Beachfront Bakery: A Killer Cupcake

by Fiona Grace

  He stopped right in the middle of the store, glancing around with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face.

  Ali gulped. She had a very bad feeling about this.

  “Can I help you?” Ali asked, tentatively.

  The man’s black eyes snapped to her.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said gruffly.

  Ali felt herself shrinking back under his stare. She wondered whether he was a crazed Pete’s Pitas fan come to demand she leave town and give him back his beloved pita place.

  “I’m Ali,” she said, forcing a strained smile onto her face. “Welcome to Seaside Sweets.”

  “Seaside Sweets?” he repeated, bitterly, almost spitting out the word with distaste. “I’ve never heard such a dreadful name. And what do we need another sweet shop for anyway? We have Kookies!”

  Ali felt herself withering from the force of his fury. Peeing kids and croissant-stealing seagulls she could cope with. But angry, rude men getting right in her face? She’d had enough of that during her Éclairs days to ever want to experience it again.

  Ali suddenly became acutely aware of just how alone she was in the store. At least in Éclairs there’d been people around to stop things getting out of hand. But here, it was just her and a furious-looking man, squaring off. He had a good few inches on her, and plenty of body mass.

  Ali puffed herself up. “If you’re not here to buy anything, then I think you should leave,” she said, trying her best to be bold.

  “Leave?” he sneered. “Me? If anyone should leave, it’s you! You’re the thief!”

  His words surprised her. Ali frowned, perplexed.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, affronted by the bizarre accusation.

  “This store was supposed to be mine,” the man said. “Mine!” Then he stamped his foot, like an actual child throwing a tantrum, and pointed his finger at the floor. “Kerrigan promised it to me.”

  At the mention of her landlord, Ali’s mind swirled. There seemed to be more to this man’s accusations than she’d expected. Perhaps they weren’t the baseless rantings of a madman.

  “Kerrigan O’Neal?” Ali asked, surprised.

  “Of course Kerrigan O’Neal!” the man cried. “How many Kerrigan O’Neals do you think there are in Willow Bay! Are you an imbecile as well as a thief!”

  Ali’s heart was starting to race. She did not like this altercation one bit, and she was afraid where it might go.

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Did you have a contract with Kerrigan?”

  “We had a verbal agreement,” the man snapped. “Next thing I know, you’re here!”

  He sneered, like Ali was a bad smell.

  Ali felt terrible. It was never her intention to undercut someone. No wonder the man was so furious—though he should be taking it out on her landlord really, not her. She was an innocent victim, caught in the middle of something she’d never intended.

  “I’m so sorry if I stepped on your toes…” she began.

  But the man cut her off. “IF?” he yelled. “IF? Oh, there’s no if about it. You did! You snatched this place right out from underneath me!”

  Ali held her hands up in a truce. It seemed that no matter what she said, the man got more and more angry. She had no idea how to bring a peaceful resolution to this terrible altercation.

  “I really had no idea,” she said.

  “A likely story!” the man cried with indignance. “I bet you offered him a sweet deal, didn’t you? What was it? Did you offer over the asking price? And pay for the renovations yourself?”

  She had paid for the renovations herself, but only after Teddy’s shrewd negotiation skills had secured her the first month rent for free.

  “Honestly, I didn’t mean to undercut anyone,” Ali said. “If I did, I’m truly sorry.”

  “I don’t buy that for one second,” the man shouted. He marched to the door, throwing it wide open so all and sundry could hear the commotion. “Mark my words, miss. I’ll ruin this place!”

  He marched out, bellowing, “Don’t shop here, people! This place is run by a criminal!”

  Ali watched him go, flabbergasted, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Of all the awful things to go wrong today, that really had been the worst.

  She braced herself. If all that could happen on day one, what else could go wrong for her?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ali swiped all her unsold pastries into a big plastic bag, then headed out the door of her store into the warm California evening.

  A horrible sense of dread weighed on her chest. Not only had her grand opening been a disappointing disaster, actually losing her money, but the altercation with the man had left her rattled. If any of his accusations had a semblance of truth, she’d become the town pariah in days. She was tempted to march up to Kerrigan O’Neal and give him a piece of her mind. But she was too close to tears to even risk it. It wouldn’t do much for her carefully constructed famous-pastry-chef persona to turn up on his doorstep blubbering about the mean man who’d called her a thief.

  She turned to lock the door behind her, disappointment setting in.

  “Ali, hey,” a male voice said.

  She swirled. It was Nate, looking exceptionally handsome in the moonlight and glow of store lights.

  “Nate,” Ali said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see how your grand opening went,” he said. He grinned his pearly-toothed grin and flashed her an expectant look.

  Ali shifted self-consciously from foot to foot. “Em…”

  “Uh-oh,” Nate said, softly. “What happened?”

  His jokey exterior vanished, and he was now looking at her with kindness. Ali was a little taken aback by his perceptiveness. Otis could never tell she was sad unless tears were literally streaming down her cheeks. It was refreshing.

  “It was a total bust,” Ali told him, unable to keep the glumness from her voice.

  He winced with sympathy. “How bad?”

  “Really, really bad.” Ali shook her head as she spoke. “Like, no customers bad. Like a kid peed on my floor bad. Like a seagull shoplifted me bad.” She couldn’t help but let out a sad, wry laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Ali,” Nate said, gently. “That sucks. But try not to take it personally. You’re brand new. People will need a little bit of time to warm up to you.”

  She scuffed the toe of her shoe against the other. “I guess. How long did it take you to get customers?”

  “I mean, I’m a surf shop,” Nate said, sounding like he was trying to be tactful, “so, like, we totally have a different customer base. But…”

  “It was right away, wasn’t it?” Ali guessed. “You were a hit from day one?”

  Nate shrugged. “Kinda.”

  Ali sighed. As much as she appreciated his attempts to cheer her up, he’d actually inadvertently solidified what she already knew: she was a terrible businesswoman.

  “I’d better get home,” she said. “This bag of unsold pastries isn’t going to eat itself.”

  “You’re eating that whole bag?” Nate said, eyes widening. “You’re not even going to share them with me? Down on the beach?” He gave her a friendly nudge.

  Despite her sadness, Ali was able to rouse a smile.

  “All right,” she said.

  What else was she going to do? Go home alone and cry into her bag of unsold pastries? Might as well spend her moping time with a handsome Australian surfer.

  She held her bag out to him. “Pick your poison.”

  He reached inside. “It’s like a lucky dip,” he said, plucking out a cannelé. “What’s this little guy?” he asked.

  Ali giggled. “It’s a cannelé. It’s like a little pastry parcel of vanilla and caramel.” She remembered learning all about them with Milo Baptiste. He’d actually insisted they go to Bordeaux, the town they originated from, to make sure she learned how to make it authentically.

  Nate popped it in his mouth in one go. His eyes widened as he chewed. “That’
s incredible!”

  “Thanks,” Ali said, shyly. “Want another?”

  Nate eagerly stuck his hand back in the bag. This time he pulled out a croissant. “Classic,” he said, smiling brightly.

  They headed down to the beach together. The water was gentle, the waves breaking rhythmically and softly against the shore. They strolled close to the shoreline where the sand was wet, leaving a trail of footprints behind them.

  “Did you say you got shoplifted by a seagull?” Nate asked.

  Ali tipped her head back and barked out a laugh. “Yeah. While I was in the middle of mopping up pee.”

  “Dude,” Nate said. “That sucks.” He took a bite of his croissant. “Whoa! Ali! This is amazing!”

  “Thanks,” Ali said. “Too bad no one around here wants to buy one.”

  “You know,” Nate said mid-chew, “Whitewater might’ve had customers, but most people who came through the doors were teenagers with big dreams, tons of questions, and hardly any cash. I didn’t turn a profit for years.”

  “Really?” Ali asked.

  “Yup. It’s a hard slog. It’s not going to come overnight. But here’s some advice. You need to win over the locals first. All those poor teens who came in asking me surfing questions in the first months… well, guess what they got their parents to buy them for Christmas? Surfboards.”

  “I don’t think many teenagers have a passion for pastry,” Ali said.

  “Not teenagers,” Nate said. “But what about middle-aged ladies? Do you know how many stay-at-home moms there are in Willow Bay? How many retirees? I see them all power-walking in the mornings. You know, if you get up at the crack of dawn, maybe you can catch them. Ingratiate yourself into their ranks. Infiltrate. I take it you have neon sweats.”

  Ali smirked. “I get up at dawn to bake, anyway. It’s the only way to get the pastries ready in time for the breakfast crowd.”

  If there’s ever going to be a breakfast crowd, Ali thought ruefully.

  It was sweet of Nate to try and cheer her up, but it wasn’t going to work. A group of power-walking fifty-somethings was hardly going to make the difference.

  “There was another bad thing that happened today,” Ali said. “Apparently someone else was promised the lease of the store, until I accidentally undercut him. I didn’t even realize I was doing that. My landlord seemed desperate to get it off his hands. I assumed no one else had shown any interest.”

  “Ali,” Nate said, firmly but kindly. “This is business. Things like that happen all the time. Whoever this guy was, it sounds like he took it personally. And it sounds like you did too. Let it go. What does it matter? You’ll tread on more people’s toes over time. As long as you’re not malevolent and ruthless about it, then you shouldn’t feel guilty.”

  Ali regarded him. “Thanks,” she said.

  Maybe Nate’s sweetness did work. She actually did feel a bit better about the whole thing.

  They reached the end of the pier. It was still in full swing, its lights blazing, its music blaring.

  “Nate, I think I’m going to take a walk along the pier, if that’s cool with you,” Ali said. “On my own.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  Ali nodded. “I’m feeling better.”

  “Good.” Then he smiled cheekily. “Can I get another croissant for the road?”

  “Of course!” Ali exclaimed, glad that at least someone in this town liked her pastries. “Take a couple for breakfast as well.”

  “Awesome.” He pulled three more from her bag and waved them at her as he walked backward. “Thanks, Ali. See you tomorrow. And chin up, yeah?”

  Ali smiled as he turned and walked away with a little bounce in his step.

  Ali headed through the entrance to the pier, walking slowly so she could breathe in the sea air of her new home. It had been a bad day, but Nate’s advice and words of wisdom had cheered her.

  She reached the end of the pier and looked up at the moon. She was suddenly hit by a pang of nostalgia for her dad. She thought she’d put all those feelings to bed many years ago, but now, being back here, they’d resurfaced. It turned out she missed him after all.

  She wondered what he’d say if he could see her now.

  And with that thought, Ali realized she couldn’t ever give up. She had to do whatever it took to make her bakery a success.

  *

  Once Ali had baked the next morning’s haul of pastries, she decided to take Nate’s advice about the power walkers. Feeling optimistic, she filled a bag with still-warm pastries, locked up the store, and headed out with a renewed spring in her step.

  It had turned into a fresh, brisk morning. Ali headed down to the sandy beach, glancing about until she caught a glimpse of the neon-clad power walkers in the distance, advancing across the sand like a stampede of lurid colored buffalo.

  I should’ve stretched, she thought. Those women are fast!

  The space between them closed, and Ali readied herself to join their march. Then suddenly, they were beside her and she took off alongside them.

  “Hi!” she exclaimed, marching in time. “I’m Ali.”

  A gray-haired woman with a pink sweatband looked at her and smiled.

  “Morning!” she said without missing a beat. “I’m Irene.”

  Ali decided not to offer her hand to shake. The woman was using both arms to help propel her brisk march. Ali had to hop-skip just to keep up with her.

  “I just opened a bakery,” Ali explained. She was already short of breath. “Would you like to try one of my pastries?”

  She offered the bag.

  “No thanks, darling,” Irene said. “I don’t do carbs.”

  Ali was about to move on to the next power walker, but a sudden scream pierced the tranquil morning. The seagulls took to the sky in a flurry. The scream was so guttural, Ali felt it right in her bones.

  “What was that?” she gasped.

  Her heart began to race.

  Then the first scream was joined by another, though it sounded like it was from a different person.

  Uneasy, Ali scanned the beach. She noticed a small crowd had formed on the shoreline, over near the pier. Even from this distance she could see their distress.

  She and the power walkers hurried over to see what was going on.

  There was something large and dark lying in the surf, tangled in a net, next to a very distraught-looking fisherman. At first Ali thought it was a seal. But then she realized it was too big for that.

  “I—I snagged him on the line,” the fisherman stammered. “I pulled him in.”

  Him? Ali thought.

  She took a step closer to the dark lump on the coast. It was human. It was a body. A man.

  Ali suddenly gasped as she realized she recognized him. It was the guy who’d accused her of being a thief yesterday!

  Now here he was, dead in the water.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ali watched with apprehension as the police arrived in a convoy of flashing lights—two regular cop cars and one black Mercedes with tinted windows. From the more intimidating vehicle, two detectives emerged—a statuesque woman who appeared to be the one in charge, and her shorter, preppy-looking male partner, whose appearance was more health inspector than murder detective.

  Ali watched them approach with equal parts nerves and fascination.

  “Everyone back!” the woman commanded.

  Ali huddled with the other neon-clad power walkers, feeling like sheep being herded into a pen. The detectives got to work orchestrating the scene with the efficiency of stagehands on opening night. Except, of course, this was no play. There really was a dead body lying beneath that white sheet.

  Ali struggled to take it all in. Her day had started so optimistically, but it had veered dramatically off course, sending her in a new direction she was barely able to comprehend. She shuddered as she thought of the dead man on the sand, the man who’d shouted at her and insulted her just half a day earlier. She became acutely aware that his death
would be a part of her forever.

  “Do you think it was suicide?” a voice whispered in her ear.

  Ali flinched. Irene, the pink-sweatband-wearing, carb-avoiding power walker, had crept up beside her, close enough for her breath to tickle Ali’s earlobe. Ali wasn’t the sort of person to get her kicks out of gossiping about someone else’s misfortune, particularly in circumstances so gruesome and grizzly.

  “I hope not,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the long white lump in the sand.

  If the man had killed himself, could it have been over his lost store? It didn’t bear thinking about. That would make her complicit, in a sense. She’d have to live with that guilt forever.

  “What about murder?” Irene whispered.

  Ali frowned at her. Irene’s gray eyes were sparkling with glee and Ali found it rather distasteful. This was a real dead human being they were talking about, not some throwaway character in a cop procedural. Whether the victim had died by his own hand, another’s, or some terrible freak accident was incidental. It was a tragedy. All Ali could think of was the human life that had been snuffed out before its time, and all the friends and family left behind to cope. She knew a little bit herself about what it felt like to try and make sense of life when one of your loved ones was suddenly no longer in it.

  Thankfully, the sound of heavy vehicles approaching put an end to Irene’s scandal-mongering.

  Ali glanced over to see two white vans crawling down the sand toward the shore. Their presence was surreal; they looked so out of place, like two shiny white snails leaving tire trails in the sand behind them. On one van, the letters CSI were printed, dark blue against the lurid white. On the other, K-9. Ali knew from TV that meant the first was transporting the crime scene investigators and their equipment, the second the canine units. As an animal lover, Ali had no control over her sudden surge of excitement at seeing the sniffer dogs, but then she reminded herself just how inappropriate that would be in this context, and tempered her enthusiasm.