Page 15 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

A flock of seagulls flies overhead and their raucous cries punctuate the gentle rhythm of waves crashing against the rocks below.

The breeze carries the mingled scents of salt water and maple syrup, an odd but not unpleasant combination that seems perfectly suited to this coastal breakfast haven.

Autumn Harrington sits across from me right here at her restaurant, Sunrise & Cinnamon.

Her honey-blonde ponytail catches the sunlight as she casually arranges herself in the chair as if she’s posing for a successful female entrepreneurs magazine spread.

And she may as well be. This place has everything going for it—the food, the view, and have I mentioned the food?

She smells like vanilla and money, Cricket mewls from my lap. I don’t trust people who smell expensive on purpose.

I like her, Rookie counters from his spot under the table. Anyone who makes bacon that good can’t be all bad.

“I think we might have met briefly the other day,” I say, cutting off their internal debate club meeting. “At the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival out in Brambleberry Bay.”

Autumn’s smile falters for a millisecond—so brief I might have imagined it if I weren’t watching for exactly that kind of reaction. Her amber eyes darken slightly as if someone dimmed the lights behind them.

“Oh, my goodness.” She gives a heartfelt sigh. “Such a tragedy what happened that day,” she says, her voice dropping to an appropriately somber register. “One minute we’re all competing for a prize, the next...” she trails off with a delicate shudder.

“Did you know Vivian well?” I ask, aiming for casual but probably landing closer to obvious amateur detective. I can’t help it. I am one.

Why do I get the feeling this one is about to ask more questions than the health inspector? Autumn expands her smile my way with the thought.

“Oh yes, Vivian and I went way back,” she says.

“We met at a culinary symposium in Boston about seven years ago. She was presenting a workshop on flavor innovation, and I was still working for a restaurant group before opening this place.” She gestures around at her bustling beachfront breakfast empire.

“Was she very friendly?” Clarabelle asks.

“She was quite the character.” Autumn rolls her eyes as she says it. “Brilliant with flavors, but not exactly... warm.”

“Rumor has it, she was cold as a freezer full of failed soufflés,” Peggy offers.

“That’s one way to put it.” Autumn’s laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. “Vivian believed that success in the food industry required a certain ruthlessness.”

“Speaking of ruthless”—Clarabelle leans forward, her turkey hat wobbling precariously—“I heard she wasn’t above borrowing other people’s ideas.”

Autumn’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise just a notch.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but there were certainly rumors that Vivian—let’s say ‘repurposed’ recipes from other chefs.

Particularly Meredith Thorne over at The Whisked Away Bakery.

” Her lips twitch as she casts a cool glance at the ocean.

If people knew what Vivian had done to others in the industry, they wouldn't be so quick to mourn.

Some secrets deserve to stay buried—just like some people.

That Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake was a doozy.

I nearly choke on my almost-a as Autumn’s venomous thoughts blast through my mind like a tornado through a trailer park.

“Rumor has it, she was being sued by someone,” I say once I’ve recovered, tucking away the name Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake in my mental evidence locker.

Autumn shrugs so elegantly, that she somehow makes her chef whites look like couture.

“I don’t know what that was all about. But Vivian made enemies as easily as most people make friends.

” She taps a manicured nail against her water glass, thinking.

“You know, I think I saw her arguing with one of the judges, Oliver Prescott. They looked as if they hated each other if you ask me.”

“Oliver Prescott?” Peggy perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Why, that’s Bunny’s silver fox cousin.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Autumn says.

“But I do know that he and Vivian were having quite the heated exchange behind the supply tent. Something about not this time and you’ll regret it.

It was all very dramatic.” Like those soap operas my grandmother watches where everyone’s secretly related and half the cast is in a coma, she thinks to herself.

A crash from inside the restaurant makes us all jump. The sound of breaking dishes is followed by a string of colorful language that would make a sailor blush.

Autumn winces. “If you ladies will please excuse me, it sounds like someone’s auditioning for a position they definitely won’t get.

” She stands gracefully. “Duty calls—or in this case, shattered dishes on my Italian tile floor.” I swear if Brad dropped another rack of glassware, I’m going to serve him his pink slip on a bed of shards.

I can’t help but wince at the internal ire.

As Autumn stalks off, Clarabelle leans across the table. “Well? What did you get from her head?”

“Not much,” I say. “She didn’t say it outright, but she was thinking about a secret related to a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake recipe.”

“I saw you perk up when she mentioned recipe theft.” Peggy nods. “Maybe that was it?”

“She was talking about Vivian stealing from Meredith, but in her head, she was furious about a specific recipe—that Harvest Moon Cake. She didn’t say whose it was, but her thoughts made it clear that’s the exact recipe in question.”

“That’s a motive right there,” Clarabelle declares, stabbing a piece of waffle with her fork for emphasis. “Hell hath no fury like a chef whose secret recipe has been pilfered.”

“It’s not enough to prove anything,” I caution.

“Then we need more information,” Peggy says with the determination of someone who’s solved every crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper for forty years straight—and she has. “We should order dessert.”

“We just ate our weight in breakfast offerings,” I remind her.

“Dessert loosens tongues,” Peggy insists. “People talk when there’s pie.”

“I don’t think?—”

My objection is cut short by a bloodcurdling shriek from Cricket, who launches herself from my lap onto the table with her fur standing on end. A split second later, Rookie emerges from under my chair with a mighty bark that sends half the patio into cardiac arrest.

Within two seconds flat, the cause of their distress becomes immediately apparent as a rather large seagull lands on our table before making off with the last of Clarabelle’s bacon.

“ Stop that winged thief! ” Clarabelle shouts, swinging her cloth napkin at the bird as if she’s trying to swat a fly with a parachute. “Get back here, you avian bandit! You’re nothing but a filthy feathered felon!”

The seagull—totally unbothered by Clarabelle’s linguistic creativity—hops to the railing next to us with its salty prize.

Rookie lunges, Cricket pounces, and Clarabelle makes another wild swing.

Screaming ensues, expletives are shouted, and a few loose tears are shed—and that’s just from me.

Clarabelle’s momentum carries her right over the railing and I lunge to catch her but miss by inches while Peggy grabs for her turkey hat.

The waitress returns with coffee refills and yelps at the quasi-deadly sight.

With the agility of someone a third her age, Clarabelle hooks her foot around the last rung of the railing and manages to stop herself from free-falling into the water below.

And in an effort to help her back to dry land, my foot catches on the leg of the table, upending it in the process.

Plates, glasses, and food go airborne in a spectacular display of breakfast acrobatics.

The seagull in question takes off with an indignant squawk—because clearly this is more excitement than any bacon theft warrants. Cricket leaps to safety on my shoulder, while Rookie does his best to bark Clarabelle back to solid ground.

Within seconds, a small army of men and women help me hoist Clarabelle Harper back on the right side of the railing where she belongs just as the remainder of our Pumpkin Palooza Brunch Platters rain down on the patio like caloric confetti.

A slight applause breaks out over the entire restaurant as every head turns toward our table—or rather, what used to be our table before it became ground zero for the Great Breakfast Explosion of Pelican Cove.

I stand frozen, a piece of pumpkin waffle sliding slowly down my sweater. Peggy clutches Clarabelle’s turkey hat, her mouth forming a perfect O. And Clarabelle herself takes a bow, looking simultaneously shocked and rather pleased with herself.

Figures.

“Well”—she announces to the stunned crowd—“I guess we won’t need to order dessert after all.”

Twenty minutes, several profuse apologies, and one extremely generous tip later, we’re being escorted off the premises with the polite urgency usually reserved for bomb threats.

As we limp toward Ginger, covered in various breakfast items and trailed by a small parade of opportunistic seagulls, I can’t help but feel we’ve worn out our welcome at yet another establishment in record time.

But we didn’t leave empty-handed. Between Autumn’s wayward thoughts and her tip about Oliver Prescott, we’ve got two more threads to pull in this increasingly tangled ball of suspicious yarn.

Meredith Thorne’s recipe was allegedly stolen. Autumn Harrington was thinking about a Harvest Moon Cake recipe. Oliver Prescott had some mysterious beef with Vivian.

The question is, which thread leads to a killer, and which ones are just loose ends in the messy tapestry of small-town rivalry?

One thing is for sure—someone in Brambleberry Bay used deadly ingredients for more than just seasonal baking. And I’m going to figure out who, even if I have to taste-test every pumpkin spice creation from here to New York.

After I change into clothes that don’t smell like maple syrup and bacon, that is.

And at exactly seven o’clock tonight, there will be a meet-up of the murder club at my place.

Something tells me that tonight’s crime-fighting shenanigans will make the shenanigans from this boisterous flying brunch pale in comparison.

This day just gets better.