Vanilla Vengeance Read online

  Vanilla Vengeance

  Book One in the Cupcake Crimes Series

  Molly Maple

  Mary E. Twomey, LLC

  Contents

  Vanilla Vengeance

  About Vanilla Vengeance

  1. Welcome to Sweetwater Falls

  2. Crime in the Compost

  3. Cupcake Therapy

  4. Two Nights Ago

  5. Waitress

  6. My Favorite Librarian

  7. Seven Dollars and Fifty Cents

  8. Charlotte the Brave

  9. Breaking and Entering

  10. A Thoughtful Gesture

  11. Cardamom Clumsiness

  12. Fishing with Friends

  13. Meringue and Murder Theory

  14. Firelight Bravery

  15. Cupcake Negotiations

  16. Spaghetti Scarf Cupcakes

  17. Spaghetti Mess

  18. Closing Up

  19. Officer Flowers

  20. The Last One to See Gerald Alive

  21. Helen’s Help

  22. Attack

  23. Twinkle Light Memories

  24. Vanilla Cardamom Cupcake

  Marshmallow Murder

  Marshmallow Murder Preview

  About the Author

  Vanilla Vengeance

  Book One in the Cupcake Crimes Series

  By

  Molly Maple

  Copyright © 2020 Mary E. Twomey LLC

  Cover Art by Mary E. Twomey LLC

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: November 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For information:

  http://www.MollyMapleMysteries.com

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To new beginnings,

  And endings we put off for far too long.

  About Vanilla Vengeance

  Charlotte McKay doesn't know what to expect when she moves in to take care of her elderly aunt.

  When Charlotte discovers a dead body her first day in the cozy town of Sweetwater Falls, she worries she may have made the wrong choice, moving from the big city to a small town. She was hoping for a family feel and a fresh start, not a shakedown from local law enforcement and an aunt who keeps disappearing right when danger nears.

  Sweetwater Falls is filled with loveable characters harboring dark secrets. Even though Charlotte is certain none of her new neighbors could possibly be the killer, she is beginning to learn that no one is above suspicion.

  Join Charlotte as she moves to Sweetwater Falls, only to discover that not even the sweetest of small towns are without their shadows.

  "Vanilla Vengeance" is filled with layered clues and cozy moments, written by Molly Maple, which is a pen name for a USA Today bestselling author.

  1

  Welcome to Sweetwater Falls

  I wasn’t expecting to fit in with the small town of Sweetwater Falls on the first day, but I certainly didn’t expect to stand out like a sore thumb. There seems to be a dress code that I did not know about before I packed up my pencil skirts and heels to move across the country. Everyone I spot on my drive into town is wearing jean shorts or overalls, while I look ready for a business meeting.

  This town’s décor looks straight out of the fifties. It’s clean, for one thing, without the litter of cigarette butts or errant garbage blowing by. The trees all look uniformly trimmed. As I drive into the city, a breath escapes me that I didn’t realize I’d been holding in.

  I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve waited to exhale.

  Life was moving too fast for me in Chicago, and the bills were stacked sky high. It was good timing when my mother suggested a change of scenery for me. Great Aunt Winifred needs someone to look after her, and I am desperate for a rent-free place to live while I lick my big city wounds.

  Sweetwater Falls: Population 5,682. Mom and Dad promised that Sweetwater Falls is ripe with family values and wholesome people, which doesn’t sound bad at all.

  I haven’t seen my Great Aunt Winifred since I was a teenager. When I was little, I used to beg her to sing me to sleep with her cabaret voice. I never stopped loving the sound of her singing. She seemed old way back then. I can’t imagine how ancient she must be now.

  I check the address on my GPS again, chewing on my lower lip when it leads me to a white colonial with beautiful pale blue shutters. The east side of the house sports ivy-threaded trellises stretching from the garden all the way to the second story.

  This doesn’t look like the home of an elderly woman who needs help. The lawn is cared for, and the garden looks to be thriving. The house is on a sizeable plot of land that looks like it stretches a fair distance from the back of the home. The yard is dotted with bird baths, bird feeders, a garden bench and various other decorations that make the entire space feel welcoming.

  A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

  I like it here already.

  “No wonder she didn’t want to leave this place and go to a home,” I say to myself under my breath. “It’s beautiful.”

  I try not to let my eyes bug as I take in the rows of shrubbery, seeing the majesty that is a well-loved home.

  “Okay, Charlotte,” I say to myself. “This is your new start. You can do this.” I’m sure my voice sounds forcefully chipper. It doesn’t matter that I’m not all that experienced a caregiver. I am a fast learner.

  Though, I’m not sure my stellar baking skills will translate to caregiving.

  Still, Mom and Dad said that Aunt Winnie requested I come live with her. She must hold some faith that I will be good at this.

  I tuck my purse under my arm and don my cheeriest grin. My heart is jumping with nerves that always come when I am starting a new adventure. But I don’t let unquenchable trepidation stop my feet from connecting with the pavement.

  The walkway looks like it has been swept, with no sign of leaves or errand weeds creeping onto the cement.

  I was expecting the house to be in some sort of disarray. Perhaps she employs a groundskeeper. Mom and Dad made it sound like Aunt Winnie truly needed someone to look after her.

  Maybe she will need indoor help—maneuvering with a walker or assistance bathing.

  When I reach the front door, I raise my fist to knock, but before I can, the door flings open. A smile I haven’t seen in years greets me. “Why, if it isn’t Charlotte McKay. The Charlotte McKay. My talented grand-niece who bakes the best cupcakes in the world.”

  I nearly let my purse slip through my grip at the gregarious greeting. “Oh! Aunt Winifred, I didn’t realize…”

  I take in all five feet of her cuteness. I remember exactly her curly silver hair and rounded face with a smattering of wrinkles. Her glassy sea-green eyes never stop smiling, glinting with a joke only she knows.

  I haven’t seen her in at least a decade, yet she hasn’t aged a day. “You look amazing!”

  Aunt Winifred laughs like she always has—like a bubbling waterfall of pure soprano joy. “And you look like an angel that should be perched atop a Christmas tree. Golden blonde hair, just like your mother. Eyes bluer than a clear sky. And how tall are you now? Six feet?”

  I grin at her gushing. It’s not unlike the fawning she did over me when I was a little girl. “Five-foot-ten, actually.”

  She claps her hands once, but doesn’t invite me in. “Beautiful. And you arrived here
just in time. I’ve got a meeting to go to, and the stinking doctor took my license away. You’re driving.”

  Well, you are ninety-one.

  “Uh, sure. That’s no problem. Can I put my things in the house first?”

  “No time. Let’s just move in whatever we need so I have some leg room in your car.”

  I chew on my lower lip. “Okay.” I don’t mention that I have been in the car for the better part of two days, and could truly use a shower and some times to stretch my legs.

  I do my best to grab multiple bags from the house, so at least I am partially unloaded.

  After the second trip, Aunt Winnie stop me. “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry!” Aunt Winifred trots to my car, albeit with a slight limp. “We can unpack the rest when we get back. The meeting’s already started!”

  I want to take my time acclimating to the new home, but Aunt Winifred spins me around and all but shoves me back down the path.

  Now that I think about it, she always was a little pushy. Though, it was never in a bad way. Aunt Winnie knows what needs to be done and sees to it with vigor. It’s nice to know none of her spunk has faded over the years. When I was too nervous to flag down the ice cream man, she picked me up and put me on her shoulders so the driver couldn’t miss me.

  Aunt Winnie grabs up a knitting bag from the doorway and ambles after me, leaving the front door unlocked.

  “Aunt Winifred, we should lock up. Do you have your keys?”

  Aunt Winifred pauses and then scoffs with a smile in my direction. “You city folk with your jokes. What would I need to lock up for?”

  I study her innocence with confusion. “Um, so no one steals your stuff?”

  She looks back at her home curiously. “You’re telling me I should worry about people stealing my collection of tea cozies? Or do you think they’re after my wooden spoons?”

  I narrow my eyes at her and tromp back to the house. “Do you have your keys?”

  “No, so don’t lock it. I’ll never get back inside.”

  Part of me wants to laugh while the other part is itching to give her a lecture on safety. I take in her flippant nature which has clearly served her well and measure it against my careful steps.

  I draw in a deep breath and try to get us on the same page. “Where are we going?”

  “Town hall,” she answers, waving for me to hurry along.

  I was expecting to have time to unpack my things.

  Well, if we’re talking about what I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t a woman so spry and lively, she doesn’t seem to need my help in the slightest. If not for the limp, I would wonder why on earth I am here to help her. Mom made it sound like Winifred was in desperate need of assistance.

  I open my car door for her and offer a hand to help usher her in, but she doesn’t need it. “The meeting’s already started! Hurry, honey cake!”

  The corners of my mouth curve upward when her nickname for me when I was little sneaks back into my memory. “You could have given me five whole minutes to unpack the rest of my things from the trunk,’” I tease as when I slide into the driver’s seat of my red sedan. “You don’t want your honey cake turning sour on you.”

  Aunt Winifred laughs and claps her hands together once, which I think means we are off to a good start. She points a knobby finger toward the dirt road ahead. “That way until it ends, and then hang a right. If I miss the sheriff, I’ll be sore about it for sure.”

  I start up the car, practically hearing my poor sedan groan at being given so short a reprieve. Dirt roads make me nervous, so I take my time, making sure not to let my wheels succumb to the grossly uneven road.

  “Is this the best this fancy car can do?” Aunt Winifred rubs her hands together like an evil genius readying for a speedy getaway. “I feel like we’re in a movie. Two high-class girls looking for trouble.”

  I chuckle at her description of us. “I like that. What’s your meeting about?” I hope my conversational diversion distracts her from my slow pace. I am not about to compromise my car after finally making the last payment two months ago.

  “Flowers,” she replies succinctly, rolling the window down. She smiles as the wind hits her cheeks.

  I follow Aunt Winifred’s directions, driving past oak trees that seem to stretch to Heaven, handmade quirky mailboxes in shapes of animals and tractors, a cornfield, and an old church with an actual steeple. When the road finally evens out and pavement glides beneath my car, my grip loosens and my speed picks up.

  “Woo!” Aunt Winifred hoots. “That’ll show the sheriff! Go, girl! Faster!”

  Her glee worries me, so I search wildly for a speed limit sign. “Am I speeding?” My needle hits fifty miles per hour, drawing cheers from my great aunt in the next seat. Just in case, I slow down, taking the road at a more modest pace.

  Aunt Winifred’s smile falls. “You’re a rule follower, I see. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

  I snicker at her disapproval. “Is that a problem? I happen to like following the rules, especially ones that keep me from getting a speeding ticket.”

  My aunt puts her elbow on the ledge of the door, harrumphing that I have taken away her fun. “I guess that’s one way to live. Your mother was right; you do need my help.”

  I guffaw at the notion that I came here for her to help me, instead of the other way around. Her moxie makes me chuckle, even if it’s at my expense.

  She points to the left, so I turn, eyeing a building that looks like a large red barn in the middle of older one-story commerce buildings. I spot a bank without a drive-thru option and a newsstand with an off-center sign that reads “Nosy Newsy”. There is a diner that looks straight out of the fifties, complete with a jukebox that I spot, because I am driving at a modest thirty-five miles per hour. There are baskets of friendly white and yellow daisies dotting each business, some hanging and some planted in oblong boxes under the sills of wide windows.

  “I think your town is doing a great job with your flowers. I mean, look at how cheery that is.” I point to a particularly lovely display that has tiny purple flowers scattered between the standard daisies. “Is the meeting about planting more? Because I vote yes.”

  Aunt Winifred motions to the big red barn, so I park in the lot behind it, next to a dozen pickup trucks. “Huh? No, no. We’re not going to protest planting flowers. We are protesting the sheriff. He arrested Karen Newby. Can you believe that? We are demonstrating so he frees her.”

  I cut the engine and gape at Aunt Winifred. “I have so many questions. You said the meeting was about flowers. This is actually a protest? And who is Karen Newby? What did she get arrested for?”

  Aunt Winifred picks up her knitting bag, her brow quirking as if I’ve said something daft. “The meeting is about Flowers. His name is Sheriff Flowers. And Karen is eighty-eight, and shouldn’t be arrested for anything.”

  I only have more questions, but Aunt Winifred isn’t having it. She pushes open her door, leaving me to follow haplessly behind. I don’t want to involve myself in an anti-police demonstration before I’ve even unpacked my things in this town. I was hoping to blend in, join a local book club, get a quiet job at a coffee shop and enjoy a quiet life with my sweet aunt.

  Angering the local law enforcement wasn’t in my plans.

  Yet here I am.

  Aunt Winifred ambles quickly into the red barn, past a compost pen piled shoulder-high with a black tarp stretched across the lumpy top. The whole thing smells like rotten garbage and decaying meat. My nose twitches as I veer far away from it.

  “Do you need a cane or something? A walker?” I ask, trying to be delicate about her wobbly gait.

  Aunt Winnie’s nose crinkles. “For what?”

  I guess we’re not talking about her limp. Maybe Mom will be more forthcoming about the kind of help Aunt Winifred needs.

  When I enter the barn behind Winifred, I see at least three dozen people, all sitting in folding chairs facing the front. There on the foot-tall raised platform is
a middle-aged woman with an angry, flushed face. She is gripping the podium with both hands. “We march today, and we don’t stop until Sheriff Flowers knows he can’t bully us into his prison! Do we want to live in a town where our cherished elderly citizens are locked up?”

  “No!” everyone shouts in one voice.

  “Then let’s go out and make our voices heard!”

  Apparently, the meeting is adjourned, because each person stands and moves toward the back exit, where Aunt Winifred and I just entered. They are holding homemade signs that are far lovelier than any I’ve seen at the protests in Chicago. Curly designs and painted flowers outline angry words that read “Release Karen, Lock up Flowers!” and things of that nature.

  Yeah, I really don’t want to involve myself in this protest, being that I know so little about the details.

  I try to appear pleasant and unobtrusive, hoping to distance myself from any of the anger that seems to waft off the few dozen people emerging from the barn.

  Winifred and I move into the sunshine and wait for the organizer to come out. Unfortunately, we are shunted right next to the compost pen. I breathe through my mouth as much as I am able, but the stench is so potent, I can practically taste the decay.