Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster Page 2

  "You two should watch the news once in a while." The Detective doesn't crack a smile. Instead he surveys the area again before directing his attention back at us.

  "We don't have much time for anything other than baking and studying," I inform him.

  "Oh, and eating," Bree chimes in. "It's the best part."

  "Yes." I can't help but smile as wide as I did the moment I saw Bree anxiously whisk meringue at four in the morning. "Eating is the best part."

  "Are you two finished?" Detective Reid glances at the time on his cell phone. "I'm not referring to a gang per se. More like a Cosa Nostra out of New Orleans. Vito Bianco has been all over the news lately. The question is why would he send anyone here?"

  "You're telling me that a member of the mafia came all the way to Podunk, Georgia just to snag a few free samples at a local farmers' market?" Bree shakes her head.

  "That's exactly what I'm saying," he responds.

  "Weird." I take a deep breath. A much-needed breeze interrupts our conversation and gives my lungs a breath of fresh air. I watch the bright green grass dance in the wind—a brilliant wave of emerald thanks to the heaps of rainfall that rolled in last week. A far off spectator is watching me as I attempt to stretch the kinks in my back. A woman at the Sweet T Soap booth looks away as soon as we make eye contact, and she resumes packing up the products on her table.

  "Tell me, Poppy." Detective Reid studies me. I place a hand on my thudding chest. I'm not sure if it's the way he's looking at me or an early sign of heat stroke. "When did you get here this morning?"

  "I came early with Bree. Karl was already here. We set up our booth with the latest from the student bakery. I got ready for my food demo, and that's about it." I leave out the part where Bree, Karl, and I did all the heavy lifting while Georgina stared at her cell phone and Chef Otto went off to find non-instant coffee. He's pickier than I when it comes to fresh brew.

  "Was anyone else here setting up their booths when you arrived?"

  "The soap sisters," Bree says, glancing at the Sweet T Soap booth. "They were here."

  "Yes." I remember Georgina's comment about their cupcake bath fizzes. "And the girl from the jewelry tent, the one who found the body, showed up later along with the boiled peanut guy."

  "Biscuits," Detective Reid mumbles as he jots a few things down.

  "Excuse me?" I wrinkle my forehead, trying to make sense of his random reference to a buttery breakfast food.

  "That's his name," he says. "The old man at the boiled peanut tent is called Biscuits."

  "Who would name their child that?" Bree stares as the man hands out free samples to the officers who are questioning him—a common Southern snack that I have yet to try.

  "How should I know?" Detective Reid keeps scribbling things as he talks. "It's probably a nickname."

  "And an excellent conversation starter," I add.

  "Okay." He finally looks up again, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to keep his thoughts from floating out into the open. "Poppy, I need you to be straight with me when I ask you this."

  "You're making me nervous," I admit.

  "Did you bring your own kitchen equipment today?"

  "Well…yeah." I tilt my head, wondering what he's getting at. "I tote my tools around everywhere. I guess it's just habit now."

  "Does that by chance include an eight-inch chef's knife?"

  He looks at me, and almost instantly my eyes water.

  It can't be mine. Please don't say it's mine.

  I'm too afraid to say yes, but the moment I unwrapped that metal blade engraved with the school's name and my initials is on instant replay in my head. It was a gift from the academy to all the advanced-level students, along with our new kitchen uniforms. That was the same day news spread through campus like wildfire that the Chef Bartolo Chimenti, a.k.a Chef Otto, agreed to be a temporary pastry instructor while President Dixon interviewed new candidates. That was also the same day I was paired with tart-face herself. Georgina insisted that all after-hours work was to be done in her kitchen because mine probably wasn't apt to the job. Whatever that means.

  "A simple yes or no will do here." Detective Reid's expression changes to a look of concern. I wipe away a tear.

  "The knife is mine, isn't it?"

  "Yes," he says quietly. The news hits me like a loaf of rock-hard fruitcake. "I'm sorry, but the murder weapon bears your initials."

  "She didn't do it, Detective." Bree rushes to my rescue, placing her arm around my shoulders. "She couldn't have. She was with me the whole time."

  "For what it's worth," he mutters, "I believe you. But it's going to take one hell of an investigation for me to convince everyone else."

  My vision goes blurry as more tears come flooding out. I try to stop them by focusing on something other than the farmers' market and the dead body of the man in the pinstripe suit. I'm not doing a very good job. I keep seeing the man's face in my head. His smug smile as he reached for his dessert. The sweat stains on his shirt. The way he resembled a thick tree trunk in his bark-colored suit.

  "How?" It's all I can manage to get out at the moment.

  "Someone must have stolen it from you," Detective Reid responds. "With how many people have circulated through here today, it could've been anyone." He pauses, giving me more time to dry my cheeks. "If more than one person can verify that you indeed were in your booth at the time of the murder then you have nothing to worry about."

  "See." Bree changes the tone of her voice and tries to sound more upbeat. "You're off the hook. I saw you. Karl saw you. Georgina might've seen you."

  "Stay put this time," he instructs. "No wandering off looking for clues. The Bianco family are not people you want to mess with." He nods. "And Poppy…" He waits for me to look at him, affirming that he has my full attention.

  "Yeah?"

  "Call me if you notice anything suspicious. Anything at all."

  I still have his number from last year's murder mess, but he hands me another one of his cards. Bree keeps her arm around me as he walks away. It makes me feel like a lost chick under her mother's wing. I sniffle, pulling myself together as Bree's eyes go wide.

  "Oh, cupcakes," she says in almost a whisper. She removes her arm from around my shoulder and begins twiddling her thumbs. Her hands are itching to work, but there's no time for nervous baking or stress eating. The police are shutting down the farmer's market, and we have to pack up our booth.

  "You forgot to make your bed this morning?" I guess. The usual banter doesn't lighten the mood. I still feel like a fool for being at the center of Detective Derek Reid's radar—yet again. Hopefully he'll trust me a little more this time.

  "Derek is right," Bree continues. "Keep his number handy."

  "I don't get it." I take a deep breath. "I thought the school was cleansed of ruthless nutballs last year, but obviously someone still has it out for me."

  "Poppy." Bree gulps. "You know how the mob operates, don't you?"

  "Only in the movies," I answer.

  "When a member dies, they send someone to retaliate." Her eyes dart around the field. "Sooner or later someone else will come looking for answers, and you know what he'll find?"

  "Oh, cupcakes," I mutter back, shaking my head. "A murder weapon with my name on it."

  A promise from Detective Reid won't be enough to save me when a pissed-off mobster comes banging on my door.

  I might as well start digging my own grave.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "We can do it," Bree insists. "You have a knack for figuring things out."

  "That's because I have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time." I continue to watch as the two women at the Sweet T Soaps stand hurriedly untie their banner. One of the quickest takedowns I've ever seen. "It's called being unlucky."

  "You figured it out last time," Bree goes on. "You managed to survive Paris too. Don't let Detective Reid douse your cakes with lumpy frosting. By the time he's done pouring his morning coffee tomorr
ow the mob could already be on your tail."

  "I know," I admit. "You don't have to remind me."

  My heart thumps in my chest like a hard ball of dough.

  I'm in deep.

  I breathe in the fiery, humid air, and it doesn't help any. I take a second look at the soap stand—thoughtful arrangements of sudsy strawberry shortcakes on cake stands and trays of colorful bars laid out like cookies at a bake sale all shoved in a box. I tilt my head toward the booth until Bree catches on. She eyes the women as they begin folding tablecloths and clearing their pamphlet display.

  It's as good a place to start as any..

  The wheels in my head start turning. A mobster murdered at a small town farmers' market with a stolen chef's knife. The man in the pinstripe suit, a.k.a Gino Milani, had a reason for being here. It was no accident. He had a reason for visiting our stand for a free sample of Bananas Foster.

  And to be stabbed with my knife…it has to be someone I know.

  That knife rarely leaves my side.

  "Follow me," I mutter, walking toward the soap stand. My eyes dart from slices of soap cake to a stack of pale peach soap bars labeled with a sticker that says certified vegan. I wipe away beads of sweat before gently picking one up. I get a whiff of the peachy fragrance.

  "Are these hard to make?" I ask.

  "Not if you have a few hours to kill," one of the women answers. She seems to be the friendlier one of the pair, and she pauses from her duties to greet me with a smile. "Not to mention a pantry stocked with fragrance oils. We use a mixture of almond oil, castor, coconut, and—"

  "Bonnie," the other woman scolds her. I can see the resemblance between the two of them. Their ashy brown hair hangs in strings near their cheeks, and both of them look as if their faces have seen way too much sun and not enough sunscreen. The only difference is the way they're dressed. Bonnie is wearing a long, wavy skirt and a vest made of yarn that looks like a pile of unused tea cozies sewn together. A wilted flower sits behind her ear. One she probably picked this morning by the side of the road.

  "Excuse my sister," Bonnie interjects. She resumes packing up their supplies like it's no big deal. "Mary Frances doesn't like it when I reveal secrets of the trade." Bonnie's sister, Mary Frances, is more formally dressed in white capris and a summery top. She nudges her sister.

  "Those are hardly secrets," Mary Frances replies. "Sorry, we're closed, dears."

  "Can we still take a look?" I pick up a lavender bath fizz—a hardened ball of powder meant to fill the tub with scented bubbles.

  "I'm afraid not," Mary Frances answers. She narrows her eyes when she looks at me. The same way she did when she watched me talk to Detective Reid. "The police have made it clear that we're supposed to close early, and we have a schedule to keep."

  "Certified vegan," I repeat from the label of a bar made with peppermint and sage. "What does that mean exactly?"

  "No animal fats or by-products are used," Mary Frances informs me, snatching the bar away. "Our products are completely cruelty free." Bonnie quickly takes it from her hands, ignoring a rude glare from her sister.

  "This particular bar is perfect for stress relief," Bonnie says. "I use it a lot." She tilts her head toward Mary Frances.

  Bree looks through merchandise, ignoring Mary Frances. She studies the white and green layers of a soap slice meant to resemble lime and coconut cream pie. Bree smells the slice and nods. She moves on to the cupcakes and runs her fingers over the firm frostings. Some are even glittery.

  "Orange and sweet rose, classic birthday cake, strawberries and champagne, cranberry spice… How do you make the tops look like frosting?" Bree asks. She holds a classic birthday cupcake soap in the palm of her hand. The base of it is rainbow colored with a tall swirl of glimmering vanilla soap frosting.

  "A trick of the trade," Bonnie says. "We thickened our mixture just enough to pipe it from a pastry bag. It's not so different from baking."

  "Only you can't eat the finished product," I add. "Maybe you should look into soaping, Bree."

  "It would solve my little muffin-top problem," she comments, pinching the sides of her hips. "I need to get rid of the extra spreadage."

  "Have you tried matcha green tea?" Bonnie says lowly. She glances back at her sister, who shakes her head while adding up the cash in her lock box. "It worked well for a friend of mine."

  "Yes." Bree sighs and looks at me. "I ended up using the powder to make homemade ice cream. That doesn't count, does it?"

  I cover my mouth with my hand to keep myself from laughing.

  "Oh, I bet it was delicious." Bonnie smiles, flashing a row of teeth the shade of lemon buttercream.

  "It was." Bree seizes the opportunity and continues chatting. I glance behind the table and notice that Mary Frances is blinking repeatedly. A nervous tick? "Though the person I made it for didn't care for it much." Bree glances at me and half-covers her mouth like she's revealing to Bonnie a closely guarded secret. "I was trying to replace her late night lattes with something a bit softer. Someone's a little too into the coffee, if you know what I mean."

  "Bonnie," I cut in, "did you know the man they found today?"

  "The dead one?" She shrugs. "Not exactly."

  Mary Frances stops counting. She shoves the rest of her change back into her lockbox and stands still, listening.

  "Did he come to your booth at all?" I ask, remembering that Karl mentioned seeing him near their soap table yesterday. "You know, before he was found?"

  "You mean, did we have something to do with it?" Mary Frances barks. She nudges her sister aside and steps in front of her. "How can you come over here and ask such things? You should be ashamed of yourself."

  "Mary Frances—"

  "Call me Miss Tanner," she insists.

  "Miss Tanner," I correct myself. "We're not saying that you had anything to do with it. It was just a question."

  "I don't come over to your booth asking if you're serving substandard pastries." Mary Frances raises her chin, flexing her feet so that she's standing taller than Bree and I. "Now, quit pestering us. We have work to do."

  "Right." I nod, keeping her attention as Bree snags a rogue business card from the table. "Sorry to bother you, ladies."

  Bree joins me as I speed walk back to our side of the field. She shows me a business card with a phone number and web address—Sweet T Soaps & Co.

  Karl puts out more product even though the line at our booth is dwindling. Next to a stand of wind chimes and birdbaths, the girl from the Southern Charms jewelry stand is sulking behind a display of silver charms.

  "That went well," Bree mutters.

  "Care to try one more time?"

  Bree watches as Karl taps his foot, glancing at the time.

  "Maybe you should go solo on this one," she suggests. "If I don't get back to the pastries, Karl might rearrange them again. This time in order of acidity or something strange like that."

  "Okay." I head toward the Southern Charms tent on my own. The girl with cotton candy hair looks up at me. Each lock of her hair alternates between a soft blue and cotton candy pink. All together her wavy locks look weirdly edible.

  "Hi," she says in a monotone voice. "I'm Tallulah. Feel free to look through what I still have out. The cops are making me close up early." She gestures toward her display of sterling silver charms with chains of varying sizes and colors.

  "Actually," I spot a charm in the shape of ballet shoes, "I'm working over at the pastry booth. I just came to see if you were okay."

  "Oh." Tallulah rubs the side of her arm. Her tank top shows off her tan lines. "That's nice of you."

  "It's not every day you find a dead body slumped over a bowl of dessert at a farmers' market." It's a partial lie, seeing as I found a body my first semester at Calle Pastry Academy and again in Paris.

  "I don't know if I'll ever get over that," Tallulah responds. She bites the side of her lip to stop it from quivering. I wish I could give her some tips or tricks on how to move past seeing what s
he saw. But I can't. I still have nightmares about it sometimes.

  "Would a complimentary blueberry scone help?"

  "No." She frowns, gazing across the field at the booths of fresh produce on the other end of the field. "Biscuits over at the boiled peanut stand already brought me some of his leftovers. I took one bite, and it almost came back up. I'll be off of food for a while." Tallulah slinks down even lower in her chair. She wipes underneath her eyes, smudging her heavy black eyeliner.

  "What happened exactly? If you don't mind me asking?"

  Tallulah glances at me and takes a deep breath.

  "There's not much to tell," she replies. "My boyfriend has been pestering me about buying a new TV. I thought I'd call him before the lunchers came through the concession tents. He's been texting me pictures of one all morning." She pauses to wipe the black smear underneath her eyes. "Biscuits said he would keep an eye on my booth while I stepped away. The reception here sucks. I headed toward the seating tent, and that's when I saw him." She sniffles. "I thought he was sleeping at first." Another tear rolls down her cheek, ruining more of her eye makeup.

  "And he was alone?" I ask.

  "Yes, he was alone." She gulps. "The sun reflected on something shiny. When I saw that it was a knife, I knew he wasn't sleeping. That's when I screamed." Tallulah runs her fingers through her colored hair and rests her hands on her cheeks. She rubs the sides of her face, pulling back skin so that she looks like a Botoxed socialite. She's having an inner freak out.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "That's not a sight anyone wants to see."

  "And it had to be me," she finishes.

  "Wrong place, Wrong time." I smile, trying to lighten the mood by carrying on as usual. I pick up the charm of ballet shoes and dangle it in front of me. "I like this one."

  "I'll give you a discount if you want it," Tallulah replies. "I get lots of lookers but not a lot of buyers around here. Not unless I'm running some kind of sale."

  "I suppose sweets are different." I pick out a chain to match and hold it against my chest. "They seem to sell no matter what. Or maybe it's the cooking demos we've been doing."

  "Then you get the people who look-look-look but never buy," Tallulah goes on. She rolls her eyes. "Like Bonnie and Mary Frances. Cheapskates. I told them if they drove all the way here from Louisiana they might as well buy. Who knows if they'll ever find another charm in the shape of a ball of yarn and knitting needles again?"