“Are you sure I can’t help you with anything, dear?” Granny Annie says, drawing closer. Her voice is low, reassuring, and her gaze darts to the door as though to remind me that we’re all alone in the bakery together.
Nobody here but us girls.
But also: Nobody to hear you scream.
I swallow. “Actually,” I say, pausing while I worry my lower lip in what I hope comes across as a very Emily gesture. “The thing is, I’m up for a promotion at work. But I’m not the only one being considered.”
Granny Annie’s pupils narrow, becoming almost reptilian slits. “I see.”
“My coworker, Randy, he’s…” I’ve memorized my lines, reciting them over and over in the shower, on my commute to work, while microwaving my cup of noodles in the evenings, but Emily would stumble over what exactly to say, how to best persuade this woman to help her. “He’s not a great guy. A real jerk. And he already makes more than I do, and I just…”
Granny Annie gives me an encouraging little nod. “Go on.”
“I just need him out of the picture.”
Who would have thought mousy little Emily had it in her to off a coworker for a better position and higher pay? I’d initially planned on playing a wife with a terrible husband, but I didn’t want to make the story too sympathetic. When we charged Granny Annie, it had to be for selling poison to murder people, not for helping abused wives put a stop to their torment.
Granny doesn’t seem at all surprised that Emily is willing to kill for a promotion. She lifts one hand and snaps her fingers. There’s a fluttering sound behind me, and when I whirl around, I see the “Open” sign on the door has flipped to “Closed.”
“I’m happy to help, dear,” Granny says. “Follow me.”
She leads me through a swinging pink door, through a charmingly disorganized kitchen area, to the walk-in cooler. The door opens with a whoosh, and then closes with a soft bang. It’s cold (Of course it is. You’re in a goddess-damned walk-in cooler, Jensen), and I wish Emily was the kind of woman who ran cold and always wore a sweater instead of a perimenopausal woman dealing with regular hot flashes.
(Which is one of her biggest problems with Randy, should that have proven necessary to share—the man cannot leave the office thermostat alone. But it turns out Granny doesn’t need much info to be willing to kill someone.)
Granny’s arm snakes forward and she grips my wrist with her bony-but-surprisingly-strong fingers. A sickly green light pulses from her hand over my entire body, and for just a moment I’m certain she’s guessed that I’m MBI, that the light is some terrible curse, that I’m about to die in a walk-in cooler having never tasted Falls Creek’s best flan. But the light dissipates, and Granny’s hand drops away from my arm.
“Sorry about that,” she says, turning away. “Had to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire.”
Agent Olive Jensen is, of course, relieved that her boss hadn’t suggested she wear one. Emily Brooks, on the other hand, would be shocked at the very idea. “Oh,” I say, widening my eyes. “Really?”
“Yes.” Granny slips behind a rack. “You’d be surprised how many times the law has tried to catch up with me.”
No, actually I wouldn’t. I’d read through her file.
She pokes her head out from behind the rack. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come on.”
Oh, right. I hurry to where she’s once again disappeared, rounding the side of the rack to see two things.
One is a simple metal cabinet that Granny is unlocking with a key dangling from a chain around her neck, which apparentlyhad been tucked beneath the high neckline of her dusty rose dress. Honestly, if that’s where she’s keeping the poison, I’m kind of disappointed. I’d expected, I dunno, something moreRaiders of the Lost Arkand less restaurant surplus outlet. Like a jewel-encrusted box or a stone skull that emits smoke when you lift the lid. Something witchier.
But my disappointment is short-lived, as the other object in that shadowy back corner far exceeds my expectations. It’s a standing display case, and inside is a bunch of outrageously decorated treats. Cupcakes and brownies and cookies in a dazzling array of colors, piled high with icing or fruit or chocolate curls.
I know I’m supposed to be focused on what Granny is doing, getting a good look at the, you know, evidence against a serial poisoner. But I cannot tear my eyes away from those fantastic desserts.
I really, really should have eaten breakfast before going undercover at a bakery.
As if in agreement, my stomach issues a long, low growl.
Granny chuckles. “Hungry?”
“No,” I say quickly. But my stomach growls again, and there’s no point in lying. “A little,” I admit.
Granny is fiddling with some small glass bottles, though I can’t see much as her back is to me. “Those,” she says, waving one hand toward the display case, “are a practice run for a catering job I have at the end of the month. What do you think?”
I can’t help myself. I move closer to the case. “They look amazing.”
“I’m trying out a new recipe so I’m a little nervous. It’s a bit out there.” There’s thetinkof two bottles bumping against each other, and then theclink-clink-clinkof a stirring rod mixing liquid in a glass vessel. “You know, you would be doing me ahuge favor if you sampled it for me. Let me know what you think.”
