Fudging the Books Read Online Free PDF Page B

assessed him head to toe. She raised an eyebrow.
    Dash blew her a raspberry. “Hardly. I’m photographing wenches, if ye will, the pretty kinds of pirates.”
    “We had a few pirates in full regalia dart into the shop yesterday,” I said. “They broke into a sword fight.”
    Bailey gawped. “Where was I?”
    “In the café kitchen, I think.”
    “And you didn’t tell me?”
    “Oops.” I addressed the rest of the folks. “They scared the wits out of me, until I realized I’d forgotten what day it was.”
    “The beginning of Pirate Week,” Bailey said. “So that’s why we got cracking on the display window.”
    I aimed a finger.
Bingo
.
    “Pirate Week is a draw,” Dash said. “Quite colorful. I have a mind to do a story about it, maybe sell it to the local papers.”
    Tito, who had been hanging back taking more photographs, said, “Oh no you don’t, you scallywag. Don’t even dare.”
    Dash saluted. “Aye, mate. Just joshing. That’s your arena. No worries.”
    Someone rapped on the café door.
    Pepper Pritchett, a thick woman with a beaky nose, poked her head inside. “Hello. Are you ready for us?” Pepper owned Beaders of Paradise, a beading shop next door. She was one of the first members of the Chocolate Cookbook Club. Prior to a few months ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in my presence—she had an ancient beef with my family—but we had mended fences. It hadn’t hurt that I’d cajoled Katie into making some spicy chocolate to win Pepper over. Having Pepper as an ally made working in the same complex so much more enjoyable.
    Gran, a gray-haired but bright-eyed grandmother who owned the finest collection of shawls I’d ever seen, followed Pepper. Bailey’s mother, Lola Bird, who was like my second mother, trailed them.
    “Hello, everyone!” Aunt Vera entered. She was a study in red—red turban, red caftan—red being her color of choice for the month of February.
    Cinnamon Pritchett, Pepper’s daughter and our chief of police, lagged behind the pack, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Cinnamon was a stark contrast to my aunt. Her brown hair was as dark as my aunt’s red hair was bright. Aunt Vera looked like the sun had never kissed her skin; Cinnamon was a tanned, outdoorsy beauty. She, like me, wasn’t much of a cook, but she was a chocolate hound, and like so many of us in the Chocolate Cookbook Club, she confessed that she adored looking at chocolate
porn
—photographs of cookies,cakes, and candy. Whipped cream in a picture was an added bonus. Of the group, Cinnamon owned the largest collection of chocolate-themed cookbooks. With one arm, she balanced a platter covered with a checkered cloth.
    Ending her conversation, Cinnamon pocketed the cell phone and grinned. “I’m ready to taste everything. Where’s Coco?” She lit a path to our guest of honor. After exchanging a few words, she whirled around and unwrapped the platter she was carrying. It held a selection of chocolate cookies and pastries. “Jenna, take a look at these. I made them myself.”
    “Liar.”
    “Truth.” She crossed her heart. “I’ve been taking lessons.”
    “From whom?”
    Cinnamon mimed sealing her lips.
    “No fair,” I said. “Blab.”
    “I’ve been told I’ll suffer a rogue’s death.”
    “Talk!” I knuckled her.
    “Okay.” Cinnamon chuckled. “It was Lola.”
    Lola, a tiny bundle of luscious energy, much like her daughter, fluffed her spiky silver hair and offered a hearty laugh
.
“I knew you couldn’t keep a secret, Cinnamon.”
    “How could I hold back?” Cinnamon snickered. “You’re such an inspiration. I feel like I’ve made leaps and bounds of progress in the past week. And possibly gained five pounds in the process.” Cinnamon was lean, like me, and exercised regularly. She claimed she had to remain buff to maintain her prominence in a department full of men. I doubted she would ever put on weight. “It’s a recipe out of Lola’s latest cookbook,” she