A Beeline to Murder

3 large egg whites, at room temperature

1 cup powdered sugar, sifted

? cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted

cup finely ground blanched almonds

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (almost melted),

plus extra for greasing 2 madeleine baking tins

1 tablespoon honey



Directions:



Preheat the oven to 400°F. Grease 2 madeleine baking tins with butter.

In a large stainless-steel or copper bowl, beat the egg whites to soft peaks. Add the powdered sugar and beat the whites to stiff peaks. Gently fold the flour and almonds into the whites in 4 additions.

In a small bowl, combine the butter and honey and mix well. Gently fold the honey butter into the almond–egg white mixture.

Spoon the batter into the prepared molds, filling them about two-thirds full. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, or until the outer edges of the madeleines are golden brown.

Remove the madeleines from the oven and allow them to cool in the tins for 5 minutes. Then remove them from the molds and arrange them on a wire rack to cool completely.





Makes 3 dozen cookies





Chapter 3


To get stronger eggshells, feed your chickens extra calcium.

—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac





Kat’s cottage squatted behind a three-story Victorian with ornate gingerbread trim and a large wraparound porch with a swing. Unlatching the iron side gate, Abby swung it open and followed the gray stone walkway through drifts of silver maiden grass leaning over a low-growing row of mounding native violets. The scent of wild hedge roses and eucalyptus tinged the air with a spicy pungency that Abby loved.

She hadn’t done a whole lot of socializing after leaving the force, that is, until Clay entered her life. But even he preferred nights in—cooking together and dancing through the unfinished kitchen—to dining out. After he left, friends had accused Abby of becoming a hermit. Tonight, it felt rather nice to slip into a girly dress and stylish heels for a change. But each precarious step on the gray paving stones tested Abby’s ability to steer the two-inch silver pencil heels of her taupe-colored Anne Kleins away from the cracks.

After limping to the red door with the brass kick plate and antique Victorian knocker, Abby leaned against it and removed her high heels. Holding them with two fingers of one hand, she tucked her clutch bag under her arm and raised the fist-shaped striker. The knocker was one of Kat’s prized flea market finds.

She banged the striker twice.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Kat called out.

Abby pushed open the heavy oak door, then entered the living room and dropped her heels next to Kat’s steel-toed duty boots. The cottage’s cozy interior, its biscuit-colored walls and soft furnishings in muted hues, offered a warm—and eclectic—charm. Though she was a twenty-eight-year-old, Kat surrounded herself with old things found at white elephant sales, antique and consignment shops, architectural salvage yards, and, of course, flea markets. Finding unusual items from bygone eras was an interest that she and Abby shared.

Sinking into a cushion of Kat’s saddleback couch, Abby opened her clutch to remove the thumb drive containing the crime-scene photos. She stood, dropped her clutch on the couch, slipped the thumb drive into her pocket, and maneuvered through the cramped space between an accent chair, covered in needlepoint embroidery depicting young lovers surrounded by turtledoves, and a mahogany tea table, its doily-covered surface crowded with assorted china pieces. Passing the ornate floor lamp with way too much fringe hanging from its rose silk shade, she quickly gazed beyond the arched doorway and trained her eyes on the modest-size kitchen, where Kat was busily arranging sandwiches on a platter.