Barefoot, she treaded softly down the hallway and into the kitchen. Moonlight glimmered through a window above the sink. She could see the dish-soap bottle resting near the faucet. She gathered up the soap and headed to the living room.
She was about to open the door when she heard something shift on the other side of it.
Emma pressed her eye to the keyhole and saw Maximus Beedy lying stiff-straight on the living room couch, arms crossed, like a slumbering vampire.
Well, Emma thought. This will be interesting. She took a deep breath, steadied her trembling hands, then cracked open the door.
Maximus didn’t move.
Emma moved slowly toward the gun cabinet, fixing her eyes on the sleeping figure, looking for any sign of waking. There was none.
After several minutes, Emma reached the cabinet. It was tall and wide and wooden, with four glass doors. Inside were the stacks of guns her uncle owned. The weapons gleamed black in the pale cabinet light.
Emma crouched and scanned the bottom ledge of the cabinet. She spotted the bottle immediately, tucked between two large rifles. It was some two feet below the keyhole of the leftmost door.
Emma opened the soap bottle and dipped into it the piece of cloth attached to the hanger. She pushed the cloth through the keyhole and fed the wire through, until the cloth just touched the top of the bottle. With patient, delicate strokes, she moved the wire so the soapy cloth brushed each side of the bottle, creating a layer of invisible slipperiness. She then pulled the wire until the cloth slipped back through the keyhole.
She had done it! Whoever picked up that bottle would be sure to break it! Emma grinned and turned to go.
Her grin vanished.
Someone was turning the doorknob.
Emma dove behind the couch and ducked her head down just as the door swung open. Heavy steps moved toward the cabinet. It was Uncle Simon.
He glanced at the snoring Maximus Beedy, and his mouth curled into a nasty smile. He shuffled over to the gun cabinet, riffled through his pocket, and pulled out a key. There was a soft click as he turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
In the glow of the cabinet light, Emma saw her uncle bend over and close his fingers around the bottle. He stood up and let out a small chuckle.
As he turned to go, the bottle slipped from his hand.
With a gigantic CRACK! it hit the floor and broke.
Maximus Beedy’s eyes flew open. His thin fingers leaped to a lamp switch and pressed it on. He looked at Simon, then at the liquid disappearing into the cracks of the floor.
“SIMON BURBLEE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” he screamed.
Uncle Simon looked at his hand, then at the shattered pieces of the bottle, then at Maximus Beedy. He gurgled and sputtered, but no words came out.
“You miserable, double-crossing, unscrupulous TRAITOR!” shrieked Beedy. “You were taking the bottle for yourself, weren’t you?! I ought to hang you by your toes above a crocodile-infested swamp! How dare you try to steal from me? And look what you’ve done! The Elixir of Delight is gone! You …”
Emma plugged her ears and shut her eyes for good measure. She was certain she wasn’t supposed to know the words coming out of Maximus Beedy’s mouth.
A few minutes passed. The muffled sounds and shouts abruptly stopped.
Emma suddenly remembered she had dropped the wire and soap in front of the gun cabinet.
She opened her eyes. She saw a pair of brown slippers. She saw a pair of bare feet. She braced herself.
“YOU BACKSTABBING SLUG!” roared Uncle Simon. He stooped over and wrapped his stubby fingers around Emma’s arm, yanking her to her feet. In his other hand were the wire hanger and the dish soap.
On the floor sat Maximus Beedy, his face ashen as he stared at the glittering pieces of the bottle.
“YOU OVERHEARD OUR PLAN AND YOU MADE ME DROP THE ELIXIR!” Uncle Simon screamed.
Emma glared at her uncle. “Yes, I did, you horrible, horrible man! You can’t cheat the entire town of Nummington! And what about Mr. Crackle? You’d run him out of business, and then where would you get all your desserts to stuff your horrible face with?”
“You wretched brat! If the townsfolk are stupid enough to eat flavored sawdust, then they deserve to be cheated! As for Mr. Crackle, I was going to hire him as my personal dessert baker.”
“He would never do that! He knows what a monster you are.”
“Who is Mr. Crackle?” asked Maximus Beedy.
“He owns a cake shop in Nummington. I get my desserts from him,” replied Uncle Simon.
“Mr. Crackle is the best baker in the world. I bet his desserts could beat out your stupid elixir any day!” Emma yelled.
“Is that so?” Maximus Beedy said. “I’ve heard of this Mr. Crackle, but I figured he was too old and decrepit to be good anymore.” He slowly rubbed the top of his cane. “Simon, put your niece somewhere she can’t escape. We’re going to have a talk.”
Emma wrapped her arms around her legs and shivered in the walk-in fridge, which Uncle Simon had padlocked from the outside. Despite the cold, she was fuming. Her uncle was even more detestable than she had thought. He’s so greedy he’d even cheat his best friend! And now he knows I made the bottle slip. This isn’t going to be a pleasant morning.
A moment later, Uncle Simon reappeared. He pointed at Emma. “You. Get dressed and be on the porch in five minutes.”
Five minutes later, Uncle Simon, Maximus Beedy, and Emma were in Uncle Simon’s car, headed toward Mr. Crackle’s Cake Shop. As they wound up the main street, they spotted a light shining from the back of the shop.
Uncle Simon parked the car, jerked Emma out, and wobbled around the corner to the back entrance. Maximus followed closely.
With one large, meaty fist, Uncle Simon pounded on the door. “Crackle! Open up!”
The door opened. Mr. Crackle stood looking at the three figures with a puzzled smile. “Why, hello, Emma! And your uncle, I presume? And by the looks of it, your uncle’s friend? How fortunate. I’ve just taken a batch of cookies out of the oven, and I need people to taste them. I’m afraid I don’t let people in my kitchen, but come around to the front and I’ll get you fixed right up.”
“Crackle, we’re not here to eat your flipping cook—” began Uncle Simon, but he stopped as they were all hit by the most exquisite smell.
It was the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon, toasted walnuts, dark, rich spices, and pure vanilla. It curled and danced in their nostrils, a heady, thick aroma of freshly baked goodness.
Maximus Beedy tapped his cane gently on the back door. “Mr. Crackle, I suggest you let us into your kitchen. We have some important matters to discuss with you. And if you don’t, I’m afraid you will be putting little Emma in grave danger.”
Maximus stared at Mr. Crackle.
His eyes were dangerous, glittering.
Mr. Crackle frowned. “Come in.” He stepped back as Maximus, Uncle Simon, and Emma entered the kitchen.
Emma saw a long, rectangular room with brightly painted yellow walls. An enormous counter lined one side, while on the other side stood a mixer large enough to hold ten gallons’ worth of batter, two ovens, five cooling racks, a refrigerator, and a dishwasher. A tall spice cabinet filled with hundreds of spices in clear bottles stood at the back of the kitchen next to barrels labeled FLOUR, SUGAR, CHOCOLATE CHUNKS, CRUSHED PEPPERMINT, ALMONDS, and RAISINS. Pots and pans and cups and whisks and stirring spoons and zesters and peelers and ladles and strainers hung from hooks dangling from the ceiling.
It was the most cheerful, well-stocked kitchen Emma had ever seen.
Mr. Crackle picked up a spatula and slid it neatly underneath three cookies. He handed one to each of his visitors. “There may be a bit too much cinnamon in them, but tell me honestly, what do you think?”
Emma, Uncle Simon, and Maximus each took a bite.
They chewed. They swallowed. They smiled.
Emma smiled because she had never tasted a better cookie.
“Simon, I think we’ve found what we’re looking for,” said Maximus.
“Well, it is unusual for customers to come looking for pumpkin walnut cookies at four in the morning, but I suppose some people in the world have to be strange,” said Mr. Crackle.
Maximus’s smile grew wider and uglier. “We weren’t looking for cookies. We were looking for someone who can make us a special recipe, a recipe that is only possible for the exceptionally talented baker. You are exceptionally talented. You will make it for us.”
“Aha. And if I’m too busy?”
Maximus twitched his eyebrows. “I do not think you will be too busy, Mr. Crackle. Let me introduce myself. My name is Maximus Beedy. I am a professional poisoner.”
“Well, that’s very impressive, Maximus. My name is Gregor Crackle. I’m a professional baker, which I daresay is more respectable, though certainly less glamorous, than a poisoner.” Mr. Crackle dug his spatula under two more cookies and began to pile them onto a plate. “Tell me, is it true that nightshade kills more quickly when mixed with strawberry juice, or was one of my friends just pulling my leg?”
“I do not think you take me seriously, Mr. Crackle,” hissed Maximus. He put his hand into his pocket and with a jerk pulled it out. Emma saw the glint of a silver ring on his thumb. The bottom of the ring was curved into a needle-sharp point.
As quick as lightning, Maximus grasped Mr. Crackle’s hand. Mr. Crackle flinched and cocked his head at Maximus. “You’re a bit strange,” he said.
Maximus pulled back his hand. There was a small red mark where the ring had touched Mr. Crackle’s palm.
Maximus’s lips curled into an ugly, awful smile. “Mr. Crackle, I have just pricked you with a rather nasty poison made from the sap of the joobajooba plant. Distilled eighty-seven times and combined with nightshade and powdered wolf fangs, it has a most curious power. Every few hours, you will lose one of your senses—first smell, then taste, touch, hearing, and sight. In thirty-six hours, your world will be utterly gone.”
“MONSTER!” Emma hurled herself at Maximus, only to have Uncle Simon’s blubbery hand yank her back. “YOU RAT! YOU NO GOOD, SKUNK-SMELLING, HORRIBLE, FILTHY—”
“Emma, don’t worry. It’ll be all right,” Mr. Crackle said. He turned to Maximus and regarded him with an arched eyebrow. “Hmm. Joobajooba poison, did you say?”
Maximus stamped his cane. He looked exasperated. “Yes, joobajooba poison. Now, I suggest you make the recipe, and quickly. Succeed, and I will give you the antidote to the poison. Fail, and Nummington will no longer have its prize baker.”
“Harrumph. You are quite a distasteful fellow. Let me see the recipe.” Mr. Crackle took the parchment scroll from Maximus and ran his eyes over the spidery writing. Emma glowered at Maximus and kicked at Uncle Simon’s shins, trying to break free until he bellowed, “EMMA BURBLEE, IF YOU KICK ME ONE MORE TIME, I WILL TAKE MAXIMUS’S RING AND STAB YOU MYSELF!”
“Shhh, be quiet!” Mr. Crackle frowned at Uncle Simon, then went back to the parchment. “Hmm. Mmm-hmm. Must check the cupboards for burberry beans … I’ll need my special strainer for the timtam tea.… Oh, that’s difficult. Hmm.” Mr. Crackle looked up and leveled his gaze on Maximus. “Well, I can do this, but I’ll need an assistant.” He turned to Emma. “Emma, how would you like to do some baking for the next few hours?”
“Sure, Mr. Crackle. But tell my uncle to let me go!”
Mr. Crackle beamed. “Wonderful. Mr. Burblee, kindly release Emma. Emma, don’t kick your uncle. Now, gentlemen, I have some work to do. Come back at ten minutes before noon tomorrow and I’ll have your recipe prepared. It should be just in time, right before I lose my sight. Be warned—if you come later, I don’t believe I can help you. Thank you for trying my pumpkin walnut cookies.”
Mr. Crackle ushered the two men out. He turned to Emma, who stared at him, aghast. “Mr. Crackle! How can you be so calm when you’ve been poisoned?!”
Mr. Crackle chuckled. “Emma, don’t worry. The recipe for the Elixir of Delight is tricky but certainly manageable.”
“But what if the recipe takes more than a day to make? What if you don’t have all the ingredients? What if—”
“Emma, I will be perfectly fine,” Mr. Crackle said firmly. He rerolled the parchment and tied it with string, then turned to her. “Well, it’s far too early in the morning for you to be up. You should get some sleep. Follow me.”
He walked briskly to the back of the kitchen and opened a heavy oak door that led to a tiny spiral staircase. Emma climbed the steps after him and found herself in a cozy attic room. She suddenly felt very tired. Morning sun was creeping through the windows and the skylight in the slanted ceiling, softly illuminating a bookcase filled with ancient-looking tomes bound in leather. Emma sleepily glanced at a few of the titles—The Basics of Cake, Meringue Magic, Pies Pies Pies!, Chef Toutou’s Baking Home Companion, Culinary Practical Jokes. Next to the bookcase, a small, old-fashioned typewriter perched on a wooden desk studded with small drawers. A small table with two chairs sat in front of a tall window. A bed lay at the far end of the room, opposite a purple couch with orange flowers.
Mr. Crackle rummaged through his closet and pulled out a thick blanket and a pillow. “Here you go, Emma. The couch is hideous, I know, but it’s extremely comfortable. I need to go back to baking, but I’ll wake you in a few hours and we’ll go shopping for ingredients. It’s been a while since I’ve gone down the flour barrel.”
Emma wanted to ask Mr. Crackle what he meant, but she was too sleepy to do anything but yawn. She curled up on the flowered couch and in a moment was fast asleep.
Emma woke to the smell of burning. She opened her eyes groggily, then snapped awake as the odor of charred sugar grazed her nose. She pulled on her shoes and hurried downstairs.
Mr. Crackle was standing over the counter with a blowtorch. He wore pink protective goggles and green flame-resistant gloves. He whistled happily as he aimed the torch at several dozen custard cups spread out on the counter. Once he had finished flaming them, he set down the torch and turned to Emma.
“Why, hello, Emma! Care for some crème brûlée?”
“No thanks, Mr. Crackle. But if you don’t mind, could I have something to eat?”
“Of course!” Mr. Crackle removed his goggles and gloves. “Sorry about the smell—it’s an unfortunate sensation one must experience when making brûlée. Though, to tell you the truth, that poison of Mr. Beedy’s is working remarkably well—I can’t smell a thing. Anyway, why don’t I whip up some peanut butter and jam sandwiches while you get us some milk? Cups are in the cupboard behind you.”
As Emma hopped onto the counter to reach the cups, she heard a knocking on the glass separating the kitchen from the front of the shop. She looked over and saw Albie, with a surprised face, tapping away.
“Mr. Crackle, Albie’s here!” she called.
“Oh, good, we need him too. I always thought that freckly young man could be put to better use than just cutter control,” Mr. Crackle called back. “Pop around to the front and bring him back here. Today we have more important things at hand than selling cake. I’ll tell Margie to close up shop for a few days after she sells what I baked this morning.”
Emma ran out the back door and around the shop to the front. “Hey, Albie,” she panted.
“Emma! How did you get into the kitchen with Mr. Crackle? I’ve never seen him let anybody else in there while he’s mixing things up!”
Emma took a few moments to explain to Albie what had happened. When she finished, he scratched his head. “So … you’re saying that one of your uncle’s friends poisoned Mr. Crackle, and you’ve got to make a special potion or else Mr. Crackle is toast?”
Emma nodded. “Yup. Will you help him? Oh, please say you will!”
Albie snorted. “Will I help? Is the ocean wavy? Of course!”
Emma gave Albie a tight hug, and they raced bac
k to the kitchen, where Mr. Crackle was putting the finishing touches on some exquisite-looking peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Once he was done, they carried their meal upstairs to eat.
As they sat at the table munching, Emma hesitantly said, “Mr. Crackle? Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Why, certainly, Emma. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, you’re not scared of being poisoned, and I’m not sure why. Most people I know would be screaming or fainting every three minutes or throwing a tantrum or something. And then you seemed so calm and sure when Mr. Beedy asked if you could make the recipe. I can’t help thinking you don’t need my help. And then I thought I heard something about going down a flour barrel to go shopping, but I wasn’t sure what you meant. I was pretty tired, and I think I might have heard wrong … but are we going down a flour barrel to go shopping?” Emma paused to catch her breath.
Mr. Crackle tapped his nose thoughtfully. “Emma, the answer to your first question is easy. I’m not scared because I trust my skills enough to make the elixir correctly. As for your other questions, I’m going to answer them by telling you a story. Many bits of the story you have to promise me you won’t tell a soul. That goes for you too, Albie. What I’m about to say is extremely secret. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Emma chimed.
“Sure thing, Mr. Crackle!” Albie said.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Crackle. “Here we go.” He settled back in his chair.
“I knew when I was very small that I wanted to bake,” began Mr. Crackle. “My mother was an extraordinary cook who owned a cake shop, much like mine. ‘Gregor,’ she told me, ‘there are a few things you must know to be a baker. One, you must learn the secret to every ingredient and spice. You must learn their taste, their texture, their color, their essence. You must learn what they are like alone, in pairs, in medleys, in orchestras! You must also learn to make recipes perfectly. There are plenty of people who are and were magnificent bakers, and should you stumble across a recipe of theirs, you must be able to imitate it flawlessly. This will make you a good baker. What makes you a great baker is your imagination. You must be able to hunt for perfect flavors, combining the exact ingredients in the exact amount in the exact order to make exactly what you want. You must be daring and adventurous and brave and courageous!’ ” Mr. Crackle smiled. “Mother was a wordy person, but she loved her pastries.”
The Magic Cake Shop Page 5
