By Joanne Fluke
Bakery proprietor Hannah Swensen is back—and the cookies are crumbling—as acclaimed writer Joanne Fluke serves readers one other assisting of homicide, mayhem, and mouthwatering secret. . .
Blueberry Muffin Murder
Preparations are underway for Lake Eden, Minnesota's annual iciness Carnival—and Hannah Swensen is decided to bake up a typhoon at her renowned store, The Cookie Jar. Too undesirable the honour of constructing the legit iciness Carnival cake went to well-known way of life maven Connie Mac—a half-baked inspiration, in Hannah's opinion. She suspects Connie Mac is lots just like the confections she whips up on her cable television cooking show—sweet, mild, and scrumptious-looking, yet more likely to go away a sour flavor on your mouth.
Hannah's suspicions are proven whilst Connie Mac's limo rolls into city. seems America's "Cooking Sweetheart" is bossy, bad-tempered, and downright domineering. issues ultimately boil over whilst Hannah arrives on the Cookie Jar to discover the wintry weather Carnival cake burnt to a crisp—and Connie Mac mendacity useless in her pantry, struck down whereas consuming one in every of Hannah's recognized blueberry muffins.
Next factor Hannah understands, the police have declared The Cookie Jar's kitchen crime scene off-limits. She's a baker with no an oven—and the Carnival is true round the nook. Hannah's in basic terms replacement is to prepare dinner up a plan to avoid wasting her business—by discovering the killer herself. . .
Includes seven unique cookie and dessert recipes so that you can try out!
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Extra resources for Blueberry Muffin Murder (Hannah Swensen Mystery, Book 3)
Example text
You and Werner coul dn’t both have dreamed it. ” Eve’s grin grew. ” I huffed. “First I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then when I tried, Nick didn’t want to hear it. So first we avoided the subject and then we avoided each other. ” Eve waved a hand. ” “No, seriously, the FBI takes advantage of their special agents that way. ” “Still, on or off, you and Nick have always stayed friends. ” I sighed inwardly. ” Before my eyes, she turned into a member of gossip central. ” Once, after a lonely six-pack of Dos Equis.
So, perhaps—hopefully—if it pleased whatever deity controlled these things—possibly Buddha, and Yoda, too—my psychometric phase had passed. An unexpected whiff of chocolate hit me, a sign my mother’s spirit hovered, along with a clear vision of her laughing, and I sighed. Not a phase, then. In self-defense, I turned my attention from that tempting trunk to the problem at hand. Well, problems, plural: my intern for one, my psychic gift for another, and the ethical need to tell Nick, my FBI boy toy, about a kiss I shared with Werner, though, sewing circle oath, Werner and I were in a sleepinduced, half-unconscious state at the time.
My Out to Lunch sign and the click of the shop lock became an imperative to release my breath. I needed, at the very least, a thimbleful of control and a bit of downtime to sort some sticky issues, Nick being only one of several. I’d barely sat when the shop phone rang. ” “Give me Isobel,” demanded a chipmunk with attitude before he/she/it demonstrated, not quite beneath its breath, an impressive and varied case of potty mouth. The obscenities ended with the same demand they’d started with: “Give me Isobel,” delivered like Darth Vader on helium, or a squirrel on steroids; take your pick.