Macaroons Mummies and Murder Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  About this book

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mailing List

  Leave a review

  Books on Sale

  Macaroons, Mummies and Murder

  M. E. Harmon

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Harmony Books

  Copyright © 2016

  www.meharmon.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

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  This is the first book in the HoneyBun Shop Mystery Series.

  Click Here to get your copy: www.meharmon.com

  Dear Reader,

  This is a work of fiction. However, many locales named within the book are located in NYC. Please note, I’ve taken some artistic license with certain names and places.

  Enjoy,

  M.

  Acknowledgements

  To the wonderful, awe-inspiring, fantastic, incredible, unbelievable, marvelous, phenomenal, mind-blowing, stupendous, and groovy readers on the M.E. Harmon advanced reader launch team,

  I don’t know any of you personally. But every one of you offered a writer-girl from Queens, NY your support. Not to get too sappy, but it brings tears to my eyes. Independent writers like me wouldn’t experience any success without generous people like you.

  I am thankful for you all.

  Everyone on the team is phenomenal and a few went Way beyond the call of duty. I hope my personal responses were enough to express my undying gratitude.

  Enough gushing and…

  Thank you,

  Thank you,

  Thank you!

  Best,

  M. E.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks. Two dates. Two different men. And...nothing. Not just nothing, bupkis, nada, nil. My poor ego was at an all-time low. Maybe I have some social disease that only manifests on dates and I just didn't know it.

  “Ali Daniels, are you sulking?”

  I was busy stacking lemon-limoncello mini-cakes onto a display table. “I'm not sulking.”

  Not true. I was.

  My employee-extraordinaire and friend Oscar Barrega was smart enough to see the oh-so-obvious truth. “If you pouted any more, you'd be licking the frosting off these cakes.” He passed me two more of the lemon minis and then made a show of dusting his hands off. “Phone.”

  I placed—okay, it was really an underhanded toss—a cake with a little too much oompf. It rolled off the table leaving a smear of pale yellow frosting in its wake. “No. Why do you want to see my phone?”

  “Because you need an intervention before you ruin all the fabulousness I helped you create for this gig.” He held out one hand, palm up, and put the other on his hip.

  Oscar worked for me and my partner at our Manhattan shop, HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches. But his dream was to become an actor. He was about five-six, had dark brown straight hair, and borderline pretty features that begged for casting in a telenovela.

  Not that Oscar needed to work on a soap opera to create drama. He was perfectly capable of doing that all on his own.

  He waggled his fingers. “Stop making that face and give it.”

  Reluctantly I pulled my phone out of an apron pocket, keyed in the passcode, and handed it over. “I told you everything they texted. You're not going to see anything new.”

  “Whatever, missy. I'll be the judge.” He hit the text icon and began to scroll.

  It was about five pm on an early fall evening in New York City. Actually, Oscar and I were in Queens, which is an entirely different animal compared to what people in this borough called 'the city'. Queens is housebroken compared to untamed Manhattan. More traditional houses, more diversity, more greenery.

  The HoneyBun had been hired to cater dessert for the new exhibition opening at the Queens Museum of Natural History. Five hundred mini-cupcakes. It was a big, fat, juicy gig that came with a nice check, networking opps, and one huge perk I was ready to cash in on.

  The drive to the museum had been like being transported to the country. The building had been founded in the early 1800s and was nestled in the middle of 500 acres of untouched (mostly) forest. When Oscar and I turned the rented van into the entrance of Forest Park where the museum was located, we were awestruck. Trees lined the two-way lane like royal sentinels. Their leaves mingled above in a canopy that was still mostly green, but here and there, crisp golds and bright scarlet flirtatiously winked.

  At the moment, we labored in the museum's exquisite rotunda assembling mini-cakes on a three-tiered circular table. This area could have been a work of art by itself. The floor was a magnificent pink, white, and speckled gray marble. It was a marvelous counterpart to the gold-leaf-covered dome above.

  We weren't the only crew setting up for this evening's exhibition premiere. Across the way, bottles clinked as a portable bar was stocked with liquor. Empty but soon-to-be-filled carving stations were being carted into strategic places around the room. Men and women wearing black aprons assembled white linen-clothed tables and banquet chairs.

  From experience I learned it always made sense to keep clean-up tools on hand. We had wheeled in the food and supplies on a cart. I pulled a damp cloth from a plastic toolbox I kept my baking accessories in when I'm on a job. One little rolling cake had made a mess. I spent the next minute ignoring Oscar but mentally imploring him to give me good news as I wiped up lemon buttercream frosting.

  Finally, I gave up being aloof, put both hands on my hips, and tried to read the micro-expressions on his face.

  For the next minute, Oscar made noncommittal sounds that drove up my blood pressure.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Ah, okay, then.”

  “Oh.”

  After the third, 'mmm-hmm,' I lost my cool. “Oscar you're making me feel worse. Did they both blow me off or not?”

  He shrugged. “Well, girlfriend, my spidey senses tell me—”

  Across the room someone called my name. “Ali-bear! You're here!”

  I turned to see a man in black slacks and matching ebony shirt and tie. A silver 'H' buckle gleamed from the Hermes belt at his waist. He strode through the rotunda as if he owned the building. And considering how phenomenal I knew Alan Wiggins was at networking, I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

  “Alan!” I let him sweep me up in a bear hug. When he put me down, I said, “Thank you again for hiring the HoneyBun for this event.”

  “You're one of my oldest friends. I'm ashamed I didn't demand the museum hire you before this. We usually use a place that's recommended by one of the board members. But I didn't know you owned a bakery. I pass your shop every time I drive over the Brooklyn Bridge to see my grandma.”

  I gave him another hug. “That's what you get for not staying in touch.”

  Oscar cleared his throat. He looked from Alan back to me.

  “Alan, this is Oscar Barrega, my employee-extraordinaire. Oscar, this is Alan, one of the first friends I made when my family moved back to Five Points when I was a kid. We bumped into each other in Whole Foods, and that led to us being here today.”

  They shook hands, and it was a little like night and day. Alan stood five inches over the other man. And where Oscar's skin was a warm beige, Alan's was a rich shade of mocha. My eyes drifted to the Hermes belt. Those went for at least $500 a pop. The museum business must be good.

  I said, “Alan is the curator here.”

  “No, no—I'm the managing curator for Traveling Exhibitions.” Alan was quick to correct. “I'm just one of a number of curators with the museum. But this new exhibit is my baby. Will you both be attending the opening later?”

  Oscar mocked tying a bow tie. “Got my suit and tie in the van. And Ali's dress will delight and amaze.”

  Of course Oscar would say that. He picked it out.

  I said, “Yes, we will. Thank you so much for that, too. It's the best perk ever.”

  Alan eyed the circular table. “Everything looks great so far. Do you think this display is too big?”

  Chances were my friend was also eyeballing the desserts. He'd want a sample soon. I pulled a stack of pink HoneyBun paper plates and forks from the cart and put them on a nearby table.

  “No. We've only put on a quarter of the cakes on so far.” I took a step back to take in the entire three-tier ensemble. “I'm worried that we're going to run out of room. You'd be surprised how much space five hundred cakes take up. ”

  The very top of the table was adorned with a two-foot-high gold figurine. It was the silhouette of a woman with a spiral adorning her belly. Smaller statuettes decorated the three levels of the table at regular intervals. All
of them were replicas of the female form, but some appeared as if they'd been carved out of stone or sculpted in bronze or posed on white marble plinths.

  I pointed. “The figurines are gorgeous. Did the museum hire an artist?”

  My friend tilted his head as if seeing the small statues for the first time. “Yeah, those. They are very well done, aren't they? Each one represents a piece that's in the exhibit you'll see tonight.” His voice dropped an octave. “And no, they were made by someone who works right here in the museum.”

  Behind us, a woman's voice traveled down the hallway. “Okay, guests will be arriving in less than three hours. I want status updates from everyone.” Heels clicked toward us.

  “Wiggins! Update please.”

  Alan's mouth twisted. “In fact, here's the artist now,” he said dryly. Then in a louder voice he spoke over his shoulder. “Hello, Elsa.”

  The woman approaching us looked as if she'd just missed being pretty according to conventional standards. She had high cheekbones, but they were a tad too wide, large eyes that were a touch too close, and an overbite that was just a bit too pronounced. A pearl choker topped off a very demure cream sweater set. But then the woman shut off any possible attractiveness down with a pair of tan polyester pants the color of dead locusts.

  “Wiggins, what's going on here?” The woman grasped a clipboard with fingernails painted a delicate baby pink. She paused about a foot away from my friend.

  It seemed as if the temperature in our immediate vicinity dropped about five degrees. Alan's face was devoid of all emotion. It was if he was an old school Etch A Sketch and someone had shaken his slate clean. The woman, on the other hand, bounced on the balls of her feet as if readying to pounce.

  Oh yeah, there was some tension between these two. I was busy staring, waiting for one of them to implode, when Oscar elbowed me in the ribs. He picked up a tray loaded with cakes, shoved one in my hand, and started transferring the rest to the table. Though his hands moved lightning fast, his eyes roved between Alan and the woman.

  I'm slow sometimes, true. If there's about to be free entertainment, I was more than ready to watch unabashedly. But I decided following Oscar's lead was prudent.

  Alan sighed, fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall behind us, then sucked in a huge lungful of air. “All things are in order. This is Ali Daniels and Oscar Barrega from HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches. They are supplying the miniature cupcakes and will be done with this display in fifteen minutes. Ali Daniels meet Elsa Strand, my boss and chief curator.”

  Elsa's eyes flicked over to me and Oscar, then to the display table, and then back to Alan.

  When I heard my name, I offered my hand but got an immediate elbow to the ribs again. “Ow!”

  Oscar didn't stop loading up cakes. “Nope. That intro wasn't for you. Keep working, keep working,” he said in a hushed tone.

  I could feel my brow wrinkle. I was confused. Sure enough, as my outstretched hand dangled empty and unmet, neither one of the museum employees even glanced at me.

  Okaaayy? I wiped my palm over my apron, as if that's what I'd originally intended, and got back to work putting cakes around a gold statuette. I may be slow with some things, but my brief stint in corporate America allowed me to spot volatile office politics at play.

  Oscar whispered, “Dork.”

  “Shush, Oscar,” I said and stifled a sneeze. Sneezing in front of clients while handling merchandise wasn't good business. But of course holding it in made it worse, and I felt another sneeze building. My eyes started to water.

  Alan rattled off a laundry list of items. “Exhibition walkthroughs. Done. Maintenance updated on temperature controls for the evening. Done. Staff updated on procedures dealing with board members. Done. Security lists triple checked. Done. Parking staff in position. Done. Directional signs, indoor and outdoor, posted in appropriate areas. Done. Swag bags ready for distribution. Done. Kitchen staff prepping pre-approved hors d'oeuvres, carving, and pasta stations. Done.” Alan pivoted on his heel, facing the Chief Curator for the first time.

  “Anything else, Elsa?”

  “I'm feeling like I'm coming down with a cold. If you see my assistant, ask her to bring something.”

  “Got it. I'll tell Nia to bring you some ibuprofen. Anything else?

  They locked eyes for twenty seconds. Then Elsa smirked and tore the top page off her clipboard. She handed it to Alan. “Yes. There are several more items on my checklist. Please have everything complete before I do my final sweep. I'll be doing my daily meditation at six pm so if anything comes up you can't handle, come to my office after seven.”

  She didn't wait for an answer, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her nod in my direction. “Ms. Daniels, Mr. Barrega. The cakes look lovely, thank you.” I turned at the sound of my name, but it was too late. Elsa Strand was clicking away at a fast clip toward the portable bar. Which was fine with me. I didn't have to sneeze any more, but my eyes were tearing something awful. I couldn't tear off a glove and grab a napkin fast enough.

  Elsa didn't slow as she called over her shoulder, “Alan, one more thing. This is not a paper plate type of function. Make sure those pink ones have been removed and the caterers put out the proper dessert dishes and flatware.”

  Did she just 'dis' my HoneyBun plates? Oscar and I immediately stopped what we were doing to watch Elsa trot off in her skin-toned kitten heels.

  “She's a barrel of laughs, isn't she?” Oscar said under his breath.

  Alan didn't reply but bumped fists with him. “Good job on hustling when the boss came around.”

  Oh. So, that's what all the elbowing the ribs was about. “Hold on, Oscar. Is that what you do with me? Look super busy when the boss comes around?”

  “I plead the fifth.”

  I resisted the urge to squeeze his neck in a Vulcan nerve pinch. “And how did you know she was Alan's boss?”

  “All you boss ladies have the same look.” Oscar paused long enough to snap his finger for emphasis before grabbing another tray from the cart.

  Part of me wanted to ask what that look was. But the smarter region of my brain said not knowing what I had in common with Elsa Strand was the better option.

  It was just too bad my silly ol' brain was preoccupied eyeballing the Chief Curator and not warning me that trouble was making a beeline in my direction.

  Chapter Two

  Over by the bar, Elsa read off her clipboard as a man in a white dress shirt and red cummerbund nodded vigorously. Every time he pointed at a liquor bottle arranged behind him on the glass shelving, Elsa would look up, squint, and check another item off her list. Then she ran a finger along the length of the bar as if checking for dust.

  She struck me as a woman who lived her life according to checklists. The realization made me feel a little sorry for Elsa. Life wasn’t always about a to-do list.

  Elsa gestured and something peeked from underneath the bottom of her sweater. It was brown, flat and...was that a zipper? Was the woman wearing a fanny pack?

  “So your boss seems a little...” I searched for the right word.

  But Alan was preoccupied reading the paper Elsa had left behind. He growled. “This woman wants me to make sure the underside of the lids in the woman's toilet have been scrubbed. I did not earn a Master in Fine Arts from Oxford University to do bathroom checks. Most of the duties she gives me have nothing to do with my actual job.” He continued to scan then burst out, “Anal retentive.”

  “What?” I asked, taken aback.

  “You were hunting for a word to describe Elsa. I just gave you two.”

  “Oh. Okay. I was thinking along the lines of cold. Or maybe...curt.”

  Alan rubbed his temple. “No, trust me. My suggestion is a perfect description. She drives me insane. Just last night—” He stopped and shook his head as if he could fling out bad thoughts. “Nope, no negativity tonight. This is my show, and I'm going to enjoy it no matter the drama she causes. But look here, Ali,” he held up the sheet and pointed, “number seventy-two says to taste-test HoneyBun's cakes to guarantee edibleness.”