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

by A. Gardner

  "Hey," I respond. "How was your break?"

  "Nothing exciting," he answers. "Except my cousin did bring an Auburn Tigers flag to dinner as a joke. That didn't go well. My uncle is a big Alabama fan." Cole spots the pan of burnt brownies and frowns. "What about you guys? Did anything interesting happen?"

  Bree lightly hits her head against the table to avoid talking about her crush's fiancée. Detective Reid instructed my family to keep the incident with Dirk to ourselves, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep the information in once I saw Bree and Cole again.

  "You two better sit down," I say. I sit on the sofa in the living room and anxiously wait for them to join me.

  "What happened?" Cole asks. "You seem a little…tense."

  I discreetly glance at Bree. She grins and winks at me. I quickly move into my story about Dirk and the weed killer before Cole catches on. I don't want him to start asking questions and then feel uncomfortable because of Bree's awkward assumptions.

  "Yeah, well, Detective Reid came to my house."

  Cole leans forward in his seat.

  "Why?" he asks.

  "Okay," I sigh. "Maybe I should start from the beginning." I take a deep breath, wondering how they are going to react when I get to the part where I tossed food around like a lunatic until my mother started crying. "My parents threw their annual holiday party, only this time my mom had it catered, which was weird because she never does that." I look at Bree. "You were right. It was a special occasion. My brother proposed to his girlfriend."

  "How wonderful," Bree responds. But her smile seems forced, and she grinds her teeth to keep herself from scowling. Engagements are the last thing she wants to hear about right now.

  "Yeah, congratulations," Cole chimes in.

  "Thanks. Anyway, I happened to be in the kitchen just before his big announcement, and I saw someone outside in the backyard, and…" This time I focus my attention on Cole because he went with me to Shurbin Farms. "I saw Dirk."

  "Dirk?" Cole responds. "Shurbin Farms Dirk?"

  "Uh-huh. Turns out he was the brains behind the operation this whole time."

  "Ugh," Bree interjects. "I knew we were missing something."

  "I guess Thomas Calle started smuggling stolen goods via the student bakery. He teamed up with some of the staff and made a fortune. But one night his father confronted him, they had an argument, and Thomas was kicked out."

  "But he kept the business going," Bree finishes. "Impressive."

  "So I guess James was lying when he told us that story about his Dad?" Cole clenches his fist.

  "Not exactly," I answer. "James didn't know that Dirk's dad was Thomas' partner. Dirk took over when the two of them died, and he told me he was days away from retiring with all the cash."

  "Wait a second." Cole clears his throat. "Dirk told you all that?"

  "Yeah." I chuckle uncomfortably as my mind jumps back to me threatening him with a rock in the pouring rain. "He was definitely one to gloat."

  "So what happened?" Bree urges me to continue.

  "How the hell did he find out where you live?" Cole's jaw tightens as he narrows his eyes. He's angry that Dirk found me in the first place. "He must know where I live too."

  "Don't worry," I reassure him. "He ran off, but Detective Reid's team is tracking him as we speak."

  "So he says." Cole shakes his head.

  "Let her finish," Bree cuts in.

  "So Dirk told me all this stuff and then he ran off," I gulp. "And I looked in the trash can near where he was standing, and I found empty containers of weed killer."

  "What a dick," she says boldly. She doesn't speak that way very often, but when she does I can't help but laugh.

  "Bree," I scold her.

  "What?" She throws her hands up in the air. "He spoiled all that good food just to get back at you. He deserves to be in jail."

  "He tried to poison you?" Cole says, ignoring Bree completely. "All of you?"

  "He tried, but I put a stop to it." I cough to clear my throat. This is the part that I've been dying to tell them. Mostly because my family refused to talk about it after Detective Reid left, and I feel like I need to let it all out of my system. "I sort of destroyed it all so no one would eat anything."

  Cole and Bree look at each other.

  "How?" Cole asks.

  "I trashed every last dish," I confess. "I threw food on the floor, in the trash, everywhere really. No one would listen to me."

  "You did all that?" Cole relaxes a little. He pauses, looking up a little as if he's trying to picture it.

  "Yep."

  Bree doesn't waste a minute. She begins laughing and covers her face when she can't seem to stop. Cole grins, and it makes me smile too. The way Bree wrinkles her nose when she laughs makes me chuckle. Before I know it, I join her. Cole watches me until the three of us are laughing together.

  It feels good to be back at CPA.

  * * *

  I spent all night and morning making sure my entry looks exactly right. I want it to be a professional version of my grandma's homemade classic. Each truffle is exactly the same size, and the decorations are perfectly symmetrical. I picked out a sleek, brown chocolate box that looks like it could be found in a Parisian chocolate shop.

  I enter the special event room that the school uses for dinners and receptions. Bree is at my side holding a cake box containing her red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. The test cake that she baked tasted like heaven on a plate. The cake was moist and fluffy. It had that rich reddish color without all the food coloring. Her frosting was also spot-on. It was just the right texture and consistency, and most importantly it was not too sweet.

  We are handed a number and an application to fill out. Bree and I snag presentation tables that are right next to each other and set down our desserts. I open my box of Grandma's brigadeiro and pull out a small glass mug. My thermos of hot chocolate is ready to be poured just before the judges approach my table. I look down at my creation. I enjoyed every minute I spent creating my dessert, and I think it shows.

  I made six Brazilian truffles, and each one is a different flavor. There is a classic chocolate one rolled in chocolate jimmies. These are the ones Grandma Liz always made – the ones I made for my family over the holiday break. There is a vanilla truffle rolled in crystallized sugar. Next to it is a dark chocolate truffle rolled in crushed pistachios. The row below has my favorite one, the espresso-flavored truffle rolled in blue jimmies. Then there is the most colorful truffle. The Nutella truffle rolled in pink pearl sprinkles. And last is the truffle that I wish my grandma could have tried. I came up with a guava-flavored truffle rolled in coconut flakes.

  I inhale the scent of my homemade hot chocolate with a shot of roasted cocoa beans for an extra kick. My entry is ready to be judged, and I am proud of it. I stand up taller and think of all the things I have accomplished here at CPA. I overcame being accused of stealing, becoming a possible murder suspect, and making some tragically dry piecrusts. I have come a very long way.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around to see Cole. My chest tightens on its own when he looks at me. Cole studies my chocolate box pretending to size up his competition. I laugh as he scratches his chin.

  "So what do you think?" I ask him.

  "Those are definitely not napoleons," he responds.

  "They are way better than plain old cream sitting on top of a stupid piece of dough." I gently touch the box as if it's a block of solid gold. "They are beautiful. They are rich and chocolaty, and they are going to win."

  "Is that right, Lil' Mama?" He grins and takes a step closer. I can smell his cologne on his neatly pressed collared shirt.

  "Don't act like you're not impressed." I smile and fidget with the hem of my charcoal colored blouse. I threw it on with a pair of skinny jeans and my black high-heeled boots, because it made my whole outfit look more conservative.

  "Have you seen Georgina's…" He stops suddenly and stares at the front entrance. I turn around and se
e Jeff walk through the doors holding a plate of his sugar cookies with royal icing.

  "I didn't think he would come," I comment. After the news spread about Mr. Harris, Jeff was sort of shunned by the rest of the class. No one talks to him much, and he keeps to himself. I do have to hand it to him for choosing to push through anyway until graduation. He must really want to open that bagel shop. "Excuse me for a second."

  I walk up to him as he places his cookies on a table and clasps his hands together. He looks anxiously at his watch and then hides his hands in his pockets. His ice blue eyes widen when he sees me. I am still mad at him, but after what happened with Dirk, I've realized that life is too short to hold grudges.

  "Poppy," he says quietly.

  "Hey, Jeff," I respond. I look down at his entry, remembering the taste of it that I got at his apartment. The cookies look the same as they did back then, except Jeff made an extra effort to make the frosting look as smooth as possible. "I see you went with the sugar cookies. They look good, though that dessert bagel might have thrown a curveball at the judges."

  "Thanks." He takes a breath almost like he's relieved that I'm not here to yell at him. "Look, Poppy, about all that stuff that happened—"

  "Jeff." I hold up my hand. "I didn't come over here to tell you off. I actually wanted to say thank you."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." I look down at my boots for a second. Half the school is watching us right now, and my cheeks are starting to feel hot. "You helped the police clear my name. I know it wasn't easy to tell the truth when it could've thrown your career down the toilet."

  "I lucked out this time," he says quietly. "Mr. Dixon is going to let me stay and complete the program on the condition that I stay out of trouble, of course. And I have to work extra shifts at the bakery too."

  "So you haven't been ordered not to speak to anyone," I tease.

  "Everyone kind of does that on their own." He grins, looking a lot like his old self again.

  "That will change. Pretty soon a new class of students will start their level one courses and everything will go back to normal."

  "I hope you're right."

  I nod and walk away just as Georgina walks past us and rolls her eyes. She tosses her blonde, curled hair over her shoulder and lifts her chin when she returns to her table. I glance at her entry and take a deep breath. I don't want her to know that I'm nervous that she might beat me.

  Georgina is standing next to a tall croquembouche decorated with spun-sugar designs. I have seen pictures of these French desserts, but I've never actually made one or tasted one before. I assume that whoever wins the Paris internship will end up croquembouche-ing the day away. The dessert tower is cone-shaped. Each cream filled pastry ball is stacked perfectly on the next, and all of them are exactly the same shape. The tower is sitting on an elegant, crystal cake base, and the sugar designs are placed around the edges, mimicking a wedding cake. On top of the lovely French dessert is a delicate, chocolate sculpture.

  I doubt she made this all on her own.

  I have to hand it to Georgina. Her entry is a showstopper. I can already see the judges eyeing it, and it's not even time to begin the tastings. She glares at me as I pass her.

  "Truffles," she teases. "Really?"

  "Brazilian truffles," I correct her. I return to my table and wait for the judges to make an announcement. All of our displays are placed around the edges of the room, forming a circle. All of us have numbers, and in a few minutes the judges of the contest will circle around and taste everything. They will be carrying a clipboard with a scoring card. Once everything has been scored the students will then be free to circle around and taste each other's entries. During that time the scores will be tallied, and a winner will be named.

  I made just enough candy to tempt the judges with Grandma's specialty.

  I look across the room and see Cole nervously shifting from foot to foot. I smile when I see that he decided to make something that totally represents him. Butter rum bread pudding. He notices me looking at him, and the two of us make eye contact. He winks at me before looking away.

  "Alright, students," Mr. Dixon says into a microphone. "It's time for the judges to make their rounds so make sure y'all are standing next to your entry, and be prepared to explain it to the judges."

  I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the judges begin at the first table—a girl in a different cooking group than mine who made a lemon meringue pie. The three judges examine her pie and cut a large slice of it.

  "Did you see the other red velvet cakes?" Bree whispers. "There are three."

  "Yours looks the best." I smile as I glance at her cake for the hundredth time. It's a modern version of an old-time classic. The cake is sitting on a porcelain cake platter, and as Bree explained it, the cake is naked. That means that the sides of the cake are not frosted, so you can see the layers of cake and layers of frosting between. The top of the cake is decorated with a red fondant flower. I think the cake shows just how good she is with butter and sugar.

  I tap my foot as the judges get closer and closer to me. When it is finally my turn I smile so widely that my face starts to hurt. I look at my brigadeiro and then look to see the expressions on their faces.

  "Please explain your dessert," a man says with a French accent. I nod.

  "This is brigadeiro with a cup of hot chocolate. I made six different flavors. There is a classic chocolate, vanilla, dark chocolate with pistachio, espresso, Nutella, and guava with coconut."

  The man nods and places each truffle on a plate. He cuts them into pieces and takes a bite of the espresso one first. All three judges have blank expressions as they take notes. A student brings over a couple of sample cups so that the judges can try my hot chocolate. The French judge takes a sip and looks curiously at the glass mug.

  "How did you make this?" he asks.

  "Chocolate and steamed milk with a shot of roasted cocoa beans."

  "You brewed cocoa beans like coffee?"

  "Yes, I did," I reply, wondering if he meant that as an accusation or a compliment.

  "Interesting," he mutters. He writes something down on his clipboard. "One more question. Why did you decide to make this?"

  "Well, my grandma made it best," I begin. "But I suppose I wanted to present you with something that represents me as a chef. My greatest hope is that you'll bite into one of these Brazilian truffles and find yourself being transported to an old woman's kitchen in a tiny little village where they don't own mixers or piping bags or convection ovens."

  "Would you say that the old way of doing things is best?" the man asks. I bite the side of my lip and hope that he's not trying to trick me into looking stupid.

  "I think the modern kitchen shouldn't completely discard the past," I answer. The old man nods, and I can see a twinkle in his eye like he's trying to hold in a grin.

  The judges move on to Bree's cake. I watch them cut a slice and examine the layers of cake and frosting throughout the dessert. The French judge digs a fork into it first. He chews with precision, looking up as he does as if he is scoring the cake in his head. I hear him ask Bree the same question he asked me. "Why did you decide to make a red velvet cake?"

  Bree mentions that the recipe has been in her family for a long time. I see her look over at the other red velvet entries. She quickly adds that her recipe is made with natural red coloring. The judges nod and move to the next table.

  When the judging is over, I hesitate to move around the room and taste the competition. I can barely focus as I check the time every other minute. I really want to win that internship with Jean Pierre. If I don't win then I'll settle for Bree or Cole winning the prize.

  "Nothing left," a voice says beside me. I turn around and look into the face of Detective Reid. "I hope that means it was good?"

  "Detective," I respond. His presence is such a surprise that my chest starts pounding out of control. I clear my throat and brace myself for bad news. He always seems to come bearing bad news. "I di
dn't think I would hear from you again so soon."

  "I wanted to see you in person." He nods and casually looks around. "We apprehended Dirk trying to cross the border into Canada."

  "I can finally sleep easy," I respond.

  "Yes, you can." He glances around the room with his hands in his pockets. I guess now that I'm not a murder suspect or a possible victim anymore, he doesn't know what to say to me. He looks over at Bree's red velvet cake. "Impressive. I can barely microwave popcorn."

  "So." I change the subject to something he is more familiar with. "Did you recover all the missing black truffles?"

  "Most of them." He sighs. "I'll tell you though. I can't believe that whole operation was running on campus for so long without anybody noticing. Either you're a brilliant spy or you are attracted to trouble."

  "Well, I doubt anything that crazy will ever happen to me again."

  "You never know," he says lowly.

  "Attention students," Mr. Dixon announces. The room falls silent. "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Jean Pierre's assistant and the general manager of Le Croissant, Michel Rolph." The French judge walks to the microphone and smiles as all the students clap.

  "Merci," he responds. "All of you have presented very impressive and very refined desserts. I am looking for a very specific chef to take part in our internship at Le Croissant. This student must be skilled, organized, diligent, and most importantly, in love with learning." Michel hands the microphone back to Mr. Dixon.

  "Thank you, Mr. Rolph," he says. He looks down at his paper and pauses. "This was a close one folks. The runner-up if our winner is not able to complete the internship's prerequisites goes to Georgina Levens!"

  Georgina claps uncomfortably as she looks around at her classmates with a fake smile. The expression on her face is worth all the trouble I went through this year to stay at Calle Pastry Academy. Georgina takes a few steps towards Mr. Dixon, but she stops when she realizes that there is nothing for the second place student to receive but a pat on the back. No certificate. No plaque. No prize money. Not even a bouquet of flowers. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to laugh too loud.