Easy On the Pies: Bittersweet Bakery Cozy Mysteries, #1

By B. Allison Miller

Recipe for a Disastrous Holiday:

• Take one mid-aged baker,
• Stir in a misaddressed message,
• Pour a Thanksgiving snowstorm into the mix,
• Add the return of an ex-beau,
• Blend in a mystery dinner guest,
• Season with a dash of murder.

Serve cold.

 

From the author of 5 Days 'til Christmas comes a new cozy mystery and a whole new cast of characters.

Once upon a time, Henrietta Sweet, AKA "Mother Hen" AKA "Henny" was a celebrity baker, but that was years ago. These days, Henny owns Bittersweet, a popular bakery in the foothills of West Virginia.

Henny's home life isn't as successful as her bakery. Henny's niece, Sylvie, isn't returning her messages, the man who broke Henny's heart has returned to town, and Henny accidentally invited a stranger to Thanksgiving dinner. But Henny is ready to sweetroll with the punches—until something tragic happens.

Henny's best customer is found dead, face-down in a pie from Henny's bakery. Everyone suspects Henny's niece is the killer—Sylvie has a major complaint with the woman—but Henny believes Sylvie is innocent. After enlisting the help of an old friend, the crafty baker sets out to clear her niece and save the reputation of Bittersweet Bakery.

 

Easy on the Pies is a 60,000 word cozy mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Allison Miller
• Release date: Feb 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223947752

B. Allison Miller

B. Allison Miller is the author of the cozy mystery series “Spruce Grove Cozy Mysteries,” featuring witty amateur sleuth, Charlotte O’Hara, a blogger/barista who lives in a guest cottage on her parents’ Christmas tree farm. Meet Charlotte and her friends in ‘5 Days ‘til Christmas,’ the first book in the in the Spruce Grove Cozy Mystery series. While the books follow a chronological path, each book may also be read as a standalone story. Allison lives in scenic Colorado. When she isn’t plotting a murder, Allison can be found hiking, playing with her dogs, or experimenting with recipes in her cozy kitchen.

Book preview

ONE

Henrietta Sweet, AKA Mother Hen, AKA Henny, slipped her cell phone from the pocket of her oversized cardigan and squinted at the screen. Once again, she misplaced her reading glasses and she would barely be able to make out the app icons on the phone’s screen without them.

Groaning, Henny tapped the glass screen and awakened the phone. She jabbed the text bubble icon and looked for the latest text message from Sylvie. Henny couldn’t find the message! Much like Henny’s missing readers, Sylvie’s last text had disappeared.

Undiscouraged, Henny typed Sylvie’s number into the screen. Huh, the phone didn’t seem to recognize the number she entered, but that’s technology, Henny thought to herself. They’re always updating applications and changing security. The donut holes probably deleted Sylvie’s messages by accident when the latest update rolled out.

Henny’s fingers tapped the screen, typing a message to her niece.

From Henrietta: I know you’re busy, but Thanksgiving is in two days. I’m making turkey, yams, rolls, green bean casserole, and stuffing. I say stuff it to anyone who says eating stuffing causes food poisoning and that I should serve dressing instead. Have they tasted my stuffing? Probably not. Pumpkin pie too! Apple pie? Would that bring you here? Dinner is at 6. Please come.

Henny hit send and heard the whoosh of the app as it sent her message into outer space or wherever desperate text messages go. She missed Sylvie. Ever since the argument they had before Sylvie returned to Charleston four weekends ago, there was an empty place in Henny’s heart and in her home. Each time Henny walked by Sylvie’s old bedroom, her heart clenched.

She knew it was silly to stare at her phone and wait for Sylvie’s reply. It was still early in the morning—not even eight o’clock—and she needed to open the bakery soon. Henny slipped the phone back into her pocket and walked through the swinging backdoor of Bittersweet Bakery to start her morning chores.

Yes, Mrs. Barber, the Parker House rolls are fresh. Baked them myself, Henny told the proprietress of Curl Up and Dye Again, Melbourne’s best (and only) hair salon. Apparently, Mrs. Barber wanted to name the salon Curl Up and Dye, but the name was so popular that the owner received a cease-and-desist order from someone telling her to change the salon’s name. She hired a handyman to paint the word ‘Again’ in drippy red letters on the shop’s already cluttered sign. To Henny, the sign was macabre and bloody looking, but also welcome in the sleepy village of Melbourne, where little more happened than a heated argument at the town’s annual budget meeting. Come to think of it, Mrs. Barber was usually behind those arguments.

Then I’ll take three dozen rolls, Mrs. Barber said, reaching for one of her half-dozen shopping bags to put them in. One thing about Anne Barber, the woman didn’t cook or bake, which was good news for Henny. She had Sylvie’s tuition to pay, and Anne Barber spent a fortune on her baked goods.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Barber, Henny said, as she dipped her chin toward the handwritten sign by the display case.

Only two dozen rolls per customer, I am afraid.

Two dozen? Mrs. Barber squawked, causing her turkey neck to wobble. But my homemade rolls are the star of Thanksgiving dinner.

Henny rolled her eyes. Of course, Anne Barber took credit for her rolls. She probably took credit for the baked ham and smoked turkey she served as well, but Henny knew darn well that Anne drove to the city to get the meat from that place where people stood in line for hours for a spiral-cut holiday ham.

I am afraid I have an employee shortage, and there aren’t enough hands on-deck to make the rolls and the pies, cakes, tarts, and bread, Henny replied, apologetically. I have some nice sour dough.

Sour dough? No, thank you. I have a lot of guests this year and they always want seconds on the rolls! Surely, you can make an exception for your best customer? Mrs. Barber said.

I’m sorry, Anne, Henny said, lowering her voice, but if I break the rules for you, I have to break them for the next customer, too.

A glance over Mrs. Barber’s shoulder and Henny saw a line forming behind her best customer. The queue nearly reached the shop’s door. Everyone wanted to pick up something for their holiday feasts.

Very well! Mrs. Barber scoffed. I suppose I’ll serve cornbread, but that will disappoint my guests.

Aisle three at the Shop and Hop, Henny chirped, glad to finish the conversation.

Aisle three? Mrs. Barber asked as she reached for her credit card and handed it to Henny. Along with the two dozen Parker House rolls, the hairdresser bought three pies: one Dutch apple, a pecan, and a giant pumpkin pie—Adam Barber’s favorite. The woman must be feeding an army.

Aisle three. That’s where you’ll find the ingredients for homemade cornbread, Henny said, as she forced herself not to snicker. She knew as sure as her sour dough starter that Anne Barber wouldn’t bake a thing. The knowledge hurt Henny a little. Like Henny, Anne Barber was in her fifties, but unlike Henny, Anne Barber didn’t cook or bake.

Many people claim they can’t cook, but to Henny’s mind, cooking and baking were skills one honed with practice. Anyway, from her years of cooking and baking, Henny learned an important lesson; most people who can’t or won’t cook share a fatal flaw—they lose track of time. Wander away and your cookies turn to charcoal. Reluctant bakers could easily rectify their fatal flaw if they only used a timer. But then again, Henny clumped bakers who don’t use a timer with those individuals who repeatedly hit the sleep button on their morning alarms—nearly hopeless.

I’ll see you next week for the Christmas goodies I ordered, Mrs. Barber huffed as Henny handed her back her credit card and a receipt. Mrs. Barber stuffed the bags of bakery goods and pie boxes onto the rolling cart she used when making her rounds at the shops. Did Sylvie come home for Thanksgiving? Mrs. Barber asked like it was an after-thought.

That was the plan, Henny replied. There was no way she would tell Anne Barber that she hadn’t heard from Sylvie in a month and that her university’s fall break began on Monday. And Adam? Henny politely asked. Will he have Thanksgiving with you and your husband?

Of course, our son is joining us. He’s been home all week, Mrs. Barber replied, scoffing. She turned quickly and nearly battered the next customer with her cart.

Have a lovely Thanksgiving, Anne, Henny said through a plastered-on smile. Next, please! She exclaimed as Anne Barber left her shop.

It was during her one o’clock break when Henny felt a buzz in her pocket. The vibration startled her a bit, and she nearly hopped off the picnic bench behind the bakery where she took most of her breaks. It was her phone alerting her to an incoming message.

Henny told herself not to get her hopes up. There was at least a fifty percent chance the text was just one of those annoying holiday promotions offered by a company that had gotten her phone number from some other business. So annoying! Sometimes it felt like Henny spent half of her day deleting unwanted messages. She often hit the ‘delete and report as spam’ option, as Sylvie had told her, but it never seemed to help. The texts just kept coming.

Lifting the phone, Henny held her breath as she poked the message icon and read the incoming text message.

From Unknown: Thanksgiving?

Henny hastily typed and sent her reply. She had Sylvie on the line—or in outer space or whatever, and she didn’t want to miss her.

From Henrietta: Yes, Thanksgiving is the holiday that falls on the second-to-last Thursday of November. AKA the day after tomorrow. We eat too much and then have leftovers for weeks. Do you remember it?

Send.

Henny held her breath again because little whirly gigs appeared on the phone screen. Finally! Sylvie was typing a response. Their radio silence was over.

From Unknown: I know the holiday, but I wasn’t planning to celebrate.

That wouldn’t do. Sylvie needed to come home, close her textbooks, and spend time at home for the long weekend.

From Henrietta: Please come. You shouldn’t spend the day alone. I promise I will behave myself.

A moment passed before Henny received an answer.

From Unknown: Are you Henrietta?

Well, that is a strange response, Henny thought. Who else would use her phone? Maybe Sylvie thought her aunt lost her phone; it wouldn’t be the first time. Lately, Henny misplaced a lot of things. Earlier, she found her reading glasses on the top of her well-coiffed head. She’d had her readers the entire time. Stupid depleting hormones! The lack of estrogen made Henny do strange things. Then again, Sylvie could be very sarcastic. Asking if she was Henrietta was something Sylvie might do.

From Henrietta: Yes, it is me. No, I haven’t lost my phone. No one has kidnapped me, and no one is holding me for ransom, although I’ve had a few customers who threatened to steal my recipes over the years. Can you come for Thanksgiving? You won’t have to lift a finger. I promise!

Send.

Hope filled Henny’s heart. Perhaps Sylvie was ready to bury the hatchet and forgive Henny.

From Unknown: I think you have the wrong person.

Henny looked down at the phone, and her face tightened. She knew Sylvie was angry with her, but she hoped her niece had come around. A month of silence was a month too long. And pretending she didn’t recognize her aunt was just cruel. Henny apologized so many times—in person at first, and then over phone messages. But then Sylvie’s voicemail told her the box was full, and Henny resorted to texts, but Sylvie wouldn’t reply. Henny couldn’t let her niece go without letting her know her feelings. She was truly sorry.

From Henrietta: Please, Sylvie. I am sorry about everything. Come to dinner. It will be just us, and we can talk and I will apologize again. Or we don’t have to talk about what happened if you don’t want to. I miss you. Home is so lonely without you.

Henny added a sad face emoji to her message but deleted it. She didn’t want Sylvie to think she was using emotional blackmail techniques to get her to come.

Once again, Henny pressed send.

The whirly gigs were at it again.

From Unknown: I’m not Sylvie. I think you have the wrong number, but I hope Sylvie forgives you and you don’t spend the holiday alone. You sound lonely.

Henny stared down at her phone. Not Sylvie? A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks—or maybe it was a hot flash. No, it was embarrassment she felt. Henny shared a private moment with whoever this ‘unknown’ person was. She could really strangle the company that makes the software updates for losing her message threads. She needed to talk to Sylvie, but the thought that Sylvie might not want to speak to her haunted Henny. The messages go both ways. Sylvie could have reached out to Henny if she wanted to, but she hadn’t.

From Henrietta: I’m sorry. I must have typed the wrong number into my cell phone. Could barely see without my peepers. You must be busy and I interrupted your day. My apologies.

From Unknown: Don’t worry about it. Not busy at all.

This unknown person, whoever she or he was, said they weren’t celebrating the holiday, and she or he wasn’t busy—on a Tuesday morning when he or she could be working. Henny imagined several scenarios. Perhaps unknown was a lonely, elderly woman with no one caring for her. Unknown could be unemployed and down on her luck. Could it be the unknown person was as alone as Henny felt?

Suddenly, Henny had a crazy idea. It was a truly horrible idea, but she couldn’t let go of the crazy, horrible idea. Her heart thumped.

Henny’s fingers shook as she typed the message.

From Henrietta: Are you alone for the holiday too?

To Henny, it felt like time stood still as she waited for a reply. Seconds went by, but then the whirly gigs reappeared.

From Unknown: Yes. I am a student, and I don’t have any family nearby. Couldn’t afford a plane ticket to somewhere exotic, so I am staying in the student halls for the holiday.

Poor thing, Henny thought, and a student to boot! She imagined a young woman—who looked a lot like Sylvie—placing a frozen dinner in a microwave. Henny knew from her volunteer work at the community center many people had nowhere to go on the holidays—no one to eat with or speak to. It just wasn’t right.

She typed again.

From Henrietta: I see we share the same area code. Are you in West Virginia?

From Unknown: Yes.

I must be crazy. I’m a lonely, hormone-depleted, middle-aged, crazy woman who has horrible ideas and they will probably find my remains at the bottom of a cliff after coyotes and other wild animals pick my bones clean.

Shrugging off her concerns, Henny typed another message.

From Henrietta: This may sound crazy, but would you like to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my home? There will be a lot of food. All you need to bring is your appetite.

Another minute or two passed before the whirly gigs reappeared on Henny’s phone.

From Unknown: I’m not looking for a hook-up. But thanks. :/

Henny read and re-read the message, and although another wave of embarrassment rocked her, she couldn’t help but laugh. Henny laughed so hard, tears streamed down her cheeks and she felt out of breath. She couldn’t end the message stream with ‘unknown’ thinking she was hitting on him or her. Henny didn’t know who was on the other end of the line—only that she or he was a student. No wonder ‘unknown’ answered with a no. What had Henny been thinking?

From Henrietta: You made me LOL. I apologize for the confusion. You must think I apologize to people a lot—I do lately. You didn’t tell me your name, but I don’t suppose that matters. I just want to clear up the confusion so you don’t think I am a predator. My name is Henrietta—Henny to most. I’m a professional cook who always makes too much good food and I don’t want it going to waste. As for random hookups, I am too old to want or care about those things. The invitation for Thanksgiving stands, if you like good food and don’t want to be alone for the holiday and you can make it to Melbourne (which is a small town in the foothills), whoever you are.

Henny waited for the whirly gigs to reappear, but this time, they didn’t.

Henny, may I take my break now? Twenty-one-year-old shop helper, Marie, asked as Henny placed two more pies in the display case. The pies sold like hotcakes, and there were only a few pies left.

Oh, dear, yes! I am so sorry, Marie. I meant to send you on break fifteen minutes ago.

No worries, Marie said as she slipped the coverall apron off over her head. I want to run over to the store and buy a bottle of wine for AJ’s parents. I hate showing up to dinner empty-handed.

That was right. Marie had a date for the holiday, but she was being mysterious about who invited her for Thanksgiving. For the life of her, Henny didn’t understand why Marie remained quiet about her date. If the man invited Marie for Thanksgiving dinner, he must be interested in her enough to introduce her to his family.

I could set aside one of the cranberry surprise pies for you. There are three in the freezer. It is a very festive treat, Henny offered before she closed the display case. The cranberry pies were good—the pies were a little tart with a buttery-sweet cake-like topping that balanced the tartness—a surprise that left even the biggest cranberry critics with smiles on their faces.

Thank you, but they are all set for pies, Marie said. Have any recommendations for a good, dry white wine?

I’m afraid not. I like wine, but I mainly stick to the ‘ten dollars or less’ bin at the Shop and Hop, Henny replied. They all taste the same to me.

Marie laughed knowingly and slipped on her windbreaker. Henny wasn’t picky about wine, but she was a stickler in her kitchen. All right, the shop is quiet for now, and I can be back in less than an hour.

Take a full hour, honey, Henny replied. You are entitled to the break, and as you said, most of our customers have been and gone, Henny replied. I’ll be fine on my own.

Okay, but if you need me, just text, Marie said before she ducked out the door. Henny heard the tiny bells ring as the door opened and closed.

Now, what was I about to do? Henny asked herself as she spun toward the kitchen door. A nagging thought at the back of Henny’s mind told her she hadn’t finished her list of chores. The problem was, she couldn’t remember what was next on her mental list. She really needed to write things down.

The bells above the door jingled again.

Did you forget something? Henny called out without turning.

Not that I know of, a low, syrupy male voice answered.

Henny spun around so fast, that her readers fell from the crest of her updo and landed with a clatter on the hardwood floor.

Sorry, I thought you were someone else, Henny said as she faced the tall, cool drink who stood before her. He bent over and picked up Henny’s glasses, then