Truffle Me Not: Baker by Day ,Sleuth on the Side (Cupid's Catering Company Book 2)

by M K Scott

  “Oopsy!” her mother commented and headed out of the kitchen to refill cups.

  That didn’t sound good, but sometimes Della was better off not knowing the reason for the comment. It didn’t, however, take a detective to put together the pieces. She imagined most would drop from caffeine induced exhaustion before the night ended.

  Perhaps feeling the tension, Elise carried the cake over to the island and asked, “Did you hear about the jewel heist?”

  “No.” Della picked up the cake spatula and maneuvered it around each precut slice, determined to keep the lines neat. Appearance made about three-fourths of a favorable impression with one-fourth being actual taste. “My tables had fewer interesting conversations. I didn’t know anyone in Owens had jewels worth taking.”

  “Probably not,” Elise agreed as she removed a tray from the freezer of white custard dishes of rose sorbet balls, each decorated with a single mint leaf. “Sounded like it was over in Centerville. Most didn’t even know the woman had jewelry. Something about her being crazy about her cats and not one of those socialites that showed up at events, dripping in diamonds. I’m not sure of the details since I couldn’t hover over the table. Did you hear anything of note?”

  Gossiping about their clients would be unprofessional, but she didn’t want to snub Elise’s attempt to change the subject from the guests possibly guzzling the high-octane morning brew she nicknamed the eye-opener. “Nothing too unusual. I’m betting there are more than a few people here who can’t wait for the wedding to be over.”

  “Including you,” Elise teased.

  “Not me,” Della replied with an arched eyebrow. “I’m not catering the reception. Apparently, the bride’s grandmother wanted to do it. Her gift to her granddaughter.”

  “That’s sweet. I just hope she has reliable help,” Elise offered as she moved the dishes to a more decorative tray for serving.

  “Maybe, in passing, I could mention how helpful you are. If she’s relying on family, she might be in a world of hurt.”

  “I heard that!” Mabel called out as she returned to the kitchen. “They’re ready for dessert. I’ll help serve.”

  Both Della and her mother weaved between the tables, delivering cake with a smile. Her mother had a few words for her recipients, usually a compliment on their appearance or how wonderful the wedding would be—sometimes even about the preciousness of young love. No wonder people talked to her mother. She actually cared about people she just met. If she could be pleasant to people she would never see again, why couldn’t she stand her next-door neighbor?

  It was too bad she never bothered to ask her father when he was alive. Like everyone else, she’d assumed her father would be around for a long time. A pang of grief swept through her, causing her to sway as she headed back to the kitchen with her empty tray. Suck it up, Della prompted herself, straightening her spine and taking a calming, deep breath. No one wanted a sobbing caterer. Besides, her father would want to see her enjoying her dream of being a baker and owning a business. No mean girl from high school would steal that from her.

  Chapter Six

  THE MINGLED AROMAS of barbecue and fried chicken vied for dominance as Della scraped the leftovers into cardboard containers stamped with the Cupid’s Catering Company logo. Normally, as a courtesy, she offered the leftovers to whomever hired her. After all, they paid for it. Some companies hurried the clean-up to be done before the customer inquired about any remaining food. That had to be folks who opted for disposable dishware since they dumped it and ran. Della wouldn’t be leaving her plain china plates and metal flatware behind.

  A gurgle and steam issued from the compact industrial dishwasher as Elise opened the door and pulled out a tray of dinner plates. Being able to take home clean dishes was a major plus, with less time spent at the bakery washing up everything. Besides, this was technically dead time while the guests talked and lingered over their coffee. Speaking of coffee, Della peered out the open door, spotting her mother going from table to table with a coffee pot of the morning blend, guaranteed to make folks alert. The way her mother hung around the tables chit-chatting, she might as well be a truck stop waitress trolling for a tip.

  Mabel’s laughter carried, forcing Della to evaluate the man her mother hovered nearby. Oddly, both her mother and the man turned at the same time to stare in her direction. Her mother gave her a salute with the coffee pot, while the man waved.

  “Got to admire her.” Elise’s voice broke into Della’s contemplation.

  “Who?” she asked, even though she had a suspicion of whom Elise meant.

  “Your mother. I wish my mom had her confidence.” She sighed. “My mother used to be happy until my father took off with Molly, his assistant, who can’t be much older than me. Now, every day is just a march to the grave for Mom. She needs to be more like your mother, flirting with younger guys. That would teach my dad a lesson.”

  Flirting? Della squeezed her eyes shut. Not again! Not here. She’d convinced herself that Tony, her mother’s rescue dog, left her with no time to matchmake. Mabel didn’t chat up young men because she had a cougar mentality but rather to feel out their eligibility for Della. She opened her eyes to check on her mother’s antics, only to find Elise with a perplexed expression.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Um, yeah.” Della gathered the extra napkins to busy her hands. “Just tired. The day starts early with a bakery. Once I return the van, I’m heading home to climb into bed, no matter how early it is.”

  “Me, too,” Elise agreed with an amused expression as she held up one finger. “I mean after I shower, do my homework, listen to my favorite podcast, then I’ll go to bed—after I clean it off.”

  They had two different versions of what right away meant. Oh, to be young again. Della shook her head. On second thought, she’d pass on reliving her adolescence with a total overkill of angst. Besides the usual problems of being an unpopular, teenage girl, she had a mother who wanted her to have all the things she didn’t have growing up. Mabel kept insisting that Della should go to parties and attend football games. Somehow, her mother assumed these activities would make Della irresistible.

  She did explain she hated football, but never mentioned the parties were alcohol and drug fueled. Ironically, the rumor mill then had her informing her father about various parties she never attended. Besides not being invited, she kept her mouth shut about the nature of the parties as a courtesy to her mother’s friends whose children did indulge in the party life. There was no reason for her to bust illusions other mothers had about their offspring. Those bubbles burst soon enough.

  The playlist that had been going strong became softer as the dinner progressed. At first, she assumed the noise from the diners drowned it out, but by listening to it force out the music from the movie Ghost, she knew her phone was dying. It was time to find the portable charger she took everywhere, since Della prided herself on being prepared. She lifted her tote from the bottom shelf where it sat and pawed through it once, twice, and finally, a third time to convince herself the charger wasn’t hiding somewhere. Why wasn’t it there?

  A quick mental replay of her early morning ritual included her looking at the charger plugged into the wall. Did she pick it up? Nope. Instead, she headed to the bathroom to put in her contacts. Her mother joked she only wore contacts while catering to look her best for the bevy of men present at such events. Della assured her mother that a chef’s smock wasn’t alluring, and the contacts didn’t steam up over a hot stove like her glasses.

  Just maybe she did care about her appearance. No one would mistake her for one of the glamorous television chefs with custom made tunics and sprayed-on makeup. Still, there was no reason to be a hot mess. That tiniest scrap of vanity had left her with an almost dead phone. No biggie, she’d be home soon.

  The sound of chairs scraping across the tile floor had Della scooping up business cards to hand out to interested individuals. Most, caught up in conversation, rushed past her without bother
ing to glance at her or compliment the meal. The groom’s mother was making her way over, possibly to rave about the presentation. Della had put tiny American flags on the sliders to indicate an all-American meal or boy, depending on how the guest took it. Who wouldn’t love her twist of ingenuity?

  “Could you hurry it up and leave?” The woman puffed out the words as if shooting spitballs. Her brows met, then lowered, saying much more about her state of mind than her words did. “I have to lock up the basement.” Her arms folded below her chest, and she gave an indignant sniff. “They’re all off to party, leaving me to handle everything. Might as well since I seem to be the only one in the wedding party capable of doing anything.”

  It was not the response Della had hoped for, but weddings could be emotional events and not always happy.

  “Will do,” Della replied, glancing at the abandoned tables Elise and her mother were bussing. “At least ten minutes or more.”

  The woman stared at her phone, grunted, and moved away. It didn’t take a mind reader to know she was less than thrilled about the wedding. The general lack of joy got dumped on all around her. There might be a tense moment at the wedding when the minister inquired if there were any objections. Well, she wouldn’t be there to witness it. She turned and made a major effort to vacate the area swiftly.

  In about twelve minutes, they had the van ready to go. Elise had been paid and reminded about the next booking. Della climbed into the van, exhausted. Two more hours and she should be in bed. She fished out the business cards from her pocket and placed them in the console separating the seats. “I might as well leave the cards here for all the future bookings I received.”

  Her mother picked up the cards and tucked them into her purse pocket. “Don’t waste them. I can use them when I meet someone interesting, like Devon.”

  Don’t ask. Della started the van. An image of the packaged food remnants on the counter flashed into her mind. “Oh! I forgot about the leftovers.”

  “No problem,” her mother assured with a smirk. “I told the minister to use them for his soup kitchen tomorrow. He was very grateful.”

  “I’m sure he was. I would have remembered to inform the client if we hadn’t been given the bum’s rush.”

  Hopefully, the client will assume they ate everything as opposed to being denied extras. With her luck, the minister might mention the family’s generosity at the next service. She couldn’t see how anyone would be upset about that. There was not much she could do about it if they did, and possibly, people might think well of the groom’s mother.

  *

  AN HOUR LATER and with the van returned, Mabel and Della were back in the bakery kitchen, putting away supplies. Her mother slid the plates onto the shelf and asked, “Are you worried about the debutante’s bakery? A few folks gabbed about it at the reception.” She turned in Della’s direction and arched her eyebrows. “Surprised you didn’t mention it to me. You had to know.”

  Whenever she thought about Lacey or Sweet Treasures, an uncomfortable sensation, rather like being a butterfly stuck on a pin, overcame her. Della chose not to mention her feelings to her mother. Knowing Mabel, she might decide to wade into the mess on behalf of her daughter. That’s the last thing she needed. Instead, she would downplay the possibility.

  “Not really.” She shrugged her shoulders, tried for a grin, but failed. “You know how it is. Lots of people talk about opening a restaurant or bakery. Nothing ever comes of it.”

  Mabel bobbed her head in assent and tucked the silverware into its container. Just when Della thought she’d settled the issue, her mother glanced up and wrinkled her nose. “You know, all those people who dream of opening a restaurant probably didn’t have rich parents bankrolling their every whim.”

  It was not what Della wanted to hear. Sometimes, when it came to her mother, no response often served as the best. Hoping her mother would forget about it and move on, Della bustled around the bakery, not only tucking away her catering supplies but prepping as much as she could for Monday, too. Showing up on Sunday, the day the bakery was closed, resulted in people tapping on the glass, somehow believing that opening the bakery for that one cup of coffee, roll, or even to use the bathroom wouldn’t be a big issue.

  Her mother sniffed and pursed her lips. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Dankworths at any of the town functions lately. It makes for quieter and shorter meetings in general. You know how they are. They imagine themselves as the unofficial emperor and empress of Owens because of their money. If either one opens their mouth, which they do a great deal, they expect people to scurry to do their bidding.” Her mother sighed. “Most do.”

  “Maybe they’re on one of those world cruises.” The idea appealed, especially if it limited Lacey’s supply to endless funds.

  “Nope.” Her mother gave an emphatic head shake as she grabbed her purse. “Can’t see them doing such a thing without talking it to death for months. Part of the joy for them is all the little people, who could never do such a thing, knowing the Dankworths were embarking on an expensive trip. Better get going. I need to make sure Prince Purrfection is safely home.”

  “That’s sweet of you, helping your neighbor.” Maybe the two of them could get along.

  Her mother made a derisive huff. “I’m not helping her. Doing my best to protect myself. That harridan would drag me to small claims court if anything happened to her precious cat.” She tapped her index finger against her cheek. “Then again, maybe not, especially if she stole the cat.”

  Della refused to engage in the conversation about stolen cats. “I’ll see you later. Have a nice weekend.”

  Her mother might even suggest the cat would somehow be connected to the cat lover who lost all the jewels. If the police had put out a tip line number, she wouldn’t put it past her mother to call. The prickliness had to be something personal to have the two women constantly bumping heads. Could it be her father may have dated the neighbor before marrying her mother? If so, her mother should have felt a sense of triumph since she married the man in the end.

  That didn’t sound right. It made about as much sense as a cat lady having a bunch of expensive jewelry. Someone had to know about that, too. With all the personal mysteries abounding, Della counted the minutes down until she could immerse herself in a tub of lavender-scented bubbles.

  *

  LIGHTS OUT, EXCEPT for her one security light, and doors locked, she crawled behind the wheel of her car, ready to forget about the day.

  Visions of donning her flannel pajamas decorated with cats in spacesuits after her long soak filled her head. Her tired mind chose that moment to create an image of Devon, the bachelor her mother chatted up at the reception. He was an ordinary-looking fellow sporting glasses, which meant probably more of an academic in high school. He might work with computers or numbers. Possibly, he drove an older foreign car and subscribed to a science journal and enjoyed collecting vintage vinyl records. Nothing in Devon’s imagined backstory worked against him.

  Any man who’d allow someone’s mother to fix him up with her daughter smacked of desperation. Of course, she’d be the desperate one, not him. Her top teeth worried her bottom lip as she dwelled on the possibility of a man she’d never said two words to having an interest in her. It made no sense. He only took the card to be polite. That had to be it.

  At times, driving could be rather automatic, especially with an occupied mind. A desolate stretch of road sat between her and the bakery, not more than a couple of blocks at the most. It never bothered her before. The large dark buildings loomed to her right as the car jerked and made an odd thump-thump sound.

  “Not now!”

  While no expert on cars and their maintenance, she recognized the uneven ride that came with the sound. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a flat tire. Still, a flat tire outside the abandoned industrial park ranked dead last on her want-to-do list. It might have made it on a never-do list.

  Della steered to the side of the road, wishing this pa
rt of town could have opted for streetlights. She sighed heavily as she opened the door.

  “At least I have road service. Thank goodness I kept my membership active.”

  What she didn’t have was a working phone. Della circled the car, grumbling as she went. “Would this day just end?”

  In the glow of the car lights, Della observed the back driver’s side tire rim resting on the pavement as opposed to the normal few inches above it.

  “Drat!” Exhaustion tinged with frustration weighed on her. Even though it would do little to alleviate her current situation, Della stomped one foot, then another. One raindrop fell, followed by a second, and then dozens all at once as if racing to see who could soak her first. Icy rivulets of water streamed from her hair down her back, chilling her and causing her to chafe her arms for warmth.

  Headlights pierced the dark night, transfixing Della as if she were a proverbial deer. It might be someone who could help her. Who does that anymore? More likely, it was a serial killer, despite the fact the town of Owens had experienced no murders, which would equate to no killers roaming the streets. A dripping Della worked her way back to the car door when the vehicle stopped. What if it was a serial killer just passing through on his way bigger city where he would work his way through the much larger population without being caught?

  Chapter Seven

  THE RAIN CONTINUED as Della stood in the cold downpour with her hand on the car door handle. Everything in her screamed, Move now! Almost everything. Her muscles weren’t complying, keeping her frozen in place. With the dropping temps, hypothermia could be a possibility. While her body was not reacting, her mind worked overtime, rerunning brutal true-life crime shows and the victims’ unpleasant endings along with pointing out she hadn’t done anything spectacular in her life. While she couldn’t quite put her finger on what spectacular thing she should have done, if she had done it, she’d died happy, knowing she’d reached the pinnacle of her existence.