Chapter 22 Lottie
LOTTIE
The Bellanova’s Grand Ballroom on finals day makes the preliminary rounds look like a kindergarten cupcake contest where everyone gets a participation ribbon and juice boxes.
The lighting has been cranked up to televised sporting event levels—the kind that shows every pore, wrinkle, and nervous sweat bead in merciless high-definition that would make a supermodel reach for concealer and possibly a paper bag. And how I wish I had both.
Camera crews buzz between stations like hummingbirds, capturing every flour spill and butter mishap for the viewing pleasure of America’s couch-bound culinary critics.
The air smells like a bakery and butcher shop had a baby—sugar and spice battling with savory herbs and roasting meats in an aromatic cage match.
The noise level rivals a stock exchange during a market crash with whisks clanging against metal bowls, knives rat-tatting against cutting boards, and the occasional expletive when someone realizes they’ve forgotten a crucial ingredient.
Underneath it all runs the constant hum of the ventilation system desperately trying to prevent the room from reaching rainforest levels of humidity.
My cinnamon rolls are prepped and ready to go with the dough rising under a clean kitchen towel like a carb-heavy security blanket. And I have exactly eighteen minutes before they need to go into the oven, which gives me just enough time for some strategic sleuthing.
I wipe my hands on my apron and casually make my way toward Sherry Smoot’s station.
The fiery redhead is bent over her workstation, piping intricate designs onto what appears to be a bourbon-infused cake.
Her freckles stand out against skin pale with concentration, and her emerald green eyes narrow as she executes a particularly complex frosting flourish.
“That’s some impressive piping,” I say, sidling up to her station with my best fellow competitor smile. “Your detailed work makes me want to throw my pastry bag in the trash and take up a less demanding hobby. Like nuclear physics or brain surgery.”
Sherry looks up with a genuine smile momentarily replacing her intense focus. “Thanks. Your cinnamon rolls smell divine, by the way. I caught a whiff during proofing and nearly sabotaged my own entry to steal yours.”
“Now that’s a compliment.” We share a quick laugh. I leave out the part about my cakes and marzipan roses that are still a work in progress.
The air beside us suddenly sparkles with familiar pink and blue stars, materializing into Ray-Ray Tupowski with his perfect timing. His white jumpsuit today features even more rhinestones, if such a thing is possible in this dimension or the next.
“Good morning, sugar cube!” he croons, floating partially through Sherry’s display stand in a way that would be alarming if anyone else could see it.
“Big day! Finals day! A-one and a-two and—” He breaks into an impromptu rendition of “It’s Now or Never” before I can stop him, and I’ll admit, the distraction is welcome.
I maintain my smile at Sherry, trying to ignore the ghostly Elvis doing vocal warm-ups beside us.
“Can you believe what’s at stake today?” I ask, letting my genuine nervous excitement show. “The winner gets featured in Pastry Monthly and named America’s Premier Bakery for a full year.”
“And a permanent spot in the Culinary Hall of Fame,” Sherry adds, her eyes gleaming with the kind of ambition that could either inspire greatness or lead to homicide.
“Not to mention exclusive rights to supply pastries to the White House holiday gala. This isn’t just about money—it’s about legacy and possibly immortality in the form of presidential dessert contracts. ”
“Legacy,” I repeat, watching her face carefully. “Is that why you entered? To build your legacy?”
Her face twitches as I say the words and I wonder if it’s pride, determination, or even maybe a hint of desperation.
“Absolutely, I’m out to build my legacy,” she says with a little laugh.
“Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice isn’t just a bakery—it’s my life’s work.
I’ve poured everything into creating unique, original recipes that showcase Oklahoma’s finest ingredients. ”
Ray-Ray floats between us, his spectral eyebrow raised. “Original? That’s stretching the truth thinner than my jumpsuit after Thanksgiving dinner, sugar.”
I clear my throat. “Speaking of original recipes... I heard some interesting rumors about Jolene Nelson.”
Sherry’s hands freeze mid-pipe, a tiny drop of frosting hanging precariously from her pastry bag. “What kind of rumors?”
“That she was planning to expose some uncomfortable truths about certain competitors,” I say carefully.
“Something about artificial ingredients being used in bakeries marketed as all-natural and organic?” I blink her way, trying my best to maintain a faux level of innocence, but I have a feeling we both know what direction this is heading in.
The frosting drop falls, landing with a tiny splat on her pristine workspace. Her eyes narrow to emerald slits. “Where did you hear that?”
“Vegas is a small town when it comes to competition gossip,” I say with a shrug. “Is it true? Was Jolene threatening to expose you?”
Ray-Ray circles Sherry like a bedazzled shark. “She’s hiding something juicier than a fresh Georgia peach, honeybun! Look at those shifty eyes!”
Sherry’s gaze darts left, then right, confirming Ray-Ray’s assessment with eerie accuracy.
She leans my way and her voice drops to a near-whisper.
“Between us? Jolene was a blackmailing witch. She found out I’ve been using artificial vanilla in my all-natural baked goods when organic vanilla prices skyrocketed last year.
She threatened to go public unless I withdrew from the competition.
We both know I wasn’t the only one doing it. ”
That may be true, but I wouldn’t be caught dead lying to my customers about my ingredients in any manner.
“Is that why you did it?” I ask, my voice equally low. “Is that why you killed her?”
Sherry’s eyes widen to the size of dessert plates.
“I—what? No!” She looks genuinely shocked, her freckles standing out even more starkly against her suddenly bloodless face.
“I didn’t kill her! I wanted to throttle her, sure, but murder?
That’s taking competitive baking to a whole new level of crazy, even for me. ”
“But she ripped off your cookbook,” I press, because once you start interrogating potential murderers, you might as well go all the way. “Word for word in some places. And she was threatening to ruin your reputation. Sounds like double motive with a side of justifiable homicide to me.”
“That’s why I secured a top-notch attorney last week,” Sherry says, her composure returning as she dabs at the fallen frosting as if trying to clean up evidence.
“I was going to sue her into oblivion for copyright infringement and emotional distress. But I guess now I won’t be needing legal representation.
” A shadow passes over her face. “At least, not for that.”
Ray-Ray floats upside down to peer into her face. “She’s telling the truth, sugar plum. This ginger snap didn’t do the deed. Her soul is cleaner than my white jumpsuit—and honey, I dry clean that thing daily on the other side.”
Before I can respond, a timer dings sharply at Sherry’s station.
She jumps slightly, then checks her watch.
“I need to get back to my sweet treats,” she says, already refocusing on her cake with the determination of someone who’s just confessed to fraud but not homicide.
She glances meaningfully at my station. “And you should get those rolls in the oven, Lottie. Would be a shame to come this far only to serve raw dough to the judges and America’s viewing public. ”
“Good luck,” I say, meaning it despite my suspicious mind. “May the best baker win.”
“Same to you,” she replies with a tight smile that suggests friendly competition mixed with relief that our conversation is over. “Although if you keep investigating murders instead of watching your oven, my chances improve significantly.”
I turn to head back to my station, my mind spinning with new information and the realization that my suspect list is getting shorter while my time is running out.
If Sherry didn’t kill Jolene, that narrows my options considerably and forces me to consider other possibilities that might be more dangerous.
Ray-Ray seems convinced of her innocence, and my ghostly advisor has a pretty good track record when it comes to reading people.
“She’s in the clear,” Ray-Ray confirms, floating alongside me like a rhinestone-covered conscience.
“But someone in this room isn’t, sugar cube.
The killer’s here, watching every move, cool as a cucumber in a snowstorm.
” He pauses to strike a dramatic pose that would make Elvis proud.
“My Jolene-y deserves justice, and Dirty Joe, too!”
“I’m working on it,” I mutter under my breath, careful to keep my lips from moving too obviously. The last thing I need is to be caught on national television talking to thin air. The Batty Baker headlines practically write themselves.
As I round the corner toward my station, I collide with an immovable object—that’s definitely not following the laws of physics when it comes to center of gravity.
My hands shoot out instinctively to steady the blonde woman who’s now teetering slightly off-balance, her impressive baby bump preceding her like the prow of a ship.
“Margo!” I practically shout, recognizing the woman I met on the first day of competition when everything was simpler and multiple corpses weren’t involved or I started taking investigative advice from dead Elvis impersonators. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she assures me with a laugh and one hand resting protectively on her belly. “The little one is well-cushioned in there. Although if I go into labor during the finals, I’m naming the baby after your winning dessert.”
“Cinnamon Roll does have a certain ring to it,” I tease.
She laughs, a genuine sound that cuts through the tense competition atmosphere. “I came to cheer you on as promised. Between you and me, I’ve been craving cinnamon rolls this entire pregnancy, so I’m a bit biased in your favor.”
“I’ll take support wherever I can get it,” I tell her gratefully.
“Three previous pregnancies have made me a certified dessert expert,” she confirms with mock seriousness. “The baby bump is basically a culinary credential at this point.”
Ray-Ray floats curiously around Margo, studying her with unusual intensity. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shakes his head and zips away through the nearest wall, his rhinestones leaving a trail of sparkles that only I can see.
“I guess I should get back to it,” I say, gesturing toward my station. “But save room for a victory sample later?”
“I’ve been saving room for nine months.” Margo pats her bump with a grin. “You’ve got this, Lottie.”
“Do you need anything?” I ask, suddenly conscious of how long she’s been standing. “A chair? Water? A team of sherpas to help carry that impressive bump?” I tease good-naturedly. “Because heaven knows I could have used one a few weeks back.”
She laughs and waves off my concern. “Oh no, my husband Charlie is here working the room—I could always ask him. Although I sort of popped in to surprise him, too.” She glances around somewhat nervously like she’s not entirely sure this surprise is welcome.
“He’s not so keen on me visiting him at work, so I try to lay low, or at least as much as I can with this built-in shelf preceding me everywhere I go. ”
“Oh? Is your husband competing, too?” I ask, mentally scanning through the male contestants I’ve encountered and trying to remember if any of them mentioned pregnant wives.
“No, he’s the MC,” she says with a touch of pride.
I blink back at her, my brain momentarily shorting out like a mixer dropped in dishwater. “But the MC is Chuck Longnecker.”
The woman nods, her smile warm with affection and completely oblivious to the bombshell she’s just dropped on my already overloaded mental processing system.
“That’s my Charlie—always turning up the charm.
He works too hard, but that’s how he climbed the ladder so quickly at the Bellanova.
” She pats her belly once more like she’s reassuring the baby about their father’s work ethic.
“I should circle back to my seat before the next round starts. Good luck!”
She waddles away with surprising speed for someone in her third trimester, leaving me frozen in place, my jaw slightly unhinged, and my brain trying to process information that changes everything.
“He has a wife!” I gasp at Ray-Ray, who zooms up next to me. “A very pregnant wife! Not to mention three kids at home!”
Ray-Ray’s ghostly eyebrows shoot toward his spectral pompadour. “And the plot thickens faster than pudding on a hot stove, sugar cube.”
Chuck Longnecker has got himself a pregnant wife and a dead fiancée.
Now that’s what I call a complicated love life.