A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (14 page)

"Please," Mr. Harris says through his teeth. "Don't stain the reputation of this school with your silly accusations."

I glare at Jeff. He uncomfortably looks down at his shoes as he folds his arms.

"Jeff," I call him out. He takes a deep breath.

"Mr. Harris blackmailed me into making sure the goods were placed into the right hands," Jeff says, hanging his head. "Just like he did to Tom Fox before he ran off to get away from his mistakes."

I think back to the missing student poster that I saw on my first day. Tom Fox
did
run away, but not because the program was too much for him. It was his extracurriculars that nearly killed him.

"If that's true," Detective Reid responds. "
You
will have to come with me as well."

"I'll cuff him for you," Cole comments, scowling in Jeff's direction.

"Quiet," Bree says, hitting his arm.

As Mr. Harris and Jeff are escorted out, my heart gradually starts to slow down. I take a few calming breaths and shake my head at the pile of fresh beignets on the counter. Detective Reid walks towards me. His chiseled jaw is clenched. I look at his slacks and autumn orange tie, remembering Bree's comment about his looks.

"Well done," he says.

I laugh.

"Sounds like you almost had it figured out yourself," I reply. I bite the side of my lip and try not to stare at his face for too long. "You never thought I was guilty, did you?"

"No." He chuckles. "This place has gotten a mountain of theft reports since Mr. Dixon took over. I guess he's not in the loop."

"Right." I nod. "Well, you could have just said that."

"I wasn't sure I could trust you." His eyes lock with mine for a brief moment.

"And now?" I ask him.

"We'll see," he jokes. His hand lightly brushes my arm as he reaches for a bowl on the counter. He holds it up and studies the school's emblem engraved on it. The shape matches the indentation that was on Professor Sellers's head. I blink a few times trying to get his pale face and bruised head out of my mind.

"The murder weapon?" I ask. "He must have hit him pretty hard."

Detective Reid nods.

"I'm going to need
all
of these."

"Mr. Harris has a cut on his thumb, so one of these bowls probably has DNA matching both the victim and the suspect."

"Impressive." He grins and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his business card. "If anything else comes to mind."

"Yeah," I respond. "I will give you a call."

"In the meantime…" He looks around the kitchen at the mess that Mr. Harris made, starting with the burnt batter in the fryers and extending all the way across the kitchen where powdered sugar is dusted across the counters. "My team has a lot of work to do." Detective Reid promptly puts on a pair of gloves and begins the tedious task of tracking down every single kitchen item with the school's emblem engraved on it.

That's a whole lot of bowls.

The holiday break could not have come sooner. I get off the airplane and breathe in the Oregon air. I smell coffee. Lots of coffee. I pass a handful of coffee shops as I walk to the baggage claim to meet my mom. I find myself taking long, deep breaths as I pull my carry-on bag past security.

I see my mom waiting with a paper sack that I hope is filled with our Christmastime tradition of pumpkin spice muffins. Sometimes she makes them. Sometimes she buys them from our local bakery. Either way they taste amazing every time. I walk faster when I see her. Her thin frame is dressed in jeans and a red trench coat with brown hiking boots.

"I thought you would be hungry," she says, handing me the sack. My stomach rumbles.

"Yes," I respond. "Pumpkin spice. I love the holidays." I don't wait a minute before I bite into a muffin and let the sweet spices take me back to a Christmas morning when I was twelve and Grandma Liz gave me a blue, sparkly tutu that she sewed herself.

"It's nice to have you home again." She puts her arm around me and escorts me outside to the parking lot. It doesn't matter how old I am. I think Mom still sees me as a ten-year-old girl. Even if I walked off the plane carrying my own baby, she would still see me as a ten-year-old.

"How's my old apartment?" I ask.

"New renters moved in last month," she responds. "Your dad took care of all the details."

"Thanks." I haven't slept in my old room in years.

"How is school going so far?" she asks, running her fingers through her long, dark hair.

I knew both my parents would ask me this, and I have contemplated what to say to them. My dad already told me that pastry school wasn't the practical choice to make. I don't want to give him a reason to complain some more.

I know I should have stayed on the familiar route and moved into a career that was dance related, but I didn't want to. I wanted to start over. Grandma Liz would have understood. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and smile.

"It's going well." And now that the truffle killer has been caught, school really is going well for me. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. That baker's rut I found myself in is slowly starting to dissolve. "I'll have to make you something."

"Nothing buttery," Mom comments. "Your father and I are on a vegan kick."

"Dairy-free," I say quietly. "I accept the challenge." I remember my
dieting
days, and how I used to get mad at myself for dreaming of doughnuts and flaky croissants. I would go days on nothing but dry chicken salads with no dressing. And it wasn't even the dark meat that I like. It was the boring breast meat. Less fat.

"You should try it out for a few days." She looks me up and down. "Maybe it will help you out with some of that puffiness."

"It's not puffiness. It's five extra pounds." My mother commenting about my weight is nothing new to me. I know it would bother some people, but it doesn't bother me. When you live the life of a professional ballerina having your body scrutinized is part of the territory. I realized as soon as I bit into one of Bree's sugary morsels that I would probably gain some weight while I was away at school.

"
Five?
"

"It's pastry school, Mom. It was bound to happen." I am already starting to regret not getting a hotel room.

"Well." She wrinkles her nose. "Just be careful when you go back."

"You mean try not to let anymore doughnut holes jump into my mouth?" I joke. She looks at me curiously. She doesn't find my comment funny. Lucky for her, I think I'll steer clear of beignets for a while.

I follow my mom to her car and put my bag in the trunk. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I smile when I see Cole's name on the screen. I read his text as we wait in line to pay for parking.

Cole:
How's Mom and Dad?

Me:
Eh…at least I can breathe here.

Cole:
Mama drama?

Me:
The usual.

Cole:
Are you going to practice your napoleons?

Me:
Idk. The fam has gone vegan.

Cole:
More for you then.

Me:
I miss Bree's caramel filled cake balls.

Cole:
Is that all you miss?

I look up from my phone when heavy raindrops hit the windshield. Around me is familiar scenery, but I feel more like a visitor than an Oregon native. I miss Cole and my crazy roomie. I wonder what both of them are doing right now. Cole is probably grilling something at his aunt's house, and Bree is most likely back in Connecticut shopping for ingredients at her local market.

"Who's that?" my mom asks. She shakes her head. "Sorry, old habit. That's none of my business."

"A friend from Georgia." I smile. Cole still believes in my napoleons even though they suck. I laugh, quietly imagining him biting into a napoleon with flat puff pastry dough and lumpy cream. He would eat the whole thing to avoid hurting my feelings even if it was awful. "Mom, do you remember those candies that Grandma Liz used to make with me?"

"Brigadeiro," she responds. "Oh, I haven't had one of those in years."

"Me neither." I remember biting into one of those chocolaty truffles and feeling like I floated up to heaven for a few seconds. Grandma made me wait all day to have one. I would practically inhale my dinner just to be allowed a taste. Green vegetables included. "What if I made a batch?"

"Really?" She pauses for a minute. "Well, pumpkin, if you made
that
then I would eat it."

"Good."
Because I'll be making a whole lot more than just one batch.

I take a deep breath and look back at my cell phone. I re-read Cole's last text.
Is that all you miss?
The real answer to that question is more characters than my phone will allow. The truth is I miss a lot of things.

Grandma's candy.

Sunday morning lattes before weekend rehearsals.

The cupcakery in NYC.

My pre-injury ballet body.

And I never realized it until now, but I miss sleuthing around CPA with my zany classmates. A new chapter of my life is starting, and I can't wait to return to my
beige
apartment and find Bree trying to perfect peppermint bark or Cole arguing about how mayo is better than Miracle Whip.

My fingers type a response to Cole's question.

A simple two-letter answer.

Me:
No.

Cole:
;)

My childhood home sits at the top of a steep hill. It's an older house surrounded by trees and wildflowers. The backyard faces a lot of land covered in woods and wildlife. It was never cleared out to make space for more houses. It's too wild to tame now. I used to go exploring back there when I was little. I came across a giant toad once. I named him Fatso
and kept him in the sink of my playhouse.

The sky is gray, and the air feels moist, but not the same way it feels in Georgia. It feels like mist is continually washing over me. Mom pulls up the driveway and gets out of the car. I grab my suitcase and follow her up the front, wooden steps. The inside of the house used to be a pea green color before Mom had it painted white a few years ago. She had also traded all her antique sofas for a set that was simpler and more modern. The only things left in this house that haven't changed are my brother's and my bedrooms.

"Wow," I say as I walk into the kitchen. "New floors?"

The kitchen cabinets used to be oak, but those were also painted white to match the rest of the house. Through the window above the sink you can see the woods in the backyard. Above the kitchen table is a skylight. Though the sun is hidden behind rain clouds at the moment, the white walls against the immense amount of green outside have a way of brightening up the room.

"No more linoleum," she happily responds.

My dad is tall, thin, and dark-haired like the rest of my family. He sits at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. A warm mug of tea is steaming next to him. He looks up and grins.

"Poppy," Dad greets me. "Welcome back."

"Can I get you something, honey?" My mom opens a cupboard and pulls out a mug.

"Coffee?"

"Oh, we've switched to tea." She glances at Dad. "It's healthier."

"Right." I nod.

"Tea is fine." I set my suitcase aside and sit next to Dad at the table. It feels strange to walk into a room and not have an AC unit blasting or a fan circulating some sort of breeze. Even though it's technically wintertime, it still feels hot in Georgia. The sun doesn't beat down on me like it did during the summer, but the air is still warm and simple outdoor walks always make me feel sweaty.

"You look different," my dad comments. "Is it your hair?"

"Dan," my mom scolds him. "Our daughter is a
curvy
type of girl now. Don't make a big deal of it."

My dad raises his eyebrows and resumes reading his paper. I watch my mom pull out a tea bag and steep it in some hot water. She opens another cupboard to retrieve a box of vegan biscuits. She places a couple on a small dessert plate and places them in front of me. They look like circles of cardboard compared to the stuff that Bree makes.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

"I hope you don't mind green tea?" My mom hands me a mug and sits next to me. "It's good for your metabolism."

"Of course."

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles at me. I know she is only trying to help, but she's making it feel like a sin to enjoy a round, fat buttery shortbread cookie. I reluctantly taste the vegan biscuit. It tastes a little like seaweed.

"Good, aren't they?" My mom nods as if they are sugary morsels that I should love just as much as she does. "Well, if you're going to make us all something you should probably head on to the store."

"Now?" I glance at Dad as he crosses his legs and turns the page, staring intently at the headline at the top. "It's just us three. I'm sure I can work with ingredients that you already have and make something small."

"Oh, did I forget to mention that your brother will be here later today?"

"Yes." My eyes go wide. "You
did
forget to mention that."

"Yeah, he'll be here around the same time as your Aunt Maggie and Uncle George."

"What?"

"Yes, for our annual, family holiday party tonight," Mom responds.

"You didn't tell me that that was tonight." My parents throw a holiday party for everyone on our street every year. Last year I flew in from New York and stayed with my ex. The two of us mostly fooled around in my old bedroom the entire night. Mom usually hires a Santa to come, and we all take family pictures. Back when all the kids on our block were younger, Mom would set up some sort of cookie decorating station, but lately there haven't been any children in attendance. The cookie station quickly turned into a spot to store more booze.

"Yes, I've hired someone to take care of the food this year."

"All vegan?" I add.

"Mostly." She sits up straight in her chair and smoothes a piece of her dark hair.

"So we aren't having a turkey this year? Or any of that gingerbread fudge that Grandma used to make?"

"Tofurky is just as good," she responds. She's glancing outside, cupping her mug like it contains liquid chocolate. I roll my eyes.
Tofurky?
If Bree were here she would explode. She would march right down to the nearest grocery store, buy up all the fat they had in stock, and start filling the house with sweets until my parents couldn't take it anymore.

I would give that a try, but I am pretty sure my mom would fall over and have a heart attack if she saw that much butter and lard all in one place. Like me, she is naturally thin, but she can take dieting to extremes sometimes. I used to be like that. Crazy about food. I still am crazy about food, but in a different way. I let it brighten my day, not rule it.

"Mom, you can't serve everyone Tofurky."

"They won't even know the difference," she laughs. "I don't anymore, and your father says he loves it."

I glance at my dad, but he avoids making eye contact.

"It's tofu," I say. "They will see and taste the difference, trust me."

Mom shrugs. Once she has made up her mind she doesn't change it. I gulp down the rest of my green tea, pretending it is a pumpkin spice latte with a shot of espresso, and stand up. I grip the handle of my suitcase and head into the family room and towards the staircase. I notice that Mom has already put up her Christmas tree. At least
that
still looks the same. The Christmas balls are royal blue and silver just like when I was little.

I walk upstairs into my tiny bedroom. It's a little smaller than my room at Calle Pastry Academy, but I have my own bathroom. The walls are painted a light, ballerina pink, and there's a twin bed in the corner with a black-and-white comforter. The components of my room clash together, sharing two personalities. The black-and-white, bold patterns from my high school days, joined with the pink from my younger years when I thought fairies lived on my windowsill.

I set my luggage down and sit on my bed, looking up at the ceiling. I haven't had much time to think about the past couple weeks because they flew by so fast. After Mr. Harris was arrested, Jeff disappeared from classes for a few days. He eventually returned but had avoided me ever since. Understandable. I didn't exactly smile at him the first time we made eye contact. I was still too upset.

President Dixon apologized for the trouble I'd been through and made sure the entire staff knew I had nothing to do with Professor Sellers' death or the truffle theft. He gave the whole school a day off to attend the memoriam, and one of the senior classes submitted a new recipe to the student bakery for them to start selling in memory of him. Kiwi cheesecake. Apparently, it was his favorite. There was a lot about him that I didn't know or understand.

I suppose no matter how much we disliked each other, one thing we did have in common was a love of desserts.

*   *   *

It's a weird feeling when you visit your hometown grocery store and see people working there whom you went to high school with. I see a guy, who I am pretty certain used to be in algebra with me, stacking tomatoes. I duck into the baking aisle to avoid an awkward hello. My fingers run along the selection of baking chocolate.

I decided to make Grandma Liz's chocolate candies and an amazing vegan dessert to prove to Mom and Dad that I'm serious about pastry school. I've never made a dairy-free dessert, but who can say no to chocolate? I pick out a few different brands of baking chocolate and move on to the cocoa powders.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I say out loud. I glance down at my heels, thinking about the fact that I have nothing to wear to the party tonight. It doesn't matter though, because this year I'm dateless. I reach into my purse and pull out my cell phone. I dial someone who might be able to help me with at least
one
of my dilemmas.

"Hello?" a voice says on the other line.

"Bree," I respond, glaring at a bag of white chocolate chips. "Have you ever made a dairy-free cake before?"

"Hello to you too." I hear her giggle. "Already missing the South? You should come visit me in Connecticut sometime. You really won't want to leave after you do."

"My parents have gone
vegan
."

"No," she gasps.

"And I need to impress them at our holiday party tonight. Please tell me you can help."

She pauses for a moment.

"I have made a gluten-free, dairy-free chocolate cake before, but it was a little tricky."

"Let's hear it," I eagerly reply. "What do I need?"

"For starters, grab some dark chocolate.
Don't
use milk chocolate. I made that mistake once, and my old boss Ms. Neriwether almost had my head for it."

"Dark chocolate," I respond. "Check."

"You
can
use cake flour," she says. "But you can also use nut flour or black bean flour."

I wrinkle my nose.

"Maybe for my first time I'll just stick to regular cake flour."

"So holiday party, you say? You mean like a
Christmas
party?"

"No." I correct her. "One of our neighbors is Jewish so my mom makes sure everyone knows it's a
holiday
party."

"No eggnog then?" Bree responds.

"Who knows?" I grab a few more ingredients and place them in my basket. "She's having the party catered this year which is a little strange. She always makes everything herself. Sometimes with my help."

"Maybe it's a special one?"

"I don't know," I answer. "I mean my older brother is coming into town, so maybe that's it? He wasn't able to make it last year because he couldn't pull himself away from work. He's works at an investment firm in Boston."

"Uh-huh." I hear her take a deep breath, and it makes me take a step back from the candy aisle and wait for what she has to say next.

"What?"

"Oh nothing," she says quietly.

"No," I insist. "What aren't you saying? I know you have an opinion about this. You always do."

"It's just that this sounds an awful lot like the one time my cousin came to visit from London. My aunt threw a huge party and…well, he came to tell us all that he got married."

"Married?" I nearly choke on my own spit. "Oh, please. Mark doesn't have time for a relationship. He barely had time for me, and we only lived four hours away from each other."

"Well to be fair, four hours is a long way to drive."

"Sure," I mutter into the phone. "Take his side."

"I never thought I would have to say this to a friend, but the holidays will be over before you know it."

"I guess all I can hope for is a kick-ass cake," I reply.

"Yes." She takes another deep breath. "A kick-
butt
cake."

*   *   *

Making brigadeiro in my parent's kitchen brings back lots of warm memories. My hands move on their own as I melt all the ingredients together in a pot and stir quickly. I used to stand on a chair and watch Grandma Liz do this. I expect this is the way James feels when he makes his dad's southern peach pie back in Alabama. It's easy, and it's enjoyable.

My mom tugs at the string of my apron when she walks by. I glance at her before pouring the hot candy mixture onto a marble cutting board. It needs to cool just long enough for me to roll the mixture into balls and dip them in chocolate jimmies. The kitchen timer chirps, and I check my dark chocolate vegan cake. The smell of it escapes into the kitchen as I open the oven. My mom pauses and takes a second whiff as I pull the cake out of the oven.

"Honey, that smells amazing."

"It's vegan," I inform her.

She nods her head looking impressed. Her eyes dart from my cake to Grandma's candies to my evergreen knit sweater. She gently touches the material as if she's sizing it up at a department store.

"You'd better go and change," she suggests. "The caterers have just arrived, and I expect your brother any minute now."

"Mom, it's only a sweater." I touch the candy mixture and grab a ball of it with my fingers. It's still a little too hot, but I begin forming balls of candy and dunking them in a bowl of chocolate jimmie sprinkles. I also set aside another bowl with red and green sprinkles.