Secret of the Yuletide Crafter: A Whispering Pines Short Mystery (A Whispering Pines Mystery) by Shawn McGuire

Author:Shawn McGuire [McGuire, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brown Bag Books
Published: 2021-11-19T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

My intent was to rush home and talk to Mom about Flavia becoming a beautician or seamstress or image stylist or whatever someone who helps a person with their appearance was called. I could hardly wait to see her reaction. I thanked Dulcie and Briar for the advice and the tea, stepped out of their mystical trading post, and found myself staring at the Grahams’ shop next door.

The Grahams, Ruth and Jonathan, were bakers. Really good bakers. There was nothing they couldn’t make, and everything was scrumptious. I often daydreamed about all that I could learn from them. They’d been expecting me yesterday, and since I was right here, Flavia’s issues would have to wait just a few minutes longer.

The moment I opened their door, I was enveloped by the smell of something yeasty. Actually, I could smell it from outside the door. That’s where my mouth started watering. Being in the middle of it all was almost overwhelming.

Like with Dulcie’s shop, the bakery was nothing fancy inside. The Grahams baked for everyone, including people who lived in the surrounding communities and had heard about their goods, so three ovens stood side by side to handle the load. Two refrigerator/freezers held their perishable ingredients. Non-perishables filled an eight-foot-long shelving unit. A second unit held bowls, pans, and other equipment. They installed a restaurant-style sink because a regular kitchen-sized one wasn’t big enough for all those dirty dishes. They prepared their pastries, cakes, and breads on two twelve-foot dining tables, raised to waist height on eight-by-eight posts.

Unlike Dulcie’s shop, the Grahams asked for payment. They had originally agreed to the trade system, but their items became so popular, providing for the village was depleting their savings. People might not need things like medicinal herbs or building supplies every week, but they did need to eat regularly. No one ever complained about leaving enough to cover the cost of ingredients, and most left a bit extra for their labor.

“There she is,” Jonathan called out when he saw me. “Thought we’d see you yesterday.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. A friend was having a crisis.”

“Good that you were there for her, then.” Ruth laid a hand on my shoulder and then brushed off the crumbs she’d left there. “Or was it a him? You’re so good with everyone, Reeva.”

“It was a her.” I watched as Jonathan patted a mound of dough into an eight-inch disc. “What are you making?”

“Scones!” he announced. “Ever heard of them?”

“Of course she’s heard of scones,” Ruth scolded.

“They’re British,” he informed, as though they were some new delicacy. “You ever been across the pond, Reeva?”

“We’ve had scones in this country for a long time, Jon.” Ruth twirled her finger by her temple. Yes, her husband was a little looney. “The Pilgrims probably brought them over on the Mayflower.”

He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, pondering that, and then used a pastry cutter to slice the disc into wedges.

“I believe they originated in Scotland,” I volunteered. “And no, I’ve never been there.

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