I nodded. "Grams keeps a few in back." There was always some man trying to woo her, especially in the summer during tourist season.
"Are you nervous on your first day, Ms. Boss Lady?"
"More anxious and exhilarated. How about you? Wait, where are you working?"
He took a step back and spread out his arms. "Get a load of this. I am the new tenth-grade English teacher at Danger Cove High School."
Seriously? My excitement quickly faded. He'd wanted to be a Broadway star, and now he was teaching? He'd gone to college and earned an education degree, but that was mostly because his parents hated the idea of him majoring in drama. I couldn't help wonder if he was truly excited about teaching at our old school.
I stared into his eyes but couldn't tell if his expression was genuine or not. He and I needed to sit down and have a long talk. This wasn't the time though.
"Congratulations," I said, but I wasn't sure if I meant it. "We'll hang soon, right?"
"You are first on my list of people to spend time with."
I smiled.
After paying for his order, he said, "I'd love to stay and help you, but I have children who wait on my beck and call. If I'm not there, I could ruin their futures."
I'd missed this casual, easy banter we shared.
I laid the back of my hand against my forehead. "Oh dear, what will I do without your knowledge of confectioner's sugar?"
He leaned over the counter, grabbed my other hand, and kissed it. "I'm sorry, m'lady. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it be morrow."
As he walked out, I glanced down to my hand. What was up with the tingles in my belly?
Three hours later, after a normal busy Friday morning, a flash of brown appeared at the door and flew toward me. It was Amber, my cousin-slash-part-time employee. I'd swear she was the Road Runner. How did she move so fast? She was an Aries though—never sitting still.
Panting, she leaned on the counter and stared at me with her big brown eyes. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she wore absolutely no makeup. Not even a smear of Chap Stick. She never did. Unlike me, who spent thirty minutes each morning on my face. Today I had perfected overly arched brows, winged black liquid liner, heavily mascaraed lashes, and deep red lips to go with my 1950s dress. I liked to switch up my makeup every day to match what I wore. I had a closet full of clothing from every decade since the '20s. Besides baking, I just loved dressing up.
It had started when I'd participated in drama in high school. Turned out that acting wasn't my thing, but I'd loved the costumes. I'd had a ball wearing them, and then one lucky day I'd spotted a pair of white vinyl go-go boots in our own attic. They'd been Mom's. She'd let me have them, and my passion for vintage clothing had begun.
I wanted to lecture Amber about at least using something with sunscreen on her lips, but she hated my attention on her naked face, so I kept quiet. Instead, I took in her faded jeans, dingy sneakers, and peach-colored tee and waited for her to catch her breath and explain the fire.
Her father, Uncle Douglas, was Mom's brother. Her mother was Aunt Sandra. She was the other person in the car the night my parents had died. Amber had been only six when she'd lost her mom. Ten years her senior, I'd felt somewhat responsible for her. As if their deaths had been my fault. Of course, they weren't, but I put myself in the role of big sister as she'd grown up. Heck, I still felt responsible for her in some ways.
She grunted and moaned and slapped a sheet of paper onto the counter.
"Did you run here?" I asked.
She nodded.
"From home? The whole way?"
She nodded again.
Her house was half a mile away. Amber lived her life teetering between not caring and being dramatic each moment of every day. Sometimes I wished I had her resolve, and others I wanted to shake her to get her to calm down. I guessed it was why we got along so well. Two peas and all of that.
"What's so important you couldn't call or text?" I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the paper, but it was scrunched up in her fist.
She lifted her hand, shoved the sheet toward me, and managed a breathy, "They're coming."
Assuming she was referring to some new horror flick at the cinema, I smoothed out the page, then lifted it to read. Instead of a flyer about a grotesque monster or a heinous serial killer—her favorites—it was an e-mail message directed to her stepmother, Aunt Bernie.
I glanced to my panting cousin. Why was she showing me her stepmother's e-mail? More importantly, why was she reading it?
Sensing my confusion, she whispered, "Read."
The subject line was Cinnamon Sugar Bakery Special—One Day Only!
Wait, this was about the store?
With the new ownership, Cinnamon Sugar Bakery is offering free baked goods to select Danger Cove residents, Friday at 10:00 a.m.
That was today.
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the register.
That was now.
I stared into Amber's wide eyes, catching a glimpse of my own terrified reflection. "What is this? Why? How?"
She shrugged and shook her head.
"Well, this is just crazy. We can't afford to give away free food. I'll just call Aunt Bernie and…" I looked to the e-mail header to see who else this had gone out to, but Aunt Bernie's address was listed under BCC. Blind carbon copy? That meant no one else could see who received it.
The sender was listed as Riley Spencer, but that was impossible. I hadn't sent it. Was there another Riley Spencer in the world? It wasn't the most unusual name, so it was likely. Maybe this Riley got her e-mails crossed with Aunt Bernie? No, that wasn't possible. The e-mail was titled Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. The e-mail address beside fake me's name was [email protected]. I didn't recognize it.
Amber tapped the counter and swallowed hard. "It's too late."
"What do you mean?"
She grabbed my wrist and dragged me around the counter. We traveled out the front door and to the corner, which wasn't very far since the bakery sat on the corner lot. She pointed, and I followed her direction.
Headed our way, walking down the sidewalk, was a large group of people.
And they looked hungry.
DEATH BY SCONES
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Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Page 25