Sneak Peek!
Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price
Book Description:
It’s so cozy it’s criminal! *RECIPE INCLUDED*
Chapter 1
Hattie
“I’ve eaten four pumpkin spice waffles and I’m still standin’,” Peggy declares, patting her stomach with a not-so-surprising touch of pride. “Take that, you ninnies,” she teases.
Clarabelle snorts and her gray hair practically vibrates with indignation. “Four? That’s amateur hour, Toots. I’ve eaten six and I’m contemplating a seventh.”
“You are not!” Peggy’s Southern drawl stretches the words into the next state. “Your dentures would’ve popped out by waffle number five!”
“My dentures are state-of-the-art, thank you very much. New money buys excellent teeth.”
The Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival is in full swing here at the Brambleberry Bay Fairgrounds. Red and gold leaves dance across the pathways, and the air smells like a cinnamon stick had a wild night with an apple orchard. Vendor booths stretch as far as the eye can see, each one more harvest-themed than the last.
Pumpkins of every size are stacked in precarious towers, and the distant view of the Maine coastline provides a misty blue backdrop to all the orange and gold festivities. Above us, the sky has turned a moody shade of mottled gray-purple clouds that look ready to rain their wrath down on our little fall celebration.
But not even threatening skies can dampen the spirits of two eighty-something women with a waffle vendetta.
“I believe we had a bet about who could eat the most pumpkin spice waffles,” I remind them, checking my watch. “And I believe the time limit has expired.”
Rookie darts between my legs, his golden fur catching the light from the string of paper lanterns overhead. His teddy bear, Mr. Jolly Beary, bounces against his back in a little carrier that my sister Winnie converted from a baby Bjorn infant carrier. The fuzzy brown bear has seen better days, but Rookie wouldn’t go anywhere without him.
People are dropping food EVERYWHERE! This place is a goldmine! Rookie’s thoughts come through loud and clear as he circles around us with his nose twitching at approximately ten thousand miles per hour.
My sweet cat Cricket weaves her way through the crowd with impressive agility for a little beige tabby. She hops onto a nearby bale of hay with her whiskers twitching with judgment.
You really are a rookie, she mewls in his direction. I’ve already convinced three different vendors to give me treats. No running required.
“Remember, no chocolate for either of you,” I say a touch too loud. “I mean it. Cricket, I saw you eyeing that fudge booth.”
I was merely appreciating the architectural integrity of their display, she sniffs, looking away with a look of innocence that, believe me, is as contrived as can be.
Clarabelle adjusts her oversized pumpkin brooch before waving a gnarled finger at Peggy. “You owe me twenty dollars. Cash. None of those fancy credit cards.”
“I most certainly do not!” Peggy tosses her bright red curls with her Southern Belle routine on full display for all to see. Let’s just say she doesn’t leave home without it. That’s because she is a true-blue Southern Belle who originally hails from Georgia. “Hattie, tell this Yankee hooligan that I won that waffle-eating competition fair and square.”
Clarabelle Harper is a frazzled vision in autumn tones. Her wild gray hair sticks out in every direction at once beneath her orange beret, and her outfit—a brown pantsuit with gold embroidered leaves that screams, “I have money and I want you to know it.” Ever since she came into her fortune umpteen years ago, she’s been the wealthiest woman in Brambleberry Bay and has never let anyone forget she’s new money from Yonkers. In fact, she wears it like a badge with pride. I can’t blame her. I probably would, too.
Peggy Ebersol, on the other hand, is all Southern sophistication wrapped in a leopard-print coat. Her red hair is suspiciously vibrant for a woman pushing ninety, and her makeup is applied with the precision of a battlefield general. She has a constant hankering for two things: men and money—and not necessarily in that order.
“Y’all are makin’ a scene,” Peggy drawls, then narrows her eyes at me. Good Lord, Hattie, can you believe this woman? Six waffles, my perfectly toned derriere. I think she hid at least two of ’em in her purse.
I bite back a smile. Only a handful of people know about my little mind-reading gift or curse as it were—with Clarabelle and Peggy being two of them. Killion, my hot detective boyfriend, is another. And, of course, Cricket and Rookie, my sweet pets, because you can’t hide much from pets anyway. Killion and I happen to share custody of Rookie, and let’s just say Rookie had a big part in our romance to begin with. I guess you could say there would be no Killion and me without Rookie.
My name is Hattie Holiday. I have long dark hair, the color of maple syrup caught in a stream of November sunlight, eyes the color of a clear autumn sky after the first frost, and the ability to read people’s minds. I can read the minds of animals, too, and you can bet dollars to pumpkin-glazed donuts that they have much better things to say.
“Ladies, we’ve got more important things to do than argue about waffles,” I say, gesturing toward the row of booths up ahead. “The baking competition is about to start, and we need to figure out which entries are worth trying.”
There’s a man giving away turkey jerky by the cider stand! Rookie barks and jumps as he nods to the left, but there’s no swaying me from the goodies at hand at the moment.
Please, Cricket yowls. I’ve already secured VIP access to the seafood booth. Her tail swishes with smug satisfaction. Henry is saving scraps.
Henry would be my brother, who just opened a new restaurant on the beach called Holiday Lobster House. He’s not exactly known for his desserts. I bet Cricket ran into him at one of the vendor booths and managed to manipulate him into giving her a bite out of whatever he was noshing on. Cricket is a pro at getting just about anyone to sacrifice a morsel her way. Especially me.
We make our way through the festival, tasting everything from pumpkin cookies to apple crumble. The booths are decorated adorably with hay bales, corn stalks, and enough artificial leaves to reforest Maine twice over. Strings of orange and gold lights crisscross overhead, ready to illuminate the grounds once darkness falls.
It’s November and just a week from Thanksgiving. As it turns out, this Pumpkin Palooza is Brambleberry Bay’s last hurrah as far as fall festivals go. And lucky for me, it’s not an event I had anything to do with. I just so happen to work as an event planner at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, so it’s kind of nice to go to a shindig that I didn’t have to put together myself.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Clarabelle stops so suddenly I nearly crash into her. “Would you look at that?”
I follow her gaze to a booth bearing the familiar Holiday Lobster House logo. And sure enough, my brother Henry is standing behind the counter, looking surprisingly comfortable in a chef’s hat, serving up something that makes absolutely no sense.
Henry is my oldest sibling, the oldest of four, with the rest of us being girls. He shares my dark hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities stop. He was a budding attorney up until a few months ago when he shocked us all by giving up law to open the aforementioned Holiday Lobster House. The career change was unexpected, but seeing him now—relaxed and in his element—makes me think he made the right choice.
Oh, he happens to be hot and heavy with Tipper Luxemburg, a woman from my murder club, but I push both his quasi-questionable choice in girlfriends and my murder club to the back of my mind for now.
“Are those”—I squint over at the dessert being advertised—“apple-cinnamon lobster rolls?” I ask as my voice rises an octave.
“With pumpkin aioli,” Henry confirms with a grin as he waves us over. “Try one before you judge, Hattie.”
“That sounds about as appetizin’ as my third husband’s cookin’,” Peggy declares, but she’s already reaching for a sample.
Clarabelle snags one, too. “Stranger things have happened. Remember when the minister’s wife put pickle juice in the communion wine?”
“That was you, Clarabelle,” I remind her, cautiously accepting my own lobster abomination.
“Was it?” She shrugs. “Well, it certainly livened up the service.”
To my shock and mild horror, the sweet-savory combination actually works. The tender lobster meat balances with the warm spices, and the pumpkin aioli adds a creamy richness that ties it all together.
“Oh my word,” I moan through a bite. “Henry Holiday, you’re either a culinary genius or completely insane,” I tell him. “Quite possibly both.”
He winks. “Tipper helped with the recipe.”
Before I can ask about his new girlfriend’s influence on his cooking—or the rest of his life—a familiar warm hand slides around my waist. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is—the clean scent of cedar and something distinctly his own gives him away.
“Sampling the competition?” Killion asks, his breath warm against my ear.
I spin in his arms and happily take in the sight of him. Killion Maddox is caustically handsome in a way that should be illegal—or at least comes with a warning label. His dark hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and those verdant green eyes shine like beacons. He’s wearing his usual attire of dark jeans and a button-down shirt under a leather jacket that hugs a body that looks like it could stop a freight train, let alone a bullet.
In a word, Killion Major Maddox is hot. And in another word that describes him best, he’s mine.
“Henry has created a fall lobster roll monstrosity that’s actually delicious,” I tell him. “You might want to hurry and try it before your detective taste buds get a tad too suspicious.”
He takes a bite of the one I offer and his expression moves from skeptical to surprised. “That really is good.” Killion looks stymied by this, as he should. Lobster isn’t typically found in most bakeries.
“Don’t sound so shocked.” Henry laughs. “Some of us have talents outside of arresting people.”
“Oh hon.” Peggy waves him off. “Killion doesn’t arrest people unless Hattie tracks them down first,” she teases with a wink.
“Very funny.” Killion gives a short-lived smile, although we both know it’s true.
A tiny laugh bubbles from me as I rise up on my toes and kiss the poor man, tasting cinnamon and apple on his lips. It’s brief but sweet enough to make my heart skip. Killion has a way of doing that despite the fact we’ve been dating well over a year now. And as soon as I pull back, Killion lands his lips to mine once again and kisses me as if he’s leaving for battle in the morning.
Peggy lets out a wolf whistle that would put actual wolves to shame. “Now that’s what I call a greetin’! Clarabelle, why don’t any men kiss me like that anymore?”
“Because you scare them off with your vulture-like approach to dating,” Clarabelle says without missing a beat. “You swoop in, pick them clean, and leave nothing but bones.”
“Oh, they like it and you know it,” Peggy shoots back. “You’re just jealous because I’ve had four husbands and you’ve only had two.”
Clarabelle belts out a belly laugh. “Quality over quantity, my dear.”
Peggy opens her mouth to retort, but suddenly stops, her head tilting like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Shhh!” She holds up one bejeweled hand. “Listen to that. I think that’s a Southern accent in distress.”
We quiet down enough to hear something floating this way, and it sounds like raised voices coming from around the corner of the cider booth. And sure enough, one has a distinctive Southern lilt to it.
“That’s my people,” Peggy declares, already moving toward the commotion. “Why, I think someone needs savin’ from a Yankee.”
Peggy takes off and we follow, rounding the corner to find two women locked in a heated argument beside a display of elaborate pastries.
One of the women is plump with auburn curls going gray at the temples, her vintage cat-eye glasses sliding down her nose as she gestures emphatically.
The other stands ramrod straight—sleek, polished, and wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than my truck and insurance combined. Everything about her screams, “I’m important and I know it,” from her perfect brunette bob to her immaculate manicure. Those sharp red talons of hers look so sharp they could double as a can opener.
“You stole my technique and you know it!” the woman with auburn curls shouts as her Southern accent gets thicker with each word. “That lattice pattern is my signature!”
“Please,” the polished woman scoffs, looking down her perfect nose. “As if I would need to steal anything from your little bakery. My pumpkin spice cheesecake has won this competition five years running.”
Killion gives a quiet chuckle before leaning close to my ear and whispering, “I think I can take ’em. I am armed, you know.”
“You are hilarious,” I say, giving his ribs a tweak. “No need to escalate to firearms over a simple pastry dispute. Watch and learn.” I clear my throat as I take a step forward. “Excuse me, ladies,” I sing with a wave and the two women stop arguing abruptly when they notice our little group approaching.
Their expressions transform in an instant with perfect pageant smiles stretching across faces that just seconds ago were twisted with rage.
Clearly, I’ve missed my calling because I’ve managed to turn both of their frowns upside down in record time—which is an improvement even if neither of them means it.
Killion gives me the subtlest of nods. I’ll save the bullets for later, he says internally with a wink my way.
Now that sounds like a hot date.
The two women take a moment to glare at one another for the briefest of moments. And something tells me, deep in my bones, that beneath those picture-perfect smiles lies something far more dangerous than a rivalry over pumpkin spice recipes.
Chapter 2
Hattie
Those picture-perfect smiles stretch even wider as the auburn-haired woman extends her hand.
“Meredith Thorne, owner of The Whisked Away Bakery,” she says in a syrupy Southern drawl that could sweeten coffee from three tables away. Her vintage cat-eye glasses slide down her nose, and she pushes them back up with her finger. “My sweet little bakery is competing here today, and I’m pleased as punch to make your acquaintance.”
The sleek brunette beside her gives a tight smile that doesn’t extend to her sharp hazel eyes. “Vivian Maple. Spice It Up Café.” She delivers her introduction as if she’s bestowing a gift upon us mere mortals. And come to think of it, she might be—seeing that those to-die-for waffles we wolfed down were from her booth.
“Oh, we just loved your pumpkin spice waffles,” I say to Vivian while clutching my chest. “Sorry if I seem overenthusiastic, but I can’t help it. Bakers are like rock stars to me. I happen to have a sweet tooth that knows no end, and I’m forever looking for my next addiction.”
“I see you have good taste.” Vivian bubbles with a laugh and her dark locks gleam even on this dreary fall day.
Look at that hair. Meredith glowers at the woman. Must be nice to afford weekly blowouts while some of us are struggling to keep our businesses afloat because SHE steals all the customers with her overpriced trendy concoctions. Her thoughts blast through my head like a bullhorn, all while her face maintains that sugary-sweet smile.
“Well, butter my biscuit!” Peggy, never one to miss an opportunity to connect with a fellow Southerner, latches onto Meredith immediately. “Another Southern Belle in this Yankee stronghold! I’m Peggy Ebersol, and this here’s Clarabelle Harper, Hattie Holiday, and Hattie’s hunk, Killion.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Vivian says, although her gaze lingers on Killion a moment too long. Especially that tall wall of muscles. I predict I’ll need a helping hand in a moment or two—and then some.
I sigh at the thought. I try not to hold anyone’s mental musing against them. Most women have thoughts like that about Killion, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m still having them myself.
Meredith takes a moment to inspect Peggy. “Why, you sound like you’re from Georgia,” she says as her smile warms genuinely for the first time.
“Born and raised in Savannah, honey! Where’re you from?”
“Little town outside of Charleston that nobody’s ever heard of.” Meredith laughs. “But I’ve been up north long enough that folks tell me my accent’s fadin’.”
“About as faded as my great-grandmother’s quilt.” Peggy cackles. “Which is to say, not at all!”
A scream cuts through our introductions, coming from somewhere near the apple bobbing station. Killion sighs deeply, the kind of sigh that speaks volumes about how often his day gets interrupted by a call to duty.
“I’d better make sure everything’s okay,” he says, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Meet you back here in ten?”
He politely excuses himself, and as he strides away, Vivian raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Law enforcement?”
“Homicide detective with the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department,” I explain.
Oh, this day just gets better, Vivian muses to herself. I just love a man who happens to own a pair of handcuffs—and more importantly, knows how to use them.
I hike a brow at the thought.
“A detective, how convenient!” Vivian lets out a tinkling laugh that sounds rehearsed. “Maybe I should keep him on speed dial. People have been threatening to off me for my recipes for years.” She winks over at Meredith as if sharing an inside joke.
We all laugh politely, but I notice Meredith’s knuckles turning white around her purse strap. If someone did ‘off’ her, they’d be doing this town a favor. That woman's soul is more soured than week-old buttermilk in August. And she’s about as welcome here today as a skunk at a garden party. She’s right about one thing—not a baker here can stand her.
Yikes. If thoughts could kill, Vivian would be six feet under already.
Peggy makes small talk with the women as the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival churns around us in a whirl of orange and gold. Children dart between booths with faces sticky from caramel apples, and the air smells like someone liquefied autumn and sprayed it everywhere—cinnamon, nutmeg, woodsmoke, and the distinct scent of leaves turning crisp. Okay, so there is no such scent, but there should be.
Overhead, strings of lights sway in the breeze, and somewhere a fiddle plays a jaunty tune that makes even the most rhythm-challenged toes tap.
Party crasher at nine o’clock! Cricket’s thoughts slice through the ambient noise as she prances toward us with Rookie bounding behind her while Mr. Jolly Beary bounces on his back.
Hattie! I found THREE people giving out free cookie samples behind the cider booth! Rookie says with a woof of excitement. And they all said I was a good boy!
Because you’re shameless, Cricket sniffs, leaping onto a nearby hay bale. I, on the other hand, maintain my dignity while procuring provisions.
Is that why you have whipped cream on your whiskers? Rookie counters.
Cricket’s paw immediately goes to her face. Tactical decision. The dairy farmer who gave it to me might give MORE next time if he thinks I enjoyed it.
Before I can respond to their banter, a tall, willowy blonde approaches with a tray of what looks like miniature waffles drizzled with amber-colored sauce. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back into an elegant ponytail, and she moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows their baked goods are scrumptious without trying too hard.
“Sample of pumpkin spice waffles with maple bourbon butter?” she offers, stopping before our little group. “They’re bite-sized, but the flavor is anything but small.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Clarabelle says, nabbing one faster than you’d think possible for someone her age.
Vivian tilts her head, examining the offering. “Autumn. Always resourceful, aren’t you? Always taking a cue from my bakery? Sometimes I think you flat-out stalk me.” She lets out a cackle, but she’s the only one laughing. “No, thank you.” She turns her nose up at the waffles at hand. “They look a touch too crisp around the edges for my liking.”
“Vivian.” The blonde—Autumn—maintains her smile, but I notice a slight tightening around her eyes. “Always a pleasure to receive your constructive feedback.” And her big mouth always has something to say.
“As you should,” Vivian counters. It’s too bad the idiot doesn’t understand that REAL success means making something once and selling it over and over, not constantly having to reinvent herself every season like some desperate influencer.
Vivian’s thoughts hit me with a surprising force. There’s genuine venom behind her pleasant expression.
“Let me introduce you,” Vivian says, switching to hostess mode as she nods to Peggy, Clarabelle, and me. “This is Autumn Harrington. She owns Sunrise & Cinnamon, a little brunch spot down by the beach in Pelican Cove. Autumn, this is Clarabelle, Peggy, and Hattie.”
“Little brunch spot?” Autumn repeats with a forced laugh. “We seat two hundred on weekends, but who’s counting?”
“Quality over quantity, darling,” Vivian says with a dismissive wave. “Though I suppose when your business model is built on bottomless mimosas, the food doesn’t have to be memorable.”
Ouch, Cricket meows from where she’s rubbing against Autumn’s ankles. That’s colder than the fish you forgot to thaw for our dinner last week.
I think they’re going to throw fists! Rookie’s tail wags hopefully. Humans are so strange. Why don’t they just sniff each other and get it over with?
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, broken only when a booming male voice erupts from a nearby podium festooned with pumpkins, cornstalks, and enough fall-colored bunting to decorate a small country.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the seventh annual Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival Baking Competition!” A wild applause spontaneously breaks out all around us along with a few hoots and woots. The man at the microphone is distinguished-looking, with silver hair and a charismatic smile that probably sells whatever he’s promoting before he even opens his mouth.
“I’m Oliver Prescott, your head judge and host for today’s delicious proceedings,” he continues, gesturing grandly out at the festivities at hand. “We invite everyone to sample the incredible creations our bakers have prepared, available at the very reasonable price of three dollars per tasting plate. All proceeds benefit the Brambleberry Bay Food Pantry!”
The crowd cheers, and Oliver raises his hands to quiet them for a moment.
“And remember to cast your vote for your favorite at the judges’ table. The grand prize of twenty thousand dollars will be awarded to one talented baker in exactly one hour! The winner will be crowned the Pumpkin Queen or King! May the best pumpkin spice creation win!”
The crowd erupts again, surging toward the baking booths with the determination of shoppers on Black Friday.
It’s as if all of Maine has turned out this afternoon, despite the threat of rain—and judging by those dark clouds, possibly a monsoon. But nothing comes between New Englanders and their fall festivals. We’d wear snorkels if we had to.
“We should get back to our booths,” Vivian says, already edging away.
Meredith nods. “Duty calls. Those pumpkin spice bread puddings won’t serve themselves! Come on, ladies, I’ve got a free pumpkin spice latte with each of your names on it.”
“I’m in,” Vivian says.
“I’m right behind you. That’s my favorite beverage.” Autumn winks my way. “And these pumpkin spice waffles need frequent refreshing to stay warm,” Autumn adds, lifting her now-empty tray. “Lovely meeting you all!”
As they disperse, Clarabelle elbows Peggy. “I do believe we still have a waffle war to finish, and I’m two ahead.”
“In your dreams,” Peggy scoffs. “Meet you at the waffle booth in five. I need to reapply my lipstick if I’m going to be seen in public eating like a field hand.”
They hustle off, leaving me alone with my furry companions.
“I should probably track you two down some proper food,” I tell Cricket and Rookie. “One that doesn’t involve begging from strangers.”
But that’s the BEST kind of treats, Rookie barks, his golden eyes wide with canine conviction.
Agreed. Plus, festival food has a certain… je ne sais quoi, Cricket adds, waving her tail like a whip.
I give a little laugh. “And that’s exactly why I’m about to procure us some more of this festival food je ne say whatever.”
I start to scan the crowd for a pet-friendly food stand, but my eyes catch on Vivian and that announcer, Oliver Prescott, engaged in what appears to be a heated discussion near the judges’ table. She’s clutching a pumpkin spice latte in one hand and jabbing a finger into his chest with the other, and though I can’t hear what she’s saying, her body language screams confrontation. Oliver grabs her wrist, then quickly releases it, glancing around as if worried someone might have seen it.
And someone has—namely me. But before I can do anything, the two of them split ways and I continue on my quest to find something that can feed my furry counterparts and me. Those double-dipped corndogs have been calling my name, so I venture in that direction.
A good while later, after successfully procuring three corndogs—none of us are big on sharing—and fending off Cricket’s suggestion that chocolate-covered bacon counted as appropriate nutrition, a bell rings to summon everyone to the central stage.
“Attention, festival-goers!” Oliver’s voice carries across the grounds. “It’s time to announce our bake-off winner!”
The crowd surges forward. Among the line of bakers eager to hear the results, I spot Meredith fidgeting with her glasses, Autumn smoothing her already-perfect ponytail, and Vivian standing ramrod straight with the confidence of someone who’s never known defeat.
My brother Henry hovers at the edge of the contestants’ area, looking simultaneously hopeful and resigned about his lobster creation’s chances. Although, let’s face it, a new fall favorite has been born. I think Henry has a real hit on his hands no matter what today’s results might be.
Oliver dramatically produces an envelope and waves it through the air, milking the moment for all its worth.
He opens it up and unfurls the letter before smiling to himself. “And the winner of this year’s Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival Baking Competition, with a prize of twenty thousand dollars, is…”
The crowd takes a collective breath and then holds it as we await the answer.
“Vivian Maple for her pumpkin spice cheesecake with maple glaze!”
Polite applause ripples through the crowd, though I notice several contestants rolling their eyes at one another. Vivian steps forward with a smile stretched across her face, that pumpkin spice latte still in hand. She doesn’t get more than three steps out before she clutches at her throat momentarily and something seems off.
She reaches for the oversized check the size of a small car that Oliver holds out, then stops abruptly before she can reach it. Her hand flies to her throat once again.
At first, it looks as if she might be getting caught up with emotion, but on a dime her face contorts in genuine distress.
Vivian begins to cough and wheeze so hard that her face looks as if it’s turning blue.
She staggers backward, bumping into Meredith, who jumps away as if she were about to be burned before Vivian spins and staggers, looking disoriented as she stumbles directly into my path.
“Whoa,” I say as she crashes right into me, and for a bizarre moment we perform an awkward dance—me trying to steady her, and her trying to remain upright—before her legs give out completely.
I catch her as she falls, easing her to the ground as gasps and screams ignite around us. Her eyes, those sharp hazel eyes that sized everyone up like potential competition less than an hour ago, lock onto mine with what looks like naked terror.
“P—P—poison,” she gasps as she claws at her neck and thrashes the remnants of the pumpkin spice latte my way. And then with a sigh her arms fall to the ground and all movement ceases.
She said the word poison! Cricket yowls my way and I give a subtle nod.
Killion appears as if he materialized from thin air, pushing through the crowd as he drops to his knees beside us. He presses two fingers to Vivian’s neck and his expression goes from serious to grim.
After an eternal second, he shakes his head my way.
Vivian Maple won’t have to worry about protecting her recipes anymore.
Vivian Maple is dead.
And judging by the way Killion’s eyes are scanning the crowd, somebody at this festival just added murder to the menu.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****