Gluten for Punishment

“Nancy J. Parra has whipped up a sweet treat that’s sure to delight!”

—Peg Cochran, national bestselling author of the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries

“A delightful heroine, cherry-filled plot twists, and cream-filled pastries. Could
murder be any sweeter?”

—Connie Archer, national bestselling author of the Soup Lover’s Mysteries

“A mouthwatering debut with a plucky protagonist. Clever, original, and appealing
with gluten-free recipes to die for.”

—Carolyn Hart, national bestselling author

“A lively, sassy heroine and a perceptive and humorous look at small-town Kansas (the
Wheat State)!”

—JoAnna Carl, national bestselling author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

“This baker’s treat rises to the occasion. Whether you need to eat allergy-free or
not, you’ll devour every morsel.”

—Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries

Stirring Up Trouble

“Maybe you should call for backup?” I asked.

He shot me a look of disgust. “I’m a trained officer of the law. I can handle this.”
Then he hitched his gun belt again and took three steps toward the drunk. “All right,”
he said. “Fun’s over. Get out of the trough.”

The wind blew and rustled the guy’s coat but the drunk didn’t move.

Officer Fife, as I thought of him, had red creeping up his thin, pale neck. His giant
Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. “I said, show’s over, pal. Get out of the
trough.” He took out his nightstick and poked the drunk on the back. The guy didn’t
stir.

I pursed my lips. I could feel the customers behind me staring out the window. “Maybe
if you remove his Stetson? Sun shining in his eyes might help.”

Barney gave me another evil look. But he did what I said. He reached down and took
the hat and we both gasped. The drunk was facedown in about an inch of water and the
back of his head was covered in blood.

“That can’t be good,” I muttered. I dialed 911 again because Officer Fife stood frozen
and stared at the guy.

“Nine-one-one dispatch, how can I help you?”

“Hello, Sarah, this is Toni again down at the bakery. I think you need to send a second
squad car and possibly an ambulance. I think the drunk guy might be dead.”

Gluten for
Punishment

NANCY J. PARRA

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

GLUTEN FOR PUNISHMENT

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Nancy J. Parra.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-62229-2

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2013

Cover illustration by Patricia Castelao.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as
written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs
that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse
reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither
the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This one is for Ashley.
Thank you for putting up with crazy writers your entire life.
Your insight and wit constantly amaze me.
May you find happiness always.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many wonderful people have helped me in the making of this and all my books. In
particular, I’d like to thank Jaci Charbonneau for the best title in the history of
cozy mysteries. Jaci’s brilliant puns light up my life. Next I want to thank Joelle
Charbonneau for encouraging me to write cozy mysteries and to write what I know—gluten-free
living. Thanks, too, for your top-notch coaching talents and generosity with your
time. Thanks to Liz Powell whose encouragement and brilliant mind have lifted me up
and helped me to keep going when things felt bleak. For Paige Wheeler, my awesome
agent, whose excellent advice and wisdom help me in all aspects of my career. For
Faith Black, for loving what I write enough to buy the series and guide me through
the entire editorial process. For all the wonderful people at Berkley Prime Crime
for your love of books, your vision, and your careful eye in creating the best book
possible.

Finally, thank you to all the many friends and family—you know who you are—for believing
in my talent every step of the way. A book is never created in a vacuum. Instead it
is born from the generosity, hard work, and helping hands of an entire lifetime of
people. I hope I can make you all proud to be a part of it.

CHAPTER
1

"T
urn the house into a bed-and-breakfast.” My best friend since grade school, Tasha
Wilkes, pursed her lips and eyed the 1970s decor of the rambling, 1885 Victorian house
my mom had left me.

“No.” I shook my head and grabbed my car keys. “B&B’s are your thing, not mine. I’ve
got my hands full with the bakery.”

She followed me down the hall, past the formal parlor, the small den, the dining room,
the butler’s pantry, closet-sized powder room, and into the large kitchen and out
the back door. Twenty years before, my dad had replaced the gravel driveway with old
brick pavers. Since weeds were hardy in Kansas, I now had to mow the driveway as well
as the lawn.

“But it’s perfect, Toni,” Tasha muttered as she opened the passenger door of my small
white delivery van. “You can remodel the carriage house apartment and live there,
leaving the main house with all seven bedrooms for guests. The right decor, the right
advertising, and you’ll have a steady income—which by the way, might come in handy.”

“One of those bedrooms currently belongs to Tim and one is my office.”

“That still leaves five bedrooms.”

I hopped up into the driver’s seat. I’d bought the van pre-owned with over seventy-five
thousand miles on it, but it was sturdy and the back could hold a lot of cakes and
cookies.

“I’ve always loved riding in your van,” Tasha said, taking a deep breath. “It smells
so good from all the sweets you transport to your catering gigs.”

“Too bad there aren’t too many of those yet.” I turned onto Third Street. The bakery
was basically still in the start-up phase. I’d begun offering gluten-free baked goods
online right after my divorce, but my small Chicago apartment was terribly cramped.

I’d been determined to grow my business no matter how small my kitchen. Then Mom had
passed in January, leaving me the family house in Oiltop, Kansas, complete with a
very mom-like addendum—any family member who was in need of shelter got to stay with
me.

Yippee.

With three sisters, two brothers, and forty-five cousins, there was never a lack of
family in the house. Too bad none of them remembered how to run a vacuum.

Now here I was, stuck in Oiltop, determined to keep my change of address from altering
my entrepreneurial spirit.

“You would think that with a name like Oiltop, the town would be filled with oil-wealthy
townsfolk ready to spend their money on specialty foods—especially with the price
of gas today,” I muttered.

The sad truth was that the oil heyday in our town had ended nearly a hundred years
ago, leaving a small town surrounded by wheat farmers and cattle ranchers. Don’t get
me wrong, we still had two refineries on the edge of town. It’s where most of the
townspeople worked. But the biggest part of the oil field was depleted long ago, leaving
farmers to grow wheat around the grasshopper-like oil pumps dredging out what was
left of the black gold.

“They ought to rename it Wheatville.” Tasha giggled. “Or Cattleton.”

“Or Hicksville,” I added as I turned onto Central Street. “Oiltop makes it sound as
if we all live near the country club with the bankers, the doctors, the lawyers, and
the remaining oil-elite.”

“Yeah, don’t we wish.” Tasha let out a long sigh. “Shoot, Toni, you grew up here.
You know that most everyone in town either works for the refinery or the college.
That’s why the chamber is pushing so hard to get tourism to our town. An influx of
any kind of income would be good—like the new dam project—and the great idea of turning
your mom’s home into a B&B.”

I shook my head at the thought. Ever since I opened my storefront, I’d barely had
time to sleep. A bed-and-breakfast was the last thing I needed.

“Aren’t you afraid of competition?” I asked. Tasha owned and ran the Welcome Inn,
the only B&B in Oiltop.

She shrugged. “Pete Hamm says there’ll be all kinds of tourism come spring. All those
fishermen, boaters, and antique shoppers have to have someplace to stay. I’m already
turning away guests for this spring’s Prairie Port Festival.” Tasha turned her wide
blue gaze on me. “You could have your place remodeled and ready by then.”

“No, I couldn’t.” I stopped at the light on the corner of Central and Main. “What
would I do with my family?”

“Tell them to pay rent.”

The thought made me laugh.

“No, really.” She crossed her arms and tossed her long blonde hair. “It would make
them think twice about walking in, tossing their stuff down, and raiding your fridge.
Seriously, Toni, you can’t afford to feed the masses. They should pay rent.”

“I’m not allowed to ask for rent.” I took off down Central. “Remember Mom’s open-door
codicil?”

“The door will be open,” Tasha pointed out. “It simply won’t be free. Did she say
you couldn’t set boundaries?”

“No.” Tasha had me there. But setting boundaries was not my strong suit, one of the
many reasons for my divorce.

“Then set boundaries. The noise and dust of remodeling will drive them out of the
house, and when they come back you can tell them there’ll always be a room for them . . .
for half price.”

I laughed. “Who’ll run it?”

“Most of my staff is part-time. We could pool our funds and hire them full-time to
care for both places. I’d manage it and you . . .”

“Have got a bakery to run.”

“And there’s your angle.” Tasha was relentless. “Your bakery is gluten-free, right?”

“Yes. . . .”

“We can remodel the house in all allergy-free materials and sell it as a low-allergy,
natural B&B. It’s perfect. The breakfasts can come right from the bakery and you’ll
gain twice the publicity.”

I pursed my lips. She made it sound . . . reasonable. Except launching the storefront
version of Baker’s Treat, my online, gluten-free bakery, had left me with my hands
full and no time for a seven-bedroom, 150-year-old Victorian house.

“Think about it. It’s extra income . . . and allergy-free is the next niche market;
you said so yourself.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” Tasha relaxed beside me and fussed with her collar. She wore a white
shirt and black vest with black slacks and a skirt apron, just like I did. Baker’s
Treat had been open for two weeks, but today was the Chamber of Commerce ribbon cutting
and coffee. Pictures would be taken and an article written in the
Oiltop Times
. And everything, absolutely everything had to be perfect.

“Speaking of your family, are your sisters coming to the coffee?”

“Eleanor and Rob are at Disney this week. Joan called last night, her two littlest,
Jennifer and Emma, have chicken pox.”

“What about Rosa?”

I blew out a breath. “Rosa has a standing hair appointment.”

“Really?” Tasha raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t want her here, anyway.” I turned down the alley behind the Main Street stores
and pulled into my parking spot. A quick glance in the mirror told me the copious
amount of Freeze hairspray I’d choked on this morning was doing its job of keeping
my wild hair plastered into a low bun at the back of my neck. At least I’d look professional
for the picture. All bets were off after that.

“You look great,” Tasha said, reading my mind.

“Until I step outside.” I glanced at the tiny tornadoes the Kansas wind was making
in the gravel parking lot. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

I crunched through the gravel in my black sneakers, unlocked the back door, and turned
on the lights. I had less than an hour to get the place ready for the Chamber of Commerce
Coffee.

“What’s on the menu?” Tasha asked as she looked inside the giant refrigerators.

“Cookies, small tarts, and some quiches as a nod to the ten
A.M.
time frame.” I tossed on a huge apron to keep my serving outfit clean. Everything
had been made in advance and was in the freezer waiting to be put into the ovens or
the display case.

Tasha pulled out loaves of bread for the proofer. I took out frosted cakes and cupcakes
and a variety of ready-to-eat pastries. The bakery was small by choice. The first
rule in the bakery business was to never have an empty display case.

“I think I could get fat just off the smells in here.” Tasha sighed as she filled
the display case while I put cookies in the oven. The smells of fresh yeast, cinnamon,
vanilla, and chocolate filled the air. The display and counter took up over half the
front.

There were racks of gluten-free mixes, flours, pastas, spices, and flavorings for
sale. Another rack held coffee mugs, travel mugs, tee shirts, and other promotional
items. There were three small wrought-iron café tables with glass tops and a variety
of Victorian, velvet-covered chairs near the windows.

When the weather was nice, I would add some extra tables for outdoor seating. Beside
the counter was a self-serve coffee bar complete with three kinds of fair trade organic
coffees in carafes along with almond milk, soy milk, and organic cream.

Once the case was full, Tasha looked around. “I still can’t get over how different
this place looks since you redecorated. I love the warm yellow/green you chose and
the black wrought-iron accents. Aren’t you glad I suggested buying student artwork?”

“Very glad,” I said as I went over to straighten the paintings of rural English scenes
commissioned from students at Oiltop State College. I’d gotten the art for a song.
Plus, it never hurt to start up a bakery storefront near a small college, even if
the college itself was located on the other side of town. College kids loved baked
goods.

The English library decor went well with the bakery name. It was sort of an inside
joke. I had married Eric Holmes, which made me Marie Antoinette Holmes. I hated my
name, of course, and demanded from an early age that everyone call me Toni. Only my
grandma Ruth got away with calling me Marie and only when she was complimenting me.
But the last name always had people asking if I was related to Sherlock, and so the
name Baker’s Treat.

My ex-husband on the other hand, started making guillotine jokes the day I caught
him cheating with his best friend’s wife. Really? I thought. Your best friend’s wife?
Why are men so limited in their imaginations?

Eric was a handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes and a killer smile. He used that
smile well in his job as a pharmaceutical salesman. It seemed everyone fell for it.
Even other married women. Sigh.

I shook off the bad memory and pulled the first two batches of cookies out of the
oven, chocolate chip and cinnamon oatmeal raisin. One thing I noticed after being
diagnosed with celiac disease was that people who must eat gluten-free are drawn to
simpler foods that remind them of being a kid.

Next were GF sugar cookies cut out in the shapes of pumpkins and black cats. After
all, it was October and it never hurt to offer seasonal cookies.

The tarts were filled with either rich caramel custard or pumpkin custard. We stacked
them on the serving trays, along with two dozen little quiches.

I had spent two hours the day before talking with the local reporter, Candy Cole,
about why the bakery was gluten-free. Tasha understood. Her son, Kip, had been diagnosed
with Asperger’s when he was four. Special-needs children did better on allergy-free
diets. It’s why I offered peanut butter baked goods but only as a special order, and
those I cooked up at home, keeping them separate from the store. Cross contamination
was a big concern, and I did my best to keep it from happening. Thankfully none of
my nieces or nephews had special needs.

Tasha arranged the cookies on big black platters. “Oatmeal raisin are Kip’s favorite.”

“Take a half-dozen and set them aside,” I said and brought her a box. “I would hate
to run out before he got any.”

“Thanks.” She boxed the cookies, set them aside, then artfully stacked bottles of
sparkling water. The sun sparkled through the big front windows, showing off the giant
red ribbon blocking the door.

“People are gathering outside,” Tasha warned me.

I checked the English mantel clock, which sat on the shelf on the far wall. “They’re
ten minutes early.”

“I told you, when it comes to Chamber Coffees everyone shows up for the free food
and drink. Remember not to stand too close to Lois Striker. She might be a chamber
icon, but she has a tendency to spit when she talks.”

I stuck my tongue out in an exaggerated gag reflex and Tasha laughed.

If I were smart, I’d buddy up to Lois and try to find an in with the country club
set, as they were the people in town who set the trends. Their kids were always the
most popular in school, and even the senior citizens listened when a member of the
country club spoke. Except my grandma Ruth, who never cared a lick about what anyone
else thought, least of all the Oiltop society people.

When I saw the photographer setting up outside, I whipped off the oversized apron
and checked myself in the mirror that hung on the door to the kitchen. “And we’re
on . . .” I muttered as I tried to keep my hands off my hair for fear if I touched
it, it would spring free.