—
Dazzle’s Bakery has been owned and operated by a Dazzle since Puritan times, and is now managed by Clarinda Dazzle. The shop is ancient, consisting of two rooms downstairs and a small apartment upstairs. The store part of the bakery fronts onto a narrow street that’s close to the harbor. The floor is the original wide-plank pine. The walls are whitewashed. The glass display cases are filled with cupcakes and cookies. Wicker baskets holding a variety of breads and breakfast pastries line the back counter. Clara and I work in the kitchen behind the shop, and between the two of us we make everything that’s sold up front.
I rolled into the bakery at five o’clock. I flipped the light switch, and dialed into ’60s rock on my iPad. I love this part of my day when everything is a new beginning. I love that I’m the one to unlock the door and bring the bakery to life.
I slipped on a white chef coat and got the yeast dough started. I had just moved on to cupcake batter when Clara showed up at five-thirty. Clara is divorced, is in her early forties, and lives in the apartment above the shop. She has a wiry mass of black hair shot with gray that she tries to contain in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her nose is Wampanoag Indian. The rest of her is sturdy New England pilgrim stock. I’ve been told that special abilities run in her family, and that she used to be one of us. Several years ago she made an unfortunate choice in the bedroom, and Clara was the one to get stripped of her power.
“We have a lunch takeout for twelve with meat pies and cupcakes today,” Clara said. “Plus Mr. Duggan will be here at ten for his standing order of pretzel rolls.”
“I’m on it.”
Two hours later Glo swept in with her tote bag on her shoulder and her broom in hand.
“Your tote bag has a big bulge in it,” I said to Glo.
“I know. I made the most amazing purchase. I passed by a yard sale on my way to work just now, and a voice called out to me.”
“Like when you bought Ripple’s Book of Spells.”
“Exactly! Only this voice belonged to Emily Shipton. It was her yard sale.”
“What did she sell you?”
“A Magic 8 Ball. And she swore it could predict the future.” Glo took the 8 Ball out and held it in her hand. “Emily said it was empowered by her distant relative Mother Shipton.”
“Mother Shipton was an English prophet who lived in a cave and died in the 1500s,” Clara said. “The Magic 8 Ball is a toy invented by Mattel in the 1950s.”
“It could have been Mother Shipton’s spirit,” Glo said.
I looked over at Broom, and I swear I saw him twitch.
Glo dropped the Magic 8 Ball back into her tote. “I asked the 8 Ball if Lizzy would have another exciting night with Theodore Nergal, and it said, ‘As I see it, yes.’?”
“Who’s Theodore Nergal?” Clara asked.
“I fixed Lizzy up with a date last night,” Glo said. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but he was very cool. A doctor.”
“He’s a coroner,” I said. “And he smelled like formaldehyde.”
—
I was working with the large pastry bag, piping pink cream cheese frosting onto a dozen cupcakes destined for a birthday party, when Diesel sauntered in.
“Are you ready to go?” Diesel asked me.
“Ready to go where?” I asked. “It’s ten o’clock. I don’t even get done till one.”
“So, five minutes?” Diesel asked.
Clara looked over from her workstation. “Is it important?”
“You know how it is,” Diesel said, picking up one of the cupcakes and taking a bite. “The end of the world, maybe.”
Clara shoved a strand of hair back from her forehead with her forearm. “Only maybe?”
“Probably,” Diesel said.
“If it’s ‘probably’ then Lizzy can have another ‘save the world’ day, but you’re using them up fast,” Clara said.
I wasn’t in a rush to get on with saving the world. I’d been there and done that, and I wasn’t anxious to do it again.
“Why can’t you save the world by yourself?” I asked Diesel. “Why do I have to go along?”
“You have to do your touchy-feely thing. I’m big and strong and smokin’ hot, but I’m not touchy-feely.”
This was all true.
“I’ll be with you as soon as I finish this batch of cupcakes,” I said to Diesel.
“I’ll help,” Diesel said, grabbing a second pastry bag off the counter.
“No! I don’t need help.”
“How hard can it be? You just squeeze the bag, and the stuff comes out.”
Diesel squeezed the bag and pink frosting shot out and hit me in the head.
I rolled my eyes up, as if I could see the gunk that was now stuck in my hair.
“You did that on purpose,” I said to Diesel.
Diesel smiled wide and swiped some frosting off my forehead with his finger. “No, but I like it. It’s a good look for you.”
Glo was standing in the doorway.
“It’s true,” Glo said to me. “Pink is your color.”