“That’s wonderful.” I was running out of admiring adjectives and needed to steer the conversation toward his supposedly plagiarized cupcake. “How does that work? Do you bring your own secret ingredients or did you have to provide a list to the contest organizers?”
GB and Millie exchanged glances; then she patted the huge purse sitting at her side. “They have all of the standard fixings, but I’ve got GB’s secret ingredient right here, and unless he wins, no one will ever find out what makes his cupcakes so scrumptious.”
“That seems fair.” I eyed her handbag. It was definitely big enough to hold a bottle of hair spray. Heck. It was large enough to hold the giant economy-size can. “But if the competition officials don’t see your recipe, how can they be sure it’s original? That you just didn’t copy something from the Internet?”
“Why would you ask that?” Millie narrowed her eyes until they looked like raisins studding the buttermilk biscuits of her round cheeks.
“No reason.” I pasted an innocent expression on my face. “Just curious.”
“The contract we all had to sign says if Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes discovers the winning recipe wasn’t created by the contestant, the prize is forfeited,” GB explained. “They have thirty days to investigate after the winner is announced.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “Now I understand.” Time to change the subject since I couldn’t figure out what else to ask about the cupcake. “Is it hard to produce your normal quality of cupcake in an unfamiliar kitchen?”
“It was a little tricky.” GB brought a cheese-covered nacho to his mouth. “But the run-through we were allowed on Friday really helped.”
“That’s good.” This was my opportunity to check Millie’s alibi. I didn’t need to know where she was for all three incidents. If she had an alibi for one, I was willing to put her on the bottom of my suspect list. “So, did you all come into town the night before so you’d be fresh and ready for Friday’s practice round?”
“Unfortunately, we couldn’t.” Millie tsked. “By the time we got the word that GB was a finalist, we already had the children’s choir recital scheduled for Thursday evening, and we couldn’t miss that.”
“That’s a shame. But at least you said it didn’t handicap him.” Hmm. If they were telling the truth, Millie couldn’t have been the one who delivered the poisoned package to Fallon. How could I ask for proof?
I was distracted when an eruption of large multicolored stars rocketed across the sky, and then with a loud crackling sound the fireworks broke apart into hundreds of smaller stars. The three of us oohed and aahed over the crisscrossing effect.
As I watched a teenager aim her phone at the display, an idea popped into my head and I said, “I love children’s choirs. Did you record their program?”
Millie gave me a suspicious glance—I guess I didn’t look like the type of person who enjoyed kids singing—but she dug through her purse, took out her cell, and pushed a few buttons. Once she had the video, she handed the device to me and shaky footage of six- and seven-year-olds crooning “God Bless America” filled the small screen.
“Wow.” I forced admiration into my voice. “Those little ones are amazing.”
“They are darling, aren’t they?” Millie gushed, leaning over my shoulder.
As the camera panned the stage, a hand-lettered sign appeared. Printed in red was:
Christian Assembly of God
Children’s Choir
Thursday, July 2, at 7:00 PM
It appeared that Millie and GB had an alibi for the night of the poisoning. Which meant I could remove them from prime suspect status. I watched the video for a few more seconds, then made my excuses and left GB and Millie crunching into their candy apples.
It was time to move my interrogation efforts to couple number two on my suspect list. I glanced at the sky. It appeared that the fireworks show was ending, because the bursts were getting closer and closer together. I needed to locate Russell and Lauren Neumann before the finale. When the event broke up, everyone would disperse, and once the Neumanns headed back to their motel room, I wouldn’t be able to talk to them until tomorrow.
Lauren and Russell hadn’t struck me as people comfortable with sitting on the ground, so I concentrated on the lawn chair crowd. It was a little easier to scan them than the folks on the blankets, since there were fewer chairs and their occupants’ faces were less difficult to see. I edged toward the gazebo, thinking that Russell had seemed like someone who would want to sit as close as possible to the big shots in order to have the best possible chance to schmooze with the VIPs and the judges.
My hunch paid off, and I found the Neumanns seated in the first row behind the reserved area. Russell’s chair resembled a blue canvas throne. There was a table attached to the arm and even a footrest. Lauren sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was pale pink.
I caught Lauren’s eye and she smiled. I waved, and as I drew closer, she said, “Dev, I hope you didn’t have any ill effects from last night’s close call.” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her sunny yellow dress. “Everyone said that you and Ms. Cutler hit the ground awfully hard.”
“Thank you for asking, but I’m fine. The only fatalities were my dignity and white pants.”
I had forgotten Lauren was one of the first people on the scene after Kizzy’s near-roadkill experience. She couldn’t have been behind the wheel of the vehicle that attempted to mow down Kizzy and gotten to us so fast. But I hadn’t seen Russell there, so he could have driven the car and Lauren could be the arsonist. It suddenly occurred to me that the couples might well be working in tandem. Good thing both the O’Rourkes had an alibi.
“Are you meeting friends or would you like to join us?” Lauren leaped up from her chair, whipped out a stool, and unfolded it. “The Presbyterian ladies outdid themselves. We have some of their delicious roast beef sandwiches left over, if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks, but I’m stuffed.” I edged my ample backside gingerly onto the camp stool and breathed a sigh of relief when it supported my weight. “But I’d love to sit and chat until the fireworks are over.”
“Goody.” Lauren clapped her hands. “How are sales going at your store?”
“Very well, but my fingers are crossed that tomorrow will be the real showstopper.” I smiled at her enthusiasm—and her bright red tights—then asked, “How did the baking go for you today?”
“You’re sitting with the winner.” Russell spoke for the first time. “Her cupcakes were the first to disappear this afternoon when the people who had snagged the golden tickets were allowed to taste and the judges loved them.” He frowned, then asked, “By the way, why was the whole shebang switched from your store to the bar?”
I explained about the fire but omitted Kizzy’s attack. I knew the media had written about it, but I wasn’t sure what details had been released to the public and I didn’t want to get either the cupcake queen or the police chief ticked off at me. I ended with, “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. It was on the news.”
“We haven’t seen a paper or listened to television or radio since we got here,” Russell said. “Why bother? It’s all manipulated by the feds or the liberal fringe.”
I wasn’t surprised with Russell’s view of the media. Heck, I half believed the same thing. Except I thought along with the government both the liberals and the conservatives controlled various news outlets.
“When did the fire start?” Lauren asked, fingering the tiny ladybug buttons that marched down the front of her dress. “I was at the cooking school prepping and baking from nine a.m. until a little before two.”
“Of course.” Hell! I had forgotten the contestants would have been occupied, not to mention filmed during that critical period. “But, Russell, weren’t you downtown to see the fire engines?”
“Nah.” Russell adjusted the c
rease in his khaki shorts. “I stayed with Lauren at the cooking school the whole time she was there.” He glared. “I was on watch to make sure no one sabotaged Lauren’s cupcakes.”
“Do you really think something like that would happen here?” I asked, barely restraining myself from adding, paranoid much?
“You can’t be too careful.” Russell crossed his arms. “That’s why I had our attorney look over the agreement Lauren had to sign.”
“Oh?” I leaned forward, encouraging him to elaborate. This was exactly the stuff I wanted to hear.
“Yeah.” Russell bared his teeth in what I guessed was supposed to be a smile. “There was a rumor floating around that the ten-thousand-dollar prize money was going to be some kind of structure payment bullshit instead of one big check, so I scanned the agreement and e-mailed it to our lawyer to check out.”
“And?”
“And if that Cutler broad was planning on shafting us that way, she’s in for a little surprise. The contract calls for a single payment.” Russell’s chest puffed out. “No one pulls one over on Russell Neumann.”
“It’s nice to see a man who’s confident in his wife’s ability, but judging is subjective, so how can you be sure Lauren will win?” I was curious about his scheme to blackmail the Italian judge into fixing the contest.
“Let’s just say that the writing is on the wall.” Russell leaned back, then muttered, “Or at least on the paperwork in my pocket.”
CHAPTER 20
My interest in the Neumanns was waning, so I made my excuses and left them watching the last of the fireworks. Although it was possible that Russell might have slipped away from the baking, I doubted he would have left his wife’s cupcakes unprotected. That, and the fact that his lawyer’s assurance of a single payment for the prize meant he no longer had a motive to want to hurt Kizzy, made me decide to take the couple off my primary suspects list.
I hadn’t decided what to do about the potential contest fraud or Thomasina Giancarlo’s possible status as an illegal alien. If I didn’t figure out something by the time Boone brought the yearbook over to the store tomorrow, I’d ask him for his advice as a lawyer on both matters.
Thomasina might have more reason to want Russell dead than Kizzy, but I still wanted to talk to her. Just not tonight. I was exhausted. It was close to eleven p.m. when I made my way through the mob exiting the town square and reached my car where I had left it behind my store. Poppy was holding another after-hours event at her club for the party animals, but I’d been on the go since my alarm buzzed at six a.m. and wasn’t up to a party.
One or both of the judges whom I needed to question might show up at the event, but I couldn’t make myself go to it. The idea of sitting around a noisy bar, socializing with hyped-up tourists, was about as appealing as a liver-flavored cupcake with anchovy frosting on top. All I wanted was some peace and quiet—and twelve hours of sleep. I was almost guaranteed the former, but the latter was just a dream until the contest was over.
I drove by Gossip Central, and was pleased to see that the parking lot was packed. It wasn’t surprising that Poppy’s party had a big turnout. Not only was it a holiday Saturday night, but her club was the hottest spot around in a forty-mile radius and evidently the news that someone was trying to kill Kizzy hadn’t scared off any of the Cupcake Weekenders. The crowd at the fireworks and now at Gossip Central was proof that I’d been wrong to worry. It seemed that the threat of a murderer running around the competition didn’t bother anyone except me.
Smiling at the prospect of how much money the dime store would rake in tomorrow, I headed home. It would be another early morning and busy day and I needed to be rested and ready to sell, sell, sell. Oh, and figuring out who was after Kizzy might take a little energy, too.
Sunday’s wake-up call came way too soon. The delivery of fresh supplies was scheduled for six a.m., so I grabbed a quick shower and shimmied into jeans and a lime green Devereaux’s Dime Store polo. After twisting my wet hair into a loose bun on top of my head, I drove into town, inhaling a Kashi blackberry graham cereal bar as I steered the Z4 down the deserted road.
Gran hated it when I didn’t let her cook me a hot breakfast, but there was no reason for both of us to be up at the butt crack of dawn. I’d make it up to her once the Cupcake Weekend was over and my life got back to normal. Monday morning, she could make me her famous puffy French toast with warm maple syrup and a side of crispy bacon. My mouth watering at the thought of Gran’s cooking, I parked the BMW behind my store and went inside to wait for the bakery van and delivery truck to arrive.
It took me until nine to get the new merchandise unpacked and on the shelves, and I realized that I should have asked Dad and Hannah to come in early to help. Instead, they arrived as I unlocked the front entrance. Sales were brisk until just before noon, when the crowd thinned to go to lunch.
I had considered expanding the soda fountain’s menu to offer sandwiches and chips, but with only three stools, I didn’t have enough room to feed many people. I could have done a brown bag special that diners could have eaten in the town square, but Little’s Tea Room traditionally provided box lunches and I didn’t want to step on any toes or make enemies.
Although I regretted the loss of revenue, I was happy for the break. Hannah and Dad took turns eating their midday meals, and an hour later, when they both were back on duty, the place was full of customers again. I stole a few minutes and ducked into the back room to text Boone. I had expected him to come by the store earlier with the yearbook and I was concerned that he hadn’t shown up yet. There was no message from him on my cell and it wasn’t like him to go radio silent on me.
His reply chimed as I was gulping down a carton of Greek yogurt. He’d been delayed by an emergency with a client who was going through a messy divorce and custody battle, but he would be over as soon as he finished handling the woman’s meltdown.
Disappointed that I’d have to wait to see the yearbook, I tucked my phone back into my pocket and returned to the sales floor. The final bake-off—again being broadcast on the large plasma screens at Poppy’s club—was scheduled from nine until one. The Ferris wheel and roller-coaster displays had been returned from Gossip Central’s Hayloft to my second floor this morning, and the entrants’ finished products would be transported to the dime store between one and two. Once they were all in place, there would be an hour for everyone to view the exhibit; then the judges would taste and confer.
The winner would be announced at the conclusion of the dinner being hosted by the Methodist church ladies at approximately seven p.m. After that, the Cupcake Weekend, except for cleaning up and counting the cash, was officially over. Considering the stack of greenbacks in my safe, calculating the profits might take quite some time, but it was time I was more than willing to devote to the process.
Whistling, I returned to work. The first batch of cupcakes arrived a few seconds after I stepped back behind the register, and their appearance was followed closely by the three judges. I wasn’t sure if they would be around for the entire viewing time and I needed to question them about their alibis, so since we were busy, but not swamped, I asked my father to keep an eye on things.
After telling Hannah to text me if they needed me on the sales floor, I headed for the stairs. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get Annalee Paulson or Thomasina Giancarlo alone. But for once luck was with me and I found Thomasina on the landing with a confused expression on her face.
When she spotted me, she asked, “Do you know if there’s a restroom I can use?”
“Yes.” I introduced myself as the owner of the dime store, then said, “Follow me.” The building had two sets of bathrooms, one off the main sales floor for the public and one located in the storage room for employees. As I led her to the latter, I said, “I haven’t heard how the cupcakes are judged. Do you each get one vote?”
“The three of us taste all the entries. Then
we give every cupcake a score from one to ten for originality, taste, and appearance,” Thomasina explained with a charming accent. “In each round, thirty would be the best possible score any entry could receive and three the worst.”
“So it would be difficult for any one judge to influence the outcome.” I held open the back room entrance, motioned her inside, and closed the door. “In order to fix the contest, all of the judges would have to be in on the collusion.”
“Collusion?” she echoed; then her face cleared and she said, “Ah, you mean we would have to all agree to make someone the winner.”
“Right.” I pointed out the restroom, and as she hurried past me, I added, “Like, if one of the contestants were going to blackmail their way to the prize, it would only work if they had something on all three judges.” I paused and thought about the math. “Or at least they’d have to be able to influence two of you.”
Thomasina stopped and turned to look at me, her eyes narrowed. “I am here legally.” She crossed her arms. “Mr. Neumann is a foolish man. He doesn’t realize that I am married and my husband is a United States citizen. I have all the proper paperwork.” She smiled thinly. “Another piece of information that Mr. Neumann doesn’t possess is that Giancarlo is my mother’s maiden name, so he wasn’t looking in the correct place for me.”
“And you didn’t enlighten him because where’s the fun in that?” I raised a brow. “Are you going to turn him in to the authorities?”
“No. If his wife does not triumph and he tries to seek revenge, I will let his actions do him in.” She stepped into the restroom and before closing the door said, “I am not a chair bird.”
Huh? I stared after her, trying to translate. It took me a second, but I finally decoded her meaning. Thomasina meant a stool pigeon. Smiling, I realized that I wouldn’t have to be a chair bird, either. The Italian judge was legal and the contest wasn’t fixed. There was no need for me to get involved in either matter.
Dying For a Cupcake: A Devereaux's Dime Store Mystery Page 18
