CHAPTER 1
“Grace, how long you been coming here, you still don’t know the menu?” My maternal grandmother, Genevieve Bain, looked at our bakery’s customer in disbelief. Her Grenadian accent rolled out her complaint in waves. Granny called herself helping me process our patrons’ orders early Friday morning. If she wasn’t careful with her tone, she’d find herself chasing our guests away.
My family and I had opened our West Indian eatery, Spice Isle Bakery, in Brooklyn, New York’s Little Caribbean neighborhood about four weeks ago. The shop was becoming a hub where the community gathered to get a taste of our culture, not only in the dishes we served but also in the décor, the music we played, and the stories we shared. Our customer base had grown quickly with a solid foundation of familiar faces and new customers discovering us every day.
The scents of confectioners’ sugar, melted butter, warm chocolate, and fresh pastries mingled with the sharp aromas of bush teas. The soft chime from the bell above the bakery door had become a constant beat beneath the old-school reggae music bouncing from the bakery’s sound system. Several of our customers shook their shoulders and rocked their hips to the captivating rhythm.
I loved the energy in the bakery, especially when it was crowded with guests. The banter, whether it was good-natured or grumpy, was like the exchange you’d find at any family gathering. That’s one of the things I loved most about our shop. I also loved baking, a skill I was continuing to work on with Granny’s help.
Grace Parke was one of our bakery’s regulars. The middle-aged woman looked very professional in a soft gray skirt suit. “I’m in the mood for something different.” She studied the menu as though she’d never seen it before.
A tearing sound came from the center of the line. A man who appeared to be close to my father’s age leaned forward. “You’re in the mood to hold up the line, you mean. Some of us have to get to work.”
“Grace, you should do what Benny and I do.” Tanya Nevis spoke from the dining area, where she sat at a table for two with her beau, Benny Parsons. The petite older lady had been friends with Granny for years. Her Grenadian accent flavored her words. “Come back when the line’s not so long if you want to try something new.”
Grumbles rose from other guests in the line, which extended out the door. If customers in the bakery were agitated, I didn’t want to think about how annoyed patrons who waited in the crisp late-April-in-New-York weather were. How many of them had given up and left?
Desperate to avert an angry confrontation in the middle of our shop, I pasted an encouraging smile on my lips and offered Grace one of our printed menus. “Ms. Parke, why don’t you come stand by me? You can look over this menu so we can help our other customers. As soon as you’re ready, I promise to take your order.”
“Oh, all right.” Grace adjusted the strap of her brown purse on her sturdy shoulder before accepting the menu. “Thank you, Lyndsay. Some people can’t wait a few minutes.”
An older woman toward the back of the line grunted. “We’ve been waiting a few minutes. But you were taking a few days.”
Granny and I waited on other customers while Grace mulled over her choices. My grandmother refused to wear the Spice Isle Bakery “uniform,” which consisted of a black chef’s smock, matching chef’s cap, and slacks. Instead, she was stunning in a sapphire-and-gold-patterned cotton dress that flowed over her slender curves. A matching head wrap protected the food from strands of her hair.
Tanya called across the customer line. Her tone was coy. A teasing smile curved her lips and brought a twinkle to her dark brown eyes. “Joymarie, are you going to see Devon this weekend?”
Joymarie Rodgers had just started dating my older brother, Devon. Dev was part owner of Spice Isle Bakery along with Granny, my parents, and me. He also was the youngest junior partner with a Brooklyn-based international law firm. I loved saying that. And I loved that, after months of Joymarie showing an interest in my brother, Dev had finally asked her out. I was certain they were meant to be together just like Mommy and Daddy, who’d been married for more than thirty-five years.
Tanya’s question brought an explosion of attractive color to Joymarie’s brown cheeks. She was a striking image in a figure-hugging violet-and-pink-patterned, knee-length dress beneath a tan spring coat. Soft ebony curls framed her heart-shaped face. “We hope to. He may have to work, though.”
Grace looked up, straightening her rigid posture. “He may have to work? Shouldn’t you be his priority?”
“Grace.” Granny’s tone was sharp. “Shouldn’t you be studying the menu?”
I managed to smother my laughter, but several patrons didn’t even try. Their amusement bounced around the shop. A few guests repeated the exchange for those who’d missed it. Grace shrugged carelessly before returning to the menu.
Another regular, the Knicks Fan, stepped to the counter. He was tall and slender, like a basketball point guard in a smoke gray suit. His skin was dark and smooth. Thick, tight black curls shaped his head. “Lemme get a banana bread and sorrel to go.” He handed me his credit card as Granny turned to get his order from a batch of pastries fresh from the oven. “Enzo Fabrizi sold his father’s bakery.”
Enzo’s father, Claudio, had owned and operated Claudio’s Baked Goods.
“I saw that a couple of days ago.” I processed his order and returned his card. “It was sold to a fast-food chain.” The idea of Claudio’s shop becoming part of a fast-food franchise seemed unreal.
Even before we’d opened, Claudio had vowed to shut down my family’s shop. Instead, he’d been murdered the day of Spice Isle Bakery’s soft launch and his business was the one to close. His killer had tried to frame me for his murder based on the fact that Claudio and I’d had a heated argument in front of a dozen customers in the middle of Spice Isle Bakery.
“Claudio’s probably spinning in his grave.” José Perez, the Brooklyn Daily Beacon crime reporter, stepped into the bakery as the order line advanced, letting additional customers in. His Puerto Rican heritage was present in his voice. He was tall and lean in straight-legged faded blue jeans and a pearl gray fisherman’s sweater. A lock of his thick, wavy raven hair fell across his forehead like Superman.
The reporter was probably right. Claudio would hate the idea of his beloved bakery turning into a chain fast-food restaurant, but Enzo didn’t have a choice. Claudio’s bakery wasn’t the only business affected by his death.
Grace returned the menu to the stand in front of the cash register. “I know what I want now, Lyndsay. May I have a currant roll, please?”
Granny gaped at the other woman. “All that and you get currant rolls all—”
I cut my grandmother off. “One currant roll coming up. Thank you, Ms. Parke.”
I ignored the sound of my grandmother kissing her teeth.
On his way out, the Knicks Fan stopped beside José. “What’s the latest on Claudio’s murder trial?”
José seemed happy with himself. His lean, tanned features shone with excitement. “The defense’s still trying to negotiate a plea deal.”
I shifted my shoulders to release the tension. “I hope they’re able to come to an arrangement, because I don’t want to have to testify.”
Granny hummed her agreement. “I don’t want you to have to get on the stand in a murder trial, either. No, sir.”
“Neither do I.” The comment came from my mother, Cedella Bain Murray. She and my father, Jacob Murray, were busy in the kitchen, working to keep up with the volume of orders. Obviously, they weren’t too busy to pay attention to the conversation that carried into the pass-through behind the customer service counter.
“It’s unanimous.” Daddy’s voice was dry but firm. Both of my parents’ accents revealed their Grenadian roots.
I struggled to hold back a smile. Under New York’s criminal justice system, I didn’t think a note from my father would outweigh a subpoena, if it came to that. I’m just saying.
* * *
Detective Bryce Jackson of the New York Police Department’s Homicide Division entered the bakery late Friday morning. The breakfast rush had just ended. We were in the lull before the lunch crowd. Had he timed his arrival deliberately?
In the almost three weeks since I’d proven my innocence in the investigation into Claudio’s murder, which he and his partner, Detective Stanley Milner, had led, Bryce had stopped by the bakery nearly every day. Sometimes Stan was with him. His partner had a fondness for our currant rolls. Usually, Bryce came alone. He seemed to be trying to make amends for suspecting I’d killed Claudio. He should try harder.
I glanced at Granny seated at her table across from the checkout counter. She was working on her latest crocheting project, a green-and-gold doily.
Bryce crossed to the counter. “Good morning, Lyndsay.” His voice was a warm baritone as smooth as a musical instrument. His accent tagged him as a native Brooklynite.
“Good morning, Detective.” I set aside the container of disinfecting wipes I was using to clean the counter. “What can I do for you today?”
“You can call me Bryce.” This wasn’t the first time he’d invited me to do so. He’d lowered his voice, probably hoping Granny wouldn’t hear him. His hopes were in vain. Granny might appear to be ignoring us, but she heard everything.
The detective and I’d met my sophomore year at Flatbush Early College High School. He’d been a senior and he’d been fine. Tall with a lean swimmer’s build, beautiful hazel brown eyes, and cornrows that shaped his head and emphasized his tawny, angular features. Fast-forward twelve years. We’d been reunited when he’d suspected me of being a remorseless, bread-knife-wielding murderer. Hence he wasn’t in my cell and didn’t have my number. But don’t call it a grudge.
“Where’s your partner?” I glanced toward the door even though I knew Stan wouldn’t be there.
“He’s at the station.” Bryce paused. “I offered to get the currant rolls today. Could we have three? I’m sure his wife would appreciate one.”
“Sure.” I searched his eyes. I was pretty sure that wasn’t what he’d intended to say.
With Granny comfortably seated at her table, I completed Bryce’s order on my own. Part of me wanted to rush him on his way. This was the part of me that didn’t understand how he could’ve considered me a viable suspect in a homicide case. But another part of me wanted to find a way to delay his leaving. This was the dangerously vulnerable side that, if given a chance, would pretend Claudio’s murder investigation had never happened.
I handed him his receipt and the bag of currant rolls. “Thank you for your business. I hope you enjoy the pastries.”
“We always do.” Bryce’s smile seemed distracted. “Lyndsay, I was wondering if you’d want to go to that soca club near your house with me tonight?”
Was he asking me out? My high school crush was asking me to go dancing with him. Fifteen-year-old me wanted to faint. So did twenty-seven-year-old me. Bryce Jackson was a catch: handsome, intelligent when he wasn’t making poor judgement calls, and ambitious. I won’t lie; I’d like to get to know him better. But … “Thank you, but I’m busy tonight.”
“Doing what?” Granny’s question wasn’t welcome.
I slid her a look. There wasn’t any way on earth I was going to convince her to give us some privacy. And taking Bryce aside would just delay his leaving. Part of me didn’t want that.
I turned back to him. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you.”
“What is it?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Did you really think I was capable of killing Claudio?” He hesitated. My heart sank. I gave a humorless chuckle. “That, Detective Jackson, is the reason I’m busy tonight. I’ll be busy every night until you can answer that question for me without hesitating.”
His sigh was heavy with resignation. Regret dimmed his bright hazel eyes and threatened my resolve. I squared my shoulders and stood firm.
“Understood.” He gave me a half smile and nodded at Granny before he left.
“Lynds, let me ask you something.” Granny’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. She shifted on her chair to face me. “How was the man supposed to know you weren’t a killer without investigating? You hadn’t seen each other in twelve years. And even when you went to school together, you weren’t friends. So how was he supposed to know?”
“He just was.” My expectations may seem unreasonable to some, but they didn’t feel that way to me.
* * *
Not long after Bryce left, I went to the kitchen to help Mommy and Daddy prepare for the Friday lunch rush. Granny remained in the main part of the shop, crocheting when she wasn’t greeting guests.
The office phone rang as I loaded the dishwasher. I hustled to answer it before the call rolled into our bakery’s voicemail. The caller identification displayed a Kings County Early College High School number. Not this again.
I swallowed a groan before forcing myself to take the call. “Good morning. Spice Isle Bakery. May I help you?”
“Good morning, Ms. Murray. This is Guy Law, administrative assistant to Principal Emily Smith at Kings County Early College High School.”
Guy had called the bakery three times in the past two weeks. This was his fourth call. Each time, he identified himself the same way. I couldn’t understand why. “I remember who you are, Mr. Law. And you already know my answer. Our bakery is very busy. As I’ve explained before, we aren’t able to cater Principal Smith’s retirement dinner. I’m sorry. But there are several other West Indian restaurants that might be able to meet your schedule.”
Mommy’s stage whisper carried from the office’s doorway. “Lynds! Lynds!” She waited for me to turn to her. “Is that Guy Law?”
I nodded, looking from Mommy to Daddy standing behind her. Mommy rolled her eyes. Daddy shook his head with a look of annoyance.
They must have heard me say Principal Smith’s name and realized Guy had called. Again. They also knew I was lying to him. We weren’t too busy to cater the principal’s retirement dinner; we just didn’t want to.
Mommy had taught high school math for thirty-one years. During the final nine or ten years, Emily had been her boss—and a big reason my mother had taken early retirement. To put it mildly, the principal had driven her crazy. That’s why her former supervisor’s request had surprised Mommy when I’d told her about Guy’s first call.
At the time Emily had become the high school’s principal, Dev had been attending the University of Michigan Law School, but I was living at home while attending Brooklyn College. Mommy had done her best to hide her frustration from me. But I could feel her tension. She and Daddy would vent to Granny about their workdays when they thought I couldn’t hear them. Of course, I’d reported all of this to Dev. That’s what families do.
Although Mommy had taught at Kings County Early College High School, Dev and I had attended its rival, Flatbush Early College High School. Our school had been just as good if not better than Kings County Early, and it was closer to home. Could you imagine if we’d attended the school where our mother had been a teacher? The harassment I’d’ve endured would’ve been so much worse. Or maybe not. Maybe being a teacher’s daughter would’ve given me immunity from the school bullies, if not the neighborhood bullies. I doubted it, though. And anyway, that was in the past.
I understood what Mommy had gone through. I hadn’t had a great relationship with my last boss, either. The thought of hosting an event in his honor left a bad taste in my mouth. I’d almost rather do anything else. So out of consideration for my mother, I’d turned down Guy’s requests for a catering proposal. But the school wouldn’t take no for an answer. Emily was adamant about having us host her retirement dinner. So Guy kept calling. It was annoying.
“What’s going on?” Granny had entered the kitchen.
Mommy and Daddy updated her in hushed tones while Guy continued pleading his case over the phone.
Copyright © 2023 by Patricia Sargeant-Matthews.
