Sugared

by Gina LaManna

  I’d been here to sample cake not once, not twice, but five times. And I hadn’t been able to decide, which had led to us ordering ten smaller cakes instead of one gigantic one. I planned to have a piece of each of them, and if the wedding guests were lucky, I’d share.

  I was supposed to be on a diet in the meantime to save up the needed calories for this level of a splurge, but I had yet to start. With a week to go, things were looking dicey.

  “Lacey, hello,” a somewhat bewildered looking assistant opened the door. I’d seen him before. In fact, the staff and I were mostly on a first name basis, seeing as I’d spent the better part of a week here over the last few months. “I thought we’d already decided on a cake.”

  “We had,” I said. “Ten of them. “

  “Well, Tony’s right this way. Preparing your, erhm, seventh tasting?”

  “Sixth.” I tried to look proud, but my stomach growled and gave everything away. “But I didn’t schedule this one. By the way, do you know who did?”

  The assistant looked more bewildered than ever. “Well, not off hand, but let me look.”

  We waited in a living room that could belong to an upscale home in New York. Colorful macarons lined one row, flanked by chocolate covered strawberries the size of my fist, and a miniature wedding cake that I could hold in the palm of my hand.

  “Do you know a Mr. Blaine?” he asked, then spelled it out just in case. “He set this up three weeks ago.”

  I moved over to glance in the appointment book. “Blaine? No. Never heard of him.”

  “Intriguing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told the assistant. “I didn’t know about it until Tony called me earlier. We would’ve cancelled it if we knew, but it sounded like the cakes had already been prepared, and we couldn’t let them go to waste.”

  “Of course not!” he said, offended. “Throw away cake. What a thing to say.”

  “I know! That’s why we came.”

  “Well, let me show you this way. Tony’s prepared to see you.”

  “How much are them puppies?” Meg asked, pointing to the miniature cakes from the case. “I think I’d like twelve.”

  “They’re six dollars a piece.”

  “For a little pastry?” Her jaw dropped open. “Screw it. Let’s go eat cake.”

  “Lacey!” Tony’s voice boomed over an intimate tasting room near the back of the house. A delicate table was set for two, glasses of water and a pot of tea already sitting out. A chilled bottle of champagne sat on the counter. “Welcome! Didn’t expect to see you before your wedding.”

  “Neither did I,” I said, as the assistant slowly backed away and left the three of us alone. “Do you know what this is all about?”

  Tony was a big Italian fellow who had known Carlos forever. It was the reason I’d gotten ten cakes for the price of two, and the same reason that Tony pulled out all the stops for us.

  I hadn’t heard the details, but it seemed Tony had a bit of a history with the law, and Carlos had pulled him out of a scrape. Apparently, the debt could be paid off in cake, a payment plan which I supported one hundred percent.

  “What is this about?” he boomed. “It’s about cake. Art. Passion. Sensuality...” he leaned forward, waving a tiny plate in front of me that smelled of buttercream and sugar.

  I sighed happily.

  “I think she meant the whole tasting thing today,” Meg said. “We understand cake, Tone.”

  At the nickname, Tony eyed Meg, then set the plate on the table and stood up. “We had someone by the name of Mr. Blaine—preferred not to list a first name—schedule an exquisite selection of... erhm...”

  “What?” I glanced at Meg to see if she had any sort of idea what was making the man so uncomfortable, but she shrugged.

  “Zebra cakes.”

  “Like Little Debbie’s?” I asked. “Those little calorie bombs in plastic packaging?”

  “We love those,” Meg chimed in. “I’ll take one of them if they’re less than six dollars.”

  “All homemade, of course,” Tony said sharply. “It was just a bit strange. He ordered a custom selection of three different zebra cakes—paid quite handsomely for them all, and then insisted we surprise you with the cake tasting today. I thought maybe he’d given you a hint, or told you what to expect.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, then, I’m not sure what this is about,” he admitted. “Are you looking to add an eleventh cake to your wedding?”

  “No, I’m probably good with ten.”

  “You’d probably have been good with five,” he agreed. “But I appreciate your commitment.”

  “I’m really sorry if this is an inconvenience. We can cancel, or leave, or...”

  “No, the cake has already been paid for! I’ve been instructed to send you home with all the leftovers.”

  Meg elbowed me. “Did you hear that? I knew those six dollar cookies out there were a rip off. We’re getting three entire cakes for free.”

  “Not free, already paid for,” I said, chancing a glance at Tony with a sheepish grin. I hadn’t realized the fork was already in my hand and the napkin in my lap. Apparently, my stomach worked faster than my brain. “Sorry again about this, Tony.”

  “I got paid, so I’m not asking questions,” he said. “This isn’t half as weird as some of the requests I’ve gotten. Enjoy the food, ladies.”

  He left his assistant to shuffle in three different flavors of Zebra cake. All of it zebra. Which, in itself, was a mystery. Why choose zebra when there were so many other options? Angel food, chocolate, vanilla, chocolate with vanilla, funfetti, German chocolate—and that barely scratched the surface. This was just bizarre.

  By the time we were full and ready to leave, there were only a few pieces left. While the assistant took the plates away and boxed up our leftovers, we polished off a cup of tea.

  “Well, I don’t have to eat for at least three hours.” Meg leaned back and patted her stomach. “I understand why people get married so young these days. They just want an excuse to sample cake.”

  “Zebra cake,” I murmured. Her musings were lost on my ears. “Why zebra cake?”

  “Why any cake? Because it’s good.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you think there has to be some sort of meaning behind it? Like someone is trying to tell us something?”

  “About what?”

  I wracked my brain. “What if it’s another warning?”

  “Another warning? I must’ve missed the first one.”

  I glanced around and lowered my voice. “What if Beckett’s death wasn’t suicide?”

  “I thought they already decided it was.”

  “Well, they did. But personally, I’m not sure it was. Beckett was so young and healthy. He had so much to look forward to in life. And why was he here in St. Paul anyway?”

  “To eat cake?”

  “It just doesn’t make sense. Plus, what are the chances that one of my friends was found in the very same cathedral the same week we’re getting married? It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Well, if someone’s after your friends, I’d best watch out,” Meg said. “Seeing as I’m your best friend.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”

  “Let’s look at the facts. We’ve got a dead body—possibly an overdose. Or maybe it was murder. You received a free cake tasting, and you discovered your sister-in-law is a witch. Yeah, I’d say something smells fishy.”

  “She’s not a witch; she probably caught us tailing her and disappeared.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Meg said. “There’s no way she could’ve caught me. I’m a Sneak-o-saurus.”

  I stopped speaking then. There was no response to that.

  “Okay, let’s say that someone is trying to warn you. About what? Do you think someone is trying to scare you off from getting married? Which is ironic, since they’re way too late for that.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just trying to intimidate me, or us, or the
family. Or worse.”

  “Why warn you, though? Why not just ruin your actual wedding day?”

  “I don’t know, okay!” I shot to my feet, pushing in my chair with fury. “None of this makes sense.”

  “Everything okay in here?” Tony popped his head through the door. “I love passionate cake tastings.”

  “We’re good,” I told him. “The cake was delicious.”

  “Well, good. We’ll see you next time. And tell Mr. Blaine thank you. If the fellow ever decides to get married, I’d be happy to meet him face to face.”

  “Tony, wait—” I stopped the baker before he could vanish back into the kitchen. “How was the appointment made? Over the phone? Face to face?”

  “E-mail,” he said. “I thought it was a scam at first, but I recognized your name, and that gave me pause. Then money, a good chunk of it, came through into my account, so the least I could do was make the cakes.”

  “Do you think you could forward it to me?” I asked, rattling off my own e-mail address as he removed his phone and punched a few buttons. When my phone beeped with receipt of the message, I nodded a thank you.

  “Well, we’ll be seeing you this weekend,” Tony said. “I’ll be there to say hello to Carlos and thank him personally for the business.”

  We slipped out of the bakery. Meg carried the leftover cake while I read over the email several times, but there was nothing in it of real significance. Nothing that could be considered a clue, a hint, an anything as to this Mr. Blaine’s real identity.

  “I bet it’s a fake email,” Meg said. “If someone is threatening you with cake—I know, I didn’t even think that was possible—they’ll use a pseudonym.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “I didn’t even think of this before, but I’ve gotta give this guy some credit.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, obviously he—or she—knows you well enough to know your weakness.”

  “What weakness is that? You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “You’re a bonafide sugar addict, Lace! There’s no way you’d turn down a free cake tasting. So, whoever wanted to get you a message, gave it to you in a way that you couldn’t refuse.”

  My mouth parted in surprised. “You’re right.”

  “I mean, if he’d said instead: Hey, Lacey, come sample this sauerkraut, you probably would’ve said no. But cake? Never. And you knew Tony, so it’s not like you had to worry he’d poison you or something.”

  I let my face fall into my palms. “I’m the worst investigator ever. I didn’t even consider poison.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Meg nudged me. “Tony made the cakes himself—he’d never poison you. I mean, the dude knows Carlos. He’s well aware there’d be hell to pay for murdering Carlos’s granddaughter. Or at least a missing set of knee caps.”

  “You have such a way of making me feel better.”

  “Like I said, that’s my job, and you’re definitely worth a set of kneecaps. Anyway, where am I headed?”

  I glanced forward, stumped at the mish-mash of data points in my brain. Cakes, death, disappearing women in cars—this sort of day wasn’t natural. A normal human couldn’t process all this information at once. Which left only one option.

  Meg and I met each other’s gaze and, without hesitation, said, “Clay.”

  “Hopefully he can make some sense of this,” I said. “Because I’m stumped.”

  “Plus, you’ve gotta meet Bob. He’s one cool cat.”

  “I thought he was a robot?”

  “Just you wait.”

  Chapter 9

  We pulled up in front of one of my favorite buildings on earth. It might not be the most beautiful aesthetically, but it had character in spades.

  This saggy old apartment complex was the place where I’d established my independence after my mother’s death. The place where I’d been shot at through the window, and suspected Anthony had been the mystery man after me.

  It was the apartment in which I’d lived when I’d gotten engaged, the apartment where I’d reconnected with my family and befriended my computer genius and tech-whiz of a cousin.

  It was the place where I’d inherited Tupac the Cat, and the place where he still lived with Clay and Meg. Apparently, the cat was the true owner of the apartment, and the rest of the residents came and went.

  I half-heartedly tried to adjust the number seven which, years ago, had flopped upside down and turned into an L. It didn’t work. The number squeaked, swung back and forth once, and then settled into the same spot where it’d been for years. Some things never changed.

  One thing that did change, however, was the owner of the apartment keys. These days, it was Meg who stuck the key into the lock, twisted it, and called—honey, I’m home!

  “Hey, Clay, put your pants on,” she yelled. “Your cousin is here and doesn’t want to see your wiener.”

  I flinched. Maybe it wasn’t honey I’m home, but it was close. The Meg version.

  “Hello,” I called weakly, shielding my eyes as I walked into the kitchen. “Is it safe to look?”

  “No!” Clay squealed. His voice cracked, there was a thud as he crashed down the hallway, followed by the slamming of dresser drawers. “What did I tell you about giving me advanced warning?”

  “Want something to eat?” Meg asked me. “Or drink?”

  “Sure, what do you have?”

  “Nothing, we’ve run dry. Sorry.”

  “Why’d you offer?”

  “Because I’m polite.”

  I cracked open the fridge anyway—old habits die hard. Meg was not lying. Save for an old beef bowl that had Clay’s name written all over it—literally—the fridge was empty. “How do you guys survive?”

  “Why do you think I have breakfast every day with Nora?” Meg popped open her purse, which was more like an army backpack, and set a few hardened croissants onto the table. “I forgot about these. Dig in, we have a feast.”

  “Madam, would you like me to order you food?”

  This wonderful question came from a strange new voice. A metallic, emotionally-stagnant sort of draw. Robotic.

  “Is that...?” I inhaled a breath as the man behind the words appeared in the doorway. Man might be an over exaggeration, though the figure in question was most definitely male, judging by the loincloth around his waist.

  “Meet Bob,” Meg said with a sweeping gesture. “The new man of the house.”

  “Nonsense,” Bob intoned. “I am here to serve Clay.”

  I turned to Meg. “That thing is terrifying.”

  “Isn’t he?” Meg said in awe. “I think he’s pretty cute. You know, for a hunk of metal.”

  Hunk of metal was not the way I’d describe the piece of machinery before us. Almost C-3PO in nature, the robot stood as tall as my shoulders. There wasn’t a face, per say, but a small camera on top of a neck that twisted in every direction. A camera that was focused on me at the moment.

  “Lacey Luzzi?” he asked. “Height: five foot seven inches and three quarters. Weight: one hundred and thirty-six pounds. Age: Thirty—”

  “Yeah, yeah, enough with the stats!” I interrupted. “We get it. I’m old now, and I’m gaining weight. Do you want to announce my wrinkle, too?”

  “You are within the normal BMI range for your body,” Bob responded. “Limiting sugar consumption and exercising three days per week will help to increase—”

  “I don’t need lessons from a robot,” I growled. To Meg, I raised an arm. “Where did this thing come from?”

  “I bought it for Clay’s birthday,” Meg said. “But I couldn’t wait to give it to him on the actual day, so I just gave it to him early.”

  “That’s... sweet?”

  “He was trying to build his own robot, but he had trouble making him talk correctly. And move correctly. Basically, he couldn’t get the robot to work, so I bought this one and gave it to him so he could learn.”

  “Take it apart and destroy it,
more like,” Clay said, returning from down the hallway with a murderous grin on his face. “Every last inch of him.”

  “No, you can’t do that,” Meg said. “He was expensive. Top of the line from the Clark Company.”

  “Stupid Dane Clark,” Clay said. “Thinks he can build the best robot in the world.”

  “Who’s Dane Clark?” I asked Meg.

  She lowered her voice and leaned back toward me. “Cover your ears, Clay.”

  To my surprise, Clay did as he was told.

  “Billionaire out on the Sunshine Shore,” Meg said. “Basically, the smartest man who’s ever lived. Except Clay’s out to prove him wrong.”

  “Well, if anyone can do it, I’ll bet it’s Clay,” I said, giving him the thumbs up. Clay nodded, but still didn’t unplug his ears. Not until I reached over and did it for him. “I think you’re the smartest guy out there,” I told him.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “What?”

  “You only compliment my brain when you need something.”

  “Well, actually,” Meg said with a sideways glance at me. “He’s onto something. Out with it, Lace.”

  With a triumphant smile, Clay steepled his hands in front of his face. “What can I do for you today, Miss Luzzi?”

  “It’s about cake.”

  “Of course, it is.”

  “And a murder.”

  “Again...” Clay twirled his hand, encouraging me to keep talking. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Is that depressing?” I turned to Meg. “It’s a week before my wedding, and Clay’s not surprised I’m coming to him about a murder.”

  “This is alarming,” Bob chirped. “Phone 9-1-1 immediately. Dialing, now.”

  “Stop! Shut up!” I cried. “How do you turn him off?”

  “Dialing emergency services,” Bob confirmed.

  “Hang up!” Meg yelled, smacking Bob on the arm. “We don’t want the police involved.”

  “Are you participating in illegal activities?” Bob asked, while a subtle ringing in the background filtered out. “I am required to report all illegal activities.”

  I turned to Meg, dumbfounded. “You brought a robot into your home—and Clay’s—who’s required to report illegal activities?”