by Gina LaManna
Maureen looked Meg up and down. Gave a concise nod. “You’ll do.”
Meg looked pleased. “Did you hear anything from Hunter or Filip? Did they mention if they were going anywhere or meeting anyone?”
“Hunter has barely said two words to me since we both were elected as judges,” Maureen said. “I don’t know how well you know Hunter, but he’s sort of...”
“An idiot?” Meg asked. “A psycho? A studmuffin? Excuse another brilliant baking pun.”
Maureen hesitated. “I was just going to say standoffish.”
“Right,” Meg said. “That too.”
“He likes the spotlight, and he likes people who are more famous than he is.” Maureen glanced down at her hands, flipping them over as if seeing them for the first time. “I’m not young, nor am I beautiful or exceptionally famous or incredibly rich. So, he didn’t bother to get to know me at all.”
“What about Filip?” I asked.
“I can hardly understand him,” Maureen said apologetically. “He’s got a thick accent. He did come back to the breakroom with me for a little while after the cookie judging, but then he just left without an explanation a short time later.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?”
“No,” Maureen said. “But I did see him glancing at his watch and muttering to himself, as if he was meeting someone. But I could be making that up. Like I said, we didn’t talk.”
“Well, thanks for your help,” I said, eyeing the front of the facility where several uniformed policemen had entered. “I suppose we’ll go look around back and let the cops take over here.”
Meg and I skedaddled before the cops made their way to the stage. Not because I was scared of them, per se, but because my internet badge was technically a little flimsier than theirs. I wanted to poke around back a bit more before we were kicked off the scene by the professionals.
“Where could they have gone?” I murmured to Meg as we made our way backstage and into the cool, cement web of hallways. “Let’s check the restrooms?”
“Sure thing,” Meg said. “Hunter seems like the sort of guy to powder his nose.”
We checked the restrooms. When those were empty, we checked the judges lounge. Since the cops hadn’t made their way backstage yet, we opted to keep on checking—starting at one end and working our way through to the other—before our time ran out. We checked the janitorial closets, the stairwells, and even the private parking lot out back, and we still came up empty handed.
Meg and I had just stepped inside from the private parking lot when I paused and whipped an arm across Meg’s chest. “Do you hear that?”
She listened. In the distance, the distinct sound of footsteps could be heard approaching our very location. Meg and I squeezed ourselves into a tiny corner that wasn’t meant to hide two full grown adults, and we settled in to wait.
Meg nudged me. I ignored her. But when she nudged me again, I paid attention. She held two little pink cannisters of pepper spray and handed one off to me. I nodded, then held my breath as the footsteps grew closer still.
“I think we should beat them to the punch,” Meg whispered. “Surprise them before they see us.”
I didn’t have much time to consider the plan. Making a snap decision, I nodded, and on the count of three, we both leapt around the corner. We landed in the middle of the hallway, feet planted and feeling like the Ghost Busters—except with pink cannisters instead of proper ghostbusting gear. Except it wasn’t a ghost we were busting at all.
“Anthony?” I felt my lips part in surprise. “What are you doing here? And why do you have... him?”
Anthony looked down at his hand, as if surprised to find a man’s shirt clutched in his fist. He was shuffling Hunter Arquette, one of two missing judges, down the hallway. Forcefully, if the annoyed look on Hunter’s face was anything to go by.
“I heard you had some missing judges,” Anthony said wryly. “Is this one of ’em, by chance?”
“Well, that’s weird. Actually, he is—er, was missing.” I slowly let my arm with the pepper spray drop to my side. “I don’t understand so many things. Why are you here? How’d you find him? Where’s Bella?”
“Bella’s with your grandmother,” Anthony said. “I heard there was some drama happening at the bake-off, and I put two-and-two together. You were here and there was drama. There was almost 100% chance you were involved.”
“Agree,” Meg said. “She can’t seem to stay away. From me or the drama.”
“I don’t always cause trouble,” I said. “Like, not 100% of the time.”
“Maybe not,” Anthony said. “But about 99.8% of the time, you’re involved with it anyway.”
“The math checks out,” Meg said.
“Hunter?” I turned my attention to the judge. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”
Hunter winced, rubbed his wrists. “I’m fine. It was... I was in a closet, and—”
“A closet?” I frowned. “Why were you in a closet?”
“It was awful.” Hunter looked pained and rubbed his wrists. “Now, I’m a bit sore—”
“Shut up,” Anthony said, “and tell her the truth.”
“I am sore,” Hunter snapped. “That is the truth.”
Anthony rolled his eyes.
“I get the feeling I’m missing something,” I said, glancing between the two. “What’s going on?”
“This little nugget of joy wouldn’t mind you thinking he was kidnapped,” Anthony said. “In fact, he did it himself.”
“What are you saying?”
“Hunter, here, tied himself up in hopes it would get him some good press.” Anthony gave Hunter a giant thwap on the back. “Didn’t you, buddy?”
“Anthony!” I said. “That’s a big assumption.”
But as I glanced at Hunter’s face, it seemed Anthony wasn’t assuming anything at all.
“Are you kidding me?” I said to Hunter. “We have a murder investigation happening, and you’re wasting our time playing kidnapped? Why? Were you hoping for a minute in the spotlight?”
“Nobody was supposed to find out,” Hunter said, his gaze sliding with disgust toward Anthony. “How was I supposed to know The Terminator would find me? And know their way around a knot?”
Anthony just shook his head.
“Well, what’d you do with Filip?” I threw my hand up. “Is he in on this publicity stunt too?”
“Filip who?”
“Filip...” I studied him. “The other judge?”
“Oh, the one who doesn’t speak English.” Hunter shrugged. “Is he in on what?”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“Why would I know where he is?” Hunter retorted. “I spent the last hour cramped in a coat closet. I figured there was already drama at the bake-off, so what if I added a little extra. Makes for a better story.”
“You were locked in a closet by your own doing,” I said. “So, don’t expect sympathy from me. And ironically, you might be right. I’m sure the press will love to hear the story of a judge who kidnapped himself on a lark.”
“How much do you want?” Hunter sighed wearily. “If it’s money, I have money. If you want fame, I can get you onto some radio interviews.”
“Nah, I’m good,” I said. “But out of sheer curiosity, how did you think this was going to work out for you?”
“I thought someone—” Hunter glanced at Anthony—“someone besides The Hulk over here, would find me. They’d feel sympathy, cut off my rope, bring me out before the crowd. Everyone would go wild at my safe return. A murder and a kidnapping at one bake-off? We’d make national news. Everyone would want to interview me. Hell, I might get on Oprah, and do you know what sort of doors she can open? My Instagram would be going nuts with new followers.”
“He’s got a point,” Meg said. She shrugged when Anthony stared her down. “I’m not saying it’s a good point, but it is one point.”
“Then what?” I asked. “After that?”
�
��Maybe I’d get a talk show, another judging gig... a tell-all book deal.” Hunter shrugged. “I had options, baby.”
“I can’t believe you had us wasting all of this time when we have a judge who is legitimately missing.”
“Filip is actually missing?” Hunter said. “Get out of town, the lucky bastard.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“He’s one-upping me?” Hunter looked miffed. “Actually kidnapped? Now, he’ll get the tell-all.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them, I still didn’t know what to say.
“What are you going to do with him?” I asked Anthony.
“I was hoping you had an answer to that,” he said. “This is your case, isn’t it?”
I sighed. “Can you walk him out front? The cops are there talking to Maureen and Stuart and the bakers. They’ll want to know one of the judges has been located.”
Once Anthony and Hunter resumed their shuffle toward the police, Meg and I turned to continue our search for the missing Filip. We barely made it around the next corner before we were in for another surprise.
“Nellie,” I said, coming to a stop when I saw the baker jogging down the hallway toward us. She was looking at the floor and didn’t see us as we rounded the corner. “What are you doing back here?”
“I was...” Nellie slowed, clearly surprised to see us. “Nothing, why? What were you doing back here?”
“Investigating a murder,” I said. “The murder you sort of asked me to look into?”
“Here? Backstage?” Nellie’s voice went up an octave. “Right. Well, any luck?”
“Working on it,” I hedged. Something in Nellie’s demeanor told me she wasn’t telling the full truth. “Do you need help with something?”
“The restrooms?” she chirped, her voice gaining strength.
“Back that way,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said. “Keep me, uh, posted—I guess.”
Nellie took off without a backward glance. I watched her go, wondering what in the world she had to hide. In the last week, we’d had one murder, one missing judge, and too many suspects to name. This one little murder was rapidly turning into one very, very complex puzzle.
Chapter 17
Meg heard the scuffle first.
“Hold up,” she said, raising a hand and pressing her ear to an office door with a Post-It stuck to it that read Grand Finale Prizes in a messy scrawl. “Do you hear that?”
I glanced at the sign, then at Meg. “We’re not stealing the prizes. Or borrowing them. Or anything of the sort.”
“That’s funny you knew I was thinking about that,” Meg said. “But I’m being serious. Someone—or something—is in there. I think we need to check it out.”
I grabbed her hand to tug her away, but I stalled when I heard it, too. A muffled sound came from inside—an incessant sort of thump. We waited for a minute, listening, but the noise didn’t let up.
Meg put her hand on the doorknob. I shrugged, and she twisted it easily. Since the door wasn’t locked, I figured that whatever was behind it couldn’t be all that private. A quick peek around probably wouldn’t hurt.
“We’re popping in, then popping out,” I said. “We’re not touching anything.”
Meg let out a low whistle. “I think you’re going to be changing your tune once you see this.”
“See what?”
However, Meg didn’t need to explain. The second I stepped inside the room, I saw it, too. And my plans changed.
Before me rose an absolutely elegant cake that had to clock in around seven feet tall. It was one of those pop-out cakes, the famous kind from movies and TV shows—the kind people jump out of at birthday parties or high school reunions. Except this cake was real. At least, the exterior looked real, with layers of beautiful pink buttercream piped in roses from top to bottom.
“Is that fake?” I muttered to Meg. “It must be fake.”
“Doesn’t smell fake, chickadee,” Meg said. “Are you sure we haven’t died and gone to heaven?”
“I’m not positive,” I admitted, taking a step closer. My arm extended, my pointer finger poking out of its own accord. “I probably shouldn’t...”
“You should try it,” Meg said. “You’re investigating.”
I wasn’t sure that made sense, but it didn’t totally matter. My finger was already taking a swipe of the enormous dessert (in a very out of the way place where nobody would miss a tiny sliver of disappeared frosting), and bringing it to my mouth.
“Well, that’s real,” I confirmed. “And it’s delicious.”
I looked to Meg for a response, but before she said anything, a male voice shouted, “Stop eating the freaking cake and get me out of here!”
“It talks?” Meg admired the cake. “What doesn’t this thing do?”
“I’m inside this godforsaken cake.” The voice continued in a familiar accent. “I don’t care if you have to eat your way to me—just get me out of here before I suffocate.”
“Filip?” I leaned an ear closer to the cake feeling extremely stupid. “Are you in there? How did you get in there?”
“I just told you I’m inside the cake,” he snapped. “Can’t we discuss the details once I can breathe?”
“Let me test this out,” Meg said, swiping a finger at the frosting. “D’you think we should eat our way to him?”
I considered, nibbling on another buttercream rosette. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
Meg studied the cake. “We’re coming in, Filip.”
“Wait,” I said. “Hey, you, on the inside—is there a door or something?”
“Of course there is,” Filip said. “The top pops off.”
“Can’t you push it open from inside?”
The cake itself seemed to sigh. “If I could pop the top off, don’t you think I’d have done that?”
“He’s got a point,” Meg said. “Seems legit.”
“It’s sealed shut,” Filip continued. “Someone locked me in here. I don’t know what this contraption is made out of, but it’s not cake all the way through. There’s a metal stand underneath keeping me inside.”
“How rude,” Meg said. “They locked you inside and didn’t even allow you a piece of cake.”
“I admit, I was more impressed when I thought this was cake all the way through,” I told Meg.
“Tell me about it,” she agreed.
I could almost hear Filip roll his eyes from the inside.
“Hand me that chair,” I told Meg. “I’m going to climb up and see if I can find the opening.”
Once Meg scooted over a rolling chair, she held the base while I climbed on top. Carefully, I lifted one of the buttercream rosettes off the lid and handed it down to Meg.
“Don’t eat it,” I said. “We might need to put that back.”
“It’s already missing a petal,” Meg said. “It’s not my fault.”
The removal of a few more rosettes did the trick. I rapped my hand against a thin metal lid with hinges on one side. Clearly, it flapped open to allow entry into the interior of the cake. But when I found the handle and yanked, it was stuck.
“I’m going to need...” I thought. “I don’t know, something. This is sealed shut. Filip, just hold tight for a minute, and I’ll grab the police. Surely they’ll know what to do.”
“No!” he shouted. Then, more calmly, “No. You can’t do that. Nobody else can know about this, and if you tell anyone, I will make sure that Meg is disqualified. And that goes for the hunky husband of yours, Lacey. Nobody can know.”
“Why not? This is a criminal offense, Filip. Someone has locked you inside of a cake.”
Another beat passed.
“Yeah,” I finally admitted. “I see how that sounds a bit awkward.”
“Once I’m out, I’ll explain everything,” he promised. “If you can find a crowbar, that might do the trick. I can see a little light coming in through the gap near your fingers.”
“Wa
it here,” I told Meg. “I might have an idea.”
As I wove my way through the hallways back toward the main arena, I wondered who on earth had stashed Filip inside a dessert. And why? It was such an odd thing, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it just yet. But I put my musings on ice when I spotted my cousin loitering just outside the front doors.
“Clay,” I said breathlessly, “do you have a crowbar in your van?”
“That’s a stupid question,” he said. “Who doesn’t?”
There was a long pause as I stared back at him.
“Right,” he said finally. “Well, I have seven different types. Which would you like?”
“Um, a strong one?”
Clay looked exasperated. Thankfully, he just stomped across to his baby—the van—and returned looking like a mechanical Santa Claus with a sack hanging over his shoulder.
He handed the sack to me. I promptly dropped it.
“That’s heavy,” I said, leaning down to select one. “I’ll take this bad boy and get back to you.”
“Wait a minute—you never told me why you suddenly needed a crowbar?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “But it’s for a new...uh... baking technique. Okay, see you later.”
I snuck into the back hallway, peered behind me. Empty. Peered in front of me. Empty. Peered to my left and right—empty, empty. Very stealthy-like, I made my way back to the hallway with the door to the almost-abandoned admin office.
When I turned the corner, however, I came face to face with someone leaning against the door where I needed to go. The door behind which Filip was trapped—and possibly suffocating—beneath a pile of frosting.
I gulped. “Oh, hello.”
Anthony looked back at me. “Hey, sugar.”
“What are you doing back here?”
“Just came to check on my wife.” Anthony didn’t seem like he wanted to move. “What’s behind this door?”
“Not totally sure what you mean,” I said. “Behind what door?”
Anthony put his hand on the knob and began to turn. Slowly, his eyes focused on me.
“Fine, fine,” I said. “If I tell you there’s a man trapped inside a cake and in danger of suffocating, would you believe me?”
