I give him a look for even going there. This woman would have us both arrested for assault with a furry weapon. Although with the way she’s acting, it might be worth the trouble.
Georgie and Ree arrive just in time—my chaos cavalry in the flesh, my newfound besties, and my senior sleuthing squad all rolled into two delightfully nosy packages.
“Well, hello there, fancy pants,” Georgie booms at Delora with her churro-print caftan billowing in the breeze like a sugar-dusted flag of war. The woman has a kaftan game that I deeply respect and secretly covet. Georgie is an eighty-something hippy with a stack of gray hair that wobbles on her head, a wandering eye for men of all ages, and a propensity for trouble. “You must be the event coordinator we’ve heard so much about.”
I may have vented to them yesterday that the event coordinator was about as friendly as a cactus.
“I brought backup snacks,” Ree adds helpfully, holding up a tray of maple bacon cookies as if she’s presentingevidence in court. Ree is my old friend from way back when we both had littles. She has red hair like me, a penchant for ’80s fashion, and feathered hair that makes birds everywhere jealous. “And possibly a cinnamon emergency kit.”
Delora scoffs at the sight. “This is a professional baking event, not a bake sale for the PTA.”
I’m sensing she’s been blacklisted from every potluck in Maine.
But she’s not wrong. This is definitely a baking event for the professionals. The Sugar Crypt tent stretches behind us like a delicious fever dream. Tables draped in black velvet showcase an army of spooky treats—ghost-shaped macarons with edible glitter, pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates, and cupcakes decorated with tiny fondant tombstones. Fog rolls lazily from dry ice bowls tucked under the tables, while flickering black candelabras cast spooky shadows across the treats.
The whole look is Halloween meets high-end bakery, and it’s magnificent.
“Wow, would you look at all this?” Georgie gasps.
Ree nods with a sigh. “It looks like you won’t be needing my desserts after all. Josie, this setup looks fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I’m quick to tell them. “But I had very little to do with it. My staff handled all the spooky bells and whistles, the symposium bakers brought their amazing treats, and our own Sugar Moon Bakehouse contributed a few specialties.” I leave out the part about Delora looking to oust Fish and Chip.
Georgie and Ree will suffer a lot of things, but not people foolish enough to say a bad word about our favorite felines.
The baking celebrities are starting to arrive, their devoted fans clustering around like groupies at a rock concert. I spot the Sugar & Sass sisters—Dilly and Nadine—holding court near the entrance, their trademark banter already drawing crowds. These women have turned sassy baking commentary into an art form, dishing out savage truths about love with the same precision theypipe buttercream, and their legion of followers hangs on every witty quip and relationship zinger.
Delora eyes Georgie and Ree like they’re stray animals who wandered in from the wrong side of a country club. I’m about to do the intros when Delora stretches out her hand.
“Delora,” she says, offering the kind of tight smile that suggests she’s already planning her escape. She doesn’t give her last name yet again, which feels deliberate at this point. Something tells me she’s been embroiled in a lawsuit before.
“Georgie Conner. Life coordinator and professional chaos coordinator,” Georgie replies with a grin that could power the fog machines before giving the woman a quick shake. Chaos coordinator is an understatement.
“Ree Baker,” Ree adds, holding out her hand. “Community relations and pastry sampling expert.”
“Charmed,” Delora says, looking anything but.
Someone must stop this woman before she bans candy corn,Fish declares, leaping onto a nearby barrel as if ready to pounce.
Or worse,Chip adds,before she discovers the bacon-wrapped pumpkin bites.
I, too, share his fear that those might disappear before I can properly shove a dozen into my purse.
“I see you have flexible standards here,” Delora says, her lips twitching in disapproval as she surveys the controlled chaos around us. “I’ve worked events at the Biltmore. The Ritz. The Louvre.”
“That explains it!” Georgie claps. “No wonder you look like your panties are caught in your crack. You’re overdue for something fun. Welcome to the whimsical underbelly of Maine, where the coffee is strong and the standards are... creatively interpreted.”
“You think this is creative?” Delora stalks past a display of caramel apple cake pops and ghosts made from meringue, her heels clicking against the cobblestones like adisapproving metronome. “These decorations look like someone raided every yard sale in Maine.”
“That was the goal,” I say, flanked by my two feline defenders. “It’s festive. Nostalgic. Slightly unhinged. Just like us.”
“Don’t knock it till you taste the merch,” Ree says, already nibbling a maple bacon cookie. “These cat ears are selling like witchy hotcakes, and they’re limited edition.”
“Someone already offered me sixty bucks for mine,” Georgie adds, patting her glittering Fish headband. “And that was before I told him they were lightly infused with wisdom and churro magic.”
The atmosphere shifts as more baking stars arrive, their entourages trailing behind them like sweetly scented storm clouds. The energy is electric, charged with the kind of anticipation that comes with sugar, competition, and the promise of nationally televised drama.
Delora stops cold, her eyes narrowing as she spots something—or someone—across the tent. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as her composure cracks just enough to reveal something dangerous underneath.
