“All right, everyone,” Savvy announces, her smile bright under the stage lights. “Let’s take a quick break. Please help yourselves to some of the gorgeous desserts on display. I promise they taste even better than they look. Mingle, network, and don’t forget to try those ghost cake pops.They’re to die for!”
The crowd disperses toward the refreshment table with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been promised free sugar, and I spot my opportunity. Savvy stands alone on the stage, gathering her notes and props with the efficient movements of someone who’s done this dance before.
Time to have a little chat with suspect number one.
CHAPTER 9
Nothing says productive murder investigation like cornering your prime suspect while she’s still glowing from a standing ovation.
The Princess Pavilion buzzes with post-presentation energy as autumn sunlight filters through the canopy of sugar maples overhead, casting everything in that golden glow that makes even potential killers look photogenic. The scent of cinnamon and brown sugar mingles with pine needles and the distant aroma of caramel apples, while the sound of chattering bakers creates a backdrop that’s equal parts cozy and chaotic.
I make my move toward the stage with the determination of a theme park owner who’s already found one body this week and would prefer to solve this case before stumbling across another one.
“Savvy!” I call out, climbing the steps with what I hope passes for casual enthusiasm instead of amateur detective desperation. “That was absolutely brilliant. You had them eating out of your hand.”
She looks up from gathering her notes, and her smile couldpower the entire pavilion. “Why, thank you, sugar! Nothing like a good mama story to get the crowd warmed up. Though I suspect they were more interested in the bourbon cake recipe than my philosophical musings on men and sourdough.”
“Mind if we step to the edge here for a minute?” I gesture toward the border of the pavilion, where towering pines provide a natural backdrop. “I’d love to hear more about your bakery.”
“Of course, honey. Lead the way.”
We move to the pavilion’s edge, where the scent of evergreens mingles with the last traces of summer wildflowers. The trees provide a natural windbreak, creating a pocket of relative quiet where we can still see the entire symposium but speak without being overheard by every baker within a fifty-foot radius.
From our spot, I can see the organized chaos unfolding across the pavilion. A line of attendees stretches from Fish and Chip’s thrones halfway across the courtyard, most of them sporting glittery cat ear headbands and clutching Fish and Chip merchandise like they’re collecting autographs from actual celebrities. The sight would make my accountant’s heart sing—assuming I had an accountant instead of a shoebox full of receipts and a prayer.
Our subjects are particularly devoted today,Fish’s inner voice drifts across the courtyard.I’m considering implementing a tips jar.
Someone offered me a piece of their turkey sandwich,Chip adds.I graciously accepted.It’s called public relations.
Near the refreshment table, Ree and Georgie are engaged in what can only be described as a systematic dessert acquisition operation. Ree moves with strategic planning, selecting items based on what appears to be a carefully calculated sugar-to-size ratio. Georgie, meanwhile, approaches the table with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered that calories don’t count during murder investigations.
“Your friends are certainly thorough,” Savvy observes, following my gaze.
“They believe in supporting small businesses,” I reply. “Very thoroughly. With their stomachs.” As do I. “So, tell me about yourself,” I continue, settling against the pavilion’s railing. “I feel like I know everyone else’s life story, but you’re still a mystery.”
Savvy laughs, a sound that bubbles up from somewhere genuine. “Oh honey, there’s nothing mysterious about me. I’m fifty, never married, no kids, and I’ve spent my entire adult life helping my sweet mama build her dream bakery. Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes has been my whole world since I was old enough to hold a whisk without dropping it.” She leans against the railing beside me, her expression turning thoughtful. “As for men, well, I’ve always said they’re like paper towels. You’re always looking for one when you need it, they’re completely disposable, and there seems to be an endless supply in the world—though most of them are about as absorbent as tissue paper in a rainstorm.”
I snort with laughter. “That’s the most accurate analogy I’ve heard all year. And here I thought my marriage was unique in its spectacular failure.”
“Oh sugar, what happened? Did yours think that ‘snacks and silence’ was relationship bliss?”
“Worse.” I grimace. “Mine decided that spiritual enlightenment came with a side of yoga instructor. Apparently, he found his chakras in her downward dog.”
Savvy’s eyes widen with delighted horror. “No, he did not!”
“Oh, he absolutely did. Twenty-five years of marriage, and he threw it all away for someone who can put her ankles behind her head. I mean, I’m flexible, but I’m not circus performer flexible.”
“Men.” Savvy shakes her head with the weary wisdom of someone who’s seen too much. “They’ll trade a lifetime of Sunday morning pancakes for five minutes of excitement with someone who probably doesn’t even know how to make coffee.”
“Speaking of coffee, his new girlfriend thinksespresso is a foreign language and considers Starbucks gourmet dining. The woman probably thinks tiramisu is an Italian greeting.”
“Bless her cheatin’ heart,” Savvy drawls with the kind of Southern sweetness that could make a lemon pucker. “And bless his tiny little brain for thinking that’s an upgrade from a woman who probably makes her own vanilla extract.”
“Right? I can organize a bake sale and manage a theme park, but apparently, that’s less impressive than being able to balance on one foot while chanting about inner peace.”
“The audacity of men never ceases to amaze me,” Savvy continues, warming to the subject. “They want a woman who can cook like Julia Child, clean like Martha Stewart, and look like a supermodel, but they can’t even figure out how to load a dishwasher properly.”
“Or remember to put the toilet seat down,” I add. “It’s not rocket science, but apparently, it requires a Ph.D. in basic human decency.”
