by Gina LaManna
“Can we talk about this later?” Nellie pleaded to me as she smacked her mother’s hand away from the mixing bowl. “The Naughty Elves have been getting a lot of attention, too, which came out of nowhere. There are five bakeries here who have a great chance of moving on to the finals. The only problem is that there are four slots. We have to make it, or else.”
“Or else?” I pressed. “Or else what?”
“We lose our title,” Nellie said quickly. “It’d be embarrassing to lose after a string of thirty-seven years coming in at first place.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “Well, I’ll leave you be. Good luck, Peg, Nellie. I’m sure you’ve got this in the bag.”
Neither offered a parting word in response to mine—Nellie was too busy cracking a new set of eggs over a clean bowl while her mother dumped yet another bowl of squandered, sadly-overwhipped egg whites into the trash.
As I turned toward the third suspect in the cake-baking-triad, I found myself leaning toward a new angle. One I hadn’t truly considered. Or maybe I’d considered it somewhat, but I’d been so resistant to it that I hadn’t truly believed it possible.
Could Nellie have had something to do with Amelia’s murder? If it was true, and Amelia’s recipe had been thought to win the competition, that would have been bad news for The Sugarloaf. After winning thirty-plus years in a row, it would be embarrassing to lose. But was embarrassment enough of a motive for murder?
Since I couldn’t answer that question just yet, I headed to the prime person who could have benefitted from Amelia’s death. A woman who stood to gain the grand prize along with the fame and the recognition... all for a design and recipe that wasn’t hers.
Susie barely looked up when I stopped before her. Her workspace was a robin’s egg blue, decorated again by matching utensils, mixers, and flowers. She was mid-pour of a tub of batter into a springform pan, and had her tongue tucked between her lips in concentration.
“I’d wish you good luck,” I said lightly, “but it seems like you don’t need it. How’s everything going?”
Susie scraped the side of her mixing bowl and tapped it against the edge of the pan. Then she donned cute little oven mitts and slipped the entire thing into the oven. She stood, removed the mitts, and smiled in my direction.
“It’s going great,” she confirmed. “How are you?”
“You can keep working. Please, don’t let me distract you,” I said, noting that Susie was the only baker out of all the ones I’d spoken to so far who had actually stopped to chat with me when I’d arrived. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’m twenty minutes ahead,” Susie said. “Macarons are done. Cakes are in the oven. I just have to finish up the toppings and then begin assembly once the cakes are cooked.”
“Wow. Impressive,” I said. “Can I ask if this is the... the big recipe?”
“You want to know if I’m using the recipe that Amelia came up with?” Susie’s eyes narrowed at me. “No, I’m not. I’m using my own recipe to get into the finals. And in doing so, I’ll hopefully prove to everyone that I can hold my own in this stupid competition.”
“Stupid?”
“It got my best friend killed,” Susie said. “Nothing’s worth that to me—no amount of fame or money. The only reason I decided to continue with the competition is to honor my friend. Otherwise, her death will have been for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“If someone killed Amelia hoping to win first place...” Susie scanned the rest of the bakers with a dark glance. “Well, I won’t let that happen. I’m going to honor her memory and bake our recipe so that she’d be proud.”
“Doesn’t that worry you? If someone was ready to kill Amelia for it, what’s to stop them from coming after you?”
“Me,” Susie said bluntly. “Unlike Amelia, I’m ready. Let them try.”
I did my best to hide the first inklings of a nervous shiver. Something in Susie’s voice told me she wasn’t joking. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be between Susie and the murderer if push came to shove.
“That’s a really pretty macaron,” I said. “I’ve never seen one that color. What flavor is it?”
“It’s strawberry champagne.” Susie handed over one. “Go ahead, try it.”
“I don’t want to ruin—”
“I made a half-dozen extra.”
“You really are prepared,” I said, reaching for the macaron and popping it into my mouth. It was soft, crunchy, flavorful. “I can see why everyone thought you and Amelia were in the running for first. That tastes amazing.”
“I just want to do Amelia proud,” Susie said. “Let me tell you, that murderer will be sorry she ever stepped foot into this tent.”
“She?”
“Or he,” Susie said, but it was too late.
And with that, I left Susie when her oven dinged and the first of her cakes was done. Within half an hour, I’d chatted up Susie, Nellie, and Britta, and it seemed like it’d gotten me further from the truth than ever. If I’d been hoping for clarity, I’d gotten the exact opposite. Three women who could benefit from the victim’s death. Three women duking it out for a chance at twenty-thousand dollars and a hint of fame. Three cakes to bake.
“Two hours left,” Stuart called. “Two hours remain before our bakers will be expected to present their masterpieces before the judges.”
Two hours to kill. I’d already talked to the three bakers who were my best guesses for suspects. As I was debating who to talk to next, a ball of anxiety rushed up to me in the form of my cousin Clay. He brushed a hand across his sweaty forehead.
“Lacey,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Can it—”
“It can’t wait,” he said. “Come with me. Now.”
Chapter 15
Clay refused to say a word more until we were safely in my car and on the way to the nearest 7-Eleven. He hadn’t wanted to take his car because he thought it might be bugged. He wouldn’t tell me why he was feeling paranoid.
“We can’t discuss anything until we get out of the car,” Clay said. “Just in case they’ve bugged yours too.”
“Who?”
Clay shook his head. “Just get your coffee.”
“Why do we have to get a coffee?”
“I didn’t think you’d complain about caffeine.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m just asking.”
“Because nobody in their right mind would bug a random 7-Eleven,” Clay said. “It’s the safest place I can think of to talk on short notice.”
“Fair,” I agreed. Also, I didn’t want to argue with the idea of a coffee run. Especially one that didn’t require me to balance a baby carrier in the crook of my elbow.
I parked in the lot outside of the gas station and made my way inside. Clay followed me, skulking around like a big, nervous giant. He looked only mildly out of place, loitering in the corner while I filled my cup with the proper ration of sweet stuff and drip coffee.
“Okay, let’s talk,” Clay said, turning to unload his mental baggage on me in the middle of the store. “I think I’m helping Meg cheat.”
“If this is about taxes, count me out. I’m innocent.”
“No. No. What about taxes?” Clay’s brow furrowed in concern. “Did Meg tell you something about our taxes?”
“Forget it,” I said. “What were you talking about?”
“The bake-off,” Clay said shortly. “I have a dilemma.”
“Spill.” I slurped a little line of marshmallows off the top of my sugar bomb. Then I poured another layer over the current one and watched as they began to melt. “How are you foiling the bake-off?”
“I’ve used my expertise—”
“Expertise as what?”
“A genius,” Clay said, looking peeved, “to come up with the greatest cookie recipe of all time.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Clay looked dumbfounded. “Isn’t that cheating?”
“Did Meg use your r
ecipe today?”
“No. But she just barely scraped by. I can’t let that happen again. She really wants to win.”
“You can’t make her win.”
“That’s the thing,” Clay said. “I think I can. I’ve found the absolute perfect cookie recipe.”
“How does one accomplish such a mighty and wonderous task?”
Clay missed my sarcasm. “You’d get bored if I told you. But if you were curious, suffice to say I had to bust out my trusty old TI-89 calculator along with my linear algebra textbook. I used a randomizer to—”
I held up a hand. “You’re right, I’m bored. Long story short is you used your big brain to come up with a recipe. What about it?”
“Can I share it with Meg, or will that be cheating? I’d hate to get her disqualified.”
“You can share it with her.” I gave Clay’s shoulder a pat. I refilled my marshmallows. Again. “I can’t believe that’s what you were worried about. Let me pay so we can get back before the judging begins.”
“You haven’t paid yet?” Clay squinted at my cup. “Haven’t you refilled your marshmallows, like, seven times?”
“Hey, I don’t judge your taxes—don’t you judge my coffee.”
Clay raised his hands. “Fine. I just wanted to be careful.”
“Just don’t mess Meg up,” I said. “If she already has a plan for tomorrow, maybe you should let her use it so she doesn’t get frazzled.”
“But what if mine is better?”
We climbed into the car. “Don’t lose sleep over this, Clay. It’s just a stupid competition.”
Clay mulled on that as we headed back to the bake-off. We made it inside with half an hour to spare before the judges were due to share the winning teams. I found Meg loitering outside of the Naughty Elves booth.
“I’m sorry,” one of the bakers was saying to Meg. “We can’t afford to give you any more samples. We need the rest of the meringues for our cake.”
“Aw, shucks,” Meg said. “But that one there looks wonky. Sorta fat. Don’t you think it’d be better if you donated it to me?”
The woman behind the table—wearing an elf hat and an apron that read The Naughty List—sighed. Then she handed over the meringue to Meg. Finally, she glanced at me.
“We really can’t give out any more samples,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” I said grabbing Meg and yanking her away. “What are you doing?”
“Sampling.” She glanced at me. “You’ve got something to say, don’t you?”
“I was just wondering if you’ve seen Filip.”
“I haven’t, why?” She glanced around. “Is he undercover again?”
I glanced around too. There was no Filip in sight—even with his flimsy hat disguise.
“He might be in the back,” Meg said. “They have a judge’s room back there. Not that I sneaked around looking for it or anything. I just thought they might have better coffee.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll be back. Give the elves a break and don’t steal any more samples.”
Heading backstage, I noted that a hectic lull had settled around the room. Hands worked at double speed. Sentences became shorter, and bursts of phrases like, “spatula” or “piping bag” made up most of the conversations. The tension could be cut with a serrated bread knife.
I made it out of the main baking zone without anyone questioning where I was going. Backstage at the Great Minnesota Bake-Off constituted a chilly, quite-unglamorous web of hallways that held a series of locker rooms, restrooms, and several offices with nametags slotted next to the doors. It reminded me of an off-duty elementary school.
I perused the different office doors, hitting the jackpot when I spotted one that read Break Room—Judges Only. The door was open, so I knocked on the wood frame. When there was no answer, I poked my head inside and found the third judge, a woman by the name of Maureen, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and reading the paper. She looked unperturbed when I asked if I could steal a moment of her time.
“Have you seen Filip, by chance?” I asked. “It’s a personal situation.”
“Haven’t seen him.” Maureen took another sip of coffee and kept her eyes fixed on the paper.
“Oh, okay. Well, thanks,” I said. “How about Hunter?”
“I don’t know if Hunter has seen Filip.”
“Right,” I said impatiently. “But have you seen Hunter?”
“Nope.”
Seeing as Maureen seemed lacking in conversational aptitude, I bowed out of the room after a muttered goodbye and continued to check out the backstage area. The rest of it was just as drab and disappointing as the first half. To make matters worse, neither Filip nor Hunter were anywhere in sight.
I returned to Meg’s side just as the announcer, Stuart, completed his final countdown.
“Stuart’s really dragging this out,” Meg muttered. “Who counts down by half seconds? He just adores the spotlight.”
“Well, he’ll be adoring the spotlight for a lot longer if the judges don’t materialize soon.”
“What are you talking about?” Meg munched on yet another sample.
“I’m talking about Hunter and Filip,” I said. “They weren’t backstage anywhere. I checked with Maureen in the break room, and she said that she hadn’t seen them in a while, either.”
Meg raised one shoulder. “Maybe they had to go to the bathroom.”
“Together?”
She shrugged both shoulders. “Weirder things have happened.”
Finally, Stuart announced that time was up. The bakers began bringing their cake concoctions forward. I spotted Maureen hovering in the wings of the stage, looking twitchy and worried. She kept glancing behind her. Probably looking for the other judges, if I had to guess.
“Quick announcement,” Stuart squeaked into the microphone. “We actually are going to take a short recess before the judging. We’ll be back with an update soon.”
“Why?” One baker moaned. “My leaning tower of Pisa is going to topple over. This is a catastrophe!”
“Seriously, why?” Another baker pressed. “My chocolate work will melt in this weather!”
“My spun sugar is wilting as we speak,” another baker complained. “Why is the judging postponed?”
“Because two of the judges can’t be found,” Stuart exclaimed, waving his hands in frustration. When a wave of shock ran through the crowd, his face turned red, and he quickly revised. “I mean, they’re busy—something came up. It’s a minor hiccup, but we’ll get the judges returned once we find... I mean, once they’re back.”
“Uh oh,” Meg whispered. “We’ve got kidnapped judges.”
“Or worse,” I said. “We’ve got to find them—if it’s not already too late.”
Chapter 16
“This is getting ridiculous,” one of the Naughty Elves murmured. “Where are the judges? What could possibly be more important than this?”
I inched closer to the Naughty Elves bench and did my best to eavesdrop as they chatted amongst themselves.
“This whole thing is going to topple over, and it’s going to be their fault,” a second woman said with a frown. “Look. The gingerbread is leaning.”
The Naughty Elves weren’t the only bakers worried about the outcome of the delayed judging. Murmurs went up across the room as bakers studied their concoctions with mounting unease. I spotted Nellie looking sideways at a cake that looked like the Eiffel Tower.
Susie stood calmly behind her work, though her eyes shifted back and forth to the other bakers as the mutterings grew louder. Tommy, Britta Facelli’s assistant, measured something with a ruler, then shook his head and threw his arms up. Nobody looked happy.
“Better do something,” Meg said. “We need to find those judges before it’s mutiny in here.”
I made my way to the front of the room where I found Stuart huddling next to Maureen. When they both turned to look at me, I kicked things off with a quick introduction.<
br />
“Hey there,” I said. “Any news on the judges? Have you called the police?”
“The police?” Stuart looked panicked. “Why would I call the police?”
“Two judges are missing, aren’t they?”
Maureen studied me. “Well, you were the one looking for them. Why were you so intent on finding them?”
“My name is Lacey Luzzi, and I’m working undercover to help solve Amelia Rapport’s murder,” I said. “Now, I’m not saying there’s any foul play with the judges’ absences... but don’t you agree that it’s strange they’re not here?”
“The police,” Stuart mumbled. “I can’t believe I didn’t call the police.”
While Stuart made a phone call and explained the situation to the local authorities, Meg sauntered over and stood next to me. We waited until he was off the phone. He looked notably shaken.
“Do you think they’re actually...” Stuart looked behind him as if he might see a ghost. “Do you think they’re dead?”
“No,” I hedged. “But it’s probably best if we start figuring out where they are before it’s too late. We can start with you, Stuart—when’s the last time you saw the judges?”
“Oh, cripes. I don’t know! It’s been hours.” Stuart closed his eyes and appeared to rack his brain. “I suppose it’s been since they judged the last competition. I didn’t see them in between because I was busy.”
“What about you?” I turned to Maureen. “Have you seen them?”
“No. Just like I said earlier,” she said. “They both went off after the last competition, and I went to read my newspaper in the breakroom.”
I sighed. “Where’d they both go?”
“Do you think whoever got them will come after me?” Maureen was short, a bit twitchy, and far too trim to look as if she ate enough pastries to judge them. She seemed on edge, probably for good reason. “I suppose if whoever is out there is going after the judges, I’d be next.”
“That’s why we’re trying to ensure your safety. Stay here with Stuart, and we’ll have someone keep an eye on you.”
“Me,” Meg said. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”