LITMIR.BIZ

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Suzanne Trauth

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: October 2017

      eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-723-3

      eISBN-10: 1-60183-723-2

      First Print Edition: October 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-724-0

      ISBN-10: 1-60183-724-0

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For my sisters and mom…always cheering me on.

      1

      Winter in Etonville, New Jersey was not for the faint of heart. The temperature had hovered at fifteen degrees all morning. I backed my Chevy Metro out of the driveway and inched my way down Ames, turning in a wide arc onto Fairfield Street. The streets were empty. Smart folks had stayed home this Sunday morning. I shifted my right foot from the accelerator to the brakes and back again, wary of the layer of ice that glistened on the roadway. Living down the Jersey Shore had not completely prepared me for the ordeals of cold weather months: substantial snow, ice, cold, wind, sleet, more snow, freezing rain—

      A horn honked and I jammed on the brakes. My Metro did a one-eighty, skidding into the intersection of Fairfield and Main. I came to rest three feet from the front bumper of a late-model silver Lincoln Continental. I was panting audibly as an occupant of the other car’s passenger seat alighted. A middle-aged man in a camel-colored coat with a bronzed face, slicked-back dark hair, and sunglasses.

      “Are you okay?” he shouted at me.

      I nodded dumbly and studied my shaking hands on the steering wheel. Foolishly, I’d ignored the yellow light and hadn’t seen his car heading south on Main. It was my fault, though he was probably driving over the speed limit.

      I wound down the window. “I’m so sorry. Didn’t see you…” Puffs of cold breath shot out of my mouth.

      “No worries. All’s well.” He kicked one leather-clad shoe against the bottom of the doorframe to remove snowy muck. “Take it easy.” He climbed into his Lincoln with a Massachusetts license plate—it was a game of mine, noticing and remembering plates: a white background with red letters and numbers, Massachusetts printed at the top, Spirit of America at the bottom—and said something to the driver.

      “Yes. Yes, I will,” I said quickly and watched them back up, maneuver around my Metro, and continue down Main Street. I completed my turn onto Main and eased down the road. Twenty-five miles an hour.

      “Achoo!” A sneeze burst out of my stuffy nose and scratchy throat. For the fifth time in the last two hours, I told myself I should have been home installed on my sofa wrapped in a warm blanket, hot buttered rum in one hand, the latest thriller by my favorite author in the other. Or binge-watching a series on Netflix. Instead, I was watching a baking class create early American cakes in the Windjammer restaurant kitchen while listening to the wind howl as it rustled down Main.

      Betty from Betty’s Boutique, Etonville’s version of Victoria’s Secret, popped out of the Windjammer’s pantry. “Bless you!” She brushed a shock of brown, shoulder-length curls off her face with one floury palm. “Dodie, I can’t find the nutmeg.”

      “Try the spice shelf. Second from the top,” I said, blowing my nose and eyeing the recipe for Swamp Yankee applesauce cake. Georgette, of Georgette’s Bakery, had volunteered to take her “students” through their pastry paces before the opening of the next Etonville Little Theatre production. We’d been baking for three Sundays now and today was the final session.

      “That’s one teaspoon of salt?” asked one-half of the Banger sisters duo, two elderly siblings who kept their ancient digits on the pulse of the town. Gossip was their game.

      “No, it’s a tablespoon,” Georgette said patiently. “And remember we are multiplying everything by twelve. We want to end up with a dozen cakes.” She jabbed at a copy of the recipe—her stubby, thick fingers were born to knead dough.

      The sisters bobbed their gray heads and began to measure.

      “Mildred, be sure the baking soda is dissolved in warm water before you add it to the batter,” Georgette said to Etonville’s choir director and turned to me. “It might have been easier to buy the concession goodies,” she muttered.

      “Maybe, but I needed something that fit the American Revolution.” For the past two years the Windjammer had provided food that matched the period of the ELT plays: themed dinners, a food festival, and now stocking the concession stand. “These early American desserts are perfect. Apple pie, pumpkin bread, hot cider punch, mulled wine. It’s going to be great.” I smiled my big fake grin, the one I trotted out on occasions when I knew I was in over my head, because it was too late to call things off. The Windjammer freezer was jammed with the apple pies and Georgette had offered to store the pumpkin bread and applesauce cake in her bakery. The punch and mulled wine were left for later this week.

      “I hope it’s all edible.” Georgette returned to the group of bakers and cautioned them. “Let’s beat that batter until

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