Chapter 1

 

“Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.”

 

 

“Dammit, Thomi!”

“Sorry, Dad,” the young woman said and pulled the wheelchair away from the elevator door. She straightened her aim and pushed Louie Edgar out into the hallway of the Boroughbridge Apartment House. “We’re just down here.”

“I’ve never seen your apartment,” Louie said, his voice full of wistfulness yet sprinkled with a hint of sarcasm. “Still won’t, will I?” He’d been blinded ten weeks ago and hadn’t really come to terms with his new life yet.

Delia Leary stepped out of the elevator behind them, catching her best friend’s eye over Louie’s head. 

Thomi’s face was drawn, and she’d pinched her mouth together. It was an unusual look for one usually as vibrant as an Afremov painting. She was biracial, Louie being Caucasian, and her mother —one of Louie’s many wives —was African American. Thomi had the exquisite coloring of a mixed-race person with caramel skin and pale brown eyes. However, her hair had the magic of a black woman and was ever shape-shifting into different styles. Her shrunken curls could stretch out to two or three times their curled length with a bit of pull.

I wish I had magic hair like Thomi’s. Delia gave herself a pinch on the wrist —a technique she used to stop her self-criticizing thought pattern. Her therapist suggested the trick, not that it helped much, and she was beginning to leave bruises on herself.

My hair is thick and styled and blonde. It matches my pale coloring. Peaches and cream … hey, that rhymes with ice cream.

Delia regretted it as soon as her brain threw out the word. It filled her head with a lot of wrong thoughts that caused cravings. So why did she feel love for something she dared not speak its name: ice cream.

I think in Dublin, Georgia, it’s legal for us to get married …

She pinched her arm again.

Concentrate!

It was so hard to focus, though, when guilt drooped over her like a leaky umbrella. Louie Edgar was blind and in a wheelchair because Delia had meddled in a murder investigation. If she hadn’t confronted Louie about the methanol in his warehouse and someone using it to poison people, then the old man wouldn’t have gone on a rampage to discover the murderer. Instead, he’d ticked off the wrong person and had been left for dead. 

Except Louie didn’t die, and I wonder if that would’ve been more merciful.

Louie had always been on the go, always wheeling and dealing, but now he wheeled in the worst way and could not see the dollar figures of his business, The Tipsy Louie. Now his gray hair was long and curled around his ears, which was a rather amusing look since he was completely bald on top of his head. He was starting to resemble Gargamel, the smurf-napper.

Thomi pulled her purse in front of her and dug her apartment key out of the bottom of it. “I’ve already brought all your things over, Dad.”

“I don’t know why you can’t move into my house.”

“It’s safer here,” Thomi said, turning the key and shoving open the door. “For one thing, there’s no pool right off the dining room for you to fall into accidentally.”

Delia took hold of the wheelchair handles and navigated it through the apartment doorway. Once she put on the footbrake, she went around the front of the chair to stand next to Thomi. 

“Everything will be close at hand, Dad. You’ve got a bathroom right off your bedroom …”

“You just want to be close to your boyfriend,” Louie interrupted. 

Thomi bent down in front of her father and held onto the armrests. “This has nothing to do with Eddie. I can see him anytime I like.” Suddenly, the girl swung her attention to Delia, with a plea for help in her pale brown eyes.

Delia shrugged and waved her hands in a what do you want me to say manner.

Thomi jerked her hand toward her father and narrowed her lids at Delia.

“Um,” Delia started, glancing around the room. “There aren’t as many stairs here as in your house, Louie. Everything is level for you and your wheelchair. And it’s … it’s small enough here that everything is at your fingertips,” she finished.

“That’s right,” Thomi said, nodding. She was dressed in long pants and a sweater with a cowl neck. “You’ll learn your way around very quickly. You’ll be able to relax here.”

“Relax?” Louie shouted, narrowing his dark blue eyes in their general direction. “I’m sick of relaxing. I want to go back to work.”

“You can in time, Dad, but things need setting up for you before that can happen. First, you’ll need an assistant.”

He leaned forward in the chair, making it squeak and roll forward an inch. “You can be my assistant.”

Thomi stared at Delia again, but with her mouth pulled back in horror. 

Delia came around in front of the chair. “You’ll need someone familiar with the books, Louie, and the computer. Thomi isn’t accustomed to any of those things. She’s a social worker.”

“Okay, you do it. You’ll be my assistant, Cordelia.” He folded his hands in front of him and placed them in his lap. “That’ll make your father very happy.”

Her stomach fell like a rock off a canyon wall. She’d finally gotten away from Tipsy Louie’s and had no intention of returning. “Oh, no, thank you, Louie. I’m opening the bakery tomorrow. It’s the grand opening.”

“So?”

She blinked and shook her head. “I don’t have time to be your assistant. Running a bakery takes a lot of time.”

“Quit then. I’ll pay you double what you make there.”

Delia took a deep breath, held it, threw Thomi a dirty look, and then faced Louie again. “It’s not about money, Louie. It’s about a dream.”

“Dream smeam,” he told her. “I’ll give you five-hundred thousand a year to act as my assistant.”

Delia’s mouth dropped, and she stared at Thomi. “I couldn’t … possibly…” She gazed at Louie again. “The Da Vincis are counting on me. We’ll find an assistant for you, though. Someone fantastic and who works with the blind.”

She knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left her mouth.

Thomi widened her eyes, and then she made a throat-cutting gesture at Delia.

“Um,” she started again. “What I meant to say was that we’ll get someone familiar with your new way of life, Louie.”

“No, no, you said blind and that’s what I am. It’s okay, it’s all right. I am a fool of fortune!”

Oh no, Shakespeare.

Delia cast her eyes toward Thomi.

The girl’s eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Um, how about we get something to eat? I can order pizza or the Greek food we all like.”

“Actually, I’m off,” Delia said, wincing. “I’ve still got so much to do at the bakery. I’ll come see you soon, Louie.” She backed toward the doorway.

Thomi followed her. “You can’t leave,” she whispered. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“He’s your father,” Delia whispered back.

Thomi’s shoulders sagged forward. “Fine. I need to figure this out anyway. Louie and I’ve got to learn to get along.”

“Right,” she said, slipping outside the door and shutting it softly. Heading for the end of the hallway, she took the stairs down toward the first floor. 

A wave of guilt stopped her on the landing. I should stay and help ease the tension between Thomi and Louie…

No, they’re both adults and they can figure this out without me.

It wasn’t the only thing she felt bad about. It seemed she and Thomi were drifting apart, little by little. Delia supposed that was natural now that Thomi and her new boyfriend, Eddie, spent so much time together, getting to know one another.

I just need to get used to the way things are now.

Perhaps it would make it easier if she liked Eddie Chester. But, Eddie wasn’t likeable at all. Sure, he’d saved Delia’s life once, but that did nothing to make her enjoy his company. Rescuing someone shouldn’t be a prerequisite for friendship.

A thumping noise at the bottom of the stairs caused Delia to focus on the first floor. So much orange greeted her. The walls were sherbet, and the chair-railing had been painted coral.

But then there was Eddie Chester, starting for the stairway, still wearing a sling on his left arm, and gazing at a piece of mail in his hand.

A sling, really? He just has to shove it in my face that he took a knife for me … Am I being too hard on the guy?

Eddie glanced up. He had short dark hair, straight black brows, and brown eyes— eyes that slipped over Delia’s figure. “I was going to stop and see you,” he said.

Why can’t I be the type of person who’s relaxed and lets my eyes slip over people’s figures?

Delia pinched her other wrist —just to give the one a break.

I am relaxed. I am happy and content. Yes, I am.

She stopped on the third step and leaned against the railing. “What were you going to see me about?” 

“That detective called me.”

Delia stood a little straighter. “Detective Montague?”

“Yes,” he said, taking the next step and standing closer to her. Eddie’s face was the same level as her face and his eyes slipped over her features.

That was another thing Delia didn’t like about Eddie. If he’s so in love with Thomi, why does he stand so close to other women?

He’s sexy and he knows it.

Delia sidestepped him, took the next two stairsteps downward, and turned to face him again. She kept her eyes on the mail in Eddie’s hand and smiled sweetly. “What did he want?”

One of his brows twitched. “He wants me to stop and have a chat with him for some reason. He said he tried to call you, too.”

She lost her smile like she’d dropped it in the sea. “Did he?” Delia grabbed for her purse and brought the leather bag around in front of her. “My phone didn’t ring.” She pulled her cellular out of the bag and gazed at the display. Sure enough, she’d missed a call. “Did he say what it’s about?”

“No, he just wants me to drop by.” Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Eddie said, “I’m just going to change. If you like, we can ride over together.”

“Thank you, but nooo.” She sing-songed the no bit, which was just weird because it sounded a bit horsey. “I really need to be at the bakery for a few hours. Will you tell him I’ll call him soon? Nicolo didn’t say it was urgent, did he?”

Eddie shrugged and half-turned. “No, Nicolo asked me to come right down.”

“Oh,” Delia said, torn.

But honestly, what could possibly be so urgent? A murderer was locked away without bail. If Matthew broke out of jail, then Detective Montague wouldn’t simply call them to his office, would he? He’d send a car around or come to the apartment himself to break the news. 

“Will you tell Detective Montague that I’ll give him a call as soon as possible? I’ve really got to get going.” Then she proved it by taking the last step and making for the door.

“Sure,” Eddie said —from a distance.

Outside and down the front steps of the apartment building, Delia glanced at her phone again. Nicolo hadn’t left a message.

Should I call him back? 

No, Eddie would give him the message. Besides, if Delia called Montague without him leaving a message to do so, then he might think she just wanted to ring him. Out of the blue. 

For a date.

That would be lovely.

Crossing the gravel parking lot in the chilly afternoon air, Delia found Freddy —or Sweaty Freddy as she called her 2005 Black Chevy Tahoe. She’d bought the SUV a couple of months ago and named it for the burrito smell perspiring from the floorboards. Thomi had sworn the vehicle was haunted because the airbag light came on every time Delia accelerated past forty miles per hour. It was the ghost of Sweaty Freddy.

If that’s true, I wish he’d bring along some nachos when he pops in.

She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was already three o’clock. Driving onto the highway, Delia left the windows down because the temperature was in the mid-sixties. The trees along the route burned red and orange. It was peak leaf-peeping season in upstate New York.

Fall is the most beautiful time of year to open a bakery.

Delia had planned to hand out apple cider donut holes during the grand opening in the morning. And she had a hot cocoa mix blended and ready in the kitchen of the bakery.

If I think about it too much, I’ll drive off the road in excitement. 

Delia zoomed beyond the bakery exit and headed for the next one —and food. When she reached seventy miles per hour, Freddy threw her sunglasses off the dash and out the passenger-side window. “That’s the second pair,” Delia complained and hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. 

By the time she reached a drive-thru, she’d suffered temporary hearing loss from the sustained wind noise and shouted at the barista: Venti Pink Drink with no strawberry pieces and light ice. No, make it a Trente, and I’ll take a grilled cheese, too.” 

To which the barista replied, “Our speaker is working fine, ma’am, please pull forward.”

Oh.

 

* * *

 

Delia was so excited the following day for the grand opening of King Lears Cupcake Queen that she couldn’t eat. 

Well, I did eat. I had to make sure the apple cider donut holes were tasty. I didn’t savor them, though.

The donut did taste fantastic. There was nothing like warm and freshly fried dough to cheer a person. Especially if it had a bit of a crunch on the outside and the inside burst with apple flavor. It tasted cozy, like a fall sweater, except in the mouth and without wool. Delia had really marshmallowed-up the cocoa, too.

Okay, I did savor them a little.

Delia wondered what it would be like to go through an entire day without being totally focused on food. 

I don’t even want to know what that would be like.

Becca, the assistant baker Delia had hired, was as excited as Delia to open the shop. The young woman arrived right after Delia —at 4:30 in the morning —to get the bread and rolls into the oven. Delia busied herself with the Cornish pasties and leek pie. Yesterday they’d made dozens of cupcakes for the display because, after all, part of the shop’s name had Cupcakes in it. Delia herself had decorated all of them. She used lake-blue and frog-green icing on the banana cream ones to create a toad in the cattails design. On the strawberry-lime ones, she’d designed an intricate peacock pattern. It’d taken her hours. She was so proud of them sitting on the top rack of the display case in the front of the store. 

Just look at their plumage!

While Becca rolled out more dough at the table near the back window, Delia fiddled with the display window pieces. It’d been Delia’s idea to have a worktable where customers could watch a baker cut out cookies or decorate a cake. It seemed cozy and British and inviting. She’d also had the lighting adjusted so that the bulbs only threw half-light onto the brick wall in the back and soft beams onto the food cases. To Delia, it looked delicious and posh at the same time.

Juliet DaVinci and her fiancé, Paris Nobleman, arrived at the bakery at seven-thirty to help serve the hordes.

I hope there will be hordes.

Juliet put her purse down in the back room and pulled on a black and white gingham shirt, black vest, bowtie—the Cupcake Queen’s uniform. Of course, she looked terrific in it. Curls upon curls of dark brown hair fell down her slender back. Juliet was five-foot-three and had large brown eyes and thick lashes. “Where do you want me?” she asked, tying a half-apron over her expensive black slacks.

“Where do you want to work?” Delia asked, not wanting to tell the owner of the shop what to do.

Juliet shook her head and touched Paris’s arm. “We’re here to help, and you’re in charge. You’re the one who knows what to do, Cupcake Queen.”

Paris was still looping the tie around his neck. “I love the shop’s name, yeah? And this little village lends to the British theme.” He narrowed his green eyes on Juliet. “What’s the name of it again?”

“Bloomfield Hatch,” she said, staring out the window in front of Becca. “There’s one of your workers.”

Delia turned her head and saw Jeanette Loring coming toward the front door. Her heart sank a little at the sight of the woman —but only a little.

It’s the grand opening!

Turning to her friends, Delia said, “Jeanette will work the register. How about you and Paris work behind the counter and get whatever the customer wants. Becca can keep the bread and cupcakes going, and I’ll stay out front with the samples. That way, I’ll get to greet everyone. Bogart will work the coffee machine and help you two if you need it.”

“Who’s Bogart?” Juliet asked, gazing toward the kitchen.

“His real name is Humphrey, and it made me think of Bogart, so I gave him a nickname. I think he likes it. He drives a Harley,” she added, as though that told Juliet everything she needed to know about the young man. Then she nodded toward Becca. “She stuck pink tassels on his handlebars yesterday. He left them on and drove home that way.”

Paris flattened out his collar and put on a vest. “I like him already.” He faced Delia. “Ready?” Paris had an angular face and thick brown hair. Juliet sure knew how to pick ’em, as her last boyfriend was Detective Nicolo Montague.

Delia grinned at Paris. “I am ready!” She led the way out of the back room and into the front area. 

Jeanette had already stationed herself behind the cash register. She was in her forties but looked twenty-something with her Botox and breast implants. She’d pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail, and it dangled past her shoulders. Jeanette somehow managed to look sexy in the gingham shirt and vest. Maybe because she’d left most of the top buttons of the shirt undone. “Miss Da Vinci, can we get some stools for the employees to sit on when we’re at the register?” Much to Delia’s dismay, the woman had transferred from Ganozza’s Bakery in Mayville to the King Lears Cupcake Queen. 

Delia said, “As we discussed, Jeanette, we won’t have stools behind the counters. You can sit in the backroom on your break.”

Jeanette raised her permanently tattooed eyebrow. “I was asking the owner.”

“I’m in favor of whatever Delia is in favor of,” Juliet told her and took a spot behind the display cases filled with donuts and cookies. “Stools, no stools, hiring and firing, everything.”

Paris smoothed everything over with, “Aren’t you a little young to be sitting on the job?”

Jeanette grinned —sort of. It seemed she’d recently had her shots. “Charmer,” she accused and turned to the register again. 

Delia took a big breath, unlocked the wooden Dutch door, and opened the top part of it.

No one was there yet.

“It’s not eight,” Jeanette reminded her, leaning on the glass case with her chin in her hand.

“Well,” Delia said, spinning around and taking up a tray of donut holes. “We’re ready for eight o’clock.”

And they waited a bit longer. While the moments passed, she watched the courtyard outside the windows. She never got tired of the view. Her shop and the British pub across the cobblestones were the first ones in the plaza. The architects had designed the square to resemble a quaint village in England. A red mailbox sat on one corner, near a giant tree that gnarled itself over the narrow alleyway. Farther inward were brick storefronts with double doors, ironwork signage, and hanging baskets of cornflowers and dahlias. A river meandered through the hamlet of shops, and there were two stone bridges with gas lamps at each end.

A motorcycle engine revved behind the building somewhere, and Delia knew that Bogart had arrived. It wasn’t two minutes later that the auburn-haired young man came through the kitchen’s double swinging doors and took his place next to Paris. He’d already dressed in his gingham shirt and black bowtie.

And then, suddenly, it was a whirl of activity. Delia met so many people and shook so many hands that she couldn’t keep them straight. 

But where is Thomi?

By ten, Thomi still hadn’t made an appearance, and Delia went into the backroom and texted her. There was no response. She checked again at noon, and Thomi still had not seen the text.

Delia closed the shop at two and then stood by the table, watching out the window. Perhaps Thomi would still show.

“Who are you watching for?” Juliet asked, leaning her hip on the table and glancing out the window, too.

“Thomi Edgar,” she said with a smile as she sprinkled flour on the table. “I thought she’d be here this morning, but it’s already closing time.”

“Did you call her?”

“I texted, but she hasn’t seen it.”

Juliet tilted her head, her amber-colored brown eyes finding Delia’s again. “She must’ve gotten pulled away by something.”

“Her father moved in with her yesterday,” she said, her tone holding a lot of meaning.

“Oh.”

Of course, Juliet knew about Thomi’s dad and his blindness. Most people in West Portland and Mayville had heard the news of the Tipsy Louie’s owner being beaten and blinded a couple of months ago. It had been a statewide sensation. 

Suddenly, Delia felt the need to confide in Juliet. “That’s probably all it is, but…” She leaned farther on the table, getting flour on her elbows and apron. “I think we’re drifting apart, and it’s breaking my heart.”

“Why do you think that?” Juliet said, giving a slight shake of her head as though trying to understand.

“The dad thing,” Delia admitted, drawing a circle in the flour, “and the Eddie thing.”

Juliet nodded. “Thomi’s got a boyfriend?”

“Yes … but she’s had boyfriends before. It’s never caused us not to talk to each other or not show up for important things.” Delia stopped drawing in the flour and looked Juliet in the eye. “I mean, look at you. You don’t have to be here, Juliet, and you’re getting married in a month.” She raised a finger to stop the response. “And don’t say it’s because your family owns the business. You’re here because you’re my friend.”

Juliet grinned. “Yes.”

“And you dragged that poor man along with you.”

She waved her hand as though she swatted flies. “Amelia is teething. Paris couldn’t wait to help in the bakery.”

“Poor baby!”

Juliet shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “He’s fine.”

“I meant Amelia.”

“Oh, right. Right. But, not to worry. Tribly’s got the baby and is administering an old family recipe for fussy babies. I believe it involves vodka sauce.”

Delia frowned.

Juliet leaned in, unconcerned about vodka sauce, and said, “It was about this time last year that I set out to make some new friends. Very purposefully.” She held Delia’s eyes. “You were my first choice.”

“Aww,” Delia cooed, her heart melting. If her heart-drippings fell to the table, she’d make sweet, sweet cookies.

Juliet aww’d with her and then, “Maybe it’s time for you to make new friends, too. I’m not saying give up on Thomi, just add to your movie-going friend list.”

“You and I have never gone to the movies, have we?”

Juliet shook her head. “I gave you a bakery.”

Delia laughed out loud. “I don’t know how to make friends so well. Thomi and I have been friends since grade school —and I don’t have a bakery to give someone.”

Juliet twitched her lips, thinking. “The first friend I made when I started my search was Abram Fontana. We decided to go ice skating.”

“Did you go? Was it awkward?”

“Not awkward at all because he ended up helping me break into a house … who do you know that you’d trust to break into a house with?”

“Umm, geez, I don’t know,” Delia started —but then something caught her attention. A man moved in front of the window, heading toward the Dutch door.

Juliet must’ve caught movement out of the corner of her eye because she turned. And then she groaned. “Oh no,” she whispered.

The man was Detective Nicolo Montague.