Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  My hands are trembling as I plate the first cupcake, hoping I don’t drop the thing and ruin my chances due to sheer clumsiness.

  That would be just my luck.

  Robert rubs his palms together. “What are we eating first? A chocolate cupcake, right?”

  I nod, wondering if I am allowed to correct him. “It’s a chocolate cinnamon cake with a chocolate salted caramel buttercream.”

  Or, you know, a chocolate cupcake.

  Watching two people eat is nerve-racking. I fight the urge to bite my nails as they take their first bite together. When the inhale, the exhale, the closed eyes and the “mm” noises fill the back end of the eatery, my spirits begin to lift. My anxiety untethers itself from my spine and a smile finds my lips.

  Next is the lime verbena.

  Then the coffee cupcake with dulce de leche Italian meringue.

  The fourth is the one I am most nervous about, but given that they have loved and raved about the previous three, I go out on a limb and try my hand at believing this might actually work out for the best.

  Just when I am about to introduce the last cupcake flavor, Marianne runs into the restaurant, whips her head around and dashes toward us. I’m expecting her to report a five-alarm fire at the library, but instead she says, “Did I miss it? I tried to get here as soon as I could.”

  My entire being moves toward her. Without caring about decorum or professionalism, I throw my arms around my friend, grateful for all that she is to me. “You’re just in time.”

  “Whew! The one day people want to go to the library and take their sweet time.” Her eyes fix on the table and she deflates. “I did miss it!”

  “No, no. They still have one cupcake left.”

  Karen grins at Roberta. “The best cupcake. We vetted it last night to be sure.”

  Winifred raises her chin, daring anyone to question her. “Anyone would be a fool not to buy a dozen on the spot.”

  Robert is none too pleased with my cheering section, but Roberta grins at all five of us. She clasps her hands together. “Let me guess, this one is vanilla, right?”

  I chew on my lower lip, debating again whether or not to correct her.

  Marianne has no such qualms. “Actually, it’s a vanilla bean cake with a vanilla bean cardamom glaze, topped with Italian meringue that was made with vanilla bean and cardamom sugar.”

  “Impressive memory,” I compliment Marianne, linking my arm through hers.

  Her spine lengthens. “Well, I should hope so. I am your dishwasher, after all.”

  I want this so badly. Even more, I want Robert and Roberta to love this odd flavor I have concocted. In my childish heart, I know that if they love this cupcake, then maybe there might be a place for me here in Sweetwater Falls after all.

  Even though she has sampled three cupcakes so far, Roberta finishes her entire portion. She leans back in her chair, sucking on her finger to get the last morsel off. “Oh, Robert. If you don’t sell these cupcakes here, you’re dead to me.”

  Robert chuckles, but pushes the rest of his vanilla cardamom cupcake away after one bite. “Alright, alright. You heard the lady. I would be happy to add the first three to the menu. The fourth one is too weird. The others are good, though.”

  His verdict sends me simultaneously soaring and then crashing.

  Too weird?

  I take a breath and decide to take it as a win. I mean, he wants to sell three of my cupcake varieties. I wanted to sell my desserts at a restaurant, and I am getting exactly that opportunity.

  I knew the cardamom was too out there for them. Maybe my palette is off.

  Too weird.

  Robert’s critique is a gong in my ears.

  Marianne jumps up and down, squealing her excitement.

  Winifred’s jaw tightens at my mild upset, but she takes the win, as I do. “Very well. Let’s talk terms.”

  I love that she is a pit bull, determined not to let me shake on a raw deal.

  However, it is clear that Robert does not like it when Winifred speaks at all. His jaw tightens and his upper lip hints at a curl.

  Agnes takes over, holding up her finger. “Three times the price of the cost to make each batch, minimum. More if you want exclusivity.”

  My heart nearly stops. I open my mouth to backpedal, but Karen’s wink in my direction stills my protest.

  Robert leans back in his chair, squinting one eye at Agnes. “What makes you think I would ever agree to something like that?”

  Agnes folds her fingers over her midsection. “I helped you study for your economics final, young man. I know what’s standard, enough to not get fleeced.”

  Robert grumbles, and I can feel the deal slipping through my fingers.

  Marianne holds tight to my hand, unwilling to let me waver now. “Steady,” she whispers.

  Robert glares at me. “How much does it cost to make a dozen, young lady?”

  I rattle off the exact amount.

  Robert scoffs at Agnes. “You realize I would have to charge at least four dollars and fifty cents per cupcake to make a profit.”

  Agnes leans over and pats him on the head in the most cutely patronizing way one can do such a thing. “Don’t forget about the exclusivity bonus. I would charge five dollars even, if I were you.” Then she pinches the saggy skin on his cheek. “You did such a good job in that Economics class. A solid C-average, if my memory suffices.”

  His expression mutates to horror that she remembers his shortcomings so accurately. “Yes, well, fine. You can have your asking price, plus the exclusivity bonus. I’ll draw up an agreement and we’ll see how it goes.” Then he points a scolding finger in my direction. “This is a trial run, understood? I’ll give these things thirty days to see if they sell. If not, no harm no foul. Done.”

  I nod so quickly, I am certain it looks like my eyes are rattling in my head. “Absolutely, sir. You won’t be sorry.”

  Maybe I do belong in Sweetwater Falls after all.

  16

  Spaghetti Scarf Cupcakes

  Roberta slides her husband’s leftover vanilla cardamom cupcake over to herself and munches on the rest of it. I am slightly mollified that even though my creation was too weird for Robert, at least it struck home with his wife.

  Robert stands and waves for me to follow him. “Let’s hammer out the details in my office. Just you, not your groupies.”

  Winifred kisses my cheek. “I’m proud of you, Charlotte. We’re going to head out. See you at home.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, though there are a great many things to which my gratitude could apply.

  Aunt Winnie doesn’t need to hear any of it. She squeezes my hand, and the four women I adore exit the Spaghetti Scarf.

  I trail after Robert, going through the long, narrow kitchen. Notes of garlic, shallots and tomato sauce hit my senses. The tomato is so strong that I scarcely remember any other smell exists.

  A pot of water boils on the stove, and is dangerously close to boiling over. The chef stirs a sauce with vigor, splattering a bit of the tomato on the black backsplash. There is no attempt at wiping down the mess as she plates the vibrant sauce over a nest of spaghetti noodles.

  A meager row of sharp knives hangs on a magnetic strip across backsplash. The chef yanks one down and hacks into a cooked and ready polish sausage, making me wonder when the last time was that I treated myself to a luscious dinner of sausage and peppers.

  It’s the wrong knife she’s using. Cutting it like that is truly butchering a perfectly delicious sausage. You want the clean cuts on the bias, but the serrated one she is using leaves traces of the innards on the edges of the casing.

  The chef frowns at the sausage, as if thinking the same thing.

  The aroma is incredible—imperfect cuts or not. I am instantly starving, dying for a plate of pasta.

  Robert and I turn left toward a small office littered with piles of paperwork. There is nowhere to sit, including the chair I would think he uses on a regular basis. A cup of coff
ee sits precariously atop a stack of folders, daring someone to come along and knock it onto the paperwork.

  Random words catch my eyes: “Dear Gerald Forbine, I was hoping you might reconsider and sell me the restaurant.” There seem to be several like that, all pushed into the same area on Robert’s desk. Then there is a pile of what look like legal forms, I’m guessing all to do with Gerald’s recent passing.

  Robert gestures to the mess. “When you die, make sure you don’t dump the paperwork on your child. Unless you hate your son, in which case, this is the perfect revenge.”

  It’s an odd choice of words, to be sure.

  I tilt my head to the side. “You two didn’t get along?”

  Robert searches for a pen and an unused piece of paper. “Oh, we were just about as different as two people can be. Didn’t see eye to eye on how the business should be run. I think he lost sight of what made this place special to my mom before she passed. She was always trying new recipes, but when she died, he refused to change a thing.” He points at me. “You’re lucky you came along when you did. Had you pitched your cupcakes a month ago, you would have had my dad to deal with. He never would have let a new idea like this in.”

  “I’m grateful for the opportunity.” Why does my voice sound squeaky and weird?

  I don’t want to know about their squabbles. I shouldn’t have pried.

  Yet, here I go again.

  I point to a paper that caught my eye. “He didn’t want to sell the restaurant. You did?”

  Robert frowns and follows my gaze.

  He snatches up the paper as if that will make it disappear from my memory. “That’s neither here nor there. I make the business decisions now. This place is legally mine to do with as I please. I’m weighing my options.” He jots down a few numbers on a piece of paper. “You should be glad it’s me at the wheel. This partnership never would have happened otherwise.” His face sours. “Well, maybe it could have. Your aunt had her hooks in my father. She probably could have done a number on him. Bewitched him to throw away all his ideals, as usual.”

  I grimace at Robert’s bitter tone. “Bewitched?”

  He seems to recall that I am Winifred’s family member, and therefore, less likely to enjoy resentful gossip about my aunt. He fakes a cough and clears his throat a few times, as if that might make me dismiss his rude assessment of my aunt. “I’m fine with starting this on Monday next week. That work for you?”

  I nod, but I am still stuck on his assessment of Gerald and Winifred. “You think Winifred made your father throw away his ideals?”

  It’s clear Robert doesn’t want to get into the subject he brought up, but there is no deft way to sidestep a direct question. He swipes his hand across his mustache and fixes me with a hard stare. “My father hadn’t dated anyone since my mother died. The day after the ten-year anniversary of her death, he asked Winifred out on a date. Bewitched.” He nods once, as if that seals it.

  “Maybe your dad was lonely. After ten years…”

  Robert slams his hand down on a stack of papers, startling me so much that I let out a small squeak. “My mother was a saint, do you hear me? She never did an irresponsible thing in her life. Dad taking up with anyone is a shock, but Winifred? One of the three members of that ridiculous Live Forever Club? She’s trouble, and little else.” Light flickers in his eyes, as if a new idea has just occurred to him. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who killed my father.”

  Even though I have thought the exact same thing, I back up in horror at the venom and borderline delight in Robert’s tone. He has no evidence, only a hatred for my aunt. I don’t like being in the same room with this revelation he is having. I feel dirty breathing the same air as him.

  I hold up my hands in surrender to his swinging temper. “I’ll drop off the first delivery on Monday morning.”

  Robert seems to understand that this is a conversation in which I will not participate. “A dozen of each flavor. The three good flavors, not that last one. If they sell out, we’ll see about upping the shipment.”

  “Yes, sir.” I mumble something that is supposed to communicate “Have a nice day,” and also, “Don’t talk to me anymore.” I turn and march out the door.

  I’m indignant and also ashamed that I often entertain a similar guilty verdict about my carefree aunt.

  I pass the chef on the way out, giving her a polite nod.

  She hacks into a head of cabbage that rests next to a dozen or so carrots. Again, she is using the wrong knife. A steak knife instead of a chef’s knife will take twice as long to process the cabbage.

  I’m butting in. I realize it. I’m being nosy and pushy when I should just leave with my irritation and a bit of my dignity intact.

  However, I cannot help myself. “Excuse me, what are you making?”

  Her round face is sweaty, and I can tell she is unenthused at my interruption. “Apple coleslaw.”

  “That sounds delicious. Do you have a chef’s knife? That might make things easier on you. I can tell you work very hard back here. The whole place smells incredible, thanks to you.”

  When her eyes tear up, it is clear she hasn’t had a compliment in far too long. “Thank you for saying that. These are all Gerald’s wife’s recipes. I’ve been working here for twelve years, following them exactly. It’s a struggle doing things with the wrong knife. I ordered a new one to replace the one that went missing, but my supplier is behind.” She motions to the steak knife. “Thus, I am behind.”

  I want to hug the struggling woman. She looks to be in her fifties, her dark hair matted to her forehead by the hairnet. Her round face is red and sweaty, her small pink nose moist with either emotion or exhaustion, I cannot tell.

  “I’m Charlotte,” I offer, though I don’t shake her hand, since she is wearing kitchen gloves. “I’ll be dropping off cupcakes to add to your menu, so you might see me around more often.” I chew on my lower lip, hoping not to seem too eager to befriend the woman. “Can I help? I can deal with the cabbage, if you like. I used to do salad prep at the restaurant I worked at before I moved here.”

  “Really?” She looks around, mildly concerned. “I probably shouldn’t, but my sus chef called off today, so I’m drowning.”

  “Happy to help.”

  The chef sets down the steak knife and bustles to the oven, tugging out a tray of long loaves of bread. “I’m Helen. You’re Winifred’s niece, right? The new girl.”

  “I am. That’s my full title, too. Charlotte: Winifred’s niece, the new girl.” I smile at her and pick up the steak knife, wondering how Helen has been keeping her cool with only this and a few other steak knives as her cutting tools.

  “Glad to have the help.”

  Helen wastes no time slathering the bread that’s been previously sliced lengthwise with a butter concoction. It smells like pure love and garlic.

  “Oh, that smells heavenly.”

  Helen chuckles. “It does, doesn’t it. It was even better last month, if you can believe it. Gerald and the late Mrs. Forbine never tolerated skimping on fresh ingredients. I made the dough myself the night before, and then my sus chef would bake it in the morning.” She frowns at the bread on the oven tray before her. “This stuff came to us from a bakery out of town. It’s okay, but it’s not what it should be.”

  My mouth pulls to the side while I chop the cabbage into long strips. “Huh. I would have thought Robert would be all about honoring his mother’s memory.”

  “He is, until he sees a way to save a shiny nickel. Then you’d better hold onto your hat. Robert is always trying to cut corners, but Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. The recipe needed to stay the same, even when the cost of produce went up. Now that Gerald is gone?” Helen shakes her head as she hurries to the fridge and pulls out a container. “The quality has already started to go downhill, and Gerald has barely been in the ground for a blink, may he rest in peace. Poor man. To be murdered, not just die? It’s awful. I’m sure I should protest this dry loaf of bread
more than I did, but I’m too heartbroken to put up much of a fight. The place isn’t the same without Gerald.”

  I finish slicing the cabbage. Then I locate the apples on the counter and begin processing those. We let a few beats of silence settle, so Helen can work while she unburdens herself of a portion of her grief.

  “I never met Gerald,” I admit. I’ve been trying to piece together details of him to make a whole picture in my mind. I am hoping it might replace the mental image of his bloated corpse. “It sounds like he was a good boss.”

  “The best. When I had to have knee surgery, he wouldn’t hear of me coming back until my doctor gave me a clean bill of health. Gave me paid leave the entire time, too.” Helen’s eyes mist over. “Only a good man does something like that.” She shakes her head. “He’s with his wife now. He’s happy.”

  After I finish slicing the apples, I migrate to Helen, pausing her fluster in the kitchen so I can wrap my arms around her. I don’t have true words of comfort, only sympathy. “I’m sorry your friend died.”

  At this, Helen blubbers on my shoulder, holding on to me—a stranger—because her grief can’t be held at bay another moment.

  I hold tight to Helen, knowing that I cannot let Gerald’s killer go free. If the sheriff hasn’t narrowed down his search yet, then I need to step up and figure this out.

  Helen deserves closure.

  Sweetwater Falls has suffered enough.

  17

  Spaghetti Mess

  It is poor form to frequent a dead man’s restaurant for the sole purpose of digging into his death, but I guess that is the kind of girl I am this week. Marianne has been a trooper, so I decide to treat her to a meal at the Spaghetti Scarf.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she says, as if no one has ever taken her out before. She spreads her black cloth napkin over her lap.

  “You deserve it. You’ve washed about a hundred dishes to help me out.”