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I saw Dennis Whitlow slip in the back door as Momma cleared her throat loudly to get the group's attention. “Good morning, everyone! Welcome to this year’s Southern Fruitcake Appreciation Society Bake-Off. We are excited to have some great bakers competing this year. Before we introduce our bakers, I’d like to welcome this year’s judges.” A smattering of applause from the small group followed. Momma introduced Mayor Parker, Scott Abels, James Trent, and lastly Paul London, giving him a chance to address the group. Since London Cakes was footing the bill for the contest, it’s the least we could do. And he loved the spotlight.
“Thank you for participating in this year’s bake-off. As you know, there will be five more participants to bake this afternoon with the judging and awards presentation tomorrow morning. The judges will be observing your baking skills and proficiency while you bake this morning. Tomorrow, your cakes will also be judged on their appearance or presentation as well as the most important thing, the taste. Good luck!”
“Thank you, Mr. London,” Momma gushed. “I know I speak for all of us when we say we are honored to be associated with such a prestigious company as London Cakes.”
He nodded, lapping up the praise, and if anyone knew how to lay it on thick, it was Momma.
She continued, introducing the five bakers. Then she announced the beginning of the competition. “Bakers, you have three hours.”
Momma and I stood to the side observing the beehive of activity as they measured, chopped, and mixed.
Once the group settled into their tasks, Dennis meandered around the room, taking some action shots of each baker hard at work. I noticed he lingered a little longer at Sarah Rollins’ station as she smiled and batted her long eyelashes at him. He slipped out as quietly as he came in. When I turned around to offer him a bottle of water, he was gone.
At the halfway mark, Momma gave the bakers a reminder of the time they had left. Macy had graciously provided a selection of coffees for the judges and bakers so I made the rounds to see if I could refill any cups.
Paul London had stepped out into the hallway and was talking on his phone. I could see through the glass in the door that he was pacing back and forth, his face turning several shades of red.
The other three judges had taken a break from their observations and were busy making notes on their clipboards.
With the last fifteen-minute announcement, slight panic set in for a few bakers who peeked continuously through the oven doors, anxiously awaiting that perfectly golden-brown color. Others had removed theirs, checked for soggy bottoms and had their cakes cooling on racks before storing them. With five minutes left, all the bakers made final preparations to store their cakes for the night by wrapping them in a cloth or towel. Most of the cloths were soaked with some type of liqueur that would give their cake that extra something tomorrow at the tasting.
With the time called, all the cakes were delivered to the cooler and marked clearly with each baker’s name.
The room cleared and Momma passed out the box lunches that Macy had prepared for the judges, then Momma and I began cleaning up the stations to get them spic and span for the second set of bakers set to start in an hour.
“Was there a baker that was waiting to take your spot in the competition?” I asked as I refilled all the baking supplies at each kitchen area.
“Yes, we had a waiting list, and thank goodness he had time to get his information in before the deadline of midnight last night,” she said drying a mixing bowl and setting it to the side.
“He?” That’s the first I’d heard of any males interested in the competition, but I guess I never thought about it. Especially with all the drama going on with Lavender and Martha Jean.
“Yes, Emmitt Baker. He’s the only man in the competition this year, which is actually surprising. Usually we have several. Emmitt has never competed but he’s an avid baker and is always posting on his social media and commenting on Lavender’s blog posts. I think he’s from somewhere close to Chattanooga. Luckily, he was planning on attending the festivities as a spectator, so he already had his motel room booked.”
“Well, that’s good. I haven’t talked to Josie, but I would imagine she’s full at the motel.” I thought about the new resort that was scheduled to open in a few months. “I hope the opening of Pine Bluffs doesn’t hurt Josie and Ed’s business too much. I always hate to see big places put the mom and pops out of business.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said shaking her head. “There are a lot of people who will be glad to find a no-frills, family-owned place for a getaway. Not everyone wants to stay in a big, fancy resort.”
As I swept the last of the flour and pieces of dried fruit into the dustpan and dumped it into the trash, Momma wiped her hands and crossed the room to the judges' table.
“Where’s Mr. London?” she asked the other judges, receiving shrugs all around.
“Last time I saw him, he stepped out into the hall to take a phone call,” Mayor Parker volunteered.
I noticed his box lunch still untouched on the table. “That must have been when I saw him through the window in the door.” I whispered to Momma. “From the looks of it, it wasn’t a very pleasant conversation.”
Momma looked at the clock on the wall and then at the three remaining judges. “We really can’t wait any longer. We need to start the second phase of the competition.”
They all nodded. As she swung the door open to allow the last five bakers to their stations, I heard the back door to the hallway open as well. I turned to see Paul straightening his rumpled suit coat and slipping into his spot at the judges' table.
The bakers made their ways to baking stations. Ironically, Lavender selected the same station where Martha Jean had baked a few hours earlier. Emmitt, Momma’s last-minute replacement hurried to secure the spot closest to Lavender. In addition to those two, the last group of bakers introduced were Kim, from Gulfport, Mississippi, Betty, from Tallahassee, Florida, and Donna, from Franklin, Tennessee.
Momma introduced the judges’ panel for the second time today and Paul stepped up to make his little speech again. As he strutted back and forth at the front of the room, I caught a glimpse of a bright orange smudge on the collar of his starched, white dress shirt. Momma announced the start of the three-hour countdown and a flurry of activity began.
Dennis Whitlow made his appearance for the second round, receiving glares that could kill from Lavender. He strutted over to her station and took some pictures. If I didn’t know better, it looked like he was positioning himself to get an unobstructed view of her precious recipe book lying open on the counter. And the lens on that camera looked like a little much for such a small room. She preened and posed, plastering a smile on her face that left the second he moved on to the next baker.
With the end of the competition announced, all the bakers wrapped their cakes in cloths for storage overnight in the large walk-in cooler. Most bakers had an easily identifiable towel for storage, but Lavender was known for being over the top. Each year, she had a tea towel especially made for the occasion. This year’s towel was white with a beautiful greenery wreath. Her initial had been tastefully monogrammed in the center of it. She painstakingly wrapped her cake, tucking the cloth in on all edges and making sure that her monogram graced the top of the cake. Lavender might be a pill to get along with, but I had to admire her style.
As soon as the bakers left, Momma and I began to clean up all the stations while the judges compared notes and deliberated at their table. I dried the last of the freshly washed utensils and replaced them in each station drawer. When I got to the last kitchenette, which just so happened to be the one where Lavender had been cooking, the drawer wouldn’t open fully.
“What the heck? Ugh!” I let out a frustrated huff and Momma looked over at me. I struggled to pull it open completely, but something was jamming it. I reached into the drawer and, stretching my arm as far as possible, I felt around the areas I couldn’t see but I couldn’t feel anything.
Momma walked over to offer help as I got down on my knees and opened the cabinet door just below the jammed drawer. I stuck my head in and still didn’t see anything that could be stopping the drawer from working properly. I slid further in, now with half my body inside the lower cabinet.
“The tips of my fingers are brushing something, but I can just barely feel it no matter how far I reach.” With one last stretch I was able to pinch together my fingertips just enough to grab it and pull it out.
I looked up at Momma from my seat on the floor and then looked back at the item I held in my hand.
“That’s Lavender’s recipe book!” Momma said. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“You’re right. I saw it when she was in the bakery the other day. She had to take it out of her purse to get to her wallet. Why would she leave it here? Do you have her phone number? We need to call her right now and let her know where it is.”
“Are you crazy? You put that right back where you found it. I’m not gonna have her accuse me of trying to get a look at that recipe. If it’s in that drawer, she obviously meant to leave it there.”
I could see the judges staring at us from across the room at their table. Paul narrowed his eyes at us and scowled, then turned his attention back to the deliberations. We were obviously disturbing their discussion.
“I guess that's okay. She’ll be back in the morning for the awards ceremony. I’m sure it’ll be safe till then.” I slid it back into its hidey hole and closed the drawer.