Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) by Kennedy Chase

been burgled.
    “So much for forensic detective work,” I said. “It looks like they did this with a bulldozer.” I sounded snippier than I intended, but right now cops—Cole and Alex in particular—weren’t in my good books. Although Cole’s flowers certainly helped to amend things.
    “Well, Renholm must have been doing something right,” Michael said. “He won the Notting Hill Small Business of the Year Award this year.” He picked up the chunky glass award that I’d accidentally knocked over when I’d seen Renholm’s body in the kitchen. On the wall, to the right of the door, was a gallery of photographs. Cordi was looking at it.
    “Looks like he won the year before too. Look at this clipping,” she said, pointing to one of the pictures. I went over and, sure enough, there he was, smiling, clutching another ugly lump of art glass with last year’s date emblazoned across the headline, declaring Café H, Notting Hill, Artisan Business of the Year 2014.
    Glancing at the other photographs, I could see that his fame had spread amongst the glitterati, as there were more than a few A-list celebrities featured on the wall, posing with gorgeous slices of cake and pots of tea.  
    “That’s Lana Van Hey,” I said, spying a candid snap of the famous pop star.
    “Who, dear?” asked Cordi.  
    “Lana Van Hey? The singer?”  
    She looked blankly at me. “I haven’t a clue who she is, dear, but I do like her hat, classic 1940s, very chic.”
    “I’ll have to take your word for it.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to have a look in the kitchen.” The last time I’d peeked into the kitchen, Henry Renholm had been in there, lying face down in a plateful of cake.
    The shutters were closed so the room was gloomy, and still smelled faintly of corpse. A shiver ran down my spine. I half expected to see a chalk outline on the floor, but there wasn’t one; in fact, there wasn’t a mark, not so much as a crumb.
    “The police will have had a hazmat clean-up team in here,” Michael said over my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin. “After they finished their forensic investigation, they will have cleaned it thoroughly, because of the poison.”  
    “Doesn’t help us much, does it?” I said.
    “No, unfortunately. Oh, by the way, Maggie was asking about Mum and Dad.” He looked sheepish. “I might have told her more than I intended.”  
    “What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Oh, Michael, why would you do that?”
    He shrank away and shoved his hands into the pockets in his shorts. He looked like a naughty schoolboy.
    “I couldn’t help it,” he said. “She bribed me with caramel shortbread.”
    “Great.” Now he sounded like a naughty schoolboy. I took a deep breath. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Let’s take a look upstairs, shall we?”
    I was angry. I knew Maggie had been a finder for a long time, but that didn’t give her the right to pry into my personal business. I was still smarting over Michael’s confession when Cordi joined us, and the three of us went upstairs. It was weird to think the last time I’d been here I’d been creeping around in the dark while Henry Renholm was lying dead in the kitchen.  
    The cops had made quite a mess of the apartment; the cushions had been tipped up on the sofa, cupboard doors and drawers had been left half open.  
    I pointed to the living room. “You have a sniff round in here, Cordi. Michael, you check out the bathroom. I’ll have a snoop in the bedroom.”
    Michael nodded and headed to the bathroom, still looking embarrassed about his confession. I wasn’t yet ready to let him off the hook, but I knew I couldn’t remain angry for too long. I knew how persuasive Maggie could be.
    Cordi opened her bag and got out her washing-up gloves. The pink clashed with her outfit.
    “Are you planning on doing the washing up, Cordi?”
    “No, dear. But I’ve seen CSI; I know they wear rubber gloves to preserve evidence.” She