Bianco has been all over the news lately. The question is why would he send anyone here ?"
"You're telling me that a member of the mafia came all the way to Podunk, Georgia just to snag a few free samples at a local farmers' market?" Bree shakes her head.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," he responds.
"Weird." I take a deep breath. A much-needed breeze interrupts our conversation and gives my lungs a breath of fresh air. I watch the bright green grass dance in the wind—a brilliant wave of emerald thanks to the heaps of rainfall that rolled in last week. A far off spectator is watching me as I attempt to stretch the kinks in my back. A woman at the Sweet T Soap booth looks away as soon as we make eye contact, and she resumes packing up the products on her table.
"Tell me, Poppy." Detective Reid studies me. I place a hand on my thudding chest. I'm not sure if it's the way he's looking at me or an early sign of heat stroke. "When did you get here this morning?"
"I came early with Bree. Karl was already here. We set up our booth with the latest from the student bakery. I got ready for my food demo, and that's about it." I leave out the part where Bree, Karl, and I did all the heavy lifting while Georgina stared at her cell phone and Chef Otto went off to find non-instant coffee. He's pickier than I when it comes to fresh brew.
"Was anyone else here setting up their booths when you arrived?"
"The soap sisters," Bree says, glancing at the Sweet T Soap booth. "They were here."
"Yes." I remember Georgina's comment about their cupcake bath fizzes. "And the girl from the jewelry tent, the one who found the body, showed up later along with the boiled peanut guy."
"Biscuits," Detective Reid mumbles as he jots a few things down.
"Excuse me?" I wrinkle my forehead, trying to make sense of his random reference to a buttery breakfast food.
"That's his name," he says. "The old man at the boiled peanut tent is called Biscuits."
"Who would name their child that?" Bree stares as the man hands out free samples to the officers who are questioning him—a common Southern snack that I have yet to try.
"How should I know?" Detective Reid keeps scribbling things as he talks. "It's probably a nickname."
"And an excellent conversation starter," I add.
"Okay." He finally looks up again, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to keep his thoughts from floating out into the open. "Poppy, I need you to be straight with me when I ask you this."
"You're making me nervous," I admit.
"Did you bring your own kitchen equipment today?"
"Well…yeah." I tilt my head, wondering what he's getting at. "I tote my tools around everywhere. I guess it's just habit now."
"Does that by chance include an eight-inch chef's knife?"
He looks at me, and almost instantly my eyes water.
It can't be mine. Please don't say it's mine.
I'm too afraid to say yes, but the moment I unwrapped that metal blade engraved with the school's name and my initials is on instant replay in my head. It was a gift from the academy to all the advanced-level students, along with our new kitchen uniforms. That was the same day news spread through campus like wildfire that the Chef Bartolo Chimenti, a.k.a Chef Otto, agreed to be a temporary pastry instructor while President Dixon interviewed new candidates. That was also the same day I was paired with tart-face herself. Georgina insisted that all after-hours work was to be done in her kitchen because mine probably wasn't apt to the job. Whatever that means.
"A simple yes or no will do here." Detective Reid's expression changes to a look of concern. I wipe away a tear.
"The knife is mine, isn't it?"
"Yes," he says quietly. The news hits me like a loaf of rock-hard fruitcake. "I'm sorry, but the murder weapon bears your initials."
"She didn't do it, Detective." Bree rushes to my rescue, placing her arm around my shoulders. "She couldn't have. She was with me the whole time."
"For what it's worth," he mutters, "I
"You're telling me that a member of the mafia came all the way to Podunk, Georgia just to snag a few free samples at a local farmers' market?" Bree shakes her head.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," he responds.
"Weird." I take a deep breath. A much-needed breeze interrupts our conversation and gives my lungs a breath of fresh air. I watch the bright green grass dance in the wind—a brilliant wave of emerald thanks to the heaps of rainfall that rolled in last week. A far off spectator is watching me as I attempt to stretch the kinks in my back. A woman at the Sweet T Soap booth looks away as soon as we make eye contact, and she resumes packing up the products on her table.
"Tell me, Poppy." Detective Reid studies me. I place a hand on my thudding chest. I'm not sure if it's the way he's looking at me or an early sign of heat stroke. "When did you get here this morning?"
"I came early with Bree. Karl was already here. We set up our booth with the latest from the student bakery. I got ready for my food demo, and that's about it." I leave out the part where Bree, Karl, and I did all the heavy lifting while Georgina stared at her cell phone and Chef Otto went off to find non-instant coffee. He's pickier than I when it comes to fresh brew.
"Was anyone else here setting up their booths when you arrived?"
"The soap sisters," Bree says, glancing at the Sweet T Soap booth. "They were here."
"Yes." I remember Georgina's comment about their cupcake bath fizzes. "And the girl from the jewelry tent, the one who found the body, showed up later along with the boiled peanut guy."
"Biscuits," Detective Reid mumbles as he jots a few things down.
"Excuse me?" I wrinkle my forehead, trying to make sense of his random reference to a buttery breakfast food.
"That's his name," he says. "The old man at the boiled peanut tent is called Biscuits."
"Who would name their child that?" Bree stares as the man hands out free samples to the officers who are questioning him—a common Southern snack that I have yet to try.
"How should I know?" Detective Reid keeps scribbling things as he talks. "It's probably a nickname."
"And an excellent conversation starter," I add.
"Okay." He finally looks up again, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to keep his thoughts from floating out into the open. "Poppy, I need you to be straight with me when I ask you this."
"You're making me nervous," I admit.
"Did you bring your own kitchen equipment today?"
"Well…yeah." I tilt my head, wondering what he's getting at. "I tote my tools around everywhere. I guess it's just habit now."
"Does that by chance include an eight-inch chef's knife?"
He looks at me, and almost instantly my eyes water.
It can't be mine. Please don't say it's mine.
I'm too afraid to say yes, but the moment I unwrapped that metal blade engraved with the school's name and my initials is on instant replay in my head. It was a gift from the academy to all the advanced-level students, along with our new kitchen uniforms. That was the same day news spread through campus like wildfire that the Chef Bartolo Chimenti, a.k.a Chef Otto, agreed to be a temporary pastry instructor while President Dixon interviewed new candidates. That was also the same day I was paired with tart-face herself. Georgina insisted that all after-hours work was to be done in her kitchen because mine probably wasn't apt to the job. Whatever that means.
"A simple yes or no will do here." Detective Reid's expression changes to a look of concern. I wipe away a tear.
"The knife is mine, isn't it?"
"Yes," he says quietly. The news hits me like a loaf of rock-hard fruitcake. "I'm sorry, but the murder weapon bears your initials."
"She didn't do it, Detective." Bree rushes to my rescue, placing her arm around my shoulders. "She couldn't have. She was with me the whole time."
"For what it's worth," he mutters, "I