Chapter 20

Out front, Steven is on his feet, his phone pressed to his ear.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, customers looking around in confusion. From behind me, I hear Lance barreling down the stairs, so he must be who Steven is calling in as backup. But from what?

I make my way toward the counter and see a small man in a brown three-piece suit who somehow reminds me of wheat bread. He adjusts his glasses down his nose, somehow managing to look down at me though we’re basically the same height.

“Are you Charlotte Dunn, proprietor of this establishment?” he sneers, running a finger along the glass case, leaving a smudgy fingerprint.

“Yes, can I help you?” I reply, even if I’m pissed about that fingerprint.

His eyes are sharp, his smirk arrogant as he speaks slowly and clearly so that everyone in the room can hear him. “I’m Barrett Williams, Roseboro Health Department. I’m here to investigate some rather troubling complaints.” He glances at the clipboard in his hand. “Red hair in several cupcakes, unclean surfaces in the kitchen, and most disturbing of all, a nasty roach infestation.”

He leans in as he says the last part, like he intends to keep it between us, but everyone in the room has gone silent and hears every bit, judging by the gasps of disgust that resonate through the crowd.

My head is already shaking, refuting his words. “That’s patently untrue. We’re exceptionally clean here and follow every rule regarding health and food safety. You’re welcome to do an inspection now, if you’d like,” I say, pushing the double doors to the kitchen open.

There’s nothing to see but a standard working kitchen. Food storage containers on a baking rack by the wall, several prep tables in the middle with treats in various stages of preparation, a sink full of this morning’s dishes waiting to be scrubbed and run through the washer, which is steaming with its current load.

But Mr. Williams doesn’t frame it like that. He looks disgusted. “Are those pies uncovered? A fly or a roach could crawl right up onto them. And is that butter at room temperature? That can lead to foodborne illness if not refrigerated properly.”

I can see my customers shuffling uncomfortably, several with their phones out, either typing away or discretely filming.

“The pies are cooling as per protocol. And butter has to reach room temperature to make frosting. There must be some misunderstanding. We’re compliant with all the guidelines.” He’s hearing none of my explanations, though, and I hear the jingle of the bell as people make an escape for the door empty-handed.

My mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. This is ridiculous, unfounded complaints and accusations that aren’t even in the food handling safety guidebook.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to close for the day for the inspection. I certainly wouldn’t want to eat anything from here until this misunderstanding has been cleared up.” He sneers, like my label is obviously untrue.

Trixie and Lance help escort customers out, promising them that everything is fine and that we’ll be cleared of any concerns and reopen with an A-plus rating as soon as possible. Murmurs of ‘Well, I still won’t be back’ and ‘Roaches? Ew!’ sound as loud as a death knell for my fledgling bakery.

I turn back to Mr. Williams, wanting to wipe the congenial smile off his face with my fist. But I force myself to stand tall, escorting him into the kitchen for a thorough inspection.

An hour later, he’s been through my dish machine with a cotton swab to look for mold, he’s knelt down in my freezer to look beneath the storage racks for any evidence of infestation, and he’s bagged several different foods as ‘samples’ for lab inspection. From what I can tell, he’s found nothing. My kitchen is virtually brand-new and we take great care of it.

Lance has been typing away on his phone, but I’ve been too busy worrying to give it much thought until there’s a knock at the back door. “Finally,” he sighs. “This isn’t my kind of fight.”

He opens the door, and Thomas steps through with a severe-looking woman in a black suit and sensible heels.

I can feel Mr. Williams shrink next to me, the snarky bite he’s had dulled just by this woman’s presence. Her words neuter him even more. “Anita Culpepper, Ms. Dunn. I’m the Health Commissioner for Roseboro. I oversee all public health inspectors, including Mr. Williams here. Mr. Goldstone asked that I be present for the investigation. May I see the complaint?”

Mr. Williams flips to a page at the back of his clipboard, handing it over to his boss, who reads it aloud. “First complaint, two weeks ago . . . several red hairs found in red velvet cupcakes. Second complaint, one week ago . . . door to kitchen opened and ‘it looked grody back there.’ Third complaint, yesterday . . . disgusting place, roaches everywhere, even upstairs where the owner lives. That one has a vomiting emoji added.” She flips the paper over and scans it again before looking around the kitchen.

“Have you found any evidence of health code violations?” she asks Mr. Williams.

“I sliced into a few cupcakes but didn’t see any hairs,” he starts, but I interrupt, anger boiling over.

“Four dozen cupcakes! He destroyed forty-eight cupcakes to crumbs looking for something that’s not there.”

He has the decency to look chagrined, at least. “Freezer and dish machine are clean. I was just about to look behind the equipment for evidence of roaches and mice.”

Ms. Culpepper’s jaw is set in stone as she grits her teeth. “By all means, do so.” We all watch closely as he goes over to the stovetop, turning on his penlight and looking at the burners. He kneels down and looks underneath, then behind. “Anything?”

He gets up, shaking his head.

“So what you’re telling me is that you bust in here, loudly proclaiming to all of my customers that I have a filthy business, making sure to enunciate for every camera as you made claims that you can’t remotely substantiate. Is that what you’re telling me, Mr. Williams?” I stare him down, thankful for my business classes. The lessons are still in the filing cabinet of my brain, and I pull them out, ready to rage now. “That sounds like defamation, malicious intent to destroy my business, and a gross disregard for standard protocol.”

Ms. Culpepper takes over before Williams can dig his own grave with his own mouth. “Miss Dunn, you have the apologies of the Health Department. It does appear that everything is in proper order here. Your A-plus rating of a month ago stands unchanged, and I will be sure to review investigative protocol with Mr. Williams.”

She turns to go but pauses, looking back. “In my experience, when a new business opens up, people are harsh, sometimes needlessly so, going so far as to file unwarranted complaints. Perhaps there’s another baker who is jealous of your new and successful venture? I hate to suggest that, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen something like that. Just be certain to uphold your own high standards, and everything will come out okay in the wash.”

Her hand on the doorknob, Lance calls out. “Wait, Ms. Culpepper. Would you possibly help alleviate some citizen concerns about the food of Cake Culture?”

Her eyes narrow, the ironclad persona once again coming out. “I do not accept bribes, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Nor make recommendations. I merely verify that rules are followed.”

“No, nothing like that,” he quickly reassures her. “It’s just that, given how clean the kitchen is and the fact that there are zero concerns with any violations, would you consider eating a cupcake of your choosing on the way to your car? It’d go a long way in making it seem like everything is okay here if you’re willing to eat one out of the very kitchen you’re inspecting, know what I mean?”

She tilts her head, almost as if she’s reading bylaws in her mind. “That is acceptable under the guidelines.” A grin breaks out across her face, making her look ten years younger. “Can I have a Sinful Secrets? I’ve been dying to try one.”

I start to box up a Sinful Secrets, but she holds up a hand. “No sense in boxing it. The point is to eat it.” She takes a dainty bite, moaning in delight. “Oh my gawd, it’s as good as I thought it’d be. I’ll be back. You just gained a customer.”

And with that, she and Mr. Williams walk out. Her, cupcake in hand and a smile on her face. Him, sad and droopy, and likely a bit scared at facing her wrath at the office.

I look around the room at my people. Trixie looks worried, nibbling on her lip like its candy. Lance looks pissed but under control, while Thomas looks resigned.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” Thomas says. “I’ve dealt with this before. False complaints are one of Blackwell’s tools.” His brows knit together, and he looks around. “Though I’m not sure I see the play here.”

“I don’t think it’s him this time,” I respond. “Did you hear Ms. Culpepper? Jealous rivals?”

“But there’s not really another bakery that we’re competing against. It’s just grocery stores, for the most part, that make cakes around here,” Trixie protests. “Though I guess their bakers might be out of work if you go huge?”

“Not a bakery rival, a family one,” I explain. “I think Sabrina did this because I took Lance away from her in the twisted fairytale in her mind. She’s trying to get back at me by taking away something important to me.”

It makes sense. I haven’t heard from Priscilla or Sabrina since the third run of bitchy texts they sent me. And this is just nasty enough, juvenile enough, that it fits Sabrina’s style perfectly. She’s not the type to come at me directly. Having someone else do her dirty work is right up her alley.

“Oh, shit,” Trixie whispers, covering her mouth with her hands.

Lance seems unsure but says, “It’s worth a conversation. Do you want me to go with you?”

I shake my head, wishing he could but knowing differently. “Thank you, but no, I need to do this alone.”