Lacey Luzzi: Sliced (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 13)

by Gina LaManna

  “Gee whiz, thanks,” Meg said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  The bell rang, signaling the end of the cookie portion of the semi-final. Collective gasps of relief went up around the room. Bakers stepped back from the benches and wiped their brows. Several smiles seeped out as the contestants gave one another handshakes and nervous nods.

  One by one, each of the bakers took their plate of cookies up front and placed it behind their photo. The judging would be blind—hence the reason Filip shouldn’t have been peeping at Meg’s cookies from underneath his severe lack of a disguise. But luckily nobody seemed to have noticed.

  After a brief introduction by an announcer, the judges began the painstakingly slow task of taking a tiny bite out of each cookie before moving to the next, and the next, and the next. They eventually huddled up to discuss, and then returned to the cookie table for another round of nibbles.

  “What’s taking so long?” Clay scratched at his head. “Shouldn’t they have the winners by now?”

  “It’s just that we’re all so good at this,” Meg said. “How can they choose a winner?”

  “Yours are the best.” Clay swung an arm around Meg’s shoulder and pulled her close. “I should know. I’ve eaten three dozen of your cookies this week.”

  “What happened to the other four dozen?” Meg frowned. “I thought you ate them all? You didn’t throw them away, did you?”

  “I couldn’t possibly...” Clay paled. “Oh, hey! Look, they’re ready to announce.”

  The room quieted as the bakers turned their attention to the front of the tent. Meg grabbed my hand in one and Clay’s in the other. I saw Nellie standing near her mom behind her booth. She caught my eye and gave us the thumbs up.

  “Moving on to the finals, we have Anna Thomas, Tara Reed, Leslie Tade, and...” Hunter paused, frowned as he looked at the card. “Beth Whitman.”

  There was a long, extended silence. Then cheering broke out from several sections of the room. From others came the sound of more demure, muted applause. From our section there was nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, turning to Meg. “You did your best. And your snowmen were great! But honestly, you only had—”

  “Wait, wait...” Hunter Arquette waved a hand as a thin, black-haired woman shuffled onstage and handed him another envelope. “We have another development.”

  “I knew it,” Meg said. “It’s not over yet.”

  “Meg...”

  “One of our winners is disqualified!” Hunter waved the card, his eyes glittering with the knowledge that he had big news everyone would want to hear. “In a grave offense, Beth Whitaker is disqualified for using store bought marzipan. In her place, moving on to the finals, we have...”

  Meg squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.

  “Meg—”

  Meg screamed so loud the rest of the announcement couldn’t be heard. Not a whole lot of anything could be heard. I was deaf in one ear by the time she settled down, and judging by the wince on Clay’s face, he’d suffered the same hearing loss.

  “I told you,” Meg said, snapping her fingers. “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going to the finals,” Meg said. “I’m going to the finals!”

  “Great,” I said, and I meant it.

  Because Meg going to the finals meant one thing for me: I’d have a front row seat to the biggest day of the competition. And if the murderer was after the twenty-thousand-dollar grand prize, he or she just might strike again.

  “You’re fired.”

  “What?” I turned my attention to Meg. “Who’s fired?”

  “You are,” she said. “Your awful assisting almost cost me the competition.”

  “You can’t fire me. You’re not paying me.”

  “Well, I need a new assistant.”

  “I’m not supposed to be an assistant,” I pointed out. “Not really. I’m more like a bodyguard. So, you should reconsider keeping me around.”

  “Right,” Meg said. “Okay, you’re rehired. But I’m gonna need you to be in the proper headspace tomorrow. Get that noggin of yours in the game.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  What I didn’t say was that our lives depended on it. Because as I watched Hunter and Filip file offstage before the next round, I had the sneaking suspicion that whatever funny business was happening at the bake-off, we hadn’t seen the worst of it.

  Chapter 14

  “The moment you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Stuart is talking,” Meg said, elbowing me. “Pay attention.”

  “Who’s Stuart?”

  “The announcer,” Meg said. “I mean, technically, he’s a comic. I saw him at his standup show last time he was in the Twin Cities.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last week,” Meg said. “He’s actually always in the cities. I mean, he lives here. They wanted someone local to host the bake-off.”

  The tent already smelled of all sorts of wonderful baking spices—from the warm, comforting touch of cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon, to the citrus scents of lemon and orange peels—and even a hint of florals. And that was just for the cookie round.

  As the bakers geared up for the much-anticipated main event, I took a sip of my hot chocolate and turned my attention to Stuart. He’d managed to tell a few jokes that had people politely chuckling as he waited for silence. Once the room had quieted, he began the traditional countdown to kick off the cake-baking semifinals.

  “On your marks...” he said, “Get set... Bake!”

  The bakers leapt to work, placing bowls on scales as they dumped all varieties of flours and sugars inside. The scent of melted butter slid throughout the tent. Mixers fired into high gear and the beeps of ovens turning on punctuated the air.

  “I should’ve held out for the big prize money,” Meg said. “I should’ve stuck with the cake competition. I could’ve won twenty grand. Now, even if I win, what do I get? A measly mention in the paper and some coupons.”

  “Why?” I shrugged. “You’d be a little fish in a big pond. Susie, Nellie, and Britta are all in the cake competition. Only one more person will make it through to the finals.”

  “That one person could’ve been me.” Meg glanced down at herself. “In no way, shape, or form am I a little fishie. I’m a big, proud fishie.”

  “You don’t have any experience baking cakes.”

  “I don’t have any real experience baking cookies either, and I made it through to the finals.”

  “On a technicality.”

  “Which technically still counts.”

  I clapped Meg on the shoulder. “You’re right. Congratulations. Now, I’ve got to do the rounds one more time.”

  “You do that,” Meg said. “I’m gonna do the rounds on taste testing whatever people will let me lick.”

  “Maybe don’t say that too loud.”

  “Maybe that’s a good point.”

  Meg and I went our separate ways. She headed straight for the Naughty Elves, a bakery specializing in Christmas baked goods with silly expressions on them. Meg would fit right in.

  I headed in the direction of The Sugarloaf’s bench to check in with Nellie, but I never made it. En route, I heard my name called from a bright yellow bench. Behind a bright yellow mixer stood the one and only woman who’d forgone the traditional brown apron for a leopard print one.

  Beneath the leopard print poked out pink pants and leopard high heels. I couldn’t help but think of Filip and his stalker’s supposed fetish with a bright, leopard-print umbrella. Could the two be related? And if so, why would Britta be following Filip?

  “Britta,” I said in surprise. “Are you looking for me?”

  “Is there another Lacey Luzzi here?”

  I glanced around as if there might be, but mostly, I was stalling for time because I was so taken aback. “Did you need something?”

  “Yes, I think it’s time we had a chat.”


  Even as Britta spoke, her hands were occupied sifting flour. When my gaze fell to her busy hands, she merely smiled.

  “I can work and talk,” she said. “Why don’t you come have a seat? Shove over, Tommy.”

  Tommy Radicchio leapt up from his place on the stool where he’d been mid-zest of a lemon. His eyes roved over me with a suspicious gleam, looking very much like a guard dog for Britta. He muttered something under his breath as he moved to the other end of the bench and resumed zesting with newfound fury.

  “What do you want?”

  “Who, me?” I looked around again. “What do you mean? I’m here to help Meg.”

  “Not with baking.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re no baker.” Britta looked me up and down, as if she could read my ability as a baker from the outside. “You’re not here as a real assistant, so what are you doing?”

  “Supporting my friend,” I said. “Meg’s my best friend. I couldn’t miss seeing her compete.”

  “I halfway believe that, but I’m not stupid enough to believe this whole thing is innocent.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a Luzzi.” Britta pointed a spatula at me that was decorated with some nice-looking cake batter. “You’re no chef.”

  “Hey, that’s a little judgmental.”

  “Carlos once invited me over to his estate,” Britta continued. “I left with an appointment for the dentist and a soon-to-follow gold tooth.” She opened her mouth as if to demonstrate. “He chipped my freaking molar. Or rather, his wife did with her cooking. If you’re related to them, there’s no way you inherited any baking genes.”

  “Maybe baking ability skips a generation,” I said. When Britta continued to stare at me, I crossed my arms. “Maybe it doesn’t! So what? Honestly, if the rumors are to be believed—you’re the one who’s not supposed to be here.”

  “True.”

  I hesitated. Britta Facelli had just agreed with me. I sensed a trap, but I wasn’t quite sure where it was leading, or how I was going to get out of it.

  “So, how are you here?”

  “There was a drop-out,” Britta said. “Rachel Peterson got sick with the flu. I was invited to join.”

  “I see. But I thought all bakers had to qualify at the preliminary rounds that were held at Lexington High School.”

  Britta rolled her eyes. “They were just weeding out the obviously unqualified participants. I need no introduction, nor does my work. I own my own bakery.”

  “But so do the others—”

  “Don’t think too hard about it,” Britta said. “Obviously, you know who I am. Which must mean you know that I get what I want. When I want it. And I won’t be stopped by some stupid high school auditorium preliminary round.”

  “And what exactly do you want?”

  “The title of Minnesota’s Greatest Baker—cake division,” Britta said. “Along with the twenty-thousand-dollar grand prize.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re here when you are such a...” I searched for the right word. “Such an esteemed lawyer.”

  Britta gave a smoker’s cough, then laughed. “Right. Esteemed. Let’s just say I was ready for a career change.”

  “By your choice? Or by someone else’s choice?”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  My eyes were once again drawn to Britta’s cake batter. It smelled very, very good.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Britta dunked a clean spoon into her batter and handed it over.

  “What’s this?”

  “Try it,” Britta said. “I see you ogling my batter. Will you be able to focus if I just let you try it already?”

  “I mean—”

  “I insist.”

  I took a lick of the cake batter. It was annoying how delicious it was. “There’s a very real chance you could win,” I admitted. “That’s mind-blowingly good. I don’t even like carrot cake. It’s like—why would anyone put veggies in a perfectly good cake? But this is exceptional.”

  “I know.” Britta smiled. “And you’re wrong. There’s not just any little chance I’ll win, there’s a one hundred percent chance.”

  “You’re up against some pretty stiff competition.”

  “They’re up against me,” she said. “It’s their loss.”

  I quietly wondered where Britta’s confidence stemmed from. Sure, her carrot cake actually tasted amazing, but I was pretty certain that Nellie and Peg from The Sugarloaf were whipping up something equally as amazing—seeing as their last thirty-seven recipes had obviously blown away the judges. That wasn’t by accident.

  A part of me wondered if there wasn’t something underhanded going on with Britta’s entire entry. How had she gotten slotted in last minute? What if it wasn’t only Britta’s entry that had been compromised, but the entire competition? Had someone rigged the bake-off?

  “It’s your turn,” Britta said. “I let you try my cake and told you why I’m here. Now, what about you?”

  “Are you stalking Filip?” I blurted it out, halfway on purpose and halfway thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration.

  I watched Britta’s face carefully, which was a mistake. I should have been watching her hands. I caught the tail end of her hands as they paused mid-stir. Had I caught her off-guard? And if so, was it surprise or guilt?

  “Filip?” she said carefully. “The judge.”

  “The judge.”

  “Of course she’s not stalking Filip.” Tommy butted in with a pout of his lip. “Why would Britta stalk Filip?”

  Britta raised her hand and waved off her assistant. She gave another hoarse laugh. “No. I’m not stalking him. Is someone?”

  “He seems to think so.”

  “I can guarantee it’s not me,” Britta said. “I’ve got everything I want. Why would I waste my precious time stalking him?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’m not sure about a lot of things. How do you know Carlos?”

  “I’m Britta Facelli.” She thumbed at herself. “You’re a Luzzi. I think it’s safe to say we run in the same circles.”

  “Carlos hasn’t spoken of you.”

  “He hasn’t needed my services recently. Carlos has toned down certain aspects of his enterprises, which means he no longer requires my expertise... as often. But I’m only a phone call away.”

  “As a baker?”

  Britta looked cross for a moment, but the expression passed as she winked at me. “I’ve read about you. Lacey Luzzi Security Services. You’ve really been cleaning up the Twin Cities, fighting crime and all. What does your grandfather think about your skillset?”

  I didn’t respond. It seemed that anything I could have said might’ve gotten me in trouble, and the last thing I needed was more trouble.

  Britta’s heavily made-up lips parted in faux surprise. “Is that why you’re here, dare I ask? Looking into that poor woman’s death? What was her name—Kate?”

  “Amelia,” I said. “And her death was no accident. It was murder.”

  Britta winked again. “And I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it, Nancy Drew. Good luck. And good luck to your friend.”

  Before Britta could turn the tables on me again, I left her booth and wandered in the opposite direction, doing my best to try and look like I had a destination in mind. I didn’t—at least, not until I caught sight of the familiar Nellie Davis looking frenzied behind her bench.

  I stopped before The Sugarloaf’s station. Theirs was also painted in a pretty, pastel pink with a mixer perched on top to match. All the utensils on the bench were pink. There was even a little pink bouquet of tulips on one end of the table, but their color was slightly masked by a layer of flour that had descended over their petals.

  “Everything going okay, here?” I asked. “You guys look... busy.”

  I watched as Nellie and her mother, Peg, moved in a dance-like display of synchronicity. Peg handed over a spatula like a baton. Nellie cranked the mixer up to high, so
the blades whirled and whirled and whirled. A ding sounded from a microwave off to one side, and Peg stepped over a discarded mixing bowl resting on the floor to get to it.

  “We’ve got it under control.” Nellie blew bangs out of her face. “Just a little bit hectic today. The whole Britta thing threw us off. Then I accidentally overworked the macarons and had to start over. The meringues... don’t ask me what happened to the meringues. Disaster.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s awful.”

  “We tried to do too much,” Peg huffed. “I let Nellie talk me into branching out to cosmic proportions, and we shouldn’t have done that. We should have stuck within our tried and true recipes.”

  “That won’t be enough this time!” Nellie said crossly. “Do you think Britta Facelli is sticking with the basics? And who knows what Susie’s got up her sleeve. Apparently, it was enough to kill over.”

  Peg, Nellie, and I all stopped moving. We were the only still figures in a room full of activity.

  “I’m sorry,” Nellie said with a frown. “That was terrible of me to say. It’s just that this competition is getting the best of me. I’ve literally been dreaming of sugarplum fairies for weeks. It’s ridiculous.”

  Peg rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this.”

  “I understand,” I said. “The stress is getting to all of us. And frankly, what Nellie said might sadly be true. If Amelia’s idea was that amazing, someone might have killed her over it.”

  “But only one person would have the motive to kill her over the idea,” Nellie said, biting her lip. “Right? Who would have anything to gain from Amelia’s death besides Susie? I mean, Susie’s still allowed to use the recipe, and if she does, and wins... she’ll get twenty thousand dollars. All to herself.”

  “I’m working on it,” I assured the Davis women. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Nellie looked like she wanted to ask more, but she didn’t. Her attention was drawn to the mixing bowl, and she appeared to lose her train of thought as she shouted at her mother. “Stop, mom! You’re going to squash all the air out of the egg whites, and we don’t have time to start over again!”

  Peg leapt for the mixer and turned it down. “I’m sorry; I was distracted.”