Ellen McKenzie 04-Murder Half-Baked (2 page)

“If
the condo i
s in such bad shape, why did you get an offer so quickly? You keep complaining about the market being so slow.” Susannah was full of questions today. They would be easier to answer if she’d take off that blasted hat. It distracted me. “I’ve no idea. It had everything going against it.” I was on the floor, putting on socks, anxious to get to the office, but paused for a moment, thinking back. “Her kids want her out of there as soon as possible. They already have an apartment reserved for her at Shady Acres, the new assisted living place up on Montgomery Hill. But before she can go there they need to sell, and of course they also want top dollar.”

“Shady Acres isn’t cheap.” Aunt Mary bounced a little on the bed, more because her feet didn’t quite touch the floor than because I hadn’t priced Minnie’s Sunset Village condo high enough, even thought that was clearly what she thought. That’s what everyone thinks when an offer comes in right away. “They’re going to need every penny to keep her there.”

“It’s the first of December, the slowest time of the year. We’re in a declining market, which means prices are falling with the speed of water over Niagara Falls, and Minnie’s
place
…
well, it smells. We finally settled on a price only a little too high.
But I got a long listing.” I examined my toe. The red polish on it showed gaily through the hole in my sock. I rummaged in my sock drawer and found a pair of gray ones with snowmen on them. I thought they were cute when I bought them. “If this offer is even close to good, they will be convinced forever that they listed it too low.”

“Surely not. They’ll be grateful you did such a good job.”

“You were sitting there thinking I didn’t list it high enough.”

“I was not.”

Sure. I smothered a sigh.

“I thought you had an appointment with Anne Kennedy today to talk about Grace House.”

“I do. At two o’clock.” Aunt Mary eyed me critically, letting me know I wasn’t presenting the perfect picture of a dedicated real estate agent. “And I don’t think she’ll care if I’m not in pantyhose.”

“Let’s hope she likes snowmen.” Aunt Mary stared pointedly at my socks.

“This is a small town. No one dresses up. Besides, it’s cold.” I tried to remember where I’d left my briefcase. Surely not on the bed. I’d never find it under all of that. No. Downstairs. In the kitchen. Beside the hutch. “Anyway, all we’re going to do is talk. I’m not sure what she wants.”

“She wants a larger house.” Aunt Mary gave a little bounce and let the bed propel her onto her feet. “She has to turn women away because they don’t have enough room. I told Anne you were in real estate, seemed to know what you were doing, that you’d help her find a bigger house and sell the one they’re in. You will, won’t you
?
”

That wasn’t a question. It was a mission statement. My mission, and I knew from experience that I’d better accept it. “I’ll do the best I can. Do they have to sell the one they’re in before they can buy?”

“The board is discussing that.”

“I really have to know. The market is heading south, fast
.
I
t’s almost Christmas and
—
”

“Who’s Anne Kennedy
?
” Susannah
interrupted
.

“She’s the director of Grace House.”

“They need a bigger place?” Pat said from around a mouthful of pins. “How sad
that
there are so many women who need help
!
”

“What’s Grace House? Is it one of those safe houses for women who get abused? Can I take the veil off this thing? ” Susannah had been fingering the veil attached to the bridal hat again in a much too speculative manner but dropped it to give Aunt Mary her full attention.

“No. Although some of the women who come to us have been abused. Grace House is set up for women who are in transition. Many of them married
too young
.” Aunt Mary
pointedly
eyed the veil in Susannah’s hand. Susannah grinned. “Most are divorcing or separated from their husbands, and almost
none
have job skills. Some have never had a checking account. Their husbands always handled all the money. Lots have children. The only thing they have in common is the need for a breathing spell while they figure out their next step.”

“And Grace House does that?” Susannah’s grinned faded.

“We provide them a place to stay
and
counseling while they live in the house. We also help them to get a job and manage their money, and
to
find an attorney if they don’t have one.”

“Why do they need attorneys?” Susannah looked as if she were going to take notes. I hoped
those notes would be
for a class, not for future reference.

“Mostly to get their once loving spouse
s
to pay child support or alimony. It’s amazing how many men think their obligations end with the divorce decree.”

“And Mom’s going to help them get a bigger house? Awesome.”

“Not if she doesn’t get going.” Aunt Mary pushed back her sleeve and looked at her watch.

I got the message. I grabbed my jacket and headed for the stairs but stopped at the doorway. “You said the board is talking about how you’re going to finance a new Grace House. Remember what I just said about Minnie’s. It’s December, a terrible time to get anything done. More than that, the economy is in a nosedive, and the real estate market is the nose cone, which means it’s going to hit bottom first and hardest.
S
ell
ing
the house they’re in now before we buy another one
would
present a real logistical problem. That doesn’t mean we can’t do it, but it
would
take longer and
the process would be
harder. I’ll go talk to Anne, but I think you
—
the board members—have decisions to make before we do anything. And another thing. I’ll do my best, but I have a wedding coming up. So
—
if you could all just keep that in mind?”

“Everyone on the board is coming to your wedding. They’re aware of how jumpy you are just now.”

What? Me? Jumpy? But before I could respond she went on
:

“We have options. Francis Sadler, the founder of Grace House, left us a legacy, and Owen is supposed to come up with more money.”

“Good luck,” Pat muttered around her mouthful of pins. “The good doctor will attach so many strings to any money he donates you could use it as a May Pole.”

Aunt Mary laughed. I didn’t. This didn’t sound like fun.

“Francis loved Grace House,” Aunt Mary said firmly. “It was her idea and her baby. Owen always, finally, did what Francis wanted. And he will again. That money will help. But go talk to Anne. She’s the director. I’m sure she has a plan.”

I started to make a caustic remark about plans
but
took a look at her face and thought better of it. Anne Kennedy had better have a plan, and it had better be a good one. Christmas was only three weeks away, my wedding only four
. M
y
parents and Dan’s parents would be arriving way too soon, and I had barely made a dent in my Christmas shopping. I had found a caterer who thought barbeque tri-tip, served with packaged salad and ranch dressing, was the height of elegance. I was looking for another caterer. Just to make things really interesting, I had two escrows due to close within the next two weeks. Both sellers had decided they didn’t want to move until after the holidays, and the buyers wanted to be in for Christmas.

However
,
the wedding invitations were in, they were actually correct, and Aunt Mary was busy addressing them, blessed woman that she was. And I had been to Ianelli’s Bakery and ordered my cake. A simple, dignified but beautiful cake, one that would set off
a
simple but beautiful wedding of two people in their forties who had each been married before.

“Mom.”

I turned, curious at the tone in Susannah’s voice, instantly wary
of
the expression on her face.

“Mom, I think you might want to stop in at Ianelli’s when you get a chance.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I think Rose Ianelli might be a little confused about which cake you wanted. I was in there, getting a Danish, and the cake she showed me didn’t look like the one you described.”

Pat took pins out of her mouth and stuck them on the front of her
T-
shirt. “How was it? The Danish. The last ones I got there weren’t very good.”

The hand gesture Susannah made meant only one thing. Mediocre. But I didn’t care about Danish. I did care about the cake.

“What did Rose say?”

“She showed me a picture. I didn’t say anything, but you probably want to go check.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be straightened out quickly. Rose is the sweetest thing on earth.”

Aunt Mary was right. Rose was indeed a sweet lady. She was the one who had talked my mother into letting me have a Barbie cake for my eighth birthday, the kind where the cake is Barbie’s skirt and she sticks up out of the hole. The top half of Barbie rising from that mound of frosting seemed to make my mother a little nervous, but I got my cake.
“Right. Thanks for telling me. We did look at a lot of pictures. I’m sure there’s no problem.”

I’d stop by the bakery when I got a chance, but probably not today. Right now my mind was on Minnie and the offer on her Sunset Village condo. She needed to move, even if she didn’t fully realize it, and getting an offer this soon had to be good news. I hoped. In any case, I needed time to go over it, talk to the agent who brought it in, then contact Minnie’s family. Fingers tightly crossed, I headed for the stairs, my briefcase, and the car.

“Wish me luck,” I said as I left.

No one answered. They were all clustered around the dress, muttering. Susannah was still wearing the hat,
but the veil was gone. Good.

R
eal estate agents don’t need three wishes. Two
will
do just fine. First we wish that our sellers will listen to us and not insist on pricing their property so much higher than the market value that it is impossible to sell. The second is that an offer, when we get one, is “clean.” That has nothing to do with soap, but lots to do with conditions that make it difficult, if not impossible, to close the sale. For instance, a buyer wants you to take the house off the market while he sells his, only his isn’t on the market yet. He’ll offer it for sale as soon as he finishes painting. Or a buyer has little cash, needs ninety-five percent financing, but hasn’t bothered to talk to a lender. Of course they also want you to take the house off the market while they try to qualify for the loan. Although sometimes, like now, the market slows down to the point where, in desperation, we actually look at those kind of offers. I had my fingers crossed that Minnie’s wouldn’t fall into one of those categories.

I read the offer on her place three times before I really believed it. Almost full price, all cash, just the usual inspections, and they were willing to close in forty-five days, which meant after Christmas. I even knew the buyers. Pat and Bobbie Olmert were buying it for Bobbie’s recently widowed mother who had moved in with them after her house sold. She had the cash, and if she didn’t have enough, Pat and Bobbie could, and would, make up the difference. The buyers
’
agent and I agreed on the escrow officer we would like to use, she planned on using my favorite home inspector, and we even agreed on the termite company. I’d called Minnie’s family, fully expecting them to want to counter full price, but they were thrilled with the offer. They agreed to pick up the paperwork late that afternoon, take it to Minnie to sign, and bring it back in the morning. And
…
they actually thanked me! Two hours and we had an agreement. Which was why, still stunned, I was sitting in my car, in front of Ianelli’s Bakery, with half
an
hour to go before my appointment with Anne Kennedy.
 

Ianelli’s Bakery was on Center Street, in the heart of the old part of town. Exactly two blocks long, Center started at Elm and ran out at the park. It was the first street in Santa Louisa and had some of its oldest and most historic buildings. The ugly gray stucco building where Ianelli’s Bakery was housed wasn’t one of them. It’s only attractive feature was a large picture window that had been filled for as long as I could remember with plaster replicas of baked goods. A huge wedding cake was always center stage
, flanked by
a couple of birthday and holiday cakes, rotating depending on the season.
There were always trays of what m
ight
be cinnamon rolls in front, a cream pie of some sort beside them. A basket of assorted Italian cookies and candies claimed the spot nearest the door. I stared at the basket, thinking I hadn’t seen any of the cookies or any of the other Italian pastries Sal Ianelli used to make since I’d moved back. Too bad. My mouth still watered at the thought of Sal’s Lady Kisses.

I pushed open the door
and was
met by the tinkling of the old bell, the wonderful aroma of fresh bread, and an empty shop. I stopped and looked around. Even though I’d
dropped by
several times in the year and a half since I’d returned to Santa Louisa, it had always been a hurried visit. I had been gone over twenty years and I’d found many changes in my little hometown since my return, but I hadn’t really thought much about the bakery. Now, in this empty room, I stopped and looked around.

The long glass counter still sat in the middle of the floor, the door to the kitchen area directly behind it. There used to be wicker baskets on the counter filled with freshly baked bread. Long loaves, fat round ones, dark brown wheat, and special breads filled with cheese or olives. My mother always
bought
white bread. Sal would say, “
S
liced, Mrs. Page?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Ianelli,” she’d answer. The wicker baskets were gone and so was most of the bread. The only loaves
,
a pale brown color
,
were stuffed into plastic bags fastened with a little wire tie
and
piled haphazardly on the low counter next to the cash register.

The old wood floor still covered the front part of the store and it still didn’t
l
ie
very even, wavering across the room to end in a slight dip in front of the big window. The walls were still covered with travel posters of Italy, the same ones that had been there when I was little. My favorite gondolier still pushed his black boat through the canals of Venice, but somehow he didn’t seem as romantic as he had then. The edges of his poster, the edges of all of them, had started to curl slightly and the colors
had
dulled. An accumulation of years of dust and flour? Whatever it was, they no longer made me want to catch the next plane east. The round oak table and the two bentwood chairs that sat in front of the window had also been there when I was little, but the table hadn’t been piled high with catalogs. Customers used to sit there, chatting with Rose and drinking small cups of thick, rich coffee liberally laced with cream. I sniffed the air. Not a hint of coffee. I walked over to the long glass case and looked in. Where were the fruit tarts? The ones filled with peaches, apricots, pears, and cherries, all piled
on
rich custard and topped with glaze
?
My mother didn’t buy one often, but when she did
…
And where were the cannoli? The wonderful cannoli stuffed with ricotta cheese
?
I hadn’t known it was cheese back then. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have eaten them. Cheese! Ug
h
. Think what I would have missed
!
I searched the case. I sure was missing them now.

What was that other thing she used to buy? Bread pudding. That was it. It came in a little tray and you could get a sauce to go over it. Mother always worried about my sister and me eating it, so it must have been laced liberally with liquor. Rum maybe? Whatever it was, it was heavenly. I wondered if Sal still made it. And the cookies. Where were the cookies? Oh, there were cookies on one of the shelves
—
chocolate chip, oatmeal, peanut butter
—b
ut no almond, no little puff pastry strips, no round honey balls, or crescent cookies. The cakes were there
—
carrot, lemon, chocolate
—
but they didn’t look the way I remembered. The top shelf held trays of Danish. Had they been there when I was little? I didn’t think so, but they looked familiar. Everything in the case looked familiar, yet somehow wrong. It took me a moment, and then it hit me.
They
all looked like the choices offered at the new supermarket. Only these were more expensive.

Rose Ianelli rushed out of the back room with cries of, “Ellen. I didn’t hear you come in. Sal, come quick. The bride is here.” She rounded the corner from behind the counter to smother me with a big hug. Rose was not a tall woman, and the years had left her plump and soft. Except for her arms. The hug she gave me squeezed the breath right out of me, and her cries of “the bride” made me flush with embarrassment. I thought of brides as young, radiant, romantic. I had been married and divorced, had an almost grown daughter, and was crowding middle age. My groom was a widower, his light brown hair lighter than it used to be. Silver strands among the gold? Yep. And there wasn’t quite as much of it. But there was a little more around the waistline. It didn’t matter. He was still tall and handsome and had the cutest mustache
…
None of that made this second marriage romantic.

“Susannah told you about the cake? I was going through the book, and when I saw it, I just knew it was the one for your wedding. Your wedding and Dan’s.” Rose’s eyes glistened. “It’s so perfect. Gina, don’t you think it’s perfect?”

A woman I’d never seen before stood at the end of the bakery counter wrapped in a large white apron. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her face was devoid of makeup, and her
long
brown eye
lashe
s wore no mascara. It didn’t matter. She was beautiful. Beautiful and lush. “Perfect,” she answered Rose.
 

“Ah, Rose.” My curiosity about this new employee was momentary. She wasn’t why I was there. “About the cake
—
”

“You want to see a picture. Of course you do.”

She grabbed me by the hand and immediately dropped it. Her hands were lightly coated with flour. “Did I get flour on you?” She whipped her hands down the front of her own apron before she examined me. “Good. No flour.” She picked up my hand again and pulled me over to the oak table piled high with ringed notebooks. It wobbled on the uneven floor as she pushed them around, looking for the one she wanted. I thought the whole pile was going over, but somehow it stayed on the table. Rose pulled out the biggest one, labeled
“
wedding cakes,
”
slapped it down on one edge of the table, and flipped it open. “Here.”

I stared down at the most garish cake I had ever seen. Instead of the four tiered all white cake I had chosen
—
the one with pretty little loops and curlicues on it, with tiny fresh roses and bab
y’
s breath cascading down one side
—
this one had green holly with red berries looped all over it. Gold pillars
—
large
pillars
—
separated each layer so that the bright red frosting poinsettias could not only sit on top but fill the openings.

“I’ve already started them. Wait. I’ll get them.”

She trotted off toward the back room, leaving me to stare at the picture of the cake. I was still forming my protest when she came back, carrying a white plastic box. She set it on the table, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down heavily.

“My feet seem to get tired earlier than they used to.” She laughed a little, pulled open a drawer in the box, and took out a very red flower impaled on green florist wire. “They take a while to make so I’m starting now. Came out pretty, don’t you think?”

It was pretty. But it wasn’t what I wanted.

“Doesn’t she do a great job? Pastillage is hard because it dries so quickly. Just like your gum does when you stick it on the bedpost. You have to work fast. That’s why the little sculpture tool. You can shape them with it. You can also slice your finger.”

The voice was right behind me and so unexpected, I jumped.
It was the young woman I’d seen. She was peering over my left shoulder, admiring the flower Rose held up.

Rose beamed at her. “I’m teaching Gina how to do this. She’s already good at it.” She rummaged in the box and brought up a pale pink rosebud. The color was soft and lovely, the tiny petals layered perfectly.

I reached out for it. “I love this.”

“I can make the other ones, also. Rose’s hands
…
it
’
s getting harder for her to do all of this.”