Fudge Brownies & Murder

by Janel Gradowski

  "What's wrong?" he whispers.

  "I think I heard a ghost last night," I admit.

  "You should have come out with me and my roommate." Cole slowly follows our group to one of the store rooms. I'm almost elbowed in the gut by a student whipping meringue.

  "I'm not joking," I mutter. "I saw something last night near our classroom."

  "What were you doing over there?" he asks.

  I hear another bang that makes my head throb. I think about last night and how the shadowy figure stared at me from the end of the hallway while I stood frozen and a little drunk. I look over my shoulder and see someone using one of the school's specially-made bowls to mix sugar with molasses. The student pauses to add a few spices and then continues mixing vigorously.

  "Never mind that." I clear my throat. "There was someone in the kitchens last night."

  "Did you see who it was?" Cole narrows his eyes as he looks at me.

  "I couldn't see a face but—"

  "You didn't see Old Man Thomas, Poppy." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm sure it was just someone trying get ahead on cake construction or something."

  "No," I whisper. "Whoever it was just appeared out of nowhere."

  "No one appears out of nowhere," he argues. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

  "You're right," I say sarcastically. "It must have been Georgina mixing up gourmet cake recipes for her debut baking line."

  Georgina's head tilts when I say her name. She swiftly glances over her shoulder and glares at me before directing her attention back to Steve. I cover my mouth with my hand as Steve, the head baker, points to the various pantry items that are stored in airtight containers.

  "What was that about?" Cole whispers. I wait until Georgina's attention is focused solely on Steve's presentation.

  "Her ears must have been burning."

  For the rest of our tour we observe the many stations where each pastry is made. My mouth waters when a hot pan of orange rolls is pulled from the oven and frosted with orange glaze. The sweet frosting melts perfectly over each bun. Mr. Harris snags one and takes a bite like it's a completely normal thing to do. He does the same with the other pastries, and just when I think he can't bear to stomach any more he nibbles at the first piece of peach pie. In truth, Mr. Harris did the things we all wished we could do if it weren't socially inappropriate. But then we would all be his size. Plump and round like a ripe nectarine.

  "Mr. Harris, will we be tested on all this?" Georgina raises her hand but speaks freely when Mr. Harris looks at her. He looks bothered that she's even asking that question.

  "Does it matter?" he responds.

  "It matters to me." She raises her eyebrows as if his retort is inappropriate.

  "Not everything is a test, silly girl," he murmurs. He coughs to clear his scratchy voice.

  "Excuse me?" Georgina bites back. She places her hands on her hips. "Mr. Harris, I'm paying good money to attend this program. My family has built a successful business in the food industry from nothing, and our company was even listed as one of Oprah's Favorite Things. That's right. Oprah. What qualifies you to sit there choking down pie and refer to me as a silly, little girl?"

  The entire class and most of the kitchen goes silent as Mr. Harris clenches his jaw. He springs forward so quickly that it startles me. His round body moves from its spot near the hot pastry counter in a flash. Georgina takes a step back trying to play it cool, but she's blushing.

  "What qualifies me?" he shouts. "What qualifies me?" Beads of sweat form on his forehead, and his entire face looks as if it might light on fire. "I've prepared meals for hundreds of thousands of soldiers back when I served in the army. I have earned the right to teach as I please."

  Georgina nods. She firmly clasps her hands together.

  "My apologies," she gulps.

  Mr. Harris growls and storms out of the kitchen. I've met men like him before. Men with a short fuse. I suppose seeing certain things from the front lines, or from the cook's line, can scar a person for life. My dad once did business with a captain in the Navy who dove to the floor during lunch after a plate shattered in the kitchen. He thought he was being shot at.

  "Remind me never to piss him off," Cole says quietly.

  I wipe another bead of sweat from my forehead after Jeff nods in my direction. I follow Cole back outside just as the sun is starting to rise. It turns the sky an orangey color that reminds me again of orange-scented sticky buns. I clutch my stomach to stop it from making loud noises. At least one good thing came of this bakery orientation. I met Jeff.

  "Ready?" Bree finally joins me again as our class breaks up across the quad before our morning lessons.

  "Ready for what?"

  "Day two," she responds. "We still have a full day of classes ahead of us."

  "But our first one isn't until ten this morning, right?"

  I feel relieved when Bree nods. That means I can head back to our apartment and sleep off my headache. The two of us walk back to our apartment. Bree makes another pot of coffee, and I collapse on my bed and close my eyes. Day two cannot be like day one. I have to try harder.

  I have to wear flats.

  SOUTHERN PEACH PIE & A DEAD GUY

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