Synopsis

Shopkeeper Belle Meyer doesn’t know she’s selling killer cookware at The Wild Goose – a small corner kitchen shop in northern Maryland’s Walnut Creek Square. Belle’s life is upturned like a bread loaf pan when Luke “Smack Your Lips” Knight, the town’s zany baker, is found dead in a house fire hours after Belle sells him the fatal 12-inch non-stick skillet. Not even a spider web frosted cake can sweeten The Wild Goose’s haunted reputation. Now Belle’s in the case deeper than lobster fried in peanut oil, to which she’s allergic. To catch the killer, Belle stirs up the investigation, much to the chagrin of seasoned Detective Edwin Hawkes. The hard-boiled detective warns her to stay away from the case, but Belle doesn’t listen. With the help of Pickles, the store’s 10-pound tabby cat, Belle sleuths after cooking demos, interrogates cookware customers and tries to thwart a store break in. She will stop at nothing until the suspect’s goose is cooked!

Excerpt

Loyalty had its limits. Zest Bakery’s Luke “Smack Your Lips” Knight rolled to the curb in his lime-green top-down Volkswagen convertible with “Gourmet” vanity plates, honking the horn. He illegally parked the buggy between a no-loading zone sign and a fire hydrant. Great. He rolled down the windows and waved his torque blanche like a wind socket above his head. Was he surrendering? Would Zest Bakery’s secret lemon scone recipe be mine? From the storefront of The Wild Goose, Pickles, our store’s 10-pound tabby cat, and I watched Luke bite into a bread roll and toss it in the backseat. Gross. Now was a good time to investigate. With the fur ball curled in my arms I walked outside––not sure what to expect. Luke snapped his fingers. “Fry pans, please!”

Curbside customer service? “How many do you need?” I said, from under The Wild Goose awning.

“I’d like to purchase one,” he said. “Pronto.”

“We have a great selection, inside,” I said, motioning toward the front door.

Then he flashed me a crooked tooth grin. “Don’t have the time.”

Adjusting his torque blanche back onto his wig-like black curls, he said, “Why? You might ask.”

I paused. “Why?” My eyes narrowed.

“I have a very important dinner tonight of crab stew served in freshly baked bread bowls and French fries with Old Bay seasoning.”

And I had a store full of cookware to help with that. Pickles meowed. Luke raised his arms then started air drumming the steering wheel to sounds of big band music from the Square’s Crab Legs and Lobster Claws food festival. I could envision the band on the lawn among white food tents, showcasing seafood dishes from local restaurants. I sighed and wondered why customers weren’t clamoring for cookware.

Well there was one reason…the indecisive Luke, who was still air drumming. Rumor had it he listened to rock music while inventing new recipes in the Zest Bakery basement. By the looks of it, he could make his mind up about one thing: He was going to be as annoying as a creaky kitchen cabinet, with a lot of shelved secrets. And I wanted to know all of them.

I walked closer to the lime-mobile with Pickles. “This isn’t cookware delivery,” I said, thinking of the local burger place where employees wearing striped red uniforms and roller skates rolled around delivering trays of burgers and fries to people’s cars. Our shop was a bit more traditional. Pickles meowed. She was right on brand.  

“I’m in a rush,” he said, pounding the steering wheel. “Crab stew doesn’t cook itself.” He handed me an invitation-only Centurion AMEX. He must spend a lot. I knew for a fact he spent hundreds each month at The Wild Goose. “A 10––or 12––inch fry pan will do,” he said. Pickles pawed at the card like it was catnip.

“Which one?” I said, keeping the card safe in my apron pocket. “The 10 or the 12-inch?” The light blue embroidery on my apron was fraying. It irked me. But not as much as Luke’s refusal to shop inside the store. If I could just get him out of the lime on wheels…

Then I’d have a better chance of getting this zany baker’s secrets. He revved the engine. “AMEX,” he said, holding out his hand. I handed his card back. Was I going to lose this sale to the air drumming baker? Net profits meant a lot, especially when there was sprucing up needed at The Wild Goose. The light blue paint on the front door was chipping, the striped awning was weathered, and the store’s heating unit was lurching.

“I can’t make up my mind,” he said. “Bring me both!”

He flipped on his blinkers. He wasn’t budging. The store needs the sale, I thought, caving like cake without baking soda. “I’ll be back with the fry pans,” I said. He smiled and said, “Rightey-oo.”

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