Chapter 15
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery looks like a patriotic tornado hit it and then decided to stay for coffee—despite the dark turn this week has taken.
It’s late afternoon the day before July Fourth, and we’ve just survived a pre-holiday baked goods stampede.
Our display cases are wiped out—completely bare except for a few crumbs and the lingering scent of vanilla frosting and panic.
Everyone paid, which I appreciate, but they cleaned us out like they had a personal vendetta against cupcakes.
I’m wiping down the counter for the fifteenth time today, trying to erase the evidence of what happens when an entire town decides they need dessert to survive Independence Day. Honestly? I can’t blame them.
Holiday frosting has embedded itself in places frosting should never go, and I’m pretty sure there are star-shaped sprinkles in my hair that aren’t leaving until Christmas. Meanwhile, I’m scrubbing countertops while Cooper chases leads.
“If one more person asks me if our freedom cookies actually taste like liberty, I’m renaming them mind-your-business biscuits,” Lottie says, emerging from the kitchen with flour in her caramel hair and the look of a baker who’s spent all day explaining that cookies don’t have political affiliations.
She wishes.
“At least they’re not asking you to make a cake shaped like Mount Rushmore,” Suze grumbles, stacking empty cake boxes. “For a backyard barbecue, no less. Because apparently, nothing says cookout like four presidential faces melting in the sun.”
“Did you make the Mount Rushmore cake?” Lily asks, pausing mid-wipe to stare at Suze with a mix of horror and admiration.
Suze is not what you’d call a cake artist. There are entire social media accounts dedicated to her efforts.
Some of her work has even made it onto Cake Horror Stories, which probably explains why her cakes do surprisingly well around Halloween.
Lottie really shouldn’t have let her stray past the cash register.
“Are you insane?” Suze snorts. “I told them they could have a sheet cake with a flag or find another bakery. Some of us have limits, and carving nostrils is one of mine.”
I’ve carved dicier body parts. And honestly? Lottie shouldn’t have let me wander past the cash register either.
“Speaking of limits,” Lottie says, surveying our decimated inventory, “I think we’re officially sold out of everything except those three lonely cupcakes and whatever’s left of the Founding Fathers fritters.”
The three cupcakes in question sit in the display case like they’ve accepted their fate, their star-spangled frosting holding on for dear life.
“I heard the hardware store hired a professional decorator for their booth,” Lily says, going after a stubborn streak of strawberry frosting on one of the café tables.
“Which tracks, since they built half the booths out here. Rumor has it, they’ve got enough bunting to wrap the entire lake and a sound system that could summon the Founding Fathers. ”
“Great,” I mutter, wondering if our craft store explosion of supplies will be enough to compete with professional-level booth decoration. “No pressure or anything.”
“We’ll be fine,” Lottie says, even though the look on her face suggests otherwise. “Our booth has something theirs doesn’t—actual food that people want to eat. And Effie’s creative decorating vision.”
The way she says creative makes it sound like she’s trying to put a positive spin on potential disaster, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.
“I’ve decorated so many flag cakes this week, I’m seeing stars and stripes in my sleep,” Suze growls, hanging up her apron like she’s officially done with patriotism for the year. “If I never see another red, white, and blue anything, it’ll be too soon.”
“You say that now,” Lily says with a grin, “but tomorrow you’ll be right back here making star-spangled scones for the breakfast rush with the rest of us.”
“Don’t remind me,” Suze groans.
For a moment, the bakery almost feels peaceful. Afternoon sun spills through the windows, the espresso machine hums, and the place smells like vanilla and cinnamon instead of chaos. It creates an atmosphere that almost makes you forget someone dropped dead at the festival last week.
And yet, it’s one of those rare moments in my life when everything feels normal—no dead bodies, no investigations. No Uncle Jimmy sending me on side quests. Just a long day, a clean counter, and a job that ends with people fed instead of eliminated.
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
The bakery door bursts open with enough force to rattle the last of the cupcakes, and Niki charges in like she’s being chased by something with teeth and claws. Watson barrels in beside her, his flag bandana askew, and his tail wagging like he’s just seen the event of the century.
“Effie!” Niki gasps. “Are you ready for some real fireworks?”
“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” I point out, bending down to scratch Watson behind the ears as he presses against my legs with what feels like relief. “And according to tradition, the fireworks don’t start until dusk.”
“Not those fireworks,” Niki says, her eyes bright with an excitement that never ends well. “I just saw Nona Jo and Loretta Lasagna walk into Flip’s restaurant down the street.”
“Stromboli, Niki,” I correct automatically. “Her name is Loretta Siracha. Or Salamander. Or possibly Sassafras. I can never keep it straight either.”
Watson barks like he has thoughts on the name confusion, then settles at my feet to scan for fallen treats.
“Whatever her name is,” Niki continues, pulling out her phone in haste, “she and Nona Jo just walked into Flip’s place at the same time. From opposite directions. Sort of like a standoff at high noon.”
Lottie, Suze, and Lily have all gone still, clearly sensing whatever’s about to happen will beat scrubbing frosting off counters.
“So?” I ask, already feeling that familiar drop in my stomach that usually means family chaos is incoming.
“So?” Niki stares at me like I’ve missed something obvious. “Two women, one man, an enclosed space with breakable objects and witnesses. Do the math, Effie.”
She’s already typing furiously on her phone, with thumbs flying over the screen.
“Who are you texting?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know.
“Aunt Cat and Carlotta,” Niki says without looking up. “Code red at Flip’s. We need backup.”
Watson lets out a soft whine, like he already knows he’s about to get drafted.
“Why do we need backup for two women having dinner?” I ask and immediately regret it.
Niki looks up. “Because they’re not having dinner, Effie.
They’re headed straight for ground zero.
And when the explosion happens, we want to be there to manage the fallout.
Or at least be entertained by the show.” She thinks about it for a second.
“And maybe get some live footage,” she adds with a grin that lets me know it was her plan all along.
On the bright side, she has a good chance of going viral with it.
Lottie glances at the clock and then at our empty display cases. “Go,” she says, making an executive decision based on the potential felony brewing. “I’ll close up early. Your presence alone could save your family a fortune in legal fees.”
Watson pops to his feet like he’s been waiting for this exact moment and heads for the door, fully convinced chaos means snacks.
He’s right on both counts.
“Come on,” Niki says, heading out. “If we hurry, we might beat the first punch.”
Some days end with quiet satisfaction and a job well done. Other days end with emergency family interventions at local restaurants where two Italian women are about to throw hands over a diner owner.
Today has chosen violence.