Mrs. Buzzard had worked in the kitchen of the Hoyden Inn since its beginning and, as far as I’d been able to figure, was around the same age as Methuselah. And even though over the years her tiny frame had shrunk, making her now clock in under five feet, and she only had passable hearing in her right ear, that woman was terrifying. Because while Grandma Jo owned the inn, from five to ten a.m. every day (except Tuesday), the kitchen was Mrs. Buzzard’s domain.

One entered at their own peril.

The two other cooks (Reggie and Lloyd, both women) who rotated in the afternoons and evenings weren’t nearly as temperamental. They also weren’t breakfast savants, which despite all of her drawbacks, Mrs. Buzzard unquestionably was. Her French toast should probably come with a warning from the FDA for potential addiction.

A few years ago, Grandma Jo had gently informed Mrs. Buzzard that if she were so inclined to retire, it would be understandable and there would be no concern about income because my grandmother was prepared to keep paying her in full.

Mrs. Buzzard had declined.

She cooked at the Hoyden Inn not because she needed the money—a life lived frugally had made certain of that—but because it got her out of the house and away from her retired husband of sixty-three years who drove her insane by being underfoot.

She didn’t like underfoot.

That morning, I was underfoot.

“What are you doing?!” she yelled at me, more because of her poor hearing than actual anger. I think.

I’d snuck in while her back was turned as she minded the stove and had been standing in front of the open refrigerator long enough to trigger the soft beeping of the door alarm. And though Mrs. Buzzard could hear almost nothing (especially when a guest made a special request for their meal that she didn’t agree with), apparently that sound got through.

“I’m taking stock—” I started.

“What?!”

I tried again, louder. “I said I’m taking stock of some supplies.”

“Why?!”

“Because I’m going to be baking Christmas cookies later.”

“You?!” She slammed the handle of the long wooden spoon against the side of the stainless-steel pot containing rosemary new potatoes, which I was sincerely grateful I wouldn’t be cleaning later today. That would be Val Limekiller’s job, if she managed to show up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t cook!”

“It’s baking,” I pointed out.

“Baking is cooking!”

“It’ll be simple baking.”

“What?!”

“Simple baking!”

“You don’t do that, neither!”

Grandma Jo entered, unfazed by the yelling. “Good morning, Finley. What brings you down so early?”