I squinted at the list and sure enough, it said just that. Edibleness. It sounded like a made-up word. It also said to kick me and my cakes out on the street if they weren't up to snuff.

  I said, “But I brought samples by when you ordered them. Did she try them out then?”

  He waved a hand dismissing my concern. “What did I say? Elsa is a piece of work. She's always been quirky, but the last few weeks she's gone into overdrive. It's too bad the members on the museum's board love her. Don't you worry about it. But, I think it would be for the best if I take a good and healthy sample of everything here. You know, do my own quality assurance. Heh, heh.” Alan patted his belly and grinned.

  I reached for a paper plate and dessert fork feeling a little stung by Elsa's earlier comment. “Still have a sweet tooth, huh?”

  “Guilty. Though I should know details in case any of the guests ask about them. And believe me, this crowd will.”

  Oscar handed me a cake decorated with a raspberry and a lemon wedge.

  “Thanks,” I said and put the dessert on Alan’s plate. “As you know, I came up with recipes to match the theme of the exhibition. So first up, and representing the goddesses of creation, is a lighter cake with the perfect combo of tart and sweet. I add lemon zest, lemon juice, and two tablespoons of limoncello liqueur to the batter that has the usual flour, baking powder, eggs, sugar, salt, and butter. Oh and cream cheese. Inside is a lemon curd filling that is a combination of sugar, eggs, and lemon juice. And that nice, thick, pale yellow ribbon across the top is a cream cheese limoncello frosting garnished with a fresh raspberry and lemon wedge. It's a perfect cake to refresh the palate after heavy foods.”

  With every word Alan's eyes had grown a little bigger. He took a bite, then another, and a third. My nerves sent an early warning quiver along my spine. I knew my cakes were delish, but I couldn't banish an image of me sitting on the sidewalk in the middle of heaping piles of mini-cakes.

  Finally Alan spoke. “Mmm. I may have to be alone with this cake later. No, don't laugh. Daddy likes. Let me put this one down before I embarrass myself. What's next?”

  I put another cake on his plate. “In classic Greek mythology, what was the food of the gods?”

  “Ambrosia,” Alan answered without a pause.

  “Precisely. This is my take on the nectar of the gods. It's an ambrosia mini.

  A white butter cake is filled with crushed pineapple. Then it's frosted with an orange-infused marshmallow meringue topped with toasted coconut shreds. Oh and a maraschino cherry, of course.”

  “You had me at butter.” My friend took a single bite and stomped his foot. “Oh Ali, you just made me forget about my stupid grapefruit diet.”

  To our left, a brown-haired woman entered through an enormous double door that was set behind black velvet ropes.

  Before the door could shut behind her, Alan was calling her over. “Jessica, come here immediately. You must have this in your mouth right now. Oh, wait that sounded kinky. No offense, don't sue me. I'm in enough trouble as it is. Come taste this ambrosia cake.”

  Jessica, a woman of average height with long chestnut hair, took one look at the cake display and hustled over. I liked her immediately. Cake makes me hightail it, too.

  She said, “You only get this excited over really good food and things that have been dead for a really long time.”

  “Here, take a piece of the deliciousness my friend made. Oh, Ali, this is Jessica, my senior associate curator. She's one of the best people on my team. Jess, this is the woman who turned me on to museums when we were kids.”

  His assistant didn't have an opportunity to answer because Alan shoved a forkful of cake into her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said around a mouthful. “Oh, this is heaven. Can I have a whole one?

  I felt my lips rising in a cocky half-smile. Oscar put an arm around my shoulder. “Please, hold your applause. She'll be full of herself for about a week.”

  “Thank you, peanut gallery.” This time he took a playful shot to the ribs before I introduced him again.

  Jessica jerked as if shocked. “No wait, we shouldn't be eating these, Alan. Elsa will freak if the count isn't exact when the guests come in.”

  “No worries, I always make extra just in case a few magically disappear into a client's mouth or get broken during transport.” I handed her a plate with an ambrosia cake.

  Alan tore the sheet in half that he'd tucked under his arm. “Jess, speaking of Elsa, she came by with one of her lists.” He gave her one half of the paper. “Sorry, I have the other associates on task. If you could take this part, I'll do the other. ”

  She scanned the sheet, then slapped it against her thigh. “This is ridiculous. C'mon, dust bunnies in the coat check room?”

  “I know. I know. At least I didn't give you the half with the toilet checks. Do the best you can and grab whoever you need to help. Any real problems, find me. And if you can't find me, check with Elsa in her office after meditation.”

  “Oh, it's about that time, isn't it?” Jessica glanced at her watch. Diamonds sparkled around the face. “I thought she'd skip that today considering the premiere.”

  “Heaven forbid she doesn't take it.” Alan looked at me. “Every day Elsa retires to her office for…,” he curled his fingers in air quotes, “…meditation. But she's really just in there doing arts and crafts. Which is fine with me. She’s always more civil after her private time.”

  Jessica nodded. “I think Elsa really is an artist deep down but was afraid she couldn't make a living at it.”

  “Oh please. She does paper maché.” Alan smirked.

  Oscar said, “You mean like Elmer's glue and newspaper strips? Kindergarten stuff?”

  “Yes, but I'm just being petty. Paper maché is an art form in many cultures. And though I don't like to admit it, she’s very good. But the fact that she insists on injecting her little creations into every premiere is just opportunistic and gets on my nerves. Anyway,” Alan peered over my shoulder, “is that chocolate I see?”

  “Boss, I'll get started on this list. I'll grab Nia if I see her. In fact there she is now. Nia!” She waved over a woman with black hair cut into a tapered page boy. The tips of her locks shimmered a bright blue.

  Nia carried a clipboard similar to Elsa's. But that was where the similarities ended. As she approached, the first word that came to my mind was 'waif'. A few times when I'd been out shopping, I'd accidentally picked up a size zero. It was like finding evidence of an endangered and reclusive animal, like the spotted snow leopard. I could never picture what an adult woman who wore a size zero would look like. Nia put any questions about that to bed. What she lacked in size she made up for in fashion. The petite woman sported a palazzo jumpsuit with a fringed scarf tied around her diminutive waist. Very hobo chic.

  Jessica said, “Come taste the dessert Alan's friend brought.”

  The other woman came to stand next to Jessica. Her eyes swept the half-eaten mini-cake. She grimaced as if smelling something rotten. “No thanks, I had enough carbs today.”

  Blasphemy! Who refuses cake? A woman who wore a size zero dress, I guess. Nia didn't win any points in my book with that comment.

  Jessica rolled her eyes. “Your loss. Are you free to help me with one of Elsa's checklists?”

  “Not really, Elsa wants me to—”

  “Good, we can split up the work.”

  Alan said, “Oh yeah, Nia, Elsa thinks she has a flu bug. She wants ibuprofen.”

  “See, like I said, we can work together to get everything done faster.” Alan’s associate hooked her arm through the other woman's and said, “Ali, Oscar, nice to meet you both.” Jessica waved a forkful of ambrosia in the air as she backpedaled dragging a bored-looking Nia with her. “So good. So good.”

  I smiled and gave my thanks. Alan held his plate out for the third cake as if he was about to receive a holy offering.

  “The last cake represents the warrior goddess. It's a chocolate cake, but my secret ingredients are adding chocolate pudding mix, sour cream, and a coffee liqueur to a cocoa batter. It's a super moist cake with a nice hint of coffee. The frosting is salted caramel, made with fresh heavy cream, and finished with a caramel drizzle. And decorating the top is a triangle of homemade chocolate and crushed pretzels to represent a warrior's shield. It's a perfect quadruple threat of chocolate, coffee, caramel, and salt.”

  All of the explaining and watching Alan eat, made me want to snack. Instead I watched him savor a bite of the warrior shield cake.

  “Perfection, Ali.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I don't know what to say besides these are going to be a hit. And you matched the theme of the exhibit perfectly. You are an artist.” He gave me another hug.

  “Thanks, Alan. Oh, I almost forgot.” I crossed to the cart and pulled out a pastry box from the lower shelf. “Your special order.”

  “Yeah, I'm sorry about being last-minute with that. One of our biggest benefactors requested them for tonight.”

  “No worries, sweetie. Coconut macaroons as ordered.” I opened the box's lid. Inside, balls of cookies lanced through the middle by a white stick, sat in neat rows. “I made an edible candy coconut-flavored skewer. Each stick has two plain cookies, one dipped in chocolate and another dipped in white chocolate.”

  Alan looked from the macaroons to me and back to the cookies. “I take it back, you aren't an artist. You're a goddess.”

  I laughed. “We'll arrange these along the display with the cupcakes.”

  “Good. Look, I have to go. Elsa's list is calling. I'll see you two during the tour?”

  Oscar, who was still busy arranging cakes said, “Wouldn't miss it.”

  I agreed with him. Alan walked off reading down the list Elsa had given him. I grabbed another tray from the cart. Oscar had done a good amount of work. I guessed we still had another third of the cakes to get on the display.

  He was busy putting the ambrosia cakes on the middle tier. “Alan seems like a nice guy. Is he single?”

  I shrugged and adjusted a lemon wedge. “I don't know. And before you ask, no, I'm not his type. He likes his women super-thin. At least he used to.” I was a very happy size twelve, so I wouldn't even register on a man like Alan's radar. He was stupid that way.

  And speaking of what men like—

  I put a lemon-limoncello cake on the top tier and stepped away from the display. I didn't like speaking over food that other people were going to eat.

  “So what did you think of the texts? Alan interrupted us.”

  Oscar stopped what he was doing and took a step back as well. “Promise you won't pout?”

  That didn't sound good.

  “Okay, I won't pout. Much.”

  He smirked. “Fine. Did either of them call you after the first date? Not a text but a call?”

  I thought about it. My first date, over coffee, had been with Derek Tomes almost three weeks ago. We'd met when someone had allegedly died after eating the HoneyBun's food. Derek had performed a last minute rescue when the murderer had come hunting for me. I'd still been smarting from a breakup with my fiancée but had worked up the nerve to ask him out for coffee.

  I said, “Derek called me a few days later to say hi. Then texted if I wanted to go out again.”

  “What about the other one? Officer Sexy.”

  “He didn't call but texted he wanted to go out again soon.”

  I had met Detective Avery Hamilton during the Chakiris case, too. Later, we had sort of an impromptu outing after some friends of his canceled and he had a Groupon to a BBQ spot. The restaurant owner ended up getting killed so it'd been an interesting night. It was sort of exciting actually. Avery asked me out on a real date the next morning. But he canceled before we could meet for a dinner and a movie. When we finally went out, he seemed distracted.

  Oscar folded his arms and avoided meeting my eyes. “Okay, don't get mad.”

  “About what?”

  “You know I have my contacts over in the mayor's office where Boy Toy works, right?”

  Boy Toy was Oscar's nickname for Derek. My heart did a little flip. I rolled my hand in a 'hurry up and tell me' gesture.

  He said, “I asked around about him. Word is he's very upwardly mobile in the mayor's office. Very much the go-to man, even more so than his boss.” Oscar brightened, “So when he canceled on you—”

  “Twice.”

  He waggled a finger at me. “Fix your face, you're already starting to pout. When he canceled, it's very possible he was swamped and not blowing you off. But...”

  “But what?”

  His next words came out in a tumble. “Derek comes from a very distinguished family who is determined for him to marry well. They are always setting him up on dates.”

  Ah. Ha.

  So had my date with Derek been a complete waste of time? My great-great-grandfather had been one of the first black physicians in NYC. He passed down a wonderful legacy, one for a love of science and general curiosity—and a fabulous brownstone, but we weren't rich. I'm definitely not 'marrying well' material.

  “And as for Officer Sexy, he became a little high profile after the Chakiris case. Didn't he get promoted or pulled onto some special task force afterward?”

  I nodded.

  Oscar put his hands on my shoulders. “Okay, sweet peach, this is my verdict. I think both Boy Toy and Officer Sexy genuinely like you. It's just that you've met them when they're both preoccupied with their careers. And that means you may be right for them, but they aren't right for you. At least not right now.”

  Is it possible to want to punch someone in the face and hug them at the same time? An array of emotions—sadness, irritation, disappointment—battled with the logical part of my brain. It felt like I’d lost my mind for a full second. After that second, the logic won.

  I sighed. “You're right, Oscar. Thanks. But I still want to pound something.”

  He handed me a lemon-limoncello. “Take this into the kitchen, honey, and have yourself a ball.”

  Chapter Three

  No, I didn't bash my lemon creation into a billion pieces. I'm a professional after all.

  Oscar and I finished transferring all of the cakes. I threaded the macaroon candy skewers through the three tiers. By the time we finished, the display was a magnificent tribute worthy of a goddess.

  Then I went and had a fifteen-minute pity party in a corner of the museum's mid-sized kitchen. The catering staff went right on about their business and ignored me. When I licked the last bit of lemon frosting off my thumb—that's right, wallowing required straight mouth to cake action: no forks allowed—I decided the mourning period was over.

  I had a nice check in my wallet (Alan had swung back around and delivered it), a free ticket to a high society event (at least it was high society for me), and a dress that I looked totally hot in.

  It was time to go to a party.

  ***

  For the premier of a museum's exhibition, you'd think a classical chamber quartet would be the music of choice. Nope. Pop hits pumped through the speakers arranged on opposite sides of the eighty-foot-wide hall. People were already dancing in front of the DJ's booth.

  The rotunda was full of ladies in sequined cocktail dresses and men in designer suits. Oscar and I had dressed in the museum's restrooms, exited through a side entrance, and then waltzed in like any other guest. That part was fun. Then Oscar promptly left me when he spotted a popular theater producer. Navigating a crowd full of people I didn't know? Not that much fun.

  At least the hors d'oeuvres were scrumptious and plentiful.

  A waiter smiled and did a small bow showing off his platter. “Grilled scallops wrapped in prosciutto?”

  I thanked him and used a cocktail pick to snag one of the wrapped appetizers.

  “Having a good time so far?”

  Behind me, Alan looked suave in a deep burgundy velvet tuxedo jacket over a white shirt, off-black tuxedo trousers, and a black silk bow tie.

  I nodded finishing off a bite of scallops. “Yes, well, Oscar ditched me and I don't know anyone else here but the appetizers are fantastic.”

  “I'm glad.” His eyes traveled from my head to toes. “You look stunning.”

  He gave me a look. It was brief, but it was that look. The kind men give when their mouth is saying something polite, but their mind is thinking something carnal.

  Heat tingled up my neck. Oscar and I had gone shopping, and we'd picked out an auburn lace illusion dress. Fitted. And I found a very sexy pair of peekaboo burgundy patent-leather platforms. Now, I did look good, but at a size twelve, I knew I was not in Alan's petite-girl wheelhouse.

  Despite my growing confusion, I managed a response. “Thank you.”

  “Feeling uncomfortable?”

  “Is it obvious?”

  He wrapped my arm around his. From our position near the wall, we had a view of the entire room.

  “Ali, tell me. What do you see?”

  Confused, because it seemed obvious, I scanned the room. “People? People dressed for a party?”

  “No.” He shook his head, “Before you is a room full of sharks. Little ones, old ones, crafty ones—all waiting for their chance to strike. This room is filled with the privileged, the well-off, a few who are new to big money, and some who have lost their fortunes but still have prestige. Every single last one of them wants more of what they don't have, be it money or power or someone else's spouse, and will do almost anything to get it.

  “Part of my job is to act like I'm one of them because it's my job to make these people happy. If they're happy, they give more money to support this museum. They give, I keep having a job. Same as everyone else who works here. Maybe except for Elsa because once you make chief curator, you can write your own ticket.”

  I said, “You know, you always waxed philosophical as a kid, too.”

  He laughed but it was short-lived. “I tell you all this because I'm uncomfortable too. I have to pretend I'm not, but I am. I'm not one of them. I'm just a black kid from lower Manhattan who loves art and myths and faraway cultures.”

 

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