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When life gets tough, time to run your aunt’s bakery. Actually, when life gets tough, time to visit any bakery, anywhere, anytime! Today we have Valerie Burns new book, Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder. This much anticipated book is available for pre-order and will be officially out on August 30. I would also recommend this cozy mystery for when your stress levels are out pacing your “meditation moments”. See more about the book below as well as an excerpt that will leave you giggling!
About the Book
When Maddy Montgomeryâs groom is a no-show to their livestream wedding, itâs a disaster that no amount of filtering can fix. But a surprise inheritance offers a chance to regroup and rebrandâas long as Maddy is willing to live in her late, great-aunt Octaviaâs house in New Bison, Michigan, for a year, running her bakery and caring for a 250-pound English mastiff named Baby.
Maddy doesnât bake, and her Louboutins arenât made for walking giant dogs around Lake Michigan, but the locals are friendly and the scenery is beautiful. With help from her auntâs loyal friends, aka the Baker Street Irregulars, Maddy feels ready to tackle any challenge, including Octaviaâs award-winning cake recipes. That is, until New Bisonâs mayor is fatally stabbed, and Maddyâs fingerprints are found on the knife . . .
Something strange is going on in New Bison. It seems Aunt Octavia had her suspicions, too. But Maddyâs going to need a whole lot more than a trending hashtag to save her reputationâand her life.
You can pre-order Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder at these online retailers!
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books-A-Million, Bookshop.org, Hudson Booksellers, IndieBound, Target, Walmart
Read an Excerpt
Like a lemming, I followed the other condemned passengers through the door of our gate, down a flight of stairs, through a long corridor, and outside. A blast of arctic air hit me full in the face, and I stalled. You have got to be kidding. Surely, we arenât going to be traveling during a snowstorm. However, the lemmings in front continued out onto the tarmac toward a small plane that looked like something out of a 1950s Doris Day movie. Those behind pushed and jostled around me, leaving me shivering in the doorway. I wrapped my pashmina more closely around my neck, braced myself against the wind, and made my way forward as fast as I could in my new Louboutin heels.
A set of rickety metal stairs had been pushed next to the aircraft, and I grabbed ahold of the handrail and hoisted myself up the steps. About halfway up, my heel slipped off the tread, and I nearly fell backward. The only thing that saved me from bashing my head on the ground was the person behind me, who blocked my fall.
âWhoa, are you okay?â
Am I okay? If I were okay, I wouldnât be dangling ten feet in the air, hanging on to a steel pole for dear life in subzero temperatures in the middle of a blizzard. I prepared to deliver a sharp retort but was halted when I saw the black shirt and white collar of a priest. I wasnât a religious person, but I felt confident cussing out a priest would send me straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Even if God wasnât finished torturing me yet, I wasnât prepared to test my luck before getting on an airplane in the middle of a snownado. Instead, I swallowed the profanity. âThank you, Father.â
He helped me get my feet back on the stairs and gave me a gentle nudge in the back to get me moving. âBrrr . . . itâll be nice and warm inside the plane.â
I would have resented the nudge if it hadnât been so cold. Instead, I carefully climbed the remainder of the way up and took a few steps inside to my first-class seat. I glanced around, looking for the spacious leather seats Iâd grown to love and expect. When I didnât see them, I stopped so quickly that the priest bumped into me.
âStewardess, there must be some problem here.â I stared at the front of the plane, blocking the one and only aisle.
A stewardess who looked a bit long in the tooth for flying, but well preserved, stepped from the shadows. âCan I help you?â
âWhereâs first class?â I stared to my left, but that was clearly the planeâs cockpit.
âThis is a regional plane. We donât have a first-class section. May I see your ticket?â She held out her hand.
I rummaged through my purse for several moments before I remembered Iâd stuck it in my pocket. I pulled it out and handed it over.
âYouâre right here in front.â She pointed to a seat in the first row.
I wanted to protest, but sheâd obviously been trained by the military to brook no opposition. Considering my dad was an admiral in the Navy, I recognized authority when I saw it. She took one step and maneuvered her body in a way that forced me to step toward the seat. Then she took my bag on the pretense of finding a place for it in an overhead bin. Before I knew what was happening, I was strapped in.
âBut what kind of plane doesnât have a first-class section?â I asked as she turned to leave.
âThere are only twenty-eight seats total.â
âButââ
âThe flight time is thirty minutes. Iâm sure youâll be able to endure it for that short time frame.â She turned and walked away.
The priest sat in the seat next to mine. He fastened his seat belt, put his head back, reclined, and closed his eyes.
âFather, I need to confess.â
His eyes popped open. âWell, I donât think this is the appropriate time or place.â
âBut I need a priest.â
He gave me a hard stare. âAre you Catholic?â
âNo. Do you only listen to confessions from Catholics?â
âWell, normally . . . yes. Other religions tend not to adhere to the same practices. Perhaps youâd be more comfortable talking to a minister from your own faith.â He smiled. âWhat faith are you?â
âIâm not very religious, but I feel like I need to change. I feel like I need a priest.â
He sighed and pulled his seat forward.
âFather, I needââ
He held up a hand to halt me.
The stewardess picked up a microphone and started her spiel about the airplaneâs safety features, cabin pressure, and the instructions for using my seat as a flotation device in the unlikely event that we plummeted into Lake Michigan during our thirty-minute flight from Chicago to the airport in northwestern Indiana.
The priest wouldnât allow me to speak until she finished and we made it into the air. Once the plane leveled out, he turned to me. âNow, whatâs your name?â
âMadison Montgomery.â
âPleased to meet you. Iâm Father Calloway. How can I help you?â
âI need guidance.â I have a tendency to overshare when Iâm nervous, and I must have been nervous because I shared how I was raised by my dad on military bases and how I was supposed to be going on my honeymoon but my fiancĂ© had dumped me right before the wedding. I pulled up my cell phone and swiped a few images. âI had everything planned out. It was going to be live-streamed and now look.â I held up the phone so he could see. âThatâs Brandy Denton.â I waited, but he just stared at me. âBrandy Denton? You know, she was friends with a friend of the Kardashians and almost got her own reality show, but the deal fell through at the last minute.â
âOh, Iâm sorry.â
âI was, too, until I saw these pictures of her with Elliott, my former fiancĂ©. Sheâs always been jealous of me, and now here she is making a move on the doctor that I was going to marry.â I heaved a sigh. âAnd he called me shallow. He said I was only marrying him because he was a doctor and didnât really love him. Can you believe that? We were together for eight years.â
âWere you?â
âWas I what?â
âOnly marrying him because he was a doctor?â
âOf course not. Maybe, but . . . is that wrong? I mean we were perfect for each other, and weâve been together ever since freshman year in college. All I ever wanted my entire life was to marry someone . . . like him.â
âA doctor?â
âNooo . . . well, maybe, but itâs not just because he was a doctor. I mean, itâs the lifestyle. I did my research.â
He looked skeptical.
âHave you ever seen the movie How to Marry a Millionaire?â
He shook his head.
âWell, Lauren Bacall makes a really good point in that movie. She said, âMost women use more brains picking a horse in the third at Belmont than they do picking a husband.â And I think sheâs right. I think most people just wait for a feeling and thatâs it. Hundreds of years ago, marriages were arranged. Parents looked for men who would be able to provide for their daughters.â
His lips twitched and he raised an eyebrow. âMost women nowadays prefer to pick their own husbands . . . at least I think they do.â He tugged at his collar.
About the Author

Valerie (V. M.) Burns is an Agatha, Anthony, and Edgar Award finalist. As V. M. Burns, she is the author of the Mystery Book Mystery series, RJ Franklin Mystery series, and Dog Club Mystery series. Valerie is the author of the Baker Street Mystery series. She is also a mentor in the Writing Popular Fiction Program at Seton Hill University.
Here’s Where You can Find Valerie Burns
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/v-m-burns
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/vmburnsbooks/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vmburnsbooks/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/vmburns
Website: vmburns.com