out. “Coffee, dear, cream, and two packets of artificial sweetener.”
“I know when winter gets here.” I continued to frown at her. “I asked where your coat was.”
“I took it to the dry cleaner last week.” She ran her long square fingers along the chrome edge in front of her. The table was a 1950s diner table with a bright red top and chrome legs. I’d found it rusty and a bit beaten up at a garage sale and rescued it. It took me a month to restore it, but I loved it and almost based the bakery theme on it—until I realized the red and chrome were more a match for a pharmacy’s soda fountain than for Baker’s Treat.
The “English library” theme for the bakery worked out better, considering my last name was Holmes.
“Grandma, a lie so soon after church is not good,” I chided. “You did not take your coat to the cleaner. I saw you wearing it the day before yesterday.”
“Huh, then I must have taken it to the cleaner yesterday.” She gave me her best innocent look. “I’m old. I forget.”
“You’re a lifetime Mensa member. You never forget, and you remind me every day in case
I
might forget.”
“Fine.” Grandma flipped her hand. “I took it to the cleaner yesterday before I went to the police station.”
“Why?”
“It was dirty.”
“Grandma—”
“Coffee!” Phyllis came in with two oversized green cups with yellow daisies on them. She held one in each hand and set them on the table. “Pastries?”
I blew out a breath. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any more information out of Grandma. Aunt Phyllis looked at me expectantly. “I’ll get the platter.”
Putting down the rolling pin, I went to the walk-in freezer, where I pulled out a platter of assorted pastries. Gluten-free donuts, muffins, and Danish did better if they were kept frozen. I popped the platter in the oversized microwave and hit forty-five seconds. In exactly forty-five seconds the once-frozen baked goods would be as warm and tasty as if they had come straight from the oven. It was how I kept all my gluten-free baked goods at home. Without preservatives and with a variety of flours, gluten-free was best eaten fresh and warm.
The microwave
ding
ed and I pulled out the platter and set it on the table. Aunt Phyllis had found yellow and green plates on the shelf in the kitchen to match the mugs. I let the piecrust rest and grabbed my own cup of coffee, sitting down with two of my favorite people.
The kitchen smelled of fresh apple and three-berry pies. The crust I was working on was meant for a series of classic pumpkin pies. Some were made with real milk and eggs and a couple were made with almond milk and an egg substitute for two vegan friends and one lactose-intolerant family.
“I love these cranberry muffins.” Aunt Phyllis took one off the platter and unwrapped it slowly from the cupcake paper I had baked it in. “What do you put in them to give them that interesting taste?”
“I make them with almonds and walnuts and white chocolate chips for a sweetness to match the tart of the cranberry.”
“They are good,” Grandma Ruth said as she put two on her plate. “But I prefer the donuts.”
The donuts were apple spice with maple glaze. All the best tastes of fall. There were apple-cinnamon fritters on the plate, and chocolate chip pumpkin muffins. I took one of the pumpkin muffins and unwrapped it. “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted me to help you investigate before the police dragged you in for questioning?” It was my attempt at diverting Grandma Ruth from her need to discover who killed Lois and why.
“That’s the most interesting part,” Grandma said, and popped half a muffin into her mouth. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Good.”
“Thank you.”
“Ruth was working on her investigation into Homer Everett,” Phyllis said, and used her fork to take a dainty bite of her muffin.
“Yes.” Grandma pointed at Phyllis. “Right.” She turned to me with the other half of
“I know when winter gets here.” I continued to frown at her. “I asked where your coat was.”
“I took it to the dry cleaner last week.” She ran her long square fingers along the chrome edge in front of her. The table was a 1950s diner table with a bright red top and chrome legs. I’d found it rusty and a bit beaten up at a garage sale and rescued it. It took me a month to restore it, but I loved it and almost based the bakery theme on it—until I realized the red and chrome were more a match for a pharmacy’s soda fountain than for Baker’s Treat.
The “English library” theme for the bakery worked out better, considering my last name was Holmes.
“Grandma, a lie so soon after church is not good,” I chided. “You did not take your coat to the cleaner. I saw you wearing it the day before yesterday.”
“Huh, then I must have taken it to the cleaner yesterday.” She gave me her best innocent look. “I’m old. I forget.”
“You’re a lifetime Mensa member. You never forget, and you remind me every day in case
I
might forget.”
“Fine.” Grandma flipped her hand. “I took it to the cleaner yesterday before I went to the police station.”
“Why?”
“It was dirty.”
“Grandma—”
“Coffee!” Phyllis came in with two oversized green cups with yellow daisies on them. She held one in each hand and set them on the table. “Pastries?”
I blew out a breath. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any more information out of Grandma. Aunt Phyllis looked at me expectantly. “I’ll get the platter.”
Putting down the rolling pin, I went to the walk-in freezer, where I pulled out a platter of assorted pastries. Gluten-free donuts, muffins, and Danish did better if they were kept frozen. I popped the platter in the oversized microwave and hit forty-five seconds. In exactly forty-five seconds the once-frozen baked goods would be as warm and tasty as if they had come straight from the oven. It was how I kept all my gluten-free baked goods at home. Without preservatives and with a variety of flours, gluten-free was best eaten fresh and warm.
The microwave
ding
ed and I pulled out the platter and set it on the table. Aunt Phyllis had found yellow and green plates on the shelf in the kitchen to match the mugs. I let the piecrust rest and grabbed my own cup of coffee, sitting down with two of my favorite people.
The kitchen smelled of fresh apple and three-berry pies. The crust I was working on was meant for a series of classic pumpkin pies. Some were made with real milk and eggs and a couple were made with almond milk and an egg substitute for two vegan friends and one lactose-intolerant family.
“I love these cranberry muffins.” Aunt Phyllis took one off the platter and unwrapped it slowly from the cupcake paper I had baked it in. “What do you put in them to give them that interesting taste?”
“I make them with almonds and walnuts and white chocolate chips for a sweetness to match the tart of the cranberry.”
“They are good,” Grandma Ruth said as she put two on her plate. “But I prefer the donuts.”
The donuts were apple spice with maple glaze. All the best tastes of fall. There were apple-cinnamon fritters on the plate, and chocolate chip pumpkin muffins. I took one of the pumpkin muffins and unwrapped it. “Why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted me to help you investigate before the police dragged you in for questioning?” It was my attempt at diverting Grandma Ruth from her need to discover who killed Lois and why.
“That’s the most interesting part,” Grandma said, and popped half a muffin into her mouth. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Good.”
“Thank you.”
“Ruth was working on her investigation into Homer Everett,” Phyllis said, and used her fork to take a dainty bite of her muffin.
“Yes.” Grandma pointed at Phyllis. “Right.” She turned to me with the other half of
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