Particular Pastry Chef

"Why does it feel like someone is going to murder us?"
Autumn Milford's sixteen-year-old daughter Jordyn asked, peering out the car window at the thick, wooded landscape.
Autumn grit her teeth as she carefully maneuvered the old green
Subaru around a precarious bend in the road. They were so deep in the woods that the GPS on her cell phone was starting to lose connection. "Get the map," she told her daughter, refusing to take her eyes off the road. Hopefully, this mansion had a bottle of wine they could spare, because her nerves were frayed.
"Are you sure we're headed in the right direction?" Jordyn bent down and rummaged around in Autumn's old, worn purse that was wedged between the teenager's feet.
"Yes. I triple-checked everything with Mr Feldman last night." Her mysterious employer's butler had been Autumn's only contact since winning the catering contract two weeks ago.