Macarons and Murder (A Yolanda's Yummery Cozy Mystery, Book 4): A Yolanda's Yummery Cozy Mystery, #4

PREFACE

B

ack in 2016, I wrote about learning how to bake macarons to better understand my characters and story. After struggling to make my first batch, I didn’t know that I’d become so obsessed with the French pastries. I had no idea that I’d end up making almost 100 batches and writing two cookbooks about these little cookies.

I’m returning to the land of macarons – where I first began back in 2013 when I wrote my novella, Sweet Dreams. Book number four, which was originally titled Macarons of Love, took longer to write than any of the other books in this series. After I completed the first draft, I wanted to make macarons for myself to evaluate the process and get an original cover photo.

I bought all the ingredients to bake those dainty French cookies. It was quite a learning experience. I had confectioners’ sugar spill out of a mixing bowl, egg yolks fell into whites, under-mixed macaron batter, and incorrect measuring of ingredients. As a piping novice, the batter and filling oozed onto my hands and the counter. A couple of batches were so bad they had to be thrown away. Fortunately, most of the batches made it into the oven and were baked for various amounts of time. The resulting cookies cracked, had no feet, were rustic looking, and formed shapes ranging from miraculously round to avant-garde. No matter what they looked like, they still tasted incredibly sweet – thanks to confectioners’ sugar and granulated sugar.

I immersed myself in the process of making these sugary delicacies. Unlike using a mix, yes there are macaron mixes, all nine batches that I baked before this book was published, were made from scratch. I usually took pictures and always made detailed notes. It got a bit easier and faster every time and I learned from my numerous mistakes. I’m happy to include my tested recipe in this book.

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday, February 13

Y

olanda Carter had finally fallen asleep after working a fourteen-hour shift at her yummery. In her mind, she saw a white dry erase board in her Brentwood store’s office. The heart-shaped bullet points and neat red printing highlighted the variety of goodies, the baking schedule, along with her other duties as owner and baker. A floating pink and red heart pirouetted and flipped in her mind and then she saw them, one highlighted after the other like a stage show of events:

♥ 2-14 appearance on Dessert Network’s America’s Best Bakeries show @ 9 PM

♥ Valentine’s Day

♥ Macaron class

♥ Train Rusty & Suzie

♥ 2/28 Yummery Anniversary

The pink and red heart faded and vanished. Dozing had changed to sleep as her two feline companions heard her gentle snores. Cuddling up to her lay the classic tuxedo cat, Miss Chef. The medium-sized cat had a white stripe down her face and a lovely curved white smile. Her paws resembled white boots and a wide white stripe covered the front of her body. Mr. Whisker sported plush black fur and the larger cat had a single white whisker amidst his black whiskers. He was Miss Chef’s adopted younger brother and someone who appreciated resting next to his young owner on soft flannel sheets rather than in a small and lonely cage. Yolanda found him two years ago when she was an employee at the Crown Street Cat Shelter.

The Sherman Oaks cottage had been willed to her after her grandmother’s death several years ago. The bedroom was furnished in a Shabby Chic style that was a combination of her own taste and that of her predecessors’ homey style. Due to a cold snap of near freezing temperatures, Yolanda had made the queen-sized bed with new flannel sheets along with an electric blanket. The cold-blooded young woman had turned her cottage’s thermostat up to seventy to help ward off the chill.

Mr. Whisker sneezed and tightened his tail around his body. Atop the nightstand sat a clock. The red numbers read 2:17.

As she slept, Yolanda was unaware of someone lurking outside her yellow cottage on the corner of Dove Drive and Willowbrook Street. A house that was bought and paid for with Easter eggs. Yolanda loved her artisan family, a glassblower father, an artist and Pilates teacher mother, and her grandparents had made wooden Easter egg trees. Mostly her grandfather, Lukas. Her grandmother, Ingrid, decorated real eggs. She also strung colorful plastic eggs in an array of pastel colors that brightened up the trees and bushes on the corner property. An ornate hand carved tree was always on the front porch advertising Lukas Carter’s craftsmanship. Lukas and Ingrid were the proud owners of Sunshine Easter Eggs, Inc.

Yolanda dreamt about wedding bells and a large Mission style church on a bright sunny afternoon. She approached the church, radiating intense happiness, clutching the pink and white bouquet of gardenias, garden roses and tulips. The sweet fragrance soothed her, and she silently thanked her mother, Abby, for suggesting it. Her beloved father, Frederick, would be waiting to walk her down the aisle. Inside the church were gathered all the people she loved and cherished, and as she passed a blooming rosebush, a sudden cold wind gusted down, scattering the crimson petals in the wind, blowing her hair loose from her chignon, so it was streaming in the wind like a flag. Her white chiffon trumpet sleeves and veil billowed around her, obscuring her vision. The sky went from pale blue to dark sapphire. Her head bent down, she struggled against the high winds, the veil pressing against her face, and pellets of hail showered over her, as the pealing church bells changed to a strident ringing noise.

She sat up abruptly, heart loudly pounding; the feel of cold sweat on her neck and tangled chestnut brown hair. The cats blinked and raised their heads from beneath the tunnel of bed coverings, both with indignant stares as though she was responsible for the noise. For a second it stopped, and then it began again, the sound of recorded bells; not church bells—it was the front doorbell.

Her hazel eyes were wide in fright as she looked around, noticing the time. Far too early to leave for her job fifteen miles away. Adding another layer of warmth on top of the bed was her fleecy pink housecoat. She hastily pulled it on as she got up, feeling around on the carpet for her matching slippers. Tying the sash around her narrow waist, she stumbled across the floor, tripping on the edge of the woven rug, and catching herself on the wall next to the half open bedroom door. Fumbling for the light switch, the sudden brightness made her squint. I shouldn’t have gotten rid of the security system, she thought. If it were functional, a glance at the bedroom monitor would have shown her who was at the door. However, Mr. Whisker had taken an active dislike of anything connected to the motion sensors in the living room and hallway. He triggered it four times in one week and she finally took the hint and retired the surveillance stuff. The oval sticker with the name of the company remained on the front hall and living room windows.

The doorbell echoed throughout the two-bedroom; two-bathroom cottage built in 1932. She raced down the hallway, through the darkened kitchen, almost crashing into the center island, and burst into the living room. The curtain near the couch was half-open, allowing muted street lighting and natural moonlight to emit enough light for her to see the rest of the way to the front door. Yolanda’s slippers slid on the parquet foyer, and she again reached out and leaned on the wall. To her right was the light switch, but instead of flicking it on, she approached the door’s peephole and looked out. The porch light was on. In the area above the doorway was installed a faux security camera with a battery-operated blinking red light. She saw a man standing on the ceramic tiled porch; a sight that caused her to step back for an instant.

The tall man stood there with his finger poking the lit doorbell, looking over his shoulder, radiating paranoia. She froze as she stared at him, shocked at how much he’d changed since she saw him just before Christmas. Mike O’Neill, the multimillionaire from Texas had moved out to Los Angeles to become a movie producer. She unlocked both locks and unfastened the chain, opening the front door, the almost freezing night air further awakening her.

Hey, Mike, she said as her teeth began to chatter. Why don’t you come in and warm up?

He nodded, pulling a banged up hardsided suitcase covered with black duct tape. One of the crooked wheels made a clattering sound on the floor.

She flipped on the light and shut the door behind him, noticing how unkempt Mike looked. The man used to sport custom made cowboy boots and expensive shirts worn with ornate bola ties. Later that year, Mike’s wardrobe changed into conventional business attire and his charming Texas twang vanished.

The man who monopolized the floor space in front of the door was in a different wardrobe incarnation—down and out. Loose-fitting jeans with frayed bottoms, filthy sneakers. The windbreaker was too lightweight for the weather and his hair was longer and thinner than she remembered. The stench of cigarette smoke made her eyes water.

Hey, Yolanda, it’s been a while... he smiled, showing off stained teeth. A swollen bruise on his cheekbone and bloodshot eyes completed his rugged transformation.

Yes it has, Yolanda said, still shocked at the sight of him so bedraggled looking. He’d never been to her house before. She couldn’t imagine her grandparents Old World reaction to some homeless-looking guy showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.

This was the man who had whisked her off in his Bugatti and they’d dined at his Malibu Beach house on a super expensive dinner. That was last summer, but it seemed like it had been years ago.

Yo! Yolanda! he laughed at his lame greeting. Look, I gotta ask you a big favor.

Biting her lip, she gazed at his bruise, then back down at his shoes. Charity was important to her, and he looked like he needed all he could get.

Did you want to stay in my guest room, Mike?

Thanks, but no thanks. I just need to store this bag in your guest room. Or wherever is safe. I’ll be back for it on Friday. He paused, looking at his wrist—only he wasn’t wearing a watch. Friday afternoon. I promise.

She nodded. Okay. Look, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like some coffee or tea or hot chocolate?

Mike leaned over and peered through the peephole, No, I really gotta go now. He looked back at her and then grabbed the suitcase, pulling the wobbly-wheeled thing across the foyer. If you could...

Yes, of course, she said, accepting the handle. By the way, where’s your car?

I parked on Ventura Boulevard.

Mike, what’s going on?

It’s a long story. He went over to the door and looked through the peephole again. Gotta go. No overnight parking on Ventura.

He reached for the doorknob. She sensed that he had somewhere to go.

Mike, what’s in here? She let the suitcase stand on the floor.

Turning the doorknob, he gave her a sly grin. Some important business documents, that’s all. I’ll be back for them on Friday.

Okay then. Her words were as reluctant as her feeling about the situation in the foyer made colder as he opened the door and quickly fled down the trio of steps. She shut the door and stood in front of the peephole, watching the lanky man disappear into the night.

She made sure the door was locked and the chain was on and stepped back into the living room, reluctant to bring the duct-taped piece of luggage into her home. It looked like it had endured many baggage handlers in a multitude of airports and bus stations.

The silence of the house returned, and she knew her cats had gone back to sleep in her warm bed. She was tempted to leave the smelly thing standing in her living room but decided to wheel it back into the spare bedroom and park it in the closet until he reclaimed it two days later.

Yolanda wheeled the suitcase into the spare bedroom, which had a pair of twin-sized beds and an old-fashioned white oak roll top computer desk. Next to that was the small closet. Opening the closet door, she moved the old upright vacuum cleaner aside and put the suitcase inside, so it wasn’t hidden but easily accessible. She shut the door and returned to her room where she promptly slid back into bed next to her feline companions.

Troubled by the handsome man’s disheveled appearance, she remembered how he’d suggested her ex-boyfriend, Zac Field, should audition for a reality show. He had also helped promote the yummery’s launching of pies back in December and while he never admitted it, she suspected that new pop star sensations, Knick and Knack, had announced their engagement in her yummery, which led to even more business. What had caused Mike to fall onto hard times?

Just as she was dozing off, the doorbell rang. Not again, she thought, unwilling to leave her warm bed. Both cats were still asleep. The bedside clock read 4:20. The noise stopped. It was the alarm clock, not the doorbell. She turned it off and sat up, hearing the wind rustling through the trees. A storm was approaching. It was the day before the biggest and busiest day of the month, namely Valentine’s Day. The cats glared at her and remained unmoving, then shut their eyes and returned to sleep. She stumbled out of bed and went into her bathroom, not wanting to bother them with too much light at such an hour. She sighed, knowing they’d probably sleep until seven or so and then stroll into the kitchen for their waiting bowl of breakfast along with a sprinkling of homemade salmon treats. For an instant, she regretted having to get up on a dark winter morning and wished she could sleep in like her feline pals.

Her iPhone and iPad rested on the pink and black tile countertop in the bathroom. They used to be stowed away in a kitchen drawer, but that was before she owned Yolanda’s Yummery. Being a twenty-eight-year-old owner of a thriving Brentwood business had earned her way more stress than she could’ve imagined. Only two years ago, she was an employee at the Crown Street Cat Shelter in nearby Van Nuys. Now, her daily commute took her over the hill and ate up about forty to fifty minutes each way. She activated her iPhone’s screen, noting the number of messages, missed calls, and went straight to her daily to do list. In fact, she should have gotten up an hour earlier if she wanted to tackle more than just arriving at work before five o’clock.

Instead of one of the standard pastel yummery colored shirts of yellow, pink and seafoam green, today she pulled on the new red and pink polo shirt that would usher in Valentine’s Day. The T-shirts and polo shirts had arrived on Monday, and she had distributed them to all the employees with instructions to wear them on the big day of the year. Yolanda saw it as Valentine’s Day Eve and was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend, Nigel Garvey, that day. He was the owner of the adjoining Beverage Bar and while he still hadn’t popped the question, she thought that he might get romantic enough on the fourteenth.

AS SHE DROVE TO WORK, images of her and Nigel kissing over a bubbly glass of champagne and a plateful of heart-shaped macarons made her smile. It’s almost like Christmas, she thought, when she pulled up behind the yummery and popped open the Honda’s trunk.

A white van with the company’s logo adorning both sides sat next to her parking space. She grinned upon seeing the van with the prominently featured yummery’s logo.

Another vehicle was parked by the dumpster in the other employee parking spot, Quinn Hendrickson’s red Toyota Camry. He opened his car door and got out as soon as she pulled up. The young man from Wisconsin managed the Beverage Bar and was a friend of Nigel’s. He had extensive barista and bakery experience and specialized in baking the yummery’s mini-Bundt coffee cakes. An unzipped windbreaker was worn over his red polo shirt. Yolanda noticed his customary pinstripe chef pants.

’Morning Yolanda, he greeted her as he walked over to the back. He clicked open the trunk lid and inside was a large box.

He lifted it out and walked towards the yummery’s back door. She rushed ahead of the man and unlocked it. He hurried inside and set the bulky box down, returning to his car to shut the trunk and retrieve his briefcase. Then they walked over to her car and began unloading all the boxes from her car’s trunk.

Quinn and Yolanda assembled the five-foot tall pastel pink tree with the embedded pink and white miniature lights. Once it was assembled in front of the main window, Yolanda began hanging up the brightly colored heart shaped ornaments. The array of glass and wooden hearts ranged in size and color from plain wood to sparkly rhinestones and crystals. The loud knock on the front door startled her as she turned.

A roundish young woman in an oversized cherry red ski jacket waved at her as she approached the door. Yolanda smiled upon seeing the pastry chef, BB Gustafson. Frizzy natural blonde curls peeked out from the edge of the hood.