by A. Gardner
"Like I said," he responds with a snide smirk. I turn my head. The black Caddy is gone. "I don't know what you're talking about."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Is he or isn't he a murderer?" Bree taps her foot, pausing in between scoops. "We should go straight to President Dixon about this." She resumes scooping the last of her spicy cocoa chip cookies onto a baking sheet. Cookie dough made with cocoa powder and cayenne. It has just enough spice to give the cookie an unexpected kick.
"I don't think so," I reply. "If he did murder Gino Milani, I don't think he'd still be here. Not with more mobsters on the move."
"But you think he's involved somehow?"
"He's got to be," I say. "Someone's tailing him." I pull out my cell phone. "I'm calling Detective Reid."
Bree waits for the oven to preheat as I search for Derek's number. I anxiously dial it, reaching down to pet an absent Susu to calm my nerves. I rub my palms on my jeans instead as the phone rings. Detective Reid answers immediately.
"Hello, Derek? It's Poppy."
"Poppy," he responds. "Staying out of trouble I hope."
"Doing my best." And sucking at it. "I need to talk to you about Gino's murder investigation."
"I'm trying to get hold of the Tanner sisters for an interview, but they won't return my calls," he informs me. If Mary Frances wouldn't talk to me, she definitely won't talk to Detective Reid. Not unless she's forced to. "You needn't worry, okay? I'm handling it." There isn't much of an age gap between Detective Reid and me, but he seems to forget it. Often. I hate it when he speaks to me like he's my elementary school teacher.
"That's not why I'm calling, though I could help you out with that if you let me."
"Stick to the kitchen."
"That's easy for you to say." I raise my voice. "You're not the one being framed for murder. And the murder of a member of the mafia at that."
"Don't argue with me, Poppy. I've been through this process thousands of times. I know what I'm doing." He raises his voice to match mine.
Bree crosses her arms, looking concerned.
"You wouldn't have figured out last year's scandal if it weren't for me," I blurt out. My experiences with detectives and inspectors, law enforcement in general, are always skewed by something. The first time I was pulled over for speeding, the cop gave me a free pass in exchange for my cell phone number.
It's time I did this my way.
"Don't do this, Poppy." He exhales loudly. "I was inches from cracking it. You just happened to get there first."
"Let me in on the case," I state. "Give me all the deats, and I can be your spy on the inside."
"No." Detective Reid doesn't even pause to think through his answer. His mind is made up. "I don't want a repeat of last time. Do you remember the danger you were in?"
"I wouldn't have been in that position in the first place if you would've listened to me. Why doesn't anyone listen to me?"
"Is this why you called me?" he shouts. "To criticize my work ethic?"
"I called to tell you that something's up with Otto Chimenti."
"I'll look into it." He grunts. "Stay on campus." He hangs up before I can explain any more. I toss my phone aside and tug at a strand of my dark chocolatey locks. Years ago it used to be raven black—the shade of black that shines blue in the sun. That Poppy wouldn't let a stubborn man like Detective Reid get in her way. That Poppy was also a bit reckless.
"Why do all men always think they're right?" I mumble.
"Because they never listen when you tell them they're wrong." Bree sighs, watching her cookies rise in the oven.
"When I was in Paris, I did a lot of waiting around." I stare at my phone. "A lot of good that did, and it turns out one of the Detectives on the case was in on it the whole time." I bang my fist on the table and quickly regret it. The side of my hand throbs, but I try not to focus on it.
"Don't do anything rash," Bree warns me. "You have that look on your face. You're scheming."
"Bree," I announce. "How would you like to help me catch a killer before Detective Reid does?"
"That'll definitely shut him up if that's what you're going for," she answers, directing her attention to the oven again.
"Do you still have that business card from the farmers' market?"
"Sweet T Soaps?" Bree guesses. "In my room."
"Grab it." I ready my fingers. "We're going to race Derek to the finish line."
* * *
I pray for Bonnie to answer rather than her difficult sister, Mary Frances.
"Hello," a woman picks up, "Sweet T Soaps, this is Mary Frances."
Darn.
"Mary Frances," I reply, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. "I'm actually looking for Bonnie. Is she around?" I see Bonnie's sun-worn face in my head along with the handmade yarn vest thing she wore on Saturday.
"Who may I ask is calling?" Mary Frances inquires.
"It's her friend from Georgia."
Bree stares at me.
"Poppy?" I say.
Bree shakes her head.
"Yes, I remember." Mary Frances pauses. "Bonnie is not here."
"Oh…" I look to Bree as she slowly nods. "When will she be in?"
"It's hard to say. Is there something I can help you with?"
"I was just wondering if you two will be coming back to Georgia this weekend." I improvise. "I was hoping to buy a couple of those peach tea bars that smelled so good."
"I'm afraid we're not stopping in Georgia any time soon," Mary Frances answers. "And you can buy our soaps online."
"Okay—"
"Thank you for calling." Mary Frances hangs up.
"I told you not to use your real name," Bree mutters.
"And what if Bonnie had been there? Was I supposed to just change my name back to Poppy?"
"Maybe?" Bree shrugs. She's as clueless as I am as to why Mary Frances is refusing to discuss what happened not so far from her soap booth.
Solving this case before Detective Reid is going to be harder than I thought.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It's a cool Wednesday evening, but the Southern heat returns with a long-overdue visitor. I answer the door to see Cole looking back at me. His blue-green eyes, once resembling seafoam, now look more like a dense forest of trees. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to clear my head enough to say hello.
"Hey." I manage to sound normal.
"Hi." Cole keeps his hands in his pockets, his feet planted firmly in place.
"Um, do you want to come in?" I glance over my shoulder. Bree is in her usual spot in the kitchen.
"Actually, do you want to take a walk?" Cole responds.
"Sure." I glance down at the floor as my heart starts to pound. I know what he wants from me. He wants to talk about what happened at Gino's little shack of an apartment.
The two of us stroll along the sidewalk, heading in the direction of campus. We've walked along this path together before. Once at night. I can't help but chuckle, thinking back to last year when we thought we saw a ghost in the student kitchens.
"Old man Thomas?" Cole guesses, noticing the grin on my face. "Yeah, I think about that night sometimes too. And how stupid we were."
"So stupid." I laugh.
"And what do you know," he responds. "I was right all along. There's no such thing as ghosts."
"Do you think the newbies this year have heard the story yet?" I ask.
"It's probably changed by now." Cole glances at me. As soon as our eyes lock, I'm tugged back to our kiss.
I pull myself as far from it as I can, remembering the first time I heard the legend of Old Man Thomas. The angry ghost of Calle Pastry Academy who bangs around in the kitchens at night. Last year, during a tour of the student bakery, the head baker, Steve, mentioned the story. It was said to be the ghost of the founder's son—a man named Buzz who went missing.
"Right," I agree. "Perhaps we should make up a new ghost?"
"What will we call him?"
"Or her?" I say. I slo
w down when we near the very building where the two of us found one of our instructors dead on the kitchen floor. "What about something like griping Gretta, the victim of a tainted pie gone wrong?"
"Are you speaking of the peach pie you made on day one?" he teases.
"I didn't know what I was doing back then." I take a step closer to him without even realizing it. He was the very first friend I made when I came to Georgia, and I hope that it stays that way. Friend is better than ex-lover. At least that way we'll still speak to each other.
"And now?" Cole's look softens the same way it did back at Gino's apartment.
He's not referring to my cooking.
"Cole," I finally say. "You and I…we…" I can't find the right words. How do you tell someone you don't have feelings for them when you might actually have feelings for them? Am I supposed to set aside everything going on in my life to figure this out? I never have before. Maybe that's my problem.
"I know," he replies, hanging his head. My palms feel sweaty, and I nervously flex my calves as I try to act casual. It doesn't work so well. All I can think about is his lips against mine.
"I just…" I sigh. "I don't know what to make of what happened."
"Look, Poppy." He grabs my hand, and when I feel the warmth of his fingers clutching mine, my heart races. "I'm going to be honest with you."
"Okay."
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't into you." He says it confidently, like he's adding strawberries to a strawberry shortcake. There's no denying that the berries belong on top. "Why do you think I walked up to you the very first day we met?"
My cheeks go hot along with the rest of my face.
"Cole," I say quietly, looking down at our intertwined fingers. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," he continues. "Poppy, I like the idea of us." I might like it too. "But I have a job waiting for me back in Atlanta, and you live on the other side of the country."
"Then why did you kiss me?"
His grip tightens around my fingers when I spit out the question.
"Why did you kiss me back?" he asks.
"I…" I hesitate. Mostly because I don't have a good answer or one that I'm ready to discuss out loud. "Wait, why am I answering first? You're the one who started it."
"The feeling was mutual." He slowly lets go of my hand, and I take a few steps back. A light breeze winds its way in between us.
"You caught me off guard."
"So, you kissed me back to be polite?" he guesses, raising his eyebrows.
"That's not what I meant." I take a deep breath and try to clear my thoughts. Maybe something will come to me? A better way to word the cloud of confusion that's messing with my emotions. "Maybe we're better off as friends."
"Friends with benefits?" he jokes, grinning the way he does when Chef Otto mentions his Professional Cake Froster certification during class.
"Don't push it." I turn back toward my apartment. "You're lucky I let you cook for me every week." Cole chuckles, and I feel relieved that the awkwardness between us has been pushed aside. As long as you never mention the kiss again. "Promise me one thing."
"Name it," he answers.
"Never catch me off guard again."
"You got it, Poppy."
He nudges my arm, and it sends a spark of energy up my spine. My memories take control, reminding me what I'm leaving behind. His sharp physique. His gentle eyes. His fiery touch.
I might regret this decision one day.
* * *
"Mom, what's going on?" My mother and I talk once in a while. The last time we spoke was after I got home from Paris. I've since been trying to get hold of her to see if she and Dad will be coming down to Georgia to see me graduate. My mom doesn't usually call me in tears.
"Hi, honey." She sniffs a few times. "How are you?" She sniffles again.
"Fine," I reply. I hear the muffled noise of her sobbing as if she 's crying while covering her speaker. "Are you?"
"Oh, you know…"
Just wait. She'll blurt it out in a second.
"I'm never going to have grandbabies," she sobs into the phone.
"Mom," I answer, "calm down. Now, you know that's not true." Her nervous breakdown is one of two things. Either she's met someone she wants me to marry. Or Locke, one of my exes, has slunk back into her good graces, and she wants me to hear him out even though I've made it clear the two of us are over.
"It is true," she cries. "I mean first you and now your brother. Where did I go wrong?" I've gotten used to the marriage lectures, the comments about my remaining childbearing years, and the remarks about the company I keep. But to hear this about my brother, Mark, is another story.
"Wait, what? What's wrong with Mark?"
"He broke off his engagement," she responds, calming herself down. My guess is that she's already shed plenty of tears on the matter. "I don't suppose he's talked to you about it?"
"No," I answer.
I think back to the first time I met my brother's fiancée, Lauren. The way she stood and the shade of her hair reminded me a little of Georgina. But Lauren proved herself to be quite a charming person and a rather gifted artist. If Mark can't make it work, maybe Mom is right. Maybe I'm doomed when it comes to love, and I should give her the go-ahead to arrange my marriage for me. My dowry can be a lifetime supply of peach pies.
"At first, I thought he was joking."
"Well, did he say why?" I ask. "I thought he and Lauren were good friends?" There it is again. A friends turned lovers situation that backfired.
"No, but it was pretty clear that he's heartbroken over the whole thing," she says. "I wonder if the little tramp cheated on him? She did seem a little young for him."
"Mom," I scold her. "You don't know that. What if Mark met someone else?"
"Oh, your brother would never do that," she protests. "I raised him to be a gentleman."
I roll my eyes. Mark is still just a guy. A guy who makes mistakes.
"Okay," I respond. "What do you want me to do? Do want me to call him? Do you want me to talk to Lauren?"
"If you think it's necessary." She pauses and waits for my final verdict.
Why do I always play her little games?
"Fine," I answer, shaking my head. "I'm up to my ears in work, but I'll give my brother a call."
"Oh, Poppy. What a good sister you are."
"But I'm not going to try to convince him to get back together with her," I clarify. "I want to make that clear."
"Oh, of course not," my mom says. "Just make sure he's okay, and…find out what's going on."
Find out what's going on so you can meddle some more?
"Okay." I agree because I know it'll stop her from doing something drastic like calling Lauren's mother or flying all the way to Boston and showing up on my brother's doorstep. "Are you and Dad going to make it to my graduation?"
"We didn't miss the last one."
"Mom," I say more firmly. "This one is just as important as the last. Are you coming?"
"Yes, Poppy, we're coming."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Poppy, wait a sec!" Georgina runs outside to catch up with me. She barely spoke to me during class today, and I think it's because she's still hoping I'll warm up to the idea of a royal wedding theme for our final buffet. Bree speeds up her pace.
"I'll see you back at the apartment," Bree says, leaving me and Georgina to hash out the details of our next assignment. I continue walking in the same direction, and Georgina joins me.
"Hey," I say, trying to seem polite. It's a difficult thing to do because I know she'd never be friendly to me unless she wanted something.
"Hi, Poppy," she replies.
She wants something.
"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Hold on," she insists. I keep walking toward my apartment, and she cheerily follows me. Georgina has yet to see inside of my apartment, though I've been to hers a few times. Mine isn't as extravagant. And it most certainly does not come with a live-in maid, aka Geo
rgina's childhood nanny turned family housekeeper who came all the way to Georgia just to help her unpack and move in new furniture. The traditional beiges with tan accents weren't conducive to a creative work environment—Georgina's words. And maybe she's right about that one.
"Is this about what I piped across your practice board? Because I was only joking."
"No," she responds, "and by the way, calling someone a tart face is very immature."
I chuckle.
"Just livening things up. I used to spend way too much time with my tights in a twist."
"Whatever," Georgina responds. She shakes her head as if she's doing a reset on our conversation. "Anyway, I wanted to know if you've given any more thought to the royal wedding theme."
"Ugh." I exhale, walking a little faster. "I haven't changed my mind about it, and I never will. We might as well start from scratch. I'll compromise on the black wedding cake, and you throw out the navy and gold."
"If I can't do the royal wedding theme, you're not getting a black wedding cake or a black anything for that matter." She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Look up the meaning of the word compromise."
I resort to counting my steps as I walk instead of socking Georgina in the face. Something I've thought about doing many times, but I'd rather wait until after I'm officially a Calle Pastry Academy graduate. I glance up and down the sidewalk—the afternoon sun glaring down at us. Don't give in.
Something dark and shiny catches my eye and I freeze. Keep walking. Just keep walking. I take a few steps and eventually gain speed. Georgina tilts her head—her eyes fixated on my expression. The black Cadillac is back, and this time it's not following Chef Otto. It's following me.
"Uh, hello?" Georgina says, waving a hand near my face. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Yeah," I say quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the car creeping closer. I stare straight ahead in the direction of my apartment.
"And?" Georgina crosses her arms, looking impatient. "Come on, you're not normally this quiet."
