Doughnuts & Deadly Schemes (Culinary Competition Mysteries Book 3) (25 page)

"I'm Jeff," he says quietly.

"Poppy."

"Yes, I know." He grins. "I remember from yesterday."

"Right," I respond. "My epic pie failure."

"Come on, it wasn't
that
bad. I once a dated a girl who thought potatoes were called
fry balls.
At least you know the basics." He pauses. "And that fries are made from potatoes."

I laugh.

"You
do
know that, right?" he jokes.

"I do now," I reply. His eyes linger on the curves of my face as he grins.

Mr. Harris clears his throat as he puts his hand on the shoulder of a tall student in a white uniform. The student is covered in flour. He also has a half smile, and his eyes are darting from us to the bread ovens. He opens his mouth when a timer starts chirping, but he quickly closes it as another student rushes to take care of it.

"This is Steve, the head baker this semester."

"Only because Tom's gone," Steve chuckles, folding his arms. The smirk disappears from his face when he notices the stern way that Mr. Harris is looking at him.

"Uh, excuse me," I call out. "Do you mean Tom as in Tom Fox?"

"Yes," Steve answers. Mr. Harris narrows his eyes and looks at me, singling me out. He tightens his hold on Steve's shoulder and glares at him like he's seconds away from being handed a detention slip. "Sorry, sir."

"Everyone, Steve," he repeats. "Steve, this is everyone. Go ahead." Mr. Harris looks to Steve to finish the rest of his introduction. As soon as Steve catches on, Mr. Harris takes a few steps back to finish his morning coffee. I watch him discreetly snag a scone and nibble on the end as Steve starts pointing out things in the kitchen.

"Okay," Steve says. "Well, the ovens are over there, and we all rotate stations. So basically you will all get the chance to make everything we sell. You'll also take a turn washing dishes."

A few students groan.

"Hey," Steve continues. "You can't mess that up, so it's not so bad."

I see Georgina glance back at me.

"Some of us might," Georgina mutters.

I contemplate sticking out my tongue at her like a five-year-old, but I decide against it. Besides, Jeff is standing right next to me.

The sound of pots and pans banging grabs my attention. I look over and see a couple of students working on beignet batter. My mind jumps back to last night. My chest starts pounding and not because Jeff looked at me again.

"Beignets are made over here," Steve says, leading us through the bustling kitchen. "We use certain bowls to make our special blend of homemade brown sugar and spices." He holds up a mixing bowl with an emblem of the school on it. "The founder of CPA had these made for his trip to France."

"What do you make over there?" a student asks, just as a bowl of batter accidentally drops to the floor.

"Really, Bramley?" Steve whines. "That's the second time this morning." He rushes to help the student clean up the mess before anyone steps in it. I feel stupid watching and not helping, but I can hardly move where I am standing.

"Shouldn't we help them?" I mutter.

"You'll get your turn to clean up messes, don't worry," Georgina states. A couple of girls next to her giggle.

"This is where we make our signature Buzz's Rise and Shine Orange Rolls," Steve says, wiping the last of the spilled batter. I smile as I think of how good that orange roll tasted when I tried it.

"Who is Buzz?" a student asks.

Steve smiles.

"I am glad you asked," he replies "Buzz was the nickname for the founder's son. The kitchen hands used to call him Buzz, but his real name was Thomas or
Old Man Thomas
. He came up with this recipe for orange rolls as a cover up when he accidentally ordered a double delivery of oranges. He didn't want to tell his dad he had made a mistake, so he made these rolls as if he ordered the oranges on purpose."

"Nice save," Cole chuckles.

The same student raises her hand.

"What happened to Buzz? Is his family still around?" the student asks.

"He's dead," Steve says bluntly. "He went missing one night, and no one knows what happened to him."

Everyone glances at each other with confused looks on their faces.

"I guess we will never know," I say out loud.

"Oh," Steve adds. "I can't believe I almost forgot this, but Old Man Thomas's ghost haunts the school. Or so people say. The legend is that you can hear him banging around in the kitchens late at night, but no one has seen his ghost in years."

"Or maybe no one is stupid enough to tell people they're seeing things that aren't there," Georgina says boldly. She laughs and lifts her chin. Her blonde ponytail bounces around as she does.

I swallow the lump in my throat. The group continues walking through the kitchen, but I stay frozen in place. Cole stays behind and nudges me. I look at him and keep walking.

"What's wrong?" he whispers.

"I think I heard a ghost last night," I admit.

"You should have come out with me and my roommate." Cole slowly follows our group to one of the store rooms. I'm almost elbowed in the gut by a student whipping meringue.

"I'm not joking," I mutter. "I saw something last night near our classroom."

"What were you doing over there?" he asks.

I hear another bang that makes my head throb. I think about last night and how the shadowy figure stared at me from the end of the hallway while I stood frozen and a little drunk. I look over my shoulder and see someone using one of the school's specially-made bowls to mix sugar with molasses. The student pauses to add a few spices and then continues mixing vigorously.

"Never mind that." I clear my throat. "There was someone in the kitchens last night."

"Did you see who it was?" Cole narrows his eyes as he looks at me.

"I couldn't see a face but—"

"You didn't see Old Man Thomas, Poppy." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm sure it was just someone trying get ahead on cake construction or something."

"No," I whisper. "Whoever it was just
appeared
out of nowhere."

"No one appears out of nowhere," he argues. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

"You're right," I say sarcastically. "It must have been Georgina mixing up gourmet cake recipes for her debut baking line."

Georgina's head tilts when I say her name. She swiftly glances over her shoulder and glares at me before directing her attention back to Steve. I cover my mouth with my hand as Steve, the head baker, points to the various pantry items that are stored in airtight containers.

"What was that about?" Cole whispers. I wait until Georgina's attention is focused solely on Steve's presentation.

"Her ears must have been burning."

For the rest of our tour we observe the many stations where each pastry is made. My mouth waters when a hot pan of orange rolls is pulled from the oven and frosted with orange glaze. The sweet frosting melts perfectly over each bun. Mr. Harris snags one and takes a bite like it's a completely normal thing to do. He does the same with the other pastries, and just when I think he can't bear to stomach any more he nibbles at the first piece of peach pie. In truth, Mr. Harris did the things we all wished we could do if it weren't socially inappropriate. But then we would all be his size. Plump and round like a ripe nectarine.

"Mr. Harris, will we be tested on all this?" Georgina raises her hand but speaks freely when Mr. Harris looks at her. He looks bothered that she's even asking that question.

"Does it matter?" he responds.

"It matters to me." She raises her eyebrows as if his retort is inappropriate.

"Not everything is a test, silly girl," he murmurs. He coughs to clear his scratchy voice.

"Excuse me?" Georgina bites back. She places her hands on her hips. "Mr. Harris, I'm paying good money to attend this program. My family has built a successful business in the food industry from nothing, and our company was even listed as one of Oprah's
Favorite Things. That's right.
Oprah
. What qualifies you to sit there choking down pie and refer to me as a silly, little girl?"

The entire class and most of the kitchen goes silent as Mr. Harris clenches his jaw. He springs forward so quickly that it startles me. His round body moves from its spot near the hot pastry counter in a flash. Georgina takes a step back trying to play it cool, but she's blushing.

"What qualifies me?" he shouts. "What qualifies
me
?" Beads of sweat form on his forehead, and his entire face looks as if it might light on fire. "I've prepared meals for hundreds of thousands of soldiers back when I served in the army.
I
have earned the right to teach as I please."

Georgina nods. She firmly clasps her hands together.

"My apologies," she gulps.

Mr. Harris growls and storms out of the kitchen. I've met men like him before. Men with a short fuse. I suppose seeing certain things from the front lines, or from the cook's line, can scar a person for life. My dad once did business with a captain in the Navy who dove to the floor during lunch after a plate shattered in the kitchen. He thought he was being shot at.

"Remind me never to piss him off," Cole says quietly.

I wipe another bead of sweat from my forehead after Jeff nods in my direction. I follow Cole back outside just as the sun is starting to rise. It turns the sky an orangey color that reminds me again of orange-scented sticky buns. I clutch my stomach to stop it from making loud noises. At least one good thing came of this bakery orientation. I met Jeff.

"Ready?" Bree finally joins me again as our class breaks up across the quad before our morning lessons.

"Ready for what?"

"Day two," she responds. "We still have a full day of classes ahead of us."

"But our first one isn't until ten this morning, right?"

I feel relieved when Bree nods. That means I can head back to our apartment and sleep off my headache. The two of us walk back to our apartment. Bree makes another pot of coffee, and I collapse on my bed and close my eyes. Day two
cannot
be like day one. I have to try harder.

I have to wear flats.

SOUTHERN PEACH PIE & A DEAD GUY

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