“Really? Then obviously he’s trying to hide something.”
Sean’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe. I’ll see what I can find out. I appreciate you telling me about this, but I absolutely don’t want you out looking for information. I’ve got a whole team of professionals working on this. And last time . . .” He came a little closer and placed his hand discreetly on my hip. “I just couldn’t stand it if anything ever happened to you, Lila,” he whispered in my ear. With the heat of his breath sending prickles down my neck and my insides going all mushy, I decided it probably wasn’t the best time to mention that Bentley had put her own team of professionals on the job.
*
I FOUND MAKAYLA working her way around the Dragonfly Room with a plate in hand. I’d had enough of Sean and Trey and murder and work for the moment. The expo crowd seemed content to drool over the bridal treats, with not even a whisper about the article on the murder in yesterday’s paper penetrating their happy spirits. I wished to join them. All I wanted to do was take my dinner break, enjoy a few sweet confections, and dream of my own wedding. “Thank goodness you’re here,” Makayla said. “I’ve already tested three cakes. They’re all so good; I can’t decide. Jay’s favorite is chocolate, but this champagne cake is so moist.” She rolled her eyes. “And the frosting has just a touch of orange Cointreau liqueur. Here, try it.” She handed me her plate.
I took a bite. The cake, which was both fluffy and moist at the same time, was indescribably good, with a sweet creamy custard between the layers and topped with a rich buttercream frosting containing just the right hint of orange liqueur. “Oh my goodness,” I said, stealing another bite. “This is melt-in-your-mouth good!”
She nodded. “Isn’t it? Come on.” She tugged excitedly on my sleeve. “Let’s try some more.”
For the next hour or so, we circumvented the room, admiring each stunning display. Cakes of every shape, size, and theme were exhibited. Some showcased intricate detailing and artistic piped designs, while others were textured and decorated with fresh flowers. Makayla loved the more traditional designs, while I was drawn to the whimsical ones like a two-layer square 1920s-themed cake with metallic gold and black art deco designs. It was cleverly accented with a waggish peacock feather.
“Do you like that cake?” Makayla asked, joining me in front of the display. “You’ve been gawking at it for a few minutes.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Guess my mind wandered for a second. It reminds me of a query I just received for a mystery set in a 1920s speakeasy.” I hadn’t heard back yet from the author who’d sent me the query for Death of a Dame, the Roaring Twenties mystery. I was anxious to read the rest of the manuscript. That was how it was with good queries—they always stayed on my mind.
“Sounds wonderful.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t seen the full manuscript yet, but I’m intrigued. Which reminds me, your cover art should be in any day now.”
A beaming smile broke out on her face. “I’m so excited about my book. And I have you to thank. You’re very good at your job, my friend. Any author who has you for an agent is very lucky indeed.” She looped her arm in mine. “But let’s not get too distracted. We’re here to find our dream wedding cakes, remember?”
Never before had I thought there was such a thing as eating too much cake, but by the time we’d finally finished checking out all twenty-some displays and sampling almost as much cake, I was feeling the beginnings of a sugar coma. “I could use something solid to counteract all this sugar,” I told Makayla.
“Oh, really? I was going to suggest we head over to the wine sampling room.” I grasped my midsection as my stomach gurgled in protest. Makayla laughed and threw me a mischievous wink. “Just kidding. Actually, I should be going. Promised Jay I’d meet him for dinner later this evening.”
“You wouldn’t be heading to Machiavelli’s, by chance?”
She shook her head. “No, just over to the pub for a quick bite. Jay has some work to do tonight. Why?”
I explained to her about running into Trey and how he’d been hiding out at my mother’s and working at Machiavelli’s. “He thinks he wants to become a chef. Can you believe it?”
“Yeah, I can. When he worked for me last summer, he always wanted to try out new recipes on the customers.” A smirk played on her lips as she thought back to the time. “I have to admit, I tried to get Althea’s banana bread recipe from him, but he wouldn’t give it up.”
“You what?”
She laughed. “Seriously, Lila. He was good in the kitchen. I think he has a knack for cooking. Probably gets it from your mother.”
“Probably. I just . . . I mean, giving up an opportunity to go to college to work in a restaurant . . .”