Byrne Your Bridges: Byrne Sisters Mysteries, #1

By Liza Cameron Wasser

Maggie Byrne is having a bad day. Her flaky sister shows up in the middle of the night. Her ex shows up with a fiancée. An annoying acquaintance shows up dead. How much more can a soccer mom take?

Byrne Your Bridges is the first book in the Byrne Sister Mysteries. Maggie and Cassie Byrne, partners in their new venture, Nibbles Catering, along with Millshire police officer Carla Reyes, solve murders while eating well. Recipes included!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krummbach Verlag
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224664511

Book preview

GOOD MORNING, SUBURBIA!

I can’t find my shoes! My daughter yelled.

Every school day, Grace screamed from upstairs that she couldn’t find her shoes. Every school day, I promised myself I wouldn’t yell back.

I glanced into the den. Three pairs of shoes sat under the couch.

I turned toward the stairs and bellowed. Which shoes?

We have a rule about leaving shoes in the den. We also have a rule against yelling across the house. But mornings are hectic and we all forget the rules, even though hectic mornings are why we instituted the rules.

I was in the kitchen, packing lunches for the kids. Each bag contained a sandwich of Swiss cheese and mustard sprouts with Russian dressing on rye bread, a dill pickle, and an apple. When the kids were in elementary school, I used to pack a lunch for me, too. I’d take it with me on errand runs. I should probably start doing that again, I told myself, as I did every day.

Breakfast was sitting on the counter, too. I had made orange/pineapple smoothies. The smoothies were in thermal mugs. The kids took them to drink in the car on the way to school. I was sipping my smoothie while I packed the lunches. Sitting down for breakfast is reserved for the weekend around here.

Most teens, when left to their own devices, would eat nothing healthy, but I had spent the past sixteen years perfecting the art of disguising healthy food as junk so that my children would eat it. I had even made fruit roll-ups in the dehydrator when the kids were small. All fruit, no sugar. Yes, I am that mom.

Recently, I had been thinking of turning my cooking talent into a business. Not disguising healthy food as junk, just a normal catering business. I would do children’s birthday parties, hors d’oeuvres for cocktail parties, tea parties with delicate sandwiches and fancy cookies. I wouldn’t do sit-down meals or large buffets. That would be too much.

Even in my dreams I think small.

I even had a name for the company: Nibbles. I thought it was the perfect name for a catering company, especially since I couldn’t name it after myself. No one wants to hire a company called Byrne Catering.

I could see the tagline in my head. Byrne Catering: We specialize in Crêpes Suzette, baked Alaska, and figgy pudding.

Why are there so many recipes for setting your dessert on fire?

Now that I had a cute name for my business that did not involve my unfortunate surname, all I had to do was to talk myself into taking the first step. I sighed as I wiped some errant pineapple juice from the kitchen counter, went to the fridge, took two homemade granola bars out of a tin, wrapped them in waxed paper, and tossed them into the lunch bags.

Finished with the food preparation, I turned to the hall door and shouted toward the stairs again.

Which shoes?

I should invest in an in-house intercom, if only to save my larynx. It’s obvious that none of us are going to stop yelling the house down every morning.

My hot pink high tops, of course, my daughter screeched back. She galloped down the stairs and into the kitchen, still shoeless, and rolling her eyes so hard I feared they’d get stuck back there.

The child stood before me in jeans and a powder blue t-shirt. She wore her dark brown hair in a ponytail, although wispy curls escaped, framing her heart-shaped face. Scattered in her hair were a dozen tiny hair clips that glittered in the sun’s light streaming in through the window, casting mini-rainbows on the walls. Her earrings were a mismatched pair of rhinestone studs; one pink, one blue. Colorless lip gloss coated her full lips.

Of course, the pink high tops, I said. How silly of me not to know. She huffed a little puff of air to prepare for accepting a brief lecture, and in return, I would reveal the whereabouts of her shoes.

What makes you think I know where they are? I asked, and then immediately contradicted myself. They are lying under the couch in the den. Where they don’t belong. Remember the talk we had about keeping your things in your space?

Thanks, Mom. I’ll be sure not to forget you when I’m rich and famous. She dashed into the den, grabbed the shoes, and shoved her feet into them.  

I feel like I’m forgetting something. She stood gazing into the five inches of space in front of her eyes.  

Lunch? Homework? Keys? I asked.

Sign-up sheets! I can’t forget those. She raced back up the stairs to collect the papers she had forgotten.

Sign-up sheets for what you may ask. Who knows? The child is obsessive about sign-up sheets. She is always making one or signing one. Grace has joined so many clubs at the high school that they will have to give her an entire page in the yearbook just to list her activities. She has been there less than a year and she is a drama club member, a student government rep, and a member of the pep club, whatever that is. Grace writes for the school paper and takes photos for the yearbook. She plays clarinet in the band, decorates the gym for dances, and is the president of the Clean Up the Blackstone committee. That last one sounds much fancier than it is. Basically, she coerces her friends and fellow students into picking up trash along the riverbank and the bike path that runs along it. Often, she and her friend Max are the only kids she can find to do that messy job.

Having found the missing papers and come back downstairs,, she was now yelling up the stairs, Jeff! We’ll be late! Hurry!

My sixteen-year-old son, Jeff, came sauntering down the stairs, his lack of speed calculated to drive his sister over the edge. He knew he could do this since he had the driver’s license and she hates taking the bus. He ran a hand through his hair, and sauntered into the kitchen, heading for the coffeepot.

Grace, we have plenty of time, he said. I need coffee. He had that rumpled look that meant he had forgone sleep to spend hours going on quests and killing exotic creatures with other nerds from around the globe. Although I don’t think this is the best use of the hours he should be sleeping, he’s almost legally an adult. As long as he keeps his grades up, I don’t get involved.

Dragging himself over to the counter where the thermal coffee carafe stood, he opened the cupboard and chose a mug emblazoned with Red Sox Rule! He poured coffee into it and added milk. He leaned against the kitchen table and slurped a mouthful of coffee. He appeared suddenly restored to life.

Ah, that’s better. Did I hear Aunt Cassie last night in the wee hours? he asked.

Jeff grinned. He loved his Aunt Cassie more than anyone else on Earth and adored it when she came to stay for a while. They’d talk baseball with each other and tease me mercilessly. They’d been in cahoots since Jeff was born. Cassie was a natural aunt. She was fun and caring.

Yes, Cassie’s here, I said. She showed up at 2AM with a carload of stuff. Apparently, she has left Don.

Don? I thought his name was Chaz? Jeff asked.

Right, Chaz, I shook my head as if to clear it, Don was the one before.

No, said Grace, That was Howie. Don was the one before Howie.

Jeff rubbed the imaginary stubble on his chin. Well, it is difficult to keep all Cassie’s guys straight. I’ll bet she can’t even do it. How do you?

Grace pouted. Don’t make fun of Aunt Cassie! She has bad luck in love. It’s her challenge number in numerology. She told me that if her parents had given her another name, love would not be so challenging for her.

Sure, that’s it, I said. If our mother had only named her Ethel she would be happily married.

I threw my hands in the air. Why am I discussing this with you two? Go to school. Don’t forget your lunches! I made whooshing motions, herding them toward the front door. The kids grabbed their things and left.

As the door slammed behind them, I thought what life would be like if I had a steady, happily married sister instead of a three-times-divorced, flakey, flighty, party girl sister with a penchant for new age hocus-pocus. At thirty-nine, Cassie hadn’t found her way in life, but she always found her way to my house between relationships and jobs. I sighed mournfully at the loss of the imaginary Ethel.

I wondered if I should wake Cassie to find out what horrible atrocities this latest boyfriend, old What’s-His-Name, had subjected her to. Actually, I shouldn’t make light of her disastrous relationships. There had been some actual atrocities in among the imagined ones throughout the years of Cassie’s serial monogamy. Several men had had drinking or drug problems, many of them couldn’t hold a job. One guy even had the poor judgment to hit her. Once. The scar he later sported from the frying pan she rang his skull with was such an embarrassment to him he packed up and left town rather than admit a woman had gotten the better of him.  

I was less surprised by her hitting him back than I was by her knowing where to find a frying pan. Cooking is not in Cassie’s repertoire of skills. She knits, though. It always surprises people when they see her at it. She simply doesn’t come across as a knitter. But she begged our Grandma Byrne to teach her when she was eight and she’s had one project or another going ever since. She knits for herself and for friends and family. Her hats and mittens for the homeless and the chemo caps for UMass Memorial’s oncology department are legend. She even knits one gorgeous cardigan per year to raffle off at St. Luke’s Christmas Bazaar. Cassie is a generous and talented woman. It’s just that she’s also a ditz who can’t keep a man or a job.

Cassie would be awake soon enough, and I would hear about her latest break-up with whomever. Chaz, was it? In the meantime, I needed to go firm up some plans with my neighbor, Amory.

As I walked out the front door, I saw Amory come out of her house to retrieve her newspaper.

Hey, Amory, I called to her, How’s it going?

Chaos, Maggie, she replied, Complete chaos. The baby has the sniffles, Mikey refuses to go to pre-school since the little one arrived, I have three science projects in full swing on the kitchen table, so we have to eat picnic-style on the floor and everybody needs new shoes. How about you?

Great! We’re still on for Leah’s birthday party on Saturday, right? Leah was one of Amory’s many children. I always catered the birthday parties since she had enough on her plate trying to keep her children’s names straight. Often, she just calls everyone sweetie.

If you say so, sweetie, Amory replied, Mary Angela knows that stuff, not I. She tells me what to do every day and I do it.

Mary Angela DeMarco is Amory’s housekeeper, social secretary, nanny and zookeeper. She comes every day at 5 AM. She cooks, she cleans, and she keeps the dentist appointments, little league schedule, and ballet classes straight. The woman is a 5-foot, 1-inch powerhouse of energy. The kids love her, and Amory couldn’t survive without her. Because of Mary Angela, Amory can concentrate on having babies, playing with her kids, and forgetting their names.

Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Bob has a colleague who recently got a divorce, and I was wondering if you wanted his number?

I sighed. Here she goes again, always trying to fix me up with eligible men.

I don’t know, Am, I don’t think I’m ready yet. I was lying. Amory’s husband, Bob, is a forensic pathologist. The people he works with carve up dead bodies for a living. I’m never sure what to say to them when I meet them at her annual 4th of July barbecue. I certainly don’t want to date them.

Cassie is here, though, between boyfriends. Why not set him up with her? I said, with no sincerity.

Amory threw her head back and roared. Good Lord, Maggie. The man just got divorced. He’s still too fragile to have Cassie set upon him. I laughed along with Amory while feeling guilty, which sums up my relationship with Cassie.

After we finished having a laugh at my sister’s expense, Amory promised to consult with Mary Angela and get back to me on the details of Leah’s party. As I walked back to the house, I thought about taking Amory up on her offer. Why not? I was a good catch.

I wasn’t decrepit yet. I had an okay figure, with a few extra pounds, wavy auburn hair shot through with grey, blue eyes, and the best legs in town. Maybe even in the entire state. Everybody has one outstanding feature, and mine is my legs. I refuse to be modest about it.

I’m terrible at body maintenance, though. My fingernails are a mess and my eyebrows unplucked. My skin care ritual is spotty; I forgo regular pedicures and I forget when I last had a hair conditioning treatment or even had my hair trimmed.

What man wouldn’t want me?

All of them, judging by the lack of men asking me out.

As I walked back to the house and let myself in, a fruity fog of smells enveloped me. It was a literal fog, in that Cassie had taken a very steamy, fragrant shower and then opened the door of the guest bath wide to let the entire house become permeated with an aroma of competing fruits. Coconut shampoo, guava conditioner, strawberry shower gel, peach body lotion, mandarin orange face cream, and kiwi foot scrub wafted down the hall. It smelled like someone threw up a fruit salad in a sauna.

Cassie was sitting at the kitchen table, hanging over a huge mug of coffee. The mug was blue and read, Cuppa Joe.

Don’t say ‘I told you so,’ Cassie said, holding one hand up to stop me from speaking, I know you didn’t like Chaz. She blew on her coffee and took a tentative sip.

Ah, she said, Perfect.

My sister’s boyfriends are just a long line of undefined facial features to me. I don’t remember them because they don’t stay long. But I didn’t want her to think I don’t care, so I said, No, I won’t say I told you so, but he must be a bum since he is no longer with you.

I thought I had gotten the tone just right; sisterly support with a dollop of indignation at the audacity of a man who would kick my sis out into the street or whom she would unceremoniously leave in the middle of the night, or whatever had happened. Cassie had not been all that clear at 2AM about the circumstances that had landed her on my doorstep. It is very difficult to sound sincere while also trying to cover all the bases by being vague. She looked up from her giant coffee mug, her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t buying it.

You don’t even remember Chaz, do you? she asked.

No. I’m sorry, I don’t. I sighed. Was he really horrible, or was he just a schmuck?

Cassie sighed too. Nah. He was just a schmuck. She brushed the thought of him away like a gnat. I envied her ability to move on. I wished I could move on so easily from my ex-husband, Hal. Of course, he and I had been married for almost two decades and none of Cassie’s relationships had lasted over eight months, including the marriages.

I’m so over men! Cassie said.

I must have made a face that showed my actual feelings about Cassie and her men.

I’m serious! Men have been the focal point of my life since I was sixteen. I’m catching them, complaining about them, or leaving them all the time. This is it. I’m declaring a moratorium on men. No men! Sister power!

Cassie held up her hand in a power fist. I laughed. I wondered how long this moratorium would last.

So here I am, looking for a place to crash until I can find an apartment. I’ll also need to stay here for a while because I’ll be needing a new job so I can save up some cash for the deposit on the apartment that I don’t have. She tried to change the subject. You know, if you would just take the plunge and start that catering business, I could work for you. Cassie quickly looked away from me and stared into her coffee.

She had lost her job, too. I knew it! It looked as if Cassie was here for an extended visit. To her credit, Cassie never asked for a handout, even though I could easily have given her one. She only took money she had earned. She was not, however, averse to living in my guest room rent-free for months at a time or showing up for a free meal if money was tight. It was taboo for her to ask for cash, but asking for jobs, beds and meals was fine. Sometimes I was hard put to understand the difference between these things. Her moral code was unusual. She was my sister, and I didn’t begrudge her any of these things. After all, we had survived our mother. It was only natural that we would stick together. As annoying as Cassie was, with her tarot cards, crystals, and pathological need to change jobs and men as if they were socks, she was not a bad houseguest. She cleaned up after herself, ran errands for me, and did any housework that did not involve cooking anything more complicated than a sandwich or a pot of coffee. And now, she needed a bed and a job, and I was happy to oblige.

Sure, I said, I actually could use some help with Leah’s birthday party. I’m not sure what she’d like. She’s at an awkward age.

This time, searching my face for signs of insincerity, she apparently found none, because she flashed me her head-cheerleader smile and bounded out of her chair to get more coffee.

Great! She’s eleven, now, right? That is hard. The best thing to do would be to talk directly with her. Cassie grabbed a pen and a notepad from the desk in the corner of the kitchen. We should make a list of options for her, though. I made a pot of coffee with nutmeg and vanilla, she informed me. There’s still enough left for you. I’ll go get dressed and then I’m all yours. Oh, and the beast started panting at the door, so I let her out. Cassie left the room, trailing the scents of fruit, coffee