by S. E. Babin
Anyhow, my driver hurried up all right. Screaming around the corner just as I stepped out onto the curb with a box of two dozen of my famous lemon cream pie cupcakes, she lost control of the truck and sent it plowing right over me, destroying both my life and all of those delicious goodies.
I still wasn’t sure which part I was more annoyed about - the state of my life now or the sight of all of those cupcakes lying in the dirt never to be enjoyed by anyone.
I could see the Yelp review now. Right next to my obituary.
Good times.
So now, here I sat in what appeared to be the unemployment line of the damned. Except I wasn’t in Hell. I had been blessed with the good luck to go to Purgatory - the place where nothing ever happened and everything stayed the same. Lucky, lucky me.
When I asked why I’d been sent here instead of to Heaven, I received a pretty epic eye roll and was handed a sheet of paper. Once I sat back down in the uncomfortable metal chair and began to peruse the sheet, I realized it was a list of my transgressions.
It felt like I was in church again thinking the priest was speaking directly to me and cowering under the weight of my Catholic guilt. No one ever wanted to read about the things they’d done wrong in their lives. Trust me on this. It was true. As I sat and read the lengthy and sometimes embarrassing list, I realized what I’d thought all of my life was no longer true.
Good girls didn’t go to Heaven.
Because most of us weren’t good girls.
We were semi-okay girls with excessive wine drinking habits and binge-watching capabilities that rivaled some of the sports legends out there. When do we want wine? Now! How do we want our television? On next episode autoplay! When do we want to exercise? NEVER!
Faced with the list of all of my flaws and all of the times I’d failed to volunteer to do something nice for another human being, I sank down in my seat and pretended I was a puddle of goo. No one could see me. No one could tell I was dying of mortification. And no one could tell I realized that maybe they were right.
Maybe I deserved to be here.
It was going to be a long few years of seeking redemption.
****
Turned out the Purgatory powers that be were dying to have a bakery around here.
Literally.
That was both fortuitous and unlucky for me because I didn’t like the feeling of being scrutinized, but it also gave me some leeway for some eclectic requests. Turned out this place had no limit to their bank accounts or their patience when it came to cupcakes and other sweet goodies.
I now had a kitchen decked out to the nines, way better than anything I’d ever had while I was alive. Let’s maybe not dissect that a whole lot because it could get real depressing, real fast. In the real world, things cost real money. In Purgatory, if you wanted a Viking stove, some adorable little demon snapped their fingers and boom, voila, now get in the kitchen and make me something chocolate.
I was only too happy to oblige. Baking was my life. Now it was my death. At least I still got to do something I loved while I tried to figure out how I could get to Heaven in minimum time. Short of forging some paperwork or trying to sneak into the Pearly Gates, I was going to be stuck here for a little while.
Maybe during that time I could figure out how it was possible for dead people to eat.
Yeah. Total weirdness from A to Z around here.
The sign for Deadly Confections swung to and fro outside in the light breeze. They let me name my own bakery which was kind of nice, and I couldn’t think of anything better than a death pun. Turned out everyone appreciated it, and I often caught people grinning as they walked by doing whatever dead people did in their afterlife. More often than not, they’d turn around and walk in just to check it out.
I almost always sold them a goodie.
Coming from an Italian family full of hucksters and thieves had taught me a few things about making offers people couldn’t resist.
This was probably one of the reasons I was in Purgatory instead of enjoying a permanent spa vacation in Heaven, but I had plenty of time to lament over my personal failings later. Now it was time to bake and sell some cupcakes.
One week in and Deadly Confections was thriving. I’d requested an espresso machine and an assistant, and all of that had been delivered in a timely manner. Now I could serve up hot drinks and something delicious. It added to my menu repertoire and my bottom line.
Two of my favorite things.
The only thing I wasn’t loving too much was the goth of an assistant they’d sent me. Her name was Jenna. She wore too much black and her vocabulary consisted of not much more than monosyllabic grunts. Jenna was just...delightful.
Ignoring Jenna’s quirks, I turned the sign to Open and waited for the first of the rush of customers to come in.
Jenna had already made up an enormous pot of coffee and was standing by to start serving cappuccino. I nodded to her and she returned the nod with an eyeroll worthy of a moody teenager. I frowned at her but didn’t say anything. Perhaps the longer we worked together the more we would get used to each other. I wasn’t even sure if you could fire anyone in Purgatory. I mean, where would they go? The lyrics to Hotel California began to play in my head. After all, we were stuck here and until we got our act together, we could never leave.
The bell above the door jingled merrily, announcing the day’s first customer. I sucked in a breath at the sight of him. At first, I’d been properly freaked out once I realized that Purgatory wasn’t just for humans. Every single person or creature went here when their behavior had been less than pristine. That meant angels, demons, fairies, sprites, you name any paranormal creature from the storybook, and you could find it here.
Finding that out had sent me running to the food pantry and breathing into a paper bag for awhile, but after a few days I’d come to terms with the new weirdness that was my life. Mostly. My mouth still went dry, and I broke out into a cold sweat every time something new and unfamiliar entered the store, but as it turned out, monsters were much like us.
They loved a cupcake as much as the next weirdo did.
Who knew I’d have to die to figure out how to market to the creatures of the night, or even that I could? The things you learned when you were dead…
The man who walked in wore wings of the snowiest white. It was at odds with his decidedly dark physical features. Ebony hair a touch too long competed with his olive complexion. A sharp and almost too large nose only highlighted the deep perfection of his honey brown eyes. He was tall, a lot taller than most of the men or creatures I’d seen around here.
Imagine a Greek magnate, standing on the stern of a sailboat gazing dreamily off into the distance and you’d have this guy. My throat clicked a couple of times while I tried to swallow, and I eventually was able to choke out a good morning.
He looked right through me.
I guess I could understand that. I was a baker. In Purgatory. And I was carrying around the extra ten pounds I’d never been able to lose back home. If only I knew I was going to get smacked by a cupcake truck...maybe I would have popped in those fitness DVD’s a little more often.
Alas, this was my life now.
“I’ll have a blueberry scone and a cup of coffee. Black.”
Like your heart. The unbidden thought came to me and I had to bite down a grin. Good to see my snark hadn’t suffered after my untimely death.
“Of course,” I said as I punched in the appropriate keys on the state of the art register I’d been given. “That will be $4.59.”
The man blinked in surprise. “You must think highly of your scones,” he said, a generous sneer appearing on his gorgeous face.
I decided at the moment to knock ten points off of his physical perfection scale. Rudeness to food service workers netted you next day baked goods and cold coffee. Not service with a smile. I tilted my head at Jenna and, surprisingly, she seemed to get the hint.
Good girl. Maybe we could salvage this relationship after all.
/>
“I’m a third generation, award-winning half-Italian baker. Baking is in my soul. My skills are all self-taught, and I am proud of that.” I leaned forward over the counter. “And my scones are legendary.”
A hint of something resembling a smile appeared on his face, but it quickly disappeared as if he were surprised to be amused by the smart-mouthed baker that was I.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said as he begrudgingly handed over exact change.
I grunted and dropped his money into the register. Jenna handed over his lukewarm coffee, but I, wanting to prove a point, grabbed one of the fresh-baked scones I’d made this morning and, after adding a dollop of whipped cream I had in the fridge below the counter, handed it to him on a paper plate. It was still warm, and it smelled like heaven.
Not that Heaven. My heaven - flour, sugar, blueberry compote, and fresh sweetened whipped cream.
He gave me an appraising look as he took his goods over to one of my tables and made himself comfortable. I pretended not to watch as he raised the first bite to his mouth. I also tried not to smile as a look of sheer bliss crossed his face as the blueberry flavor exploded in his mouth along with the soft, pillowy crumb of the scone.
Yeah, buddy. Who’s your mama now?
Unfortunately, my moment of sheer superiority was broken by the next customer who walked in.
Instead of jingling a happy tune like normal, the bell over the door clanged in a discordant rhythm as the man who stumbled in shoved it open. The glass shattered as it slammed against the back of the wall. As angry as I was about that, I was more upset by the sight of the man intruding into my shop.
Blood was smeared across his mouth, and he stared at me with the look of a man intent upon murder. “Poison,” he croaked as he held up his hand and dropped what was in it.
A cupcake.
Specifically one of my day-old lemon cream pie cupcakes.
With a final gasp of air, the man dropped like a stone, his head making a resounding crack against the ceramic tile of my floor.
Oh, crappity crap.
This was not good.
Chapter Two
As it turned out, the sight of a dead guy in a bakery turned even the most monstrous of stomachs. The jerk angel dropped his scone onto his plate and stared at the body on the floor. I guess it was weird that someone had just died in Purgatory. But, seriously, everything about this place was weird.
I didn’t feel dead. I didn’t look dead, and I certainly didn’t smell dead, but back home I knew for a fact that the windows on my bakery were shuttered, and my mother was probably draped over my casket holding a cannoli and asking why I had to die before I gave her dozens of grandchildren.
“Murder,” I heard the angel whisper as he slowly stood up.
I glared at him. “Not murder,” I clarified as I reached down to pick up the cupcake.
Two seconds later I was staring down the barrel of a very large gun. “Back away from the cupcake,” he snapped.
I swallowed hard, put my hands in the air because I had seen Cops before, and slowly took a couple of steps back. My eyes were trained on nothing but the sight of that massive weapon.
“Wh - Why do you have a gun?” I asked as I stood there like a criminal.
His gaze snapped back to my face. “PLE.” His tone was short and annoyed. Too bad I couldn’t bribe him with another cupcake. He was probably seriously regretting that scone he just ate, thanks to the dead dude on the floor.
I stared at him in confusion. “PLE?” I echoed.
The man lowered his gun and stared at me like I was a total moron. “Purgatory Law Enforcement,” he said slowly.
I snorted. “Like there’s a lot of crime around here?” I hooted. “Everyone is dead!”
He didn’t share my amusement. “Says the lady who has a real dead body two feet in front of her.”
I lowered my arms because they were starting to shake. I really needed to get some workout DVD’s. “How can you kill someone who’s already dead?” I whispered.
“You weren’t briefed?” he asked, running a hand through his head of gorgeous dark hair.
“I don’t recall ever getting the opportunity to ask much,” I admitted. “They set me up with this shop because I had a skill. I’ve kept my mouth shut and my head down.”
He grunted. “No one here is actually dead.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Excuse me?”
“You aren’t dead.” He tucked the gun back into the holster hidden inside of his jacket.
“Oh, I assure you, sir. I am quite dead. Otherwise, why the heck am I here?”
Handsome man rolled his eyes. “You’re dead outside of here, yes. Your family thinks you’re dead. On paper, you’re dead. Life insurance gets paid out. People weep over your casket. Worms eat your physical body. It’s a very gross process, dying, yes, but here, it’s like you’ve been given new life.”
“So I can die again if they send me to Hell?” I gaped at him.
He rewarded me with a bright smile. “Well...yes. It’s all very brilliant, you see. You get here, you get on with your ‘life.” His finger quotations around the word “life” only managed to annoy me, not amuse me. “You get a brand new identical body, with none of the pesky problems regular humans have, sometimes a job, and then when it’s time for your judgment, you get to experience the process all over again.” His gaze traveled back down to the poor, poisoned guy. “Unless you go to Heaven. You technically die again, but it’s much less painful, plus there’s much more to look forward to.”
I wilted against the back of my counter. “That all sounds terrible,” I muttered.
His gaze melted into something a little less friendly. “Well then, perhaps you should have rethought your actions then, yes?”
I wondered then how bad it would be on my Judgment Day if I punched Mr. PLE here right in his nose. I mean, I was here for a reason, and it wasn’t because I donated my time, money, and energy to sick kids or was a regular Mother Teresa while I was alive. I was here because I’d done some seriously foolish stuff over the years. But instead of punching him, even though I really, really wanted to, I took a long, deep breath and did the wise thing.
I shut my mouth.
Pretty soon I’d never have to see this guy again, and I could go back to making beautiful baked masterpieces, and he could get on with the business of irritating people.
It was a win-win situation.
Chapter Three
Less than ten minutes later, there was crime scene tape everywhere, and my entire bakery was full of people from the PLE. Mr. Handsome Jerk Face had apparently broken protocol by not handcuffing me immediately upon seeing my cupcake fall out of the dead guy’s hand. He claimed since he didn’t know for sure it was my cupcake, he didn’t have cause.
I wasn’t the smartest cookie in the jar, but even I knew that was a bunch of hooey. There was only one bakery in this horrible place, and I was the only one who made a lemon cream pie cupcake that good.
See? Ego. Another reason why I was here.
Anyhow, once the rest of the fuzz bombarded the restaurant, a very large no-nonsense woman with tiny wings asked me to stand up and turn around. She cuffed me with little fanfare and pushed me back down gently into my seat. When I opened my mouth to protest, she hit me with a glare that reminded me of a mom of one of my exes. Thank goodness I’d run when I had. Holy matrimony wouldn’t have ended so holy if I had that glare to contend with every time I blinked wrong or, heaven forbid, expressed a differing opinion.
I pressed my lips together and sat quietly as they did what they needed to do and removed the body. A sigh of relief slipped from me as I could finally see the rest of my tile, but it hadn’t changed anything else. This was a terrible start to a brand new business, and even though I could imagine the residents of Purgatory were a little more patient than those folks back in Babylon, even I had to admit an accusation of poison was going to be tough to get over.
I had no idea where the dead gu
y managed to get a hold of one my cupcakes. I didn’t remember serving him, and I had a memory like a steel trap. Nothing escaped it. I had never seen this man before.
The no-nonsense woman appeared in front of me again with a chair she sat down in. She whipped out a notebook and a pen and stared at me. Her name tag said Stern which both amused and rattled me a bit. I wondered with a name like that if she ever had the opportunity to be anything else but Stern...like a ballerina or something.
“Name?” she asked, her voice a gravelly pitch which matched her large form perfectly.
I rattled off all four of my names. Italian mothers. Sheesh. “Piper Isabella Leonore Bloom.”
Granted, Bloom wasn’t exactly an Italian name, but my mother had loved my unassuming handsome English father and couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle with him. Their matrimony, from what I heard, made for some very interesting and angry family dinners for awhile.
The woman gaped at me.
“I know,” I shrugged. “Just call me Piper.”
She cleared her throat. “Miss Bloom,” she began as my hopes for getting out of here in a timely manner sank, “can you tell me where you know Mr. Hawkins from?”
I blinked. “Ummm. Who is Mr. Hawkins?”
Her lips thinned. “The deceased gentleman on your floor.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Stern didn’t seem to believe me, though. “Then how did he come across one of your baked goods?”
“I was sitting here trying to figure that out,” I admitted. “I don’t remember him coming into the store.”
From the corner of my eyes, I could see Mr. Handsome Face writing something down. He was still standing so apparently the scones weren’t poisoned too. Score one for me. His gaze flicked up from his notepad only to notice I was staring at him.
