Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Read online

  "Georgina," I say. "Georgina!" I squeeze her cheeks and shake her face. She doesn't open an eye. "Georgina, come on. We have finals coming up. You want to graduate, don't you?" I shake her again, and it's enough to rouse her from her deep sleep. She opens her mouth just enough to mumble something. "What?"

  Georgina mumbles again.

  "Royal wedding," she manages to force out. "Royal…wedding."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Georgina, honey." Ingrid waves her arms in a panic. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

  "Oh, yeah," I inform her. "She's fine."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "You're free to go," Detective Reid says after taking my statement.

  "Until next time?" I joke. He glares at me. This is the first time I've seen him at his desk—nameplate and everything. "I'm kidding."

  "Let's hope there isn't a next time," he responds, glancing back down at the paperwork in front of him. "Of course, we've had this discussion before, but it didn't seem to do anything."

  "Well, I'll be graduating soon, so…" I stand up. "I guess this is good-bye." I don't expect more than a polite nod from him, but he quickly looks up. In his eyes, I see our first meeting my first semester when he came to investigate the death of one of my instructors.

  What a ride it's been since then.

  "You're leaving Georgia?" he asks.

  "Don't tell me you're going to miss me?" I grin, eyeing the photo next to his computer—the one personal piece of information he's allowed me to see. A picture of him and a woman his same age.

  "It was just a question. It's my job to ask them."

  "I don't know yet," I answer. "I haven't decided what I want to do."

  "Well, good luck." He continues to look through papers.

  "And good luck to you and your…" I glance at the photo. "Girlfriend? Wife?"

  "Sister," he corrects me. "That's my twin sister."

  I stare at the photo more closely.

  "Oh, I see the resemblance."

  "We're not identical," he points out.

  "Okay." I can't help but laugh. "I get the message. See you around, Derek." He looks up. "Detective." As soon as I correct myself he gives me the polite nod I was waiting for. I turn to leave, exiting his office space and heading back toward reception where Bree and Cole are waiting for me. I pass Georgina sitting across from another police officer, regaling her with accounts of last night. She's dressed more like herself in khakis and diamond earrings that compliment her neatly tied-back ponytail.

  In the lobby, Bree is pacing back and forth, talking on her cell phone, and Cole is sitting quietly. He looks up when I enter the room—my heart leaping when our eyes meet. He immediately jumps to his feet and walks toward me. His eyes look minty green this morning. An entrancing color that reminds me of a mint cookie covered in chocolate.

  "What did he say?" Cole asks. "Is everything okay? Are you officially off the hook?"

  "For what?" I try to pull my eyes away from his because they make my thoughts spin to the point where I feel light-headed. "Murder?"

  "You know what I mean, Poppy."

  "Yes," I reply. "Turns out Detective Reid figured out what the Biancos were up to right after I gave him Karl's address. Except he figured out that the adopted child was Georgina, not Chef Otto."

  "We were close," Cole comments. "I should've guessed when I saw that article in Gino Milani's apartment. The woman in the picture was blonde like Georgina."

  "Don't be too hard on yourself." I place a hand on his shoulder. A friendly gesture that sparks something deep in my torso. I pull my hand away. "The picture was in black and white. You would have had to know what you were looking for."

  "Sure." He puts his hands in his pockets. Bree starts to yell into her cell phone. She stamps her foot before hanging up. Her cheeks match the shade of her strawberry blonde hair, and she immediately covers her face.

  "Bree?" I head toward her. "Bree, what's wrong?" She drops into the nearest chair and holds the bridge of her nose. Cole and I look at each other and shrug. Please, don't tell me she was on the phone with Todd.

  "That was Marjorie," Bree says, sniffling.

  "Who's Marjorie?" Cole whispers.

  "Her boss," I mutter.

  "She sold the cupcake shop," Bree continues.

  "That's great?" Cole nods. I hit his arm. "I mean, that's terrible?"

  "Shush," I scold him. Bree dabs beneath her eyes to prevent her makeup from smearing.

  "The new owner is cleaning house," Bree says, folding her arms. "Which means…which means…" She dabs her eyes again. "Oh heavens, I can't even say it."

  "You've been fired?" I guess.

  "They're letting me go," Bree confirms with another sniffle. "After everything I've done for that shop. I've never been let go before, Poppy. My employment record is spotless."

  "It's not your fault." I sit next to her. "This type of crap happens all the time."

  "Has it happened to you?" she asks.

  "Once." I tilt my head, remembering the day I was cut from my very first dance company. They were having budgeting problems, and apparently I was just a tad too tall for their tastes. "I felt like such a loser, but little did I know that something better was out there waiting for me."

  "What's better than a cupcake shop?" Bree mumbles to herself.

  "Look on the bright side. Now you can open up your own." I smile widely until she's forced to smile back.

  "And where am I supposed to get the money to do something like that?" she argues. "I don't have enough saved up."

  "Umm…" I look to Cole for an answer. Bree slumps even further in her chair and hangs her head. It's like a giant storm cloud is hovering right above her, and I can't seem to push it away.

  "Georgina is loaded," Cole suggests.

  "Favors from Georgina come with strings attached," I point out.

  "Thanks for trying, but it looks like I'll have to go back to the drawing board." Bree clasps her hands together and begins cracking her knuckles. "I haven't job searched in forever. It terrifies me."

  "But now you can add Calle Pastry Academy to your resume," I respond. "That counts for something, right? I mean, this school is all I have going for me. My past work experience involves pirouettes and lots of yoga. I have more to worry about than you do."

  "I'd hire you," Cole adds. He grins, but I shy away from his compliment.

  "You're a great pastry chef, and someone will notice that."

  "Yeah," Cole adds. He shrugs when he looks at me. "Plus, you've got some time to look."

  "Right." I try to comfort her by forcing my voice to sound more upbeat. "We can start tonight. I'll help you."

  Bree stares at me curiously and stands up to leave.

  "Are you okay, Poppy?" she asks.

  "Yep," I respond, realizing that loud and peppy just isn't me. It's more suited to Bree. When she's in a good mood.

  "Anyway, I can't tonight."

  "How come?" She's going to go on a baking spree. "Are we going shopping for ingredients? Should I starve myself until then?"

  "No," Bree answers. "Tonight's that thing, remember?" Bree glances at Cole and waits for him to walk through the front doors and into the parking lot.

  "What thing?"

  "My date with Jeff," she whispers.

  "Oh." I look ahead at Cole. "I forgot about that."

  "Oh please." Bree shakes her head. "One date. That's all I agreed to. I already know it's going to be a total disaster."

  "Sometimes life throws you curveballs. Or in our case…Georgia peaches."

  * * *

  Chef Otto stands in front of our class with his usual flashy grin. His teeth look extra white, like he spent his weekend getting them bleached. After Leo was captured, Chef Otto gradually morphed back into his showy self—cruising through town in his cherry red Ferrari and standing outside the freshmen kitchens signing autographs. Our final days as pastry students are fast approaching, and my parents are flying in to see me graduate.

&nb
sp; "Okay, remember I need your menus by the end of class today," Chef Otto announces. "So, take some time to fine-tune all the details with your partners and hand them in please."

  I glance back at Bree who has been keeping her main showpiece, the only thing she's required to do for her final project, a secret. But it's no secret that Georgina and I aren't in agreement with any sort of theme. I've sketched out nine samples, and she's hated them all. We can't seem to mix our styles together.

  "Let's start with the wedding cake," Georgina says. She's been distant ever since Ingrid was taken into custody. Not as chatty. Not as rude. "We just need to pick something and make it perfect."

  "I agree with that," I answer.

  "Since we can't agree on a particular style, I say we go with a color instead."

  "Not pink," I respond.

  "Not black," she adds. "What about white?"

  "White?" I shrug. It's not the best color to choose, but it is an elegant one. "I guess, but it's so…plain."

  "We're out of options here, Poppy." She opens her notebook, hurriedly flipping through a few drawings. My eye catches one with a tower of some sort of circular pastry. It's unusual looking and unexpected for someone like Georgina.

  "Wait," I blurt out, grabbing her notebook. "What was that?"

  "Nothing."

  I snatch the book away from her and flip through her sketches until I find it. I can't help but smile when I realize what the tower is made of.

  "Cannolis?" I say out loud. Georgina blushes.

  "It's just an experiment," she responds, reaching for the book. I lunge back to stop her from taking it. "Poppy."

  "Zeppole?" I continue. Zeppole are the Italian's version of a cream puff. "Panna cotta? I'm sure that would be a first for the judges."

  "Give that back." Georgina succeeds in grabbing her notebook. She slams it shut and shoves it into her tote bag.

  "I don't see what the problem is." I raise my eyebrows at her odd behavior. "That's the sort of thing we need to do. Something creative, not a plain white wedding cake with standard pastries on the side. I mean, we might as well serve glazed doughnuts."

  "Glazed doughnuts," she repeats, writing it down on our form.

  "No." I grab the paper from her the same way I did her notebook. She clenches her jaw. "Don't write that."

  "Ugh." Georgina glances up at the ceiling, flaring her nostrils. "At this point I just want to get this all over with."

  "But I love the Italian theme." I wait for her to nod in agreement, but instead she scowls.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she asks.

  "No need to get all defensive. I'm being serious." I watch as her eyes drift back to her tote bag. "What?"

  "Nothing," Georgina snaps. "Are we done here?"

  She's got something on her mind. I do the same thing when I'm being eaten inside by frustration, anger, and life in general. I push people away. Bree retreats to her happy place—the kitchen. And Cole…I guess he makes out with people.

  "It's okay to wonder, you know." I put the thought out there. Maybe she'll latch onto it.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your dad," I clarify. "If I were you, I'd be curious."

  Georgina's shoulders sink as she glances around the classroom to make sure no one is paying attention to us.

  "Keep your voice down," she scolds me.

  "Or what? You'll bump me off?" I chuckle to myself.

  "Don't tempt me." Georgina brushes aside a strand of her hair.

  "You don't have to be so hostile about it," I say. "You're not the only one on this planet who was adopted."

  "Are you finished?" She rolls her eyes and takes back our form. I glance at the time. We need to figure this out and fast.

  "I think we should mix together our interests. My midnight dance with your Italian roots. How about using midnight in Italy for our theme?"

  Georgina opens her mouth to criticize my suggestion, but she stops herself.

  "You mean we keep the cannoli towers and zeppole?"

  "Add a little dark chocolate, and you've got a deal," I respond.

  "What about the cake?"

  "Keep the white, but add a delicate piece of black fondant lace over the top," I suggest.

  "Black?"

  "Let's call it the color midnight," I clarify.

  "Fine," she agrees. Georgina begins writing down my ideas on our form.

  It's a pastry miracle.

  "Wow," I comment. "That felt too easy."

  Georgina continues writing. She pauses to collect her thoughts and then looks at me. Her hair shining in the light. It's hard to look at her the same after finding out that she secretly belongs to the baddest of the bad crime families around. At first glance she doesn't look the least bit Italian. I think it's the blonde hair. A trait she must've inherited from her mother. But her personality matches that of a feisty Lady of the Mob.

  "Poppy, can I ask you something?"

  I look over my shoulder.

  "You're talking to me, right?"

  "Don't be stupid," she responds. "I'm only asking you this because I have no else to talk to about it."

  "I'm flattered," I mutter.

  "Should I go?" Georgina lowers her voice.

  "Go where?" But I know exactly what she's asking me. It's the same thing I've wondered since the night Leo Bianco tried to kill me.

  "Should I go see my father before he dies?" She bites her lip, anxiously waiting for my reply.

  "I don't know if I'm the right person to ask."

  "Just answer," Georgina responds.

  "Well," I reply. "Do you want to see him?" She moves her head from side to side like she's weighing out the pros and cons in her head.

  "Part of me does, and part of me doesn't." She takes a deep breath. "Yes, I think. But I don't want to offend my actual parents. I mean, they raised me and all."

  "You're a grown woman. It's up to you."

  "What would you do if you were me?" Georgina asks. "Hypothetically. I'm not asking you for advice. I just want to know what other people would do in my situation."

  "I think other people would make sure they don't have any regrets. The day will soon come when there is no decision to make anymore."

  "Good point," she admits.

  "Georgina, if any part of you wants to meet him—even if it's just once—maybe you should consider it?"

  Georgina nods, surprisingly accepting my advice.

  "It's not like meeting a Bianco makes me one of them, right?"

  I shrug. Technically you are one of them already.

  "Do you have questions?"

  "Some," she confesses.

  "Then think of it as more of a final interrogation than a mobster reunion."

  "Hmm…" She scratches the tip of her chin. "I never thought of it that way."

  "You're welcome."

  I smile, and Georgina smiles back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I couldn't sleep last night. Georgina and I spent all evening prepping for today, and all I can think about are the tasks that lie ahead. I'll be spending the majority of my day baking pastries and making sure our display cake is perfect. Yesterday I made my own lace molds using silicone putty. The black lace is going to look absolutely mystical on top of our elegant white wedding cake. And staying on the midnight in Italy theme, Georgina will be making zeppole, Italian fried doughnut balls, dusted in powdered sugar and topped with cream and a sour cherry. The remainder of our menu also includes an assorted cannoli tower, individual panna cottas with black licorice sauce, and dark chocolate amaretto truffles.

  I get dressed in my chef's whites and check my cell phone. Two missed calls from my mom. They must be at their hotel by now. I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. After today, I've done it. I accomplished the impossible. I've officially left the dancing world behind, and I'm about to start a new chapter of my life as a pastry chef. A fresh-out-of-water pastry chef.

  A lot of people in my life, mainly family, never thought I'd make it
this far. They never thought I, a former ballerina, could turn the tides and make money by selling the very confections I've restricted myself from for most of my life. I doubted myself too for a while.

  But I did it.

  "Are you ready, Poppy?" Bree knocks on my bedroom door, and I race to answer it. Her strawberry blonde locks frame her face, reminding me of the day I first met her. We've both come a long way since then.

  "Yep," I reply. "You?"

  "Yeah." Bree nods, glancing up at the ceiling. "I can feel Karl yelling at me to get a move on so I'm not late."

  "Sounds like him." The two of us leave our boring beige apartment and start on our walk toward campus. Our graduation ceremony and walk-through of our final buffets doesn't start until later tonight, but campus is already buzzing. The air is warm, and the deep green trees alongside our building have turned a brilliant orange. Even though autumn has reached Georgia, the heat hasn't left. I can feel myself beginning to sweat. I take a few deep breaths as I follow Bree into the student kitchens.

  Georgina has already claimed our spot. She's melting together butter and sugar in a saucepan for the zeppole dough. I put my bag down and get started on my black fondant lace. It's going to surround the base of two tiers. Our final cake will be five tiers tall.

  Bree claims a smaller spot next to me. Even though she's not required to complete any additional pastries other than her main showpiece, I knew she would go above and beyond anyway. She pulls a bunch of store-bought candy from her bag, and grabs a bowl to start her cake batter.

  "Candy?" I comment. "Be careful not to send yourself into sugar overload."

  "It's for my cake." She scoops the pile of chocolate-covered malt balls toward her. A treat I remember buying once or twice at the movie theater even though they aren't my favorite. I frown at her choice of decoration.

  "Really? Why so many?"

  Bree picks up her tote bag and shakes it.

  "I have more," she adds. "I promise you, you will be amazed when it's finished." Her large pile of store-bought candy catches Georgina's attention as well. She glances over at Bree's station.