Page 26 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price
The real special of the day? One murder suspect, served hot.
HATTIE
Aflock of seagulls flies overhead and their raucous cries punctuate the gentle rhythm of waves crashing against the rocks below.
The breeze carries the mingled scents of salt water and maple syrup, an odd but not unpleasant combination that seems perfectly suited to this coastal breakfast haven.
Autumn Harrington sits across from me right here at her restaurant, Sunrise & Cinnamon. Her honey-blonde ponytail catches the sunlight as she casually arranges herself in the chair as if she’s posing for a successful female entrepreneurs magazine spread. And she may as well be. This place has everything going for it—the food, the view, and have I mentioned the food?
She smells like vanilla and money,Cricket mewls from my lap.I don’t trust people who smell expensive on purpose.
I like her,Rookie counters from his spot under the table.Anyone who makes bacon that good can’t be all bad.
“I think we might have met briefly the other day,” I say, cutting off their internal debate club meeting. “At the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival out in Brambleberry Bay.”
Autumn’s smile falters for a millisecond—so brief I might have imagined it if I weren’t watching for exactly that kind of reaction. Her amber eyes darken slightly as if someone dimmed the lights behind them.
“Oh, my goodness.” She gives a heartfelt sigh. “Such a tragedy what happened that day,” she says, her voice dropping to an appropriately somber register. “One minute we’re all competing for a prize, the next...” she trails off with a delicate shudder.
“Did you know Vivian well?” I ask, aiming for casual but probably landing closer to obvious amateur detective. I can’t help it. I am one.
Why do I get the feeling this one is about to ask more questions than the health inspector?Autumn expands her smile my way with the thought.
“Oh yes, Vivian and I went way back,” she says. “We met at a culinary symposium in Boston about seven years ago. She was presenting a workshop on flavor innovation, and I was still working for a restaurant group before opening this place.” She gestures around at her bustling beachfront breakfast empire.
“Was she very friendly?” Clarabelle asks.
“She was quite the character.” Autumn rolls her eyes as she says it. “Brilliant with flavors, but not exactly... warm.”
“Rumor has it, she was cold as a freezer full of failed soufflés,” Peggy offers.
“That’s one way to put it.” Autumn’s laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. “Vivian believed that success in the food industry required a certain ruthlessness.”
“Speaking of ruthless”—Clarabelle leans forward, her turkey hat wobbling precariously—“I heard she wasn’t above borrowing other people’s ideas.”
Autumn’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise just a notch. “Well, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but there were certainlyrumors that Vivian—let’s say ‘repurposed’ recipes from other chefs. Particularly Meredith Thorne over at The Whisked Away Bakery.” Her lips twitch as she casts a cool glance at the ocean.If people knew what Vivian had done to others in the industry, they wouldn't be so quick to mourn. Some secrets deserve to stay buried—just like some people. That Harvest Moon MaplePumpkin Spice Cake was a doozy.
I nearly choke on my almost-a as Autumn’s venomous thoughts blast through my mind like a tornado through a trailer park.
“Rumor has it, she was being sued by someone,” I say once I’ve recovered, tucking away the name Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake in my mental evidence locker.
Autumn shrugs so elegantly, that she somehow makes her chef whites look like couture. “I don’t know what that was all about. But Vivian made enemies as easily as most people make friends.” She taps a manicured nail against her water glass, thinking. “You know, I think I saw her arguing with one of the judges, Oliver Prescott. They looked as if they hated each other if you ask me.”
“Oliver Prescott?” Peggy perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Why, that’s Bunny’s silver fox cousin.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Autumn says. “But I do know that he and Vivian were having quite the heated exchange behind the supply tent. Something aboutnot this timeandyou’ll regret it.It was all very dramatic.”Like those soap operas my grandmother watches where everyone’s secretly related and half the cast is in a coma,she thinks to herself.
A crash from inside the restaurant makes us all jump. The sound of breaking dishes is followed by a string of colorful language that would make a sailor blush.
Autumn winces. “If you ladies will please excuse me, it sounds like someone’s auditioning for a position they definitely won’t get.” She stands gracefully. “Duty calls—or in this case, shattered dishes on my Italian tile floor.”I swear if Brad dropped another rack of glassware, I’m going to serve him his pink slip on a bed of shards.
I can’t help but wince at the internal ire.
As Autumn stalks off, Clarabelle leans across the table. “Well? What did you get from her head?”
“Not much,” I say. “She didn’t say it outright, but she was thinking about a secret related to a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake recipe.”
“I saw you perk up when she mentioned recipe theft.” Peggy nods. “Maybe that was it?”
