Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion (8 page)

Felicity was a bad liar. Not only did she completely fumble her answer, but I had hard evidence proving the opposite of what she was saying. Yesterday at the opening she and Joshua were totally chummy. They spent the whole afternoon joking around and talking; even after the glass shattered they'd been laughing about something.

So why was she pretending she didn't know who he was now? It made no sense, unless she was hiding her relationship with him for some other reason. My mind raced as I tried to make the connections.

Maybe Joshua was responsible for the picture-window destruction but Felicity didn't realize it until today, which was why she was trying to distance herself from him now.

Or maybe Felicity was responsible and she was
trying to frame Joshua somehow. Unless they were working together … But if it was just the two of them, how did they manage to break the window from the outside? And what could be their motive?

“Did you hear about the salty pie?” I asked Felicity. “I'm wondering if maybe there's a connection. Like, maybe the person who destroyed the window was working from inside the shop.”

I noticed that Felicity was suddenly alert and staring straight at me. She had this funny expression on her face—a type of frozen fear, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Maybe I was finally getting somewhere. I waited, watching.

“There's no connection, I swear,” she said.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“Because I did it,” Felicity blurted out, covering her face in her hands. “I mixed up the salt and sugar. I'm so sorry. It was ridiculous. It wasn't just the pie you had that was ruined—I destroyed all ten of them. I feel so bad for my aunt Ricki, and I should've told her the truth yesterday but I was too embarrassed.”

“I see,” I said, writing this down.

“Are you going to tell Aunt Ricki?” Felicity asked.

“Um, I don't know,” I said. “Do you think I shouldn't?”

“I'm just too embarrassed about it,” said Felicity.
She leaned in closer and whispered. “Do me a favor? Don't say anything, and I'll tell her in my own time.”

“I don't want to be a tattletale,” I said. “So I guess if it doesn't come up, I won't mention it. But if she asks me …”

“Sure, sure, sure,” said Felicity. “That totally makes sense. If she asks you, fine. But why would she? I'll tell her eventually, I promise. Thanks, Maggie. You're the best.” She jumped up and gave me a hug that smelled of vanilla perfume. “Okay, I've really gotta run. We're supposed to open soon, and my aunt will be here any minute. She's not going to be happy if things aren't set up exactly the way she wants them.”

Felicity was gone before I could ask her another question. I flipped through my notes, searching for any useful information, but couldn't find any. Based on what I knew, it was not surprising that Felicity had mixed up the salt and sugar.

But was she really just klutzy and awkward? Or was she hiding something?

Just then, a customer walked in through the door. Three customers, actually. Well, two adults pushing a red stroller with a dark-haired baby inside. “Are you open yet?” asked the mom.

“Not yet,” said Felicity. “Why don't you come back at noon?”

“Hey, wait!” Joshua called from behind the counter. “We open at ten o'clock, and it's already five minutes past.”

“Oops, sorry about that,” said Felicity. She walked up to the customers and said, “Please take a menu. I'll get you some seats.”

The couple stood there, confused.

“She means please take a seat and she'll get you some menus,” Joshua explained.

Felicity ran her fingers through her loose dark hair.
It was supposed to be up in a ponytail, a bun, or a braid, and her paper soda-jerk hat was missing, too. “Isn't that what I said?” she asked.

“Almost,” said Joshua with a sweet smile. “You sure you've got this covered?”

“Of course,” said Felicity. “You keep doing, whatever it was you were doing.”

“Hey, you're Joshua, right?” I asked, hopping onto a barstool.

“Guilty as charged,” said Joshua, smiling to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth. “You're Sonya's friend?”

“Maggie Brooklyn,” I said, holding out my hand.

Joshua shook it. His fingernails were painted black, and he had a tattoo of a miniature chocolate bar on his wrist. A chocolate bar? I wanted to ask. Why? But I didn't mention it, because I had more important questions for him. Plus, I figured no explanation would really suffice.

“So, Sonya and her mom asked me to look into the whole picture-window breakage thing,” I explained.

“I know,” said Joshua.

“Right,” I said. “You must've overheard.”

He didn't deny this. He just stared straight at me, expectant, like he knew the drill. I found it somewhat unnerving.

“How did you get the job here?” I asked.

“I've known Sonya's family forever,” said Joshua.
“My family lives across the street. And I just started college in September and needed a part-time job, so this was perfect. I have experience, too: I used to work at Cupcake Cupcake Cupcake in the city.”

“Cupcake Cupcake?” I asked.

“Cupcake,” said Joshua. “There are three of them. Were, anyway. It was a small bakery in the city. Used to be really popular, but it closed down last year.”

“How come?” I asked.

Joshua shrugged. “I don't know. Cupcakes aren't as popular as they used to be, I guess. That's why Ricki is so smart. This place serves all sorts of desserts, and it's got a theme: old-fashioned soda fountain. She really put a lot of thought into it, and tons of work, too. It's a shame, what's been going on.”

“Any theories as to who might've broken the window?” I asked.

“Nope,” said Joshua. “I was caught completely off guard. I really don't know who could be behind this sort of thing.”

“Did you notice anything strange at the opening?” I asked.

“Strange, how?” he asked. “The place was packed, and I was busy cleaning up, pouring water, and selling cupcakes and cookies and pie.”

“Ugh, don't remind me of pie,” I said, clutching my stomach. “Just hearing the word makes me want to gag.”

“Oh, was that you who ended up with the salty bite?” asked Joshua.

“It sure was,” I said.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Oh, don't worry about it.” I was about to tell him that Felicity already explained the mix-up, but then something occurred to me. “Wait. Why are you apologizing?”

“Because it was my fault,” said Joshua. “Stupid mistake. Everything got so hectic on Saturday; I guess I somehow switched the salt and sugar.”

“Huh,” I said. “I didn't realize.”

I wrote this down in my notebook—extra small so he couldn't see. But Joshua wasn't concerned with reading upside down, like Felicity had been; he was still working behind the counter as we spoke, pouring M&M'S into an empty glass jar, refilling napkin holders, changing out the old tub of vanilla ice cream for one that was brand-new.

“Well, that's one mystery solved,” said Joshua. “I'm going to confess to Ricki this afternoon. I should've told her yesterday, but everything got too crazy.”

Joshua smiled at me again, and a single word popped into my head, seemingly out of nowhere: dazzling. That's when I realized something—Sonya was right. For an old guy with a ponytail and weird tattoos, Joshua was
cute, which I found distracting. His eyes were green and vibrant and shaped like sideways apostrophes. They crinkled in the corners in the cutest way when he smiled.

I wanted to look away when he stared straight at me, but I couldn't.

“I am sincerely sorry that I ruined strawberry rhubarb pie for you. Please let me make it up to you,” he said, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

“How would you do that?” I asked.

“By giving you this amazing cookie. It's peanut-butter-chocolate-chip—an old family recipe. I used to make them at Cupcake Cupcake Cupcake, and it was the bestselling cookie.”

“So the cupcake place sold cookies, too?” I asked.

“They did, but no one knew about it. That was their big problem. One of their problems, anyway.”

I took a bite of the cookie, which was still warm from the oven. The entire thing was melty, sweet, salty, and savory—the perfect combination of flavors.

“You baked this?” I asked.

“Yup. I'm a big baker. I want to open up my own place someday. That's why I'm working here—so I can learn all the tricks of the trade.” Joshua laughed and winked at me again.

Guys don't wink at me very often, and I'm glad
about that, because when it does happen I never know how I'm supposed to react.

I mean, think about it: someone waves, you wave back.

Someone says hi, you say hi back.

But a wink? You don't wink back. So what do you do?

Seriously—what do you do with a wink?

At the moment, I smiled and blushed and fumbled, completely flummoxed. Then I slid off the stool and said, “Thanks. See you later.”

I left the store quickly and headed over to Prospect Park. I had some thinking to do, and the park is my favorite place to wander around and puzzle things out. I headed in through the Third Street entrance and waved to the black stone panthers that flanked the path.

They didn't wave back, but do I even need to point that out?

I walked counterclockwise toward Grand Army Plaza, where the Sunday farmers' market was in full swing.

Strolling along among the apple-cider-doughnut vendors and kale farmers and pickle makers, and a bunch of people stocking up on organic vegetables, I tried to make sense of what I'd just discovered.

Joshua and Felicity had both claimed responsibility
for the salty pie, but clearly only one of them could have done it. So why did they both tell me they were guilty? Who was lying, and what were they covering up?

If I had to guess—and I did, since there wasn't enough evidence to come to any definitive conclusions—something told me Joshua didn't make the mistake. He told me he's an experienced baker, and he kept talking about family recipes. Witnessing his ease and speed behind the counter made me believe him. He knew what he was doing.

Plus, baking requires a precise mind. It's all about chemistry, and measuring things out to the milligram and paying attention to quantity, time, and temperature. Joshua seemed to care about all of those things. He wanted to open up his own dessert place someday, and he even had a chocolate bar tattooed on his wrist. That's passion.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Joshua didn't make the switch. Not accidentally, anyway. So why did he say he had? What reason could he have for lying to my face?

I wrote his name down in my notebook.

Joshua Marcus.

He may not be guilty of mixing up the salt and sugar.

But he sure is guilty of something.

“Where's Milo?” Lulu asked me at lunch on Tuesday.

“No idea,” I said, frowning into my turkey wrap. “He's not in school today.”

“Again?” Sonya asked, a worried look on her face. “Is he sick?”

I sighed. “Knowing that would require me actually speaking to Milo. And to speak to Milo, he'd have to call me back. Or respond to my texts. Or send a smoke signal, or tap something out in Morse code, none of which he's actually done.”

“You know Morse code?” asked Lulu.

“I'm kidding,” I said.

“You think he's still mad about you making fun of him?” asked Beatrix.

“I didn't make fun of him,” I said.

“You told us you basically laughed in his face for
believing in ghosts,” Lulu reminded me as she twirled a gigantic bundle of spaghetti around her spork.

I cringed. “Okay, I guess I did make fun of him a teensy tiny bit. But I was half joking, and I apologized twice, once via voice mail and once in a text.”

“Maybe you should apologize in person,” said Beatrix.

“I would love to!” I cried. “But that would require me actually seeing him.”

“It's weird that you haven't heard from him in so long,” said Beatrix. “He must be really sick.”

“How sick does he have to be to not call me back?” I asked.

“Maybe he lost his voice,” said Lulu.

“Then why hasn't he texted? I'm sure his fingers still work.”

“Maybe we should change the subject,” said Lulu, realizing how upset I was.

“How's the investigation going?” asked Sonya. “I hope you come up with something soon, because my mom keeps talking about closing the store.”

“But it just opened,” I said.

“I know,” Sonya said. “But everything is going wrong. Turns out an undercover reporter also tasted the salty pie, and he gave it a lousy review in the
Park Slope Weekly
.”

“That's terrible,” I said.

“He even took a picture of the shattered window.” Sonya pulled the article out of her backpack and smoothed out the newspaper on the table.

The headline read
SONYA'S SWEETS IN A STICKY SITUATION
.

Lulu groaned. “That can't be good for business,” she said.

The photo made me think of something, though. Ricki had a camera around her neck last weekend. “Hey, wasn't your mom taking pictures of opening day?” I asked.

“She was,” said Sonya. “And I think Joshua had the camera for a while, too.”

“I'd love to see them,” I said. “I'm out of leads at the moment, but I'm thinking maybe I'll find something.”

“That's a great idea,” said Sonya, smiling for the first time all day. “I don't think my mom has downloaded them from the camera yet, but I'll tell her to hurry up with that.”