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Home Baked Bribery

By Gina Holder

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Tuesday 8:45 am

Why are smoke detectors so loud?
Addie grabbed a dish towel, sprang onto a kitchen chair, and waved the white flag of surrender. The piercing scream ceased. Her cookies were burnt. She was well aware of that fact—her nose worked just fine. Did that annoying little thing have to announce it to the entire cape?
A thin gray haze remained.
She opened a window, then removed the charred hockey-puck shaped treats from the oven and set them on a hot pad on the kitchen island. With a frown, she poked one, but it was as unmoving as the Rock of Gibraltar and would probably break a tooth.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, hands cupped under her chin and stared at the tray of culinary casualties. Why is baking so difficult? I thought I followed the recipe.
She could put together an entire car engine in under twelve hours, but she couldn’t turn flour, sugar, butter, and salt into something delicious… or even edible.
Footfalls sounded on the stairs overhead. Talia Sullivan, Addie’s best friend and housemate, entered the kitchen, wearing a crisp, clean chef’s jacket, comfortable dark-colored slacks, and clogs. Her brunette hair was gathered in a short ponytail. An apron and purse hung from her elbow as she poured a cup of coffee then grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.
“Someone’s all dressed up,” Addie teased as she pushed away from the counter. “Where’re you off to?” As if she didn’t already know.
Talia peeled the long yellow fruit and bit. “You got a little something…” She tapped her own cheek.
Probably flour. Addie wiped her face with the towel. “How’s that?”
Talia swallowed. “Better. I want to make a good impression on my first day at Sweet Treats.”
Not only had Talia been out of work for six months ever since a nor’easter destroyed her restaurant, but she’d had a crush on Regis Collingsworth, the owner of Sweet Treats, since forever.
“Have you seen a plate of cookies I whipped up before bed last night?” Talia’s gaze swept the kitchen.
Addie looked, then remembered why she didn’t see them. “Uh, don’t be mad, but I kind of ate them.”
“Addie! A whole dozen cookies?”
“Sorry. If you didn’t want me to eat them, you should have left a note or something. You know I can’t resist a warm chocolate chip.”
Talia sighed, closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehead. “What am I going to do now?”
“You could take one of mine,” Addie teased.
Talia picked up one of the hockey pucks and tapped it on the counter. A loud clunking sound reverberated. A smile tugged at her mouth. “And then what? Offer to cover his dental bill?”
Addie dumped the cookies into the garbage bin. They hit the bottom like rocks. “I don’t think you have to worry about it. He’s going to love you.”
Talia’s cheeks turned three shades of red. She ducked her chin and tucked a runaway strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re the best baker in Rockport. In Essex County. The best baker north of Boston.”
“Thank you, but you’re biased. I can’t believe you ate that whole plate of cookies. We’re almost thirty years old. I don’t know about you, but my metabolism isn’t what it used to be. I’d blow up like a balloon if I ate as much sugar as you.”
Addie shrugged. “Good genes, I guess. What time are you supposed to be there?”
Talia glanced at the oven. “Nine o’clo—I’m going to be late. That’s not the impression I’m going for.” She ran out of the room, purse swinging like a pendulum and nonslip clogs tapping on the hardwood floor.
“Good luck!” Addie shouted.
The storm door slammed, and a second later, an engine started up. Gravel crunched beneath the tires.
Addie’s cell phone jingled from across the house. She dashed into the living room, grabbed the phone, and dropped into Dad’s old recliner as she unplugged it from the charger. She tapped the screen, then held the device to her ear.
“Hey, Noah. What’s doin’?”
Addie and Noah Daniels had met a few months back when he’d come to Rockport to transfer his grandmother to an assisted living home in Boston. While their initial interactions had been rough seas, he turned out to be a sweet, protective guy, and together, they’d solved the murder of Oliver Fairfax, a local businessman.
But despite Noah’s interest in her, his job kept him from frequenting Rockport often and their relationship had yet to turn serious. Dating a lieutenant detective from the Massachusetts State Police Department had its drawbacks.
“Busy, as usual. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Just finished burning a batch of cookies.” Addie chuckled at her own joke. “I’m looking forward to this weekend. You’re still coming, right?”
Noah’s sigh answered her question.
Her excitement deflated. Disappointment settled in her gut. “You’re not coming.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be there. It’s just… I can’t get away right now. I’ll come with you next year.”
“This is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Golden Whisk Award Baking Competition. It’s special. There won’t be a next year.”
Noah sighed again. She pictured him raking his fingers through his dark hair. “I know. And I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’ll try to see you soon. Just not this weekend.”
“Fine.” She clenched her teeth. They hadn’t seen each other in several weeks.
“Addie, don’t be like that—”
She jabbed the red button on the screen, ending the call. Removing her finger from the phone, she scratched an itch on her nose. An apology was necessary, but not until she cooled down a bit.
Boston was only an hour away—a short train ride. He didn’t even have to waste gasoline. But even on his days off, he seemed consumed with other obligations.
She opened the contact list on her phone, and her finger hovered over Lydia Wilson’s number. Lydia had been a mentor and confidante through most of Addie’s life, but it probably would be a below-the-belt move to complain about Noah to his grandmother.
I had our whole weekend planned. What could be more important than spending time with me?
Murder. Grand larceny. Abduction.
Guilt overrode her selfishness.
Addie exhaled, dropped her phone into her overalls’ pocket, then went to the front porch, pausing to pet her long-haired Ragdoll cat, Friday. Crossing the yard, she wove through stacks of tires, lobster crates, cinder blocks, and wood pallets, with her animals at her heels— Sherlock the Rottweiler, Miss Marple the Great Dane, Nancy the Bullmastiff, and finally Winston, a potbelly pig who thought he was a dog.
Sweat beaded on Addie’s forehead.
The temperature was expected to reach ninety by midafternoon. Summer had decided to make its appearance after an extended spring. Tourist season was in full swing, bringing with it the income the North Shore merchants needed to make it through the long New England winter.
An ocean breeze kicked up, swinging the White Elephant Junk Removal shingle on the fisherman’s shack she used for an office and momentarily cooling Addie’s creamy freckled skin.
The office phone rang.
She entered the shack and answered. “White Elephant Junk Removal. Your rubbish is our reward. How can I help you?”
“It’s Charlene Dixon,” the familiar voice came over the line. “I’ve got a backed-up sink. Could you or Malachi come out to the bakery and fix it for me?”
Not only did Addie’s company remove unwanted junk for Cape Ann residents, but she and Malachi, her only employee, also did handyman jobs when needed.
Malachi Burke, the fifty-five-year-old Black man, had been a part of Addie’s life for as long as she could remember. He had been with her through the good times and the bad—she honestly didn’t know what she’d do without him. I wish he were here. I could use his advice about Noah.
Addie stuck her hand in her pocket. “Malachi’s out of town visiting his sick mother, but I can be there in ten.”
It was a lazy summer day, and even unclogging pipes sounded better than overanalyzing her relationship issues. A pound or two of sludge should take her mind off the fact that Noah had disappointed her… again.



Addie shifted on the kitchen floor, trying for a second time to release the P-trap section of the PVC pipe under Charlene’s commercial sink. With her wrench gripped around the compression fitting, she twisted with all her strength and vocalized a loud grunt for extra measure.
The fitting dislodged, releasing the watertight seal.
A millisecond too late, Addie realized her amateur mistake.
Dirty water gushed from the fixture, ricocheted off her goggles, and filled her open mouth. She gagged, then jolted upright, smacking her head on the stainless-steel basin.
“Ow.” She coughed and gagged again. “That could have gone differently.” She grabbed a dry cloth, stuck out her tongue, and dabbed.
Gross.
She rubbed the sore spot above her eyebrows.
Footsteps squished on the rubber-matted floor. Black nonslip clogs peeked from beneath the baker’s table in the center of the room.
Charlene’s voice carried to where Addie sat. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Pause. “I won’t let this jeopardize my chances.” Another pause. “Hold on.”
Charlene rounded the baker’s table, squatted, pressed the phone to her sternum, and handed Addie a clean dish towel. “What happened here? Are you OK?” Her big eyes shimmered with sympathy and a little bit of amusement.
“I’m fine.” Addie spit into the rag. “But that was wicked disgusting. I’ll just snake out the clog, and you should be good to go.”
“Thanks.” Charlene stood and returned to her phone call. “I’ll think of something.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the retail area of the bakery. The door swung behind her.
Addie rolled to her knees, grabbed her snake, stood, and cranked the line into the drainpipe. Tugging, she pulled it out, the snake covered with gunk. She climbed back under the sink and reattached the P-trap. She stood, then turned on the faucet, letting the water run.
Charlene reentered the kitchen. “All finished?”
“Just about.” Addie turned off the stream and dried her hands on a clean towel. “You should be all good to go now.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Just twenty for the labor.” Addie squatted and started packing up her tools.
“Addie.” Charlene rolled her eyes. “You should charge more for your work. You’re worth it.” She pulled two twenties from her apron pocket. “Here. At least let me cover your gasoline.”
Addie flipped her red toolbox shut, then stuffed the bills into her overalls’ bib pocket. “You sounded upset on the phone. Is everything OK?”
The customer bell jingled, and the entrance door slammed, shaking the building. Kasey Snowden burst into the kitchen. Her golden blond hair flowed behind her like a cape. “You’ll never believe what I just heard.”
“What?” Charlene asked.
Kasey drew a big breath, then started her story with the speed of the Amtrak bullet train. “I was at City Hall, dropping off your recipes for the baking thing, when I overheard Mr. Tate and Mr. Latimer talking about a special celebrity the GWA committee invited to be a judge.”
Kasey paused, grinning from ear to ear.
Russell Tate served as Rockport’s current town administrator, and Anthony Latimer owned Hearthside Bakery, the most popular bakery in Rockport.
Each baker had to select a specific recipe for each event and submit them to the judges ahead of time. For what purpose, Addie didn’t know, except maybe to be sure the judges had no allergens or strong aversions to the ingredients.
“What’s the GWA?” Addie inquired.
“It’s hip for Golden Whisk Award.” Charlene flipped her shoulder-length brunette hair.
Kasey rolled her eyes. “No one says hip anymore.”
“Well, I do. I’m old.”
“Who is it?” Addie’s curiosity bubbled up with the ferocity of a shaken soda pop.
“Who is who?” Kasey blinked.
“The celebrity judge?” Addie urged.
“Oh, right.” Kasey giggled. “Mac Gordon!” She let out an earsplitting scream.
Addie covered her ears and glanced at Charlene.
The older woman gripped the counter until her knuckles turned white. A quivering hand rested against her throat.
“Are you OK?” Addie asked. “You don’t look so good.”
Charlene stayed silent for another moment, then shook her head. “I’m fine. Just shocked. Mac Gordon. Wow! Talk about turning up the pressure cooker.”
She sighed, picked up the dirty dish towels, and dropped them into the laundry basket. “I don’t need this. I’m already stressed about the baking competition. This weekend will be my third attempt at winning.” She pivoted. “Every year, I lose to Tony Latimer.”
Charlene took down two metal mixing bowls from a shelf, forcefully smashed the eggs on the lip, and separated the yolks from the whites.
Addie felt sorry for those eggs. “Well, I happen to think your Boston Cream Pie Cupcakes are the best in the state.”
Poor Charlene. She’s already anxious enough about this weekend. Having a celebrity judge certainly isn’t going to help her stress.
A shrill beeping started, and Charlene jumped. “Kasey, can you take those from the oven?” she called over her shoulder. “After you finish that, will you box up a dozen sugar-free cookies for Mrs. Fowler? You can take them over later this afternoon.”
“Sure.”
Kasey grabbed a pair of oven mitts, opened the oven, and removed a tray of brownish cookies. She turned with the hot tray and trotted toward the cooling racks.
A heavenly aroma permeated the kitchen.
“Those look amazing.” Addie licked her lips, then snatched a cookie from off the tray and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth. “Hot.” She blew through lips shaped like an O.
“Addie! Don’t!” Charlene shouted, her expression tense, and her hand shot out.
Addie paused mid-chew. Her heart rate spiked. What did I do?
“Those are made with almond flour!”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
She spit the rest of the cookie into her hand.
Too late.
Her skin began to itch, and her throat swelled. Her chest tightened.
I should have asked. That was dumb. I know better.
Trembles started in her hands. Her lungs heaved, struggling to get air.
Stay calm.
Addie controlled her breathing, then dug through her purse, whipped out her EpiPen, and forcefully jabbed the needle into her upper thigh. The epinephrine flowed into her muscle as the EpiPen released.
She winced and withdrew the needle. Exhaled as her lungs loosened. It’s OK. I’m going to be OK.
Horrified expressions twisted the other women’s faces.
Kasey paled, and her pupils enlarged. “You—you just stabbed your leg,” she stuttered.
“Are you alright?” Charlene asked.
The swelling decreased as the medication took effect. Addie swallowed. “I will be. Now. I should have asked before helping myself. I always keep an EpiPen on me. One in my purse, and one in the truck.”
“What happened?” Kasey asked.
“I have a severe nut allergy.” Addie’s pulse raced, and her hands shook. Little beads of sweat dripped down her cheeks. A twinge started in her temples.
All side effects of the epinephrine shot.
“Do we need to call an ambulance?” Charlene asked.
“I’ll swing by the doctor’s office before I go home just as a precaution, but I should be fine.”
Addie took one step forward, and the ground slipped away. She grabbed the edge of the counter, hung her head, and closed her eyes until the room stopped spinning.
“Never mind.” She inhaled. “Talia’s just around the corner. I’ll give her a call.”
Addie dialed Talia’s number, explained the situation, then waited on a bench outside the bakery with her head in her hands until Talia’s small car rumbled around the corner from Bearskin Neck.
Addie rose as the vehicle stopped along the curb.
Talia leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door. “How are you feeling?”
Addie climbed inside, buckled her seatbelt, laid her head back, and closed her eyes. Dizziness and nausea fought for preeminence. “Like I’m caught in a whirlpool.”
“Take it easy. I’ll get you to the clinic as soon as I can.” Talia merged and continued down Main Street, heading out of town toward Gloucester.
“I hope my call didn’t get you in trouble with Regis.”
“No, he said it’s fine. We were just prepping for the meet and greet tomorrow evening, but I’ve got good news.”
“Yeah?” Addie peeked out of one eye.
“Regis asked me to be his assistant for the baking competition this weekend.”
Addie gave Talia the best I’m-happy-for-you smile she could muster. “I just heard the committee invited a celebrity judge.”
“Who?”
“Mac Gordon.”
Talia slammed on her brakes. “Why would they do that? Have you seen him on TV? He yells at everyone and throws things. There’s a reason his show is called Sheol’s Pantry.”
Cheese and crackers! No wonder Charlene seemed horrified by the prospect.
The car rolled forward. “If the committee wanted a celebrity judge, why didn’t they choose someone like Gina Lorenzo or Anna Burrelli?” Talia named her favorite celebrity chefs.
“You’d have to ask the committee.”
“Mac Gordon,” Talia whispered. “I wonder if Regis knows yet.”
Fifteen minutes later, Talia parked in front of the brick medical clinic in Gloucester. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
Addie shook her head, then swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

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