Bumped Off at the Bake Sale (ebook Pre-Order)

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Chapter 1
The last of the summer heat blew out of Saltcliff on the Sea along with the first fall storm blowing in. I’d lain awake the previous night as the wind had buffeted the Eucalyptus and pine trees lining the village streets and left strewn leaves and needles in its wake, and rivulets of rainwater washed it all into piles along Nutmeg, the main street in town. 

This morning, Taco Dog and I emerged for our daily walk into a garden dramatically changed from the one we’d strolled through the night before as we’d walked and then locked up the Saltcliff Inn for the night. Stalks of flowers lay across pathways, petals were scattered around, and greenery was stripped or broken, as if a giant had wandered through on his way to a late-night engagement. 

Taco whined as he nosed around his favorite blooming bush, and then looked up at me. 

“Are you sad that summer’s over, or that your garden is suddenly a disaster?” 

My service dog’s soft eyes held mine for a moment, and then he went back to nosing around. The truth was that my sister’s beautiful garden, which greeted the inn’s visitors as they arrived, had been in decline since her death. Though I was doing my best to take over her inn-keeping duties and to be a reliable and loving guardian to her daughter Diantha, my skill set did not extend to gardening, and the storm had accelerated the decline I’d been aware of for a couple months now. 

“Right,” I said, mostly to myself, since Taco was now pulling at his lead, eager to head out into the village to see if any of his friends were out and about this morning. “I think it’s time to hire a gardener.” 

I’d been running the inn for the better part of six months now, and felt like I was getting the hang of it—both in terms of the day to day and in my understanding of the inn’s financial position. We could afford a gardener, and since neither Amal, the manager, or I had any gardening ability, it had officially become a necessity. 

My English chocolate Labrador and I strolled the cobbled streets of Saltcliff, moving slowly past the storybook cottages with their curving rooflines and blooming window boxes. The air felt clean in my lungs, and despite the mess the storm had left, something inside me was eager for cooler days and nights, and all the things that fall would bring. The baking, for one thing, was always more rewarding in cooler seasons. I mentally ticked through my fall recipes as we walked, but when a brightly colored figure appeared ahead, my thoughts were interrupted by Taco’s pull on the leash. 

“Doll, you survived!” Sylvan called down the sidewalk on Nutmeg. 

“We did,” I answered, appreciating my friend’s electric pink rain jacket, which he’d paired with royal blue galoshes and a pair of lime green pants. “How about you?” 

Sylvan leaned in and kissed my cheek as his Basset Hound, Luigi, greeted Taco. Luigi was wearing a set of blue galoshes to match his owner’s, and I suppressed a giggle at the ridiculous sight. Taco glanced up at me as if to thank me for not subjecting him to that particular humiliation. 

“We lived,” Sylvan said, removing his sequined sunglasses, which were shaped like stars. “The yard is a disaster. Branches and leaves everywhere.” 

“The wind was surprisingly strong,” I agreed. 
“Excessive, if you ask me,” Sylvan said, looking annoyed that no one had consulted him about the strength of the wind before unleashing it upon us. 

“What are you up to?” I asked, inwardly pleased that my small talk skills had improved enough that this conversation didn’t feel awkward and stilted, as pretty much every chat I’d had in the last forty or so years had. Keeping an inn and raising a tween had done a lot for my comfort level with people in general. 

“Same as you, I’m sure,” Sylvan said, again looking somewhat inconvenienced by whatever was going to be taking his time this week. 
“Same as me?” Was Sylvan going to hire a gardener? I doubted it. 

“Preparing for the Saltcliff School Festival?” 
Oh, that. I had seen signs. And Diantha had said something about this a day or two ago. And I might have dodged a phone call from Dorothy Withers, a teacher at Diantha’s school who seemed to be involved in pretty much everything. The last time she’d contacted me it was to discuss Diantha’s preference for black clothing and ripped fishnet stockings, and I’d decided that she was someone I didn’t need to jump through hoops to speak to in the future. “Is that coming up soon?” I asked. 

“Three weeks, missy, and I already know that you have a massive role to play this year.” Sylvan waved his glasses and pointed them at me. 

“I do?” 

“Baking, Doll. That paltry PTA cannot continue putting out their measly spread of anemic, flat cookies now that you’re here. And the bake sale is the best part of the festival.” 

“The whole town gets involved in the school bake sale?” I was surprised the average villager would care much about a bake sale put on by a local school. 

“Maybe not when it started, but the bake sale began morphing into a full-blown festival a few years back, and now the whole town takes part. It’s like a street fair that happens all over town—people put out booths and we block Nutmeg to cars so everyone can stroll. And at the end of it all, most people end up at the schoolyard for the bake sale for snacks and refreshments and the cake walk. I heard they’re getting a Ferris wheel and bringing in that Neil Diamond cover band to play this year.” Sylvan looked more excited than I would have predicted about this last part. 

“Oh,” I said, not having realized the extent of the festivities. “I guess I’d imagined just a little school thing.”

He shook his head. “People come into Saltcliff from all over the peninsula for the festival. It’s the real deal, Doll.” 

My friend had taken to calling me “Doll” almost as soon as we’d met, and I did my best to push down the knee-jerk reaction I’d always had to anyone shortening my name. I knew it came from a good place when Sylvan did it. 

“I guess maybe I should call Mrs. Withers back,” I said, thinking aloud. 

Sylvan made a face. “Unfortunately, she holds all the strings. She’s been organizing the whole thing for a decade. No one can pry it out of her talons, I’m afraid.” He lifted a hand in front of his face and made it into a claw, making a horrible face as he clutched at air. “The old witch.” 

“What do you do at the festival?” I asked.

Sylvan looked surprised at the question, dropping his Mrs. Withers act to shake his head lightly. “We attend, Doll,” he said lightly. “Luigi and I dress in our finest and grace the festival with our presence. Isn’t that enough?” This was delivered cheekily, and I smiled at Sylvan’s ability to be completely over the top and yet still warm and relatable. 

“I’m sure it is,” I told him, patting his arm. 

“Well, this dog won’t walk himself, unfortunately.” Sylvan slid his sunglasses back on before leaning in to kiss my cheek again. “Ta!” 

“Ta,” I said back, feeling immediately silly. I was not a woman who said “ta.” 

“It sounds like we have some things to figure out,” I told Taco, turning us back toward the inn. I needed to see if baking was the reason Mrs. Withers had phoned. That, I decided, could be fun. I’d been looking for a way to get a bit more involved at Diantha’s school, anyway.