Part 17 (2/2)
Buck found his voice. ”I have never seen anything so pretty that you could eat!”
After four other tastings, Betty was learning the lingo. ”Is that what they call gum paste?”
Juice bridled. ”I freakin' hate gum paste. You can model it like clay, but it tastes gross.”
”Sorry, dear. No offense. What is it, then?”
”The wrapping is poured fondant, the ribbons are pulled sugar, and the ornaments are blown sugar.”
”It's a very tricky technique,” I told them. ”Juice is a real artist when it comes to sugar work.”
”She surely is!” said Buck. ”I could look at these all day.”
”You look all you want while I get you some coffee,” Juice offered, then winked at me. ”You wanna help me back here?”
I followed her into the kitchen. As we a.s.sembled a thermos pot and the cream and sugar tray, I whispered, ”Juice, are you crazy? You can't possibly charge enough to cover that many individual cakes. Not ones that elaborate, anyway. It would cost a fortune!”
”I'm only gonna charge them three-quarters of a fortune. I'll still end up working for chump change by the time I do all the custom work on these puppies, but I figure it'll make such a splash that snotty guys like Joe Solveto will start taking me seriously.”
”Still, that's an immense amount of work.”
She shrugged. ”Rita's out of town the first half of December. When I'm not getting any, I got energy to burn.”
We poured coffee for the Killer B's, now looking sweet as honeybees, and Juice began slicing cake. I declined-I can't handle sugar that early in the day-and took my coffee cup over to the window again. It was lighter now, the flat shadow-less light of winter in Seattle, and I could see the rooftop scene across the way with eerie, two-dimensional clarity.
The policeman was still there, joined now by three men in suits. One of them carried what looked like a doctor's bag. The others deferred to him, and when he knelt down with his bag, out of my line of sight, the young policeman grimaced and turned away. Off to one side, a janitor in coveralls stood holding a bucket and wearing long rubber gloves. The hair on the back of my neck began to stir.
”Come taste this lemony one!” Betty called to me. ”It's just divine.”
”No, thanks,” I said faintly. I was trying to remember the cross streets in this part of town, and figure out which building that utility roof belonged to. I had a guess, but maybe I was wrong. ”I'm really not hungry.”
”These are dee-lish, every one of them,” Buck announced. ”Now, young lady, what's all this pretty cake going to set me back?”
I turned to watch, expecting some price resistance, or at least shrewd negotiation. Juice looked Buck right in the eye and named an astounding sum of money. The ladies fluttered a bit, but Buck just half-closed his eyes and worked his jaw for a minute.
Then he slapped a hand on the plate-filled table and said, ”Done! You get what you pay for, isn't that right, Mother? Juice, honey, you got yourself a deal.”
It's the boots, I thought, trying not to think about the man with the doctor's bag. And then, absurdly, Maybe they'll start showing up at Juice's place for breakfast instead of mine.
The Buckmeisters began the long happy process of deciding on flavors, and as the delectable terms filled the air- cappuccino truffle, strawberry b.u.t.tercream, Grand Marnier praline-I signaled to Juice that I'd be right back. I jaywalked across the street, glancing down the block as I approached the sign at the intersection.
My guess was right. The utility roof was on the south side of a building whose main entrance was around the corner, facing west. A building I had been inside just two days before. I hurried around the corner, into the lobby, and onto an elevator, pa.s.sing cl.u.s.ters of people with eager, horrified faces. As the doors slid closed I heard one of them say to a new arrival, ”Some woman fell-”
The moon-faced young policeman stopped me partway down the hall of the thirteenth floor.
”Excuse me, miss, may I ask where you're going?”
I pointed silently to the door beyond him.
”Did you know the occupant?”
Did. Not do. Past tense. Oh, G.o.d.
Angela Sims was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four.
BY THE TIME I I GOT BACK TO GOT BACK TO B BY B BREAD A ALONE, THE Buckmeisters were gone and Juice was clearing away the cake plates. Buckmeisters were gone and Juice was clearing away the cake plates.
”Hey, where'd you go, Kincaid? Buck and the gang said they'll see you later. Man, they are great people! And you were afraid-What's the matter? You look like death.”
I heard someone laughing, as if from a distance. It was me. She left the plates and came over to take my arm.
”No kidding, you look like you're gonna keel over. Here, sit down.” I sat, taking long shuddering breaths, while Juice brought me a mug of milky coffee. ”Lots of sugar. Good for shock. Now, what's up?”
”I... had some bad news about a friend,” I said at last. I didn't feel up to explanations. Not that there were any; the cop had just taken my name and address and sent me on my way. I knew what had happened, though, as surely as if I'd been there myself. But why hadn't Angela secured her door? And why, I asked myself painfully, why hadn't I warned all the attendants about Skull the day of the dress fitting? I could have saved her life.
Juice was staring at me, waiting for more, but I shook my head.
”It's a long story, and I have to get back to the office. Um, congratulations about the Buckmeisters. You really impressed them. I'll get back to you later about the cake contract, OK?”
”No prob. Sorry about your friend.” Then she frowned angrily. ”What the h.e.l.l does she want?”
Someone was banging on BBA's locked front door. Juice stomped to the window and gestured at the Closed sign, but the pounding continued, and I heard a woman's voice.
”Carnegie, open up!” It was Corinne, wild-eyed and frantic. I pointed toward the side entrance, and went through the kitchen to let her in.
”I saw him!”
Corinne stumbled through the door and into my arms. Her raincoat was unb.u.t.toned, the belt dangling, and her upswept hairdo was coming down. For a moment I felt her panic infecting me as well. But only for a moment. It's funny; nothing helps you pull yourself together like somebody else falling apart. So I reacted as I usually do in a wedding crisis, and started ordering people around.
”Juice, lock that door, would you? It's OK, Corinne, you're safe, he's not coming in here.” It didn't sound as though she knew about Angela, and I didn't intend to tell her until she calmed down. ”Now sit here and tell me what's going on.”
”I saw the tattooed man! I was going to have breakfast at the Athenian Cafe, but when I saw him I just kept going through the Market and I think he followed me! I was looking for a policeman but then I saw you through that window and, and...”
”Here, take a swig of this.”
Juice, instead of interrupting with questions, had very sensibly kept silent and brought over the rest of my coffee. As Corinne sipped at it, there was another knock at the front window, businesslike this time, and Juice went to unlock the front door for three burly men in coveralls-the cleaning crew, here to do the floors.
”Kincaid, I kinda need you to leave, I gotta help these guys. If your friend's OK now?”
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