Dying for a Cupcake

Dying for a Cupcake

“Swanson cooks up a delectable treat with Dying for a Cupcake. When former resident Kizzy Cutler arrives back in town and hosts a cupcake competition where her assistant dies under mysterious circumstances and Kizzy has several near misses, Deveraux Sinclair has to run her five-and-dime store and figure out who could be mad enough at Kizzy to want her dead. With a plentiful cast of suspects, this was a fast-paced page-turner of a mystery that I couldn’t put down. A fun, lively, and thoroughly engaging mystery with sprinkles on top!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Jenn McKinlay

Dead Between the Lines

“Much to enjoy.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“Another great story from Denise Swanson. . . . This series is filled with very interesting characters, and I can’t wait to see where the author takes them next. The possibilities seem endless.”

—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death

“Delightful. . . . Readers will look forward to seeing more of the quick-witted Dev.”

—
Publishers Weekly

A fabulously entertaining read. The pace is quick, the prose is snappy, and the dialogue is sharp.”

—The Maine Suspect

“Peopled with unique characters, Ms. Swanson’s books are always entertaining.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Quite the caper. [Swanson] is masterful in her storytelling.”

—Romantic Times

Little Shop of Homicide

“Swanson puts just the right amount of sexy sizzle in her latest engaging mystery.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“Veteran author Swanson debuts a spunky new heroine with a Missouri stubborn streak.”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

“A new entertaining mystery series that her fans will appreciate. . . . With a touch of romance in the air, readers will enjoy this delightful cozy.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“Swanson has a gift for portraying small-town life, making it interesting, and finding both the ridiculous and the satisfying parts of living in one. I wish Dev a long and happy shelf life.”

—AnnArbor.com

“A top-notch new mystery . . . all the right ingredients for another successful series.”

—Romantic Times

PRAISE FOR THE
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING SCUMBLE RIVER
MYSTERY SERIES

“Endearing . . . quirky . . . a delight.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”

—Agatha Award–winning author Earlene Fowler

“[A] lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.”

—
The Hartford Courant

“A fun and fast-paced mystery. . . . Reading about Scumble River is as comfortable as being in your own hometown.”

—The Mystery Reader

“Top-notch storytelling, with truly unique and wonderful characters.”

—CrimeSpree Magazine

“Smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”

—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Denise Swanson keeps getting better and better . . . unforgettable reads!” —Roundtable Reviews

“A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Denise Swanson hits all the right notes in this brisk and witty peek at small-town foibles and foul play.”

—
Romantic Times
(top pick)

DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES

Dead Between the Lines

Little Shop of Homicide

Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death

SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERIES

Murder of a Needled Knitter

Murder of a Stacked Librarian

Murder of the Cat’s Meow

Novella:
“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales”

Murder of a Creped Suzette

Murder of a Bookstore Babe

Murder of a Wedding Belle

Murder of a Royal Pain

Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

Murder of a Real Bad Boy

Murder of a Smart Cookie

Murder of a Pink Elephant

Murder of a Barbie and Ken

Murder of a Snake in the Grass

Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

Murder of a Small-Town Honey

Published by the Penguin Group

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A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2015

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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ISBN 978-1-101-61560-7

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In memory of my great aunt, Margaret Pierard. Born February 18, 1911, and passed away December 10, 2013. She was an amazing woman who saw 102 years of world changes.

A
ttendance at the Saturday Night Prayer Circle was at an all-time high, and despite our group’s nickname, it wasn’t because any of us had suddenly gotten religion. We met to gripe about our problems, and although an occasional Hail Mary might be muttered under our breath, no one brought rosary beads or dropped to their knees—unless they fell off their stiletto heels.

“Poppy Kincaid.”

“Here.”

“Veronica Ksiazak.”

“Here.”

“Devereaux Sinclair.”

“I’m sitting right in front of you, Winnie,” I grumbled. “What’s with this roll call crap anyway?”

“You’ll see.” She smiled mysteriously. “It’s a surprise.”

I generally found Winnie Todd amusing, but for various reasons, not the least of which was my messed-up love life, I was in a bad mood tonight. I probably should have stayed home, but the chance to avoid my grandmother’s questions along with the lure of alcohol had overcome my better judgment.

The fishbowl-size margaritas and endless bottles of wine that appeared miraculously in front of us whenever our glasses came close to being empty eased a lot of our group’s woes. The prompt service could be due to the large tips we always left, but more likely it was because my best friend and fellow circle member, Poppy Kincaid, owned the joint.

Her nightclub, Gossip Central, was the most popular watering hole in Shadow Bend, Missouri—population four thousand twenty-eight. Strictly speaking, Poppy’s place wasn’t inside the city limits; it was a quarter mile across the line. Although I had never asked her about it, my guess was that she had deliberately chosen a location just outside her police chief father’s jurisdiction.

No grown woman wanted her daddy showing up every time the authorities were called to break up a fight at her bar—especially since Poppy wasn’t on speaking terms with her dad. In fact, Poppy’s issues with her father were one of the main reasons she was a member of our little underground society.

My motives for participating went by the names Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Del Vecchio and Dr. Noah Underwood—two smoking-hot guys who claimed to be interested in me, but who tended to disappear from my life at regular intervals. True, I was having a hard time deciding which guy I really loved, and thus was seeing them both. But seriously, if either of them cared for me as much as they said they did, wouldn’t they be spending more time in my company than at their jobs? I mean, I understood long hours and hard work, but it had been weeks since I’d had a date with either man.

I mentally slapped myself. I had vowed not to think about Jake—or Noah—tonight or my dilemma in trying to figure out which one was the right man for me. Instead, I was going to enjoy being with my friends and
maybe even figuring out how to keep my dime store in the black for another quarter. Besides wanting to partake in a glass or three of wine, and the chance to dodge my grandmother’s curiosity about my love life, my presence at the Saturday Night Prayer Circle was largely due to the text from Ronni Ksiazak saying that during the gathering, she planned to present an idea of how to bring tourists into Shadow Bend.

Tourists meant cash. And extra cash was something that I was sure that nearly everyone attending the evening’s meeting could use. Ronni needed to fill her huge old Italianate-style Victorian bed-and-breakfast with paying guests if she was going to repay the loan that her family had given her to buy and renovate the place. Poppy had a serious fashion addiction to support, and Winnie was continuously fund-raising for various charities that constantly had their hands out for additional donations.

Although I didn’t know the fifth woman seated across the cocktail table, I was fairly certain she wouldn’t object to making a little spare change on the side, either. Harlee Ames was thirty-seven, eight years older than I was, and had only recently returned to town after spending the last twenty years in the service. She’d moved home a few months ago and opened Forever Used, an upscale consignment shop aimed at Shadow Bend’s affluent new arrivals.

Our community’s population consisted of the locals—mostly farmers, ranchers, and factory workers who had lived in or around the town all their lives—and transplants from Kansas City who had relocated to the area for the fresh air and the cheap land. A huge chasm separated the two groups, and I worried that Harlee’s store would widen the gap between the haves and have-nots all the more. Even secondhand, the
designer clothing and accessories her shop specialized in cost more than a lot of the original Shadow Benders earned in a week.

But I couldn’t put my finger on whether that was what bothered me about Harlee, or if it was something else. As I mused about my reaction to our group’s newest member, Ronni brought our gathering to order.

Raising her drink, the B & B owner said, “Here’s to the Saturday Sisterhood. May we all make a lot of moola.” Ronni was nearly as driven and competitive as I was, so I wasn’t surprised when she added, “And may we also leave our male competitors in the dust.”

“Hear, hear!” Winnie Todd clanked her wineglass with mine. “Ronni’s idea will put my cooking school on the map. Especially since she’s arranged media coverage.”

Ah, that was why Winnie was playing teacher. She was opening a cooking school. Considering that she had come of age in the sixties, and was rumored to be growing pot in her basement, I wondered if her specialty would be “magic” brownies. Maybe the weed was for her culinary classes rather than for her personal consumption.

Certainly, Winnie’s wardrobe looked as if she were living in Haight-Ashbury. Tonight she had on a white vinyl minidress with a cutout midriff. The metal chains that fastened the bodice to the skirt rattled every time she took a deep breath. It was like sitting next to the ghost of Psychedelic Christmas Past.

“How many of you know who Kizzy Cutler is?” Ronni asked, breaking into my musings about Winnie’s fashion choice.

The name sounded familiar, but a face didn’t immediately come to my mind. Poppy was silent, and Winnie had a similarly puzzled expression, as if she, too,
was trying to dredge up an elusive memory. Harlee was the only one who spoke up.

“Kizzy was in my class in high school. Why?”

“She lives in Chicago now and she owns the übersuccessful Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes,” Ronni explained. “She was a client of the advertising firm I used to work for and I was a part of the team that handled her account. She’s the one who first told me about Shadow Bend.” Ronni took a swallow of her martini. “Kizzy always spoke so fondly of her hometown that when I decided I’d had enough of city life, I took a look at what was available here.”

“I always wondered how you ended up in our little burg,” Poppy commented.

“Me, too,” I said, sipping my wine. I loved Shadow Bend, but was curious why someone without any friends or relatives here had chosen to relocate and open a business in our small community. Ronni didn’t seem the type to have moved for the open spaces or the air quality.

“Seems like a lot of people end up here for various reasons.” Winnie winked at me. “Like your hunky marshal.”

Grrr!
I forced a smile. Winnie was harmless, and I didn’t want to snap at her a second time tonight, but I had just started to relax and now that she mentioned Jake, the conversation he and I had had that afternoon popped into my mind. I’d been so happy to see his picture on my cell phone’s screen. Contact with him when he was on the job was sporadic at best, and his current case—tracking down a serial killer in St. Louis called the Doll Maker who had kidnapped Jake’s ex-wife, Meg—was even more intense than his usual assignments. Too bad his news hadn’t been what I was hoping to hear. Instead of reporting that his team was making progress in finding Meg, Jake had said that the
Doll Maker was still running him around with promises and threats.

Ronni interrupted my brooding. “Kizzy and I still keep in touch, and when she mentioned that she was starting a new themed cupcake line called the Flavors of Your Life, I suggested that she should kick it off with a contest to find the most original cupcake flavor. I recommended that because she currently distributes in the Midwest and South, the competition should be limited to those regions, and—”

“And Kizzy agreed to hold the final rounds of baking and judging here in Shadow Bend!” Winnie shouted.

Ronni shot Winnie an exasperated look, clearly unhappy that the older woman had blurted out the news before she could make the announcement. Then she gave a tiny shrug and said, “I told Kizzy I could provide accommodations for the judges and media at my B and B, and that the contestants can stay at the Cattlemen’s Motel.” Ronni consulted her notes. “We can use Winnie’s cooking school for the actual baking and I thought that Poppy could handle the evening entertainment here at Gossip Central.”

“Sure.” Poppy’s expression turned serious as she grabbed a pen from her pocket and started scribbling on a paper napkin. “How many people and what kinds of events are we talking about?”

“There are ten finalists, three judges, and the Dessert Channel has said they’d be interested in covering the contest, so we’d need to include whatever crew they send. Plus Kizzy, her partner, and her executive assistant.” Ronni ticked the attendees off on her fingers. “And if we get the buzz we hope for, there should be lots of day-trippers here to join in the fun, so we want to keep it family-friendly.”

“Isn’t this the coolest thing you’ve ever heard of?”
Winnie did a little go-go dance in her white patent leather knee-high boots. “I just wish my facility was larger. I can accommodate the ten bakers and the television crew, but there won’t be room for observers.” She frowned, then brightened. “Oh, well. The universe must have a reason, which will be revealed at the proper time.”

Ronni turned to me. “Because of the cooking school’s limitations, we need your place, Dev. Kizzy is willing to rent the area above Devereaux’s Dime Store and pay to have it cleaned and decorated so we can display the cupcakes and do the two rounds of judging there.”

“I see,” I said, wondering how intrusive the competition would be on my regulars. The contest people would have to march through the store to get to the flight of stairs leading to the second story. “I’m not sure my top floor will work for what you have in mind. It’s three offices with tiny reception areas—not one big room.” I hadn’t been able to figure out a good retail use of the space, so I’d kept it intact, hoping I could rent it out to an insurance agent or Realtor. So far, there hadn’t been any takers.

“Hmm. We can look into removing the walls.” Ronni took her iPad from her tote bag, brushed her finger over the screen, then said, “Or we could use the offices for the judging and maybe a lounge area. And we could have the big reception and award ceremony in your actual store on Sunday since you’re closed that day anyway.”

“That might work,” I agreed, visions of rent money and new shoppers running through my head. “Removing a couple of the walls would be okay with me, too.” With that area cleared, I could put merchandise up there. Maybe stock a whole new kind of product.

“Good. If we make the second-story space larger,
you’ll be able to extend your store’s hours and open up on Sunday to take advantage of last-minute customers.” Ronni turned to Harlee and said, “Since the majority of people interested in a cupcake contest will probably be women, we thought one of the additional activities could be a fashion show. Would you be up for that?”

“Definitely.” Harlee pursed her lips. “I’ll need to find models, but that shouldn’t be too tough. I can put an ad in the local paper.”

“When will the contest take place?” I asked. It was already the beginning of June and I wondered if this would be a fall or winter event.

“The July Fourth weekend.” Ronni didn’t look up from her iPad.

“But that’s not even a month away!” I yelped, then checked my math. Yep. Less than four weeks. “How are we going to be ready in time?”

“No problem.” Ronni grinned. “I’ve got the workers lined up to start on your second floor whenever you give them the go-ahead. The PR campaign is ready, and the preliminary rounds of the competition have already started.”

Ronni tossed a contract into my lap, and as I flipped through the multipage document, I heard a strident voice from the stairs yell, “Devereaux Sinclair, don’t tell me you’re alone on a Saturday night.”

Gossip Central had started out life as a cattle barn, and when Poppy remodeled the building, she’d decorated it to reflect its origins. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, and off to the sides, the stalls formed secluded lounges, each with its own individually themed decor. We were in the Hayloft, the second-story space reserved for private parties, but this didn’t stop my archenemy, Gwen Bourne, from
marching uninvited up the steps and zeroing her malevolent gaze on me.

Gwen had quite a crush on Noah, and that he preferred to date me, someone she considered inferior in both looks and social status, drove Gwen bat-shit crazy. I could have told her that even if I was out of the picture, she wouldn’t have a chance in hell with the handsome doctor. The problem wasn’t that she was a few years older than he was; it was that she was too much like his mother—a high-maintenance snob.

“I’m hardly alone.” I swept my arm around the group. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t consider other women people, do you? To you they’re just rivals.”

“Gwen.” Poppy slid from her stool and took the intruder’s arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go back down to the bar. You know the Hayloft is a restricted area.”

“What’s the big secret?” Gwen narrowed her color-contact-lens-enhanced blue eyes. “Are you witches stirring up trouble in your cauldron?”

The witch reference was Gwen’s favorite metaphor when attacking me—although generally, she pronounced the
b
instead of the
w
—so going along with her theme, I said, “Yes, we are. We’re brewing up love potions, and from what I hear about your lack of beaux, perhaps you’d like to put in an order.”

“You little—” Gwen interrupted herself, then smiled spitefully. “But of course you really aren’t little, are you? Have you gone up a size . . . or two since the last time I saw you? Not that you were ever exactly slim. What did my cousin tell me they use to call you in high school? Stay Puft Marshmallow Girl, wasn’t it?”