by A. Gardner
"Lambeth piping?" I repeat. It's an overly lavish style of over-piping so that each icing design extends well beyond the actual cake. It would be even more amazing in black.
"Yes." She purses her lips. The duck lips. "I assume you have a problem with that, like always?"
"No."
Georgina does a double take.
"No?" she repeats.
"I like the idea, but—"
"Oh, here it comes." She shakes her head.
"What if we made the cake black instead of white?" I suggest. Georgina's eyes go wide as she coughs to clear her throat. She laughs.
"You're kidding, right? Sometimes I don't get your sense of humor."
"No, I'm being serious," I say.
"You're delusional if you think that'll look good," she responds. About the reaction I was expecting. "Who wants to eat a cake that'll stain their teeth?"
"Most people don't eat the fondant anyway," I add.
"Our instructors will, and I for one don't plan on staying an extra semester." She holds her head high, testing the stiffness of her icing. "We're doing the royal wedding theme. Classy blues and golds."
"We're supposed to agree on our theme," I remind her. "I don't agree. Blue and gold? It's been done before. Many, many times might I add."
"So?" She shrugs as I prepare our dummy cake with pins. "If it makes you feel better, you can decide what complementing pastries we make." She begins piping bridges. "Except none of those truffle things you make."
"Brigadeiro?"
"Too exotic," she says. "We'll need to stick to traditional English desserts."
"The royal wedding theme is out," I say through my teeth. "I'm not making bonbons and crumpets for my final project. I want to be proud of my work, not embarrassed by it."
"Have you ever even tried a crumpet?" she asks. "It doesn't belong in an elegant dessert display."
"It was just an example." I ball my fists together.
"Anyway, I thought you of all people would want to lay low and let someone else take the driver's seat for a change."
"Meaning?" It takes all I have not to pull her pins out and let her stringwork fall flat.
"I've heard the rumors floating around campus, and all of a sudden the police are here." She raises her eyebrows. "You just have to be the center of attention, don't you?"
Relax. Breathe.
"No royal wedding," I say again. "End of story."
We finish our assignment in silence, and despite my frustration, I still manage to complete a row of stringwork that Chef Otto approves of. I begin cleaning my station as the rest of the class gradually leaves the kitchen. Cole and Jeff both leave at the same time, and Bree waits until Jeff is out of sight before she grabs her bag and heads for the door. Georgina takes my pastry bag and metal tips and carries them over to the sink.
"Nice work today," Chef Otto says over my shoulder.
"Are you paying me in compliments, Chef?" I tease. "It might take a few more than that if I get back to my apartment and find that Susu has ripped apart the couch cushions."
"Right," he says quietly. "I'm sorry about that. Business took longer than expected."
"No problem." I stand up to stretch my back. "Turns out she's a champ."
"I remember when she was a puppy." He stares off to the side as if reminiscing about far-off memories. "Of course, I wasn't on TV back then."
"Then you know she likes you for you," I conclude. I playfully nudge his shoulder as Georgina returns from washing our cake tools. Her eyes dash to the spot on Otto's arm that was just grazed with the side of my hand.
"You're funny, Poppy." Otto has no problem saying it in front of my lovestruck kitchenmate. "Stop by this evening, okay?"
"Sure," I agree.
As Chef Otto returns to his workspace up front, Georgina pulls me aside. She glances back at our instructor and waits until his attention is directed at the mess of royal icing that a pair of students left without cleaning up. He shakes his head and jots a few things down in his notebook.
"What was that about?" Georgina whispers. "Why did he invite you over?"
"It's nothing." I know the longer I ride this wave, the more anxious she'll get. Maybe I can even get her to agree to my midnight dance idea in exchange for Chef Otto's address?
"Like hell it's nothing." She stamps her foot, having trouble keeping her voice at a whisper. "Are you two…?" She wrinkles her forehead, her cheeks turning scarlet. "Don't tell me that's why you made it this far?"
"Are you calling me a whore?" I blurt out.
"If the shoe fits," she says through her teeth.
I imagine what it might feel like to claw at her face and tell her exactly where she can stick her royal wedding idea. My thoughts spin out of control as if swirling into one giant funnel cloud that could touch down at any moment. I don't know how to deal with Georgina. I tried the strong and silent approach. That hasn't done me much good. But will yelling back help me or make it worse?
I take a long breath before I say anything.
"Fine, come with me." Actions speak louder than words. "See what it is we really get up to."
It's not the answer she was hoping for.
"I will," she says, placing a hand on her hip.
"I hope you like dogs."
* * *
Chef Otto answers the door with a concerned look. Before he even greets us, he looks up and down the street like a swarm of fans might be waiting just behind the pecan trees. Susu rushes inside for a drink of water, and Georgina eagerly steps into the front foyer. Driving her here in my old Honda was torture.
"Such a beautiful home," she compliments him. "Turn of the century plantation? Crown molding. Arched doorways. And I bet this place has some gorgeous fireplaces?"
"Yeah, yeah." Otto gives his response in a hurry. "Close the door. Quickly." He rubs his damp forehead as I squeeze by Georgina with Susu's dog bed. I follow her toward the kitchen and help myself to an Italian angel wing. I savor the satisfyingly sweet crunch of the pastry and lie to myself for a few seconds—Georgina isn't here. Susu barks abruptly when Georgina enters the room and bends down to pet her.
Good girl, Susu.
"She's usually very friendly," Chef Otto assures her. I take another bite of my pastry, and Georgina glares at me.
"I guess you were right," I say to her. "I am a whore." I lick a cluster of powdered sugar from my lips. "A pastry whore."
Georgina is speechless. She bites the corner of her lip as I smirk and look from Susu to the leash in my hand.
"What?" Otto comments.
"Oh, nothing." I chuckle at Georgina's expense.
Otto rushes to the back window and closes the blinds after doing a quick scan of the yard. Susu watches him carefully. I hand him the piece of paper with his alarm codes, and he shoves it in his pocket. I haven't seen him act this flighty. It's like he downed one too many espressos before answering the door. Or something else.
"Are you okay, Chef?" Even Georgina notices his odd behavior. She readjusts the neckline of her top, making sure it shows off her figure, and tries to comfort him. He's pacing too quickly from window to window for her to succeed.
"No," he answers. "I think I'm being followed."
CHAPTER TEN
Chef Otto might be on crack.
He glances out the back window at another row of pecan trees swaying in the summer breeze. Georgina and I look at each other. It looks like for the time being we agree on something else. Chef Otto is having a meltdown.
"What do you mean you're being followed?" I ask. Opening his can of worms might lead me places I'm not prepared for.
"I mean someone is watching the house," he mutters, shaking his head. "Sorry, I don't want to drag you into anything."
"Why don't you sit down and let me make you a coffee?" Georgina says. She pulls out a chair from the kitchen table. One made of wood that matches the shiny floors.
"Coffee? Really?" I respond.
"Or tea," Georgina adds.
Otto
rubs his eyes like he hasn't slept in days. He accepts Georgina's offer and takes a seat. She begins searching through his cupboards until she finds the mugs. I discreetly pull back a piece of curtain and stare outside. Otto's house sits on a good amount of land. I can see neighboring houses in the distance, but they're far enough that Susu can roam free.
"What kind of stalkers are we talking about here?" I didn't notice anything unusual on the drive here. Knowing Otto, he's most likely referring to members of his worldwide fan base. I hardly think a few peppy college girls hoping for marriage proposals are anything to worry about.
"I don't know," he answers, running his fingers through his hair until it looks messy. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."
"Oh, nonsense." Georgina morphs into an entirely different person when she's in Otto's kitchen. She isn't mad, snooty, or scowling. She must be a gemini. "It's good to talk about things. You know, you can trust me."
I roll my eyes.
Never mind.
That's the same Georgina but in housewife mode. She's still on the hunt for Otto's heart. At the moment, the only girl earning his attention is Susu. I walk quietly through the living room. The air conditioner in here works much better than the one in my apartment.
No one looks good with pit stains, not even Chef Otto.
He's caused quite a ruckus since he's been in town.
I pause, thinking back to the events of Saturday morning. Chef Otto is a new and unfamiliar face. He was there the morning Gino Milani was murdered, and he left the next day on a mysterious trek toward Atlanta, assuming he's not lying. Could Gino Milani have been in town because of Otto?
Susu rubs her nose on the back of my calf. I narrow my eyes, watching Chef Otto as he accepts Georgina's hospitality and regales her with stories of the many restraining orders he's been forced to file. I take the opportunity to snoop a little. The pitter-patter of Susu's paws follows me down the hall and into the study. The desk is clear, and every book on the bookshelf against the wall seems to be in its place. It doesn't surprise me that this room has gone unused. With so much space for just one person, I'm sure half of the house has remained untouched.
Blood pumps through my veins like a thin glaze of icing. My chest feels tight as I remember what my past has taught me. Never underestimate anyone. If Chef Otto is behind Gino's murder then I have to solve this case before he ruins me. Otto has more to lose than anyone. The truth could cost him his fame. He won't give that up easily. Not even to set an innocent pastry student free.
Chef Otto is hiding something.
If it's murder…I've been chosen to take the fall.
I move in from the study, listening carefully to Georgina giggling in the background. Susu follows me, walking quietly beside me. She takes the lead and trots to the front window. I walk past her, but she jogs forward and nudges my leg until she has my attention.
"Maybe you can tell me what your master is hiding?" I whisper.
I pull back a panel of beige fabric and peer down the street. An unexpected sight makes my stomach churn. I see flashbacks in my head of being pulled from the street in Paris. A kidnapping I kicked and punched to get out of, but in the end, I was no match for my attacker. Even with a few extra pounds on me.
Parked a few blocks away is a black Cadillac with tinted windows.
"That wasn't there before," I mutter out loud.
Susu growls.
"I agree, Susu. Your master is in trouble."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I start to notice things I didn't notice before. I think it's because I'm looking. I walk cautiously to class—examining every car that drives past and every person leaving the student bakery with a morning pastry. I'm early, but I want to sketch some concepts for my final buffet without any distractions. Bree has been focusing on school rather than the many things about Jeff that annoy her, and Cole and I are avoiding each other.
I rushed home from Otto's last night only to find that my paranoia kept me awake until dawn. Every creak, creep, and tap sent my heart soaring. I ran to my window dozens of times and resorted to sleeping with a steak knife in my nightstand. It still didn't help.
I stop, seeing the one thing I was hoping not to see. The one thing I've been looking for.
The black Cadillac.
I gulp and keep walking.
The morning sunshine beats down on my forehead, but the air is nice and breezy for the time being. The suspicious car sits just down the street from my walk to class. I take deep breaths, counting my steps until I finally reach the right building. I jog inside—chest drumming.
When I enter my classroom, it all adds up. Chef Otto must have had the same idea as me…sort of. He's sitting at his workspace up front going over his demo for the day. He jerks his head up when he sees me and quickly lets out a sigh of relief. I tighten my grip on my bag and cautiously walk toward my assigned seat.
"Poppy," he says, surprised. "You're early."
"So are you."
"A chef's work is never done," he smugly comments. I sit at my station without laughing.
"How are you this morning?" I ask. I debate whether or not to mention the car parked outside. I don't know if he's involved in whatever the Bianco family is planning. I don't know if he did the deed and murdered Gino Milani for reasons yet to be uncovered.
I don't know if he's a mobster himself.
"Okay, thanks." He clears his throat. "Actually…"
My eyes go wide, and I clench the closest thing to me that could be used as a weapon. My kit of fondant tools. Otto forces a fake grin like being cheery about it will make things less awkward. It doesn't work. Instead, I'm calculating my chances of survival if he decides to lunge forward and stab me in the torso. I instinctively scoot my stool backward.
"Yeah?" I respond. My voice quivers slightly.
"I'm glad you came in early this morning," he says.
"You are?" I scoot back even more.
"Yes, I think we should talk about what happened yesterday."
My mind jumps to the millions of things he could be referring to. His mini panic attack. Me—snooping around the main floor of his Georgian mansion. Keeping Susu overnight and letting her eat too many dog treats.
"Susu is okay, right? I mean, I didn't give her that many treats. I swear."
"Susu is fine," he replies. "I'm talking about my minor bout with a bit of anxiety."
"That's one way to put it," I say quietly—flashbacks of him nervously pacing from window to window surfacing in my brain.
"I want to apologize for it." He clasps his hands together. "I didn't get much sleep the night before, and I think it was just nerves getting to me. I'm due to start filming the next season of my new reality show when the semester ends."
A well-rehearsed lie.
"I see." Liar.
"Forget those things I said," he insists. "It was all nonsense." Lies. All lies.
"You're sure about that?" I raise my eyebrows. Part of me is proud of myself for being so bold in the presence of a potential murder suspect, and part of me is terrified.
"Yes." He nods, letting the fake half-smile fade from his face.
"You are absolutely sure that no one is following you?"
His expression changes when I say it out loud. At first he has a vacant look on his face as if he's fighting to hide his true emotions. But his brick wall routine only lasts for so long. After a few seconds of biting his tongue, he finally eyes me suspiciously.
"Yes," he says while clenching his jaw.
"One hundred percent positive?" I push him further—something my mom does to me when she knows I'm lying. Eventually I break down, sick of all the questions.
"Yes."
"You're certain?" I grip the side of my seat, bracing myself.
"Poppy," he snaps. He scratches the side of his damp forehead. "Okay no, I'm not one hundred percent certain. But this isn't the first time I've been stalked by a fan."
Sure. Blame it on the fame.
"You and I both know that's
not the case here." I try to sound polite and insightful in hopes that it'll glean a confession of some sort.
"I don't know what you're talking about." His expression curdles like a broken custard. It goes from anxious to angry in a heartbeat. "Don't you have some work to do? Or are you only here to question me?"
I dig into my bag and pull out my notebook. I open to a page of sketches on which I've already drawn out the theme for my buffet table. Until Chef Otto stomped on my vision. If he weren't my pastry instructor I'd challenge him to work with Georgina and see how much they get done.
Scratch that.
She would do everything he says.
I draw the base of a wedding cake but pause when I get to the main design. If only I could dig up dirt on Georgina and force her to see things my way. And, most importantly, see that a pastry spread on the theme of a royal wedding is something our instructors have seen many, many times.
Otto's eyes dart to the door at the sound of the air conditioner kicking on.
"You know it's parked outside, right?" I say, keeping my head down.
"What?"
I pretend to keep drawing.
"The car that was parked near your house last night is also parked near campus," I inform him. "I saw it on my way in."
"You're lying," he blurts out. I set my pencil down.
"You're sweating."
Chef Otto pushes out his jaw when he looks at me—a face that's definitely not suited for television. He wipes his forehead and all at once dashes through the student kitchen and into the hallway. I hop up and follow him. He can't play stupid with me once he sees the truth.
Otto stops when he gets to the building's entrance, casually glancing up and down the sidewalk running along the building through the glass. He calmly pushes open the door and steps out into the sun. He strolls down the path leading toward the opposite end of campus.
"Right over there." I tilt my head the direction in which I saw the black Cadillac. My stomach ties itself in knots as Chef Otto observes, seeing for himself that he's being watched.
