CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They all took their seats behind their creations, ready to explain a detail or answer a question about ingredients choices or techniques. When the judges arrived at their table, all eyes seemed to turn to them. They were the favorites and had already taken two of the categories.
This could be the third and one of the largest outside of the wedding cakes.
“Sara, you and your team never disappoint,” laughed Milton. “I cannot believe how realistic this is. And what a surprise! Finally some ingenuity in gingerbread. Not just the same old cute house or winter wonderland. This proves that holidays can be festive all over the world.”
“Thank you, Milton,” she smiled. A few of the other judges asked some questions but for the most part, they were smiling the entire time, filled with compliments. When the judges moved on, Adrian walked down to their table.
“Oh, wow,” he whispered. “Sara, this is magnificent. I mean, I’ve seen some of your team’s creations in the past but this, no pun intended, literally takes the cake. Holy shit. How did you get that alligator so detailed?”
“We’ve seen a few in our time,” she smirked. “Yours is amazing as well, Adrian. You look to be short a team member. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, well, that was my first problem of the day. My person who is responsible for the sugar work didn’t show up. When I called her, she said that she didn’t want to be a part of the competition any longer.”
“Why?” frowned Casey.
“She’s scared, honey. All of us are scared.”
“I can see that,” said Janie. There was a scream and loud gasps, everyone turning to see what happened. The entire village of one table had collapsed, the table beneath folding under the weight of the village.
It had been a massive construction of Santa’s village, with a working Ferris wheel, rollercoaster, and elves in flying sleighs. Now, it was a mess of broken cookies and sugar, buried beneath gumdrops and candy canes.
“Oh, no,” whispered Sara. She made her way to the table, kneeling beside the head baker. “Marcia, what can I do to help?”
The woman looked up with tears in her eyes and shook her head, grateful the compassion of one person at least.
“Nothing,” she said. “At this point there’s nothing that can be done. Hours, Sara. You know. Hours and hours of work here all for it to collapse.”
Rett kneeled beside the table and frowned.
“Is something wrong?” asked Sara.
“Yes. The screws have been removed from the table supports. I’m surprised it didn’t collapse sooner,” he frowned.
“Wh-what?” paled Marcia. “How? How could this have happened?”
“Milton?” called Sara. He turned to stare at them, walking slowly in their direction with his trusty clipboard. “Milton, this was sabotage. She should be allowed to recreate her village.”
“Sara, we can’t prove that. The screws could have fallen out during set-up or maybe it’s just an old table. It’s up to the bakers to inspect the tables.”
“I did!” said Marcia. “This table was perfectly solid last night. Nothing was wrong with it.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no time to allow you to recreate this piece. We can tell it would have been beautiful,” he frowned. “But baking all the pieces, allowing them to cool, the decorating, you’re looking at another three or four days, maybe even a week.”
“He’s right,” frowned Marcia. She picked up a piece of the Ferris wheel, taking a bite and she laughed. “Well, it was good.”
Sara gave her a sad smile as her team began cleaning up the mess.
“It’s not fair,” she whispered to Wilson. “Someone sabotaged that table. I just know it.”
Wilson and the others stared at the faces, at least a dozen bakers had left the competition already, some because of losses, some because of fear. The competition was dwindling fast.
When they were called to the stage for the announcement of the winners, Sara noted that Marcia was already gone.
“Is she okay?” she asked her assistant.
“No. She said she was sick to her stomach,” she frowned. “Poor thing. She’s been in these competitions for years and she really thought this would be the one she would at least place in.”
“The work looked beautiful,” said Janie. “You should all be very proud.”
“We are,” she nodded.
Several honorable mentions were given and then specific prizes for best design, best flavor, and most festive. When the awards sat gleaming on the dais, they all held their breaths.
“In third place, with a design of the famous New Orleans streetcars, is Adrian Vale!” Adrian practically squealed with delight.
He didn’t think they’d have a chance missing their sugar girl.
He smiled the entire time he accepted the award, waved to everyone and walked into the crowd to hug Sara and her team.
“In second place, Pain Magnifique from Giverny, France!” The baker smiled a polite smile, nodding at everyone, but the disappointment in his face was palpable.
Wilson looked at the other men, as if to say, ‘he’s one to watch’.
“And finally, with a design and display that can only be described bayou magic, Crescent City Bakery!”
“Oh, my God,” whispered Taylor. “We won. We won!”
The women screamed so loud, laughter ripped through the audience as they ran toward the stage.
“Well done, ladies. It seems you are more than on your game this year,” smiled Milton.
“Thank you,” grinned Sara. She walked away, a whiff of something passing through her nostrils. She stared at the people around her but said nothing.
Back at the table, the girls were whispering to one another when the men returned.
“What’s wrong? You won,” smiled Luke.
“We did but something isn’t right,” said Celia.
“What now?” asked Gator.
“When we walked off the stage, there was a smell, something we shouldn’t be smelling.”
“Like what? And how the hell could you smell anything except gingerbread and icing?” frowned Elias.
“It was a pungent odor, more like eucalyptus or something woodsy,” frowned Dylan.
“Maybe it was a man’s cologne,” said Luke.
“No. No, I know that odor,” said Sara. “We all do. It was Jamaican ginger.”
“Okay. This was a gingerbread contest. Shouldn’t you have smelled that?” asked Rett.
“You don’t understand. There is a variety of it that contains high quantities of something called tri-ortho-cresyl-phosphate,” said Sara.
“Say what?” frowned Tailor.
“It causes paralysis. We never use it in baking because if it’s the wrong variety, you can easily kill someone.”