“Fine. You want the truth? Yes, I created the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake. It took me three years to perfect that recipe. Three years of testing, adjusting, refining. It was going to be my signature item, the thing that put Sunrise & Cinnamon on the culinary map beyond just brunch.”
“And Vivian stole it?” Chevy prompts, clearly taking mental notes for her next book.
“No.” Autumn laughs bitterly. “That’s the irony. I adapted it from her original concept. We worked together years ago at a restaurant in Boston. She had the basic idea, but it never quite worked. The texture was wrong, the flavors were unbalanced. After we parted ways, I kept tinkering with it, changing it, making it my own. By the time I perfected it, it was as much mine as hers.”
“But Vivian didn’t see it that way,” I guess.
“She saw it on my menu last fall and lost her mind. Called me a thief, and threatened to sue me into oblivion. Said she’d destroy everything I’d built.” Autumn’s voice rises, drawing curious glances from nearby guests. “Shewas the thief—stealing credit for other people’s work, demanding loyalty while giving none in return.”
“So you killed her.” The words hang in the air, stark and cold.
For a long moment, Autumn says nothing. The string quartet’s music seems to fade, the chatter of the crowd becoming distant as if the world is holding its breath.
“Yes.” The word emerges almost as a sigh of relief. “Yes, I poisoned her drink with yew extract, and I’m glad the wicked witch is dead.”
I KNEW IT!Rookie’s triumphant thought rings in my head like a gong.The good ones always share treats. The evil ones hoard recipes!
Focus, fur brain,Cricket yowls.The murderer is confessing!
“She wasn’t stealing the recipe,” Autumn continues, her words tumbling out now like water from a broken dam. “I changed it enough to make it my own. But once she accusedmeof stealing, I grew defiant and sold the confection anyway for a while. She promised she was going to destroy everything I worked so hard to build. She was a monster! I had to do it. She gave me no choice.” Her eyes dart to the nearest exit, calculation replacing confession. “Just like you’re not giving me a choice now. I have to leave. I have to leave town. I have to leave the state.”
Before I can react, she bolts—surprisingly fast for someone in heels and a formal gown—shoving past a waiter who drops an entire tray of champagne flutes with a spectacular crash.
“Stop her,” I yell, taking off in pursuit.
What follows can only be described as culinary chaos of the highest order. Autumn weaves through the crowd with the agility of someone who’s spent years navigating busy restaurant kitchens. Tipper, Chevy, and I fan out, trying to cut her off before she reaches the exit.
From my peripheral vision, I spot Clarabelle clotheslining an innocent bystander who had the misfortune of resemblingAutumn from behind, while Peggy attempts to trip the actual Autumn with her foot, yet missing by inches.
“Corner her by the dessert table!” Chevy shouts, and by the looks of it, her mystery-writing brain is clearly enjoying this real-life chase scene far too much.
Rookie darts between legs, barking with ferocity, causing several guests to stumble and one unfortunate man to land face-first in the chocolate fountain. Oh, for Pete’s sake, that chocolate fountain never seems to fare well.
Cricket, proving that cats can indeed be crime fighters when properly motivated, launches herself from a table directly onto Autumn’s back with her claws digging into the expensive fabric of the woman’s dress.
“Get this beast off me!” Autumn shrieks, spinning in circles as she tries to dislodge my little furry missile.
The distraction is just enough for me to execute a perfect tackle that would make any football coach proud, bringing Autumn down in a tangle of limbs and formal wear near the ice sculpture, which wobbles precariously from the impact.
“I’ve got her arms!” Chevy calls out, pinning Autumn’s wrists with surprising strength.
“And I’ve got her legs!” Peggy declares, sitting firmly on Autumn’s ankles despite being half her size.
“FREEZE!” Killion’s commanding voice cuts through the bedlam as he stands at the edge of the chaos, weapon drawn and pointed directly at the human pretzel of women on the floor. “Nobody move!”
The entire ballroom falls silent, save for the string quartet, which valiantly continues playing as if this is all part of the evening’s entertainment. And it may as well be. After all, this isn’t the country club’s first journey to justice.
“She admitted everything,” I tell him as he secures the cuffs. “She killed her.”
Killion tucks his gun away and quickly cuffs the woman. “Autumn Harrington, you’re under arrest for the murder of Vivian Maple.”
I nod his way. “She poisoned Vivian’s drink with yew extract because of a disputed recipe and an impending lawsuit.”
“People have killed for less,” he pants, helping Autumn to her feet. Her once-perfectly coifed locks now resemble a bird’s nest after a tornado, and Cricket’s claws have left an abstract pattern across the back of her gown.
A team of uniformed officers burst through the ballroom doors, rushing toward us with the energy of people who missed the action but are determined to be part of the resolution. Killion hands Autumn off to one of the uniforms and she’s quickly ushered out of the room.
“Detective Maddox,” one of them calls. “We’ll need you back at the station immediately for processing.”
