Cremas, Christmas Cookies, and Crooks Read online

  CREMAS, CHRISTMAS COOKIES, AND CROOKS

  A Cape Bay Cafe Mystery Book 6

  HARPER LIN

  Harper Lin Books

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cremas, Christmas Cookies, and Crooks

  Copyright © 2017 by Harper Lin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  www.harperlin.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Recipe 1: Café Crema

  Recipe 2: Gingerbread Cookies

  Recipe 3: Sugar Cookies

  All Books by Harper Lin

  A Note From Harper

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Sweets and a Stabbing

  Chapter 1

  MY HEELS CLIP-CLOPPED on the linoleum floor as I made my way toward the principal’s office. I was anxious about being in the hallway in the middle of a school day without a hall pass, but I had no reason to be. It wasn’t as though they could suspend me. I’d graduated more than fifteen years ago.

  At the office door, I felt the same rush of nervous energy I’d felt when I’d been a student. It didn’t matter why I was going to the office—to drop off a stack of freshly printed school newspapers, to pick up the lunch that I’d forgotten, to be taken home early because I was sick—I was always nervous. It was as if I was afraid I’d committed some infraction that they’d decided to only mention if I happened to wander in for something else. Ridiculous, I know.

  I swallowed down my nerves and opened the door. The receptionist looked up at me. Smiling, I walked over to her to introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Francesca Amaro—”

  “Of course you are, dear! I’d recognize you anywhere! Alice! Come look! Franny Amaro’s here!”

  If she hadn’t been saying my name, I would have been sure she had me confused with someone else.

  A woman who I assumed was Alice came from somewhere in the back. “Franny! It’s so good to see you! I was so sorry to hear about your mother. How are you doing, dear?”

  “Um, I’m fine,” I said. “How are you?” I had no idea who these women were, but they sure seemed to know me.

  “I don’t think she remembers us, Marian,” Alice said to the receptionist. “You don’t remember us, do you, Franny?”

  I searched my brain for these women. Friends of my mother? My grandmother, maybe? They were old enough that they could have been. “Um, no, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m Mrs. Bayless, dear,” the receptionist said. “And this is Mrs. Crawford.”

  I looked from one to the other, repeating their names in my head. They sounded familiar. Then I looked at Mrs. Bayless’s nameplate in front of her and back at her. I glanced around the room, then at the nameplate, then at her, then at Mrs. Crawford, then back around the room, and suddenly everything clicked. “Oh, Mrs. Bayless! And Mrs. Crawford!” I blushed. “I am so, so sorry!”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry, dear!” Mrs. Bayless said.

  “We’re certainly not the spring chickens we used to be!” Mrs. Crawford said.

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t think I expected anyone to still be here who was here when I was a student.”

  “She’s just saying that to be nice,” Mrs. Crawford stage-whispered to Mrs. Bayless. “She doesn’t want to say that she thought we’d be dead by now.”

  Mrs. Bayless laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  It wasn’t far off from the truth, though. Mrs. Bayless and Mrs. Crawford had been the school secretaries back when I was a student. In my young eyes, they’d been old enough to retire back then, but now I realized that they’d probably only been middle-aged. They didn’t actually look all that much different than they had. Their faces had a few more creases, but their hair wasn’t even grayer. Hair dye doesn’t stop working just because you get older, after all.

  “Oh, well, I’m sure you didn’t come here just to give us a bit of a laugh, did you, Franny? What can I do for you?” Mrs. Bayless asked, still chuckling a little.

  Before I could answer, a door behind Mrs. Bayless opened and a blond teenage boy walked out, followed by a dark-haired man about my age.

  “Mrs. Bayless, could you give Brett a note to get back into class? And, Brett, think about what we talked about,” he said. He looked at me and nodded before going back into his office and closing the door. The plaque on it read Marcus Varros, and under that, Principal. So at least I knew that my old principal, Mrs. King, was gone.

  Mrs. Bayless tapped at her computer then printed something and signed it. She handed the paper to the boy. “I’ve said this before, but I hope this is the last one of these I have to sign for you, Brett.”

  The boy looked at her for a second then sighed. “Whatever.” He brushed past me and pushed through the door, letting it slam behind him.

  “Sorry about that, Franny. Now what can I do for you?” Mrs. Bayless asked.

  “I’m here to see Veronica Underwood,” I said.

  She and Mrs. Crawford exchanged a glance.

  “It’s about selling some refreshments during the school play.”

  “Of course, dear. Just sign in right there, and I’ll print you out a name tag,” Mrs. Bayless said, gesturing at a clipboard on the edge of her desk.

  “I understand Veronica is the drama teacher?” I asked as I wrote my information on the form. Something about that look between them made me wonder if there was something they knew that I didn’t.

  “Yes, dear. She took over from Gwen Blarney this year. But I don’t think Gwen was here when you were, was she?”

  I thought for a second. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” I smiled. “But it took me a minute to recognize your name too.”

  “I think Ann Crowsdale would have been the drama teacher back when Franny was here,” Mrs. Crawford said.

  “Ah, yes, that’s right,” Mrs. Bayless said. “She only teaches English classes now, but she still codirects the play. Are you meeting with her too?”

  “I’m not sure. I was just told to ask for Veronica.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Mrs. Crawford muttered.

  “Alice,” Mrs. Bayless said sharply then smiled at me. “Veronica has been trying very hard to make her way here, and it’s rubbed a few of the staff the wrong way. We get used to things being a certain way, you know. Even when someone has the best of intentions, it can be hard to adapt to new ways.”

  “I certainly understand,” I said and smiled back at her. I was getting the sense that there was more to it than she was telling me, but couldn’t imagine that it was anything I needed to get involved with. I was just there to work out the details of s
elling some coffee and baked goods. I didn’t need to concern myself with school politics.

  “Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Bayless said, handing me the sticky-backed name tag she’d printed out with my name on it. “You don’t need us to keep you here, prattling on. Do you remember where the drama room is? It’s straight down the hall and down the ramp. You’ll go through two sets of double doors and then turn left.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “It was nice seeing you again!”

  I made my way out of the office and down the hall. The school had been renovated and added on to at least once since I graduated, but it still felt like the same place. And I didn’t know how, but it even smelled the same. Either the old building just had that distinctive odor, or the aroma of teenagers and school lunches hadn’t changed much over the years.

  The drama room was right where I remembered. The door was open, so I poked my head in. “Veronica?”

  “It’s Ms. Underwood, and you need to knock.”

  I was startled for a second but then realized she must have thought I was a student. I stepped into the room. “I’m sorry. I’m Francesca Amaro from Antonia’s Italian Café. I’m scheduled to meet with you.”

  She looked up from her desk with unmasked irritation on her face. “This is my planning period. You need to ask before you come into my classroom.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “May I come in?”

  She waved her hand at one of the desks and looked back down at the papers in front of her. I started to pull the desk closer to hers, but she stopped me. “Leave it where it is. It took me a long time to get this room set up, and I don’t appreciate people messing it up.”

  I pushed the desk back into place and sat down. Not wanting to risk irritating her further, I decided to wait until she was finished with whatever she was looking at. Apparently, I decided wrong.

  “Well?” she said a few seconds later without looking up.

  I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself that teaching is a stressful job. This woman dealt with hormonal teenagers all day, and it was probably enough to make anyone a little testy. All I needed to do was stay calm and be reasonable, and she’d probably warm up to me in a few minutes. And it wasn’t as if she was the first less-than-friendly person I’d ever dealt with. In my former life as a public relations representative, I’d dealt with more than a few celebrities who acted as though they were doing me a favor by letting my firm represent them. Most of them had at least made an attempt at being civil, though.

  “As I said, I’m Francesca Amaro from Antonia’s Italian Café here in town. I’m here to talk to you about setting up a refreshment stand during the play next weekend.”

  “Right,” she said, tapping her pencil eraser on her papers and finally actually looking at me. “All the proceeds go to the drama club, and we’re not paying for anything. You’re donating it all.”

  I stared at her. They were the terms I had been planning to offer, but my plan had been to come across as exceptionally generous by declining to take any kind of payment. I had almost collected myself enough to respond when she added her next requirement.

  “And you’ll need to staff it.”

  My mouth fell open slightly. Her presumptuousness was astounding.

  “If that’s a problem, we’ll find someone else.” Her pencil bouncing had stopped, and she stared at me as if she was daring me—whether it was to accept or decline, I didn’t know.

  I wanted to say no. I really did. But Antonia’s had been a part of Cape Bay for going on seventy years. We’d sponsored school activities, raised money for charities, and donated our food for more events than I could count. As much as I wanted to walk out of that classroom just to spite her, it would be entirely counter to the ideals my grandparents had established from the time they first opened the café. So I smiled. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest. I’m so glad we’re on the same page!”

  “The play opens Friday night. I’ll expect you to be set up and ready to sell an hour before showtime.” She looked back down at her papers.

  “That sounds great!” I said, still trying to sound cheerful. “Is there anything in particular you’d like us to serve? I brought some samples of our baked goods for you to try if you’d like.” I reached into my oversized bag for the plastic container I’d loaded up with tasty pastries.

  “I really don’t care. As long as it sells. We need the money. I don’t know what the old drama club sponsors were spending their money on, but everything we have is crap and needs to be replaced.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Is there something else, or can you go now? I have things to do that I can’t get done with you sitting there.”

  “No, I think that’s more than enough.” I stood up and slid my bag over my shoulder. I waited a moment for her to say something, but when she didn’t, I decided I didn’t want to encourage her to since nothing she’d said yet could be described as anything more than barely civil. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to be equally as rude. “I’ll see you next week, then. If you decide there is anything in particular you’d like us to serve, please let me know. We’ll be happy to do whatever we can.”

  She still said nothing.

  Deciding that meant I was dismissed, I happily left the room. If I never saw that woman again after the play, I couldn’t say I’d be sorry.

  Chapter 2

  I BROKE off a piece of gingerbread and popped it in my mouth. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” I breathed as I bounced it around, trying to keep it from burning my tongue.

  Samantha Eriksen, my usually supportive right-hand woman at Antonia’s Italian Café, laughed as she watched me fan my open mouth with both hands. “You never learn, do you, Fran?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. It happened with pretty much every batch of cookies I made. I’d pull the tray out of the oven, smell the enticing aroma of the cookies, and not be able to help myself. The first time, Sammy had been concerned and sympathetic. Since then, she’d just laughed.

  She walked over and peered at the cookie sheets with their neat lines of gingerbread men. “You went for his head first?”

  “It’s the most humane thing to do.” The gingerbread head had finally cooled down enough that I could actually let it touch my tongue. I couldn’t help but smile at the warm, spicy deliciousness of it. It was perfect.

  Sammy shook her head. “It’s barbaric.” She was a leg person.

  “You think it’s better to make him watch as you eat him limb by limb?”

  She shrugged. We’d had this conversation several times.

  Sammy wrinkled her nose. “Well, no, but—it just seems cruel.”

  I laughed. “You’re welcome to eat yours however you want. I like to start with the head.” I snapped the head off another one and put it in my mouth. I was only smug for a second as I realized that the cookies still weren’t cool enough to keep from burning me.

  “That’s what you get.” Sammy smiled. She broke the leg off one of my victims and carefully blew on it for a few seconds before taking a bite. Her patience paid off, and she chewed and swallowed it immediately.

  I, on the other hand, was still fanning at my piece, perched delicately between my teeth.

  “Delicious as always,” she commended me.

  “Good.” I managed to swallow the piece down without scalding myself and reached toward another head.

  “Stop that!” Sammy swatted at my hand. “We can’t sell headless ones!”

  “Are you sure? What if we decorated them—”

  “No!”

  “What about at Halloween?”

  “No—” She said it almost before the words made it out of my mouth, then cut herself off. “Okay, maybe at Halloween.”

  I made a mental note to make headless gingerbread men for Halloween. Well, regular gingerbread men that I would then have the pleasure of breaking the heads off. Maybe I could even manage to pull off some headless horsemen. We were in New
England, after all.

  “Do you want me to mix up the icing, or do you want to do it?” Sammy asked, interrupting my mental planning for a holiday that I really didn’t need to think about for another nine months.

  I glanced around the café. We were in the middle of the late-afternoon lull—after school got out but before people started stopping by on their way home from work. One of the high school students who worked for me part-time would normally have been there, but one of them was out of town visiting family before the holiday, and the other was at play practice and wouldn’t be in for another hour or so. Still, Sammy and I didn’t have much to do.

  “How about I mix the icing and you do the coloring?” I suggested. “That way you can make sure you get the colors you want.”

  “Sounds good!” she said.

  While I handled most of the baking for the café, only bringing in a few things from other local bakers who had specialties I couldn’t improve upon, I left the cookie decorating to Sammy. I occasionally gave her suggestions like “let’s do some ugly Christmas sweater gingerbread men” or “I think this one could use some more hair,” but beyond that, I gave her free rein. She came up with far better designs than I ever could. The things she could do with some icing and a piping bag were remarkable.

  Sammy and I made the icing as the cookies cooled, and then I left her to the decorating while I started mixing up a batch of sugar cookies.

  We made and sold cookies all year round, but there was always something special to me about the cookies at Christmastime. I didn’t know if it was the fond memories of spending hours baking them with my mother and grandmother or just the ritual of it, but I loved it—especially the whole process of making rolled cookies like gingerbread or sugar cookies. Making them wasn’t as easy as scooping them and slapping them on a cookie sheet. Rolled cookies took time and technique. You couldn’t rush them. After you mixed the dough, you had to let it chill, and then you had to roll the dough out evenly. Then there was the challenge of cutting as many shapes as possible out of the dough. And then, after they were baked and cooled, there was the decorating. The whole process was soothing, and I loved it.