Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion

by Leslie Margolis

“You mean like Nancy Drew?” she asked. “I used to read those books all the time.”

  “Kind of,” I said. “So, how are you related to Sonya, exactly?”

  “We’re first cousins. Our moms are sisters.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” she said. “I was supposed to start college this year, but I’m taking a gap year instead.”

  “So you work at the Gap, too?” I asked.

  “No.” Felicity laughed. “A gap year means a year off. I’m supposed to be finding myself, figuring out who I am and what I want to do with my life. That way, college won’t be a waste of time. My parents don’t think I have enough direction, so they sent me here to Brooklyn.”

  “Do you agree with them?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve got plenty of direction—I just don’t want to move in the direction they want me to. Here’s the real story: I want to go to art school and my parents want me to go to business school. We couldn’t agree, so as a compromise I’m taking time to explore both art and business.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “In theory, yes,” said Felicity. “I’m taking a figure-painting class at Pratt, the art college in Brooklyn. Working here was part of the deal, because it’s giving me experience with business. Plus, I need the money, because my parents want to teach me the value of a dollar. Whatever that means!”

  “So how do you feel about working at Sonya’s Sweets?” I asked. “It sounds like you’re not so excited about it.”

  “It’s fine,” she said with a shrug. “You know—except for all of the flying glass. I guess you could say it’s a lot more exciting than I thought it would be.” She peeked over her shoulder toward Joshua.

  “Let’s talk about the flying glass,” I said. “Do you have any idea who would have destroyed such a gorgeous window?”

  “Not a clue,” Sonya replied quickly. “That’s what we’re all wondering—right?”

  “Did you notice anything suspicious yesterday? Or any customers who seemed particularly odd?”

  “I was too busy working,” said Sonya. “Check out my hands. They’re totally wrinkled from all the dishes I’ve had to wash.”

  Sonya held out her hands, palms facing me. They did look a bit prune-y. Her nails had specks of green and blue around the edges. She noticed me noticing them.

  “That’s paint, but it won’t come off no matter what,” said Sonya.

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  “We’re doing self-portraits,” said Sonya. “Which aren’t my favorite thing, but my teacher is amazing.”

  “Sonya told me you’re living with her family,” I said.

  “Yup. Sonya and I share a room and everything. It’s like we’re suddenly sisters, which is funny because we’re both only children.”

  Felicity looked behind her again. Joshua, I noticed, was lingering in the background. He kept mopping the same two feet of floor, the tiles of which were already sparkling. He was obviously eavesdropping. I didn’t mind, exactly; I just found it strange.

  I put the letter J for “Joshua” in my notebook. Sonya pretended not to read it, but I saw her eyes narrow into a squint.

  I turned to a fresh page and said, “Sonya and her mom are pretty excited about the soda fountain.”

  “I know,” said Felicity. “It’s all they’ve been talking about since I’ve been here.”

  “They’ve got a lot riding on it,” I said. “So let me ask you again—do you have any idea who might have broken the window?”

  Felicity shook her head. “Nope.”

  I wasn’t getting very far, which frustrated me. On some level I knew what the problem was. Detectives aren’t supposed to ask yes or no questions. Leading questions—the kind that require more thought and explanation—are how you get interesting information. So, for example, I shouldn’t have asked Felicity where she was from. I should’ve said, “Tell me about yourself.”

  But for some reason—maybe it was the fact that Felicity was already so uncomfortable—things just didn’t pan out that way.

  Joshua was outside now, sweeping the sidewalk. I lowered my voice and pointed to him. “How well do you know that guy?”

  “Who?” Felicity asked, even though there wasn’t anyone else in front of the shop.

  “Joshua,” I said. “That’s his name, right?”

  “Oh, him? I guess that’s his name. I can’t really keep track.” She brushed her bangs off her face and rolled her eyes. “I’m so bad with names. In fact, I’m bad with faces, too.”

  “But he just brought us hot chocolate. And he’s the only other employee here. The only one you’re not related to, that is.” I couldn’t believe I had to point this out.

  Felicity turned bright red. “That’s true. I guess I do know who you’re talking about, but I hardly know him. I swear.”

  Felicity was a bad liar. Not only did she completely fumble her answer, but I had hard evidence proving the opposite of what she was saying. Yesterday at the opening she and Joshua were totally chummy. They spent the whole afternoon joking around and talking; even after the glass shattered they’d been laughing about something.

  So why was she pretending she didn’t know who he was now? It made no sense, unless she was hiding her relationship with him for some other reason. My mind raced as I tried to make the connections.

  Maybe Joshua was responsible for the picture-window destruction but Felicity didn’t realize it until today, which was why she was trying to distance herself from him now.

  Or maybe Felicity was responsible and she was trying to frame Joshua somehow. Unless they were working together … But if it was just the two of them, how did they manage to break the window from the outside? And what could be their motive?

  “Did you hear about the salty pie?” I asked Felicity. “I’m wondering if maybe there’s a connection. Like, maybe the person who destroyed the window was working from inside the shop.”

  I noticed that Felicity was suddenly alert and staring straight at me. She had this funny expression on her face—a type of frozen fear, like a deer caught in the headlights.

  Maybe I was finally getting somewhere. I waited, watching.

  “There’s no connection, I swear,” she said.

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Because I did it,” Felicity blurted out, covering her face in her hands. “I mixed up the salt and sugar. I’m so sorry. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t just the pie you had that was ruined—I destroyed all ten of them. I feel so bad for my aunt Ricki, and I should’ve told her the truth yesterday but I was too embarrassed.”

  “I see,” I said, writing this down.

  “Are you going to tell Aunt Ricki?” Felicity asked.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I said. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

  “I’m just too embarrassed about it,” said Felicity. She leaned in closer and whispered. “Do me a favor? Don’t say anything, and I’ll tell her in my own time.”

  “I don’t want to be a tattletale,” I said. “So I guess if it doesn’t come up, I won’t mention it. But if she asks me …”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” said Felicity. “That totally makes sense. If she asks you, fine. But why would she? I’ll tell her eventually, I promise. Thanks, Maggie. You’re the best.” She jumped up and gave me a hug that smelled of vanilla perfume. “Okay, I’ve really gotta run. We’re supposed to open soon, and my aunt will be here any minute. She’s not going to be happy if things aren’t set up exactly the way she wants them.”

  Felicity was gone before I could ask her another question. I flipped through my notes, searching for any useful information, but couldn’t find any. Based on what I knew, it was not surprising that Felicity had mixed up the salt and sugar.

  But was she really just klutzy and awkward? Or was she hiding something?

  Chapter 9

  Just then, a customer walked in through the door. Three customers, actually. Well, two adults pushing a red stroller with
a dark-haired baby inside. “Are you open yet?” asked the mom.

  “Not yet,” said Felicity. “Why don’t you come back at noon?”

  “Hey, wait!” Joshua called from behind the counter. “We open at ten o’clock, and it’s already five minutes past.”

  “Oops, sorry about that,” said Felicity. She walked up to the customers and said, “Please take a menu. I’ll get you some seats.”

  The couple stood there, confused.

  “She means please take a seat and she’ll get you some menus,” Joshua explained.

  Felicity ran her fingers through her loose dark hair. It was supposed to be up in a ponytail, a bun, or a braid, and her paper soda-jerk hat was missing, too. “Isn’t that what I said?” she asked.

  “Almost,” said Joshua with a sweet smile. “You sure you’ve got this covered?”

  “Of course,” said Felicity. “You keep doing, whatever it was you were doing.”

  “Hey, you’re Joshua, right?” I asked, hopping onto a barstool.

  “Guilty as charged,” said Joshua, smiling to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth. “You’re Sonya’s friend?”

  “Maggie Brooklyn,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Joshua shook it. His fingernails were painted black, and he had a tattoo of a miniature chocolate bar on his wrist. A chocolate bar? I wanted to ask. Why? But I didn’t mention it, because I had more important questions for him. Plus, I figured no explanation would really suffice.

  “So, Sonya and her mom asked me to look into the whole picture-window breakage thing,” I explained.

  “I know,” said Joshua.

  “Right,” I said. “You must’ve overheard.”

  He didn’t deny this. He just stared straight at me, expectant, like he knew the drill. I found it somewhat unnerving.

  “How did you get the job here?” I asked.

  “I’ve known Sonya’s family forever,” said Joshua. “My family lives across the street. And I just started college in September and needed a part-time job, so this was perfect. I have experience, too: I used to work at Cupcake Cupcake Cupcake in the city.”

  “Cupcake Cupcake?” I asked.

  “Cupcake,” said Joshua. “There are three of them. Were, anyway. It was a small bakery in the city. Used to be really popular, but it closed down last year.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  Joshua shrugged. “I don’t know. Cupcakes aren’t as popular as they used to be, I guess. That’s why Ricki is so smart. This place serves all sorts of desserts, and it’s got a theme: old-fashioned soda fountain. She really put a lot of thought into it, and tons of work, too. It’s a shame, what’s been going on.”

  “Any theories as to who might’ve broken the window?” I asked.

  “Nope,” said Joshua. “I was caught completely off guard. I really don’t know who could be behind this sort of thing.”

  “Did you notice anything strange at the opening?” I asked.

  “Strange, how?” he asked. “The place was packed, and I was busy cleaning up, pouring water, and selling cupcakes and cookies and pie.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me of pie,” I said, clutching my stomach. “Just hearing the word makes me want to gag.”

  “Oh, was that you who ended up with the salty bite?” asked Joshua.

  “It sure was,” I said.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” I was about to tell him that Felicity already explained the mix-up, but then something occurred to me. “Wait. Why are you apologizing?”

  “Because it was my fault,” said Joshua. “Stupid mistake. Everything got so hectic on Saturday; I guess I somehow switched the salt and sugar.”

  “Huh,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”

  I wrote this down in my notebook—extra small so he couldn’t see. But Joshua wasn’t concerned with reading upside down, like Felicity had been; he was still working behind the counter as we spoke, pouring M&M’S into an empty glass jar, refilling napkin holders, changing out the old tub of vanilla ice cream for one that was brand-new.

  “Well, that’s one mystery solved,” said Joshua. “I’m going to confess to Ricki this afternoon. I should’ve told her yesterday, but everything got too crazy.”

  Joshua smiled at me again, and a single word popped into my head, seemingly out of nowhere: dazzling. That’s when I realized something—Sonya was right. For an old guy with a ponytail and weird tattoos, Joshua was cute, which I found distracting. His eyes were green and vibrant and shaped like sideways apostrophes. They crinkled in the corners in the cutest way when he smiled.

  I wanted to look away when he stared straight at me, but I couldn’t.

  “I am sincerely sorry that I ruined strawberry rhubarb pie for you. Please let me make it up to you,” he said, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

  “How would you do that?” I asked.

  “By giving you this amazing cookie. It’s peanut-butter-chocolate-chip—an old family recipe. I used to make them at Cupcake Cupcake Cupcake, and it was the bestselling cookie.”

  “So the cupcake place sold cookies, too?” I asked.

  “They did, but no one knew about it. That was their big problem. One of their problems, anyway.”

  I took a bite of the cookie, which was still warm from the oven. The entire thing was melty, sweet, salty, and savory—the perfect combination of flavors.

  “You baked this?” I asked.

  “Yup. I’m a big baker. I want to open up my own place someday. That’s why I’m working here—so I can learn all the tricks of the trade.” Joshua laughed and winked at me again.

  Guys don’t wink at me very often, and I’m glad about that, because when it does happen I never know how I’m supposed to react.

  I mean, think about it: someone waves, you wave back.

  Someone says hi, you say hi back.

  But a wink? You don’t wink back. So what do you do?

  Seriously—what do you do with a wink?

  At the moment, I smiled and blushed and fumbled, completely flummoxed. Then I slid off the stool and said, “Thanks. See you later.”

  I left the store quickly and headed over to Prospect Park. I had some thinking to do, and the park is my favorite place to wander around and puzzle things out. I headed in through the Third Street entrance and waved to the black stone panthers that flanked the path.

  They didn’t wave back, but do I even need to point that out?

  I walked counterclockwise toward Grand Army Plaza, where the Sunday farmers’ market was in full swing.

  Strolling along among the apple-cider-doughnut vendors and kale farmers and pickle makers, and a bunch of people stocking up on organic vegetables, I tried to make sense of what I’d just discovered.

  Joshua and Felicity had both claimed responsibility for the salty pie, but clearly only one of them could have done it. So why did they both tell me they were guilty? Who was lying, and what were they covering up?

  If I had to guess—and I did, since there wasn’t enough evidence to come to any definitive conclusions—something told me Joshua didn’t make the mistake. He told me he’s an experienced baker, and he kept talking about family recipes. Witnessing his ease and speed behind the counter made me believe him. He knew what he was doing.

  Plus, baking requires a precise mind. It’s all about chemistry, and measuring things out to the milligram and paying attention to quantity, time, and temperature. Joshua seemed to care about all of those things. He wanted to open up his own dessert place someday, and he even had a chocolate bar tattooed on his wrist. That’s passion.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Joshua didn’t make the switch. Not accidentally, anyway. So why did he say he had? What reason could he have for lying to my face?

  I wrote his name down in my notebook.

  Joshua Marcus.

  He may not be guilty of mixing up the salt and sugar.

  But he sure is guilty of something.


  Chapter 10

  “Where’s Milo?” Lulu asked me at lunch on Tuesday.

  “No idea,” I said, frowning into my turkey wrap. “He’s not in school today.”

  “Again?” Sonya asked, a worried look on her face. “Is he sick?”

  I sighed. “Knowing that would require me actually speaking to Milo. And to speak to Milo, he’d have to call me back. Or respond to my texts. Or send a smoke signal, or tap something out in Morse code, none of which he’s actually done.”

  “You know Morse code?” asked Lulu.

  “I’m kidding,” I said.

  “You think he’s still mad about you making fun of him?” asked Beatrix.

  “I didn’t make fun of him,” I said.

  “You told us you basically laughed in his face for believing in ghosts,” Lulu reminded me as she twirled a gigantic bundle of spaghetti around her spork.

  I cringed. “Okay, I guess I did make fun of him a teensy tiny bit. But I was half joking, and I apologized twice, once via voice mail and once in a text.”

  “Maybe you should apologize in person,” said Beatrix.

  “I would love to!” I cried. “But that would require me actually seeing him.”

  “It’s weird that you haven’t heard from him in so long,” said Beatrix. “He must be really sick.”

  “How sick does he have to be to not call me back?” I asked.

  “Maybe he lost his voice,” said Lulu.

  “Then why hasn’t he texted? I’m sure his fingers still work.”

  “Maybe we should change the subject,” said Lulu, realizing how upset I was.

  “How’s the investigation going?” asked Sonya. “I hope you come up with something soon, because my mom keeps talking about closing the store.”

  “But it just opened,” I said.

  “I know,” Sonya said. “But everything is going wrong. Turns out an undercover reporter also tasted the salty pie, and he gave it a lousy review in the Park Slope Weekly.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “He even took a picture of the shattered window.” Sonya pulled the article out of her backpack and smoothed out the newspaper on the table.

  The headline read SONYA’S SWEETS IN A STICKY SITUATION.