Chapter 28 #2
Berky throws up her hands. “Do not ask me how they did it. One lower quadrant of the cake was melted. Maybe it was something underneath the table that was radiating heat, which was then discreetly removed. I have even wondered if it was a laser. I know how mad that sounds, but if you had seen the perfection of this cake!”
“Did you ask Whitney about it? It was in her custody, after all.”
“We discussed it a great deal, of course. She was as mystified as I.”
“So you’re quite sure it couldn’t have been her?” Alexandru inquires politely.
Berky rears back as if struck. “Whitney?! Mais non! Whitney was as shocked and horrified as I was, defending me to high heaven. She, too, believed it was sabotage. We have worked together for many years now. We are great supporters of each other. It was not her.”
Alexandru leans in. “We heard a strange rumor about her recently. This person believes she sabotaged chairs at the Schmidt Mansion.”
“The chairs! Pfft! That was Schmidt Mansion mismanagement. They have a history of such things—chandelier bulbs burning, a refrigerator left unplugged. Thank goodness it did not contain a cake of mine, but a certain wine steward was livid. They have a history of negligence. I am sorry, Harriet, I know Denny Cole is a good friend of Granabelle, but he is a lazy oaf.”
“The person who gave us this information told us that Whitney sabotaged the chairs because of a fight she had with the owner of the Schmidt Mansion.”
“Reggie Schmidt.” She practically growls the name out. “That man is a jackass to be sure. If you are not one to kiss his hairy ass, he goes out of his way to make things hard.”
“So he made things hard for Whitney?” Alexandru asks, weirdly more polite to her than anybody else.
“Oui, absolument. But I cannot imagine her stooping to sabotage. And she would certainly have no cause to destroy my cake. I would trust her with even the most elaborate of cakes, whereas Denny? Again, such an oaf.”
“Can you think of anybody else who could’ve done this?” I ask.
Her brow furrows. “I cannot.”
“What is your relationship with Kip Kidderson like?” I ask.
“Le playboy du bar à champagne,” she says with a sniff. “Could he do such a thing? Kip is too busy fixing his hair and hitting on girls to do anything requiring ingenuity.”
“What about Valerie Johnson?” Alexandru asks. “She works with Richardson Photography. Do you have any thoughts about her?”
“Valerie? With the brightly colored fashion glasses?” Berky frowns. “You do not imagine she would do it?”
I check my spreadsheet. “Valerie didn’t even photograph that wedding,” I say to Alexandru. “It was Roy LaRue and Bo Richardson. Which means Valerie would’ve been at a different wedding with Manny or one of the other assistants.”
“What is your interest in all this?” Berky asks.
I smile. “Just concerned citizens.”
“Concerned about my cake?”
“It may be more than just your cake. Have you noticed there seem to be a lot of accidents at area weddings?”
Berky’s eyes widen. “Like when that poor bridegroom went off the balcony?”
“Yes. And the champagne tower collapse, the confetti cannon, the dance floor cave-in at Creighton Arms...”
“Mon dieu,” she says.
“If there’s a connection, we want to figure it out. Let me know if you think of anything more.”
I pick out some croissants for Mom and Granabelle, and Berky directs her young charges, who have returned to their posts, to pack them up.
We head down the sidewalk past Sloane Cunningham’s fussypants emporium, that is the Aster Press.
“Dude, I didn’t know you could eat things! I thought you couldn’t. Aside from… you know.”
“I can taste,” he says, glancing at the box with the rum baba. “But food turns to ash in my mouth, so I prefer not to.”
“Actual ash?”
“It feels like it.”
“That was still really nice of you. To try it.”
“It was no hardship. I could tell it would be good. And it was. For a brief moment.”
I gaze over at him discreetly. Did he sound sad just then? Does he wish he could eat it? Does he hate being a monster?
“What is it?”
“What is what?” I ask innocently.
“You’re holding something back.”
“Please with the mind-meld.”
“You have something to say. You will say it.”
I turn to him as we walk. I want to ask him everything. “Do you miss food?”
“I miss looking forward to it,” he says. “The distraction it offered. That satisfied feeling of being full.”
“But not eating?”
“Of course I miss that, too.”
Something tells me not to press him on this. “What did you think about Berky, in terms of her answers?”
“No hesitation. No deception. Her cake was sabotaged. She is convinced of it. I tend to believe her.”
“Me too. When I was doing my online research, I read somewhere that when a cake fails, an experienced baker knows exactly why it failed.”
He nods.
“Very loyal to Whitney.”
“There’s a warrior in that woman. She sees Whitney as an ally, and she’d fight to the death for her.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “She’d be devastated to learn it was Whitney.”
“I’m even more interested in what this Denny has to say now.”
“Same. Though he’s notoriously ill-tempered, so it won’t be easy getting him to talk.”
“Perhaps not for you.”
“But we’re not playing hardball, remember?” I remind him. “We’re going to enlist Granabelle’s help. And... umm... that’s where we’re going right now.”
“To see your grandmother?”
“And my mother. We’re going to the antique store my family owns. It’s called Mrs. Morgan’s Curios. They’ll both be there, and they want to meet you. It’s just a few blocks up on the other side of the park. Do you think you’re okay to walk? Will your outfit keep you safe from the sun?”
“Absolutely.” He puts on his hat and gloves, and we set off.
“Mrs. Morgan is your grandmother, then?” he asks.
“The Mrs. Morgan of Mrs. Morgan’s Curios was actually my great-grandmother. She started the shop almost a hundred years ago. And I swear to god, I better not catch you looking at either of their necks.”