by Ritter Ames
“I found this lace pattern we could use to romanticize the black wedding cake a bit,” Becky said. She spread the drawing on the table.
“Good. What about the other touches?”
“Remember how I suggested we personalize the potion bottles? Make them his and hers? How about I’ll make one hot pink and one electric blue and write something on each?”
A picture flashed into Sam’s head. “The spell book that forms the basis for the cake… We could write something there in white or silver script. ‘Mix potions in equal parts to brew up a forever love.’ It’s not quite poetic enough, but something like that.”
“I like it,” said Becky. She began jotting notes on the order form.
The days passed in a blur of activity; by Friday, Sam had to admit the black wedding cake had become impressive under Becky’s capable touch. The open book with its stream of silver sparkles, the potion bottles and wand set the theme on the bottom tier. Together Sam and Becky had made yards of fondant ruffles and carefully placed them around the middle tier, the romantic layer as Becky called it. Black lace, silver buttons and black poppies added elegance. A perky witch’s hat capped the top tier, set at a jaunty angle with roses around the band as Becky imagined a real witch might wear for her wedding.
The color had proven to be the tricky part but Jen’s suggestion of creating faint variations in shading made all the difference. Every rose and each petal stood out in its own special way. Sam gave the whole cake a light spritz of very fine transparent glitter. When she stepped back, the sight almost took her breath away.
Becky actually let out a tiny squeal.
Jen came through the curtain and stopped in her tracks. “It’s amazing.”
“I have to admit I didn’t have great hopes for this concept when the customer ordered it,” Sam said. “But she was right. Just goes to show—I’m not always the one with the great ideas.”
Jen said, “Maybe. But you two had the skill to pull it off. I’ll call Cass right away. She is going to love her cake!”
“Tell her I can deliver it as soon as I’m finished here,” Sam said, sending the last of the icing-crusted decorator tools into the sink full of hot, sudsy water.
She sank onto the chair at her desk. It had been a long week. Saturday morning would bring customers picking up their party foods—cupcakes and cookies in the tens of dozens, a few specialty cakes, and delivery of another wedding cake. Sam would put the final touches on the cake for Ivan’s party, although she’d been working on it alongside the one for Cassie Wolinsky since many of the elements were similar.
The only thing she still had not addressed was her costume for the party.
Julio finished washing up and said goodnight. Becky had left shortly after snapping photos of their first all-black cake for the bakery’s album and helping Sam load it into her van. Sam could hear Jen out front saying goodbye to a customer. Soon she would close and tally the register receipts and leave.
Sam picked up her bag and keys, reminded Jen to lock up, and re-checked the Wolinsky address as the van warmed up. Past the plaza she cruised, not needing to check street names—the house was only a couple of blocks from where Sam had lived before she married Beau. She spotted the black and silver Mini Cooper in a driveway and stopped her van at the curb.
“Oh, yay!” Cassie shrieked, barreling out the front door. She rushed to join Sam at the back of the van. “Ohmigod, it’s beautiful! So perfect!”
Sam smiled with relief. She had managed to please another picky bride. “The two of us can carry it. Do you have a table set up for it inside?”
“For tonight, it’s going in the dining room. The ceremony will actually take place out in the forest tomorrow. We have everything set up—there’ll be a bonfire, fairy garlands, and then the full moon—”
“Sounds pretty amazing.”
“It will be. Everyone’s really excited about it.”
Cass warned Sam about a step up to the front porch. They situated the cake amidst a clutter of party plates, stacks of plastic cups, a dayglow green punch bowl and boxes of decorations. After cautioning Cass to be sure the cake remained in a cool place and stayed upright, Sam left. Oh, to be so young and enthused, she mused as she turned her thoughts back to her own duties for Halloween.
At the first traffic light, Sam closed her eyes and tried to envision what she might wear to Ivan’s party. She’d already ruled out a glamour costume—no Phryne Fisher with her roaring ’20s slender gowns, no Irene Adler—and she couldn’t quite see herself in jeans and boots as Kinsey Millhone, carrying a gun and kicking ass. Nothing in her closet had suggested anything; she’d checked it three times already. Maybe a visit to the thrift shop would spark an idea.
FIVE
SATURDAY NIGHT. SAM couldn’t believe how the week had slipped by. The final customer walked out the door at six. Sweet’s Sweets was closed for the weekend now and Sam planned to relax and simply have some fun. Becky in her lovely princess gown had carried the Chocoholics cake next door, where the party was already underway. Parking spots in front of the short row of shops were at a premium and she noticed most of the metered spaces along the street were also taken.
Jen wanted her costume to be a surprise, saying she would go home to change and come along soon. Sam hadn’t wanted to take the time to drive all the way out to the ranch, change clothes and come back so she had simply brought everything in a garment bag. She turned out the shop’s lights except for the one nighttime lamp.
In the bathroom she rinsed off the dusting of sugar which always coated her face and arms by end of day, then she pulled out the old-fashioned 1940s dress. Simple and plain, with a vintage hat and sturdy shoes, she hoped she would be the only one in the guise of Miss Marple.
The dress seemed a little tighter than when she’d tried it on yesterday, darn it. It zipped up when she held her stomach in. Women of the era certainly had been slimmer. Well, she reasoned, it would provide the best excuse not to eat much. With the shoes and hat in place, a light touch of lipstick and blush, she felt she carried off the role quite well. Agatha Christie would be proud of her.
The bookshop had, indeed, been transformed just as Rupert predicted. Strands of fairy lights circled the windows and crisscrossed the room. Sam could see people milling about inside, most having arrived an hour or more earlier. She watched the scene for a moment before walking in. Tinkling music, faintly haunting and more than a little spooky, filled the room. At least Ivan avoided hard rock or recordings of anguished screams—thank heaven for small favors. She spotted their host dressed as Sherlock Holmes, albeit a rather short version, standing near his desk and surveying the room.
Sam saw a Count Dracula talking to Riki, who was cute as could be as The Cat in the Hat.
A large table normally filled with bargain books now held food to fit the Halloween theme—meatballs dripping blood-red sauce, ribs appropriately charred, and cheese canapes with something that made them look eerily like eyeballs were among the offerings. Grave-marker cookies, ghostly white cupcakes and the fabulous (if she did say so herself) black-on-black witchy cake filled the dessert table to perfection. Becky had even thought to bring a small stack of Sam’s business cards to let everyone know where the goodies had originated.
Princess Becky caught Sam’s eye and walked up to her. “I love your dress,” she said. “Who are you?”
Oh dear. Sam could picture herself explaining her costume to everyone she met. She would have to adopt an English accent, if a girl originally from Texas could possibly manage such a feat.
“I need to skip out,” Becky said once she had thoroughly approved Miss Marple. “I think the pastries are all squared away, but if Ivan needs anything more Jen should be here any minute to help out.”
Kelly and Scott had, indeed, come as Indiana Jones and Marion. Kelly had her camera phone aimed at an elegantly dressed couple; the blond woman in the blue Victorian dress was one Sam vaguely remembered from the Chocoholics group. In addition to a couple more
Sherlocks, she saw a Gatsby/Daisy pair, a sexy black cat and a troll; it seemed adherence to the mystery theme had relaxed a bit.
She spotted Rupert across the room, attired in his usual flowing style, this time all-brown with a dramatic sixteenth-century hat with a long feather that swept down to his shoulder. He seemed somewhat agitated, his gaze darting in a dozen directions. Sam made her way through the crowd toward him.
“Miss Marple,” he said, “lovely to see you.”
“Thank you, my dear.” She didn’t even come close to pulling off the accent and reverted to her normal voice. “Sorry. At least you recognized my character.”
“But you have not quite puzzled out mine, have you?” He gave a subtle wink. “I am the playwright tonight, love, and also leading man in the play, a woodsman.”
“Shakespeare?” She didn’t recall having ever seen a picture of the famed poet in such a flourishing hat, but leeway could always be granted on Halloween, she supposed.
Sam’s interest was piqued but he refused to say more about his story line. Again, he seemed restless. She rubbed a place on her neck where the lace collar of her dress itched and looked around, recognizing only a few people since nearly everyone was masked. It was an aspect she’d not considered for her own costume. “Where’s Zoë?”
“Ah, tragedy there. She’s been stricken with a stomach flu and is unable to grace our presence.” He waved an arm dramatically.
A little less flamboyant speech would be all right, Sam thought, even though coming from him it worked.
“So, the play? What will you do?”
For once, Rupert didn’t have a ready answer. He clutched a ratty-looking old book and some other sheets of paper against his chest. Then a witch stepped up to them.
When she lifted her mask—complete with green face, hooked nose and warts—Sam saw it was the lovely Darlene Trawl, one of the Chocoholics Unanimous book group members. Funny, Sam would have pictured her more as V.I. Warshawski—30-something, hip and modern. Maybe it was her long, dark curls that gave her the idea to come as a witch. Or, she already owned the requisite striped socks.
“I heard what you said just now,” Darlene admitted. “I can help.”
Rupert looked slightly down his nose. “I remember you. Earlier, you expressed an interest in buying the book I brought as a prop.”
“I’m still interested, but we can talk about that later. About the play—I have stage experience,” said Darlene, with a flash of even teeth and dimples. “I was head of my Little Theater group in Kansas before I moved here. I’m a quick study for the lines. Let me see your script.”
Rupert actually seemed at a loss for words as he handed over a few pages stapled at one edge. The three of them had moved partially behind one of the tall bookshelves that formed a makeshift backstage area. An identically sized shelf ten feet away left an open area where Sam noticed for the first time a foot-high platform had been brought in to serve as a stage. Above, track lighting was aimed toward the stage, upon which sat a large black cauldron. A few potted plants were meant to give the idea the setting was in a forest.
“Okay, got it,” Darlene said.
The play apparently consisted of one or two scenes with the two actors, and Sam guessed at perhaps a dramatic finish as something would foam up or emit smoke from the cauldron.
“Really,” Rupert said. “You think you have the whole part memorized?”
“Let’s do a quick rehearsal,” Darlene suggested, handing the script back to him.
The two of them stepped a little farther out of sight of the rest of the room and Darlene said her first line, giving the words a witchy cackle. Sam heard Rupert reply as she walked back to join Ivan and the other guests. Jen had arrived, spangled to the max as Cleopatra, and three young males had gathered around.
“Miss Samantha! Or to say, good evening, Miss Marple,” said Ivan. “Offering you something to drink? A lovely blood-red wine is here and some other ones. In the bowl of green punch is something brought by my assistant Alex. She tell me the smoke it is coming from… How do you say? Dry ice? Is too weird for my liking.”
Alex, dressed as a student of Hogwarts, stepped up to say hello. “It’s fruit punch that began with lemonade and some green food coloring. Taste carefully, though. I saw an ogre tipping the vodka bottle over it. At least he first asked me whether there would be children at the party and I told him no.”
Sam started to thank her when she sensed activity at the back of the room. Rupert stood ready to make an announcement and Ivan momentarily dimmed the lights.
“Seats, everyone! Take your seats. The evening’s entertainment, my original play entitled Curse of the Forest, will begin shortly. Please be seated.”
Guests headed toward the three rows of folding chairs set up facing the small stage. Sam accepted a glass of the red wine and stood near the door. With the first sip she realized what a long day it had been, and the lace collar was seriously beginning to bug her. Well, she would stay for Rupert’s play, be certain she’d greeted her own customers and make her excuses for an early exit.
Ivan fiddled with light switches near his sales counter, bringing up small spotlights aimed at the stage. Once their audience was nearly settled, he and Rupert exchanged a nod and the room went dark.
Rupert cleared his throat lightly and the stage lights gradually came up as Ivan operated the dimmer control. Sam was vaguely aware of Ivan slipping over to the food table as Rupert took the stage.
He swished his cape and looked back over his shoulder, as if speaking to an unseen companion.
“Careful, lad, the forest is rumored to be the haven of witches and ’tis the one night of the year when one doesn’t want to cross a witch’s path.” He noticed the cauldron and stopped short, motioning to his invisible friend not to approach.
From the opposite side of the stage, the green-faced witch emerged with her right-hand fingers spread like claws, the tatty old book clutched in her left hand, her demeanor sneaky and threatening. Sam had to admit, for short-notice acting, Darlene was doing a pretty good job. She thought of Zoë, missing out on her acting debut, and made herself a mental note to call later and find out how her friend was feeling.
The witch let out a delighted cackle at the sight of the man in her forest. Rupert overplayed his shock but the audience loved it.
“Come here, my man,” said the witch, crooking her finger toward him.
Rupert shook his head and dashed away. From her angle, Sam could see him leap off the platform then turn to be ready to enter again on cue. The witch faced the audience, her green mask giving everyone the evil eye. She turned toward the cauldron, opened her spell book, and uttered an incantation of some sort.
The witch had barely said the words when the lights went out.
The audience waited, certain the plot was about to get even more dramatic. A couple of loud thumps came from the stage area. Then a crash.
Rupert shouted. “What happened? Get the lights, Ivan! Get the lights!”
Sam felt movement beside her and heard Ivan muttering something in Russian. A long thirty seconds passed before he got to the switches by the desk. When the lights came back on, Sam watched Rupert dash onstage and kneel. Many in the audience stood and someone in the front row screamed.
Rupert looked up, stricken, and Sam caught a glimpse of Darlene lying near the cauldron. A puddle of blood began to flow across the floor.
It appeared the wicked witch was dead.
SIX
DRACULA RUSHED FORWARD, stating he was an EMT, and tugged the rubber mask from Darlene’s face. From Sam’s perspective she couldn’t see what he was doing but it was less than half a minute before he looked up at Rupert and shook his head.
Rupert closed his eyes, his face contorted as the nightmare came true in front of him. Sam pushed her way toward him as the rest of the crowd went chaotic. When she touched his arm, he started.
The EMT looked up.
“My husband is the sheriff,” Sam told him. “I’
m calling him now.”
Her proper little Miss Marple handbag held her cell phone and she called Beau’s personal phone.
“Hey, darlin’. Sorry I’m missing the party but things are a little nuts here at the moment.”
Sam stepped behind the tall bookcase for a little more privacy.
“There’s a problem and I’m calling officially,” she said. “A woman has been killed here at the bookstore. I have no idea how, but it looks like a murder. We need you right away.”
He sucked in his breath. “Well, there’s a little problem with that. I’m on a routine traffic stop and some naked guy just dashed out of an alley and stole my cruiser.”
“What?” Sam couldn’t wrap her mind around the scenario.
He repeated what he’d just said. “It’s probably some stupid Halloween prank but I have to track it down before the guy wrecks a valuable piece of county equipment. Let me contact dispatch. I’ll send a deputy to your location. Don’t let anyone leave and don’t let them near the body. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
Sam felt her insides quaver as he ended the call. Just when she really needed his steady presence. She took a deep breath and dug for some sort of deep inner strength. People were milling about divided, it seemed, between the squeamish, the hysterical and the morbidly curious.
Rupert stared at the stage area, stunned, and Sam went to his side. The young EMT came closest to being in charge—at least he’d kept anyone else from setting foot on the raised platform. Possibly, no one wanted to mess with Dracula.
Sam told both men what Beau had said. “We need to keep everyone here.”
Rupert gathered himself, taking a deep breath, letting his theatrical training put him into the role of a calm man in charge. He caught Ivan’s eye and the music, which had become irritating by now, quit.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rupert announced in a voice that carried to the farthest corners. “I’m afraid there’s been a tragedy and we all must keep our wits about us. The authorities are on their way. Everyone must stay inside the store until the sheriff arrives to sort it out. You’ll be asked what you saw and it’s important you cooperate with them.”
