chapter five

My baker greeted my partner with, “Too bad you can’t stay for a tour.”

“Too bad you can’t keep flour or butter out of your eyebrows, Aunt Jane. And besides, like I’d want to?” He yelped more than spoke; when startled or amused, George tended to squawk or yelp. “Barf barf barf barf barf barf barf fucking barf barfity fucking fuck barf barf. I just…” He eyed our perfect house and shook his head. “You’re rich, right? I googled you in a moment of suicidal-level boredom. You’re the Sara Lee of … I dunno … stuff Sara Lee makes. Why didn’t you buy one of Tom Cruise’s places? He’s had to downsize since Katie wised up and started her version of Scientology: Take Two.”

Patrick/Aunt Jane shrugged, but I knew the answer. Yes, he was a millionaire. He’d built a hobby into a career into a corporation that shipped delectable pastries around the world. He’d made baked desserts trendy and sought-after long before the cupcake rage.

(Cupcake rage, heh. Sounded like how you felt after too many cupcakes. Or when denied cupcakes.)

He could have indeed bought an abandoned Cruise mansion or a previously owned Diddy boat. He could have bought a ten-bed/six-bath mansion on Summit Hill for one-point-two, rather than the trim four-bed, two-point-five-bath in Cottage Grove. But Patrick had made his money; he hadn’t been born with a silver spatula in his mouth. “Why would I want to clunk around in a huge mansion?” he’d asked the Realtor with honest bewilderment. “I want a home, not a museum.” I could have fallen in love with him for that sentiment alone.

“Purple and gray,” George was marveling, staring at the front of the house. “And a gray door. You’ve fulfilled your lifelong dream to live in a thundercloud, Cadence.”

“It’s not gray,” I couldn’t resist pointing out, ignoring Patrick’s Don’t bother eye roll. “It’s Shale and Fig. From the … uh…”

(Martha Stewart Collection.)

“So, there’s dead people? Let’s go see dead people.” I took a step toward him/away from the baker.

Patrick’s hand closed gently over my bicep. “Do you have to?” he asked plaintively. “It’s Moving Day. You’ve been looking forward to it for days. And I thought, after, we could maybe—uh—make the house our own?”

George dramatically clutched his stomach, bent forward at the waist, and made throwing-up noises.

“Sorry. The dead can’t wait.”

“Technically they can.” George bobbed back upright, fully recovered from his fake barfing. “They’re not getting deader, right? Man’s inhumanity to man has been pretty much a constant theme for hundreds of thousands of years. But somebody’s gotta go catch those pesky bad guys, Janey-poo, and the FBI lost the coin toss. Along with various police departments and sheriff’s offices.”

“Your car.” I’d actually forgotten about Cathie, who during all this had been standing by the van looking chilly (the weather) and puffy (the Gore-Tex). “It’s awful. As awful as you are. I can’t believe you did it. I can’t believe you found the perfect car to showcase your awfulness.”

“Actually makes your brain hurt to look at it, huh?” George loved his awful car for many reasons, not least the attention it brought him.

“I might have to paint it,” she continued, staring. “That’s how terrible it is.”

“Later, baby. We gotta go. Mush, Cadence, mush! Over yon hilltop a corpse awaits!”

I turned and kissed Patrick on the mouth. “I’ll be back when I can.”

“I’ll start unpacking the kitchen boxes in our bedroom,” he replied dryly, but he managed to return my kiss, glare at George, and jerk his head at Cathie all in one motion, which I thought was pretty neat. “C’mon, Cath, let’s get you out of the cold.”

“Even if I shut my eyes I can still see his horrible car,” she whispered, turning and following her brother up the walk. “I don’t understand how swans and that car can exist in the same universe.”

“Wanna go for a ride in the car, girl?” George was shaking his keys at me. “Wanna go for a ride? Huh? Do ya? Huh?”

The jingling was making my head throb. “Please don’t,” I said, two words that had never worked on him. (Which begged the question: why oh why did I keep trying?)

“Huh? Do ya? Huh? We’ll go to the park! You like the park, doncha?”

Darn it, gosh darn it! Can’t he ever just not be like this? Can’t he ever just—