The Candy Cane Cupcake Killer

PRAISE FOR THE FRESH-BAKED MYSTERIES

“Engaging . . . a cozy distinguished by its appealing characters and mouthwatering recipes.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This is a great cozy to get you into the holiday spirit—because even though there's a murderer on the loose, there's lots of holiday cheer (and some yummy-sounding recipes at the end of this book).”

—AnnArbor.com

“[A] fun and captivating read . . . full of holiday cheer, mystery, murder, delicious treats, endearing characters, and evil villains . . . a cute and grippingly good read.”

—Examiner.com

“[Livia J. Washburn] has cooked up another fine mystery with plenty of suspects . . . a fun read . . . great characters with snappy dialogue, a prime location, a wonderful whodunit. Mix together and you have another fantastic cozy from Livia Washburn. Her books always leave me smiling and anxiously waiting for another trip to visit Phyllis and her friends.”

—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

“This mystery is nicely crafted, with a believable ending. The camaraderie of the Fresh-Baked Mystery series' cast of retired schoolteachers who share a home is endearing. Phyllis is an intelligent and
keen sleuth who can bake a mean funnel cake. Delicious recipes are included!”

—RT Book Reviews

“The whodunit is fun and the recipes [are] mouthwatering.”

—The Best Reviews

“Washburn has a refreshing way with words and knows how to tell an exciting story.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Delightful, [with a] realistic small-town vibe [and a] vibrant narrative . . .
A Peach of a Murder
runs the full range of emotions, so be prepared to laugh and cry with this one!”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Christmas and murder. It's a combination that doesn't seem to go together, yet Washburn pulls it off in a delightfully entertaining manner.”

—Armchair Interviews

“A clever, intriguing contemporary cozy.”

—Romance Junkies

“I loved it! . . . Definitely for people who just love a good mystery.”

—Once Upon a Twilight

Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries by Livia J. Washburn

A Peach of a Murder

Murder by the Slice

The Christmas Cookie Killer

Killer Crab Cakes

The Pumpkin Muffin Murder

The Gingerbread Bump-off

Wedding Cake Killer

The Fatal Funnel Cake

Trick or Deadly
Treat

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Livia Reasoner, 2015

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about Penguin Random House, visit
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.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-I
N-PUBLICATION DATA:

Washburn, L. J.

The candy cane cupcake killer: a fresh-baked mystery / Livia J. Washburn.

pages cm.—(Fresh-baked mystery) (An Obsidian mystery)

ISBN 978-1-101-59727-9

1. Newsom, Phyllis (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Baking—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Weatherford (Tex.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3573.A787C36 2015

813'.54—dc23 2015019239

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

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 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.

Dedicated to my husband, James; my daughters, Joanna and Shayna; and my friends Shilo Harrington and Shelly Toler
Franz

S
am Fletcher sang, “Ohhhh, jingle bells, shotgun shells—”

Phyllis Newsom shook her head and said, “Not that version, Sam. Have you no respect for the classics?”

“Maybe I've just got a different definition of
classics
,” Sam said with a grin. Then he leaned forward to peer through the pickup's windshield and went on. “There's Barney McCrory, an old friend of mine from when I was coachin'. Mind if I stop and talk to him for a minute?”

“That's fine,” Phyllis told him. “There's still a little time before the Christmas parade is supposed to start.” She raised the plastic container in her lap. “As long as I get these cupcakes to the square before the tree lighting.”

Sam pulled over into the parking lot of an auto-parts store that was already closed for the evening. Less than a block ahead, Weatherford's South Main Street was blocked off by
orange plastic cones. Beyond them, the city's annual Christmas parade was forming.

Businesses, civic groups, and school organizations had floats or decorated flatbed trucks loaded with hay bales, where people would sit and wave at the spectators gathered along both sides of the street. They would be followed by the high school marching band, which would play “Here Comes Santa Claus” to herald the arrival of the jolly old man himself.

Except Santa wouldn't be riding in a sleigh this year but rather in a fancy horse-drawn carriage decorated with garlands and lights. He was already in place in the carriage, Phyllis noted, surrounded by “elves” who were actually cheerleaders from the high school. She thought the girls' elf outfits were a little too skimpy and suggestive, but that was nothing unusual.

She wondered idly who was in the Santa suit and white beard this year. Usually it was some local politician or celebrity. Appearing in the Christmas parade was good publicity. And, not to be too cynical, she reminded herself that it accomplished some good as well, because the big bags of toys in the carriage with Santa were the result of a citywide collection drive and would wind up in the hands of needy children on Christmas morning.

Up at the end of the parade route was the courthouse square, with the majestic old courthouse outlined by festive lights. After the parade, the towering Christmas tree on the courthouse lawn would be lit; then everyone would enjoy snacks provided by the local churches. Phyllis had agreed to bake something for her church's effort, and in the plastic container she held was the result: a new treat she had dubbed candy cane cupcakes.

They were vanilla cupcakes with peppermint buttercream frosting, and had been garnished with crushed pieces of candy canes. Sam had sampled them and declared them delicious, and so had Phyllis's friends Carolyn Wilbarger and Eve Turner, the other two retired teachers with whom Phyllis shared a big old house on a tree-lined street a few blocks away from where they were now.

It was a chilly evening, appropriate for early December, and Phyllis was glad for her coat as she got out of the car, holding the container for the cupcakes, and followed Sam toward the carriage. There was plenty of hubbub as the parade participants got ready. The man in the driver's seat in the front of the carriage didn't notice them until they drew alongside the vehicle. Then Sam called, “Hey, Barney.”

The man turned his head to look down at them, and a grin split his weathered face. He wore jeans, a sheepskin coat, and a broad-brimmed cowboy hat. A white handlebar mustache stood out in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned face.

“Sam!” he said in a booming voice. “You old dog! Haven't seen you in ages!” He was wearing gloves as he held the reins attached to the six-horse team, but he took the one off his right hand and leaned over on the seat to extend his hand toward Sam, who took it in a hearty grip. “How you doin' these days?”

“Fine,” Sam replied. “Barney, this is my friend Phyllis Newsom. Phyllis, Barney McCrory.”

With exaggerated politeness, McCrory reached up and took off his hat. He held it in front of him and told Phyllis, “Ma'am, it's an honor.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. McCrory,” Phyllis said.

“Oh, shoot, call me Barney. Mr. McCrory was my father, and he's been gone a mighty long time, Lord rest his soul.”

“Is this your carriage and team?”

“Yes, ma'am. The folks organizin' the parade asked me to give 'em a hand this year, and I'm glad to. It's for a good cause, after all.” McCrory clapped the hat back on his head and gave Sam a solemn look. “I was sure sorry to hear about Vicky, Sam. She was a mighty fine woman.”

“Yes, she was,” Sam agreed. His late wife had been gone for several years, having succumbed to cancer, like so many others. Phyllis knew how difficult the loss had been for Sam, and she was glad that their friendship had been able to help him get over his grief, at least to a certain extent.

Sam continued. “How are Allyson and Nate?”

Phyllis thought a shadow passed briefly over McCrory's face, but the man sounded genial as he said, “They're fine. They haven't gotten around to makin' me a grandpa yet, but I figure it's only a matter of time.”

Sam turned to Phyllis and said, “Barney's daughter and her husband both played ball for me up at Poolville when they were kids. Really nice couple. They were high school sweethearts.”

“That's how Sam and me got to be friends, from when my little gal was on the girls' team.” McCrory added, “I've got a little ranch up in that part of the county.”

Sam chuckled and said, “Don't let him fool you. That ranch isn't what you'd call little.”

McCrory waved a knobby-knuckled hand. “That's enough talk about me,” he said. “I recall now why your name's familiar to me, Miz Newsom. I've read about you in the paper.”

“Well, you can't always believe everything you read,” Phyllis said, thinking that he was talking about the stories involving the various crimes she had solved over the past few years. She had saved some innocent people from being convicted of murder and she was glad of that, but she didn't like dwelling on the sordid nature of the cases.

People who committed murder usually had a pretty ugly reason for it.

As it turned out, though, that reputation wasn't what McCrory meant. He said, “You're supposed to be just about the best baker around here, especially when it comes to pies and cakes and cookies and suchlike.”

Phyllis had to laugh. She said, “I wouldn't let my friend Carolyn hear you say that. She might take exception to it.”

“Well, you're the one who's grabbed first place in most of the contests, like that one over at the state fair.” McCrory grinned and wiggled his bushy white eyebrows as he pointed at the plastic container in Phyllis's hands. “What you got in there? Somethin' good to eat, I'll bet.”

“It's the snacks my church group is providing for after the tree lighting—”

“How about a taste?” McCrory asked.

“Oh, I'm not sure I can do that—”

“You see, by the time the parade's over and we all circle back around here to let folks off, then head up to the square, all the best stuff's liable to be gone already. And I know if you made those cupcakes, they'll all get snatched up right away.”

“He's right about that,” Sam chimed in. “Folks know by now that if you made it, it'll be the best thing there.”

“You two are just a couple of old flatterers,” Phyllis said
sternly, but, truthfully, she was pleased by the comments. Even so, she wasn't sure she should allow Barney McCrory to wheedle one of the cupcakes out of her.

“If you give me a cupcake, I might be able to persuade Santa to let you ride on this here sleigh with him,” the rancher said, still grinning.

“First of all, this isn't actually a sleigh,” Phyllis said, “and I don't want to ride on it. I'm not fond of the idea of hundreds of people looking at me.”

“You're not a county commissioner.” McCrory inclined his head toward the backseat of the carriage, where Santa was sitting with the cheerleader elves. “That's Clay Loomis wearin' the suit this year.”

Phyllis knew the name. She had seen it on enough campaign signs during the past election. Clay Loomis was the longtime Parker County road commissioner. In addition to being charged with the upkeep of the roads in their area, the commissioner also dealt with the sheriff's office and other county business.

Loomis must have heard his name, because he leaned forward and, through the white fake beard he wore, asked, “What's going on up there, Barney? Not any trouble with those horses of yours, is there? They look pretty nervous to me.”

“Nope, just visitin' with a couple of friends before the parade starts,” McCrory replied. “Which should be just about anytime now.” He turned his attention back to Phyllis. “So, if you want me to try one of those cupcakes, ma'am, you'd better go ahead and give it to me now.”

Phyllis didn't know whether to be flabbergasted or amused.
He
was the one who'd practically been begging
her
for a cupcake. She decided it was better to be amused, and laughed.

“Oh, all right,” she said, and loosened the lid on the plastic container. She reached into it, brought out one of the cupcakes, and started to hand it to McCrory. Seeing that she was a little on the short side for the job, she gave the cupcake to Sam, who passed it along to McCrory.

“I am much obliged, ma'am,” he told her. He lifted the cupcake to his mouth and took a big bite of it, leaving buttercream frosting and little bits of crushed candy cane in his thick mustache. After he swallowed, he said, “Lord have mercy, that's mighty good! Are they havin' a contest? 'Cause if they are, this little darlin' ought to win!”

“No, the goodies are just for people to enjoy,” Phyllis said.

“They'll sure enjoy these.” McCrory took another bite, then said around it, “Looks like the parade's gettin' started. I'll see you folks later. Sam, next time don't let it be so long 'fore we get together again.”

“I'll make sure of it, Barney,” Sam promised. He lifted a hand in farewell, then started along the street with Phyllis. The two of them headed for the courthouse square. The marching band had begun playing Christmas songs. People who had gathered along both sides of the street to watch the parade clapped and sang along with the music.

Phyllis and Sam moved as far away from the street as they could get so that the crowd wasn't so dense around them. They were able to walk fairly quickly toward the square. Sam rested
a hand on Phyllis's arm just above her elbow, and she was glad to have it there. She wasn't that fond of crowds.

They had gone only a couple of steps when Sam's hand suddenly tightened on Phyllis's arm, as if something were wrong. She glanced over at him and saw alarm on his rugged face.

“What is it?” she asked as her hands gripped tighter on the plastic container. She wasn't sure why she did that. Instinct, she supposed. It wasn't like somebody was going to come along and try to rip the cupcakes out of her hands.

“Something's wrong with Barney,” Sam said.

Phyllis looked at the carriage and saw that Barney McCrory was doubled over in the driver's seat. He crouched there, bending forward for a couple of seconds, and then let go of the reins and crumpled into a heap, half on the seat and half on the floorboard of the driver's box.

Without Barney's firm hand to control them, the already skittish horses lunged toward the marching band.

People in the crowd began to scream, which just spooked the team that much more.

The tubas were bringing up the rear in the band, as usual, and the high school boys playing them must have realized something had gone wrong behind them. Several of the instruments let out strident blats as boys scrambled to get out of the way. More screams filled the air as the music stopped and the band members began to scatter.

With his hand still clasped around her arm, Sam swung Phyllis around and said, “Come on!”

She had no choice but to go with him as he ran toward the parking lot where they had left the pickup.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

Sam had fished his keys out of his blue-jeans pocket with his other hand and pushed the button on the attached fob to unlock the pickup's doors. As he threw the driver's-side door open, he told Phyllis, “Get behind the wheel and go after that carriage!” He pressed the keys into her hand.

“What?!”

“We've got to stop it before somebody gets hurt!” Sam said as he ran to the back of the truck. He climbed into the bed and added, “Come on, Phyllis!”

Though it seemed crazy to her, she knew he was right about one thing: Somebody was going to get hurt if that runaway carriage wasn't stopped. She slid the container of cupcakes across the seat and pulled herself behind the wheel.

She wasn't sure what Sam had in mind, but she cranked the pickup's engine to life, threw it in gear, and wheeled out of the parking lot. The carriage was a block away, and the horses were picking up speed now that the marching band had cleared the street. The team weaved around one of the floats, causing the carriage to sway back and forth dangerously.