Chapter 3 #3
Besides, if I’ve learned anything from my years of stumbling over bodies, it’s that making friends is always preferable to making enemies—especially when one of them might be harboring murderous tendencies and access to sharp implements.
An hour flies by faster than my patience during a toddler tantrum, and I’ve got my first dessert cooling when I realize I’m missing a crucial ingredient for the glaze that’ll make or break my entire presentation.
Cardamom.
Not the pre-ground stuff that’s been sitting on a shelf since the Nixon administration, but fresh, aromatic pods that will elevate my cinnamon rolls from delicious to write-home-to-your-mama spectacular and possibly cause religious experiences.
I scan the bustling ballroom, looking for any sign of Everett or Noah among the chaos of competing bakers and wandering spectators. And to my delight I spot them by the kitchen entry, deep in conversation with the intensity of two men planning a military operation.
Everett’s courtroom drama face is on full display—serious, thoughtful, and impossibly handsome in that infuriating way that makes women walk into walls when he passes. And Noah’s dimples are nowhere to be seen. His expression is tense as he speaks as if he were delivering some seriously bad news.
I weave through the crowd, giving a quick once-over to my display like a proud parent checking on their children. The marzipan roses are arranged in delicate clusters, ready to charm judges and competitors alike with their innocent beauty and complete lack of homicidal intent.
“Hey, you two,” I say, hugging first Noah, then lingering a moment in Everett’s embrace because sometimes a girl needs comfort from someone who smells like expensive cologne and good decisions.
“Plotting world domination, or just the usual who has the most brooding expression contest? Because if it’s the latter, it’s a dead heat. ”
“Hey, Lot.” Noah’s face relaxes into a smile that makes his dimples reappear like the sun breaking through storm clouds. “Just catching up on some business. And I have to say, those marzipan roses are works of art. You’re knocking it out of the park and probably into the next county.”
“Don’t worry, Lemon. We’ve been keeping an eye on things,” Everett adds as his hand finds the small of my back in that familiar, comforting way. “How are you holding up?”
“Peachy, except I need to make a quick cardamom run,” I tell them with the enthusiasm of heading to the grocery store during a zombie apocalypse.
“The kitchen through the back has the good stuff, and my glaze depends on it.” I give them both my most winning smile powered by powdered sugar.
“I’ll be right back before you can say baking disaster that requires the fire department and maybe an exorcist.”
I hurry into the surprisingly quiet kitchen facility, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of the competition floor. The industrial space gleams with stainless steel and purpose, like an operating room for food instead of humans, assuming the food has signed all the appropriate consent forms.
I head straight for the back where spices and specialty ingredients are stored like the precious artifacts they are, mentally rehearsing the measurements for my glaze with the focus of someone performing brain surgery. A teaspoon of this, a pinch of that, and—
My foot catches on something unexpectedly solid. Something that shouldn’t be on the floor of a professional kitchen where health codes are supposedly enforced. Something that feels suspiciously like dead weight with a side of really bad timing.
I look down, expecting to see a sack of flour that some careless prep cook dropped and forgot.
But it’s not flour.
It’s a body. A body with familiar over-processed blonde hair and a bright orange spray tan.
A body wearing a bright blue apron now stained with a dark red splash directly over the heart.
And clutched in her perfectly manicured hand—the one with the engagement ring the size of a small planet—are several of my delicate marzipan roses, now crushed and stained with what I really hope is strawberry jam but probably isn’t.
Jolene Nelson won’t have to worry about being accused of stealing recipes anymore. She’s moved on to a place where copyright infringement is the least of her concerns.
A spray of miniature stars explodes above the body as the ghost of that Elvis impersonator materializes like a sequined guardian angel with his white jumpsuit gleaming in the harsh kitchen light with the intensity of a small sun.
He bows his head solemnly as a single tear tracks down his spectral face before he vanishes as suddenly as he appears, leaving behind only the faint scent of pomade and existential dread.
The scream that tears from my throat is primal, echoing off the shiny surfaces of the kitchen like the world’s most terrifying sound check.
Murder, it seems, has officially entered the competition. And once again, I’ve just been awarded the blue ribbon for worst timing in the culinary cosmos and possibly the entire universe.
Jolene Nelson is dead.