by Gina LaManna
“Meg’s right,” I said. “And so are you, Leslie. Our first priority is keeping the other bakers safe, which is why we’re working around the clock to find the murderer.”
Leslie turned to the camera. “A bake-off that has been around for decades is fraught with drama. There’s been a murder, a poisoning, and an attempt to run these two fine women off the road. What will be next? Stay tuned, and we’ll have one of the finalists here to comment.”
Someone yelled, “Cut” and the studio bustled to life. I assumed commercials played over the air to mask the busyness behind the scenes. One of the makeup artists rushed forward and began dabbing powder on Leslie’s face.
“So...” I looked around. “Are we done here?”
Leslie didn’t answer. She was too busy mouthing words to herself, probably preparing for her next segment.
“That’s it, then?” I asked again. “I’ve never really done this whole TV thing before.”
“No kidding.” The makeup artist stared me down. “Is that blood on your shirt?”
I glanced down, brushed at the stain. “Jelly doughnut.”
“Ah.”
“This is blood though.” Meg was in the process of unwinding her head gauze. “Stupid thing won’t stay tied. I need a turban to keep it in place. Hey, do you have any duct tape in that makeup kit of yours?”
The artist frowned. “No.”
“Shucks,” Meg said. “Say, Leslie, can I have an autograph? My head’s mostly done bleeding, so it probably won’t get on your clothes.”
“Leslie’s busy.” This time, a buff looking dude in a suit approached and stood directly behind us. “It’s time for you both to vacate the seats for the next guest.”
I spotted Susie watching us from the wings. She didn’t look happy.
“One little autograph?” Meg pressed. “I mean, we just did the station a huge favor.”
“Did you?” Leslie turned her icy blue eyes on us. “You could’ve given us a little something. Now, we’re stuck interviewing the best friend of the dead girl and hoping she’ll tell us something interesting.”
My lips parted in shock. “Excuse me?”
Leslie blinked and winced as the hair stylist touched her up. “Marvin, you’re pulling my hair out. Watch it back there, will you?”
“In the words of Dwayne Johnson from Moana,” Meg said, “You’re welcome. Jeesh. I take it all back. I don’t want your autograph anyway.”
I stood and followed Meg and the gigantic security guard out of the studio. He walked us to the lobby. Once there, he turned around and left us without a backward glance. Meg and I continued toward the front doors until a front desk receptionist called out my name and brought us to a dead stop.
“Lacey Luzzi?” A woman chirped—a different receptionist than the last time we’d been inside the station. “I have a message for you.”
“A message?” I asked warily. “For me?”
“A fax, technically,” she said, standing and wiping her hands on her pencil skirt. “But it’s addressed to you.”
“From who?”
“It’s from a private number. However, a man did call on the phone with specific instructions.”
The day was getting stranger by the minute. “What sort of instructions?”
The receptionist smiled. “He just asked that I get you the fax as soon as possible after your segment on the show. I also wasn’t supposed to look at the contents as it’s obviously private.”
“Did you look at it?”
“Of course not,” she said, coming around the desk and presenting me with a manilla envelope. “Here you go.”
“Can I get the number from which it was faxed?”
“No,” she said. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Meg said. “Clay can get it.”
“Who?”
“Nobody,” Meg said. “Would you like my autograph? I’m practically famous.”
The receptionist looked surprised. “Um, okay. I guess.”
Meg headed toward the desk, then reached into one of the pockets on her camo vest. From inside, she withdrew a photo of herself. She flipped it over, scribbled her name on the back and handed it back.
As she did, she tapped the front of the picture with pride. “Hold onto that bad boy because it’s gonna be worth millions someday.”
“Thanks, I guess,” the receptionist mumbled.
“Bye.” I grabbed Meg and tugged her out of the studio, anxious to see what was in the manilla envelope. “Why do you have photos of yourself in your vest?”
Meg patted her chest. “I have everything in here. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“But why photos? Specifically?”
“Because I’m on the cusp of being famous,” Meg said. “Look at today. We were dragged onstage, probably because of my magnetic appeal to the masses, and presented before the world. What would I have done if I didn’t have something to autograph just now?”
“You probably would have survived.” I slipped my finger under the flap of the manilla envelope and turned my attention to the paper inside. “Let’s see what’s in here.”
“I bet it’s a sex tape.”
“I bet not.”
“I bet it’s anthrax.”
“I hope not.”
“I bet it’s...” Meg heaved a sigh. “I’m out of ideas.”
Since I didn’t have any significantly better guesses, I led Meg across the street to a little café. The neon coffee sign flickered, and a twinkly string of Christmas lights welcomed visitors to step inside. Step inside we did, and since we were there, we each ordered a coffee because it would have been rude not to. And because I needed the caffeine. And also because they had triple chocolate mocha with marshmallows, and how could I say no to that when I desperately needed calories to recover from a poisoning?
“Okay. Reveal time,” Meg said. “Go on and open the envelope.”
Tucked in the corner of the café with two hefty mugs overflowing with whipped cream, I prepared to open the mysterious envelope. But my phone rang first, startling me into dropping the package on the table.
“Sugar,” Anthony said. “Did you eat a jelly doughnut?”
“Excuse me?”
“Saw your segment,” he said. “You’re looking good, by the way.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Um, I’m at a café with Meg sipping a latte?”
Anthony groaned.
“It was one doughnut,” I said defensively. “And I don’t feel sick at all.”
“You lit a sparkler at Channel 87 and waved it around,” Anthony said. “Now, you’re just taunting the killer. He or she already tried to run you off the road. What’s next?”
“I didn’t exactly plan on having my television debut. It just sort of happened.”
“Give her a break,” Meg said. “Let your wife enjoy her fifteen seconds of fame.”
“It was on Channel 87,” I said. “I don’t think anyone saw it.”
“Come home,” Anthony said. “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you were here after that.”
“Let me finish my latte, and I’ll be back for bath time.”
“Ooh, la la,” Meg said.
I rolled my eyes at her. “Love you—hang on, gotta go. Nora’s calling.”
I hung up with Anthony and simultaneously answered Nora’s number. She didn’t bother with greetings or traditional formalities.
“Why didn’t you comb your hair?”
I raised a hand, plucked at my rat’s nest. “What?”
“You get your shot at fame, and that’s the day you decided not to shower?”
“I showered,” I said. “It’s been a tough day. I got run off the road.”
“Is that why you ate a jelly doughnut?” Nora asked. “I think we need to work on our stress eating. Maybe you can give it up for Lent. It’s not great for your health—or your shirt.”
“What is it with the dough
nut?” I muttered. “Since when are doughnuts evil?”
“I have no problem with the doughnut,” Nora said. “I have a problem with the jelly splotch on your shirt that everyone and their mother saw.”
“It’s Channel 87! Nobody watches it.”
“Okay, then,” Nora said. “See if you get any agents offering to represent you for future movie deals. I’m just saying, dear. Stash a comb in your purse, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
When Nora disconnected, I looked down to see I had a message. It was from an unfamiliar number. I dialed my inbox and listened to a male voice who stated he was from Clark’s Cleaning, and did I know they were running a fifty-percent-off special on women’s shirts? And did I also know that they specialized in tough stains like blood and wine and jelly doughnuts?
I hung up with a sigh. “There’s no privacy in this world.”
“Nope,” Meg said. “Speaking of, let’s find out who privately sent you this photo.”
I couldn’t agree more. Finally, I slid out a single five-by-seven document.
“It’s a photo,” I said, flipping it around to reveal the picture. “But I’m not sure who’s in it.”
“Maybe they got the wrong person.” Meg took a quick glance at the image and shrugged. “Never seen them before.”
“Whoever sent this would’ve gone through a lot of effort to get this document into the wrong person’s hands,” I said, studying the photo of two people in more detail. “And I do think we’ve seen them before. Both of them.”
“Really?” Meg picked up the photos. “Sort of looks like a vintage post card to me.”
Meg had a point. The image was of dubious quality at best. For starters, it looked like an old, vintage photograph, judging by the clothing on the two people captured in the moment. Secondly, the photo had been reproduced—probably scanned onto a piece of paper which had diluted the image quality even further. I could see a few tears along the corners from the original photograph, and a scratch or two on the surface that hadn’t translated well in the scan.
“Is that...” Meg ran her fingernail over the page, squinted, and did a double take. “Is that the judge lady who quit?”
“It’s Maureen,” I said. “And look who she’s with.”
“Is that...”
“Wyatt Davis?” I suggested. “I’m pretty sure that’s him. Neither of them changed much over the years.”
“You’re telling me,” Meg said. “It sorta looks like they got stuck in the fifties.”
“They’re not that old,” I said. “But the seventies, maybe.”
The image was of Wyatt Davis—Nellie’s father—the man we’d met at The Sugarloaf bakery just before we’d been run off the road by a psycho truck driver. The woman cuddled up against him in the photo was none other than Maureen. I idly wondered if Maureen was already in Mexico, or if she’d lied about that, too.
“Something’s fishy with this,” Meg said. “But what is it? I mean, someone went through a lot of effort to get you this photo. Anonymously. Is this someone’s way of helping you?”
“It seems like it,” I said. “But who would want to help me? And why not just tell me to my face?”
“I do not have the answer to that,” Meg said. “But if this photo is anything to go off, we might have to take another look at Peg.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, her husband is all cuddled up with another woman,” Meg said. “I don’t think she’d like that very much.”
“Right, but that doesn’t have anything to do with Amelia,” I said. “And anyway, I’m willing to bet this photo was taken before Peg and Wyatt were married. It could’ve been before they even met. Maybe Wyatt dated Maureen, then dumped her for Peg?”
“But who are we supposed to look at?” Meg wondered. “The way I see it, Maureen wouldn’t have any incentive to kill Amelia. As for Wyatt... maybe? Maybe he wanted to give The Sugarloaf a leg up in the bake-off so he eliminated one of the competition?”
“It’s a stretch,” I said.
“Oh, better idea,” Meg said. “What if Maureen never got over Wyatt? If Wyatt did dump her for Peg, then there’s no way Maureen would’ve ever cast her vote for The Sugarloaf to win the competition.”
“But why kill Amelia?” I asked. “Was it really just to eliminate a threat?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that this killer isn’t stupid,” Meg pointed out. “Otherwise there’s a sixty percent chance we’d already have caught them.”
“I like your confidence.”
“I’m just saying, I think we need to take another look at Wyatt before we write him off,” she said. “Another stakeout is in order. Plus, Clay put a waffle maker in the van.”
“What?”
“Now that I’m famous, I’m allowed to be a diva. And what sort of stakeout is it if you don’t have a waffle maker?”
“What, exactly, are we hoping to find?”
“I say we set up shop outside of Peg’s house,” Meg said. “We watch. Because if the killer’s going to act, it’ll be soon. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Seven thirty,” I said, then added, “I’m on bath duty.”
“I wouldn’t mind bath duty with Anthony.”
“Bella,” I corrected. “I have to give my baby a bath.”
Meg looked disappointed.
“Seven thirty?” I prompted.
“I’ll have a waffle waiting.”
Chapter 27
Meg and I parted ways when we reached Carlos’s estate. I headed inside to feed and bathe Bella while Meg cruised off to her apartment to rally her own troops. And by troops, I mostly meant Clay’s strange van.
On the way to my house, I stopped by Nora and Carlos’s and popped into the kitchen. I gave my grandmother a smile when I found her exercising some sort of smashing utensil over a pot on the stove.
“Any chance you have leftovers?” I asked. “If so, I’d be happy to adopt them.”
“Where’d you put all those sandwiches you stole earlier?”
Nora twitched her apron—a short, black thing with pearls around the neckline and lacy frills around the bottom. It said Little Black Apron across the front, and I had to wonder if Nora had found it in a lingerie store and mistaken it for actual cooking attire.
“I didn’t steal them,” I said. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it? You didn’t borrow them.” Nora narrowed her eyes at me. “Borrowing insinuates you can return something. I don’t think I want those sandwiches returned.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “They went the way of the jelly doughnut.”
“On your shirt?”
I studied my grandmother. “What’s eating you? Normally, you like when I eat your food. In fact, you complain if I don’t.”
“Anthony picked up Bella an hour early.” Nora huffed. “That severely impacted my bonding with her.”
“Nora, you’ve spent more time with my own daughter than I have in the last few days.”
“Because you’re a working mother this week,” Nora said. “You get to monopolize her time the rest of the days.”
“Right. Because I’m her mother.” I crossed my own arms. “Are you sure that’s everything on your mind?”
Nora turned awkwardly toward the stove, keeping her body mostly toward me, and continued mashing what appeared to be a gigantic tub of potatoes by hand. Pow, pow, pow, she mashed. Pow, pow, pow. I wondered if she’d chosen this specific side dish as a form of therapy.
“All I ask is that you not drag Carlos into your cases anymore,” Nora said. “He’s not as young as he used to be.”
“I haven’t dragged Carlos into a case in ages,” I said. “You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not. I’m never wrong,” Nora said. “We’ve been married one billion years. I know when my husband has his nose to the grindstone.”
“But—”
“God bless that man, but when he’s got something on his mind, he
’s like a hunting dog. One sniff in the right direction, and he’s off. Nothing can distract him. Not even...” Nora trailed off.
But she twitched her apron one more time, and I was reminded of the lingerie store that’d popped into my mind. Maybe it hadn’t been an accident after all.
I glanced down reluctantly at my grandmother. Skinny, bare legs poked out from underneath the black, lacy fabric. On her feet were slippers—but not any slippers. These were glittery red slippers that looked as if Nora were really trying to dress things up. A shiver slid down my spine.
“Nora, tell me you have clothes on under your apron,” I said. “Please.”
“Carlos has been working on something for two whole days now,” she said, ignoring me. “He barely has time to eat, let alone sleep or do... anything else.”
“Gross.”
“It’s your fault!”
Carlos entered the room then. He came to a full stop on the other side of the swinging door. One glance at me, and his face went slack.
Carlos turned to his wife. “You didn’t tell me she’d be here.”
“Hey,” I said. “Since when did everyone in this house turn against me? I just wanted leftovers.”
“Carlos, what do you think of my outfit?” Another twitchy-twitch-twitch of the apron. “I found it at that one little store you like.”
Carlos, however, had already disappeared. The only answer to Nora’s question was the slight thwack of the heavy, swinging door slowly coming to a stop.
“See?” Nora said. “Fix it.”
“I...” I blinked. “Fix what?”
“I need to go change into my sweatpants,” Nora said. “Thanks to you.”
“Okay, um—”
My sentence was chopped off by another swing of the kitchen door followed by a slam down the hall. I made my way toward the stove and took advantage of the quiet, helping myself to a somewhat lumpy to-go container of cheesy potatoes. I snapped the lid on the Tupperware and set off toward home.
“You got your grandfather involved?” Anthony opened the front door of our house, Bella perched on one hip, and spoke before I could say hello. “That’s not a good idea.”