by Gina LaManna
“Lots of payoffs,” I said. “I’m starting to get the feeling that this whole competition is rigged.”
We lapsed into silence again, the quiet punctuated only by the crinkling of taco wrappers as Meg gathered our mess into one giant bag. She was just heading over to the trash can when it happened.
Eye contact.
Specifically, eye contact from across the street. I was leaning my chin against my palm, watching Hunter run his hands through Britta’s hair, when it happened. Britta tore herself from Hunter and stared directly at me—almost as if she’d known I’d been watching all along. My back went rigid as a steel pole.
“Meg.” I hissed. “Meg!”
“What?” she said. “You clean up your own hot sauce. You’ll need a shovel and one of them Home Depot leaf bags to get rid of them all.”
“I think Britta saw us.”
“You think?” Meg returned to the table, pursed her lips. She looked across the street. “She’s staring right at us.”
I tried to sink behind a gigantic purple poster, but my disappearing act was ineffective. Britta leaned against Hunter and murmured something in his ear. I guessed that she’d told him to head on up to her apartment because a second later, he gave her a slap on the backside and vanished from sight down a hallway.
“This feels like an action movie,” Meg said. “Or an old Western. Y’all are staring each other down now. What could possibly happen next?”
“I guess... Well, I guess she’s coming over here.”
Indeed, Britta was already on her way over by the time I finished my prediction. She wore a long, pink trench coat that exposed bare legs despite the chilled fall temps. She had matching pink high heels. As she crossed the street, she slid her signature dark sunglasses over her eyes. One car honked and screeched to a stop. Britta calmly raised her hand and showed off a prettily painted middle finger to the driver as she continued her trek across the crosswalk.
“Huh,” Meg said. “I sort of envy her confidence.”
“You?” I blinked at Meg. Studied her wearing a sleeveless camo vest in late fall. “You’re afraid you don’t have confidence?”
“You’re right; that’s not true,” Meg said. “I was just trying to be nice.”
As Britta made her way into Taco Bell, many thoughts crossed my mind. I could get up and leave. I could hide in the bathroom. I could probably run faster than her in those heels, but in my defense, I’d just eaten ninety-three packets of hot sauce, and running wasn’t at the top of my agenda.
Instead of doing any of those things, I pressed one hand against my again-queasy stomach and tried not to appear nauseous as Britta approached looking wildly out of place. She looked like she’d strolled straight off the runway into a—well... into a Taco Bell.
“Oh, hey, you,” I said, sounding very cool as Britta approached. “Fancy running into you here.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Britta snapped her gum, but she didn’t look mad. She did look curious as she scanned the table. “Did you seriously eat all the hot sauce from those packets?”
“She did,” Meg said proudly. “She’s an anomaly. What’s even more badass is that she ate all of them on an empty stomach, seeing as she was poisoned yesterday.”
Britta’s gaze jerked upward at the mention of poison. “You were poisoned?”
“Food poisoned,” I added weakly. “Bad marshmallows.”
“Marshmallows don’t expire.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “Everything expires if you give it long enough.”
“Technically—” Meg began to argue, but Britta raised her hand to stop her mid-sentence.
“Why are you spying on me?”
“Fancy,” Meg said. “Now we’re spies, and I sort of like it.”
“We’re not spying,” I said. “We’re eating Taco Bell.”
“You parked directly outside of my apartment,” Britta said. “If you think you’re being subtle...” Her eyes traveled again to the hot sauce packets. “It might be time to reassess your strategy.”
“We’re just enjoying a nice meal,” I said. “Why? Is that a problem? It’s a public facility.”
“It’s not a problem for me,” Britta said. “Though it might be a problem for your stomach.”
“Oh, I don’t really think so,” Meg said. “Lacey’s got a stomach of diamonds. I’d say steel, but I think diamonds are harder. Nothing can throw her off her game. Except poison.”
“Food poison,” I repeated.
“Food poison,” Britta echoed. “From what?”
“Marshmallows. Like I said.”
“Uh-huh.” She wasn’t convinced. “Look, you and I both know you’re not only here for the tacos.”
“Oh?”
“You came here, either to stake out my apartment or to intimidate me. For your sake, I’m hoping it’s the latter. Because if this is a subtle stake-out attempt, consider it incredibly botched.”
“What if we say it was the former?” Meg asked. “On a scale of one to ten, how intimidated would you say you are?”
“Is ten very intimidated?” Britta asked. “Or would that be a one?”
“Whatever,” Meg said. “Either way works.”
Britta rolled her eyes.
“If you knew we were here,” I said. “Why weren’t you trying to hide your relationship with Hunter?”
Britta looked down at her hot pink attire. “What about me says discreet?”
“Speaking of,” Meg said, “do you actually have anything on underneath that coat?”
Britta ignored her. “What do you plan on doing with that information? Going to the judge’s panel to get Hunter disqualified? Good luck.”
“Uh, okay,” Meg said. “But there’s a rule that says judges can’t date contestants.”
“No,” Britta corrected. “There’s a rule that says a judge can’t be dating a contestant when the competition begins. We weren’t dating at the start of the competition.”
“You’re saying that you just started dating Hunter today?” I asked skeptically.
“Exactly,” Britta said.
Nobody believed her—including Britta. But neither Meg nor I had any solid evidence to back up our disbelief. And while there was a possibility I could find evidence to the contrary, I wasn’t trying to tattle on two people dating each other. I was trying to find out who murdered Amelia.
“Look here, Luzzi.” Britta leaned over the table, her talon-like nails clicking against the tabletop. “It’s time you get this through your head: I can’t be intimidated. If you think I killed Amelia, you’re barking up the wrong tree and wasting your time.”
“Maybe you didn’t,” I said. “But what about Hunter?”
“What about him?” Britta straightened and crossed her arms. “Hunter’s a wuss. He’s squeamish around blood. And really, he despises confrontation of any sort. You smudge his eyebrows, and he’ll throw a fit.”
“And you find that attractive?” Meg asked.
“He couldn’t have killed Amelia,” Britta repeated.
“Not even for you?” I asked. “People do funny things for love.”
Britta looked like I’d said something funny at the word love. “It’s not like that. We are casually dating.”
“Yeah, right,” I said with a soft snort. “He’s smitten with you. Believe me. Who knows? If you two are that close, for all I know, you could’ve killed Amelia together.”
“For Pete’s sake—it’s not like that.” Britta finally sounded the slightest bit frazzled. “There’s nothing serious between Hunter and me. And definitely nothing as serious as murder. If you were paying attention, maybe you’d start looking at people who had a real motive to kill Amelia.”
“Like who?” I asked, the curiosity getting the better of me.
“Who?” Britta ticked off her fingers. “Well, let’s start close to home. I mean, I know Nellie promised you a Gold Card and all, but—”
“How do you know that?”
“I have my ways,” Britta said. “Anyway, it’s an empty promise. What good is a Gold Card going to be if you can’t redeem it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Sugarloaf is broke.” Britta looked mystified, studying me as if to see whether I was faking my confusion. “You really didn’t know? It’s practically public knowledge. If The Sugarloaf doesn’t win the competition money this year, they’re going out of business.”
“No,” I said.
“No,” Meg said.
“Yes,” Britta said. “Then Amelia swoops in with some brilliant idea and threatens to dethrone the long-time winners. How’s that for motive?”
Chapter 24
We popped back to Casa Luzzi for lunch, parking in the driveway outside of Nora and Carlos’s estate and letting ourselves inside. Harold wasn’t at his usual post which usually meant one thing—he was playing with Bella.
We made our way to the kitchen, and I was surprised to find my stomach was empty again. Apparently, the poison had cleaned everything out and given me a lot of space to fill. The tacos hadn’t even made a dent.
“There’s my girl!” I plucked Bella out of Nora’s arms the second we got into the kitchen and twirled her around. “I missed you, sweetie!”
Bella and I proceeded to the nearest sitting room with carpet where we immediately dropped to the floor and engaged in our favorite pastimes: tickles, kisses, and some rolling around that I liked to call wrestling. Then I fed her, and together, we returned to the kitchen.
“I’ve got sandwiches,” Nora announced. “How many can I get for you, Lacey?”
“Does three make me sound like a pig?” I asked. When Meg shook her head, I tacked on an additional two. “They’re not that big,” I said defensively. “Plus, I think we should take them to go. We have to get on the road.”
“Get on the road to where?” Clay’s voice made it through the swinging door ahead of him. A second later, the door pushed open, and there stood my extra-tall, extra-squishy cousin. “What dangerous situations are you dragging my wife off to now?”
“Dragging her off to?” I blinked. “How many times has Meg dragged me into frightening situations, and you haven’t said two words about it?”
“You’re the private investigator,” Clay said. “She’s a retired-cop-turned-baker who’s just trying to do the right thing helping you out.”
“More of a fired-cop-turned blackmailer,” I muttered under my breath. When Meg looked at me, I shrugged. “Sort of the truth.”
“Sorta,” Meg agreed and took a giant bite of her sandwich. “But I didn’t blackmail anyone. I got into the competition by my own two oven mitts.”
“Speaking of baking, we’re going to swing by The Sugarloaf,” I said. “I need to chat for a few minutes with Nellie.”
Clay studied me carefully. “Why?”
“It’s part of the case.”
“What’d she do to get on your hit list?”
“I don’t have a hit list,” I said. “But I did find out—”
“The Sugarloaf is broke,” Meg said. “They’ve got ninety-nine problems, and money isn’t one. I mean, it is. The lack of money.”
Clay looked confused. “I thought Nellie Davis was the one who got you roped into this in the first place?”
“She was,” I said. “Along with your wife.”
“Meg was concerned for her own safety,” Clay said. “That’s why she hired you—to protect her during the bake-off.”
“She didn’t hire me,” I said. “Hiring implies she’s paying me.”
“Whatever,” Clay said. “So, you think Nellie killed Amelia to give herself a better shot at winning the competition? And with it, the grand prize which could help to save their business?”
“I don’t know for sure; I’m just following the clues. And speaking of clues,” I said, tapping a finger against my lip in thought. “How difficult do you think it would be to find out the financial affairs of a company like The Sugarloaf?”
“For me?” Clay’s chest puffed up like a penguin. “Or for the layman?”
“For anyone.”
“For me, that’s about two seconds of work. I could do it blindfolded. Hands behind my back. Locked in a closet. I could practically do it on pen and paper—or at least with a dial up internet connection.”
“I get it,” I said. “So, someone like Britta Facelli...”
“Britta?” Nora’s back stiffened as she shoveled a new load of sandwiches onto the large platter in the center of the table. The rest had somehow disappeared. “Don’t tell me you need Britta’s services. That’s never a good thing.”
“We’re not working with her,” I said. “We’re sort of working alongside her.”
“She was a suspect,” Meg said, “and then she helped us. So, the jury’s out on that woman.”
“There’s no need for a jury with Britta Facelli,” Nora said. “She’s as guilty as they come. But she’ll never get caught.”
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s she guilty of?”
Nora shrugged. “What isn’t she guilty of?”
Then Nora began humming loudly and wildly out of tune, and I took that to mean the conversation was done. But Clay looked interested.
“I’ve heard of Britta,” he said. “She’s good at what she does. If she told you The Sugarloaf is in financial distress, then I’m sure she has intel to support her. Britta lies—but not about facts. She’s too smart to do that.”
“Huh.” I stood and found the ticklish spot beneath Bella’s chin and smooched her there with a loud smack. “Well, then, we need to go and talk to Nellie.”
“I’ve got this little cutie-pop,” Nora said. “Come here, sweetie pie.”
Nora took Bella from my arms, so I took the moment of freedom to fill my arms all over again—this time with sandwiches. One look from my grandmother, and I returned the sandwiches to the platter, retrieved plastic wrap from the drawer, and bundled those babies back up before they got tucked into my purse.
“Lacey was poisoned,” Meg said in explanation to the general room. “She’s making up for lost time.”
“Oh,” Nora said, as if that was entirely logical.
“Poisoned?” Clay asked, then looked skeptically at Nora and the sandwiches.
“Don’t look at me,” Nora said. “I haven’t poisoned anyone since 2018.”
“That’s not that long ago.” I frowned. “Never mind. We’re out of here. I’ll be back for bath time.”
“Don’t rush,” Nora said. “Sometimes I like to wear my swimsuit at bath time, and we both get in the tub. We like to play with the boats, don’t we, Bella? Until she toots, and then we have to get out because for a little girl, she is powerful.”
“Just like her mother,” Meg said.
“Excuse me?” I whacked Meg. “She gets it from her aunt.”
“Actually, that’s true,” Meg amended. “I am a powerful woman.”
On that note, Meg and I left Clay, Nora, and Bella behind with one lonely sandwich to split between them. Meg and I returned to the mom-van and made our way to The Sugarloaf.
“Should I take the lead on this?” Meg wondered aloud.
“I’ll lead,” I said. “Remember you hired me?”
“I didn’t hire you. You said so yourself.”
“I’m the private investigator.”
“Fine,” Meg said. “I’ll take it, seeing as everyone always likes the sidekick better anyway. I’ll follow your lead, chickadee.”
The Sugarloaf had somehow doubled its level of fall festivity in the couple days since we’d last visited. There were more lawn ornaments that were scattered everywhere, more flowers that dripped from the windows, and more chirpy signs that declared it the start of the holiday season. Meg and I plowed through them all and let ourselves inside with a familiar chime of the bell.
“Well, hello!” Peg greeted us from behind the counter. “Look who it is. How are you ladies doing? Pretty wild about the finals being rescheduled,
isn’t it? They haven’t had to do that since the blizzard of ’89.”
“It is pretty crazy,” I said. “This whole bake-off is more intense than I ever imagined.”
“I hear that,” she agreed. “Anyway, what can I get you today? How about a gingerbread cookie—on the house? On the gingerbread house?”
She tittered with laughter. Meg and I managed a slight chuckle to go along with it, Meg’s a little heartier than mine. She slapped her knee.
“You crack me up,” Meg said. “But yes, I’d love a gingerbread house. Seriously, I’d take the whole house.”
“The whole house,” Peg said. “Now you’re the one cracking me up!”
Peg smoothed her hands on her ruffled, soft-orange apron as she bent down and picked a bakery tissue from the box before reaching toward a row of happy little gingerbread men behind the case.
As she moved, whiffs of allspice and clove and cinnamon, along with the sharp tang of ginger, swirled through the air. Something chocolatey was baking in the back, and unless my nose was lying, fresh bread was somewhere in the vicinity.
“And for you?” Peg asked.
My stomach growled.
“Really?” Meg gave my stomach a quick bow of respect. “I’m impressed.”
“Gingerbread sounds fine,” I said. “They smell delicious.”
“Well, if sales have been anything to go by, they are delicious.” Peg straightened and handed me the cookie. “I can hardly keep them in stock. It’s as these little gingerbread men are growing legs and marching themselves right out of here.”
She tittered again. Meg tittered along with her. I stared at my gingerbread man, who looked like he was smirking at me. I snapped his head off and ate it.
“Is Nellie here by chance?” I asked. “I was hoping to say hello while we were here.”
“She’s taking the day off, actually,” Peg said. “She’s been working so hard to prepare for the bake-off, and then with the debacle this morning...”
“I’m surprised you’re here working, to be honest,” I said. “You must be exhausted from the preparations, too.”
“This is my life.” She raised her hands. “It’s a family owned business. We’re the family, so we don’t get days off.”
