Guilt & Galaxy Cake Page 3

  "That's the most beautiful cake I've ever seen in my life," she said. "And that's saying something."

  "It is a masterpiece, isn't it?" Rachel preened. "You know I'm not one to boast, but man, this is a beauty. I can't help but feel proud."

  "You should feel proud. You should also make sure word spreads around town that this is your work," Emily said. "You'll have a hundred more orders pouring in by the end of the month."

  "I wish." Rachel sighed. "The town still hasn't quite forgotten that Arthur Rafferty died in my kitchen. If it weren't for the marble cake being a hit, I would have had no customers at all."

  "It'll pick up; you're great at what you do, and that's what matters in the end," Emily reassured her. "Hey, do you want me to deliver this to Tricia? I need to go talk to her about yesterday's party anyway. I owe her that."

  "Oh, well—"

  "It's really no trouble," Emily insisted.

  "Are you sure? Well, then I'd really appreciate it," Rachel said. "I'll box it up now."

  "You do that," Emily said. "And while you're doing it, maybe tell me what's up with you and the hot hipster assistant?"

  "Hot hipster assistant? You mean Brandon?" Rachel's cheeks reddened.

  "There it is," Emily said. Then, her mouth fell open. "Wait—Brandon? As in your ex-fiance Brandon?"

  "Yep." Rachel nodded.

  "Ohh . . . I have to hear this properly. I've got to go to Tricia's now, but how 'bout you drop by for a coffee later in the evening and tell me all about it?"

  Rachel handed her the box, and nodded. "You've got a lot to tell me too, like why exactly Stan punched Calvin."

  "Oh, that." Emily waved it aside. "The usual. A woman's at the center of it all."

  "A love triangle?" Rachel raised an eyebrow.

  "Yes. I hate love triangles, personally. Only idiots participate in them. As far as I'm concerned, if you aren't sure whether to date A or B, just dump both and move on to somebody you like." Emily tossed her head.

  "It's not always that simple," Rachel said.

  "Sure it is. When I saw Jay, I knew I wanted him. No other man could come in a ten-foot radius of that desire. When it comes to love, if it isn't YES in all capitals, it's a no."

  "If only we all had your decision-making skills." Rachel laughed as she opened the door for Emily. "Life would be so much simpler."

  "And romance novel publishers would be out of business," Emily said breezily. "See you later Rachel!"

  Rachel smiled and returned to work, a full day ahead of her. Even though she'd been very proud of it, the galaxy cake faded from her mind almost immediately; she'd moved on to her next project. Around noon, she decided to take a break and go across to the café for lunch. She was making vague plans to pop around to the bookstore and buy a copy of the new book, when she became aware of Scooter. He was lying by the door with his ears drooping, looking extremely mournful.

  "Well, what's happened to you? Is my baby unwell?" She picked up the little dog and examined him all over, but he seemed ok. Scooter looked at the door and let out a little whine.

  "Do you want to go outside, boy? Ok, let's get the leash."

  But he refused, cowering by the door instead. Something was wrong, Rachel was suddenly sure of it. It hit her that she'd been so busy prepping cakes that she had failed to notice the environment around her. Life in Swaddle had a rhythm of it's own that was always playing out in the background. For the last hour or so, that rhythm had been absent— there was silence all around. No honks, no cheerful yells, no people passing in and out of the bakery. Just silence.

  Feeling unnerved, she opened the door, and felt more of a shock when she saw that a large crowd had gathered around Tricia's bookstore, three doors down. She ran up to it, and tapped the nearest person on the shoulder. It was Henry Grant, local grocery store owner, and her supplier.

  "What's happened?" she asked.

  "A man's been found dead," Henry replied, looking solemn. "That writer."

  "The writer? You mean Stan Stickman?" Rachel felt the world spin a little.

  "That's right." Henry nodded. "Apparently, he was found dead, lying face-first in a big cake. Greed, and a heart attack got him, I suppose."

  But with a sinking feeling, Rachel remembered Stan Stickman punching Calvin last night, and wondered if it wasn't a coincidence that he'd been found dead today.

  *****

  Chapter 6

  Claws Out

  "I just don't understand how it happened," Emily said.

  Bull's Café was closed to the public, with all the chairs and stools upturned on the tables. Emily had pulled down the shades on the picture window too. She and Rachel now sat on beanbags inside, each nursing a cup of hot chocolate. In one corner, Emily's young son, Ollie lay on his stomach with crayons spread around him, his gaze focused on a tattered coloring book.

  "Neither do I," Rachel said. "Did you get a chance to talk to Scott?"

  "You know Scott, when he goes into sheriff mode, he won't gossip at all," Emily said. "It's quite irritating to have a brother like that and a lawyer husband."

  "Sure," Rachel said. "But seriously, what happened? All I heard was that he was found face-first in a cake. My cake. There's no foul play involved, right? I mean . . ." Rachel bit her lip. "There's no chance the cake was poisoned or something?"

  Emily looked shocked. "I never even thought of that. Foul play, I mean. I just assumed it was a heart attack or natural causes."

  Rachel nodded, and batted an errant lock of hair away from her face. "Good. I mean, not good as in good he's dead, but—"

  "No need to explain. I know another hit to your business would mean bankruptcy for you," Emily said. "It's natural to be worried about your cake being associated with his death."

  "Yeah . . . I still feel like a jerk, though. I mean, I hardly knew him, but the man's dead, and all I care about is my own business. Kind of selfish, isn't it?"

  "You could do with a bit more selfishness in you," Emily said. "And a bit more hot chocolate. Shall I get you some?"

  "No. Honestly, this was great but not a drop more."

  Emily returned with a saucepan and poured her half a cup anyway. "But you know . . . now that you've mentioned foul play, I can't stop thinking about it. It's really strange . . ."

  "What is?"

  "The way he died. Face-first in a cake. You know where I've seen that before?"

  "Where?"

  "Hang on!" Emily jumped up, ran to her purse, and came back with a kindle. "Wait a bit. I'll have the passage out for you." She thrust the device under Rachel's nose, and said, "Read."

  Rachel read:

  As they entered the cavernous hall, it was not the gold-embossed statues nor the diamond-encrusted tapestries that drew their eye. Nor was it the giant iron throne at the center, although it was famed across the land. Nay, the men's eyes were drawn immediately, not to the splendors that filled the hall, but the one pitiful figure in the center of it. A body that had once held the spirit of the great emperor, and now sat deflated, undone. Here was the man who had seduced the Barthols, and defeated the star-killers. Here was the man who had redefined space travel and created an empire out of the sheer force of his will.

  Here he was, in the center of the hall. The emperor's face had smashed down upon a three-tiered cake. A dagger stuck out from his back, and its distinctive carved hilt told the men all they needed to know.

  "Is- is that from Stan Stickman's own book?" Rachel felt a shiver go up her spine.

  "It is. His first and most famous book, Nebula Next. The rest of the plot is pretty good too. The prince figures out that his father was murdered, and then runs away from his evil uncle while trying to figure out who did it."

  "I think Scott told me about it." Rachel frowned. "Emily, this is way too coincidental, isn't it? Him dying face-first in a cake, that is. There's no way that he could have predicted it. Right?"

  "Stranger things have happened." Emily shrugged. "It's just a coincidence, really. At least there was
no knife sticking out from his back as far as we know."

  "I don't think so. I really don't," Rachel said. "It feels like this is not a coincidence."

  "It's really unlikely," Emily pointed out. "Murderers don't go about doing their victims in with cake for goodness' sake."

  "When you delivered the cake, did you talk to Tricia?" Rachel asked.

  Emily shook her head. "She was too busy preparing for the book release. She was pretty nervous. She told me Stan had been harassing her all week about the smallest details like what brand of soda she'd be serving, and who was doing the catering, and who was invited, and where the chairs would be placed. She was rearranging all the chairs when I came in. Your ex was there too, helping her."

  Rachel nodded, thinking hard. "Yesterday, Tricia mentioned that Stan wanted the place all to himself for an hour before the book release. He'd even asked Tricia to clear out from her own bookstore! That has to be when he died, don't you think?"

  Emily nodded. "I know that he was found around eleven a.m. There was a long line of people waiting to be let in, and the front door of the bookstore hadn't opened yet. Tricia went around back and snuck in, and she's the one who found him."

  "Poor Tricia." Rachel sympathized. She knew all too well how it felt to have your place of business become the site of a grisly murder.

  "I'm not so sure," Emily said, scratching her chin.

  "What do you mean?" Rachel gave her a startled look.

  "I mean . . ." Emily hesitated. "Well, you're a baker, Rachel. When Arthur Rafferty died in your bakery, it was terrible for business, naturally so. People don't like mixing cake and death, you know. But Tricia? Mark my words, in the longer term, this will be good for her. Her bookstore is now a site where a famous author died in a weird way. A lot of fans love grisly stories like that. She'll probably have a lot of tourists dropping in just to see her store. It's not in very good taste, but it's perfectly possible that she could capitalize on this death. Even more so, since he died in a way that's so eerily reminiscent of the book. She could sell a lot of copies of Nebula Next to morbid tourists."

  "Emily . . ." Rachel looked at her friend, shocked. The thought that Tricia could "capitalize" on Stan Stickman's death had never even occurred to her. "I don't think Tricia's that kind of person."

  "Yes, well, I'm not saying she's a bad person or that she wanted this to happen. Only that once the opportunity fell into her lap, she'd be an idiot not to do anything about it. Watch, she'll be getting interviewed by a lot of national newspapers soon."

  "Yes, but it feels so predatory to use someone's death for your own good."

  "I realize that . . . but business is like that, isn't it? Claws out and ready to grab," Emily continued. "She might do something like keep a chalk outline on the floor and a pile of his books permanently next to it. They'd practically fly off the bookshelves."

  "Ok." Rachel drained the last of her hot chocolate. "This conversation is getting a little too much for me."

  "Sorry," Emily said. "I like Tricia as a person. I like her very much, but I do know her business is suffering. It's not easy being an old-fashioned bookstore in the age of e-books. She's survived by being very smart and working very hard. I don't see her passing up this chance."

  *****

  Chapter 7

  Knife In The Back

  Emily's words stayed on in Rachel's mind as she crossed main street to go back home. It was only seven o'clock, and the town looked almost deserted. She supposed this was about the time that everyone was indoors having supper with their families. It felt a little lonely to cross over to her brick-lined building, knowing that she'd be eating alone once more. Death had a way of putting things in perspective and making you long for company.

  She pulled up short as she approached her front door. Brandon was sitting on the front steps, with his head buried in his arms. He was breathing gently, as though he were fast asleep. A sudden shot of fear went down her spine, and for a moment, Rachel had an unnatural feeling that he was dead. She placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him awake. Blinking, he looked up at her, and she felt another twinge go through her.

  Breaking up with someone after eight years of being together was like tossing out an entire period of your life into the dumpster. This sleepy blink of his was so familiar and it was just one of the many, many details she knew about the man that she'd thought she'd thrown away forever. She thought she'd erased the part of her brain that knew all his quirks, like the fact that Brandon loved drinking lemonade when he woke up instead of tea or coffee. Turned out, she'd just suppressed that part of her.

  "Hey," Brandon said, his voice thick with worry and sleep. "Can I come in?" From his arms, Scooter gave a wiggle and a yawn. Rachel gave the puppy an incredulous look. He'd been perfectly camouflaged against Brandon's dark shirt.

  "How did he get out? I thought I'd locked him up tight!" she exclaimed.

  "Is he yours?" Brandon asked. He looked down at the little pup that was nestled in his arms with some wonder. "He's wonderful. It's like he knew I needed comfort and came out to help me."

  "Guard dog of the year," Rachel muttered under her breath. "What do you want here, Brandon? Don't you have a place to stay?" She looked at the duffel bag that sat beside Brandon, and it dawned on her what he wanted. "No." She shook her head. "If you're thinking I'm going to let you stay over, think again."

  "Just the night, please," Brandon said. "The police are all over Stan's house. I have a room there but I didn't want to . . ." He shrugged. "Would you want to stay in a place covered in yellow tape?"

  "Yellow tape? So the police suspect foul play?" Rachel asked.

  "Can I come in and talk?" Brandon gave her a pointed look. Scooter stretched in his arms and yawned again, wagging his tail slightly.

  "C'mere." Rachel grabbed the little pup, feeling unreasonably annoyed that he'd taken a liking to Brandon. Of course, he was a Labrador, and an extra friendly one. He'd probably lick a thief who broke into her house. Still, she almost felt betrayed that her own pup didn't realize Brandon was the enemy.

  "Aren't you at least going to let me in for a coffee or something?" Brandon pushed.

  "Fine." Rachel sighed. "I was about to have dinner anyway. Will you join me?"

  Brandon put a hand to his stomach, and nodded. "Yes, please."

  She saw him look around with confusion in his eyes as they entered. They entered through the front door, which opened up into a little space with two or three tables and a counter with a big, old-fashioned cash register. Behind that was her bakery kitchen and the adjoining study. Above it, on the first floor, was her apartment.

  She led him upstairs to the second, tinier kitchen which served as the place she made her own meals. Unlike the industrial, all-metal feel of her bakery kitchen below, this tiny island was very intimate. There was barely space for two people to stand. She could tell he was judging her a little as he looked around it—navy blue tiles trimmed with white, and a single chair tucked away on the side with a folding table.

  "Lot of one-pot meals?" Brandon asked.

  "I don't have company over too often, and I eat my breakfasts downstairs," Rachel said. She bit her lip. She didn't owe him any explanations about her life anymore, after all.

  "Remember how you always filled our kitchen with useless stuff, and I'd protest?" Brandon leaned against a counter. "You got a 1950s kitchen-aid, and I asked what you'd even use it for, and why you didn't buy something tinier and more modern. You just gave me an incredulous look and said, "This is like buying art, Brandon."

  "I remember. I made you a vanilla and Kahlua birthday cake thanks to that kitchen aid. I still have it, and it's incredibly useful," Rachel said. "They don't make 'em like that anymore. I had to change a part or two, but it gets used every day at the bakery."

  "I guess it's good. Sounds like you've really settled in here." Brandon shrugged. An awkward silence hung between them.

  "Why did—"

  "Are you—"

  They both
gave an embarrassed laugh. "Ladies first," Brandon said, making a forward gesture with his hand.

  "Why did you come here?" Rachel asked. "Why here, of all the places in the world? I don't mean to be rude, Brandon, but this is my town now, and I don't want you in it."

  "Oh, that's not rude at all," Brandon scoffed. "Anything else? Should I only wear black on alternate days, and never again date women whose names start with R?"

  Rachel felt her face heat up a little. "I'm just saying . . ."

  "I didn't come here for you," Brandon's voice was short and rude. "I came here because of Stan Stickman. After you left me, I fell in love with his books. Well, after you left me, a lot of things changed for me. I started writing out my feelings, for one—something I'd never done before. With all the money I had from the sale of our company, I didn't need a job, so I decided to use all the contacts I had to slide my way into a position as his assistant. I was hoping he could teach me to write really well."

  "You really have a nerve—our company?"

  "I tried to tell—"

  "No. Brandon, I let you into the house because we shared something once upon a time, and I felt bad about you now that Stan Stickman is dead. One more word about the past and I'm chucking you out. Clear?"

  "But we need to talk about—"

  "There's nothing to talk about," Rachel's voice was like the slam of a door. Brandon winced, and then set his jaw.

  "There's plenty to talk about, and you're not escaping it," Brandon said. "But fine, I'll let it rest for now. There's enough on my mind at the moment with Stan's death."

  "What was it? I mean, how did he die, and what do the police suspect?"

  Brandon hesitated. "Tricia and I both found him together. He was a bit manic about the book release. Stan was a perfectionist, and maybe he preferred it that way, but it sure made life tough for me as his assistant."