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The knocking non-stop on the doorbell front door dinging woke me and out of my peaceful slumber.
I slowly peeled myself off my mother’s new aesthetically gorgeous but not-meant-to-be-slept-in couch that I’d fallen asleep on while watching yet another Murder She Baked movie marathon on the Hallmark Mystery Channel last night. I rolled my head from side to side, attempting to stretch the kinks out of my neck. The couch was so pretty, I thought for sure it would be more comfortable.
Oh, how I missed my beautiful, king-sized memory foam mattress and perfect ergonomic pillow back in San Diego with my luxurious six hundred thread count sheets.
I blinked my eyes open and held my hand up to block the light, trying to adjust to the bright morning sunlight. Taking a big inhale, I stood up, yawned and stretched myself awake.
The pounding at the front door was getting more intense. What was so urgent this early on a Saturday morning? My alarm hadn’t even gone off.
And then I saw it. The dead alarm clock. I hadn’t been home in over ten years so I totally forgot the master light in the TV room was connected to the outlets on that side of the room. I must’ve killed the alarm clock when I turned off the lights.
I ran to the front door and threw it open, ready to tell whomever was there that I didn’t have time to deal with them.
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Did you oversleep? You’re late,” said Ruby, stating the obvious.
Ruby, my best friend, was someone who never suffered from insomnia nor a bad hair day. Her thick chestnut locks cascaded around her perfect, heart-shaped face. She polished her look with a faux fur mauve scarf and matching hat and gloves.
“What time is it?” I asked. “An hour past when you were supposed to be at the festival,” she said. “Gwendolyn called my
mother, who then called me, and I tried to call you. And now I’m here.”
My previous adrenaline rush instantly morphed into electric bolts of panic. I brushed my teeth and got dressed at warp speed. I smoothed out my new baker’s outfit, pristinely dry cleaned and smelling of lavender, and was about to put on my makeup before Ruby stopped me.
“Put it on in the car. I’ll drive you to the festi- val,” she said.
“Great idea but can you drive me to Frosted? Everything for today is already loaded in the Cupcake Delivery Truck that’s parked in the alley out back behind the bakery. I need to drive that to the festival,” I said, throwing my makeup bag into my purse. We both descended the stairs two at a time and I hopped into my Uggs as we ran out the door. We piled into her massively huge SUV, which I was just now realizing matched her scarf and hat. That was real commitment to a signature personal branding color.
I still had a small window of time before the contest registration started. If I were late to check in this morning, I could kiss my job at the bakery goodbye, which wasn’t a big deal except it was the only bakery in town. Francine would surely fire me if I didn’t make it there on the dot. Today’s baking contest was being sponsored by the national publi-
cation, Desserts, Inc. magazine and the winner of today’s bake-off contest was guaranteed a spot on next month’s cover. That was all Francine kept talking about since I met her. She even spent all of yesterday at the spa getting herself picture perfect for her close-up.
Ruby drove me over to the alley behind Frosted in record time. I gave myself a mental high five for having the foresight to pack up the cupcake delivery truck last night before I closed up the shop. Every- thing I needed for today’s bake-off contest was in the back. I triple checked it myself.
“I so owe you,” I said, practically leaping out of Ruby’s car before she even came to a complete stop.
“It’s my job as the Watson to your Sherlock,” she said, shooing me out of the car. “I’ll find you at the festival later.”
I only had ten minutes to get to a location that normally took twenty minutes without traffic. The festival was being held on the wharf, which was beautiful but not close to the Town Center where Frosted was located. Plus, parking would be a chal- lenge at the festival in general and because I had no idea what the zoning rules were for setting up at the wharf.Driving an oversized food truck was not for the faint of heart. I only had this job for a couple weeks now and I still wasn’t used to driving such a behe-
moth vehicle. Normally a super slow, overly cautious driver, time was not on my side so I floored it and hoped for the best. Luckily, the roads were deserted.
For the first time ever, I saw red and blue lights in my rearview mirror.
Yes, I was going a few – all right, maybe a lot of miles – over the speed limit but in my defense, there was absolutely no one else on the highway and today was a make it or break it cupcake career day.
“Step out of the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Yes, a speeding ticket really sucked but it was almost ten o’clock so if this went quickly, I could still make it in time. Everything went slower than normal in Clover Creek, including festival contest registrations. I gave a small plea to the universe that the cop pulling me over was a friend from high school or someone else I knew who would let me off with a firm warning.
I quickly jumped out of the gas-guzzling cupcake delivery truck, hoping for the quickest ticket delivery in history.
My reflection in the car window showed me holding my hands up, awaiting my fate. It wasn’t particularly cold for a blustery winter morning in Clover Creek but at this angle, the wind flew straight up my shirt and chilled me like one of those
deliciously cold scoops of ice cream that Claire, Frosted’s biggest and only other dessert competitor, was probably doling out to contest voters right now at the bake-off.
The snow crunched under the cop’s feet, getting louder as he came closer. I waited until he was right behind me before trying to plead my case.
“Officer, if you let me off with only a warning, I promise never to speed again,” I said with the most sincere and helpless damsel-in-distress voice I could muster.
“That’s original. Never heard that one before,” he said in a way that indicated he was not at all interested in letting me off with just a verbal reproach.
A light breeze of patchouli wafted towards me as I turned around, catching me off guard. It smelled like I was on a date, a really hot date. Only men hoping to score wore aftershave or cologne that smelled like that. Or maybe it was me. Musky, sandalwood scents on men were my weakness.
I slowly looked up at the officer standing in front of me. Call me unimaginative but I expected to see a chubby, middle-aged cop when I turned around. Instead, standing in front of me was a cross between Adonis and Hercules. No way anyone could ever mistake this guy for an out of shape anything. Even though he was wearing the uniform, carrying the
stick, and driving the car, he did not look at all like any cop I ever met. He was more like a stripper-for- hire heading to a bachelorette party. That he did resemble.
I waited a beat but he kept all of his clothes on. Not a stripper.
Even with his bulky winter coat, his broad, muscular delts came out loud and clear through the tapered V his shoulders created. His unbuttoned coat revealed a brawny, barrel chest leading to what I could only imagine were chiseled abs of steel.
His badge read Officer Lockwood. Like a crazy person, I immediately tested out my first name with Lockwood as my last name to see how it sounded: Ava Lockwood. I willed myself to stop staring but my eyes were on permanent surveillance. There was an electric current in the air pulling me closer. I inched towards him, unable to put the brakes on. Whatever he was selling, I was more than eager to buy.
He put his hands on his hips, right above his holster. There was a small bandage sticking out from his side. I couldn’t tell if it was a brace or a super large Band-Aid of some sort. He was going for intimidation but all I saw were washboard covered abs attached to a pair of sturdy, well-built legs. He was as close to an aesthetically perfect copy of the David statue as I’ve ever seen.
No wedding ring on the left hand: always a posi- tive sign.
He bent over, putting his face where his waist was. “See something interesting?”
We might as well have been in the Caribbean for how hot my cheeks burned at that moment.
“I was wondering how you got that injury. Was it in the line of duty?” Jeez, that was lame.
A brief smile passed his lips, which meant he knew I was not looking at his bandage, nor admiring it in any way. He cleared his throat and resumed his tough guy demeanor.
“Bullet wound. Just a graze from last month’s bank robbery,” he said. “It’s fine.” He pulled his jacket further down to cover it up.
What was wrong with my brain? I swore off all men right after being left at the altar only a month ago. Did sleep deprivation make you boy-crazy?
Focus, Decker. You need to get to the Bake-Off Contest. Soon. Very, very soon.
“You must be very brave and rise above wasting time on traffic control,” I said, trying to appeal to his male ego.
He responded with a dead pan expression and completely ignored me. “License and registration.”
I really had to work on my flirting skills. In my defense, I’d been dating Ben for the last ten years.
The last time I flirted with anyone new was in high school and those were boys, not men.
I reached into the glovebox and my purse on the passenger side and handed the items back to him with shaking hands, wondering how long this would take.“Ava Decker,” he said, reading my name off my license. “Want to tell me why you were going seventy in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone? What’s the big hurry on a Saturday morning?”
“Yes, I’m really sorry about that,” I said, pressing my hands to my chest to help demonstrate my deep desire to convince him to let me go. “I’m running late for the Delicious Desserts Bake-off contest down by the wharf this morning. Normally, I never exceed the speed limit.”
Was it too early to ask again about getting a warning, preferably a verbal one?
“Wow. That’s some sweet tooth you have,” he said.Great. Although, it wasn’t entirely false. I could totally see myself doing that if the situation called for it. Like I did right after being left at the altar just a few weeks ago.
I started to point to the cupcake truck’s signage to prove I wasn’t just a sugar-addicted, crazed woman, racing through town from one sugar event to the next but the truck was a solid baby blue color.
Francine’s brother gave her this truck as a birthday gift last week so she could expand and sell her cupcakes in different areas of Blueberry Bay once the warmer summer months arrived. But since it was only February, getting a logo painted on the truck wasn’t high on the winter priority list of tasks for the shop.
“I like sugar just as much as the next person but I’m not rushing there to eat. I’m one of the bake-off contestants, or I mean, I work for one of them,” I said.“You’re a baker, huh?” he asked.
I could’ve sworn I saw a glint in his eye when I said that. It was the same look of excitement I had whenever anyone mentioned pastries, chocolate, ice cream or anything sugar-based. I found a fellow sweet tooth aficionado.
“Yes, would you like a sample?” I asked, hoping that would butter him up enough to let me go.
I motioned towards the back of the truck, which was filled with some of my special Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie and Bavarian Crème filled cupcakes for today’s bake-off competition. No one could eat one of those and still want to give me a ticket.
“Is that a bribe?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and cracking the slightest beginning of a smile.
“Maybe we could call it evidence? Like, Exhibit
A to prove that I really am a baker and totally running late to the world’s most important baking contest of my life. Otherwise, I would have never and will never speed again in my life if you let me off with a verbal warning, kind of evidence?” I asked.
I walked towards the back of the truck. “Stay right there, ma’am,” he said, taking the keys from me. “I’ll open the door.”
Wow. Did he just ma’am me? I wasn’t looking my best today but I was barely pushing thirty, not eighty.
In addition to making me boy-crazy, sleep depri- vation also rendered me delusional because I could’ve sworn there was a spark between us earlier. Albeit, a small, possibly nano-level spark but defi- nitely not a Mrs. Robinson ma’am type of situation! I was only twenty-nine and he couldn’t have been much younger than that.
After he opened the door, I heard a sharp intake of breath.
Oh, no! Did all the cupcakes topple over in my crazy haste to get to the wharf? I had no idea how this monster vehicle operated under different driving conditions. There were a few potholes in the road on the way out here and the alley wasn’t exactly smooth pavement central.
“Hands behind your head, interlace your
fingers,” he said, in a super serious, no longer flighty, flirty voice.
“What?” I asked, unable to think of anything more coherent or intelligent to say.
“You’re under arrest,” he said. “Officer, this isn’t what it looks like,” I said, remembering Francine’s crazy idea to bribe the judges with cash. She had a huge wad in a big package that she tried to pawn off on me the other day. I told her no but she must’ve snuck it into the back of the truck. A huge packet of cash looked weird to anyone.
“Right and I’m not really a cop. It just looks like I am,” he said.
“But I can explain. That’s not mine. It’s my boss’s,” I said. “She put it in there last night.”
“The dead body? That’s hers?” he asked. “What?” I demanded. Did he just say dead body? Did sleep depriva- tion also jumble up words in your brain?
I peered around the corner and there she was: Francine Donovan with her beloved custom-made cake cutting knife plunged into her back. The word Frosted was engraved on the handle.
The air caught in my lungs. My heart immedi- ately sunk into my chest and a cascade of tears streamed down my cheeks. Not that she was ever
for a single moment nice to me but this was nothing less than horrible.
“Who would do such a thing?” I asked, silently sobbing my eyes out.
Until I felt a cold pair of metal rings being tight- ened around my wrists.
End of Excerpt
