A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

  "Poppy," she whispers. "I changed my mind. I say we wait for that hot detective to solve this one."

  "You thought he was hot?" I ask. I sneak towards the back door leading to the kitchen.

  "Didn't you?"

  "If you set aside his dull personality," I respond. "Sure."

  "Uh-huh." Bree quietly giggles.

  I ignore her and stand quietly next to the back door.

  "Shhh." I press my ear against the wood. When I hear noises coming from inside, I am thrilled and terrified at the same time. My chest starts pounding and a surge of adrenaline rushes through my veins. My thoughts start spinning out of control, and my feet feel like they need to run for miles before they can calm down. "This is it. He is in there."

  "Who?"

  "The freak who stole those black truffles. The crazy person who killed Professor Sellers. This is the only available kitchen on campus right now. If anything fishy is going on, it's happening here." I reach for the door handle, but Bree stops me.

  "Are you crazy?" I hear her swallow hard. "Why don't we call the cops?"

  "Because," I protest. "I might never get a chance like this again, and whoever is in there might leave at any moment. I have to at least see who it is, Bree."

  She gulps and takes a step back. I nod at her, and she nods at me. My hand slowly turns the door knob. It is unlocked. My hands and feet feel prickly as I open the door. Light floods the sidewalk. I take a step inside, and immediately something hits my ankle. I jump and look down.

  "Cole?" I gasp.

  "Poppy," he says through his teeth. "Get out of here." He has a worried look on his face. My eyes dart around the kitchen. I look back at Cole and quickly realize that he has been tied to a chair. He rocks back and forth trying to scoot himself closer to the exit. His forehead looks damp, and there are sweat stains underneath the armpits of his shirt. I get down on my hands and knees and hide behind a counter. "Poppy." Cole rolls his eyes as he watches me crouch down and investigate instead of run to get help.

  "Shhh." I glance back at the back door and it closes before Bree has the chance to follow me. I am alone now. I hear more noises. Pots and pans are clanging, and I hear sizzling from the deep fryers. Footsteps approach. I crawl to a corner as someone in an apron comes to retrieve more mixing bowls.

  Hiking boots.

  Faded jeans.

  Blond hair.

  Jeff.

  A wave of disappointment washes over me when I see Jeff collecting mixing bowls like it is an everyday chore. All the while, Cole is tied up in the corner with a scowl on his face. My feeling of disappointment quickly turns to anger as I think about how he conned me into thinking he was a normal guy from Seattle with similar hopes and dreams as me. I jump to my feet, letting my emotions do my thinking. It's a habit that I can't shake.

  "Hey!" I shout.

  "Poppy!" Cole scolds me.

  "Poppy?" Jeff responds, turning around. He raises his eyebrows. "You can't be here. Get out!"

  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on." I stamp my foot. Cole clears his throat. "Oh, and you let Cole go."

  "Last chance," Jeff mutters. "Leave the way you came!"

  "What's that, my boy?" another voice calls from across the kitchen. Heavy footsteps thud towards me. Mr. Harris steps forward. His forehead looks shiny in the light, and he practically growls when he sees me. His gaze is fiery, like a mad man lurks behind his eyes. "Grab her."

  As soon as he commands it, Jeff grabs me. I struggle against his force, but he's too strong. He grips my arms so tight that I can start to feel bruises forming on my skin in the shape of his fingers. He grabs some butcher's string, the kind used to tie rotisserie chickens. With my hands behind my back, he ties me to the leg of a metal counter.

  "I'm really sorry," Jeff says quietly. "But I did warn you." I try to jerk myself away from him, but I can't, so I settle for giving him a death glare. Jeff sighs and resumes with his chores. He returns to the nearest counter and begins grabbing more kitchen equipment for Mr. Harris.

  "We'll decide what to do with them when we are done," Mr. Harris grunts. He wipes his forehead with his plump finger. I notice a Band-Aid wrapped around his thumb. He grabs one of the school's specially-made mixing bowls. I remember them from orientation. They have the school's emblem on them.

  I watch Jeff mix a blend of spices, molasses, and sugar, and quickly catch on to the fact that he's making beignet batter. My eyes dart to a bowl of confectioner's sugar near the fryers. Each batch that Jeff completes is taken over to Mr. Harris for examining. I look at Cole.

  "What are you doing here?" I mutter.

  "I was on my way to scope out the crime scene when I saw Jeff out by the Dumpsters," he whispers.

  "What happened to going together? We waited for you."

  "I thought I would check to see if the coast was clear," he whispers back. "Being stealthy isn't really your strong suit. No offense."

  "You realize what's happening here, don't you?"

  "Late night snack attack?" Cole mutters.

  "No." I say it a little too loud. Jeff turns around and looks at me. I refuse to make eye contact with him. I soften my voice. "No. Jeff and Mr. Harris were the ones making those strange noises in the student kitchens this whole time. They were the ones in the kitchen that night when we found Professor Sellers. One of them killed the professor."

  "Professor Sellers must have walked in on them that night," he responds. "But why would they kill him? What's so incriminating about a late night beignet binge?"

  I remember what James said back in Alabama. They have been making beignets since the school opened. Thomas Calle got into a fight with one of the teachers when he walked in on him making these sweet treats. Professor Sellers caught Jeff and Mr. Harris in the act and wound up dead.

  "Black truffles," I mutter out loud.

  "What?" Cole tries shaking the chair to loosen his ropes. He does it a second time and starts wiggling his arms. Jeff hears him and races over with a kitchen knife. My entire body freezes with fear. Jeff glances at me and quickly cuts Cole's ropes.

  "What are you—"

  "Go," he instructs him. Jeff runs to cut me free. I feel relieved when the string around my arms and wrists finally drops to the floor. "The old man is crazy. Get out while you still can."

  "You don't have to tell me twice," Cole says.

  "What about you?" My chest is pounding so loudly that it is all I can hear.

  "I have to stay," Jeff whispers. "Mr. Harris will turn me in if I don't."

  "Turn you in for what?"

  Cole pulls my arm towards the door with a pleading look on his face.

  "I kind of lied on my school application," he admits.

  "You murdered a man just so you wouldn't get kicked out of pastry school?" My face feels like it's on fire.

  "Poppy," he barks. "I had nothing to do with that. I wasn't even there that night."

  "And I am just supposed to take your word for it?" I reply.

  "Alright," Mr. Harris yells. The sound of his voice scares me so much that it forces the air from my lungs. Heavy footsteps race in my direction. "Play time is over." I hardly have the chance to think before the back door bursts open. Detective Reid enters with a group of policemen and draws his gun as a sweaty, lumpy arm wraps around my waist. I hear Mr. Harris's nasally breathing in my ear, and it grosses me out. My entire spine fills with goose bumps. This might be the one time in my life I wish I wasn't so thin and petite. Mr. Harris grabs me with little effort, as if I'm a mini cupcake.

  "Poppy, are you okay?" Detective Reid says calmly. He gently takes a step forward. I see Bree standing behind him. She's staring right at me and nervously biting her nails. I glance down and notice that Mr. Harris doesn't only have his disgusting, hairy arm around me. He is also holding up a kitchen knife, taking me as his hostage.

  "What do you think?" I angrily respond.

  "Let her go, professor." Detective Reid takes another step. He reaches out a hand like he
's a long lost friend. "We can talk this out."

  I hear Mr. Harris's breath quicken. His knuckles lock in place. He is starting to panic.

  "Don't make another decision you'll regret later," the detective says firmly. He stares straight at him.

  "I…I didn't," Mr. Harris stutters.

  "I know," the Detective responds. He takes another step. "You didn't mean for any of this to happen."

  I feel something moist drop onto my neck. I slowly look down, praying that it isn't blood. It is a tear. Another one drops onto my T-shirt. I feel Mr. Harris's grip around my waist start to loosen.

  "It was an accident," he stammers. "I thought he was unconscious, not dead. He was only supposed to forget what he saw. He couldn't know. No one can know." He lets go of me to wipe his face.

  A surge of adrenaline pumps through me, and I run as far from him as I can manage. My legs carry me towards the tray of warm beignets and I stumble, nearly knocking the whole pan over. A couple of warm beignets fall off the counter and break as they hit the floor. Something round and dark pokes out of the middle. I lean in closer to try and make out what it might be.

  I hear the clicking of handcuffs as Detective Reid recites Mr. Harris his rights. Bree and Cole call my name, but I pick up a broken beignet and pick it apart. My nails hit something hard embedded in the center. I finish pulling apart the pastry and see a black lump in the center of the fried batter. I wipe away the mess of powdered sugar dusted on top and hold up a black truffle, added after the batter was fried and cooled.

  "Yes!" I shout. "That's it."

  "What is that?" Detective Reid asks. Bree and Cole stare at it looking bewildered. Mr. Harris hangs his head.

  "One of the missing black truffles," I answer. I look at Jeff and remember how he carefully filled a box of hand-picked beignets for a couple of out-of-towners. "He has been selling the truffles by hiding them in these stupid beignets." The detective looks at Mr. Harris and then at Jeff. "How long has this tradition been going on, huh? Since the day the school opened?"

  "Please," Mr. Harris says through his teeth. "Don't stain the reputation of this school with your silly accusations."

  I glare at Jeff. He uncomfortably looks down at his shoes as he folds his arms.

  "Jeff," I call him out. He takes a deep breath.

  "Mr. Harris blackmailed me into making sure the goods were placed into the right hands," Jeff says, hanging his head. "Just like he did to Tom Fox before he ran off to get away from his mistakes."

  I think back to the missing student poster that I saw on my first day. Tom Fox did run away, but not because the program was too much for him. It was his extracurriculars that nearly killed him.

  "If that's true," Detective Reid responds. "You will have to come with me as well."

  "I'll cuff him for you," Cole comments, scowling in Jeff's direction.

  "Quiet," Bree says, hitting his arm.

  As Mr. Harris and Jeff are escorted out, my heart gradually starts to slow down. I take a few calming breaths and shake my head at the pile of fresh beignets on the counter. Detective Reid walks towards me. His chiseled jaw is clenched. I look at his slacks and autumn orange tie, remembering Bree's comment about his looks.

  "Well done," he says.

  I laugh.

  "Sounds like you almost had it figured out yourself," I reply. I bite the side of my lip and try not to stare at his face for too long. "You never thought I was guilty, did you?"

  "No." He chuckles. "This place has gotten a mountain of theft reports since Mr. Dixon took over. I guess he's not in the loop."

  "Right." I nod. "Well, you could have just said that."

  "I wasn't sure I could trust you." His eyes lock with mine for a brief moment.

  "And now?" I ask him.

  "We'll see," he jokes. His hand lightly brushes my arm as he reaches for a bowl on the counter. He holds it up and studies the school's emblem engraved on it. The shape matches the indentation that was on Professor Sellers's head. I blink a few times trying to get his pale face and bruised head out of my mind.

  "The murder weapon?" I ask. "He must have hit him pretty hard."

  Detective Reid nods.

  "I'm going to need all of these."

  "Mr. Harris has a cut on his thumb, so one of these bowls probably has DNA matching both the victim and the suspect."

  "Impressive." He grins and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his business card. "If anything else comes to mind."

  "Yeah," I respond. "I will give you a call."

  "In the meantime…" He looks around the kitchen at the mess that Mr. Harris made, starting with the burnt batter in the fryers and extending all the way across the kitchen where powdered sugar is dusted across the counters. "My team has a lot of work to do." Detective Reid promptly puts on a pair of gloves and begins the tedious task of tracking down every single kitchen item with the school's emblem engraved on it.

  That's a whole lot of bowls.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The holiday break could not have come sooner. I get off the airplane and breathe in the Oregon air. I smell coffee. Lots of coffee. I pass a handful of coffee shops as I walk to the baggage claim to meet my mom. I find myself taking long, deep breaths as I pull my carry-on bag past security.

  I see my mom waiting with a paper sack that I hope is filled with our Christmastime tradition of pumpkin spice muffins. Sometimes she makes them. Sometimes she buys them from our local bakery. Either way they taste amazing every time. I walk faster when I see her. Her thin frame is dressed in jeans and a red trench coat with brown hiking boots.

  "I thought you would be hungry," she says, handing me the sack. My stomach rumbles.

  "Yes," I respond. "Pumpkin spice. I love the holidays." I don't wait a minute before I bite into a muffin and let the sweet spices take me back to a Christmas morning when I was twelve and Grandma Liz gave me a blue, sparkly tutu that she sewed herself.

  "It's nice to have you home again." She puts her arm around me and escorts me outside to the parking lot. It doesn't matter how old I am. I think Mom still sees me as a ten-year-old girl. Even if I walked off the plane carrying my own baby, she would still see me as a ten-year-old.

  "How's my old apartment?" I ask.

  "New renters moved in last month," she responds. "Your dad took care of all the details."

  "Thanks." I haven't slept in my old room in years.

  "How is school going so far?" she asks, running her fingers through her long, dark hair.

  I knew both my parents would ask me this, and I have contemplated what to say to them. My dad already told me that pastry school wasn't the practical choice to make. I don't want to give him a reason to complain some more.

  I know I should have stayed on the familiar route and moved into a career that was dance related, but I didn't want to. I wanted to start over. Grandma Liz would have understood. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and smile.

  "It's going well." And now that the truffle killer has been caught, school really is going well for me. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. That baker's rut I found myself in is slowly starting to dissolve. "I'll have to make you something."

  "Nothing buttery," Mom comments. "Your father and I are on a vegan kick."

  "Dairy-free," I say quietly. "I accept the challenge." I remember my dieting days, and how I used to get mad at myself for dreaming of doughnuts and flaky croissants. I would go days on nothing but dry chicken salads with no dressing. And it wasn't even the dark meat that I like. It was the boring breast meat. Less fat.

  "You should try it out for a few days." She looks me up and down. "Maybe it will help you out with some of that puffiness."

  "It's not puffiness. It's five extra pounds." My mother commenting about my weight is nothing new to me. I know it would bother some people, but it doesn't bother me. When you live the life of a professional ballerina having your body scrutinized is part of the territory. I realized as soon as I bit into one of Bree's sugary morsel
s that I would probably gain some weight while I was away at school.

  "Five?"

  "It's pastry school, Mom. It was bound to happen." I am already starting to regret not getting a hotel room.

  "Well." She wrinkles her nose. "Just be careful when you go back."

  "You mean try not to let anymore doughnut holes jump into my mouth?" I joke. She looks at me curiously. She doesn't find my comment funny. Lucky for her, I think I'll steer clear of beignets for a while.

  I follow my mom to her car and put my bag in the trunk. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I smile when I see Cole's name on the screen. I read his text as we wait in line to pay for parking.

  Cole: How's Mom and Dad?

  Me: Eh…at least I can breathe here.

  Cole: Mama drama?

  Me: The usual.

  Cole: Are you going to practice your napoleons?

  Me: Idk. The fam has gone vegan.

  Cole: More for you then.

  Me: I miss Bree's caramel filled cake balls.

  Cole: Is that all you miss?

  I look up from my phone when heavy raindrops hit the windshield. Around me is familiar scenery, but I feel more like a visitor than an Oregon native. I miss Cole and my crazy roomie. I wonder what both of them are doing right now. Cole is probably grilling something at his aunt's house, and Bree is most likely back in Connecticut shopping for ingredients at her local market.

  "Who's that?" my mom asks. She shakes her head. "Sorry, old habit. That's none of my business."

  "A friend from Georgia." I smile. Cole still believes in my napoleons even though they suck. I laugh, quietly imagining him biting into a napoleon with flat puff pastry dough and lumpy cream. He would eat the whole thing to avoid hurting my feelings even if it was awful. "Mom, do you remember those candies that Grandma Liz used to make with me?"

  "Brigadeiro," she responds. "Oh, I haven't had one of those in years."

  "Me neither." I remember biting into one of those chocolaty truffles and feeling like I floated up to heaven for a few seconds. Grandma made me wait all day to have one. I would practically inhale my dinner just to be allowed a taste. Green vegetables included. "What if I made a batch?"