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  Secrets and Sweet Rolls

  HoneyBun Shop Mysteries, Volume 5

  ME Harmon

  Published by ME Harmon, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SECRETS AND SWEET ROLLS

  First edition. October 16, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 ME Harmon.

  Written by ME Harmon.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Wake Up Call | 1

  The Trip In | 2

  Gone Missing | 3

  Picture Tells All | 4

  Hiding in Plain Sight | 5

  Inconvenient Truth | 6

  Fallout | 7

  From the Author

  Books By ME Harmon

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  Wake Up Call

  1

  Someone was in my kitchen.

  I’m curled up in bed, the comforter tangled around my legs. My apartment is on the second level of a one-family brownstone. The bedroom is only a few feet away from the kitchen.

  A pot clattered to the floor, and I bolted upright. My heart fluttered like a startled bird, and my mind wouldn’t compute what the heck was going on.

  Was someone in my apartment? Of course someone was in my apartment. I could hear them moving around.

  In the next few seconds, an army of thoughts battled for dominance. Run! Find something heavy to fight with! Call 911!

  And that's when I heard it...

  Giggling.

  I fell back into bed and groaned. The neon blue numbers on my digital alarm clock were fuzzy in my half-awake state, but the light coming through the window blinds was a light pink. So it was just after dawn.

  They'll be coming for you soon, I thought to myself.

  From the next room I heard in a too loud whisper, “Shhh, we have to be quiet. You know she gets cranky when we wake her up.”

  This was followed by another round of giggling.

  I gave up any thought of fighting the coming onslaught. “She’s awake!” I hollered then promptly threw the covers over my head.

  Sure enough, in the next thirty seconds, two bodies collapsed on either side of me on the bed. I was sandwiched in.

  Someone tapped my comforted-covered head. Then I heard my mom’s voice say in singsong, “Good morning, sweetie.”

  I burrowed further under the covers and let loose another groan, but even I knew it was just for show. There was no use in fighting the powers that be. The person on my left side chimed in. “Good morning, Ladybug. Sorry, we fully intended on not waking you.”

  “Yeah right, Auntie Bitsie. You two knew exactly what you were doing.”

  My mom said in another too loud whisper, “See, cranky-city.”

  “Yes, mother, that tends to happen when you wake someone up at the crack of dawn.”

  My mother made some weird snorting sounds of dismissal. “Oh, pish-posh. It's not that early.”

  I heard a rattling on my nightstand. In the next second I figured out what the noise was, threw the covers off, and watched as Aunt Bitsie’s French-manicured nails wrapped around my vibrating cell phone.

  Just great.

  I made a feeble grab for it, but she swatted my fingers away. Her red silk pajamas looked sleek even in the early morning light.

  “Relax, Ladybug, I just want to see what time it is.” Her eyes flicked over the screen, then moved from right to left. “But, oh, ho, ho. Elizabeth, dear, it is officially quite early. However, more importantly, it seems your daughter, Ali, has a gentleman friend who felt the need to send a text only to say goodnight.”

  She held up the phone so my mother and I could see the phone’s screen. Yep, sure enough, Derek had sent a text after I’d gone to bed. I hadn’t even seen it yet.

  Mom put a hand over one eye.

  I said, “Mom, covering one eye doesn’t help you see it better.”

  “Hmm. I can see some boy sent you a text at an ungodly hour. Wait, is that the one who works at the Mayor’s Office?”

  I sighed, not really wanting to open up this can of very delicate worms.

  My lack of response was answer enough for my mother.

  “It is! Bee, did I tell you about how Ali has this rich kid chasing after her?”

  Aunt Bitsie squealed, sending her salt and pepper shoulder-length hair swinging. “No! Dish.”

  I threw out my arms. “Nope, no dishing. It’s too early. I know what you fiends came up here looking for. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

  The two women clapped their hands. Before they could roll off the bed, an orchestra of chirping crickets erupted.

  Aunt Bitsie said, “That’s me.” She pulled a cell out of her pocket and squinted at the display.

  “What? You have no problem reading my phone, but on yours you have to squint?”

  She waved me to silence then opened the call. “Hello?” She listened, then went to chat in the kitchen.

  Mom asked, “Any chocolate in those leftovers?”

  I pursed my lips, “Go look, you troublemaker.”

  She pecked me on the forehead and left for the kitchen at a jog. My mother and Aunt Bitsie didn’t fool me. They may have been up to welcome in the sun, but they’d taken a nap during the night. It was Saturday morning, and my mother and her best friend for the past forty years, had had one of their catch-up sleepovers. They were both busy, my mother running her antique and tea shop and doing whatever new thing she was into (though she’d been into body-building for a while now). Aunt Bitsie was hugely into philanthropic endeavors and did a lot of traveling supporting various causes. So every few months, they’d get together and crash overnight at one of their houses, drink from box wine (drinking from a box cracked them up), watch B-rated movies, gossip, and if they were at my house, come raid my upstairs apartment hunting for sweets.

  When they got together they acted like two women sharing the brain of a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Had I tried to foil early morning raids by leaving them a tray of cupcakes from my shop HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches before I went to bed? Why, yes I had. More than once. And it made zero difference. Coming upstairs to rib me a little and hunt for more goodies seemed to be part of their catch-up ritual. And though I’ve never have had any firm evidence, I suspected they were doing something of the herbal variety that gave them such a bad case of the munchies.

  I glanced at my phone. Hmm. Derek had texted around 11:30 the night before. I’d had a long day at the shop. The st
ore is located right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, on the Manhattan side, smack in the middle of a busy business district. The area is pretty deserted after 8 pm and on weekends. So we do a ton of daytime sales and close up after the evening rush, and we take off most weekends.

  I swiped at my cell’s screen to peek at my texts. Derek had blown me off, sorta, after our first date. And now, he was being very diligent about consistently reaching out. He texted hello and goodnight, almost daily. Most of the time I responded to be polite. Derek was sweet, but I had some reservations.

  Mom flopped back on my bed with the entire bowl of bittersweet chocolate and raspberry bites I’d brought home from the shop. It was like a brownie but with a fresh raspberry-preserve swirl baked into the top.

  She flipped over the plastic bowl’s lid. I watched as she stacked four brownies on top as if it were a plate.

  “So,” Mom said, “Were you debating on returning Derek’s text?”

  Uh, oh. She was using her 'mom voice'. It was the one she used just before she bombarded with her friendly yet cutting advice.

  “Mom, it's too early to play Oprah.”

  “What?” She raised her eyebrows, feigning innocence.

  Just then, Aunt Bitsie, rushed into the bedroom. She threw up an arm like a knight thrusting a sword.

  “I need two hundred cinna-minis, stat!”

  Mom and I must've given her a blank stare because she rolled her eyes. “I'm serious. I need two hundred of Ali's cinna-mini rolls. Like, immediately.”

  “What are you talking about, Beatrice?” My mother asked as she licked raspberry off her thumb.

  Aunt Bitsie dropped her arm, seeming a little disappointed we weren't immediately rallied into action. “I just got a call from the organizer of an event I'm going to later this afternoon. The baker they hired to deliver the baked goods for the brunch had a fire last night. The organizer, this woman, oh, she's a totally A-type, perfection in pearls kind-but I digress. She called all in a panic and wanted to know if I could help. And of course I said yes. So what do you think, Ali? Can you do it?”

  Every morning I cranked out that amount of cinna-minis before I woke up fully. We served them as bonus treats to the early morning crowd.

  “What’s the check looking like Aunt B?”

  Aunt Bitsie's smile showed off her exquisitely bleached teeth. “Nice. It’'s a nice round number. These people overpay for quality. So, you in? We have to deliver to New Rochelle by 11 am.”

  I threw off the comforter. “I'm in.”

  The Trip In

  2

  I didn’t know who the man was. But I had seen him throughout the morning. He’d been quite active at the bar and had tossed back more than a few of the complimentary Bloody Marys.

  Maybe the excessive alcohol was to blame for what was happening now. Maybe not. The man jerked at his tie, ripping it loose.

  “I want it. Now!”

  I had just walked in through the patio’s sliding glass doors. I froze in place just inside the threshold clutching a serving tray.

  He jabbed a finger at the collection of people standing in open-mouthed clusters about the kitchen.

  “The book disappeared from the next room. Somebody who was in this kitchen took it. I want it back this instant! This instant!”

  I put the pieces together. Something had gone missing, a book, from the sounds of it, and this little impromptu line-up’s purpose was to question the help.

  And I’d managed to walk into the middle of it. Fabulous. Just fabulous.

  The man’s head jerked to the side like a cat catching the scratching of a mouse under the floorboards. He spun and the bloodshot brown eyes zeroed in on me.

  “You!” He roared, “Where have you been?” He lowered his head as if he was about to charge.

  Yeah, this wasn’t going to go well for anyone, I thought. I started to put the tray down, not wanting to look like a threat, but thought it was better to keep it handy. This might get nasty.

  ***

  Earlier that Day

  New Rochelle is one of those towns that has all the big city convenience with a small town feel. The homes vary from simple single-one family houses to palatial estates. From the look of the magnificent old oak trees and gated driveways, we were headed into the section where old money and new money met.

  I had rolled out of bed, bathed and dressed, then got to the HoneyBun to crank out the miniature cinnamon rolls. My cinna-minis are easy enough to make with honey, water, yeast, flour, and salt as the main ingredients for the dough. For the basic filling, I combine a nice healthy dose of butter, cinnamon, white sugar, and brown sugar. And for the gooey topping, I like to keep it simple with a glaze of confectionery powdered sugar, vanilla, milk, and butter. Sometimes I add a touch of cream cheese.

  For this occasion, I wanted to add a little pizazz. Quickly I'd crushed some pecans and Belgian chocolate bits, and spread that over one of the trays with the waiting dough and cinnamon-sugar mixture. For another batch, I tossed a few cups of walnuts into a food processor and added those. Then I rolled the dough into a log, sliced that into the individual rolls, and finally dropped those into muffin tins for baking.

  It took just over two hours to bake, package the goodies and clean up. Just as I was about to make a quick run to the nearby garage where we kept our delivery van, a black Ford Expedition with tinted windows pulled up across the street from the shop.

  Aunt Bitsie rolled down a rear window. “Yoo-hoo, Ladybug! No van today, we're riding Auntie style.” My mom, sitting next to Bitsie, leaned over and waved.

  I dodged traffic heading for the bridge and jogged over to the car. A man I didn't recognize sat behind the wheel. When I reached the rear window I said, “What's up? I was about to get the delivery van.”

  “Now, you did all that baking, why drive when you can ride?” Bitsie said, “I always wanted an excuse to rent something this big and sturdy. This car has more than enough room, and Francois there is more than happy to get us there on time. Now let him help you load the pastry boxes in the back and get dressed.”

  I was confused. As far as I could tell, I was dressed. I had on a khaki skirt and an orange HoneyBun Shop button down shirt. “Um, Auntie, what do you mean, dressed?”

  My Aunt, however, had delved into the dark confines of her deep purse. Now, for her, this was an all-encompassing task, and she hadn't heard a word I'd said. “Now where are those directions?” She muttered to herself, then looked up and jumped, startled. “Why are you still standing there?”

  “Because she asked you a question before you started digging in your RSS Titanic of a purse,” my mother quipped.

  Bitsie peered at me. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “I asked, what do you mean dressed?” I tugged at the collar of my shirt. “This is what I wear for business.”

  Her eyes rolled over me as if she saw me for the first time. “Oh, that's darling, that little outfit you have on. Isn't it, Elizabeth?” She said turning to my mother. “I can't believe our baby has her own business. Doesn't time fly? It was just yesterday her little bare bottom was running around. Did you know you didn't like wearing clothes when you were a baby, Ali? Couldn't keep a Pamper on you.”

  I sighed and counted to five. “Aunt Bitsie?”

  “Yes, dear?” She answered wide-eyed knowing good and well she was being coy.

  “Auntie, focus please. Why do I need to get dressed?”

  She frowned as if I'd asked something silly. Then her eyebrows raised. “Oh, didn't I tell you? I invited you and your mother to be my guests today at the auction. It's a garden party thing, so once you deliver the pastries you can join us. You can mingle, network. Whatever. Anyway, let's get going. Francois?” She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Could you help my niece with her boxes? Thank you.” She faced me looking incredulous. “Chop-chop, sweetie. It's a ninety- minute ride and I prefer to be punctual.”

  The driver’s door opened, and Francois hopped down. He was average height wit
h wavy brown hair. He smiled, waiting to follow my lead.

  I laughed out loud. This was going to be one of those days when the current of life was going to sweep me along. No use in fighting it. Or rather, it didn't make sense to protest against the force-of-nature that was my Aunt Beatrice. I had tried that before as well. It didn't work.

  So I quickly loaded up the car and we swung back home. My aunt had suggested 'garden party' attire, which I thought was really cute. I had no idea what to wear despite her suggestion. Thank heavens for the Internet. After a quick sweep of Google images, I found something suitable in my closet. When I bounced back out the door, Auntie took one look at my light pink, above the knee sheath dress with beige espadrilles and issued a single nod of approval. It was only then I noticed my aunt’s stylish light yellow pantsuit and my mother’s pale green dress. Together we looked like an ad in Good Housekeeping.

  Almost ninety minutes later, Francois, the chauffeur, drove us up a circular driveway. As I had already guessed from the neighborhood, the event was being hosted in one of those New Rochelle palatial homes. The house looked as if it had been plucked off of a southern plantation and magically deposited in New York. It had to be easily three levels with a porch that wrapped around the front and sides. Two tall white columns stood on each side of a pristine white door with a gleaming brass door knocker. A huge weeping willow, which I guessed had to be a half century old, cast part of the house in shadow.

  On the drive over, Aunt Bitsie had given some details about the event. It was an annual garden party and auction hosted by the New York chapter of the Children of the Revolution. Now, at first this sounded like a rock group, sort of like Prince and his old band of the Revolution, but Bitsie explained it was a nod to the Revolutionary War. All of the woman members had to be able to trace lineage back to that era.

  I slid off the back seat of the Expedition and gazed up at the house's gables. Yeah, this place reeked of old money and pretension.

  My aunt must know my mind, because she took one look at my face and hooked an arm through mine.