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  Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s New York Times bestselling Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  “[A] real treat . . . I gobbled it right up.”

  —Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries

  “[McKinlay’s] characters are delicious, and the dash of romance is just the icing on the cake.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

  “Jenn McKinlay delivers all the ingredients for a winning read. Frost me another!”

  —Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

  “[A] spirited heroine, luscious cupcakes, and a clever murder . . . [A] sweet read.”

  —Krista Davis, New York Times bestselling author of the Paws & Claws Mysteries

  “Pops with fun and great twists . . . It’s better than icing on the tastiest cupcake.”

  —Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries

  “[A] tender cozy full of warm and likable characters and a refreshingly sympathetic murder victim . . . Readers will look forward to more of McKinlay’s tasty concoctions.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Good plotting and carefully placed clues make this an enjoyable, light mystery, made a little sweeter with recipes for the cupcakes Mel’s team creates.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “[A] charmingly entertaining story . . . [A] deliciously thrilling mystery!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Titles by Jenn McKinlay

  Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  SPRINKLE WITH MURDER

  BUTTERCREAM BUMP OFF

  DEATH BY THE DOZEN

  RED VELVET REVENGE

  GOING, GOING, GANACHE

  SUGAR AND ICED

  DARK CHOCOLATE DEMISE

  VANILLA BEANED

  CARAMEL CRUSH

  WEDDING CAKE CRUMBLE

  Library Lover’s Mysteries

  BOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING

  DUE OR DIE

  BOOK, LINE, AND SINKER

  READ IT AND WEEP

  ON BORROWED TIME

  A LIKELY STORY

  BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

  DEATH IN THE STACKS

  Hat Shop Mysteries

  CLOCHE AND DAGGER

  DEATH OF A MAD HATTER

  AT THE DROP OF A HAT

  COPY CAP MURDER

  ASSAULT AND BERET

  Bluff Point Romances

  ABOUT A DOG

  BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE

  EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  Excerpt from Every Dog Has His Day by Jenn McKinlay © 2018 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  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.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399583841

  First Edition: April 2018

  Cover art © Jeff Fitz-Maurice

  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.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: 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.

  Version_2

  For my very favorite girl, my niece Kiersten. Bright and beautiful inside and out, you are one of the shining lights in my life, and I’m so glad I get to be your aunt. I can’t wait for our next adventure together—try not to get hit by a bike next time! Love you forever!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I started the cupcake series, I was sure that I would get three books out of it and then the party would be over. Cupcakes were a fad, I thought. Surely, it couldn’t last. But now here we are at book ten! Ten! Can you believe it? I want to thank all of the readers who have been along for the ride since book one. Without you, Fairy Tale Cupcakes would have closed a long time ago. I also want to thank my team—the people who help me and nudge me and give me pep talks when required—Kate Seaver, Christina Hogrebe, Roxanne Jones, and Jeff Fitz-Maurice, the terrific artist, who gave this book such a wonderful cover. I couldn’t do what I do without all of you. Thank you all so very much.

  Contents

  Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  Titles by Jenn McKinlay

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Recipes

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Every Dog Has His Day

  One

  “Here comes the bride,” Melanie Cooper sang as she held a bouquet of multicolored snapdragons in front of her as if she were walking down the aisle.

  “Practicing for your own wedding?” Angie DeLaura asked her.

  “No, just yours,” Mel said, then she smiled. “For now.”

  They’d been best friends since they were twelve years old, so it was no surprise that Mel would be Angie’s maid of honor when Angie and their other childhood friend Tate Harper tied the knot in just one week.

  Today, Mel and Angie had left Fairy Tale Cupcakes, the bakery they co-owned, in the capable hands of their employees while they ran around town, finalizing payments to vendors and making sure everything was a go for Angie and Tate’s big day. At the moment, they were paying for Angie’s flowers, calla lilies, with their stems wrapped in aqua and pewter ribbons.

  “Annabelle? Hello!” Angie called. She rang the bell on the counter and peered at the back room. “What do you suppose is keeping her?”

  “No idea,” Mel said. She admired the brilliant yellow petals on a huge sunflower. So pretty.

  “Okay, so after we pay the florist, who’s next?” Angie asked.

  Mel put the snapdragons back in their display buck
et and checked her smartphone, where she kept her to-do list updated.

  “We need to pay the photographer and the caterer.” She glanced at Angie. “Are you really having them make Jell-O? ‘Because crème brûlée can never be Jell-O’.”

  “‘I have to be Jell-O,’” Angie said. For emphasis, she tossed her long, curly brown hair over her shoulder.

  “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” they identified the movie quotes together and then laughed.

  Since middle school, the three friends, Mel, Angie, and Tate, had shared a love of sweets and movies. Now as adults they tried to stump one another with random movie quotes, and in the case of serving Jell-O at their wedding, Angie chose it deliberately. She wanted Tate to know she was his comfort food, his Jell-O, which he had always loved, much to Mel’s cordon bleu dismay.

  “Do you think we should leave and come back?” Angie asked Mel. “Maybe she’s on her coffee break and forgot to lock the door.”

  “Maybe.” Mel frowned. She didn’t want to admit she was starting to get a hinky feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Annabelle Martin’s flower shop sat in the heart of Old Town Scottsdale. Despite the small size of the space, it was full to bursting with blooms, both real and silk, as Annabelle’s talent with flowers was legendary. In Scottsdale, Arizona, a wedding was just not a wedding unless Annabelle did the flowers.

  “But even if Annabelle stepped out, why isn’t anyone else here? Doesn’t she have four assistants?” Mel asked.

  Angie nodded and Mel saw her big brown eyes get wide and Mel knew she was thinking the same thing that Mel was. Angie swallowed and in a soft voice, she said, “Maybe something happened to her?”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Over the past few years, they had suffered the misfortune of stumbling upon several dead bodies. Given that Angie was one week from saying “I do,” it would just figure if they found a body now.

  “This can’t be happening,” Angie said. “Not now.”

  “Don’t panic,” Mel said. She blew her blond bangs off her forehead. Being a chef, she kept her hair nice and short to keep it out of the food, because nothing said “Ew” like finding a hair in your frosting.

  “Don’t panic?” Angie cried, her voice rising a decibel with each syllable. “Why would I panic? It’s only a week until my wedding, you know, the most important day of my life to date.”

  “Breathe.” Mel squeezed Angie’s arm as she scooted past her and around the counter. “I’ll just check in back and make sure everything is okay.”

  A curtain was hanging in the doorway to the back room. She knew from being here before that the back room housed all of Annabelle’s supplies as well as a kitchenette and her office. It was a tiny space and she had to turn sideways to maneuver through the packed shelves.

  Vases of glass, steel, and copper; baskets; ribbons; glass marbles; florist wire in all sizes and colors—all of it—was stuffed onto the shelves until they looked as if they’d regurgitate the goods right onto the floor.

  Mel shimmied her way past until she cleared the shelves and reached the worktable in back. A couple dozen purple irises were scattered across a sheaf of floral paper as if someone had just left them out of water and gasping for air.

  Annabelle loved flowers; they were her passion. Mel couldn’t imagine that she’d have just left these here to rot. Mel felt the short-cropped hair on the back of her neck prickle with unease.

  Where was Annabelle? What could have happened to her? Mel closed her eyes for a moment, trying to dredge up the courage to circle the table and see if Annabelle was there, lying on the floor, unconscious, bludgeoned, bloody, bleeding out even as Mel stood here shaking like a ’fraidy cat.

  “Hello? Annabelle? Are you here?” Mel called.

  There was no answer. She opened her eyes. She was just going to have to see for herself. She took a steadying breath and stepped around the worktable. She glanced at the floor. It was bare. The breath she’d been holding burst out of her lungs as the sound of a toilet flushing broke through the quiet.

  Mel whipped around to face the back hallway just as Angie came barreling through the curtain into the back room.

  “Any sign of her?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Mel said. She stared down the hallway, listening to the water running in the bathroom. Please, please, please, let it be . . .

  “Well, doesn’t that just figure?” Annabelle asked as she strode towards them. “It’s quiet all morning and then the second you go to the bathroom someone shows up.”

  “You’re okay!” Mel cried. Impulsively, she threw herself at Annabelle’s big-boned frame and hugged her tight. “You’re not dead.”

  “Oh, honey.” Annabelle hugged her back. “You need to calm down, maybe take a vacation or something.”

  Mel let her go with a nervous laugh. “Ha, you’re right. I must be working too hard.”

  Annabelle fluffed her close-cropped curls and then turned to Angie with a hug and a smile. “And how is our bride? Seven days to go! Are you ready?”

  “More than,” Angie said. “I’m excited for the wedding but I’m even more excited to have it over and be Mrs. Tate Harper.”

  Annabelle clasped her hands over her heart and sighed. “Of all the events I arrange flowers for, weddings are my favorite. Yours aren’t here yet, but come on, I’ll show you what I just got in.”

  Annabelle scooped up the irises and put them in water and then led them to the front of the shop. While she and Angie oohed and aahed over some of the fresh flowers, Mel took a moment to get herself together. Clearly she had some issues if her first thought when Annabelle hadn’t been available was that she was dead. Seriously, what was wrong with her?

  She had been around an inordinate amount of death over the past few years. She wondered if perhaps it was her own fault. Maybe she found all of these bodies, maybe bad things happened all around her, because she went looking for them. The thought disturbed Mel on a lot of levels.

  “Did that daisy do something to offend you?” Annabelle asked.

  Mel looked at her in question and Annabelle pointed to Mel’s hands, where just the stem and one petal were left of an orange gerbera daisy. Mel had been systematically stripping the petals off of it without realizing.

  Snatching off the last petal, Mel said, “He loves me. Phew!”

  Angie looked at her as if she thought Mel was drunk or crazy or drunk and crazy. Mel shrugged. Annabelle gave her a concerned look and took the stem out of her hands and threw it in the trash.

  While Angie paid Annabelle for her flowers, Mel picked up the petals and then paced up by the front of the shop. She didn’t trust herself not to destroy any of the lovely arrangements and kept her hands in her pockets just in case.

  With a wave, they left Annabelle and her flowers to head to the photographer’s studio. It was across Scottsdale Road, on a small side street, nestled in amongst the trendy restaurants and art galleries.

  “Okay, what gives?” Angie asked as soon as the door shut behind them.

  “What?” Mel asked.

  Angie widened her eyes and said, “Come on, you know what. You started shredding flowers in there. What was that all about?”

  “Nothing. I just had this random thought,” Mel said. “It was silly.”

  “Good, then you won’t mind sharing.”

  Mel pursed her lips. Angie was a badger. There was no way she was getting out of this.

  “Fine, if you must know—”

  “I must.”

  They paused at the corner to wait for the crossing light.

  “I just thought it was weird that my first instinct when Annabelle wasn’t readily available was that she’d been murdered. I mean that’s weird, right?”

  Angie squinted at her. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Mel blew out a breath. “Okay, it also occurred to
me that maybe, just maybe, the fact that I am always looking for something bad to have happened is what makes it happen.”

  The light turned and the walk signal lit up. Angie opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then took Mel’s arm and pulled her across the street.

  Once they stepped onto the curb, she looked at Mel and said, “Now, that is nuts.”

  “Is it?” Mel asked. “I mean, isn’t there a whole philosophy that says whatever you put out there comes back to you?”

  “So, you think that by putting out thoughts of dead bodies or worst-case scenarios, that’s what makes them happen?”

  “Yeah . . . maybe . . . no . . . I don’t know.”

  “Listen, we’ve definitely had some crazy stuff happen to us since we opened the bakery, but don’t you think it’s because we work in a service industry with a whole lot of different people with all sorts of bad and good things happening in their lives?” Angie asked. “I mean, how many weddings, birthdays, retirement parties, etcetera, have we baked cupcakes for and nothing bad has happened? Quite the opposite, in fact—the person has had the greatest day ever.”

  She began walking and Mel fell into step beside her.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Maybe I just have a little post-traumatic stress going because the bad when it’s bad is so very bad.”

  Angie nodded. “I’m sure that’s it, but since my wedding is coming up in a matter of days, why don’t we hedge our bets, and you just keep picturing happy things in that head of yours.”

  “Like puppies and kittens?”

  “Yeah, or go big with unicorns and glitter bombs,” Angie suggested.

  Mel laughed. Angie was right. She needed to chillax. Probably, she was just nervous about the wedding. She was maid of honor, after all, which carried a lot of responsibility. Not that she thought Angie would pull a runner, but it was Mel’s job to get her to the church on time, dressed appropriately, and to be prepared to crack some skulls if anyone interfered with her best friend’s wedding.

  “Okay, glittery unicorns it is,” Mel said.