Dying for a Cupcake (17 page)

“And?”

“And if that Cutler broad was planning on shafting us that way, she’s in for a little surprise. The contract calls for a single payment.” Russell’s chest puffed out. “No one pulls one over on Russell Neumann.”

“It’s nice to see a man who’s confident in his wife’s ability, but judging is subjective, so how can you be sure Lauren will win?” I was curious about his scheme to blackmail the Italian judge into fixing the contest.

“Let’s just say that the writing is on the wall.” Russell leaned back, then muttered, “Or at least on the paperwork in my pocket.”

M
y interest in the Neumanns was waning, so I made my excuses and left them watching the last of the fireworks. Although it was possible that Russell might have slipped away from the baking, I doubted he would have left his wife’s cupcakes unprotected. That, and the fact that his lawyer’s assurance of a single payment for the prize meant he no longer had a motive to want to hurt Kizzy, made me decide to take the couple off my primary suspects list.

I hadn’t decided what to do about the potential contest fraud or Thomasina Giancarlo’s possible status as an illegal alien. If I didn’t figure out something by the time Boone brought the yearbook over to the store tomorrow, I’d ask him for his advice as a lawyer on both matters.

Thomasina might have more reason to want Russell dead than Kizzy, but I still wanted to talk to her. Just not tonight. I was exhausted. It was close to eleven p.m. when I made my way through the mob exiting the town square and reached my car where I had left it behind my store. Poppy was holding another after-hours event at her club for the party animals, but I’d
been on the go since my alarm buzzed at six a.m. and wasn’t up to a party.

One or both of the judges whom I needed to question might show up at the event, but I couldn’t make myself go to it. The idea of sitting around a noisy bar, socializing with hyped-up tourists, was about as appealing as a liver-flavored cupcake with anchovy frosting on top. All I wanted was some peace and quiet—and twelve hours of sleep. I was almost guaranteed the former, but the latter was just a dream until the contest was over.

I drove by Gossip Central, and was pleased to see that the parking lot was packed. It wasn’t surprising that Poppy’s party had a big turnout. Not only was it a holiday Saturday night, but her club was the hottest spot around in a forty-mile radius and evidently the news that someone was trying to kill Kizzy hadn’t scared off any of the Cupcake Weekenders. The crowd at the fireworks and now at Gossip Central was proof that I’d been wrong to worry. It seemed that the threat of a murderer running around the competition didn’t bother anyone except me.

Smiling at the prospect of how much money the dime store would rake in tomorrow, I headed home. It would be another early morning and busy day and I needed to be rested and ready to sell, sell, sell. Oh, and figuring out who was after Kizzy might take a little energy, too.

Sunday’s wake-up call came way too soon. The delivery of fresh supplies was scheduled for six a.m., so I grabbed a quick shower and shimmied into jeans and a lime green Devereaux’s Dime Store polo. After twisting my wet hair into a loose bun on top of my head, I drove into town, inhaling a Kashi blackberry graham cereal bar as I steered the Z4 down the deserted road.

Gran hated it when I didn’t let her cook me a hot
breakfast, but there was no reason for both of us to be up at the butt crack of dawn. I’d make it up to her once the Cupcake Weekend was over and my life got back to normal. Monday morning, she could make me her famous puffy French toast with warm maple syrup and a side of crispy bacon. My mouth watering at the thought of Gran’s cooking, I parked the BMW behind my store and went inside to wait for the bakery van and delivery truck to arrive.

It took me until nine to get the new merchandise unpacked and on the shelves, and I realized that I should have asked Dad and Hannah to come in early to help. Instead, they arrived as I unlocked the front entrance. Sales were brisk until just before noon, when the crowd thinned to go to lunch.

I had considered expanding the soda fountain’s menu to offer sandwiches and chips, but with only three stools, I didn’t have enough room to feed many people. I could have done a brown bag special that diners could have eaten in the town square, but Little’s Tea Room traditionally provided box lunches and I didn’t want to step on any toes or make enemies.

Although I regretted the loss of revenue, I was happy for the break. Hannah and Dad took turns eating their midday meals, and an hour later, when they both were back on duty, the place was full of customers again. I stole a few minutes and ducked into the back room to text Boone. I had expected him to come by the store earlier with the yearbook and I was concerned that he hadn’t shown up yet. There was no message from him on my cell and it wasn’t like him to go radio silent on me.

His reply chimed as I was gulping down a carton of Greek yogurt. He’d been delayed by an emergency with a client who was going through a messy divorce
and custody battle, but he would be over as soon as he finished handling the woman’s meltdown.

Disappointed that I’d have to wait to see the yearbook, I tucked my phone back into my pocket and returned to the sales floor. The final bake-off—again being broadcast on the large plasma screens at Poppy’s club—was scheduled from nine until one. The Ferris wheel and roller-coaster displays had been returned from Gossip Central’s Hayloft to my second floor this morning, and the entrants’ finished products would be transported to the dime store between one and two. Once they were all in place, there would be an hour for everyone to view the exhibit; then the judges would taste and confer.

The winner would be announced at the conclusion of the dinner being hosted by the Methodist church ladies at approximately seven p.m. After that, the Cupcake Weekend, except for cleaning up and counting the cash, was officially over. Considering the stack of greenbacks in my safe, calculating the profits might take quite some time, but it was time I was more than willing to devote to the process.

Whistling, I returned to work. The first batch of cupcakes arrived a few seconds after I stepped back behind the register, and their appearance was followed closely by the three judges. I wasn’t sure if they would be around for the entire viewing time and I needed to question them about their alibis, so since we were busy, but not swamped, I asked my father to keep an eye on things.

After telling Hannah to text me if they needed me on the sales floor, I headed for the stairs. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get Annalee Paulson or Thomasina Giancarlo alone. But for once luck was with me and I found Thomasina on the landing with a confused expression on her face.

When she spotted me, she asked, “Do you know if there’s a restroom I can use?”

“Yes.” I introduced myself as the owner of the dime store, then said, “Follow me.” The building had two sets of bathrooms, one off the main sales floor for the public and one located in the storage room for employees. As I led her to the latter, I said, “I haven’t heard how the cupcakes are judged. Do you each get one vote?”

“The three of us taste all the entries. Then we give every cupcake a score from one to ten for originality, taste, and appearance,” Thomasina explained with a charming accent. “In each round, thirty would be the best possible score any entry could receive and three the worst.”

“So it would be difficult for any one judge to influence the outcome.” I held open the back room entrance, motioned her inside, and closed the door. “In order to fix the contest, all of the judges would have to be in on the collusion.”

“Collusion?” she echoed; then her face cleared and she said, “Ah, you mean we would have to all agree to make someone the winner.”

“Right.” I pointed out the restroom, and as she hurried past me, I added, “Like, if one of the contestants were going to blackmail their way to the prize, it would only work if they had something on all three judges.” I paused and thought about the math. “Or at least they’d have to be able to influence two of you.”

Thomasina stopped and turned to look at me, her eyes narrowed. “I am here legally.” She crossed her arms. “Mr. Neumann is a foolish man. He doesn’t realize that I am married and my husband is a United States citizen. I have all the proper paperwork.” She smiled thinly. “Another piece of information that Mr.
Neumann doesn’t possess is that Giancarlo is my mother’s maiden name, so he wasn’t looking in the correct place for me.”

“And you didn’t enlighten him because where’s the fun in that?” I raised a brow. “Are you going to turn him in to the authorities?”

“No. If his wife does not triumph and he tries to seek revenge, I will let his actions do him in.” She stepped into the restroom and before closing the door said, “I am not a chair bird.”

Huh?
I stared after her, trying to translate. It took me a second, but I finally decoded her meaning. Thomasina meant a stool pigeon. Smiling, I realized that I wouldn’t have to be a chair bird, either. The Italian judge was legal and the contest wasn’t fixed. There was no need for me to get involved in either matter.

Figuring that Thomasina could find her way back upstairs without my help, and having no real need to see if she had an alibi since I knew of no motive for her to want Kizzy dead, I returned to the second floor. I had a feeling getting information from Annalee might not be as easy as the process had been with Thomasina.

I found Annalee and Vance Buddy sitting in the space that had been reserved for the judges. The old office furniture had been removed and the room was now furnished with a couch, a couple of armchairs, and an occasional table. Against the far wall a lunch buffet with bottled water, soda, and coffee had been set up for them.

Knocking, I slipped in without waiting for a response, then said, “Hi, I’m Devereaux Sinclair, the owner of the dime store. I hope you all are comfortable.”

“Yes, we are, thanks.” Vance beamed, his teeth gleaming against his mocha skin. “Your delightful town has really rolled out the welcome mat for us.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” I smiled back. “Ms. Giancarlo was looking for the restroom and I thought perhaps you two might need to freshen up also but not want to use the public facilities. If so, please feel free to use the one inside my storage room.” I hoped one or the other would get up, but neither budged. “Otherwise is there anything I can get for you?”

“Actually, since we seem to have a little time”— Vance rose to his feet and stretched—“I’d like to make some calls, but I forgot the charger for my cell. Is there a landline I could use?”

“Certainly.” I nodded, happy to get rid of him. “If you go down the steps and make a right, you’ll see the entrance to the back room. There’s a phone on the desk that you’re more than welcome to use.” I added, “Just put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door if you want privacy.”

“Oh, I don’t need one of those.” Vance chuckled. “But maybe a sign that says ‘already disturbed, enter at your own risk’ would be good.” He winked at me and left.

Once he was gone, I took a seat in the chair opposite Annalee and tried to figure out how to ask her about her whereabouts when Fallon was poisoned and/or the two attempts on Kizzy’s life were made. I wasn’t sure how much time I had before Thomasina returned or how long Vance’s calls would take, so I needed to come up with something soon.

My mind was still racing when Annalee said, “Heavens to Betsy! Will you look at all the food they have for us?” She bounced off the sofa and strolled over to the refreshment table, examining the various sandwiches and munchies. “Did you do all this?”

“No.” I shook my head. “The contest organizers arranged everything.”

“Not Kizzy, I’m sure.” Annalee picked up a bottle of water, looked at the label, and put it back in the bucket of ice. “I wonder who’s running her errands now that poor Fallon isn’t around.”

“Fallon’s death must have been quite a shock to everyone.” This was my opening and I didn’t want to blow it. “Her being so young and all.”

“We were all stunned.” Annalee selected a plate. “But now that the police think she was murdered, the whole situation is even more bizarre.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “Especially since Fallon might not have been the intended victim of the poisoning.”

“Exactly.” Annalee turned from her perusal of the food and looked at me. Tapping her finger to her chin, she asked, “What do you think is behind all the drama our little contest has stirred up?”

“Well . . .” I wasn’t sure how to respond. It seemed awfully cold to refer to a young woman’s murder as
drama
. “Anytime you have an influx of new personalities, there’s a good chance there’ll be some problems. I know when Shadow Bend agreed to host the competition, we sure weren’t expecting someone to try to assassinate Ms. Cutler.”

“That was a bit of a surprise.” Annalee fluffed her short blond hair. “Although, considering how quickly Kizzy flies off the handle, it stands to reason that she’s made quite a few enemies.”

“She does seem a little short tempered,” I agreed. “In fact, my grandmother is a huge fan of your show, and she told me about the episode when Ms. Cutler was your guest.” I glanced at Annalee, whose mouth had tightened, and added, “When she splattered you with raw batter.”

“Precisely.” Annalee’s pale blue eyes were frosty. “Kizzy’s behavior was inexcusable.” The TV chef
sighed. “It’s only because Lee and I are such good friends that I agreed to judge this contest.”

“So you and Ms. Cutler haven’t exactly kissed and made up?” I asked.

“She publicly apologized and I accepted.” Annalee’s expression was hard to read.

“Ms. Cutler doesn’t strike me as someone who apologizes very often,” I commented. “So that must have felt like a real triumph for you.”

“Yes. Yes, it did.” Annalee smiled widely, then said, “And that episode with the food fight went viral, which really shot our ratings through the stratosphere for a while.” Her smile faded and she shook her head. “But I’ll never have Kizzy on my program again.”

“I sure wouldn’t,” I agreed. It sounded as if although Annalee didn’t like Kizzy, she really didn’t have a good motive to kill her. Still, just to be on the safe side, I wanted to know if the TV chef had an alibi. “It must be tough to get away for even a little while since your show is live five days a week.”

“
Sugar and Spice
is on summer hiatus.” Annalee returned her attention to the refreshment table. “If it wasn’t, I couldn’t have been a judge.”

“Did you come in from Kansas City Thursday night?” I could ask Ronni when the TV chef arrived, but this was my lead-in for other questions.

“No. I couldn’t leave town until the next morning.” Annalee finished choosing her lunch. “I had agreed to provide the desserts for the Pink Ribbon Fireworks Ball, so I actually didn’t arrive until Friday at noon.”