Chapter 2
“We’d better follow her before the battle-axe adds homicidal notch to her belt,” I mutter, watching Delora storm off through the crowd like a woman on a mission to ruin someone’s entire evening—most likely mine. “At this rate, we’ll need a bigger cemetery.”
It’s true, Bayou Hollow boasts not only the spookiest haunted house in all of Maine, but it boasts one of the more colorful cemeteries in the great state, too. Albeit sans any actual bodies. But something tells me that Delora is about to supply it with plenty.
Another murder is brewing, Fish observes from her tote, tail twitching with anticipation. I can smell the drama from here. It’s got notes of desperation and repressed rage.
Are we talking about actual murder or just the metaphorical kind? Chip asks hopefully. Because I’m hoping for the metaphorical kind. The actual kind always interrupts dinner.
He’s not wrong. We had a homicide here a few weeks back, and I was stress-eating my way through the entire concession stand inventory. Nothing says amateur detective work like solving crimes while demolishing a funnel cake. Dinner was ruined every night, and so was my carb count.
The evening air at Bayou Bend Hollow carries the intoxicating blend of cinnamon, brown sugar, and woodsmoke from the smoked turkey leg stand, while somewhere in the distance, a spooky mood music plays a tune that’s equal parts cheerful and creepy.
The autumn mist drifts between the moss-draped cypress trees, and the scent of caramel apples mingles with the earthy smell of fallen leaves and just a hint of something that might be fog machine fluid or an actual supernatural presence. My money is on the latter.
It’s the opening night of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, our week-long baking extravaganza that’s supposed to put Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland on the map. But with the event coordinator’s newfound hankering for homicide, we might just land on the news for the entirely wrong reason.
A massive glittering sign stretches between two ancient oaks, reading, Welcome to the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium in letters that twinkle like fallen stars.
Orange and purple lights snake through the Spanish moss, and jack-o’-lanterns grin from every surface with the manic enthusiasm of Halloween decorations, with the manic enthusiasm of witnesses to something sinister who wholeheartedly approve.
“That woman’s got a temper that could make a drill sergeant cry for Mommy,” Georgie notes, adjusting her glittery cat ears. “I bet she could start a fight in an empty room.”
“An empty room would be safer,” Ree adds, clutching her notebook. “At least there wouldn’t be any casualties.”
We follow Hurricane Delora toward the Sugar Crypt tent, where the real magic happens. The massive black tent glows purple from within, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones. Inside, tables groan under the weight of Halloween masterpieces that look too good to eat and too spooky to ignore.
Ghost-shaped macarons hover over dark chocolate graveyards.
Pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates sit beside cupcakes topped with tiny fondant tombstones.
A three-tiered cake shaped like a witch’s hat towers in one corner, while something that looks suspiciously like edible dirt, complete with gummy worms, spreads across another table.
And there, examining a tray of what appear to be severed fingers made from shortbread, stand the Sugar & Sass sisters themselves. They’re both somewhere in their sixties, stylish, and have the sassy attitudes to back up the moniker of their bakery.
Dilly Thatcher commands attention even when she’s standing still, which is sort of a miracle for the woman since she’s always on the move.
Her auburn hair is teased and sprayed into a style that could survive a tornado, and her makeup is applied with the precision of someone who’s never met a mirror she didn’t love.
Tonight, she’s wearing a glittery orange blouse emblazoned with Bake It Like You Mean It in rhinestones, paired with black leggings and ankle boots that add three inches to her petite frame.
Next to her, Nadine Halbrook looks like the sensible sister who keeps the books and makes sure Dilly doesn’t accidentally set the kitchen on fire.
Her white-gray hair is braided into a crown that somehow manages to look both practical and elegant, and her vintage apron features dancing skeletons that cover up a simple black dress.
Flour dusts her sleeves, and she looks as if she smells like cinnamon and common sense.
Delora reaches the sisters just as I’m eyeing the gummy worms and wondering if stress-eating candy dirt counts as a legitimate coping mechanism.
“Nice of you to finally show up,” Delora snaps at Dilly first. “I suppose sabotaging my event schedule is just another day at the office for you.”
The tent goes quiet except for the distant sound of spooky organ music and someone’s stomach growling—probably Chip’s. Okay, fine. It’s mine.
Dilly straightens to her full five-foot-nothing height, and her smile could cut diamonds.
“Your event? Oh honey, this is my show, my symposium, and my audience. I own you tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of your miserable little life. If I want to be late, I’ll be fashionably late.
If I want to leave you in the dust, I’ll make sure you choke on it. ”
The venom in her voice could dissolve steel, and probably Delora.
“Whoa, whoa.” I jump in before someone actually draws blood. “Let’s save the homicide for another night and definitely another venue. I just got this place insured.”
“And that’s assuming we can find a venue that allows weapons-grade glares,” Georgie adds helpfully.
She’s not kidding.
Delora opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be another devastating insult when a melodious Southern drawl cuts through the tension like butter through a hot biscuit.
“Now, now, ladies. Let’s settle this sweeter than Sunday tea. Tonight’s about baked goods, not baked tempers.”
All heads turn toward a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Southern Living magazine, assuming Southern Living started featuring people who could charm the paint off a fence post. The woman has shoulder-length platinum blonde hair that falls in perfect waves, winged eyeliner sharp enough to puncture tires, and the kind of smile that makes you want to tell her your deepest secrets while buying whatever buttered biscuits she’s selling.
She’s wearing high-waisted jeans that hug her curves as if they were painted on, a black blouse with pearl buttons, and an apron that says Batter Off Dead in elegant script. Gold hoops catch the tent’s lighting, and her perfume suggests expensive flowers and dangerous intentions.
“Y’all are getting yourselves all worked up over nothing,” she continues, her accent thick as molasses and twice as sweet.
“I’m Savvy Sparrow, owner of Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes Bakery down in Tennessee.
” She gestures toward a table where a casket-shaped cake sits like the centerpiece of someone’s very festive funeral.
“That there is my Rest in Peaches coffin cake. Took me three days and half my sanity to get those sugar flowers just right.”
The cake is a work of art that’s equal parts beautiful and morbid—dark chocolate shaped like an ornate casket, covered in delicate peach-colored sugar roses and trailing vines.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to wallpaper social media with it before you demolish it with a fork and zero shame.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Josie Janglewood, park owner,” I introduce myself, trying to project confidence while internally wondering if my insurance covers death by sugar sculpture.
“Owner?” Dilly’s entire demeanor shifts like someone just told her there’s an open bar. Newsflash: there’s not. “Well, aren’t you just a little firecracker,” Savvy says, looking pleased as punch by the news. “We are absolutely thrilled to be here.”
“And I’m twice as thrilled to have you,” I’m quick to tell them. “And these little critters circling my ankles are Fish and Chip.”
The women all coo at once, sans Delora, who looks as if she’s sizing them up for a snack.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Nadine says with a smile.
“The Sugar & Sass sisters are ready to make this entire week absolutely magical.” She presses a hand to her chest. “In the event you don’t know, I’m Nadine, and this ball of energy is my partner, Dilly.
Truth be told, they’re not blood-related but more the sisters of the chosen variety, very good, very longtime friends. ”
As if they needed an intro. Although I didn’t know that bit about them being family sans the bloodlines. In my experience, that’s the very best kind.
“Oh my goodness, I just love you two!” Ree gushes as she sets her cookies down and nearly accosts the woman. “I watch your special appearances every week on Morning Coffee & Chaos. You’re absolutely hilarious.”
“We do a few national shows now, too,” Nadine says with pride. “In fact, Sweet Life America is here tonight filming the whole symposium for their Halloween special. You know, they’re a national show. It’s quite a step up from our local Morning Coffee & Chaos gig.”
“The exposure will be fantastic for your Fright & Frost Halloween merchandise launch,” Dilly assures me, her business instincts clearly sharper than her kitchen knives.
“We’ve already seen some of the culinary pieces you’re featuring—those bat-shaped spatulas are absolutely precious, and don’t get me started on those gorgeous rolling pins with the gold ghosts etched into the marble.
Heavy enough to tenderize meat or defend yourself, whichever comes first.”
They all share a quick laugh while I try not to think about how prophetic that statement might be.
Fish and Chip choose this moment to chime in.
Oddly violent for a baking demonstration, Fish observes.
She definitely has enemies, Chip adds.
And I’m betting Delora does, too.
“Well, if it isn’t the sweetest little sugar cookies this side of heaven!” Savvy coos, scooping up both Fish and Chip and planting kisses on their furry heads before they can protest.
Both cats sniff her simultaneously, and their expressions shift from tolerance to something just this side of horror.
She smells like a D-O-G! Fish’s yowl could shatter crystal. A big, fluffy, probably-drools-everywhere DOG!
Abort mission! Chip broadcasts in panic. This is not a drill! We are in enemy territory!
Savvy chortles and coos as if spooking cats were her singular pleasure in life.
“Why, I think they’re picking up the scent of my sweet Cupcake.
She’s a standard poodle, white as fresh-fallen snow and twice as fluffy.
Half the time she looks like she’s been dusted with powdered sugar, and honestly, half the time she has.
” She laughs again, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
“She’s around here somewhere, probably charming treats out of some unsuspecting turkey leg vendor.
I’m sure you three furry cuties will be fast friends! ”
Fish and Chip exchange a look that suggests they’d rather make friends with a pack of rabid wolves.
“Speaking of friends,” Dilly says with a smile that doesn’t quite initiate, “Nadine, don’t you think it’s time we discussed the final arrangements for tomorrow’s demonstration?”
“I thought we’d settled all that,” Nadine replies, her tone neutral yet contrived.
“Oh, we settled it, all right.” Dilly’s voice carries an edge sharp enough to slice frozen butter. “Just like we settled your little creative differences about the recipe modifications.”
Nadine’s jaw tightens. “Those weren’t creative differences. Those were improvements.”
“Improvements?” Dilly laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what we’re calling those culinary catastrophes?”
Before the sister showdown can escalate further, Dilly turns her attention to Savvy with a smile that could freeze fire.
“And Savvy, honey, I do hope your coffin cake tastes better than your last appearance on Southern Sweets & Treats. What did that reviewer call it? ‘Ambitious but ultimately deceased?’”
Savvy’s smile never wavers, but her eyes glitter with more than a hint of glossy danger.
“Why, bless your heart, Dilly Thatcher. You’re still upset about losing the Charleston Bake-Off to my ambitious but ultimately delicious bourbon pecan tart.
Some folks just can’t handle the competition, I suppose. ” She lifts a shoulder and winks.
I think that was the politest character assassination I’ve ever seen.
Savvy just served Dilly her own head on a silver platter with a side of honey butter and a blessing to boot.
The tension in the tent could can cut with a butter knife—or possibly the aforementioned marble rolling pin that my merch team and I helped pick out. The merch team consists of two cats and me, but that’s beside the point.
A sharp bell cuts through the air, saving us all from witnessing what might have been the first-ever murder by pastry bag.
“Showtime, ladies! It’s time to get the cameras rolling!” someone calls out, and just like that, things are about to take a dramatic turn for the delicious. Here’s hoping we don’t add murder to the menu.