Seasoned for Murder

Hey there, sleuth. I’m Mira Wolfe, and this is your cozy little taste of Seasoned for Murder—a Thanksgiving mystery full of secrets, sass, and a suspiciously sharp carving knife. Slip into something comfy, grab a warm drink, and enjoy the first delicious bite:

The Feast Before the Storm

The small town of Maple Bend was carved out of the side of a mountain. Small cottages, mostly made of brick and mortar and painted white, hugged the sides of hidden paths and winding main roads that all led from the top, where Clara Sage and her nearly ancient Victorian home stood, to the bottom, at the base of the mountain, which pooled to form Maple Estuary. The fishing was great any time of year, and potlucks were served with the same seriousness they had for local college football.

     November had rushed in like a lion; alternating freezing nights and torrential rains made preparing for the holiday season a challenge, but Clara was all about taking on a good challenge.

     Only now the rains had turned to something else.

     Several news reports had been breaking all morning that ice, and a lot of it, was about to start raining down on Maple Bend at any moment. Clara was in a state of panic. As a retired food critic and host of her annual Friendsgiving dinner, the meal had to be spectacular. All eyes and taste buds would be judging her, and her secret family spice blend that she guards like gold.  

     Fortunately for her, Noah Reed, a good friend and neighbor, had been helping to prepare her kitchen all morning, even dusting and rearranging Clara’s spice rack and insisting that she not change it. He was the local handyman, a bit of a foodie himself, with an impressive knowledge of spices that matched her own. 

     Tessa Bloom was the first to arrive. Draped head to toe in cream on cream, she looked like a cosmic Marange pie. She considered herself a bit of a food blogger and an aspiring influencer. Her page was growing rapidly, and the idea of photographing today’s holiday spread made her eyes sparkle.

     “Oh, my goodness!” she cooed, unwrapping the top layer of Marange and tossing it onto the nearest chair. “It smells like heaven in here!”

     “Thanks,” Clara said. “How are the roads?”

     “Hideous,” Tessa said. “Only not hideous enough to keep me away. I need to get some shots of the kitchen, including the mess. People love it when someone else’s kitchen is a bigger mess than theirs, makes them feel good about themselves.”

     Clara just pointed towards the kitchen. “Help yourself, only no taste testing!”

     “Roger that,” Tessa said. A swift salute and a dash to the kitchen were followed by the sound of Noah yelling about the interruption.  

     Next through the door was Martin Sage, Clara’s brother-in-law, a man of few words but strong opinions. He was hard to please when it came to food, preferring his late wife’s cooking over that of everyone else. Although, in all fairness, he never seemed to like her cooking either while she was still alive. It was only after her death that she blossomed as a cook. Strange how that happens.

     “I’m staying the night,” he announced as he tossed his woolly hat and overstuffed parka on top of Tessa’s Marange wrap. “It’s a death wish out there, that is, unless you want to see me dead as well.”

     “Of course not, Martin. You’re always welcome,” Clara smiled warmly at him. As miserable as the old man was, she enjoyed his company. He reminded her of an old cat her mother had — full of piss and wind, but deep down just wanting to be loved.

     The next two came in rapid succession.

     First, Graham Pike, a celebrity chef with his own cooking show, was in town for a ‘local flavor’ special arranged by Clara’s husband as a peace offering for missing the meal since he had been called out of town on business. The word around town was that Graham Pike was a notorious recipe thief—something Mr. Sage had failed to mention. Clara couldn’t imagine how he managed to get his cherry red Porsha up the mountain without bottoming out.

     “God save me from small towns,” he said, bursting in and eyeing Clara’s romantic Victorian décor. She couldn’t help but notice his nose twitch, and she wondered if it was her cooking or her cabbage rose slipcovers that offended him more.

     “What a treat to have you here, Mr. Pike. My husband has nothing but good things to say about you and your new cookbook. He said that you’d be dropping off the manuscript for him to review once he returns.”

     Graham Pike deflated. “You mean he’s not even here?”

     Clara shook her head. “No, sorry. He was called away unexpectedly to L.A. Won’t be back until the first of December.”

     Graham was about to protest when Ellie Moran, Clara’s cheerful but nosy neighbor, approached him from behind. Her complete love for all things Graham Pike made it impossible to avoid the introduction. 

     Unfortunately, in her outstretched hands was an oversized bowl of her go-to dessert, Green Jello Salad.

     The horrified look that washed over Graham’s face was only amplified by the sudden gust of wind and rain that pushed everyone inside.

     “Right, let’s get this party started,” Clara said through clenched teeth. “Ellie, you can help me bring the food out.”

Seeds of Conflict

The table groaned with food.

     Before them lay a veritable cornucopia of splendid foods, the ultimate ham and turkey Friendsgiving dinner as never seen before.

     Spiral-cut, bone-in ham from a local farm; free-range heritage turkey from her own backyard; Brussels sprouts with pancetta and freshly grated Parmesan; caramelized onion gravy; sausage and cranberry stuffing; bacon mac and cheese with a potato chip crust; maple pecan butternut squash; cranberry sauce with orange zest; green bean almondine; classic mashed potatoes; Parker House rolls; pecan pie; pumpkin pie; and who could forget Ellie Moran’s bowl of Green Jello Salad.

     Ellie had insisted on sitting right next to Graham, who, by all accounts, went to great lengths to ignore her and her Green Jello Salad.

     Clara sat at the head of the table, and since her husband was currently in L.A. dealing with some publishing emergency, Graham took his seat at the far end. He made a show of bringing his brown leather satchel to the table, full of notes for his upcoming book, “Seasoned for Success,” the outline, and several of his award-winning recipes. All of which he had gushed about nonstop since entering the house.

     “I think it’s deliciously brazen of you to cook a holiday meal,” Graham said, looking down his nose at the selection of food on the table. “After so many years of criticizing other chefs’ culinary masterpieces in those magazine articles of yours, you stick your homespun neck out onto the proverbial block.”

     Clara smiled as best she could and took another sip of her spiced apple cider, which had more than a touch of rum, then removed the napkin from its holder and placed it on her lap. “Well, since I’m not charging a fee, I think whatever the meal tastes like is my own business.”

     Uneasy glances raced around the room just as more snow and ice pelted against the window as if to protest Graham’s rudeness.

     “Well, I think everything looks amazing, Clara. I’ve had over three hundred likes already, and that’s just from the shots I took in the kitchen!” Tessa said, her back to Graham.

     “Clara here is a talented cook in her own right, and writer, which is more than I can say about you, not to mention her ideas are all her own,” Martin said. Never one to pass on a confrontation or to hold his tongue, he kept a steady gaze on Graham.

     Graham broke first.

     “Right,” he said, rising from the table, his glass outstretched, wrapped in plump fingers. “A toast to the days when cooking at home will be considered a dying art, and those who keep doing it are a dying breed.”

     Noah cleared his throat. “Not sure if that was complimentary or not, but I’ll go along and add that Clara Sage is a woman of many talents and many dishes, all of which are amazing.”

     “Thanks, Noah—and Graham. I want to say that having everyone here is a blessing,” she looked out the large window at the growing storm of ice and snow, and added, “That might last longer than anticipated. Thank goodness for warm fires and strong rum.”

     “If you enjoy strong drinks, Clara, you’ll need to get a copy of my book. I dedicate an entire chapter to cozy winter mixed drinks that will make anyone’s company seem bearable,” Graham said, nodding towards Martin. “Almost anyone’s.”

     “I may be a miserable old bastard, but at least I’m not a thief,” Martin said, his voice beginning to rise.

     “Who are you calling a thief?” Graham demanded.

     Martin jabbed his fork in Graham’s direction and said, “You, that whole book deal you’re working on was all my late wife’s idea, and you know it. You didn’t even have the decency to mention her in the dedication. And before you deny it, I’ve seen a copy. Garbage.”

     “Garbage!” Graham’s face turned red. “What are you calling garbage?”

     There was a loud clanging of silver on crystal as Clara drew the table’s attention to herself.

     “Okay, let’s simmer down before we all boil over. There’s a good chance that we’ll be spending the night together, and I don’t need Armageddon during dinner. How about I carve the turkey, and we enjoy the food?”

     “I think I should cut the turkey,” Graham said. “After all, I’m the professional here. I think whatever effort you put into dinner tonight should get a fighting chance.”

     “Fine,” Clara said, her smile tight. “You carve.”

Served Cold

      As much as Clara hated to admit it, Graham did an excellent job carving the turkey.

     The dinner seemed to be going exceedingly well, as long as everyone was busy stuffing their faces and not talking. Chatter, as it turned out, always seemed to gravitate toward an argument. Even so, by the time dessert made its way onto the table, Graham Pike was not feeling well.

     He sat at the other end of the table, sweat streaming down his forehead, his face contorted.

     “Are you feeling alright?” Clara asked. With his position directly across from her, she couldn’t help but watch him struggle, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Maybe you’ve over done it. We could see if the game is on.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s just that the seasoning on the green beans almondine is too strong; what is that, anyway?”

     Everyone stopped to look at him now as he suddenly doubled over in his chair.

     “What seasoning?” Tessa asked. “The only thing I see is a bit of parsley.” She leaned over to look at his plate. “What is that anyway? No one else has that.”

     Clara rushed over to the table to check his plate. Sure enough, scattered across his serving of green bean almondine was what looked like dried oregano, and a lot of it. She quickly glanced at everyone else’s plate and the large serving dish, and none of them had the seasoning.

     “Oh, my God,” she said as Graham slid from his chair and crumpled onto the floor, his face bright red. She knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse, her cheek gently pressed to his lips to check if he was still breathing.

     Nothing.

     “I think he’s dead,” Clara said.

If this teaser made you smile, gasp, or mentally accuse every relative at the dinner table… you’re my people. The Maple Bend Holiday Whodunit Collection Volume One comes with the full story and all the Thanksgiving drama you can handle.

Listen, bestie… don’t leave yourself on a cliffhanger. Go grab the paperback version on Amazon!