Death of a Bad Apple

PRAISE FOR THE FOOD FESTIVAL MYSTERIES

Death of a Chocolate Cheater

“You will need—and want!—to immerse yourself in this enjoyable novel. The only caveat is that you must be sure to have plenty of chocolate on hand so that you can read without interruption.”

—
Mystery Scene

“You'll drool over every page.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“What a treat this book was to read.”

—A Cozy Girl Reads

Death of a Crabby Cook

“With her aunt's business—and freedom—on the line, it's up to Darcy and Dream Puff Jake Miller to put the brakes on a crabby—and out-of-control—killer.”

—Examiner.com

“A fun food-related series . . . [with] recipes to die for.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“Fun, fresh, and different.”

—Open Book Society

“A page-turner that I needed to finish.”

—MyShelf.com

“A thoroughly enjoyable read.”

—Here's How It Happened

“The food-truck angle and the mouthwatering descriptions of the truck's offerings give this one a very appealing flavor.”

—
Booklist

“A lighthearted mystery with a fun premise, a hint of romance, and more tasty-sounding food than you can shake a food truck at.”

—Smitten by Books

PRAISE FOR THE PARTY-PLANNING MYSTERIES BY PENNY PIKE WRITING AS PENNY WARNER

“An appealing heroine whose event skills include utilizing party favors in self-defense in a fun, fast-paced new series guaranteed to please.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

“A party you don't want to miss.”

—Denise Swanson,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Scumble River Mysteries

“Penny Warner dishes up a rare treat, sparkling with wicked and witty San Francisco characters, plus some real tips on hosting a killer party.”

—Rhys Bowen,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Royal Spyness Mysteries

OTHER BOOKS BY PENNY PIKE

The Food Festival Mysteries

Death of a Crabby Cook

Death of a Chocolate Cheater

BOOKS BY PENNY PIKE Writing as Penny Warner

The Party-Planning Mystery Series

How to Host a Killer Party

How to Crash a Killer Bash

How to Survive a Killer Séance

How to Party with a Killer Vampire

How to Dine on Killer Wine

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Penny Warner, 2016

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.

Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about Penguin Random House, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN 978-0-698-14336-4

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

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.

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.

To Tom

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my writing group: Colleen Casey, Janet Finsilver, Staci McLaughlin, Ann Parker, and Carole Price; my wonderful fans; and a special thanks to Andrea Hurst, Sandy Harding, Isabel Farhi, and everyone at Obsidian/Penguin Random House.

“One taste of the poisoned apple and the victim's eyes will close forever in the Sleeping Death.”

—The Wicked
Queen

“What smells so good?” I asked as I entered my aunt Abby's home through the back door of her San Francisco Victorian. The aroma of cinnamon, sugar, and baked apples perfumed the air and made my mouth water. I inhaled deeply, trying to fill my lungs with the intoxicating fragrance.

“Abby's Salted Caramel-Apple Tarts!” she exclaimed proudly as she lifted a tray of steaming-hot pastries out of the oven and onto the stove to cool. “It's my latest creation. I'm using caramel in the recipe and sprinkling it with salt. I'll let you taste one as soon as they cool down a bit. The flaky crust just melts in your mouth.”

“Yum!” I stared at the lightly browned individual tartlets, willing them to cool off faster.

“Sit,” Aunt Abby ordered. “You'll get drool all over my tarts.”

I obeyed her command and took a stool at the island counter that occupied much of the kitchen. Basil, my aunt's long-haired Doxie, nuzzled my red Toms.

“What prompted you to whip up something new?” I asked, petting the dog with one foot. “Your customers love the comfort foods you already serve. I hope you're not going to replace your caramel chocolate brownies with these. That could cause a riot.”

Shortly after my aunt retired from serving cafeteria food at the local high school, she bought an old school bus, tricked it out, and turned it into a kitchen on wheels. For the past year, she'd been serving “old-school” comfort food in her Big Yellow School Bus at Fort Mason, where a dozen other food trucks gathered. Since I was between jobs, I'd been helping her out by making sandwiches, mixing up mac and cheese, and taking orders from hungry customers. Truth was, I'd recently been let go from my job as restaurant critic at the
San Francisco Chronicle
and hadn't yet finished writing my soon-to-be bestselling cookbook featuring food truck recipes. Unfortunately I wasn't much of a cook—I was more of an eater—but I was quickly learning how to make potpies in bulk.

“No, my
pretty
,” my aunt said, assuming the voice of a wicked witch. “These are for something
special
.” And then she actually cackled.

I laughed at this silly side of my sixtyish aunt. Yes, she could be eccentric, but there was something mischievous behind those twinkling Betty Boop eyes
that even her Shirley Temple dimples couldn't hide. “What are you up to, Aunt Abby?”

She handed me a newspaper clipping and plopped down on the stool next to me.

I picked up the article and scanned the headline:
ANNUAL APPLE FEST OPENING OCTOBER 1ST
.

I looked at my aunt, puzzled. “What's this about?”

“Read it!” she demanded, her smile as wide as her bright eyes.

While I skimmed the article, Aunt Abby hopped off her stool and busied herself making coffee, no doubt to wash down the caramel-apple tart I was hoping to taste soon. There was nothing special about the story—just a three-paragraph piece about a popular attraction in California's gold country.

Nestled in the rolling Sierra foothills of El Dorado County is a wonderland of apple orchards and apple farms, apple wineries and apple breweries, just waiting to bring you a variety of sweet, tart, and tempting apple treats. The area, known as Apple Valley, stretches from Placerville to Pollock Pines, providing the perfect place for a fruitful getaway. You'll find apple delights, from apple-cranberry cake to zucchini-apple bread, all prepared from the freshest farm ingredients.

While you're there, be sure to sample such homemade specialties as apple crisp, apple strudel, apple bread, apple donuts, apple butter, apple cider, caramel apples, baked apples, and everyone's favorite—all-American apple pie.

Take the scenic drive along Highway 50, or ride the shuttle, which begins at Apple Annie's Farm and ends at Adam's Apples, with stops along the way at the many apple orchards, food tents, and food trucks, and the A-MAZE-ing Hay Maze. Come pick your favorite apples and taste the apple treats, all fresh from farm to fork. Remember: An apple a day keeps the doctor away—as long as you buy your apples from an Apple Valley–certified grower!

The piece, included in the “What to Do and Where to Go This Fall” section of the newspaper, was written by someone calling himself Nathan “Appleseed” Chapman, a descendant of the Johnny “Appleseed” Chapman family and the organizer of the Apple Valley Festival. Although I liked apples as much as the next all-American, I'd never been to the area, about a two-hour drive northeast from San Francisco. I got my apples from the local market, and only the green ones, which I cut and dipped in peanut butter. And sometimes chocolate.

“Is this where you got the idea for your apple tarts?” I asked.

Aunt Abby set a latte down in front of me. I encircled the hot cup with my hands to cut the fall chill and bring on the warmth. Was that cinnamon I smelled wafting from the coffee?

“Not just the idea for tarts, Darcy. I've signed up to serve them during opening weekend at the Apple Fest in four weeks.”

“What are you talking about? Are you entering a contest or something?”

“Nope,” Aunt Abby replied. “The festival committee invited selected food trucks to join in the festivities, and I applied. Guess what? I'm taking the school bus up for the weekend! Doesn't that sound fun?”

She turned her back before I could make a face. While a weekend in the country sounded nice, I had made reservations at the Butler and the Chef in the South of Market District for Jake's upcoming birthday, and had my own festivities planned. Jake Miller was the Dream Puff who owned his own cream puff truck, and we'd been seeing each other for the past few months. I'd really been looking forward to spending some alone time with him. Now I assumed I'd be dragged along to help her in her school bus–turned–food truck. I sipped my coffee and watched my aunt drizzle melted caramel on the top of the tarts, then add a dash of salt. When she was finished, she scooped one of the tarts onto a small plate and brought the still-steaming treat to me.

“Seriously? You're really going up there in the food truck?” I leaned over the apple tart and inhaled deeply.

“Doing what?” came a sleepy voice from the doorway. Dillon, Aunt Abby's twenty-five-year-old son, stood in the entryway looking like a zombie, his dark hair sticking up porcupine style, and a two – or three-day stubble on his chin. He wore a holey Tom and Jerry T-shirt and baggy flannel pajama bottoms decorated in Minecraft images. Naturally he was
barefoot, and he really needed to do something about his toenails.

“Dillon!” Aunt Abby said cheerily. “Perfect timing! You'll have to taste my salted caramel-apple tarts.”

Dillon had a knack for showing up when his mother was baking. He had some kind of sixth sense when it came to food. He lumbered in and took the stool across from me, then eyed my tart. I pulled it back and wrapped my hands around it like a prisoner hoarding food from other convicts.

“So, what were you guys talking about? Are we going on a trip?”

Before Dillon had a chance to grab my fork out of my hand, I stabbed the tart, broke off a bite, and ate it. Since I'd moved into Aunt Abby's RV in her side yard, Dillon and I had had a bit of cousin rivalry going. He was only four years younger than I, but he acted more like a teenager at times. It didn't help that his mother spoiled him rotten. “Mmmmmmm,” I murmured, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, Aunt Abby and Dillon were staring at me. “Wow” was all I could add.

Aunt Abby beamed. Dillon turned and looked at her hopefully.

“Here you go, dear,” Aunt Abby said, setting a caramel-drizzled tart in front of him. “You want coffee?”

Dillon didn't answer, too busy stuffing his mouth with the warm fruity pastry. My aunt and I looked on in awe as he wolfed it down in three large bites. “Good,” he said simply. “Can I have another?”

“No,” Aunt Abby said. “I'm taking the rest to the busterant this morning to see how the customers like them before I serve them at the Apple Fest.”

I shook my head at Aunt Abby's made-up word, “busterant.” Since her food truck was actually a converted school bus and not a truck, she coined the term for her half bus, half restaurant.

“What fest?” Dillon said, getting up and heading for the refrigerator. He opened the door, took out the milk, and drank right from the carton.

I gagged a little.

Aunt Abby explained her plan to Dillon. Opening day of the festival was in four weeks and she hoped Dillon and I would join her and help serve her apple tarts. She must have caught my hesitant look.

“Of course, there will be some perks,” she added.

“Like what?” Dillon asked.

“I've booked three rooms at the Enchanted Apple Inn, a bed-and-breakfast farm, for the weekend. My old friend from cooking school owns the place, so you'll get to see a real working apple farm.”

Dillon and I looked at each other skeptically.

“Plus,” my aunt continued, “the fest is offering apple wines and beers, a bunch of craft booths, scooter rides, a hay maze, and even a scarecrow contest! Doesn't that sound fun?” Her dimples deepened with her widening grin.

“Dude, I don't know,” Dillon said. “I've got a bunch of stuff to do on the computer, like update your Web site and maintain your Facebook and Twitter accounts. . . .”

“And I was planning to take Jake out for his birthday that weekend . . . ,” I added weakly.

“No excuses. Dillon, you can bring your computer with you. I checked with my friend Honey and she has Internet service there. And, Darcy, apparently you haven't talked to Jake this morning?”

“No, why?”

“I got him to sign up too!”

“Jake's coming?” He hadn't mentioned it when I talked to him last night.

“And so is Wes,” Aunt Abby said. “That is, if he can get the time off. Then we'll all be up there together!”

OMG. My nemesis, Detective Wellesley Shelton, had been dating my aunt for several weeks, and I still wasn't used to it. Most of my encounters with the very big, very intimidating detective had been interrogations about various homicides that had occurred recently. I couldn't imagine sitting around the breakfast table making small talk with the man.

“But—” I started to argue.

She cut me off. “Plus, I'll pay you overtime.”

Dillon wiped off the milk mustache. “I'm in.”

I sighed. I could truly use the extra money. “I guess we can celebrate Jake's birthday there with some apple birthday cake.”

“Wonderful!” Aunt Abby said. “Now, let's get to work!” Basil, Aunt Abby's long-haired Doxie, barked in excitement. Maybe she thought she'd be getting some leftovers.

Ah well. So much for a romantic birthday weekend alone with Jake.

•   •   •

As soon as we got to Fort Mason, I ducked over to the Dream Puff truck to see Jake. We'd been spending a lot of time together, but he hadn't mentioned he'd be going to the Apple Fest. Aunt Abby must have talked him into it early that morning.

“Morning, Darcy,” Jake called from the service window of his truck. Seconds later the door opened and I stepped up and into cream puff paradise. Jake wore his usual formfitting logo T-shirt and sexy jeans, covered by an orange-stained apron. I was tall at five feet ten, but he towered over me. The sparkle in his dark eyes when he looked at me made my heart skip a beat. He'd already prepared today's fall special—a cream puff shaped like a pumpkin, filled with pumpkin cream, and topped with caramel sauce and a green gumdrop to simulate the stem. Not only was it adorable; I was sure it was delicious. Jake was a master of cream puff creations, and I was his go-to taster.

“So,” I said, my eyes lingering on one of the pumpkin puffs, “I hear you're joining my aunt for the opening weekend festival at Apple Valley.”

He grinned. I melted a little. “What can I say? She has a way of wrapping me around her little manicured finger.”

“Tell me about it.” I rolled my eyes.

“She said you'll be there too, so I plan to make a reservation at the same B and B.”

“Oh no,” I said, then added, “you can just stay with me.”

His grin widened. I melted some more.

“I'm hoping it will be a nice getaway and we'll have some time together,” I continued. “I wouldn't mind taking a break from city life and all its recent drama, and spending a peaceful minivacation in the quiet country. Besides, the festival is offering apple wine. I'm a sucker for fruity wines.”

“I prefer apple beer,” Jake said as he filled more cream puffs for impending customers. “Bittersweet.”

I scrunched up my nose. “I'll stick to wine.”

“Seriously, it's good. You'll have to try it.”

I glanced back at the cream puff I'd been eyeing seconds before.

Jake caught my unsubtle hint and pulled out another cream puff from the refrigerator. “Here. Try one of my Praline Apple Cream Puffs and tell me what you think.”

I took a small bite and let the flavors of apple and caramel tickle my mouth, then dissolve away. “Killer,” I said.

“Glad you like it. Hope the Apple Fest attendees do too.” He offered me a napkin. “Actually the weekend sounds fun. I'll challenge you to a race through the hay maze.”

“I was planning to celebrate your birthday at the Butler and the Chef,” I said, “but Aunt Abby made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I guess we can celebrate up there.”

“In our room at the bed-and-breakfast inn?” Jake raised an eyebrow.

“We'll see,” I said coyly.

He laughed. “Tell you what. If I get through the hay maze first, you have to grant my every birthday wish. And if you finish first—”

“You have to do whatever I ask,” I said, cutting him off.

Jake laughed again. “Deal,” he said. “Sounds like I can't lose either way.” He reached out a hand and we shook on it. My hand lingered in his. He pulled me forward and kissed the cream puff residue from my lips. It tasted even better than the puff itself.