a smile on my face. Yes, Mr. Poulter?

He shoved some of the vegetables into his mouth, béchamel sauce running down his graying beard. Tell me something; where and when did you study?

Somehow, that sounded like a loaded question. I graduated from the Culinary Arts Institute of Paris three years ago—

Andrew cut me off with a click of his pen and resumed scribbling in the notepad. Not quite as impressive as some of the other culinary schools in France, is it?

I felt my face heat from his judgment. Maybe my training hadn’t been as fancy as the education at more elite cooking schools, but I was proud of it. Especially considering all the grants and loans I’d received to pay the tuition. My diploma was the one thing I had ever seen through to the end.

Granted, I had only traveled to France to chase after a boyfriend who’d eventually broken my heart, but once I’d picked up the pieces, I realized how much I loved food. For the first time in my life I had a passion and, rather than make my getaway like I’d always done when a relationship fell apart, I stayed in Paris to go to culinary school. That love of food had been what pushed me to open my own place.

After finishing my internship in France, I’d returned home to Honeywell, New York because I’d figured that if I was going to finally settle down, I ought to do it near friends and family. I’d been back in town for eighteen months and Suzette’s was my fresh start.

As much as I wanted to defend myself, though, I didn’t think discussing my messy love life would go down well. Hardly the professional image I was hoping to project in the media.

Pushing past his thinly veiled insult, I said, I make up for that with hard work and a talented staff. Not to mention help from my best friend, Gretchen Walker. The crêperie wouldn’t exist without her financial investment.

I’ll be the one to assess the talent, Andrew said flatly. What experience have you relied on to run this place?

Well, I went through a rigorous internship, which helped me learn how to develop my own recipes. Plus, I teach a cooking class every week.

Not sure why I added that last part. Teaching residents to make simple meals might have helped with getting to know the locals, but it wasn’t the sort of experience that would impress a serious food critic like Andrew Poulter. Nerves were making me grasp for any bit of information I could use to defend myself.

"Mmmhmm. He sized me up with disapproval in his eyes. Then he turned away to frown at his notebook. I take it you’ve got a highly-qualified chef on staff to make up for your lack of experience?"

I pressed my lips together and counted to ten in my head. Our head chef is Roland Appleby; he brings my recipes to life. Though I’m his backup in the kitchen when our assistant chef François isn’t available. Luckily, we’re fully staffed today. Which was why I’d been available to volunteer for the thankless job of serving Andrew Poulter. Better for me to handle it than one of the young waiters just trying to stay afloat and prepare for the approaching fall semester.

Everybody on staff had come in today ready to do their best for the food critic’s visit. While our head chef had focused on whipping up crêpes for Andrew, François was fulfilling orders for other customers, including to-go orders for delivery. That was one of the new services we were providing Honeywell residents. Online orders were still in the infancy stage, but I knew we could perfect that part of the business.

Andrew shoved another forkful into his mouth. Is the place usually this empty?

You’re in the lull between breakfast and lunch, I said, trying to put a good spin on the relative lack of customers. Through the large front window, I noticed one of the waitresses seating a newly-arrived patron at one of the outside tables. That bolstered my confidence a little. It was a warm late-summer day, so my instructions to seat as many diners outdoors as possible wasn’t unreasonable. Seemed only right to keep customers away from Andrew in case he proved to be unbearably rude. Plus it helped to keep usual business separate from our efforts to please a food critic. There’ll be a bigger crowd soon.

In that case, that will be all for now, he said, brushing me off with a wave of his hand. Prepare the next item on the menu.

I didn’t even care about his rude dismissal. I was just relieved to get away as I ducked back into the kitchen to check on the head chef’s progress. Andrew had insisted on going through every single item on the menu so we were going to have our hands full for the next few hours at least.

For the next twenty minutes I hovered around the kitchen, keeping one eye on Andrew’s crêpes, and another on Andrew himself through the windows of the swing doors. The moment I saw him finish the last bite of his crêpes suzette, I hurried out to clear his plates away.

Andrew lifted a hand to snap his fingers in my direction. Get me a refill while you’re at it. He grabbed his empty cup of coffee and held it out to me. On second thought, make it a cappuccino this time. Iced.

With some quick maneuvering, I managed to balance the two plates in one hand as I took the cup with the other. That will go perfectly with our blueberry crêpe, I said, hoping he didn’t detect the false cheer in my voice.

Better not be that new-fangled specialty crap. His narrowed gaze slid over to me as he delivered the warning. My followers hate that.

A veiled threat if ever I heard one. Andrew was implying that he could send his army of internet trolls after me. He’d done it to other establishments. One negative comment from him could lead to days or weeks of review bombing and cyber bullying in the form of horrendous anonymous replies to a restaurant’s social media pages. This typically happened if a restaurant refused his offer to review them, or if he decided that a place wasn’t conforming to enough time-honored traditions. He could be extremely closed-minded and pompous about cuisine. His remark served as a reminder of the power he wielded among foodies.

Well, we serve a more artisanal….

My voice trailed off as I realized he was ignoring me and had started picking at his teeth. I backed away slowly.

I was about to serve him a fourth set of crêpes, yet I had no real idea what he actually thought. Not that a positive review would get me to see him in a new light. He’d be ill-mannered no matter how many stars he gave my restaurant. But even though I desperately wanted to give him a piece of my mind, I was worried about the inevitable cyber harassment if I challenged him publicly. Weeks of harassment didn’t seem worth the momentary thrill I’d get from righteous indignation.

Silently fuming, I marched off to the kitchen to put the dirty dishes in the sink, wash my hands, and collect Andrew’s next order. This time I was delivering an elevated asparagus, spinach, and mushroom crêpe topped with crumbly goat cheese for the savory order, followed by a crêpe filled with blueberries and topped with lemon flavored cream.

I set the plates in front of him then hurried over to the front counter to begin making his cappuccino. We made drinks out front in the dining area to create a more inviting atmosphere. The aroma of various teas and coffees encouraged customers to stay and take their time enjoying the food at Suzette’s.

As I busied myself with the espresso machine, I shot a quick glance at Andrew. He was jabbing his fork at the savory crêpe. Maybe that was a sign he liked our food and was eager to try more.

With any luck, he’d give us a good review and business would start to pick up. Then I’d look back on today and laugh. Yes, everything would turn out fine. I was sure of it.

Noon came, and with it, a steady stream of customers. Not nearly as many as I had hoped, but it was more than before. We’d never had a full house anyway, so I tried not to get down on myself as I tended to Andrew and worked the lunch crowd.

Suzette’s had been doing okay since the grand opening. Even though we barely made enough to cover expenses most days, we were still limping along. That mattered. Probably wouldn’t matter to my parents — who not only expected this venture to