by Gina LaManna
“He wouldn’t have wanted to lose that restaurant,” I said. “Not if it’d been in the family for that long. If business was bad, maybe he had serious concerns?”
“Who knew cannoli could kill,” Meg said.
“We don’t know anything,” I said. “It’s just a theory. One of many. Jim, what time did you find Amelia?”
“The event wrapped up at six, and I went to my office to finish up some work while people cleared out,” Jimbo said. “Things were quiet by around seven, I’d say. That’s when I came out and saw her there.”
“How many people were here during the day?”
“Quite a few,” Jimbo said. “And everyone stayed right up until the end. They didn’t announce the winners until six.”
“Which means alibis will be hard to come by,” I said. “If everyone was here at six, that doesn’t leave a lot of time to get somewhere else before seven.”
“Were the judges still here at seven?”
“I didn’t see them at seven,” he said. “But they stayed right up until the end of the bake-off. They had to announce the winners.”
“Well, thanks,” I told Jim. “This has been helpful.”
“To be honest, it doesn’t sound like I added much to your investigation,” Jimbo said. “But I wish you the best. That poor woman deserves justice.”
“We’ll crack the case,” Meg assured him. “We always do when Lacey Luzzi is on the job.”
“Hey,” Jimbo said, looking as if several puzzle pieces were sliding into place as he spoke. “Luzzi? You’re not related to Carlos at all, are you?”
“I think we should be going, actually,” I said. “We have somewhere else to be that’s super important, so... bye. Thank you again.”
I dragged Meg away from Jimbo. We retraced our steps out of the room and made our way back to the car.
“What was that all about?” she asked once we were inside and the vehicle was started. “You panicked there, chickadee.”
“Things never end well when people ask if I’m related to Carlos,” I said. “Trust me.”
“I trust you,” Meg said. “But I’m not sure how a janitor could’ve gotten on Carlos’s bad side.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “Carlos has a lot of bad sides.”
“I sort of like that multi-faceted curmudgeon.”
“I know you do,” I said. “But does he like you back?”
“He’s coming around,” Meg said. “Give him time. I’m an acquired taste. Like beer and some types of strong blue cheese.”
“I do like blue cheese.”
“Should probably hold off on the moldy foods until the poison’s out of your system,” Meg said. “And speak of the devil, did you think any more about who has it out for you?”
“Who doesn’t?” I heaved a sigh and settled into the driver’s seat as I made several random turns. I hadn’t decided where we were going next. “It could’ve been anyone.”
“Could it though?” Meg raised a finger as if she’d had a lightbulb of an idea. “Think back to all the food you ate yesterday. Who fed you things? Specifically, who fed you at the bake-off? And while you’re doing that, why don’t you head to that new hotel off Grand? According to Clay, that’s where the judges are being put up. We can try and corner Lizzie Tropeka when she arrives, before she gets to her room.”
“Sounds a bit stalkerish.”
“I like to call it effective.”
“Persistent?”
“Sure,” Meg said. “Now, who almost killed you? Think, Lacey. Think hard.”
I thought back. It took a while, seeing as I’d devoured a massive number of samples. Most of them, ironically, had been offered to me by the very suspects I was investigating.
“Any day,” Meg said. “This is a lot of thinking.”
“Yeah, well, I ate a lot.”
“Hence the reason we’re in this situation.”
“For starters, I tried your food. Did you poison me?”
“Chickadee, if I poisoned you, it was on accident.”
“That’s... almost sweet?”
“Plus, I ate way more than you did of my own recipe, so if it knocked you down, I’d be out cold with you.”
“True,” I said. “Okay, I also swung by Susie’s booth. I remember that because the macaron she gave me was amazing.”
“Maybe it was Susie,” Meg agreed. “What about Britta? Did that lawyer lady feed you anything?”
I wriggled sheepishly in my seat. “Uh, she sure did. A sample of the cake she was making.”
“Of course you couldn’t turn that down,” Meg said logically. “It’s cake.”
“I’m so glad you understand.”
“There’s got to be more.”
“Well, there is,” I said. “I was getting there. I had a sugar bomb, but I don’t know how anybody could have poisoned that. I mean, I just went to the gas station, grabbed my coffee and fixings, and got out of there. Clay went with me, but he probably wouldn’t have poisoned me.”
“Not on purpose,” Meg agreed, although it didn’t exactly make me feel any better.
“The weird thing is that none of the samples I got were total one-offs. I mean, it’s not like these bakers planned on me stopping by their booths—it would have been mighty coincidental for them to have a poisoned sample waiting for me.”
“Maybe they did,” Meg said. “You forget, murder charges are on the table. The stakes are high. We’re not talking about a stolen pen. We’re talking about a boatload of jailtime. I bet whoever killed Amelia is thinking as many steps ahead as possible. They’re a marathon ahead of us. Twenty-six point two miles. However many steps that is.”
“A lot of steps.”
“I don’t care to ever find out the exact number,” Meg said. “My toes would fall off if I walked that many steps.”
“Just think of how many cookies you could eat if you ran a marathon.”
Both of us developed a sort of glazy expression as we considered that dreamy scenario. Then a car behind me honked because the light had turned green, and I’d been so lost in my daydreams I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m breastfeeding,” I said. “That’s basically running a marathon.”
“I like your attitude.”
“The really odd thing about all of the samples I ate,” I said, steering the conversation back to poison, “is that these bakers gave me a taste of something that was part of their recipe. The judges tried each of their recipes and none of them got sick.”
“True.”
“It’s not like I ate massive amounts of these foods, so we know the poison had to be pretty strong.”
“I agree,” Meg said. “So, you must be missing something. Are you sure you didn’t eat anything else? Drink anything? You know, it’s not impossible that Britta or Susie had imagined you might try to talk to them. Especially the macaron—that’s an individual item. Susie could’ve easily had one or two poisoned macarons that she pulled out when she saw you coming. And it’s not impossible to think Britta did some research on you, found out you liked cake, and had a special treat waiting with your name on it.”
I didn’t respond to Meg’s latest conspiracy theories which, even I had to admit, weren’t that far out there. Like she’d said, there were murder charges on the table. So far, we hadn’t caught the killer, which meant they weren’t entirely stupid. And they didn’t want to be caught.
However, something that Meg had said jolted my brain into remembering one more interaction. A tiny interaction that suddenly, in retrospect, seemed more calculated than the rest. An interaction I wouldn’t have thought twice about if, in fact, I hadn’t been poisoned.
“Nellie offered me a glass of apple cider,” I blurted. “She gave me one of those Dixie cups with it. Special, just for me.”
“Well, dang,” Meg said. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? That’s the easiest way of all to poison you. She could’ve easily slipped a few drops of something in there without anyone noticing.”
“But Nellie...” I shook my head. “She’s the one who asked us to look into this. Why would she have asked us to help on the case if she’s the murderer?”
Meg looked across the center console at me.
“I know, I know,” I said. “To throw me off her scent. By working together, she’d stay close to the case, so she’d know what we were thinking. I can’t believe I missed it. I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Anyone could have fallen for the trap.”
“We don’t even know it’s a trap,” I argued. “There’s no evidence yet. We have to assume she’s as innocent as everyone else until we find something concrete.”
“Or, is this her plan working?” Meg mused. “Because it seems to me like you’re not seeing the facts. You’re seeing the nice lady who bakes amazing cakes. Not that I blame you because it would be a tragedy for someone who makes such amazing desserts to get stuck behind bars. And here we are, circling back to the whole baking in prison conversation.”
I sighed.
Meg sighed, too. “It seems that no matter who we land on for the suspect list, a prison somewhere is getting a very fine baker.”
Chapter 22
“We’re here,” I announced, bringing my van to a stop in front of a brand-new hotel in the middle of St. Paul. “Let’s put this Nellie mess on the backburner for now and focus on Lizzie Tropeka. I want to know her story.”
“She’s a moonshot as a suspect,” Meg said. “I mean, she probably wasn’t even in town.”
“We don’t know that.”
I climbed from the car. Meg followed me inside. As we walked, two oversized, fogged-glass doors slid open to reveal a hotel lobby that was equal parts modern-sleek and equal parts tropical-paradise. There was a living wall of green plants to our left, and a waterfall dripping over black marble to our right. Black leather couches twisted in serpent-like figures across the lobby.
Meg and I picked our way through, admiring the ambiance. And the clientele. Lots of clicky high heels and business suits. Several rich-looking hipsters with plain white tee-shirts that probably cost a hundred bucks. Most of them were attractive.
By the time we reached the front desk, I felt more out of place than ever. I looked up to a pale, shockingly blonde receptionist and started to ask if Lizzie Tropeka had arrived when Meg’s elbow nudged my ribcage.
“Gloria Curmudgeon,” she said, extending a hand and muscling me out of the way. “I’m a bit early for check-in, but I’m sure you’ll be able to accommodate me.”
“Let me look.” The front desk clerk looked confused, but his fingers began clicking away on the keyboard. “What was the last name?”
I glanced at Meg, confused. She responded by jerking her head to the right.
Finally, I followed her gaze and understood what she was doing. Meg was buying me time to corner Lizzie Tropeka—the back-up judge who’d just walked through the fogged front doors. I recognized her only from a photo that Clay had sent through, but even if I hadn’t seen her picture, I would have guessed she was someone important on her looks alone.
Lizzie Tropeka wore dark sunglasses and a breezy, dusty-rose dress with a pleated skirt that would look frumpy on me, but looked quite vintage and classy on her. At Lizzie’s side was a bald man with blinding white eyebrows and brilliant blue eyes—so eerily blue I hoped they were contacts for the sake of his health.
Meg kicked my shin.
“You said Gloria...” The front desk receptionist was looking confused. “What was that last name again? I’m sorry, our computer system has been finicky lately.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Meg said. “I’m going to have to leave one billion zero-star reviews if this situation can’t be resolved.”
I slipped away while Meg kept the front desk clerk occupied and scurried over to Lizzie’s side. As I opened my mouth to speak, she flung her purse at me and nodded for her bald, blue-eyed assistant to do the same. He immediately dropped the rolling suitcase he was carrying without batting an eye in my direction.
“Oh, um,” I said, “I’m actually—”
“Justin, for crying out loud the woman is looking for a tip.” Lizzie shot a look at her pal. “Tip the bellhop already, will you? I don’t want her to steal my things.”
“I’m not—”
Justin peeled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it over. He still didn’t make eye contact.
“I actually don’t want your money—”
“Please, don’t argue,” Lizzie said. “Just take my things to Room 402. It’s clean, isn’t it? It’d better be. Justin called ahead, and they said an early check-in wouldn’t be a problem.”
Seeing as Lizzie didn’t seem all that interested in listening to a word I had to say, I shut my mouth and continued along beside her. If she thought I was a bellhop, that was her problem. I’d tried to tell her otherwise. I couldn’t make her listen if she didn’t want to, and the chances that she’d listen if I busted out my PI badge and began asking her questions were even slimmer.
The three of us rode silently up the elevator to the fourth floor. Lizzie pulled out her phone and clicked long nails against the screen as the doors opened to reveal an ornately decorated hotel hallway. Fake green plants burst from sturdy planters, and thick, plush carpeting swallowed our footsteps as we moved.
When we reached her door, Justin took out a keycard from the pocket of his very white, very tight pants. He must have gotten the key in advance because he hadn’t stopped by reception.
Justin shoved the keycard in the door, waited. The light turned red, and there was no satisfying click that granted him admission. He waited, then tried again. And again.
“Idiots,” Justin muttered. “I’m so sorry, I’ll have to run down to the front desk and sort this out.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said nobly. “I can make sure Ms. Tropeka has everything she needs until you return.”
Justin nodded, almost in my direction. It was the first time he’d almost acknowledged me.
I played with the handle of Lizzie’s suitcase until the elevator had once again swallowed Justin. Once we were alone, I jumped at the chance to maximize my few minutes alone with the judge.
“Ms. Tropeka, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m not signing autographs.”
“I actually wasn’t—”
“There’ll be photo opportunities at the event tomorrow,” she continued, clicking away on her screen. “You can get in line, then.”
I sighed and pulled my badge from my pocket, thinking it was pretty lucky I’d taken the five minutes to get it online. I flipped it open.
“Actually, I’m a private investigator working with the bake-off, and I need to ask you a few questions about a murder.”
I’d piled everything in my arsenal on Lizzie at once. Between the subjects of murder, private investigators, and the bake-off, I hoped something would get her attention. Until now, she hadn’t even raised her eyes from her phone screen.
Lizzie blinked, her eyelashes long and caked by something that resembled a black jelly. “You little twat! You went undercover as my bellhop?”
“Actually, I didn’t,” I said. “I was just trying to talk to you, and you handed me your bags.”
“You could have tried to explain.”
“I did, multiple times.”
“I gave you twenty bucks.”
I pulled the cash back out and reluctantly handed it over. “I sort of feel like I earned it.”
Lizzie considered. “You did, but you lied.”
“I didn’t lie about anything,” I said. “And the truth is that I am a private investigator. I am working to solve a murder that happened during the preliminaries of the bake-off.”
“Oh, they warned me about that.”
“About me?”
“The murder,” she corrected. “Seeing as the last judge quit because she got scared her life was in danger.”
“Did it scare you at all?” I asked.
“Finding out that someone had died as part of the competition?”
“I thought they said the reason wasn’t yet confirmed and that there was a good chance it had nothing to do with the bake-off.”
“There’s a chance it’s unrelated.”
“But you don’t seem convinced?”
“I’m just trying to find the truth,” I said. “And the truth is that this is a complex case. But Amelia deserves justice, and I’m not stopping until I find it for her.”
“Very noble of you for a bag boy.”
“I’m not a bag boy, actually.”
“Bag woman—whatever.”
I let the technicality of my profession drop and resumed my questioning. “Did you feel nervous coming on to join the judge’s panel knowing that someone had been murdered during the preliminary rounds?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“I’m not afraid of murder.” Lizzie clicked at her screen. “Who’d want to murder me?”
“I just meant—”
“I’m the nicest person you’ll ever meet. Practically an angel.” Lizzie didn’t seem as if she was kidding, which was even more confusing. “Plus, if I did get murdered, it’s not like I could really do anything about it after the fact, right?”
“Interesting perspective,” I admitted. “But I was just talking about the situation more than anything. One of the judges was too nervous to continue with the competition. That didn’t worry you at all?”
She wrinkled her nose in thought. I didn’t think it was prudent to mention the fact that said other judge might currently be running to Mexico.
“Nah,” Lizzie said finally. “Let’s face it. I don’t know Maureen well, but I hear she’s a sweet, boring old soul. I’m not. I can stomach a little adventure.”
“Adventure,” I echoed. “Sure, but we’re talking about murder.”
“Well, I didn’t kill her, and like I said, nobody wants me dead. So, what’s the problem?”
“Do you have an alibi for the preliminary rounds of the bake-off? Were you in town?”
“I just told you that I didn’t kill that girl.” Lizzie narrowed her eyes at me. “And I just told you that I was, like, the nicest person ever.”
