The following morning…
The day of the Tri-State Baking Competition had arrived. The stage was set, and the final round of judging was in progress.
A massive marquee tent had been set up in the Gossip park and the judges, including Jessie Belle-Blue in a maroon pashmina, stood atop a grandstand, waiting as the finalists gathered beside them, carrying their cakes, pies, and cupcakes.
Only five had made it through to the final round.
Gamma had decided to stay home because she couldn’t stand the sight of Belle-Blue up on the stage. I waited in the audience, cheering as Lauren waddled up the steps, assisted by another of the contestants, and took her place beside one of the pedestals.
I’d never been more proud! She’d made it all the way through with her rendition of key lime pie, even though she’d been convinced that she should drop out of the race.
“And now, it’s time for the final judging.” An anchor from a local news station had been hired as the host of the contest. He wore his hair in a blond coiff and it wiggled each time he lifted his microphone to announce something. “Our finalists are tense as they wait for the judges to try each of their offerings.”
Belle-Blue and the two other judges, people whose names I hadn’t absorbed when they’d been announced, approached the first of the contestants.
Glendaree Bijon had prepared a sumptuous red velvet cake and had chosen a matching red velvet kaftan for today’s outfit. She fluffed her gray curls and stood back, watching the judges as they tucked into her cake with a smirk.
“She really thinks she’s going to win this,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Huh?” The woman beside me leaned in, but I merely shook my head and smiled at her. A flicker of movement within the tent caught my attention.
Kayla Wren and Norman Sweet stood nearby, talking deeply and looking decidedly unhappy. A lover’s spat? Or was it just because Kayla’s meringues hadn’t done her any justice during the first round of judging? She hadn’t made it through.
“Delicious,” Belle-Blue announced, her voice broadcast by the mic attached to her pashmina. “I’ve never tasted a red velvet cake this moist.”
“The buttercream frosting is smooth but a little on the heavy side,” the second judge said, smacking his lips.
Glendaree looked at him as if he’d sprouted a tail and a pair of horns.
“I agree. Moist cake slightly sullied by heavy buttercream.” The third judge was a young lady who wore a cream blouse and had a sniffy air about her. “Try cream cheese frosting next time. There’s no need to reinvent the wheel when making a red velvet, even for a competition like this.”
Glendaree choked on her saliva and barely managed to thank them for the critic. Challenging them would likely end with her receiving even worse scores.
The judges moved down the line to the next contestant, Colton Harrison, the hard-working trailer-dweller. He grinned at them, stroking his goatee as they announced that he had produced a near perfect scone with cream and homemade strawberry preserves.
“An interesting entry,” Belle-Blue said, adding hardly any value to the proceedings. Good thing Gamma wasn’t here—she might’ve heckled her.
Again the judges moved on. They gave out their judgments and made both positive and critical remarks, all while the audience lapped it up, making the appropriate oohs and aahs when something was said.
Finally, they reached Lauren’s pedestal.
“Not my cup of tea,” Jessie said, seconds after she’d taken a bite of Lauren’s key lime pie.
I nearly saw red. She was trying to sink our chef just because she worked at the Gossip Inn. Trust Belle-Blue to do something like this. The audacity! And after Gamma had said that she would hide Quinton at the inn too? I would go up there and—
“I disagree,” the second judge said. “I think this is perfect. Crust is divine, the filling is just right. There’s a touch of something in there that I don’t recognize but it truly uplifts the flavor.”
“Meringue is sweet and fluffy with the crunch on top. Oh yes. Wow. Amazing.” That from the third judge.
Lauren, who had wilted at Belle-Blue’s critic, beamed at the judges now. “Thank you so much. It’s my own recipe, I—”
“Trash!” The shout had come from Glendaree at the end of the stage.
Everyone gasped and looked over at her. The judges turned as well.
“Mrs. Bijon, please don’t interrupt the judges while they are—” the host started.
“She stole that recipe from me!” Glendaree declared. “She stole it from my recipe book. Didn’t you hear that my recipe book was missing? She stole it from me.” Glendaree grasped a bottle of water in one hand swinging it back and forth as she talked. “I demand that this thief be disqualified, immediately.”
“Mrs. Bijon!” The host’s cry was strangled, but he glanced toward the cameramen, ensuring that they got a close-up of the interruption. This made for good TV.
I glared up at Glendaree. She was ruining this for Lauren.
Glendaree took a deep swig of water from her bottle before continuing, “If you think that I, as last year’s esteemed winner, will stand to be judged against a petty thief who can’t if create her own recipes for this competition, you are—” She choked and dropped the bottle. Water splashed across the stage.
The audience members gasped and shouted.
“Mrs. Bijon, you are disturbing the judges. This is against the rules.” The host strode toward her.
Glendaree didn’t hear. She pressed a hand to her chest. She slid that hand up over her kaftan toward her throat and sucked in a shuddering breath, her eyes bulging. Her cheeks reddened.
Uh oh.
Glendaree Bijon took a stumbling step forward. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed on the edge of the stage. Dead as a doornail.
Screams erupted in the tent. The host looked this way and that, seeking aid from heaven alone knew wear, his blond coiff bobbling. Lauren sat down heavily, gasping for air and faint at the sight of Glendaree’s body.
Chaos.
Pure and utter chaos.
Remain calm. Gamma’s voice in my head. My internal compass, always there and ready to guide me. Look for the killer.
Because they had to be here. I scanned the crowds of people, some caught in horror staring at Glendaree with morbid fascination, others on the phone, trying to get through to 911, and some in dead faints or in varying states of distress.
Not Kayla Wren. She tugged free of Norman’s grip, staring at Glendaree’s body, and then ran for the exit.
“Stop her!” I yelled, but my voice was lost in the chatter. “Stop her! She’s getting away.” I had never been more certain that Kayla Wren had set this up. She had murdered Brenda for a book that hadn’t been stolen and then done the same to Glendaree when she couldn’t make it to the finals. “Stop her!”
I pushed through the crowd, chasing after Kayla, but her mousy brown hair disappeared in the crowd.
My pulse raced, and I pumped my arms back and forth trying desperately to catch up with Kayla before it was too late. I burst from the crowd and headed for the park’s entrance, but it was too late.
Kayla Wren was gone.