Hashtag Murder

  Hashtag Murder

  Sugarsweet Witch: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

  Vreni Fox

  Copyright © 2020 by Vreni Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All inquiries can be addressed to Bokor@wellreadloris.com

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for picking up my debut novel, Hashtag Murder! I hope that you have as much fun reading as I had while I was writing. Please join my mailing list so that you can be notified as soon as book 2 in the series is out. Subscribers get special introductory offers on all new releases. They also get occasional freebies.

  You can also contact me via my publisher at:

  Bokor@wellreadloris.com

  Chapter One

  Jingle jangle jingle. Jingle jangle jingle.

  “Hey, can you please grab that door stopper and just prop the door open?” I dabbed the sweat from my brow onto my rose-printed sleeve and tried to get the attention of the dapper-looking older gentleman who had just entered my bakery, the Zuckerfee. “It’s beginning to sound like I’m playing Jingle Bells on repeat in here. Not really a good look for mid-August!”

  No luck; he hadn’t heard. Probably distracted by thoughts of his morning cappuccino and pain au chocolat. I couldn’t blame him. I made the best pain au chocolat in the entire state. The door hadn’t even swung closed yet before a young mother carrying an infant in her arms swung it back open again, setting off the bells yet again.

  The ringing was a pleasant sound and absolutely necessary mid-day when the shop was quiet and I had work to do in the kitchen. During the morning rush, though… that was another story. My clientele, the vast majority of whom came to see me every single morning, marched in one hungry customer after another. I didn’t need a door bell to let me know that there was already a line half a dozen people long. Men and women on their way to work, kids on their way to school, retired people who appreciated a little something sweet to start their days, they all came to see me to get their fix.

  Sometimes I liked to imagine that I was like a local dealer, getting all of my neighbors addicted to my otherworldly pastries. I had crispy, airy puff pastry crusts; creamy, rich custard fillings; decadent chocolate drizzles and fresh, seasonal fruit toppings.

  I wasn’t just a one-trick pony, though, catering to the local sugar fiends. I also offered a vast assortment of mouth-watering savory treats. I had mini-quiches that would blow your mind with their light, flavorful fillings and buttery crusts. I had fennel-infused sausage rolls, a recipe I brought home from a long-ago holiday in Australia. I even had some more exotic items for my bravest customers, like Malaysian curry puffs and the occasional raisin-studded empañada.

  There wasn’t a single resident of Drachenfels who didn’t have a favorite item from my shop, and no one loved my tempting wares more than me. I admit it. I was a dealer who dipped into her own stash on a daily basis. In fact, I was looking forward to treating myself to a sour cherry scone or maybe a little slice of bacon and cheddar flatbread as soon as the line died down. Maybe a little bit of both, since I’d been working so hard that morning.

  “Coconut almond latte? Is that a real thing?” my mailman asked me, scrutinizing my drink menu.

  “As of last week it is,” I leaned on the counter. “I got these fancy new flavor syrups from Italy and I’ve been doing some experimenting.”

  “And? Are they good? How’s the experimenting going? I never thought of putting coconut in my coffee.”

  “Eh,” I considered the question. “It’s hit or miss. But I can tell you, based on the feedback I’ve been getting, the coconut almond combination is a hit. I can also put that over ice or even add a squirt of chocolate to make a coconut almond mocha if you’re feeling wild.”

  “Okay, sold. And go ahead and add that chocolate you mentioned. And I’ll also take a… plain croissant to go, please. I’m technically not on my break right now.”

  I pulled two shots of espresso and swirled them into a large paper cup of steamed milk, chocolate and flavored syrup.

  “Whipped cream?”

  “Not today,” laughed the mailman, patting his belly. “I’m watching my figure.”

  Everyone in town seemed to be watching his or her figure, including myself. It wasn’t easy, though. I spooned a generous scoop of foamed milk to the top of the drink before handing it over.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me, I need to get through here.”

  A young woman I’d never seen before nudged the mailman aside, splashing his coffee onto his uniform.

  “Hey,” he startled. “Watch out! That’s hot!”

  “I just need to get by,” the woman answered, tossing her waist-length blonde curls aside. “Can you please make some space here? I need to see the whole spread here.”

  The young lady pushed her way into the line in front of the pastry case, her pink high heels clicking across my hardwood floors like little hooves.

  “Excuse me,” someone commented from the back. “There’s a line here.”

  “Relax,” the woman snapped back without even taking her eyes off the display. “I’m just looking. I’m sure you aren’t going to starve to death waiting an extra two minutes for your cake. Not judging by the looks of you, at least.”

  Judging by the looks of her, and her nasty attitude, this woman didn’t often slow down for a piece of cake herself. She was as thin as a rail and every square inch of her was manicured, primped, and preened. From her cascading blonde hair to her orange tanned skin to her acrylic fingernails, this woman’s look screamed high maintenance.

  “Here,” the woman broke her gaze with the pastry case and turned her head over her shoulder to address a young man I hadn’t even noticed. “This is good, can you get this? Get a candid shot of me looking at these strawberry things.”

  The young man, whose scruffy but also probably carefully considered appearance made him look like an urban hipster who had somehow wandered into the wrong storyline, lifted a large camera from a strap around his neck.

  “Wait, what is this light doing? This isn’t right. This light is washing me out. I need the windows. Can you please get these people out of the way? They’re blocking my light.”

  “Excuse me,” I finally gathered my senses. “Is there something I can help you with? I’ve got a line that ends right there,” I indicated the back of the line of increasingly irate customers.

  “Oh I’m not a customer,” the woman finally addressed me directly, her expression indicating that I’d somehow made a grave mistake.

  “You’re not a… customer?” I was dumbfounded. Then what was she? A health inspector? A tax
auditor? Some kind of traveling pastry voyeur?

  “I’m Mandy Unterwegs?” the lady somehow read my mind and answered me. The tone of her voice implied that we already knew one another and I searched my memory for the name. I was usually very good at recognizing faces and I was coming up with a blank in regards to where I had met her.

  “Mandy Unterwegs?” she repeated herself, this time even more frustrated, slowly sounding out each syllable. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she pointed at a lavender cake in the refrigerated case. “Alright let me just take that and clear out that table in front of the window. I need natural light. Can you please tell the people sitting there to move?” she asked her male companion.

  “Oh,” I answered, still trying to figure out who Mandy Unterwegs was, “that one’s not for sale. That’s a custom birthday cake. I can make you an identical one, though, just put in an order. I can have it for you in two days. I’ve also got these ready-made cakes if it’s an emergency.”

  “No, I need that cake. Now. This is a bakery, isn’t it? And that’s a cake. Can’t you just make another later? Why am I doing your job for you? Do you have a manager here?”

  “I’m the owner,” I was losing my patience. “That cake is for a three year old girl’s birthday party and I need it this afternoon. I’m afraid I can’t sell it to you.”

  “I didn’t say anything about buying it,” the woman snarled back. “Look, I don’t need to be here. I’m getting pretty sick of you wasting my time. I’ve got a list of places to visit and yours here isn’t exactly a priority. I mean, alright, the place is cute. The light in your front window is decent and I think I can get a cute shot with this cake. I don’t have the time or the patience for your little power trip, though.” Mandy turned to address her male companion, tapping her fingernails on the glass in front of the disputed cake. “Mo, get a shot of me dipping my finger in the frosting at that table. Take a few shots, with my finger in the cake and then with me tasting the frosting. I think it’ll be so cute, like, I’m thinking ‘naughty little girl birthday’ you know? You’ll have to shoot fast and get a couple good ones because this is the only cake here that matches my outfit so you won’t get many chances. You think you can manage not to screw that up?”

  Mo looked like he was taking this direction very seriously. He glanced at the already-occupied table and adjusted something on the lens of his camera. “I think we’ve got to do it now before the sun gets any higher,” he answered gravely, as though the cake shot was a matter of life or death.

  “Sorry,” I interrupted. “That cake already belongs to someone else. I’ve got these cupcakes in the same color,” I suggested, already having given up on trying to force this woman to the back of the line. I just wanted her out of my shop at this point.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mandy replied, looking like I’d suggested that she go ahead and sample some rat poison instead. “Cupcakes? What year am I in right now, 2003? How is Mandy Unterwegs going to put a fricking cupcake on her ‘gram. God, that’s so off brand. Look, nobody under the age of forty would be caught dead with a cupcake these days, grandma.”

  “Hey,” I took offense. “Just for your information, I’m thirty-six. And I sell dozens of these cupcakes every week. To people of all ages. Everyone loves my cupcakes.”

  “Well, maybe things are done differently out here in the middle of nowhere on this boring mountain. Have you guys ever heard of the internet? I did not get nearly half a million followers by being clueless. My people look up to me and depend on me to show them what’s hot.”

  “What? I’m sorry, but I guess we are totally out of touch up here on our ‘boring mountain.’ I don’t know who you are or why you’re so worried about misleading half a million people with a cupcake.”

  “My god,” the woman huffed. “Mandy Unterwegs,” she repeated, this time loudly enough for everyone in the shop to hear. “Instagram influencer? I have nearly half a million followers? I put up pictures and I show people what to wear, what to eat, where to go, and what to buy? Look, granny, this is how it works. I get an adorbs pic of myself fingering your stupid cake and I throw it up on my ‘gram so that my followers can see that this is the place to be. I’ll even tag you.”

  “Tag me?” I wasn’t a huge fan of social media and wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to be ‘tagged.’

  “Oh my god,” Mandy shrieked. “What the hell is that?”

  “What?” I spun around to see what had offended her now. “Oh Pudding?” I asked, assuming that she meant the scraggly old Maine Coon who had just sauntered in from the kitchen. “He’s like our store mascot,” I answered, not wanting to explain exactly how much more he was to me.

  “That’s disgusting,” Mandy shrieked. “Those things lick their own butts. Why is he in a restaurant? That’s filthy, he’s probably spreading disease everywhere. Forget this, I can’t tell people to eat here. I might get someone killed. God I feel like we should call the police or something.”

  “What? Oh come on. He’s not that bad.” Actually this wasn’t true. Pudding wasn’t even very old, but he was mean as could be with other animals. He had already lost one eye in some long-ago altercation with a local stray and he was covered in scars. He was also considerably overweight from his penchant for cream frosting. I had to admit, he looked a little worse for the wear, kind of like Ron Perlman from back when he was on Beauty and the Beast. He wasn’t a dirty animal, though. In fact, he was fastidious.

  At any rate, I was willing to take the insult to Pudding if it meant getting this ‘influencer’ out of my store. I’d just have to apologize to him later with a bowl of custard.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh no, this isn’t going to fly. You can forget it. I was doing you and everyone is this miserable village a favor, and this is how you thank me. The post is out of the question now. Sorry, don’t even apply for a sponsored post. I can’t recommend this place. I need to think of my followers. I don’t even care about your natural light or your purple cake now.”

  Mandy Unterwegs stood in front of me as though expecting me to argue with her. The entire dining room had gone silent, bearing witness to the theatrics unfolding. Even the customers still waiting in line for their breakfasts were intrigued at this point. Believe it or not, my rural bakery didn’t see very much soap-opera styled drama. As a matter of fact, I was doubtful that any business in town had hosted this type of public spectacle in recent memory.

  “Okay?” I waited for her to continue. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you?”

  “Help me?” Mandy shrieked. “Look lady, you clearly have no idea what’s going on. You’ve really blown it this time. You’re so ignorant that I actually feel sorry for you. Look, I’m going to give you one chance. You can sponsor a post now. Just hand over the cake and I’ll still let you sponsor and we can forget about all this mess.”

  “Sponsor a post?”

  Mandy rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. “Mo? Have you got an application on you?”

  The young man with the camera shuffled through his shoulder bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper, handing it to me over the counter.

  Ah, I came to the realization, here was Mandy’s endgame. The paper was some kind of application to place an advertisement on her Instagram account. The purpose of her entire little show had been to sell me advertising that I neither needed nor wanted.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I immediately answered. “I don’t think my customer base is really hip enough for this kind of thing.” My eyes grazed over the form until I reached the prices… the cheapest sponsorship available was priced at twenty thousand euros.

  My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. Twenty thousand euros? For one picture? Apparently I was in the wrong business. I hadn’t had twenty thousand euros in my bank account… ever, now that I thought about it. I certainly didn’t have that kind of money in my advertising budget. I actually didn’t even have an advertising budget. I owned the only bakery in town. Anyone who wanted a fresh croissant had to do
business with me. Not that I didn’t pride myself on being the best anyway.

  “Oh jeez, yeah, I don’t have this kind of money anyway. I’m sorry, this is totally out of my price range, and I don’t think it would work for me. Thanks for the offer, though, I appreciate it.” I gave my sweetest smile, hoping that this was the end of this conversation and the last I’d ever hear about Mandy Unterwegs or the world of social media influencers in general.

  “Oh no,” Mandy’s mouth pursed into a thin, angry line and she slowly shook her head. “That’s not how this is going to work. Not after the way you’ve treated me. Look, I’m going to make a post for you. Either I can tell it like it is and every young person on Earth can find out about your filthy bakery, your rude service, and the general bad experience I’ve had here, or we can do things the easy way. You can sponsor a post and I can put up a pretty picture that hides the reality of this little dump of a village. Your choice. I can make this entire village look like the least desirable tourist trap in Bavaria, or you can just apologize and be reasonable.”

  “Is that a threat?” I narrowed my own eyes and I could feel the heat rising from my neck into my cheeks. Usually I wasn’t a confrontational person, but this woman was beyond the pale. “Because that sounds like extortion to me. I pay you twenty thousand euros or else you attack my business and my home? That’s illegal, Mandy Unterwegs, and I’m not about to bribe you not to bully me.”