Éclair and Present Danger

“Laura Bradford has done it again.
Éclair and Present Danger
is filled with interesting, realistic characters and a plot that will keep you turning pages all the way to the sweet reveal at the end. This scrumptious new series is not to be missed.”

—Paige Shelton,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A tasty, twisty tale full of felonies and flavor! Laura Bradford cooks up a delightful cast of characters led by clever amateur sleuth and dessert rescuer Winnie Johnson. The plot is delicious and moves at a swift pace, keeping the reader guessing while frantically turning the pages as Winnie tries to solve the murder of an old friend and make sure that his killer gets his just desserts.”

—Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times
bestselling author

Sweet Relief

“She's not moving,” Renee supplied. “The bakery will be.”

“You're going to commute?” asked Bridget.

Again, Renee answered for Winnie. “Nope. The bakery will move . . . literally.”

“I don't understand—”

Winnie turned to Renee and gave her what she hoped was the universal nonverbal sign to shut her mouth. It didn't work.

“Winnie is going to start the Emergency Dessert Squad with that ambulance she got from Gertie. And her menu is going to be created around the kind of emergency situations that might prompt a person to need dessert—like menopause, or a broken heart, or a horrible day at work. That sort of thing. We've been working on cute dessert titles all morning. Like Hot Flash Fudge Sundae and—”

Bridget stopped all further explanation from Renee's mouth with a well-placed hand and turned her undivided attention toward Winnie. “Or like when your neighbor is afraid because an old friend has been murdered?”

Amish Mysteries

HEARSE AND BUGGY

ASSA
ULTED PRETZEL

SHUNNE
D AND DANGEROUS

SUSP
ENDERED SENTENCE

A C
HURN FOR THE WORSE

Emergency Dessert Squad Mysteries

ÉCLAIR AND PRESENT DANGER

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

ÉCLAIR AND PRESENT DANGER

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Laura Bradford.

Excerpt from
Silence of the Flans
by Laura Bradford copyright © 2016 by Laura Bradford.

Penguin 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 to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 9780698193833

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2016

Cover illustration by Brandon Dorman.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

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.

For Emily.
If Winnie can do it, so can
you.

Everything about writing this book was magical—from the moment the concept first came to me (while driving my car), until the very last word (I think I actually squealed when I typed “The End”). As this story (and the stories that will soon follow in the series) unfolded on my computer screen, I found myself becoming quite attached to Winnie, Renee, Mr. Nelson, and the rest of the gang. Getting to live in “their world” for a little while was an absolute joy.

A huge thank you goes out to Lynn Deardorff and Eileen Pearce for helping me brainstorm some of the same dessert names Winnie brainstorms with
her
friends. They had me giggling and saying, “Yes!” just like Winnie does.

I'd also like to thank my editor, Michelle Vega, for her continued belief in me.

And, finally, I'd like to thank you—my readers. Whether you're just now finding me through the Emergency Dessert Squad Mysteries, or you've been reading my work (such as my Amish Mysteries) for a while, the fact that you're here—with this book in your hand—matters to me. Thank
you.

“I
'm sorry, could you, um, read that one more time, please?” Winnie Johnson rested her elbows on the edge of Charles Woodward's desk and willed herself to concentrate. “I've been a little scattered these last few weeks, and I think my mind might be playing tricks on me.”

For a moment, she wasn't sure he'd heard, but, eventually, he nodded, cleared his throat, and began reading from the semi-tattered paper in his hands.

“I, Gertrude Redenbacher, being of sound mind and body, do bequest my precious angel, Lovey, to my sweet neighbor, Winnie Johnson. I'm sure, given time, Lovey will come to adore Winnie just as much as I have these last two years.” Charles glanced up, his tired eyes pinning hers. “Are you still with me, Miss Johnson?”

All she could do was nod, and his focus shifted back down to the paper as she did. “Additionally, having never been blessed with any children of our own, I also must bequest to Winnie my late husband's beloved vintage ambulance. He may not have finished restoring it to its original
grandeur, but it runs, and it will keep Winnie from having to walk to the bakery in the rain.”

Nope. Her mind wasn't scattered. She'd heard every last word exactly the same way the first go-round. Only this time, when the attorney's monotone delivery came to an end, it touched off an almost maniacal laugh track in her head.

“Miss Johnson? Are you all right?”

She glanced around the room, her gaze falling on a miniature bonsai tree on the corner of the man's desk. “Oh, I know what's going on here . . .” Without waiting for a reply, she reached over, parted each branch, and then moved on to a complete and thorough inspection of the soil in which the tree was planted.

No camera . . .

“Miss Johnson, I notarized Gertrude's wishes myself not more than six months ago.” Charles pulled the pot closer to his chair and brushed the disturbed soil back into place. “Her body was failing her, of course, but her mind was sharp as a tack. This is what she wanted.”

“Wait.” She fell back against her chair, a new and different laugh making its way past her lips. “Mr. Nelson put you up to this, didn't he?”

“Mr. Nelson?” Charles parroted.

“Yes. Parker Nelson. My downstairs neighbor.” Suddenly, it all added up. Mr. Nelson was always playing tricks on her—whoopee cushions on her porch furniture, toy mice on her steps, even hiding her newspaper in a different place each day. Surely this whole cat-and-ambulance-bequeathing thing was just more of the same. “Okay. You got me.”

“I
got
you?”

“Yes. But how'd he get you to do it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Nelson. How'd he get you to read
that
version instead of the real one?”

Charles let her finger guide his attention back to the paper on his desk before he pushed back his chair and stood. Then,
leaning across the polished mahogany surface, he pressed the intercom button on the side of his phone. “Susan? Could you please bring in Miss Johnson's items?”

“I'll be right in, Mr. Woodward.”

Releasing the button, he spun the paper around and scooted it across the desk to Winnie. “I'll need to keep the original, of course, but I'll see that Susan makes a copy for you before you leave. That way you don't have to worry about taxes on the vehicle in the event the government should ever question—”

A door opened behind her, and she turned to see the same kind yet efficient woman who'd whisked Winnie into the attorney's inner sanctum within moments of her arrival. This time, though, instead of Gertrude's file and a mug of steaming black coffee, the secretary handed her boss a pair of keys and a brown and white tabby cat who promptly turned and hissed at Winnie.

*   *   *

S
he took a deep breath and yanked open the bakery door, the tower of boxes lined up along the southern wall no different than she'd left it an hour earlier. Likewise, its unassembled counterparts on the opposite wall also remained unchanged.

“What a difference an hour makes,” Winnie mumbled to no one in particular as she set the cat carrier beside the counter, exchanged her new set of keys for the folded pink apron she'd left behind the counter, and braced herself for the questions that were no more than five seconds away.

Five . . .

Four . . .

Three . . .

Two . . .

“Welcome to Delectable Delights, how may I help—Winnie! You're back! Oh my gosh, how did it go? Are you rich? Can we stay open?” Renee Ballentine did a little jig
halfway across the room, her voice dripping with unbridled excitement. “I didn't bother packing any more boxes because I figured we'd just end up unpacking them the minute you got back, anyway. So? Tell me what happened. And don't leave
anything
out.”

Me-owww . . .

Renee shoved a wisp of white blond hair behind her ear and looked around. “Did you hear that?”

Meee-owwwww . . .

“There it is again!” Renee craned her head to the left and then the right as her emerald-colored eyes surveyed the sidewalk outside the bakery. “It almost sounds like it's in here
with
us, doesn't it?”

Winnie stared up at the ceiling and weighed her options. She could pretend she didn't hear anything and let her one and only soon-to-be-let-go employee think psychosis was setting in, she could act shocked to see the cage and the cat, or she could simply share the details of her morning and wallow in any pity that would likely come her way as a result.

She opted for the latter. “It sounds like it's coming from inside because it
is
. And its name is Lovey.”

“
Lovey
?”

“Look, I didn't name it. I just inherited it. From Gertrude.” She led Renee over to the cage and pointed at the cat. “See?”

Renee squatted her ample figure atop her three-inch stilettos and peeked inside the cage. “Oh, Winnie, she's really, really cute.”

“Cute?”

“You don't think so?”

“It's hard to think much of anything when she so clearly hates me,” Winnie said.

“
Hates
you?”

“She hisses every single time she even looks at me.”

“C'mon, Winnie, why would she do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe she knows somehow.”

“
Knows
?” Renee asked. “Knows what?”

“That I killed the family goldfish when I was three.”

Renee laughed. “You killed a goldfish?”

“Yup. Two of them—Goldie and Silver.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I fed them salt.”

“
Salt
?”

Even now, thirty-one years later, she felt the need to explain the actions that had led to her first and only true dalliance with crime. “I'd watched my mom shake the box of food over the tank countless times. It looked neat and like something I wanted to try, too. A saltshaker fit the bill. Next thing I knew, I was attending my first and last toilet-side memorial—as a murderer.” Winnie slumped against the counter and tried not to look at the boxes lining the walls of her dream. Two hours earlier, she'd actually thought there was a chance to keep her doors open. Now, unfortunately, she knew better.

“So the moral of this story, Lovey, is to be wary of your food, okay?” Renee poked a finger inside the cage, stroked as much of Lovey's head as she could access, and then looked up at Winnie. “So what else did Gertie leave—”

The jingle of the door-mounted bell that had alerted them to customers over the past two years brought their collective attention to the front of the store and Renee to her feet.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! It's
him
,” Renee whispered. “Master Sergeant Hottie.”

“Good almost afternoon, ladies.”

Winnie quickly parted company with the wall on which she'd been leaning, her mental eye taking in each and every detail of the man now standing inside her bakery in a standard paramedic uniform. A quick glance pegged him to be in his thirties, though if she had to venture a more specific guess, she'd put him around thirty-eight. A longer look had her noticing his hair (which was cut close at the sides and well shy of his ears), his shape (quite toned), his dimples
(capable of causing momentary heart stoppage), and his eyes (the exact color of chocolate melting in the double boiler) . . .

Renee's elbow found Winnie's ribs and brought her back to the present and the odd look now sported on Master Sergeant Hottie's ruggedly handsome face. “Oh. Yes. Good afternoon. Welcome to Delectable Delights. I'm sorry to say our inventory is a bit low today, but I can promise what we have is still—”

“
Delectable
,” Renee interjected. “Get it?
Delectable
Delights?”

He closed the gap between them in three long strides only to stop when he noticed the cat carrier. Bending down, he peered inside the cage and was rewarded with a quiet purr for his efforts. “Cute cat. What's her—or is it
his
—name?”

“Her name is Lovey.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lovey.” Straightening, Master Sergeant Hottie offered his hand to Renee, and then to Winnie. “I'm Greg. Greg Stevens.”

She resisted the urge to reach across and wipe the hint of drool from the corner of Renee's mouth and, instead, shook Greg's hand. “I'm Winnie Johnson.”

“You're new in town, aren't you?” Renee asked in her usual get-to-the-point way. “A retired army medic, yes?”

A flash of surprise rolled across Greg's features only to disappear behind a nod. “That's right. Moved here about two months ago.” He smiled at Winnie and then pointed out the front window to the vintage ambulance parked across the street. “Is that your ride out there?”

Renee tried to cover her snort with a well-placed hand, but she was about a second too late. “Winnie doesn't own a ride. She
walks
to—”

“Yes. That's mine.” She could feel Renee's eyes burning into the side of her scalp just as surely as she felt the noticeable cooling that came with the woman's subsequent glance toward the road.

“Wait. You already bought a
car
?”

Ignoring her friend's question, Winnie captured the end of her mousy brown ponytail between her fingers and kept her focus on Greg. “If someone called to complain about the siren, it was a mistake. I tried to find the blinker, and, well, didn't.”

“Siren?” Renee echoed. “What siren?”

“That's a 1960 Cadillac Miller-Meteor ambulance. And it appears to be in pretty good shape,” Greg said as he gestured toward the window. “How long have you had it?”

She turned around, took note of the clock, and then wandered behind the dessert case with a renewed sense of dread. “An hour. Give or take a few minutes on either side.”

The paramedic's surprise was back, this time in the form of a raised eyebrow. “Where'd you buy it?” he asked. “I've been looking for one of those for almost three years.”

Renee moved closer to the window, the mental wheels in her head virtually clacking along with the remaining hours Winnie had left as a bakery owner.

“I inherited it from a dear friend who passed away a few weeks ago.” Winnie peered through the rear access door of the glass-fronted case and then dropped back against the wall. “Now, instead of owning a bakery, I own an ambulance.”

Renee spun around. “Wait. Are you telling me that Gertie left you an
ambulance
?”

“I'm telling you she left me an ambulance
and
a cat. We must not forget the cat.”

“And?”

“That's it, Renee. Just an ambulance and a cat.”

“No money?”

A lump rose inside her throat, making it difficult to speak. Instead, she shook her head and blinked rapidly against the tears that threatened.

“Oh. Wow.” Renee's shoulders dropped a good inch or two. “So today really
is
our last day?
For sure
?”

When Winnie didn't answer, Renee turned to Greg.
“Winnie, here, is the most amazing dessert maker on the face of the earth. Every time you think you've eaten the greatest treat you've ever had, she follows it up with something even better. It's been her dream since she was a little girl, isn't that right, Winnie?”

She tried to shake off the conversation, but Renee barreled on. “You should see her when she's baking. It's like this calm comes across her and she slips into her own little world. It's mesmerizing to watch, really.”

Greg looked from Winnie to Renee and back again, the lighthearted aura he'd had only moments earlier suddenly gone, as if he sensed he'd walked in on something deep. Renee, of course, prattled on, filling in gaps the man never requested to be filled. “Anyway, the landlord has this crazy notion that Silver Lake is the next up-and-coming town. That people are going to flock here by the hundreds to do God knows what. So, in preparation of such a miracle, he's raised the rent so high on this shop that we can't afford to stay here anymore.”