by Gina LaManna
“Hello?” she asked. “Hello, is someone there?”
“Yes, hi—er, Judge,” I said, not sure how to address her. “I’m not sure you’ll remember me, but my name is Lacey Luzzi. I spoke to you yesterday regarding—”
“You’re the investigator.”
“Actually, yes,” I said. “I was just calling to check on you because I heard you quit this morning.”
“I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“Something’s not right in the water over there.”
Maureen’s comment almost stopped me in my tracks. Had that been a subtle nod to the fact that I’d been poisoned? Something is in the water... Literally? I hadn’t told anyone. Nobody outside of Meg and Anthony knew. Had it been an innocent phrase that’d sounded more sinister because of my experience?
“What do you mean by that?” I asked calmly. “Did something happen to concern you?”
“You mean, the fact that two judges went missing yesterday. And before that, a contestant was murdered?”
“I realize that there have been some strange occurrences around the bake-off,” I agreed. “But today is the last day. Why quit now?”
“All the little things added up,” she said. “And if someone is still out there, kidnapping and murdering, who says they’ll stop? I’m not taking the risk.”
“I understand,” I said, running out of questions to ask of Maureen. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I just...” On impulse, I dropped my voice and held my hand over the receiver. “If you are being forced to say these things to me and are actually kidnapped, cough once. We’ll find you.”
To my surprise, a bright laugh tinkled over the phone as the judge burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re a treat.”
“I take it that’s a no?”
“Honey, I’m taking the money I got from the first half of the competition and flying to Mexico,” she said. “I need to get away for a few days. I’ve earned it.”
“Enjoy,” I said. “Have a lovely time.”
When I hung up the phone, Meg cast me a curious glance.
“From what I can tell, there’s nothing nefarious about it,” I said. “She just quit.”
“Sort of annoying,” Meg said. “They do have a back-up judge on call, but the woman is a few hours away. They’re talking about rescheduling for tomorrow.”
“More time to practice?”
“I don’t need more time.” Meg shoved her sleeves up. “Everyone else needs time to practice, which is why this is such a bummer. If we just get our bake on today, I know I could win.”
“Interesting theory,” I said. “May I ask what’s in this recipe that’s so revolutionary?”
“No.” Meg quickly revised. “I mean, you can ask. But I’m not telling you. At least, not out loud; I know Anthony keeps you bugged at all times. How do I know who else is listening?”
“Bugged?” I patted myself down.
Meg patted herself down too, though I wasn’t sure why. Our self-inflicted pat downs were cut short, however, by the appearance of Stuart on stage. He took the microphone, tapped it once, and waited for a long several seconds until he had everyone’s undivided attention.
“Good morning, contestants.” Stuart looked decidedly dapper, and decidedly annoyed, as he straightened in his navy-blue suit and slicked back hair and looked out over the crowd. “I’ve just been informed by the board that Lizzie Tropeka is on her way to the Cities, but she won’t be here in time to hold the finals today.”
I leaned over and whispered to Meg. “Lizzie Tropeka? Who’s she?”
“The back-up judge,” Meg whispered. “She’s French but recently moved to the Mankato area and opened a bakery there. She’s written like seventy cookbooks or something. Or maybe three, but still. That’s a lot of cooking. I’ve only written one cookbook.”
“You have?”
“I’m still looking for an agent,” Meg said. “None of them seem to get me yet.”
“Unfortunately,” Stuart continued, “this means that you are all free to go. We will be utilizing the reserve date buffered into the calendar. We will see you all tomorrow morning, same place and same time.”
Low murmurings filtered through the tent as bakers glanced around. Eyebrows were raised and mutterings exchanged. A daring few ducked out of the tent while others lingered, as if the announcement had been a hoax.
I took advantage of the dazed lull and beelined to the stage. I just missed Stuart, who was scooting out of sight like his tail was on fire. As I caught up to him, I overheard him barking orders to a woman in heels who was almost jogging to keep up with him.
“This is ridiculous,” Stuart was saying. “I sat through three hours of hair and makeup this morning, and the idiot couldn’t have called me then? How about last night, so we could’ve gotten freaking Lizzie Tropeka here by this morning! What a—”
“Stuart.” The woman with the clipboard interrupted him, casting a glance my way. “You have company.”
Stuart whirled around and faced me. “You, again?”
“Do you want me—” the woman began.
“Trot along, Linda,” Stuart said, dismissing the woman with a flick of his wrist. Once she’d gone, he narrowed his eyes at me. “Linda’s my agent. I should really have you talk to her, but I’m going to give you one minute because I’m nice.”
“You are so nice,” I echoed. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could ask you about this morning’s cancellation with the judge—”
“What is there to say?” Stuart threw both arms up, noticeably aggravated. “Maureen quit. Freaking quit! This bake-off is cursed, I tell you.”
“Did she give you a reason for wanting to quit?”
“Something about the water being weird... I wasn’t listening,” Stuart said, waving a hand in no particular direction. “I had my hair freaking glued into place and my eyebrows tweezed, and this lady ruined everything. I’m going to have to do it all over again tomorrow, and this tan wasn’t cheap.”
I nodded, hoping I looked sympathetic. “Isn’t it strange, her quitting?”
“You’re telling me.” Stuart rubbed his face. “All this announcer nonsense is driving me up a wall. I’d thought it would bring good publicity, but this is getting ridiculous. People are going to think it’s all staged.”
“Well, one kidnapping was staged.”
Stuart tilted his chin in agreement. “Remind me why you’re here again?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why Maureen would quit,” I said. “All she had to do was sit through the judging this morning, collect the other half of her paycheck, and be on her merry little way. Just seems odd to me that she’d leave money sitting on the table.”
“Half her money?” Stuart’s eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t know where you heard that, but that ridiculous woman won’t see a dime. The judges are only paid after they complete their duties. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m done talking to you.”
Stuart turned and stormed off after his agent. I was left puzzling over the odd end of our conversation. Either Stuart was wildly out of the loop about the way the judges were paid, or Maureen had lied to me. And if she had, what did that mean? If she had experienced an infusion of cash allowing her to travel to Mexico, did that mean someone had paid her off to drop out of the final judging?
“Where to, chickadee?” Meg asked once I rejoined her, back in the main area. “The way I see it, that lady judge just gave you a present.”
“Me?”
“You’ve got one extra day to solve the murder,” Meg said. “If you can’t do it in twenty-four hours then nobody can.”
“Everything is so twisted; I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about the beginning?” Meg wondered, sounding logical for once. “I mean, we’ve got some time. Let’s go back to the beginning and review everything. Frank, Susie, Britta. The judging fiasco. There’s got to be something we’re missing.”
“I need to talk to Maureen again,” I added. �
��She lied to me, and I need to know why. I’m guessing someone put her up to it, and that person is our link to the murder—I can feel it.”
“You might as well talk to Lizzie Tropeka too,” Meg said. “See what her place is in this whole thing. Then, you might as well figure out who poisoned you because that’s sort of annoying.”
“A little annoying.”
“I’d say that’s a full day’s work,” Meg said. “So, let’s focus on the most important question. Who didn’t have an alibi for the time of Amelia’s death?”
Chapter 21
When Meg had suggested we start from the beginning, she meant the very beginning. All bakers—with the exception of Britta and Meg—had needed to qualify for the bake-off by participating in a preliminary round of baking. From there, the judges weeded out the top individuals to join them in the arena for the actual bake-off.
Supposedly Britta had slid into the bake-off under the radar, despite her lack of participation in the preliminary rounds. That was a nugget I had tucked away that still needed further investigation. To me, Britta’s entry seemed highly unfair—far too unfair to be completely legal. Had she paid off the judges? Blackmailed them? I wondered about all the potential options as I drove Meg and I across town in my mom-van, turning into the parking lot of Lexington High School.
As we parked, I tried to call Maureen, but her phone rang through to voicemail both times. It was hard to say if she was on her way to Mexico or avoiding my calls. Or both.
Then, I tried the number Clay had given me for Lizzie Tropeka, the substitute for Maureen. Lizzie answered on the first ring, and judging by the white noise in the background, she was driving as she spoke.
“Hello?” she asked crisply. “Who is this?”
“My name is Lacey Luzzi,” I said. “I’m affiliated with the bake-off, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Affiliated how?”
“Well, I’m an assistant to one of the finalists,” I said. “Among other things.”
“What sort of questions?”
“I’m also a private investigator,” I admitted. “Before you hang up, this is sort of urgent. I’m worried about Maureen. I’m worried about you, frankly.”
“Me?” Lizzie gave a laugh. “I can take care of myself. As for Maureen, I barely know the woman. I’m simply filling in for her because she vacated her seat.”
“I understand that, but—”
“Before we discuss anything further, I will need to see some identification.”
“I can text you a photo—”
I realized I was speaking into silence long before I finished my phrase.
“She hung up on you,” Meg said unhelpfully. “She’s either really smart, or just sort of mean.”
“She was driving,” I said. “Maybe she’ll be nicer in person?”
“Maybe,” Meg said. “But if you want to talk to someone nice, talk to Jim. Clay got us an interview.”
“Who’s Jim?”
“The janitor at the high school,” Meg said. “According to Clay’s research, he was on duty when the murder happened. He’s meeting us so he can give us the down and dirty deets.”
“I hope you’re right.”
We exited my car, and I noted that while most of the parking lot was empty, any cars that were there were much, much nicer than mine. The lawn of the school was beautifully landscaped, and as we made our way into the school, it felt more like a museum than a grimy place where students studied and made-out against lockers. It was easy to see why the bake-off had chosen this school as a location for the preliminary round.
“Clay said Jim will be waiting for us in the lobby,” Meg said. “My man got all the credentials out of the way, so hopefully, you won’t have to whip out that badge of yours. Clay can be very convincing when he wants to be.”
I ignored the waggle of Meg’s eyebrows.
Luckily, Clay’s work had been effective. Jim waited for us in the lobby, flashing us a small smile as we approached. He looked to be hovering on the edge of retirement and quite pleasant. The hair on his head was as thick as a Brillo pad and the hair in his nose looked as stiff as pipe cleaners. He introduced himself as Jimbo because, as he put it, that’s what the kids called him.
“You’re going to want to come this way.” Jimbo gestured for us to follow him as he led the way down one of the hallways. “Kids aren’t in school today, obviously, seeing as it’s the weekend. I’m just here tidying things up a bit before the big homecoming event next week.”
Indeed, the hallways were empty as the trio of us tromped through the rigid aisles of lockers. Colorful banners promoting every school club and sport under the sun waved at us. Sign up sheets for various activities were posted on classroom windows.
“I’m getting nervous just being here,” I said. “I didn’t love high school.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meg said. “We were popular in high school.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” Meg said. “But I was. And because we were friends—by default you got a few popularity points.”
“Huh.”
Jimbo turned the corner then and led us into a high-ceilinged, open space that looked to be the cafeteria. It was nicer than any lunchroom I’d ever laid eyes on, with windows spanning floor to ceiling and a beautiful, hand-painted mural along the interior wall. I doubted they served tater tots at a school like this. I was willing to bet they served sushi.
“This is where they had the competition,” Jimbo said. “Where it happened.”
We each held our breath as we surveyed the room. But the moment was a little lost on me because I didn’t know exactly where to look.
“For the judging, they had twelve benches set up, two lines of six. You can probably still see the marks on the floor where they were placed. We had tape down there for a while.” Jim pointed with his fingers. “They had several rounds, obviously. Picked the best out from all of ’em.”
“Where did the murder happen?” I asked carefully. “And do you know who found her?”
“It was me,” Jimbo said. “I found that poor woman. I was just about to lock up when I popped my head in here to shut the lights off. That’s when I saw her laying there.”
Jimbo abruptly started walking, pausing only when he reached the far side of the cafeteria before the windows.
“This is the spot.” Jimbo pointed toward a section of floor tile that looked like the rest of the linoleum floor. All evidence of a crime scene had long since been scrubbed away. “When I first noticed her, I wasn’t even sure anything was wrong. But then she didn’t answer when I called out to her, so I took a few steps in. Then I saw blood, grabbed my cell phone, called 911. I tried to help her, but it was too late.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No, I was alone. Everyone else had gone.”
“When you tried to help Amelia, did you recognize her from earlier in the day?”
“I couldn’t have told you her name, but I knew I’d seen her around. Amelia, she was young, pretty. Had a nice smile. She was easier to remember than most.”
“Do you remember if she was hanging around with anyone in particular during the day?”
“Well, she hung around with one girl—I remember that. I don’t know the friend’s name, but she looked like one of them cabbage patch dolls.”
“Susie,” Meg said. “I can see Susie being a Cabbage Patch doll. Myself, I’m more of a Barbie girl with my lean waist and top-heavy chest.”
I eyed Meg’s waist which was as lean as one might expect when they followed an eat-cookies-only diet. But Jimbo wasn’t arguing and Meg was happy with herself, so I left it at that.
“Amelia was also hanging around with one of the judges,” Jimbo continued. “You know, the one with the eyebrows...”
“Hunter?” I asked. “The television guy?”
“That’s the one,” Jimbo said. “Looks like somebody colored on his eyebrows with a Sh
arpie.”
“That’s him,” Meg said. “Apparently that’s a style.”
“Not my style,” Jimbo said. “He swung by Amelia’s booth a few times. Not sure if he was there to talk to Amelia or the cabbage patch doll, but one of them had caught his attention.”
“This is very helpful,” I said. “Is there anything else?”
Jimbo retreated from the crime scene, leading us to an opposite corner of the cafeteria. He leaned against a post and tapped his toe as he thought. “One other guy took an interest in Amelia, but he wasn’t a baker. Big, brawny. Italian. Talks with his hands. Actually, he’s more of a yeller than a talker.”
“Frankie Linguine,” I said. “Her boyfriend.”
“The pizza guy?” Jimbo asked. “Huh. They seem like an odd pair, and I didn’t know either of ’em. But as a janitor, I see lots of couples right in these hallways. I know the ones that’ll last.”
“What makes you say they wouldn’t last?”
“They didn’t look happy with each other, that’s for sure,” Jimbo said. “They were kinda going at it right in the middle of the bake-off.”
“I wonder if Frankie found out about Amelia going to visit the lawyer?” I murmured to Meg. “Things could’ve gotten heated. Maybe Frankie came here to confront her and things got out of hand.”
“Definitely possible,” Meg said. Then, louder so Jimbo could hear, she continued, “Wouldn’t that be a real shame if Frankie Linguine was the one who killed Amelia? What a waste of good pizza talent.”
“I thought I recognized that kid,” Jimbo said. “I should’ve known he was a Linguine.”
“You know Frankie?”
“Frankie Jr.’s not the talent at the shop.” Jimbo shook his head. “That place has been around since his grandfather was running it, and I know him. Frankie just got lucky enough to inherit it. If anything, that place has gone downhill since he took over.”
“Maybe that was the last straw,” I said. “Things were already going downhill, and if Amelia took her cannoli off the menu, too...”
“He might’ve lost even more customers,” Meg continued. “I know plenty of people who go there for the dessert.”