Buried in Bliss: Book 3 of the Lyssa Jones Cozy Mystery Series

Chapter 1

The truth was a time bomb ticking in my chest, and I was pretty sure I was about to detonate.

Two months. That's how long I'd been carrying this secret, feeling it grow heavier with each passing day. Two months of biting my tongue every time I saw Sam, fighting the urge to blurt out words that could change everything. Two months of sleepless nights, anxiety-fueled daydreams, and the constant, nagging feeling that I was betraying ... well, everyone.

My best friend Holly didn't know. My business partner Sam definitely didn't know. And me? I was starting to think I didn't know anything anymore.
Who would've thought three little words could turn my world upside down? But here I was, suffocating under the weight of a truth I never asked for, desperately needing to share it before I exploded.
I needed advice, and I needed it now. There was only one person in Bliss who could help me navigate this minefield of family secrets and unexpected sisters.

I found Aunt Maybee (her birth certificate read 'Maybelline,' but when she was a kid, it was shortened because “Maybe she will, Maybe she won't") in the kitchen of the Jones Mansion, up to her elbows in flour and pie dough, blissfully unaware that I was about to drop a bomb.
Jimi used to call this part of our big old Queen Anne Victorian house the kitchen complex, because it claimed a third of the first floor. Kitchen, pantry, breakfast nook, and butler's pantry all came together with a long concrete patio along its length, accessible by two sets of French doors. Since the Mansion sat high on a hill, in the spring and fall we could open the doors and enjoy the breezes from the Mississippi River.

If kitchens could have split personalities, ours would be the poster child. It was like the love child of a Victorian mansion and a five-star restaurant that was raised by Martha Stewart's cooler, quirkier sister.

Maybee had been tweaking her culinary playground for fifteen years, and it showed. The room's ceiling height would make NBA players feel short, and the fancy professional stove looked like it could launch rockets. The fridge was big enough to hide at least three bodies. Not that I'd ever considered that, of course.

The sink was strategically placed under a window, turning dish duty into a nature watch. Nothing says “I'm adulting" quite like scrubbing pots while watching squirrels execute heists on the bird feeder.
Maybee's pride and joy was the kitchen island. It was less of an island and more of a continent, really, covered with enough herbs to make a botanist swoon and baked goods that could achieve world peace if given the chance.

In a normal house, a double oven is probably used only for major holidays or school baking commitments. Here? It was practically understaffed. Between Maybee's baking for half the restaurants in Bliss and her cooking for friends and family (that'd be me: don't judge, it's cheaper than therapy), those ovens saw more action than a soap opera.

So yeah, the Mansion's kitchen was a bit extra. But with a perfect balance of old-world charm and modern convenience, it truly was the heart of our home.

Here goes nothing, I thought, taking a deep breath and stepping into the kitchen.

Our sleek black house panther Trouble was perched on the counter, watching with the intensity of a general surveying her battlefield. She was just waiting for Maybee to drop a chunk of pie dough so she could pounce.

“Hey," I said, trying to sound casual as I slid onto a stool. “Got a minute?”

Maybee smiled, flour on both her cheeks. “For you, doll, I've got two. What's on your mind?”

I took a deep breath and spit out the words before I could chicken out, “It's about Jimi and Sam.”

Maybee's hands paused mid-roll, and she looked at me curiously. “What about them?”

"You know how we joke that Sam was the daughter Jimi never had?” I fidgeted with a napkin, suddenly finding the pattern very interesting.

"Well, he does—did—have a daughter. I believe you know her... oh yes, that would be you. But I know what you're saying," Maybee agreed. “Those two were thick as thieves.”

"Turns out there's a reason for that.” I looked up, meeting Maybee's gaze. “Ansel confirmed it. Jimi was Sam's father.”

Maybee's mouth fell open, and the rolling pin rolled toward the edge of the counter. I leaned over and caught it just before it dropped to the floor. Even Trouble seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, tail twitching uncertainly.

Maybee stared at me, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “What? But how? When?”

I gave her an “I'm not going to explain the birds and bees to you" look and shrugged. “Ansel didn't give me the details. But I'd assume Jimi and Sam's mom had a thing roughly 25 years ago. All those trips… Sam was a souvenir.”

I wondered briefly if there were more Sams out there. Did I have an entire pack of unknown siblings? Ick.

I squinted and listened intently. Nada. I couldn't believe it, but I was kind of missing my dead dad's voice in my ear. Jimi had been talking to me ever since he died six months ago. I didn't want to think about the implications of him suddenly going quiet. Maybe he was never really there. Maybe I had lost my mind, after all.

My aunt ran flour-covered hands through her thick red hair, adding white to the natural silver streaks that highlighted it. She looked shell-shocked. “All these years, and he never said a word.”

"I know. It's a lot to process.” I twisted the napkin harder and tugged it in and out between my fingers. “But hey, at least now we understand why Jimi left her a life insurance policy. It wasn't just because she shared his love of music.”

Maybee let out a shaky laugh and shook her head, still looking dazed. “Does Sam know?”

I chewed on my lower lip. It was going to have a hole in it at this rate. “Ansel didn't think she was aware. I'm trying to figure out the best way to bring it up. I mean, how do you casually drop the bombshell that your boss was actually your dad and, oh yeah, now you have a big sister?”

Sensing we were distracted, Trouble chose that moment to make her move, darting forward and snatching a piece of dough from the counter.
Maybee grabbed for it half-heartedly. “I don't envy you that conversation, doll, but if you want, I'll be there with you.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think this should just be us.”

She sighed. “Sam's a tough cookie. She'll handle it.” She looked at me, really looked at me. “What about you? How are you handling it?”

"Um. Well.” I shrugged. I didn't know how to answer that. “I like Sam, care about her, even. So there's that. It would suck if we hated each other.” Still hated each other, I should say. Because our relationship had been rocky right after Jimi died. “Finding out my father had a secret like this? That part is a bit… tough. But I'm trying to get past it.”

I watched Trouble bat her prize around like a hockey puck, grateful for the momentary distraction. “It's just big, you know? It feels like it changes things.”

Maybee used a dish towel to wipe the flour from her hands. “Yes and no. Jimi loved you, even if he wasn't always good at showing it. And it was never a secret he cared about Sam. We just didn't fully understand the reason.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I guess.” Was part of my problem jealousy that he was a better father to Sam than he'd been to me?

Maybee came around the island and wrapped me in a hug. She planted a noisy kiss on top of my hair, which was the same curly red mane she had, sans gray streak—for now. The situation with Sam might change that quicker than I'd planned. “You'll figure it out. You can help each other deal with it.”

I squeezed back. “Thanks.”

Trouble had moved on to the rolling pin, pushing it back and forth on the countertop, delighted with this new game. I couldn't help but smile at her antics, despite the weight of the conversation.

Maybee chuckled, releasing me and returning her attention to her dough. “Rescue that rolling pin and give it a rinse. I've got a pie crust to finish. I promised Earl a slice of his favorite lemon meringue tonight.”

I grinned and did as instructed. Trouble shot me a baleful look, as if to say, “Traitor.”

"I have a feeling I'm going to need all the comfort food I can get after my conversation with Sam," I said, handing her the newly pristine rolling pin and settling back onto my stool.

Maybee winked at me, back in baking mode. “When are you going to talk to her?”

"I was thinking I'd tell her when we have our weekly breakfast Wednesday.” I chewed my lip. “That's okay, right? It feels warmer than dropping the bomb somewhere quiet. Like it's not a terrible thing that has to be whispered about.” Ha. I knew I was just being a coward and hoped having Diner Daisy snooping nearby would keep Sam from having a public meltdown. Sam could be dramatic.
To be fair, this news was drama-worthy.

Maybee shrugged. “It's going to be hard anywhere you do it. That girl loves her ice cream, so just be sure she has a milkshake in hand.”

I snorted. “That's a good idea. I don't know if I'll be able to eat. My stomach is in knots.”

"I'll try to save you a big slice of pie. You're going to earn it.”