Hominy Homicide: Snips and Snails Cafe, #9

By Elizabeth Rain

Charming Lovecakes or a Poison-filled Conspiracy?

Juli Mason finds herself in a sticky situation when her cousin Charme's Lovecakes shop becomes the epicenter of a deadly cupcake conspiracy.

Someone's using Charme's sweet treats as a lethal weapon, turning wedding celebrations into recipes for disaster.
With her own wedding to plan, a cousin to keep out of handcuffs, and a poison-peddling killer on the loose, Veil Falls is becoming a paranormal crime scene.

The arrival of the mysterious Seamus Mackey, the new potions and elixirs shop owner, raises eyebrows and suspicions when he moves in next door to Charme's Lovecakes.

Is he dredging up lovebombs for the perfect magical bath as its charming competitor, or is he their most deadly adversary, concealing the secrets of a cunning murderer?

Juli's determined to unveil the truth, save Charme's shop, and catch the poison-peddling culprit before the next batch of cupcakes hits the oven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Rain
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223981862

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Charmé brushed madly at the wheat-colored strands of hair that clung to her cheeks with a yawn, blinking blearily at the dark clock face in the early morning light. She squinted and leaned closer. Where were the numbers?

Frowning, she leaned over and flipped the lamp switch. Nothing. She groaned and reached for her phone beside it, checked the time, and gave a yelp of alarm. She flung back the covers, her feet slapping the polished maple as she hit the floor running, pulling out the first blouse and pair of slacks from the closet that didn’t clash. She tossed them on the bed and headed for the bathroom.

Nothing like being late when she had a deadline to meet.

The morning was on a downward spiral by the time she unlocked the door to Charmé’s Lovecakes. She didn’t even have time to admire the pretty new sign she’d recently had installed. She left the sign to closed. Officially, they didn’t open for another hour, which was barely enough time to batter and bake the latest masterpiece for her most recent client, let alone create the intricate edible frosting design on top. She could only hope the Rolodex was in a mood to cooperate. She glared at the innocuous little index of recipes. It appeared to be nothing more than a vintage recipe catalog belonging to somebody’s grandmother. And that was true enough...a long line of them, in fact, dating back over one hundred and fifty years. But despite its appearance, it was far from ordinary. There was a whole lot of stubborn magic inside that little roll top box. Her fingers tingling in anticipation, glowing the lightest of incandescent pink, she brushed the tips over the glossy wood and whispered a light incantation, the words nearly inaudible in the shadowed room.

Almost immediately, along the dark edge of the box where it opened to the treasures within, a soft green glow began and grew until it cast Charmé’s face in dark shadow, her eyes gleaming. Soundlessly, the top rolled back, and the little cards fluttered backwards and forwards at blinding speed, too many to count, each one yellowed through the passage of time and old fingers...containing the restless DNA of her countless ancestors’ magic.

She leaned forward and whispered softly, her breath fanning the pages. And please you if I may, a reaffirmation cupcake can we make?

The pages slowed, and seemed to hesitate, as if the box were thinking, processing her request. And then they sped up once more, and the air around the box began to glow faintly. All at once, it stopped dead, revealing a single handwritten recipe card. She reached forward and plucked it free, held it up to the light, and read. Friends today, friends for Eternity... Charmé sighed...and returned the card gently, gritting her teeth. That’s very lovely, Winston, but think marriage, faithful and true...and a trifle boring. Let’s liven it up a bit, hmm?

A pause, and the cards fluttered once more. Charmé snatched her fingers out of the way. A blast, no matter how small, from the power emanating from that little box packed a sting if it hit you unawares. Next up was a brilliant little card in rich hues that splattered the background on both sides of the card. The ink was glossy and dark. She held it up, admiring the lovely colors, and read. Party Hardy, Charlie and Sue, Dance till your little toe turns blue.

Charmé’s brows shot up and narrowed on the box. The cards fluttered, creating a rustle of sound that might have been laughter. Think devotion in motion, Winston. Let him prove to her that love is timeless...and every day is still like the first.

The pages fluttered once more. The box stopped on a simple light lavender card, the edge rimmed in what looked like a tiny garland of purple and gold dahlias. She plucked it free and read. Love is forever, our passion for life as one, eternal. Charmé smiled wistfully, nodding. Ah yes, that’s the one, thank you. She turned away to gather the ingredients, trying not to wonder if that would ever be her, with someone she adored even fifty years later buying her a cupcake to celebrate their continued unity and affection. If that were ever to happen, it had better be soon. Charmé was pushing well into her thirties and in the last year she hadn’t even had a suitable nibble in the dating department worth noting. Recent desperation had even forced her to join The Love Coven, a dating site designed with single witches such as herself in mind. But so far, it had been a dud like all the others.

She pulled out cream and oil, and followed the basic recipe, setting her mixer to blend. While it was going, she visited the cupboard in the corner where the special, and highly volatile, ingredients that acted as a catalyst to set the spells in place, were kept. She searched until she found the little pink bottle in the back, uncapping it. She shook out several dried petals and reproductive flower parts of the common forget-me-not. She retrieved a pair of surgically precise tweezers and carefully plucked exactly one stamen and one pistil free. She returned the rest to the bottle and shelved it. On a clean sliver of white linen, she placed the tiny flower parts. From her back pocket she retrieved a small wedding photo, worn and yellow with age. In it, a young couple danced on what was clearly their wedding day. He was tall and handsome, and she looked radiant with a soft smile, her dress whirling about trim ankles. Charmé gave a jealous sigh, and extended the picture, holding it over the male and female parts of the flower, symbolizing the couple in the picture. Charmé closed her eyes, willed her power forward, and felt the grip of magic fill her hands and surround the couple. Always him, forever her...together an adventure till death us do part.

She opened her eyes and blew at the pale cloud of sparks that had formed in the air above the photo, watching them tumble over the cloth, and onto the flower parts, popping lightly before they winked out.

She stopped the mixer and removed the bowl onto the counter. Smiling in satisfaction, she retrieved the tiny bits and plopped them both into the waiting batter. She picked up a plain wooden spoon made of basswood and stirred. Seven times right for luck, and back six to undo any bad. With a smile of satisfaction, she reached for a cup built for two pretty foil muffin cup—one in a line of decorative liners she’d had especially designed for the shop and her business—and placed it in an over-sized muffin pan and filled it. Glancing at her phone, she put the solitary cupcake in the oven with a relieved nod and set the timer. It would be done baking in twenty-two minutes exactly. Just enough time to blend the colors, locate the right tips, and load the pastry bags to frost and decorate, using another form of magic that was pure Charmé talent. Humming to herself, she twisted the end on the last color and placed it in the refrigerator with the others just as the buzzer went off. Her feet tapping to the light jazz playing in the background on her phone, she grabbed mitts out and opened the oven door.

Even before the draft of too cool air hit her in the face, she knew something was drastically wrong. She stared, horrified, at what should have been a lovely light brown, perfectly rounded and uniform cake. Instead, the edges were dry and plump, but the center was wet, having fallen in on itself somewhere in the middle of its baking cycle when the power had gone out. If she’d had the kitchen lights on, she might have noticed, but the long bank of skylights that let in the bright morning sun was all the light she required at that time of day. With a moan of frustration, she snagged the mess out, put it on top of the oven and shut the door with her foot, cursing the fact that she’d opted to use the electric range instead of the gas since she had both.

She stomped her foot in temper, glancing at the time on her phone, and bit her lip in consternation. She reached over and flipped the light, not surprised when nothing happened. Frowning, she stalked towards the back door to the alley between her shop and the building next door. The breaker box was inside a small gray door beside the coat rack. She yanked it open and stared. A fuse maybe, simple to reset, though the why needed to be dealt with. Only none of them were blown. Just in case, she flipped them all to off and back on anyway. Blowing a frustrated breath, she slammed the door shut, swearing when it popped back open and narrowly missed bopping her in the nose.

She started to turn away when she heard the sound of pounding coming from the alley on the other side of the door. She hesitated and undid the lock, opened it, and looked out, realization making her mouth tighten in disbelief.

On the other side of the alley, on the outside wall of the building one over from hers, stood three workers, dressed in identical dark green shirts, with the local electrical company logo embroidered on the pockets. Two of them, older and with more experience, hovered on either side of a younger man, wearing rubber gloves and holding a pair of wire-cutters. The electrical wiring that connected the buildings was laid bare, and his co-workers glared at him in disgust.

You idgit, I told you NOT to cut the blue one, growled a large, bearded man with a belly that protruded alarmingly over a belt that was struggling to hold his ample girth in.

He told you green, Albert! Like, three times! confirmed his much taller and thinner partner, shaking his overlong, shaggy blond hair.

The young man looked sheepishly between the two. I clearly put it on my resume, you know.

Both men frowned in confusion. What are you talking about? the shorter man asked in frustration.

The fact that I’m color blind.

They stared at him, speechless.

What did you do?! Charmé interrupted them. Are you the reason my power just went out?

Both older men looked pointedly at Albert. What are you working on the electrical for anyhow? It was working just fine!

The heavier man jerked a thumb to the building next door. Charmé glanced at the dark gray brick. The little shop had stood empty for over a year. Some guy bought it, and we got the order to turn his power back on. Well, there were a few wires, and they weren’t working and—

How long? Charmé interrupted impatiently, her voice rising, cracking on the end.

They shrugged. The taller of the three said, A half hour or so?

Charmé closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Can you please hurry? I have an order due to a customer in a couple of hours, and I need every bit of that time to redo what you destroyed.

Albert piped up. Say, are you the owner of Charmé’s Lovecakes?

Charmé’s eyes narrowed threateningly. I am.

I don’t suppose you could make me one of those for my girlfriend, could you? Lately, I think she’s got a thing for our neighbor more than she does me.

His heftier partner shook his head, watching Charmé’s expression harden. Now, Albert, I’ve heard those cupcakes are special. If I were you, I wouldn’t be asking her for anything just now that might involve woo woo stuff, lessen you want to end up with an extra set of ears, or a boil on the end of your—

Lennard! Focus. The lady needs her oven this week, am I right?

Charmé’s smile was all teeth as she glared at each of them in turn. Sooner might keep you all free of warts, if you know what I mean?

Lennard snatched the wire cutters from Albert and elbowed him aside. Get out of the way. I’m betting I can have it back up and running in ten.

SHE STARED DOWN AT the one, single, perfect cupcake, examining it for any flaws she might have missed. But it was lovely, a large purple and gold dahlia, a symbol of faith and devotion, filling the center. Surrounding it, and trailing past the edges, were several teardrop dahlias, in a similar color combination. She carefully lowered it into the decorative little box for transport. Just in time, too. She could only pray that rushing like she had, she’d managed to infuse the spell into the batter correctly to provide for a positive and memorable evening for the couple who had purchased it for their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

Because one thing was certain. Kitchen magic didn’t respond favorably to mistakes.

MY MOUTH TIGHTENED as the low, sultry voice whispered something distinctly naughty that I was immensely glad that only a select few magicals could hear. Unfortunately, I had to be one of them. The translucent paramour simpering over her hand, decked out in a tuxedo that had to have cost the bank, blushed. The very thought had me staring at the attentive ghost in disbelief. Not that I could blame him. When I’d met Tiny, she’d weighed in on the north side of three hundred pounds. Now she might have tipped the scales at a buck ten, with a figure worthy of any supermodel. She sat now on the edge of the bar at the far end, her silver-haired companion looking adoringly up at her. A high slit in the little black number she wore revealed an alarming length of leg, and elegant feet in dainty matching heels, pearls gracing her slim throat. Sultry violet eyes stared down at him in faint boredom, her rose painted lips turning up just slightly.

It was a stark contrast to Snips and Snails’ resident feline, and pain in everyone’s rear, Gilly. As if I’d conjured her attention, she looked up at me, her chin dripping heavy whipping cream into her saucer. A pink tongue emerged, swooping the excess droplets up. Her eyes might have been glaring up at me with customary ill humor—it was hard to tell as they all but disappeared into the folds of fat that pooched her cheeks and made them appear to sink completely into her chocolate tipped cream colored fur. I wasn’t sure, but I was reasonably convinced she’d tip the scales at an unhealthy thirty-five or more pounds. I’d need to have Brownie widen the pet door soon so she could still come and go as she pleased, though that seemed to happen less of late, since getting around was becoming increasingly difficult for her.

What I was sure had started out as a prank-filled spell to teach the mouthy cat a lesson on Tiny’s part over a month ago, had turned into an ensuing vengeful act that showed no signs of ending anytime soon. The fact was, Tiny was having the time of her life, more popular in death then she’d ever been while living, and teaching Gilly a lesson in humility had only sweetened the stewpot, so to speak.

Giving myself a mental shake, I decided I had enough of my own on my plate without worrying over their childish spat. In exactly two weeks, I was getting married to the most wonderful man in the world. And I was utterly terrified at the thought. It wasn’t my first go-round with matrimony. The first had ended in disaster, and a nasty little part of me worried it had been my fault somehow. Which was utterly absurd—I’d caught the snake in bed with our ditsy, much younger neighbor, after all.

In reality, I should have thanked him. His infidelity had led to my coming here, to this tiny restaurant in a cozy little town on Lake Superior Bay. There was real magic here, and I’d inherited my fair share of it as a fledgling soup witch.

To be fair, much of my power resided with Percival, a Grimoire of magical recipes hundreds of years old. Unfortunately, he’d had as long to perfect an uncanny ability to whittle his British air of superiority down to a fine art.

It drove me mad on a daily basis. I stared down at him grimly, still reclining in the middle of the prep table, his spindly legs folded neatly beneath him, the dark slits where his eyes and nose and mouth were nearly invisible in the black leather.

Today I was loath to argue or beg or threaten to get him to reveal what I needed. Most always, he was in charge of what recipes the book allowed me to see, something about some of them being too difficult for me to handle without blowing the place to potato chips. But I needed a favor, a certain soup to help with my most recent affliction. I had recently come down with a serious case of what I called scatterbrained fever. I kept forgetting things.

I wondered if he’d be more reasonable if I fixed him a spot of Earl Grey tea. I dismissed the thought almost immediately. Could he actually drink it? And would tea stain the pages? With a dark sigh, I leaned forward and tapped the table lightly. Percival! I hissed, tapping again.  He never moved. I tried twice more, louder each time, with the same results.

Frowning in irritation, I leaned in and snapped flatly, The kitchen is on fire!

It had the desired result.

Between one second and the next he thrust his legs out, leapt straight up on four spindly feet, and tottered precariously towards the edge of the table as he tried to gain his balance. Slits opened in the dark leather, revealing a pair of irritated light gray eyes, a small pair of holes for his nose, and a thin panicked slit where one would imagine the mouth might be if a book actually had one. Call Jack! It’s an emergency. Every man and book for himself! Somebody get me out of here! I’m ancient—my pages are like sawdust! Help! he shrieked.

I didn’t move. I folded my arms and stared down at him, trying not to laugh as he ran madly around the prep table, choking as if he were about to die. He finally slowed enough to get a good look at my face. It stopped him dead, and he glared up at me. That was not funny. Good luck getting a recipe for anything that doesn’t induce nausea and the trots from me! he stated baldly, his eyes narrowed with indignation.

I’m sorry, Percival. I tried to get your attention. But this is important. I need a special recipe, a soup that will help me with my sudden bout of forgetfulness. I can’t remember a thing! I have a reception to plan, I can’t remember where, a dress that I’ve put in a safe place in the apartment that needs to be taken to Bertie for last-minute alterations, and I can’t remember where I put the designs Jack and I worked out for the cake. Charmé needs them at least a week in advance. I need an anti-forgetfulness soup, I wailed.

He scoffed, waving a tiny appendage. That is ridiculous, there is no such thing.

I stared at him, my mouth pinching in irritation. Try harder. The book’s recipes are endless, remember? There has to be something in there...or did you forget where you put it? I asked, tongue in cheek.

He huffed. Unlikely. More like it’s a dangerous spell if you get it the teeniest bit wrong. You think you have Alzheimer’s now? Prepare a recipe like that incorrectly and it will send the affliction speeding towards a nasty and predictable result. And there is no antidote.

I rolled my eyes. Drama book.

I’ll take my chances. The recipe? Please, Percival?

He blinked up at me in surprise. Are you begging? Be still, I have to write this down...

Percival! Stop torturing me!

It was his time to huff, giving a great shudder of irritation. Fine then, but don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. In the next breath, his legs folded neatly, and he hit the table with a soft thud, the spine springing wide. The pages began to spin by rapidly, too fast to count, but it wouldn’t have mattered. According to Restless, my cousin Adele’s husband and a former cursed inhabitant of the book for thirty plus years himself, the recipes contained in the book were vast, some said infinite in number.

Abruptly, the pages slowed, and then stopped entirely. I leaned in doubtfully and read. "Butter-Nutty-Braniac Soup? I don’t need something to make me smarter," I protested.

He muttered, the words indistinct since his mouth was flat on the table. Questionable that, but it should do the trick. Read the indications before you pass judgment.

My finger moved down the page and I heard a muffled giggle, making me smile. Make your brain your own personal file cabinet of memories, never forget where you put your car keys again!

I don’t know, I think I really need something that will help me get organized and help me plan everything for the next couple weeks.

He snuffled, the pages giving a restless flutter. Nonsense. Keys, rehearsal dinners, what’s the difference?

I closed my eyes in indecision. Fine, I suppose it can’t hurt. Let’s see...I can see where it gets its color. Idly, I read the ingredients. Carrots, yellow onions, butternut squash, cinnamon, curry...it does sound rather delicious and simple to make.

All at once the book snapped shut and he opened his eyes fully, glaring at me. Remember what I said. This recipe is nothing to mess around with. It has to be done precisely right—do you hear me? One mistake, and poof, you’ll be sobbing into your oatmeal for the next twenty years!

I gulped. I promise. Now stop stalling and turn back to the recipe. I have to get the rest of the ingredients out.

With a snap of his spine, he wordlessly turned to the offending page once more and went silent.

An hour later I gave it a final stir, three to the left, and exactly fifteen and one-half to the right. The rich, earthy aroma of fall vegetables and sweet spice teased my nose and made my stomach rumble with appreciation.

I looked up and blushed madly when Jack walked in, his stride sure as he headed in my direction, swooping me up and making me squeal in surprise when he came in for a warm kiss that threatened to make me babble incoherently when he stood back. How’s my fiancée? You haven’t forgotten our appointment, have you?

And just like that, my mind went completely blank. Um...sure I haven’t. Say, I haven’t eaten lunch. This has to simmer for just fifteen minutes, and it will be ready. Do I have time to grab a quick bowl? I asked hopefully. Maybe it would start working by the time I got to wherever he was taking me.

He shook his head, his brown eyes lighting with humor. No can do, love. Honor is meeting us there with Verity and bringing Crab Étouffée from Something’s Fishy for lunch. Jacob is trying out a new recipe and using us as guinea pigs. I can’t wait.

I gave a sigh. Maybe there’d be leftover Brainiac Soup when I returned. Fine then. Can you at least help me hang it? Brownie is busy opening up out front, and Bertie had to make a last ditch run to Kroner’s.

CHAPTER 2

Alvin Pettigrew was a walker. Had been for most of the fifty years he’d been married to his wife, Maryanne. She liked to tease him, telling him he did it in some sad attempt to escape the clutches of matrimony to her. The truth was, he simply liked to move, and the exercise cleared his mind and helped put the day into perspective.

He religiously put in three miles on most days, occasionally more if the weather wasn’t too damp and his knees were up for the job. At the end of the driveway, he turned with pride to look back at the home he’d purchased for a song close to forty years ago. It sat atop a small rise on Hat River Road, overlooking the river it was named for, and facing the bridge that crossed it where it turned into Peyton Street, heading into town. They’d raised four children in that house, seen them through their teen years when he and Maryanne thought they’d both lose their minds, and then off to college after. Since then, they’d forged careers, married, and were busy producing litters of their own. Maryanne had experienced empty nest syndrome something fierce,