Everything Bundt the Truth

The butter dish crashed to the kitchen floor,

the glass shattering and the yellow stick slipping and sliding across the hardwood.

Moments ago, Jane had been rushing around gathering ingredients, but now she stood staring at the mess of broken glass and the stick of butter still gliding across the boards. In her haste, the dish had slid from her hands when she tried to grab it from the refrigerator.

Whoops.

What’s the matter with you? Cheryl walked over to the pantry for the broom and dustpan. You’re as nervous as a newlywed cooking for her mother-in-law.

I want to wow the dinner club. What if they decide to reject me? Jane pulled the broom out of Cheryl’s hand and swept up the broken shards. If the dinner’s perfect, maybe they won’t pay any attention to the rumors.

Cheryl giggled. You’re worried about that?

Jane bent over to scoop the fragments into the dustpan, then straightened. She dumped the broken bits into the trash can and poked the stick of butter down the garbage disposal. You know it’s all over the Internet. Anyone can figure out how my husbands died. Jane took a deep breath, her brows furrowed. She missed the calming effect of her first husband Craig. And her second husband had been such a help in the kitchen. To top it off, Hugh had died at the same time her youngest son moved out and the empty nest stage moved in.

As she stepped back over to the kitchen sink, her heel crunched down on a walnut shell. Ouch! That hurt. Jane squeezed her eyes shut and touched her fingertips to her wrinkled brow. My house is a disaster…

Praise for Karen C. Whalen

Take one feisty widow and her appealing friends, add a gourmet dinner club, sprinkle with murder and you have a recipe for a delightful read!

~Laura DiSilverio, author of the

Readaholics Book Club mysteries

~*~

"EVERYTHING BUNDT THE TRUTH is a culinary cozy mystery that dishes up a serving of humor, wit, and a desire to keep turning the pages to find out whodunnit."

~ Rhonda Blackhurst, author of

Shear Madness and Shear Deception

~*~

Whalen will have you simultaneously cooking up recipes for your own dinner club and eyeing everyone suspiciously.

~Rachel Weaver, author of Point of Direction

Everything Bundt the Truth

by

Karen C. Whalen

A Dinner Club Murder Mystery

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Everything Bundt the Truth

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Karen C. Whalen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0965-1

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0966-8

A Dinner Club Murder Mystery

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my husband Timothy Whalen

and mother Elizabeth Johanna Marcille

Chapter 1

The butter dish crashed to the kitchen floor, the glass shattering and the yellow stick slipping and sliding across the hardwood.

Moments ago, Jane had been rushing around gathering ingredients, but now she stood staring at the mess of broken glass and the stick of butter still gliding across the boards. In her haste, the dish had slid from her hands when she tried to grab it from the refrigerator.

Whoops.

What’s the matter with you? Cheryl walked over to the pantry for the broom and dustpan. You’re as nervous as a newlywed cooking for her mother-in-law.

I want to wow the dinner club. What if they decide to reject me? Jane pulled the broom out of Cheryl’s hand and swept up the broken shards. If the dinner’s perfect, maybe they won’t pay any attention to the rumors.

Cheryl giggled. You’re worried about that?

Jane bent over to scoop the fragments into the dustpan, then straightened. She dumped the broken bits into the trash can and poked the stick of butter down the garbage disposal. You know it’s all over the Internet. Anyone can figure out how my husbands died. Jane took a deep breath, her brows furrowed. She missed the calming effect of her first husband Craig. And her second husband had been such a help in the kitchen. To top it off, Hugh had died at the same time her youngest son moved out and the empty nest stage moved in.

As she stepped back over to the kitchen sink, her heel crunched down on a walnut shell. Ouch! That hurt. Jane squeezed her eyes shut and touched her fingertips to her wrinkled brow. My house is a disaster…

Quit fretting. But maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for the new cleaning lady to start work on the day of your party. Cheryl lobbed pieces of walnuts into a bowl.

You’re the one who told me every woman who worked should have a house cleaner. And you recommended Monica. Jane’s knife chopped down on a garlic clove with a loud whack. Do you think she’s still coming? She’s over an hour late.

Cheryl brushed her long bangs out of her eyes with the back of her wrist as she gazed around the room. The faucet dripped into the dirty bowls filling the sink. The clock ticked to one o’clock. The doorbell rang.

Cheryl looked at her friend with a knowing smile. Here she is.

Jane let out a sigh of relief. She put her paring knife down on the cutting board, dashed to the door, and opened it, ushering Monica inside. Jane wondered if Monica was late because she’d taken a great deal of time over her appearance—the woman wore heavy eye makeup and bright red lipstick.

Jane hustled her back to the empty kitchen. Cheryl had disappeared. Jane’s eyes swept the hall and took in the basement door standing open. She peered down the stairs into the dark recess below.

Looking for me? Cheryl appeared from the front hall and greeted Monica with, Hi. How’re you?

Fine. Monica’s heavily made-up eyes gazed down at the floor.

Cheryl gathered her purse and car keys. I’m running to the store. Need anything?

Jane said, Yes. Could you pick up some coffee creamer? I never use it myself, so I forgot to get some.

Sure. I can do that. See you later tonight.

Monica did not utter a word, but her eyes bulged out, and her chin trembled as she stared at Cheryl going out the door.

Is everything all right?

Yeah. Monica shrugged. Let me know where to start.

Are you going to be able to clean the whole house in three hours? I’ve got an important dinner party at five o’clock. You’ve got to be out of here by four, or, four-thirty at the latest. I need the carpets vacuumed, the house dusted, the powder room cleaned. And this kitchen…

Sorry I’m late. I’ll get everything done. No worries. Monica followed Jane around the house as she gave the housekeeper instructions. Then, while Monica cleaned, Jane finished all but one of the items on her to-do list.

She had drawn a small, neat square next to every task, then a bold cross over the square as she completed each one: prepare main entrée and two appetizers, clean and peel potatoes to boil, toss the salad, fill pitchers with filtered water, put another stick of butter in a new dish and leave it out to soften. She ran her finger down the page and stopped at the last item left—picking up the cake.

She grabbed her purse and jacket but paused at the front door, her hand clenching the doorknob. I’m leaving to run an errand. I’ll be gone about half an hour. Please turn the lock and close the door behind you when you leave.

Monica stood at the top of the stairs with a cleaning rag in her hand. ’K. Will do. But I might still be here when you get back.

Really? Jane’s voice rose an octave as she spun around.

I’ll be down in the basement finishing up. Hey, I’ll throw the dirty rags in the washer. You put ’em in the dryer. Monica sauntered down the hallway and out of sight.

All right, then. See you later, Jane called out, but a loud motorcycle racing up the street drowned her words. She turned and walked out the door.

She grumbled to herself during the drive. What kind of a housekeeper would show up late on the first day on the job? What if Monica was still there when the guests arrived? She had Cheryl’s vote of approval, but the other club members may not accept Jane’s membership if the dinner did not go smoothly. Well, a delicious Bundt cake would help—or was that cheating? Would the group reject her if they found out she hadn’t made the entire dinner from scratch?

She jerked her car to a stop in front of Verano’s Home Bakery Shop and ran inside for the cake that was ready and waiting. She peered through the cellophane on the lid—she could never have baked such a beauty. Thick, light orange frosting covered the top and dribbled down the rounded sides. Setting the cake on the front passenger seat of her car, she cradled the box between her purse and jacket for the drive home.

She threw open the door and walked inside. Monica? You still here? No answer, but the familiar antiseptic scent of cleaning products tickled her nose. A jar of white powdered coffee creamer was on the counter with a note from Cheryl, You owe me $3.18.

Jane slipped the cake out of its box and onto a platter and hid the box in the trash. She turned the burner to low on the stove to heat up the Beef Bourguignon Cheryl helped prepare earlier. After looking around with relief at the sparkling clean kitchen, vacuum track marks on the carpet, and dust-free furniture, she located her to-do list and drew a cross in the box next to pick up the cake. Done.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The upstairs was as neat and clean as the downstairs. Maybe this housekeeper would work out after all, and the dinner would be a success. Jane felt one depended on the other. She changed clothes and applied her makeup, smoothed out her long, straight brown hair, then tied a pretty apron around her small waist to appear the part of a chef.

Her date arrived first. As she turned the knob, she noticed the front door wasn’t locked. She would have to remind Monica about locking up next time. But upon opening the door, her face fell. Donnie was standing on the porch wearing a Captain America T-shirt and jeans. On their first date, he had worn a shirt with a large Batman logo. Jane worked in a law office and expected men of her age, with receding hairlines no less, to wear something more age appropriate on dates. He did have a nice bottle of white wine tucked under his arm, though.

Come on in. You can watch while I get the appetizers ready.

How was your day? He followed her into the kitchen.

Nerve-wracking. She poured a whole bottle of dry red wine into the Beef Bourguignon simmering on the stovetop. I just got back from picking up the, I mean, from running an errand. I’ve been so rushed. She stirred the pot with a large, slotted spoon, put the lid back on, and then turned to Donnie.

He drew her near and kissed her lightly on the lips. You look great. His face was close to hers, and she breathed in the scent of his masculine aftershave. Donnie was the first man she had dated since her second husband passed away. They locked eyes. It felt nice to be romanced.

She leaned into him for a moment, her stomach fluttering. Even as petite as she was, Donnie was just the right height for her head to nestle against his warm shoulder. How about you? Did you have a busy day?

Before he could answer, Jane tensed and pulled out of his embrace. Her eyes flicked around the room and she frowned. Donnie placed his hand under her chin and his smile slipped. Something the matter?

Her gaze returned to him. Not at all. It’s just that I forgot to do something. She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand. Stir the stew for me, would you? I’ll be back in a minute. She picked up a dirty dishtowel, strode the few steps down the hall, and opened the basement door, then flipped the light switch and clambered down the stairs. She stopped on the last step and looked around. Something was off, but what? She had forgotten until now Monica’s suggestion to put the rags in the dryer, but it was more than that.

When her two boys were young, they’d had sleepovers down here. Then they’d grown into teenagers who worked out with the exercise equipment over in the corner. After her oldest son moved out, the youngest moved into the basement bedroom previously occupied by his brother. After their dad died, they had each in turn gone to college and gotten on with their lives. She’d been married to her second husband a short time before he, too, had passed away, leaving her once again on her own.

The basement with its cool, dusty scent was full of emptiness. Emptiness sounded a lot like empty nest. A lump welled in her throat. Maybe she could have the laundry room moved up a level to the first floor so she wouldn’t have to come down here anymore. She walked past the old exercise equipment and then rounded the corner into the laundry room.

She came to a halt, her heart flying to her throat.

Her housekeeper was lying on the floor in front of the washing machine, a pool of blood spreading out around her head. Her eyes were open wide, and one of her false eyelashes was stuck to her cheek. Jane let out a low, strangled cry as the dishtowel slid from her fingers onto the basement floor.

Chapter 2

She hastened over to Monica and fumbled for a pulse. Not a hint. The splattered blood on the white wall behind Monica’s head was not bright red; it was a dull, dark stain.

After rocking back to stand up on quivering legs, she reached her hand out and leaned her weight against the wall, then raised herself up. Her feet tripped over the towel, but she dragged herself to the stairs with her heart pounding in her ears. She hauled herself up by the railing and stumbled into the kitchen where Donnie stood at the stove, stirring the steaming, fragrant beef.

She drew in a ragged breath. Donnie, call 9-1-1. Monica’s down in the basement, and she’s dead!

What? Who’s Monica? He swiveled around and gawked at her, his hand waving the wooden spoon. Are you joking?

Of course not! Monica’s the housekeeper. I thought she left a long time ago. I didn’t know she was down there. She put her hands out and grabbed the counter to steady herself.

He turned off the stove, snatched his cell phone from his pocket, and rushed to the stairs. Jane followed behind, her hands clutching the back of his Captain America shirt. He called 9-1-1 while leaning over the body. Jane fell to her knees beside the laundry basket of cleaning rags that had dried stiffly in a pile.

Hello. Hello. We need an ambulance right away. We found the housekeeper in the basement, and she looks dead. He pressed his fingers to Monica’s neck. No, she’s not breathing. And there’s blood everywhere.

Perhaps Monica had fallen and hit her head. Jane gazed around for signs of water or something slippery on the floor, but saw nothing. Nothing but the dried blood.

Donnie gave the dispatcher the address. Should we wait here with her or meet the ambulance at the door? All right… My name is Donald Rundell. No, I’m not alone. Jane Marsh is here with me. He paused, then said, The housekeeper’s name is Monica.

Jane’s eyes returned to Monica’s face. She wanted to put the false eyelash back in place but restrained herself. Monica Hatch, she whispered.

Her last name is Hatch. I don’t know anything more about her. Okay, then. Donnie tapped his cell phone to disconnect and turned to Jane. We need to wait upstairs.

They climbed the basement stairs and sat on the steps leading to the second floor, facing the front door. She slipped her hand into Donnie’s. Poor Monica! Did she have a seizure or something? Or a heart attack? Maybe she was on some medication that made her dizzy, and she fell and hit her head.

It wasn’t a fall. Someone bashed her head in.

She turned to gape, wide-eyed, at Donnie. Do you think there’s a killer in the house?

Do you want me to look? The color drained out of his face, and he appeared frightened as well. His hand tightened over hers.

No. Stay here with me. The police can look. She glanced left over her shoulder and then stretched her neck to peer around Donnie on the right. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she jumped up. I’d better cancel the dinner party! She rushed into the kitchen for her cell phone, then skidded back to the steps to plop down next to Donnie. She pushed the redial button.

Hello, Cheryl? Can you call everybody and cancel the dinner party? There’s been an accident. Monica’s…uh, she’s hurt. We’ve called the ambulance. Jane swallowed a couple of times. Yes. Maybe tomorrow night will work. Can you find out? Thanks so much. Her hands clutched the phone, then fell in fists into her lap.

Just then the police arrived. She cringed as the squad car raced up the driveway, siren on, with an ambulance right behind, lights revolving and reflecting off the neighbors’ houses.

After banging on the front door, but without waiting for an answer, the police jerked it open and came inside. Donnie and Jane both jumped to their feet. She could see past the officers to the neighbors across the street staring out their picture window.

Where’s the injured person?

Donnie answered, The basement.

You, the officer looked hard at Jane, stay here. And you, now he pointed at Donnie, come with me. Donnie led them to the basement stairway, then followed the officers down.

The small house was crowded once again, this time with police and paramedics. Even a fire truck had arrived. Why do fire trucks respond if there’s no fire? Several firemen entered the house and stomped past Jane down the basement stairs. An officer remained outside the front door. Was that to make sure she didn’t make a break for it?

Under the watchful eye of another police officer, she went into the kitchen, ladled the Beef Bourguignon into a large container, and stowed it in the refrigerator. She clutched her folded arms to her chest and leaned against the counter. After what seemed like an eternity, Donnie returned upstairs, but a policeman steered him into another room.

I’m Detective Jones. A tall man wearing a black suit loomed over Jane. The police officer at the detective’s side wore a badge pinned to a crisp, blue shirt, tucked into black pants with a belt holding a buzzing communication device and a gun. Go into the front room and sit down. She went in and collapsed onto the soft couch. Both officers followed her.

Start at the beginning, ma’am. What happened? asked the detective.

They remained standing while she explained in a trembling voice that Monica was the new house cleaner. She was still working when I left to pick up a cake from the bakery. When I got back I thought she’d gone. Her tone sounded high and shrill, not like herself. She cleared her throat but still squeaked out, I last saw her about an hour ago, I guess. I just now found her down in the basement…

Okay. Let’s start with your full name.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Marjorie Jane Marsh. I go by Jane.

Please explain everything you know about the victim.

Her eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly, realizing she hadn’t asked Monica one personal question. Too late to wonder about that now. I don’t know her. I had her name and cell phone number and that’s all. My friend Cheryl Breewood might know more since she referred her to me.

Okay. We’ll need your friend’s address and phone number. What time did Monica arrive?

After one. She was late. We talked about my expectations, what to clean, you know. Then I showed her around the house, and she started cleaning.

Did you take her into the basement?

Yes. I showed her how to operate the washing machine. She was going to begin a load of dirty rags.

Did anyone come to the door at any time during the day?

Cheryl. But she left when Monica arrived. Nobody else.

What about Mr. Rundell?

Oh yeah. Donnie just got here for the dinner party. But I cancelled that.

When did you cancel the party?

After Donnie called you, after he called 9-1-1, I mean. I phoned Cheryl and asked her to call the rest of the guests. She scanned the officer’s round, expressionless face.

What happened after Monica arrived?

Jane squeezed her eyes shut, and a few tears escaped. Nothing unusual happened. A policewoman with a large camera came through the front door and pounded down the steps to the basement. But she seemed to be afraid of something. Jane clutched a throw pillow to her stomach as she remembered the moment when Monica stared at Cheryl.

What was she afraid of?

I don’t know. It’s a feeling I had. She peered up at the detective and shook her head. I can’t explain it.

What time did you leave the house?

I took off around four, and I told her to lock up and pull the front door shut behind her when she left.

Did you go into the basement when you got home?

No. I looked over the first floor, then went upstairs to get dressed for my dinner party. The detective glowered at her as if in disbelief. Did he think she would hire a house cleaner she didn’t know and had never met before, only to kill her in the basement right before her important dinner party?

Why did you leave Monica alone in the house? You’d met her for the first time today, right?

Yes. But it didn’t occur to me not to.

That’s trusting of you, to leave a stranger alone in your home. He glared down at her from where he stood. Did you lock the front door behind you when you left?

No. And I returned by four-thirty.

How can you be sure about the time?

I had a timetable—

You had a what? asked the officer who had been taking notes. His fingers gripped his pen.

I had a lot to do, and I needed to figure out what time to do everything. Like taking the rolls out of the oven. I always forget about the rolls. Plus, I had to pick up the cake. So, Cheryl helped me write out a schedule right down to when each thing should go in and come out of the oven and when the water glasses should be filled and stuff like that…

The detective asked, "I’d like to see the