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Tag: bread shop mysteries

Blueberry Cornmeal Cake
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Easy and Delicious Gluten-Free Blueberry Cornmeal Cake

  One of the things I love about writing my Bread Shop Mystery series is that I get to read cookbooks, which is a favorite pastime.I also then get to adapt recipes and bake. And one of the things I love about living in North Carolina is the blueberries. We have two blueberry farms nearby. I go to pick them several times during the short summer window when they are ripe. Sometimes I make blueberry jam; sometimes I bake blueberry pie (my favorite!); sometimes I make blueberry strata; and sometimes, I make this recipe: Blueberry Cornmeal Cake.We have a gluten free household, so I look for recipes that can be easily converted to GF. This is one. It’s equally good with wheat flour or GF flour.This recipe is a Friday favorite of the victim in Bread Over Troubled Water. Of course his death has nothing to do with the actual cake. It’s a great holiday breakfast cake, too. We love to have sweet baked treats like this on weekend mornings (especially Christmas!). What is your favorite brunch baked treat?

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Book Excerpt: Death Gone a-Rye

Read the first chapter in Death Gone a-Rye Chapter 1 The sky was a periwinkle blue dotted with cotton ball clouds. The sound of waves crashed along the surf, intermixed with the occasional squawk of a sea gull. The light April breeze might have made the late afternoon too chilly for an outdoor wedding, but the stars had aligned and the weather was a temperate sixty-eight degrees. It couldn’t have been more perfect if we had dialed in an order to Mother Nature herself. My brother, Billy Culpepper, stood with his back to the Pacific Ocean wearing a cream-colored lightweight suit, turquoise tie and boutonniere, and a stupidly beautiful and nervous grin. His hazel eyes seemed to almost glow with the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean behind him. His best man, Terry Masaki, stood next to him in a similar linen suit, a slight wave in his fine black hair. It was parted in the middle and gave him a movie star look. The sole groomsman was Emmaline’s brother, Efram. He was wider than both Billy and Terry, had a nearly shaved head, and had cheekbones that sliced across his face. He was half tank, half man, and, from my experience with him, was the biggest teddy bear on the planet. The three men stood in front of the unbelievably gorgeous wedding arch Billy had built in his garage. He had used over thirty pieces of driftwood that he’d gathered from coastal shores during the last several months. He’d designed the arbor to be self-standing with the two support poles, two sides, and a top piece wound together from the wood. While Billy and Em were on their honeymoon, Terry and Efram would disassemble it and put it up in their backyard. From wedding arch to backyard arbor, the piece would be a constant reminder of Billy and Emmaline’s special day. Emmaline hadn’t seen the arbor yet. Billy was full of surprises for the love of his life. They’d spent years at different crossroads, always missing each other. She’d been attached, and he hadn’t. Or he’d been seeing someone when she was single. Finally, though, they’d gotten together, and now they were getting hitched. Everything was as it should be. A cluster of greenery and flowers cascaded down from the top left of the arbor, with another bouquet on the right side. White tulle had been wrapped around the frame, the ends now billowing in the gentle wind. It was magical. The outdoor patio of Baptista’s Cantina and Grill had been transformed from a dining area to a wedding venue and Miguel, who happened to be the love of my life, had closed the restaurant for the occasion. The moment the ceremony ended, he had staff ready to move the chairs that currently faced the altar, set up tables, and serve the food that was being prepared in the restaurant’s state-of-the-art kitchen, which Miguel had recently renovated. My brother’s wedding to my best friend was one for the ages. Everything was perfect. A string trio, playing a violin, a viola, and a cello, sat on white slipcovered chairs, music stands holding the sheet music. They played while the guests trickled in. Traditionally, the groom’s friends and family sat on one side while the bride’s friends and family sat on the other. Billy and Emmaline had grown up together, so, for the most part, they shared the same friends. Those friends seated themselves on either side of the aisle, while Emmaline’s family took the front row seats on the left. My dad, two of my cousins who’d up come from Los Angeles, and Olaya Solis and Penelope Branford, who were the women I’d chosen to be part of my family, sat on the right with Olaya next to my dad, Owen, and Mrs. Branford on his other side. They were bolstering him with silent emotional support, I knew. There was a hole in all of our hearts because of my mother’s absence. I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes. She might not be here with us physically, but I could feel her presence. I met Billy’s gaze and raised my eyebrows. He was marrying his soul mate, but I understood his nerves. Marriage was a big step. I knew. I’d been there once. If and when I ever did it again, it would be forever. He flipped his wrist and glanced down at his watch, then back at me. I got the message. My heart fluttered. It was time. I scurried around the chairs, noticing people I recognized as members of the Santa Sofia sheriff’s department, which Emmaline Davis ran, huddled together. Some of her staff were manning the office and streets, but a handful of them, including the captain, a new position within the department, were here to celebrate her wedding. Emmaline had stepped into the role of sheriff after her predecessor found himself in a heap of trouble. He’d run a bare-bones operation with minimal manpower to fill the typical positions within a department. Em had changed all that. She’d established a hierarchy, which included a captain who was over the criminal investigation division, freeing up Emmaline to run the department, which oversaw the county jail, policed the unincorporated areas of our county, served warrants, and secured the courthouses. It was a big job, but she was a strong woman and more than capable of handling it all. The new captain was a tall, thin man with long sideburns and feathery blond hair. All he needed was a black turtleneck and a brown leather blazer and he could have played David Soul’s part in a Starsky & Hutch reboot. As I scooted by, he withdrew his cell phone from the pocket of his lightweight jacket and peered at it, but the sudden movement of his department people drew his attention away from his screen. As if they’d received some sort of subliminal message, Emmaline’s subordinates moved as a group toward their seats. I slipped through the patio door leading inside the restaurant. The second Emmaline laid eyes on me, she screeched, all her sheriff composure out the window. “Ivy, where have you been? I’m so nervous. I think my knees are going to buckle.” I rushed over to her. “You and Billy have been waiting for this day since you were kids. Come on, you’re fine.” Em’s mother and father had stepped back, allowing me room to wrap my arms around my best friend and give her a squeeze. “He’s a great guy,” she said. I might be biased because he’s my brother, but I agreed with her. Wholeheartedly. “He definitely is a great guy. Better than great. And you are perfect together.” She lifted her chin slightly, her lips curving up. “I really thought this day would never come.” From the patio, the string trio finished the song they’d been playing. A silence fell. I squeezed Em’s hand. “But here it is,” I said just as the string instruments began playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. “Ready, love?” Emmaline’s mother had stepped forward next to her daughter. Em nodded, her eyes already glistening. Miguel looked dashing in beige linen pants, boat shoes, and a black guayabera decorated with satin stitching on either side of the buttons. His years in the military, coupled with his daily bike rides and runs along the beach, meant he was lean and mean and wore his clothes well. Enrique Iglesias had nothing on Miguel Baptista. He whispered something to the little flower girl, who was Terry Masaki’s four-year-old daughter, Hana. She giggled and bit her lower lip as she got ready to skip toward the groom. She looked like a fairy in her pale turquoise sheath, her satiny black hair dusting her shoulders, and a wreath of daisies like a halo encircling her head. She waved at her daddy, who stood next to Billy, then at her mom, Mei, who snapped pictures of her little girl with her phone. Miguel urged Hana forward and she started down the aisle. She carried a sweet drawstring satin bag, digging her hand into it, pulling it out with a fist full of satin silver, aquamarine, and turquoise rose petals, and tossing them on the white runner leading to the altar. Emmaline’s cousin, Vonnie, went next. Vonnie was shorter than Em. They had the same perfect dark skin, but while Emmaline was slender, Vonnie was curvy. She had a weave done for the wedding and today her black hair had a million kinky curls, the volume of it framing her face. Emmaline generally preferred natural, but for the wedding she’d gone with braids woven into an intricate updo. Emmaline had wanted a small wedding party with her one bridesmaid—Vonnie—and me, her maid of honor, looking beachy and radiant. Her life was all order amid the chaos of crime. In contrast, she wanted her wedding to be relaxed and effervescent. So far, so good. Vonnie- glided down the aisle, holding a small spray of daisies tied together with a length of white ribbon. When she was halfway to the altar, I straightened my dress. The shade of turquoise was paler than Vonnie’s. It draped over one shoulder, reminiscent of a Greek goddess, and fell effortlessly, flowing behind me as I walked slowly down the aisle. When I reached the halfway mark between the restaurant and the altar, the Pachelbel faded, and the traditional wedding march began. The guests rose in unison and all eyes turned to face the bride. I reached my spot next to Vonnie. We smiled at each other and as I looked at Emmaline, flanked on either side by her parents, gliding toward us, my eyes filled. My best friend was getting married. To my brother. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better day for them. Beneath her veil, I knew Em’s eyes were glistening. From the driftwood archway to Vonnie and me, to the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop, and then to Billy, standing next to Terry and Efrem, a goofy grin on his face, this was the day she’d been looking forward to. She reached the front altar. Her mom lifted Em’s veil, arranging it so it hung neatly behind her. She bussed her daughter’s cheek. Em hugged her mom, then her dad. They retreated to their reserved seats while Em handed me her bouquet of fresh daisies. As Billy stepped next to her, she pointed at the archway, whispering something to him. He nodded, and this time, her eyes filled and her lower lip quivered with emotion. She wove her arm around his and moved closer. As the pastor led the ceremony, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I scanned the guests. Everyone’s attention was on Billy and Emmaline. Everyone except one man. Miguel sat in the back row, ready to jump into action once the ceremony ended. But for now, he was intent, not on the wedding couple, but on me. As I met his gaze, one side of his mouth lifted in a saucy smile and his eyebrows raised slightly. What was his unspoken message? I couldn’t exactly say, but I liked that he was thinking about me in this moment. Miguel and I had been through a lot over the years, but we’d found our way back to each other and it was nothing but bright roads ahead for us. I smiled back at him, then returned my attention to the ceremony. Billy and Em had chosen to write their own vows, something I wasn’t sure I’d have the courage to do and speak aloud. Emmaline was finishing hers, speaking through her tears. “Things have a way of falling into place at the right time. It took a while, but we were finally in the right place at the right time. You are my soul mate, Billy, and I love you. I love the way you show your love for me. I love how I still get butterflies whenever I lay eyes on you. I

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Healthy and easy potato cheese soup
Recipes

Healthy Delicious Potato Cheese Soup

  Who doesn't love a healthy potato cheese soup recipe? I certainly do, and this one fits the bill. I love potatoes. I'm with Dolly Parton when she said, "I never met a spud I didn't like." Yup, that is absolutely true for me, too.Whether a spud comes in the form of Chick-fil-A fries, a baked potato with all the fixins, or mashed and served with gravy, they are a-okay?? in my book. Oh! And there are plenty that do end up in my books.I especially love that this puréed soup is a healthy version of the normally much higher fat and calorie potato cheese soup. No cream needed in this! I make this potato-cheese soup recipe throughout the fall and winter. It pairs perfectly with sausage bread. Give it a try! Both of these recipes will end up in one of my books at some point! And I bet the soup will become a staple in your household, too.Enjoy!

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Two beautiful golden loaves of Sausage Bread
Recipes

Sausage Bread

  Sausage bread is something my family started making when I was a kid. It’s become a family favorite. I make it all through fall and winter to accompany soup, most often potato cheese soup.If I start my (gluten-free) bread dough around 3:30, or even 4:00 PM. I use this Gluten Free on a Shoestring French Bread recipe.  When I have time and plan ahead, I use this Let Them Eat Gluten-Free recipe.You can use any bread recipe you choose, or when you’re in a hurry, grab a package of ready-made dough from the freezer section of your grocery store’s freezer.

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a tray of beautiful tye pumpernickel rolls
Recipes

Rich Rye Pumpernickel Rolls

  Rye pumpernickel rolls are rich in flavor and a great addition to almost any meal.Olaya Solis is a master bread baker. In Death Gone a-Rye, she makes Rye Pumpernickel Rolls. A basket of them end up at Owen Culpepper’s house. Everybody loves Olaya’s bread.

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serving bowl and cups with festive Christmas Punch
Recipes

Christmas Punch

  Ivy helps at a catered party in A Murder Yule Regret, the 6th Bread Shop Mystery. She makes this delicious punch. It is so beautiful and so festive!

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Beautiful Yule Log Buche de noel, love, life, and sugar
Recipes

Yule Log (BÛCHE DE NOËL)

  Lindsay Conchar, founder of Life, Love & Sugar, graciously shared this Yule Log cake recipe with me. It's so good! Eliza Fox, one of the characters in A Murder Yule Regret, the 6th Bread Shop mystery, attempts this showpiece cake.In the olden days in France, the spirit of love drew families together on Christmas Eve. Family members surrounded the blazing “yule log” to warm themselves before walking to Midnight Mass. The burning ashes of the “yule log”, or BÛCHE DE NOËL, were said to hold magical properties, protecting newborns from illness and animals from fever.The cake, shaped like a log, that we eat nowadays is a renewal of this belief.

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Blog

Which Comes First, the Cover or the Book?

This is a chicken or the egg question. Does the cover come first, thereby influencing the book? Or does the book come first, informing the elements of the cover? For me, I can honestly answer both those questions with a resounding YES! Case in Point(s): Book First: The Walking Bread, Deadly Patterns, and the upcoming (April 27th!) Death Gone a-Rye are both great examples of the book coming first. I was well in to the writing of both of these books by the time my editor asked for cover input. I was able to give some very specific elements for each, all of which made it onto the cover. For example: The Walking Bread A major element in The Walking Bread is the Art Car show. I modeled this after a similar annual event that takes place in Houston every year. I found the event fascinating and fun. Incorporating that into this book was so much fun. The best part was creating Billy’s tribute to his mother, based on Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass. Jabberwocky! I love that the cover artists worked several cars onto this cover. Deadly Patterns Deadly Patterns is a holiday-themed book from my Magical Dressmaking Mysteries. You have to look pretty hard to see the holiday elements. Still, I like the cover. One year, my mom and I attended a class on making these very cool and artsy Santa dolls. I wanted them in the book and on the cover so I shared photos of the ones we made with my editor. The artist put two of the dolls on the cover (look on the table). I was so happy! Death Gone a-Rye The spring time cover for Death Gone a-Rye is so fun! I had the spring fling elements worked out by the time I gave cover input to my editor. They added the Cake Walk on the floor and the Van Dough Focaccia, which was inspired by Vineyard Baker on Instagram. The details on the focaccia are perfect as is Agatha. Cover First: There have been a few times when I’ve been behind on the writing of a book but my editor has asked for cover input. It happened with Dough or Die, and I did it to myself with Murder in Devil’s Cove. In these moments, I go, “Yikes!” The covers come and there is some element on there that I didn’t give. It’s so prominent that I feel the need to work it into the book! For example: Dough or Die In Dough or Die, I had Olaya take up grinding her own wheat for her artisan bread. I added a mill to the bread shop’s kitchen and described it based on one I’d researched. When I saw the mill on the cover, I had to go back and revise that description, and the image helped me describe it in more detail in a subsequent book. Murder in Devil’s Cove Murder in Devil’s Cove is the first fully Indie book. I had a vision of what I wanted the cover to look like, worked with a cover artist, and it turned out perfectly! Then I met Finnegan Count Smooshie Tushie. Finn is such a beautiful dog and from his antics, I knew:  1) he was going to be the model for the rescue dog in the book, and 2) he needed to be on the cover. I got photos of Finn, courtesy of his “hooman”, and went back to the cover artist to have him added. Then I went back into the book to change the description of the dog (coloring and breed, though in my book the dog remains a girl). There you have it. Sometimes the book comes first, but sometimes the cover comes first. Happy reading! ,

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Book Excerpts

Book Excerpt: Kneaded to Death

Kneaded to Death A Bread Shop Mystery Winnie Archer Chapter 1 Santa Sofia is a magical town, nestled between the Santa Lucia Mountain Range and the Pacific Ocean on California’s Central Coast. I’ve always seen it as the perfect place. Not too big, not too small. Historic and true to its commitment to remain a family-oriented place to live. They accomplished this goal by having more bikes than people, concerts in the park, and a near perfect seventy degrees almost year-round. I had been gone from my hometown since college but had come back when a horrible accident destroyed our lives as we knew them, taking my mother far too young and leaving my father, my brother, and me bereft and empty. We were still struggling to make sense of what had happened and how a nondescript sedan had backed right into her as she walked behind it in the parking lot at the high school where she’d taught. “No one saw anything. It was a hit-and-run,” my best friend, Emmaline, had told me sadly. “She never saw it coming, and the doctors say she didn’t suffer.” That made no sense to me. She was run over by a car. There had to have been pain and suffering, even if it was brief. I relived what I imagined were my mother’s last moments. The split second when she saw the truck backing up, realizing that it was coming too fast and that she couldn’t get out of the way in time; the impact when it first made contact, hurling her back against the asphalt; the force of the vehicle as it rolled over her. I caught my breath, swallowing the agony I knew she’d felt. The final result of the tragedy was the emptiness of being back in Santa Sofia without her. The place where I was born and raised no longer filled me with the comfort it used to. Things were different now; six months later, I was still trying to pick up the pieces. Since I was a little girl, taking photographs had always been my saving grace. Capturing the beauty or heartbreak or pure, unbridled emotions in the world around me showed me how small I was in the scheme of things. At the same time, it allowed me to revel in the moments I captured, treasuring each one as a work of art in and of itself. My mother had given me a camera when I was nine years old and constantly in her hair. “It’ll keep you busy,” she’d told me, and it had. I had picked up that camera and had never put it down again. Now I had a degree in design and photography. I’d started a photography blog to keep my creative juices flowing, posting a picture a day. I’d had a vibrant business in Austin. But I was floundering. Since I lost my mother, finding inspiration had become a challenge. My voice had been silenced, it seemed, and I had nothing more to say with the images through the lens. This lack of direction and the loss of my creative vision are what led me to Yeast of Eden, the bread shop in Santa Sofia. I might be able to end my dry spell if I could find inspiration somewhere. Somehow. But now, as I stood at the doorway, one hand on the handle, I wondered what in the hell I’d been thinking. Baking? A pan of brownies from a boxed mix? Sure. A batch of chocolate chip cookies, courtesy of the recipe on the back of the Nestlé package? Definitely. But from-scratch bread? Not in my wheelhouse. Baking was a far cry from finding beauty through the lens of a camera. The mere thought that I was even contemplating this bit of craziness clearly meant that I was under duress. True, I’d been to the local bread shop every day since I’d moved back to Santa Sofia. Truth be told, the place was becoming my home away from home, but that did not give me the right to think I could actually make the stuff. And it certainly didn’t mean baking would solve my problems. Grief had to run its course. I knew this, but the reality was that I’d never not feel the emptiness inside. An image of my dad popped into my head. “What did you bring today?” he regularly asked me. It was becoming almost a joke, because I’d already cycled through nearly everything Yeast of Eden had to offer . . . twice. Baguettes. Sourdough. Croissants. Rye. Wheat pumpernickel. Focaccia. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. And check. There were so many choices, and I loved them all. But I did have my favorites. The flaky, buttery croissant in the morning or a crusty sourdough roll at lunch—these were the staples. On a sunny day, the pumpernickel with sliced turkey and cheese hit the spot. When it was rainy, I bought a round loaf of French bread, turned it into a bread bowl, and filled it with homemade chowder. But this time I wasn’t here to buy bread; I was here to get my hands dirty, so to speak. To plunge them into a bowl of dough and knead, knead, knead. And somehow, despite logic and despite reason, I knew that it was going to be life changing. I had no idea how . . . or why, but as sure as I was standing on the cobbled sidewalk in Santa Sofia, and as sure as the breeze off the Pacific Ocean blew through me, I was 100 percent certain that the bread-baking class at Yeast of Eden was going to send me on a new trajectory. But was I ready? Before I had the chance to answer that question in my head, the door opened, and a woman in a colorful caftan and red clogs, hands firmly on her hips, emerged. Her iron-gray hair was cropped short and loose, playful curls danced over her head, and her green eyes, heavily flecked with gold, stared me down. “Ven aqui, m’ija,” she said to me in Spanish, as if I could understand her. Which I could not. “You have to come inside to change your life.” I jumped, startled. “To change my . . . what? I’m sorry. What?” “You don’t think I recognize you? You, mi amor, are here every day. You have discovered the magic of this place, and now you want more.” She smiled, her eyebrows lifting in a quick movement that seemed to say “I see this every day.” “Come in. We’re all waiting.”

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Three conchas stacked together
Recipes

Tasty Mexican Conchas

  Tasty Mexican Conchas are a staple in Mexican markets and special gatherings, and these are so good.Choosing recipes to include in each book is one of my favorite parts of writing the Bread Shop Mysteries. In Kneaded to Death, I knew I wanted to include a traditional Mexican treat in honor of Olaya Solis and her bread-making heritage. These conchas fit the bill.Excerpt:We spent the next hour measuring and mixing the ingredients for conchas. “Mexican sweet bread is an easy way to start the bread-making process,” Olaya had said.  We went through the lesson by mixing the yeast and warm water, adding the milk, sugar, butter, eggs, and flour, finally kneading the mixture until a soft, pliable dough formed. “Much of the bread I make here is to be long-cultured,” she continued. “Forty-eight hours or more, to get the best rise and flavor possible. But the sweet bread, the conchas, can rise much more quickly.”We left the dough in our greased bowls covered with a thin dishcloth and went to the front of the shop where Olaya walked us through the different breads still remaining in the display cases, telling us the history of her experiences making sourdough loaves, French baguettes, boules, brioche, tartine country bread, Challah, festive breads, and so much more. Partway through the bread tour, Jackie’s cell phone rang, sounding like the harsh ring of an old-fashioned phone from twenty years ago. Jackie answered, avoiding Olaya’s disapproving glare. “I can’t,” she whispered into the smartphone. “I’m in the middle of a class.”Whoever was on the other end of the line said something that caused the color to drain from Jackie’s face. She turned a ghostly white and glanced around the kitchen, her spooked gaze skittering over each of us. Turning her back to us again, she cupped her hand over the phone and lowered her voice even more. “No. She’s not. It was my decision. My life, not yours.”Keep Reading Kneaded to Death.

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Decadent Gruyere and Black Pepper popovers in a popover pan
Recipes

Light and Airy Gruyère and Black Pepper Popovers

  Popovers are one of my favorite baked treats, and these gruyère and black pepper ones are light and airy. And decadent! This recipe is shared in the very first Bread Shop Mystery, Kneaded to Death.Excerpt:The chalkboard had today’s baking plan: Gruyere and black pepper popovers. I’d never actually had a popover, but if the illustration, with its muffin-shaped base and the billowy, full top looked anything like it would taste, I knew it would become a favorite.“You don’t usually make popovers for the bread shop, do you?” I asked Olaya as I tied on my ruffled apron.“Popovers are a quick delight, but are best when they are served warm. So no, I do not carry them normally. Cold popovers, not so good.”“Terrible, in fact,” Consuelo commented. We got right to work, mixing the eggs and milk, then whisking in the flour mixture in three separate stages. Olaya had given us each a popover pan. “It is special for popovers,” she said, pointing to the six individual nonstick popover cups. “The air can circulate around each cup, forcing the batter up, up, up until it pops over the top of the pan. Now, the trick is to fill to nearly the top. None of this ‘fill it halfway’ stuff.”She demonstrated at her own station, filling each of her prepared six cups to within a quarter inch of the top with the heavily peppered thin batter. “Take the cubes of gruyere and plop them in the center.” She fanned her hand across her pan like a game show host. “That is all. Now we bake.”While the popovers were in the high-heat oven, we washed our dirtied dishes. The women chattered on about life after college, baking successes and failures, and the spring weather at the beach. “Tourists are coming,” Consuelo said. “We get more and more each year. Does nobody stay home anymore?”“I need the tourists,” Olaya said. “They make my business.”After a few minutes, the conversation turned to Jackie Makers. “The police, they have found nothing about Jackie’s murder?” Martina asked her sister.Olaya shook her head. “Not that I know of.” …? ? ?Keep Reading Kneaded to Death.

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