Mystery
![Jessa Maxwell - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_jessa_maxwell.jpg)
The Golden Spoon: A Novel
"This delicious combination of Clue and The Great British Bakeoff kept me turning the pages all night!" -Janet Evanovich, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Only Murders in the Building meets The Maid in this darkly beguiling locked-room mystery where someone turns up dead on the set of TV's hottest baking competition-perfect for fans of Nita Prose, Richard Osman, and Anthony Horowitz.
Every summer for the past ten years, six awe-struck bakers have descended on the grounds of Grafton, the leafy and imposing Vermont estate that is not only the filming site for "Bake Week" but also the childhood home of the show's famous host, celebrated baker Betsy Martin.
The author of numerous bestselling cookbooks and hailed as "America's Grandmother," Betsy Martin isn't as warm off-screen as on, though no one needs to know that but her. She has always demanded perfection, and gotten it with a smile, but this year something is off. As the baking competition commences, things begin to go awry. At first, it's merely sabotage-sugar replaced with salt, a burner turned to high-but when a body is discovered, everyone is a suspect.
A sharp and suspenseful thriller for mystery buffs and avid bakers alike, The Golden Spoon is a brilliant puzzle filled with shocking twists and turns that will keep you reading late into the night until you turn the very last page of this incredible debut.
Only Murders in the Building meets The Maid in this darkly beguiling locked-room mystery where someone turns up dead on the set of TV's hottest baking competition-perfect for fans of Nita Prose, Richard Osman, and Anthony Horowitz.
Every summer for the past ten years, six awe-struck bakers have descended on the grounds of Grafton, the leafy and imposing Vermont estate that is not only the filming site for "Bake Week" but also the childhood home of the show's famous host, celebrated baker Betsy Martin.
The author of numerous bestselling cookbooks and hailed as "America's Grandmother," Betsy Martin isn't as warm off-screen as on, though no one needs to know that but her. She has always demanded perfection, and gotten it with a smile, but this year something is off. As the baking competition commences, things begin to go awry. At first, it's merely sabotage-sugar replaced with salt, a burner turned to high-but when a body is discovered, everyone is a suspect.
A sharp and suspenseful thriller for mystery buffs and avid bakers alike, The Golden Spoon is a brilliant puzzle filled with shocking twists and turns that will keep you reading late into the night until you turn the very last page of this incredible debut.
Editorial Reviews
"Two things I love are great food and a great mystery-and The Golden Spoon has both. This delicious combination of CLUE and The Great British Bakeoff kept me turning the pages all night!" -JANET EVANOVICH, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Recovery Agent
"Clever, atmospheric, and creepy, with a spooky mansion, the kind of quirky, reality-TV-ready ensemble you can't help but adore, and storylines as expertly interwoven as a blue-ribbon challah. I can't wait for whatever Maxwell bakes up next." -ANDREA BARTZ, New York Times bestselling author of We Were Never Here
"The Golden Spoon is as addictive as bingeing your favorite culinary competition and as satisfying as a piece of your favorite cake. It's a complex, layered mystery featuring an unforgettable cast of characters who could be either America's next great baker or its next most famous cold-blooded killer. Jessa Maxwell has crafted a debut that's mouth wateringly good." -KELLYE GARRETT, Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty Award winning author of Like a Sister and Missing White Woman
"Jessa Maxwell's debut is a deliciously entertaining whodunit-charming characters, baking mishaps, and a mouthwatering murder mystery. Readers and baking enthusiasts will savor every bite of The Golden Spoon." -SARAH PENNER, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Apothecary
"At last, a baking show with a murder; cleverly constructed so we not only wonder who is the murderer, but who will be the victim. A delightful bake." -CHRISTOPHER MOORE, New York Times bestselling author of
"Clever, atmospheric, and creepy, with a spooky mansion, the kind of quirky, reality-TV-ready ensemble you can't help but adore, and storylines as expertly interwoven as a blue-ribbon challah. I can't wait for whatever Maxwell bakes up next." -ANDREA BARTZ, New York Times bestselling author of We Were Never Here
"The Golden Spoon is as addictive as bingeing your favorite culinary competition and as satisfying as a piece of your favorite cake. It's a complex, layered mystery featuring an unforgettable cast of characters who could be either America's next great baker or its next most famous cold-blooded killer. Jessa Maxwell has crafted a debut that's mouth wateringly good." -KELLYE GARRETT, Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty Award winning author of Like a Sister and Missing White Woman
"Jessa Maxwell's debut is a deliciously entertaining whodunit-charming characters, baking mishaps, and a mouthwatering murder mystery. Readers and baking enthusiasts will savor every bite of The Golden Spoon." -SARAH PENNER, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Apothecary
"At last, a baking show with a murder; cleverly constructed so we not only wonder who is the murderer, but who will be the victim. A delightful bake." -CHRISTOPHER MOORE, New York Times bestselling author of
Short Excerpt Teaser
Prologue: Betsy Prologue BETSY
Betsy presses her cell phone to her ear, trying to hear. The wind and rain howl at the windows, rattling the glass. "We're stuck out here. We won't be able to come back for a while," Melanie's voice crackles with static. "This weather has taken down a bunch of trees. We're waiting for emergency services to get them out of the road, but there's no sign of them yet. We won't be-"
"You're cut off from Grafton?" Betsy can feel the panic rising in her chest. The whole crew has already left for the day, packing up quickly and going into town to avoid driving in the storm, and now it's just her and Archie and the contestants alone in the manor. The thought fills her with dread. She shudders and pulls her thin cashmere sweater closer around her.
"What? The line keeps cutting out. Someone is going to have to go check on the tent. There's a ton of camera equipment out there. I know the tech stuff isn't your domain, but could you just go outside and make sure the flaps are sealed? I am just praying that tent is sturdy enough to make it through the storm. They're saying it's going to get worse tonight before it gets better. I'm sorry to ask you but there's no one else. I tried calling Archie, but he didn't pick up. Maybe you could-"
"I'll do it," Betsy snaps. There is no way she is going to ask anything of that man after what he's done. "But this is really… unacceptable." She feels a surge of anger as she hangs up. In the ten years she has been the host of Bake Week, she has never had to do any of the grunt work. Checking on the tent in the dark in the middle of a torrential downpour is not in her job description. She takes a deep breath. It was partly her fault, she realizes, for making the crew stay in town. She could never bear the thought of them traipsing through Grafton Manor with all their equipment and dirty shoes.
There's a flash of lightning at the window followed by a violent bang of thunder. Betsy goes into her walk-in closet and reaches for her father's heavy yellow rain jacket. As she slides her arms into it, she is disappointed to find it no longer smells of his cigars, only of the slightly mildewy musk that comes with neglect. It's a smell and a state she is constantly battling at Grafton Manor. She feels a pang of guilt. Richard Grafton would be devastated to see this place so down at the heels. He was always devoted to the manor. He'd have found a way to keep it going, no matter the cost. She sighs, stretching to get an old metal flashlight off the shelf.
Betsy makes her way through the corridor and out into the main stairwell. Rain taps frantically on the two floor to ceiling windows in the foyer. She hurries down the steps to the front door, already feeling vulnerable. She pulls her hood up and forces the heavy wood door open, struggling against the wind. The tent is only ten feet away at most, but the rain is so heavy it appears as a white blur. She steels herself and steps outside. The wind drives the rain sideways, nearly blinding her as she descends the front steps, flanked by two stone lions. Their heads rest wearily in their crossed paws, as if they've given in to the storm. She crosses the short patch of gravel drive to the lawn, the rain pelting her in sheets. As soon as her feet hit the lawn, the heel of her right shoe descends into the fresh sod. It sticks there, making her nearly lose her balance. She hops on one foot, pulling the shoe up from the mud with a sucking sound and shoving her wet foot back inside. She is already drenched. She angrily anticipates the cleanup they'll have to do before filming resumes. It will delay everything. It will cost money, lots of it. This season is turning into a horrible mess.
"Their chemistry is lacking," that's what The Post wrote recently after the footage from the first day was leaked. It was under the headline "What Will Happen to Bake Week?" As if somehow the press believes that the problem is both of them. No one ever complained about her chemistry before he got here. There was no problem with anything until he got here.
Angrily, she pulls open the flap at the back of the tent, switching on her flashlight. The rain hits the tent in noisy bursts drumming at the peaked canvas ceiling. She sweeps the flashlight around the open space. Each table is immaculately arranged, as is usual after the crew cleans them at the end of the day, before the bakers will return in the early morning to dirty every surface imaginable with dustings of flour and gobs of dough. Now every ...
Betsy presses her cell phone to her ear, trying to hear. The wind and rain howl at the windows, rattling the glass. "We're stuck out here. We won't be able to come back for a while," Melanie's voice crackles with static. "This weather has taken down a bunch of trees. We're waiting for emergency services to get them out of the road, but there's no sign of them yet. We won't be-"
"You're cut off from Grafton?" Betsy can feel the panic rising in her chest. The whole crew has already left for the day, packing up quickly and going into town to avoid driving in the storm, and now it's just her and Archie and the contestants alone in the manor. The thought fills her with dread. She shudders and pulls her thin cashmere sweater closer around her.
"What? The line keeps cutting out. Someone is going to have to go check on the tent. There's a ton of camera equipment out there. I know the tech stuff isn't your domain, but could you just go outside and make sure the flaps are sealed? I am just praying that tent is sturdy enough to make it through the storm. They're saying it's going to get worse tonight before it gets better. I'm sorry to ask you but there's no one else. I tried calling Archie, but he didn't pick up. Maybe you could-"
"I'll do it," Betsy snaps. There is no way she is going to ask anything of that man after what he's done. "But this is really… unacceptable." She feels a surge of anger as she hangs up. In the ten years she has been the host of Bake Week, she has never had to do any of the grunt work. Checking on the tent in the dark in the middle of a torrential downpour is not in her job description. She takes a deep breath. It was partly her fault, she realizes, for making the crew stay in town. She could never bear the thought of them traipsing through Grafton Manor with all their equipment and dirty shoes.
There's a flash of lightning at the window followed by a violent bang of thunder. Betsy goes into her walk-in closet and reaches for her father's heavy yellow rain jacket. As she slides her arms into it, she is disappointed to find it no longer smells of his cigars, only of the slightly mildewy musk that comes with neglect. It's a smell and a state she is constantly battling at Grafton Manor. She feels a pang of guilt. Richard Grafton would be devastated to see this place so down at the heels. He was always devoted to the manor. He'd have found a way to keep it going, no matter the cost. She sighs, stretching to get an old metal flashlight off the shelf.
Betsy makes her way through the corridor and out into the main stairwell. Rain taps frantically on the two floor to ceiling windows in the foyer. She hurries down the steps to the front door, already feeling vulnerable. She pulls her hood up and forces the heavy wood door open, struggling against the wind. The tent is only ten feet away at most, but the rain is so heavy it appears as a white blur. She steels herself and steps outside. The wind drives the rain sideways, nearly blinding her as she descends the front steps, flanked by two stone lions. Their heads rest wearily in their crossed paws, as if they've given in to the storm. She crosses the short patch of gravel drive to the lawn, the rain pelting her in sheets. As soon as her feet hit the lawn, the heel of her right shoe descends into the fresh sod. It sticks there, making her nearly lose her balance. She hops on one foot, pulling the shoe up from the mud with a sucking sound and shoving her wet foot back inside. She is already drenched. She angrily anticipates the cleanup they'll have to do before filming resumes. It will delay everything. It will cost money, lots of it. This season is turning into a horrible mess.
"Their chemistry is lacking," that's what The Post wrote recently after the footage from the first day was leaked. It was under the headline "What Will Happen to Bake Week?" As if somehow the press believes that the problem is both of them. No one ever complained about her chemistry before he got here. There was no problem with anything until he got here.
Angrily, she pulls open the flap at the back of the tent, switching on her flashlight. The rain hits the tent in noisy bursts drumming at the peaked canvas ceiling. She sweeps the flashlight around the open space. Each table is immaculately arranged, as is usual after the crew cleans them at the end of the day, before the bakers will return in the early morning to dirty every surface imaginable with dustings of flour and gobs of dough. Now every ...
