Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster (7 page)

It's a cool Wednesday evening, but the Southern heat returns with a long-overdue visitor. I answer the door to see Cole looking back at me. His blue-green eyes, once resembling seafoam, now look more like a dense forest of trees. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to clear my head enough to say hello.

"Hey." I manage to sound normal.

"Hi." Cole keeps his hands in his pockets, his feet planted firmly in place.

"Um, do you want to come in?" I glance over my shoulder. Bree is in her usual spot in the kitchen.

"Actually, do you want to take a walk?" Cole responds.

"Sure." I glance down at the floor as my heart starts to pound. I know what he wants from me. He wants to talk about what happened at Gino's little shack of an apartment.

The two of us stroll along the sidewalk, heading in the direction of campus. We've walked along this path together before. Once at night. I can't help but chuckle, thinking back to last year when we thought we saw a ghost in the student kitchens.

"Old man Thomas?" Cole guesses, noticing the grin on my face. "Yeah, I think about that night sometimes too. And how stupid we were."

"So stupid." I laugh.

"And what do you know," he responds. "I was right all along. There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Do you think the newbies this year have heard the story yet?" I ask.

"It's probably changed by now." Cole glances at me. As soon as our eyes lock, I'm tugged back to our kiss.

I pull myself as far from it as I can, remembering the first time I heard the legend of Old Man Thomas. The angry ghost of Calle Pastry Academy who bangs around in the kitchens at night. Last year, during a tour of the student bakery, the head baker, Steve, mentioned the story. It was said to be the ghost of the founder's son—a man named Buzz who went missing.

"Right," I agree. "Perhaps we should make up a new ghost?"

"What will we call him?"

"Or
her
?" I say. I slow down when we near the very building where the two of us found one of our instructors dead on the kitchen floor. "What about something like griping Gretta, the victim of a tainted pie gone wrong?"

"Are you speaking of the peach pie you made on day one?" he teases.

"I didn't know what I was doing back then." I take a step closer to him without even realizing it. He was the very first friend I made when I came to Georgia, and I hope that it stays that way. Friend is better than ex-lover. At least that way we'll still speak to each other.

"And now?" Cole's look softens the same way it did back at Gino's apartment.

He's not referring to my cooking.

"Cole," I finally say. "You and I…we…" I can't find the right words. How do you tell someone you don't have feelings for them when you might actually have feelings for them? Am I supposed to set aside everything going on in my life to figure this out? I never have before. Maybe that's my problem.

"I know," he replies, hanging his head. My palms feel sweaty, and I nervously flex my calves as I try to act casual. It doesn't work so well. All I can think about is his lips against mine.

"I just…" I sigh. "I don't know what to make of what happened."

"Look, Poppy." He grabs my hand, and when I feel the warmth of his fingers clutching mine, my heart races. "I'm going to be honest with you."

"Okay."

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't into you." He says it confidently, like he's adding strawberries to a strawberry shortcake. There's no denying that the berries belong on top. "Why do you think I walked up to you the very first day we met?"

My cheeks go hot along with the rest of my face.

"Cole," I say quietly, looking down at our intertwined fingers. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he continues. "Poppy, I like the idea of
us
."
I might like it too.
"But I have a job waiting for me back in Atlanta, and you live on the other side of the country."

"Then why did you kiss me?"

His grip tightens around my fingers when I spit out the question.

"Why did you kiss me back?" he asks.

"I…" I hesitate. Mostly because I don't have a good answer or one that I'm ready to discuss out loud. "Wait, why am I answering first?
You're
the one who started it."

"The feeling was mutual." He slowly lets go of my hand, and I take a few steps back. A light breeze winds its way in between us.

"You caught me off guard."

"So, you kissed me back to be polite?" he guesses, raising his eyebrows.

"That's not what I meant." I take a deep breath and try to clear my thoughts. Maybe something will come to me? A better way to word the cloud of confusion that's messing with my emotions. "Maybe we're better off as friends."

"Friends with benefits?" he jokes, grinning the way he does when Chef Otto mentions his Professional Cake Froster certification during class.

"Don't push it." I turn back toward my apartment. "You're lucky I let you cook for me every week." Cole chuckles, and I feel relieved that the awkwardness between us has been pushed aside.
As long as you never mention the kiss again
. "Promise me one thing."

"Name it," he answers.

"Never catch me off guard again."

"You got it, Poppy."

He nudges my arm, and it sends a spark of energy up my spine. My memories take control, reminding me what I'm leaving behind. His sharp physique. His gentle eyes. His fiery touch.

I might regret this decision one day.

*   *   *

"Mom, what's going on?" My mother and I talk once in a while. The last time we spoke was after I got home from Paris. I've since been trying to get hold of her to see if she and Dad will be coming down to Georgia to see me graduate. My mom doesn't usually call me in tears.

"Hi, honey." She sniffs a few times. "How are you?" She sniffles again.

"Fine," I reply. I hear the muffled noise of her sobbing as if she 's crying while covering her speaker. "Are you?"

"Oh, you know…"

Just wait. She'll blurt it out in a second.

"I'm
never
going to have grandbabies," she sobs into the phone.

"Mom," I answer, "calm down. Now, you know that's not true." Her nervous breakdown is one of two things. Either she's met someone she wants me to marry. Or Locke, one of my exes, has slunk back into her good graces, and she wants me to hear him out even though I've made it clear the two of us are over.

"It is true," she cries. "I mean first you and now your brother. Where did I go wrong?" I've gotten used to the marriage lectures, the comments about my remaining childbearing years, and the remarks about the company I keep. But to hear this about my brother, Mark, is another story.

"Wait, what? What's wrong with Mark?"

"He broke off his engagement," she responds, calming herself down. My guess is that she's already shed plenty of tears on the matter. "I don't suppose he's talked to you about it?"

"No," I answer.

I think back to the first time I met my brother's fiancée, Lauren. The way she stood and the shade of her hair reminded me a little of Georgina. But Lauren proved herself to be quite a charming person and a rather gifted artist. If Mark can't make it work, maybe Mom is right. Maybe I'm doomed when it comes to love, and I should give her the go-ahead to arrange my marriage for me. My dowry can be a lifetime supply of peach pies.

"At first, I thought he was joking."

"Well, did he say why?" I ask. "I thought he and Lauren were good friends?" There it is again. A friends turned lovers situation that backfired.

"No, but it was pretty clear that he's heartbroken over the whole thing," she says. "I wonder if the little tramp cheated on him? She did seem a little young for him."

"Mom," I scold her. "You don't know that. What if
Mark
met someone else?"

"Oh, your brother would never do that," she protests. "I raised him to be a gentleman."

I roll my eyes. Mark is still just a guy. A guy who makes mistakes.

"Okay," I respond. "What do you want me to do? Do want me to call him? Do you want me to talk to Lauren?"

"If you think it's necessary." She pauses and waits for my final verdict.

Why do I always play her little games?

"Fine," I answer, shaking my head. "I'm up to my ears in work, but I'll give my brother a call."

"Oh, Poppy. What a good sister you are."

"But I'm not going to try to convince him to get back together with her," I clarify. "I want to make that clear."

"Oh, of course not," my mom says. "Just make sure he's okay, and…find out what's going on."

Find out what's going on so you can meddle some more?

"Okay." I agree because I know it'll stop her from doing something drastic like calling Lauren's mother or flying all the way to Boston and showing up on my brother's doorstep. "Are you and Dad going to make it to my graduation?"

"We didn't miss the last one."

"Mom," I say more firmly. "This one is just as important as the last. Are you coming?"

"Yes, Poppy, we're coming."

"Poppy, wait a sec!" Georgina runs outside to catch up with me. She barely spoke to me during class today, and I think it's because she's still hoping I'll warm up to the idea of a royal wedding theme for our final buffet. Bree speeds up her pace.

"I'll see you back at the apartment," Bree says, leaving me and Georgina to hash out the details of our next assignment. I continue walking in the same direction, and Georgina joins me.

"Hey," I say, trying to seem polite. It's a difficult thing to do because I know she'd never be friendly to me unless she wanted something.

"Hi, Poppy," she replies.

She wants something.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Hold on," she insists. I keep walking toward my apartment, and she cheerily follows me. Georgina has yet to see inside of my apartment, though I've been to hers a few times. Mine isn't as extravagant. And it most certainly does not come with a live-in maid, aka Georgina's childhood nanny turned family housekeeper who came all the way to Georgia just to help her unpack and move in new furniture. The traditional beiges with tan accents weren't conducive to a creative work environment—Georgina's words.
And maybe she's right about that one.

"Is this about what I piped across your practice board? Because I was only joking."

"No," she responds, "and by the way, calling someone a tart face is very immature."

I chuckle.

"Just livening things up. I used to spend way too much time with my tights in a twist."

"Whatever," Georgina responds. She shakes her head as if she's doing a reset on our conversation. "Anyway, I wanted to know if you've given any more thought to the royal wedding theme."

"Ugh." I exhale, walking a little faster. "I haven't changed my mind about it, and I never will. We might as well start from scratch. I'll compromise on the black wedding cake, and you throw out the navy and gold."

"If I can't do the royal wedding theme, you're not getting a black wedding cake or a black anything for that matter." She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Look up the meaning of the word
compromise
."

I resort to counting my steps as I walk instead of socking Georgina in the face. Something I've thought about doing many times, but I'd rather wait until
after
I'm officially a Calle Pastry Academy graduate. I glance up and down the sidewalk—the afternoon sun glaring down at us.
Don't give in.

Something dark and shiny catches my eye and I freeze.
Keep walking. Just keep walking
. I take a few steps and eventually gain speed. Georgina tilts her head—her eyes fixated on my expression. The black Cadillac is back, and this time it's not following Chef Otto. It's following
me
.

"Uh, hello?" Georgina says, waving a hand near my face. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the car creeping closer. I stare straight ahead in the direction of my apartment.

"And?" Georgina crosses her arms, looking impatient. "Come on, you're not normally this quiet."

"Georgina," I mutter, getting closer and closer to my destination. "I don't have time for this right now." My thoughts race as I contemplate what to do next.
Don't go home, Poppy
.

"Oh, but you have time to vandalize my kitchen equipment."

"There's a difference between frosting and spray paint, Georgina."

"We need to start planning like yesterday," she continues. "All the other teams have decided on themes. Don't force me to sit on your couch and wait for you to see reason." She holds her head high and continues walking at my hurried pace. I eye the parking lot near my front door and my old Honda on its last leg of life.

"Later, okay?" I turn my head slightly, clenching my jaw when I see that the black Cadillac is still right behind us. I dash to my car, digging into my bag for my keys. I hop in the driver's seat and rev the engine. This is it. This is my chance to beat Detective Reid at his own game.

I flex the muscles in my torso as the passenger's door slams shut. Georgina puts on her seatbelt and waits for me to back out. She runs her perfectly polished fingers over the dash and wrinkles her nose.

"Georgina," I shout. "Get out of my car."

"No." She holds her ground though her distaste for my car's interior is obvious. She looks like she did the moment I stole the Paris internship from right under her nose—disgusted. "I'm going to follow you everywhere until we agree on something."

"You mean until I agree to the royal wedding theme?" I ask. "If I say yes, will you get the heck out of my car?"

"You don't mean it." She shakes her head. I glance in my rearview mirror, and my heart sinks when I see the black Cadillac drive past us.

"Okay, whatever." I put the car in reverse and back out of my parking spot so fast that Georgina grabs onto the door handle for balance.

"Geez, Poppy. Where'd you learn to drive?"

I ignore her and drive in the direction of the black Cadillac. In the distance I can see it turning a corner on a road headed toward town. I speed up, turning the same corner. My chest pounds as I lock my sights onto the mystery car and keep driving.

"Where are we going anyway?" Georgina asks. She glances over her shoulder at the back seat. "Oh Lord, Poppy, it looks like someone lives back there." I promptly check the back seat, expecting to see a foreign collection of blankets and pillows.

"Are you referring to the one magazine and leftover wrapper from a moon pie that Bree made me try?" I shake my head, turning another corner.
She's going to ruin this for me
. Georgina shrugs and leans forward to crank the air conditioner. A function in my car that surprisingly still works even at these high Georgia temperatures. But the trick is that I ease into it, and under no circumstances do I turn the knob to the highest setting. "No, Georgina, don't—"

I'm too late.

My AC indeed was chewing at its last straw, and Georgina just sent it out to pasture.

All at once, the cool air ceases to blow on my face.

The heat takes over, and I'm forced to roll down my windows or risk frying like an egg.

"What happened to the air?"

"You broke it," I point out. "Now I'm screwed."

"This car is really old anyway." Georgina avoids making eye contact.

The black Cadillac slows down as the two of us come to a red light. I pull up behind it—my pulse soaring as I take deep breaths of the warm, humid air. I stare straight ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the tinted windows hide his face.

"Okay, now I can't breathe." Georgina goes as far poking her head out of the window for fresh air. "Where are we going?"

"I'm not sure yet," I admit.

"If you're headed for the grocery store, it's a left up here."

"We're going straight," I respond, unable to take much more of her rambling. If this is all a ploy to get what she wants, it might be working. I'm minutes from agreeing to her ridiculous buffet theme.

And kicking her out of my car.

"But—"

"Georgina," I interrupt, raising my voice. "Look up the meaning of the word
quiet
."

The stoplight changes, and I ease onto the gas pedal. The black Cadillac begins moving forward, but it changes lanes at the last second and makes a risky left turn before I can follow it. I continue driving straight until I'm able to flip a U-turn. I turn the car around the first chance I get, and Georgina holds onto the dash.

"I should've taken my chances waiting in your apartment," she mumbles.

"Dang it!" I hit my hand on the steering wheel as I turn right and find that the black Caddy is gone.

"I told you the grocery store was a
left
turn." Georgina raises her eyebrows. The sound of her voice claws at my brain like a fork scratching the inside of a mixing bowl.

"We're not going to the grocery store," I blurt out. "We
were
following a possible lead to the farmers' market murder case, but you blew that one out of the water along with my AC."

"You're investigating the farmers' market murder?" she repeats.

"I was."

"Don't blame all this on me." Georgina waves a hand in the air and leans toward the open window for more air. "Let the police figure it out."

"You wouldn't get it. That black Caddy that was in front of us was the answer to all my problems." I sigh, turning around again and heading back toward campus.

"You're right," she scoffs. "I don't see how following some random car through town would help you catch a killer. Unless the driver
was
the killer. In which case, you are absolutely insane."

"The car was following us," I admit.

"Coincidence." She stares out the window as we drive back the way we came.

"I've also seen that same car parked outside Otto's house."

Now I have her attention.

"Are you sure we're talking about the same car here?" she asks, smoothing a strand of her hair as if Chef Otto himself is present for the conversation.

"Positive." I observe as she studies her reflection. "And
you're
the insane one if you think Otto is going to drop everything for a no-name pastry student."

"I won't be a student forever," Georgina argues. "Besides, I'm not a nobody. I'm actually the heiress to a rather profitable chain of specialty food stores and—"

"You're developing your own line of gourmet cake mixes," I finish. "Yes, I know. The whole school knows."

"See." She leans back in her seat and crosses her ankles. "My chances are just as good as any of those snakes in Hollywood. I'll pull it off. You wait and see. I plan on leaving CPA a legend."

"Heartwarming." I can't bring myself to even pretend that I care.

"Oh, please." Georgina laughs. "Going to class early. The buddy-buddy routine. Dog sitting? You're after him too."

"Honestly," I respond, "he's all yours."

"And no one is following you, Poppy. It's all in your head."

Georgina jolts forward and lets out a squeal. The car behind us pushes my bumper, before backing away slowly. I swallow the lump in my throat—lungs burning from the sudden shock. The impact came out of nowhere.

I look in my rearview mirror, and my eyes go wider than mini macarons.

It's the black Caddy.

It's not paranoia. It's reality.

"Uh-huh," I say. "So what do you call that?" I glance in my rearview mirror again, and Georgina shoots a death glare over her shoulder.

"Someone who should learn how to drive," she shouts out of the window.

The black Cadillac bumps the back of my car a second time. Georgina instinctively rolls up her window and slumps her shoulders, hiding behind her seat. I gulp and keep my hands at ten and two.
Stay calm, Poppy. Keep driving
.

"Believe me now?" I say out loud.

The car behind us hits my bumper even harder, and this time my seat belt digs into my stomach. I'm whiplashed back toward my seat, and Georgina barely misses smacking her forehead on the dashboard. She tugs at her seatbelt—her cheeks looking pasty. Her eyes dart toward me and then to the side view mirror.

I change lanes, hoping that something as simple as getting out of his way will help. It doesn't. The black Caddy changes lanes along with me. I try speeding up, but my rickety old Honda is no match for the car in pursuit of us. The mysterious Cadillac catches up in a heartbeat.

Bang.

My bumper takes another hit and so does my blood pressure. My fingernails dig into the steering wheel, and I'm too mortified to do anything but speed as far away as possible from our attacker. I change lanes again, and this time the Caddy doesn't follow. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it's premature.

Bang.

The black Caddy hits the corner of my Honda, and my car wobbles like a baby wearing roller skates.

"He's going to kill us," Georgina yells, letting out another squeal. "Poppy, do something!"

"
Me
?" I shout back.

Another crash to the side of my car is all it takes to send us swerving off the side of the road. The tires hit patches of rocks and brush, stopping short of a grove of trees. Georgina screams as we come to a screeching halt. She hits the side of her head against the window, and immediately rubs the bruise.

I stare at the windshield and slowly catch my breath. My arms are locked into place, and my muscles are flexing so tight that I don't think I can move them. The black Cadillac zooms ahead of us—the driver hidden behind tinted windows.

"Okay, fine." Georgina finally breaks the silence. "I'll quit bringing up the royal wedding theme."