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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 Domestic Diva 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

  Berkley Prime Crime 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

  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

  Hat Shop Mysteries

  CLOCHE AND DAGGER

  DEATH OF A MAD HATTER

  AT THE DROP OF A HAT

  COPY CAP MURDER

  ASSAULT AND BERET

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  Excerpt from Wedding Cake Crumble © 2017 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf

  Excerpt from About a Dog © 2017 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: 9780399583827

  First Edition: April 2017

  Cover art by 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.

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  Contents

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

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jenn McKinlay

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Recipes

  Excerpt from Wedding Cake Crumble

  Excerpt from About a Dog

  Given that I am freakishly tall and a bit of an airhead, I’ve always had a surprisingly strong sense of self (thanks, Mom!), right up until I birthed the hooligans—my sons. Suddenly, I felt like the stupidest person alive and doubted every single thing I did. I bumbled through the toddler years (it’s pretty hard to screw up naps and snack) but then the hooligans started school. Ack! All these other parents seemed to know what they were doing and I was lost—completely lost! But then I found my people at Chesnutt Park on Tuesday afternoons. We were this eclectic group of moms with nothing much in common except our love for our kids, and we gathered every week for several years to share snacks, let the kids run wild (and, boy howdy, did they!), and share our worries, fears, information, failures, and successes with no judgment, just gentle understanding of how freaking hard this parenting gig is. Suddenly, I wasn’t so lost anymore. So, this book is dedicated to my dear friends “the Moms.” By order of appearance in the park: Sabrina Redden, Betsy Boyer, Laura White, Zarin Fadlu-Deen, and Erin Dahl. You ladies are and always will be the keepers of some of my happiest memories. Thank you for your friendship and your grace, you are all so very beautiful to me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As the cupcake series goes on, it becomes harder and harder to come up with titles that are punny and blend that perfect mix of cupcakes and death, which is very difficult to achieve, sort of like the perfect cake-to-frosting ratio. This go-round was a doozy. Title upon title was offered, tweaked, twisted and yet nothing worked. Nothing. I was in despair and then I appealed to the Hub to think of something. He blinked at me and offered Caramel Crush. Just like that. He didn’t even break a sweat! So here’s my sincerest thanks to the Hub for the wonderful title and for always having my back. I could never do what I do without you! Also, I want to thank Judi LaRocco Franko for her help with the details of Catholic weddings and for being such a wonderful cheerleader for the series. You’re the best, sweetie! And as always, here’s a big thank-you to my squad: Kate Seaver, Katherine Pelz, and Christina Hogrebe, for making my books sparkle and shine and for keeping me on task. Big thanks to everyone at Berkley for the fantastic covers, terrific design, and for all the sales and marketing pizzazz that get my books in the hands of readers. You are awesome!

  One

  “Why are you hiding in the walk-in cooler?” Melanie Cooper asked her friend and business partner Tate Harper.

  “I’m not hiding,” he said.

  It was hard
to understand him as his teeth were chattering, making a sharp clacking noise that drowned out his words. His lips had a tinge of blue around them and his fingers were shaking so badly, he could barely type on the laptop he had set up on one of the wire shelves.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Mel said. She looked at him and raised one eyebrow. “Bet that would feel pretty good about right now.”

  “Wh—wh—where is she?” Tate asked. He blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them together.

  “She just left to go look at flowers . . . again,” Mel lied. “Now get out of here before you freeze to death.”

  She pushed open the door to Fairy Tale Cupcakes’s walk-in cooler and shoved Tate out into the bakery kitchen. Mel scooped up his laptop and followed him. The thing was like snuggling a block of ice. Brr.

  “Sweetie, there you are,” Angie DeLaura cried when she caught sight of her groom. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you. Sara at the flower shop is waiting for us.”

  Tate slowly turned and looked at Mel over his shoulder. His eyebrows, which looked to have the beginnings of frost on them, lowered in what she recognized as his seriously unhappy face. Too bad.

  Tate and Angie had flipped a coin to see who Mel would stand up for, since they were both her best friends since middle school, and Angie had won, calling “heads” right before the quarter hit the ground face side up. Mel’s loyalty now had to be with the bride until the vows were spoken and normalcy returned.

  “‘To love is to suffer,’” Mel said to Tate. He glowered and she shrugged.

  “Love and Death.” Angie identified the movie Mel quoted. It was a game the three of them had been playing since they were tweens bonding over their mutual love of the Three Stooges and Three Musketeers bars, because as everyone knows all good things come in threes.

  “Well done,” Mel said.

  “But wait.” Angie frowned. She tossed her thick brown braid over her shoulder. “I don’t see the relevance. Tate, you’re not suffering, are you? You’re enjoying planning our wedding, right?”

  Mel gave Tate a pointed stare. If he answered this incorrectly, it would be very bad for all of them.

  “Of course, honey, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do with the sixteen hours a day I spend conscious and breathing than have in-depth discussions on the merits of freesia in the bouquet,” he said. Mel noted he had his fingers crossed behind his back.

  Angie grinned at him and Mel blinked. Wow, the bride thing must be like wearing a suit of sarcasm-deflecting Teflon, because if anyone else had been on the receiving end of Tate’s razor-sharp response they would be bleeding out by now.

  Mel gave Tate a reproachful look. He bowed his head and she noticed his shivering had subsided somewhat. He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair as if to brush off his bad attitude and when he looked back up his eyes were crinkling in the corners when he smiled.

  “I’d do anything for you, babe, even days and days of looking at flowers, flowers, and more flowers,” he said. This time he sounded sincere.

  “You’re the best groom ever,” Angie sighed.

  “That’s because you’re the best bride,” he returned.

  Then he grinned and pulled Angie in close for a smooch. She squealed and then the whole thing turned mushy-gushy, saccharine sweet and Mel felt her upchuck reflex kick in.

  Tate and Angie’s wedding was a little over three months away, and if the past few weeks were any indicator, it was going to be a long three months with Angie, who had shocked them all by morphing into a bridezilla who was wholly consumed by her upcoming nuptials and all that went with becoming Mrs. Tate Harper. Truly, it horrified.

  Mel was trying to be the supportive best friend, but she really didn’t know if she could handle much more of this. Possibly, it was because it was summer in central Arizona, and the heat was making her a little bit crazy. But more than likely, it was because Mel had put off her own wedding to Joe DeLaura, Angie’s older brother, so that Angie could have her special day and the waiting was making Mel a bit antsy-pantsy.

  Mel and Joe had attempted to elope in Las Vegas a couple of months ago, but because it was Mel and she was sure she was cursed in matrimony, the Elvis-impersonator-slash-justice-of-the-peace that her bakery assistant Marty Zelaznik had hired to marry them had turned out to be a fraud, making Mel and Joe’s vows worth less than the free limo ride included in the wedding package.

  “I love you more,” Angie said.

  “No, I love you more,” Tate replied.

  Gag. Mel left the kitchen and headed into the front of the bakery. It was fairly quiet. Marty was restocking the front display case, and Mel blew her blond bangs off of her forehead and began to help him.

  “Back so soon? I thought you went to bake something,” he said.

  “I started to get a cavity.”

  Marty’s bushy eyebrows rose up on his shiny dome, and then Tate and Angie came through the swinging door, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes.

  “You’re beautiful, puddin’ pop,” Tate said.

  “No, you are, snugglupagus,” Angie answered with a giggle.

  “No, you are, cutie patootie,” he insisted.

  “Oh, barf on a biscuit,” Marty said to Mel. “Those two are revolting.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Mel said. “Honestly, I don’t know how much more I can take. Yesterday, they managed three poopsies and two shmoopies in a five-minute conversation and I swear I needed an airsick bag.”

  “Tell me when they’re gone,” Marty said.

  He shuddered and then turned back to the display case. He looked like he was going to shove his whole body from the shoulders up into the glass case to avoid looking at Tate and Angie as they rubbed their noses together and murmured more lovey-dovey sweet nothings.

  Mel was not to be abandoned. She wedged herself in beside Marty and helped him offload the chocolate cupcakes with peanut-butter frosting that she had baked fresh that morning. Sometimes in life there was nothing better than chocolate cake with a fresh dollop of peanut-butter frosting on top. This was one of those moments.

  “Hey, find your own display case,” Marty grumbled at her. He nudged her out of the case.

  “But this is my display case,” she protested.

  “I was here first,” he argued. “Besides, you’re the maid of honor; you have to put up with that.”

  Mel gave him a look that she hoped clarified how she would not have a problem pelting him with cupcakes until he surrendered control of the glass barricade between them and the sickening bride and groom.

  “There are limits to what a maid of honor can manage,” she said. “And I draw the line at listening to the two of them call each other—”

  “Martin!”

  “Huh?” Marty went to stand and smacked his head on the top of the display case. “Ouch!”

  Glaring at him over the top of the glass shelving was Marty’s current girlfriend, who was also Mel’s baking rival, Olivia Puckett, owner of Confections bakery. She was in her usual blue chef’s coat with her gray corkscrew curls bouncing on top of her head in a messy topknot.

  Marty rubbed his head as he faced the woman across the counter. He looked wary; she looked irritated, although in all fairness Olivia always looked irritated so she might be as happy as a clam, for all Mel knew.

  Mel frowned. Were clams happy? Would anyone be happy stuck in a shell with mostly just a belly, some sinew, and one muscly foot for a body? She shook her head. Focus!

  “Hi, Olivia,” she said. “What brings you by?”

  “Not the food,” Olivia snapped.

  Mel pressed her lips together to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind, which was not nice. Her mother had raised her better than that; still, it was an effort.

  “Now, Liv,” Marty said. “You know we’re not supposed to vis
it each other’s place of work. I stay out of your bakery and you stay out of mine.”

  “Yeah, that’d be fine,” Olivia snapped. “Except someone filled up our DVR with reruns of Magnum, P.I.”

  Marty blinked at her. “So?”

  “So?” Olivia’s arms flapped up in the air like she was trying to achieve liftoff. “I can’t record my cooking shows because it’s all full of Mustache Guy.”

  “Mustache Guy?” Marty echoed the words as if she had blasphemed.

  Mel ducked back down behind the display case to hide her smile. She noted that Tate and Angie had ceased the PDA and were actively listening to the conversation.

  “Yes, Mustache Guy,” Olivia said. “You know, what’s-his-face.”

  “What’s-his-face?” Marty repeated faintly. He clutched his chest as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing and it was causing him a severe bout of angina. “His name is Tom Selleck and he is a god among men.”

  “Pish,” Olivia said. “He’s overrated.”

  Now Marty staggered back and Mel jumped up to grab him in case he stroked out on the spot. There were few things that Marty held sacred, but Tom Selleck was one of them.

  “He is not—” Marty began, but Olivia interrupted.

  “Yes, he is,” she said. “So I deleted all of the episodes on the DVR and reprogrammed it to cover just the Food Network.”

  “What?” Marty cried. He clapped his hands on top of his bald dome as if trying to keep the top of his skull from blowing off.

  “You heard me,” she said. She looked quite pleased with herself and Mel had a feeling this was not going to end well.

  “But . . . You . . . That . . . We . . . I . . .” Marty was so upset, he was babbling.

  Mel wondered if she should slap him on the back to help him get the words out. There was no need.

  “That’s it!” Marty shouted. “When I get home tonight, I am moving out!”

  Olivia crossed her arms over her chest. She glowered at him. “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” he declared.