Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery by Penny Pike Page B

over him. She alternately straightened his bow tie, patted his Buddha tummy, and giggled at his jokes. Jeez. Next to him stood two bored-looking young women in identical skimpy tight dresses more appropriate for clubbing than a reception.
    Dillon nudged me, causing me to nearly spill my drink. “Careful!” I said.
    “Check it out,” he said, ignoring my complaint. “It’s that French chick.”
    “Monet?” I scanned the area, trying to pick out someone who looked French, then realized that was impossible. “Where is she?”
    “Over there.” He pointed her out. “She’s headed straight for Polly and Harrison, and she doesn’t look happy.”
    I watched as the frowning, thin woman joined the twosome. Harrison’s attention suddenly shifted to the attractive newcomer, who had obviously pleased Harrison, while Polly seemed taken aback by the intrusion. While Polly was still trim and in good shape for a woman her age—I guessed fortysomething—she had nothing on the younger, prettier French pastry chef. Monet sported white blond hair cut in a smooth bob, her makeup expertly done. She wore a skintight silver sheath, the top cut low enough to reveal ample palebreasts and bottom cut high enough to show off long, slim legs. She towered over Polly and Harrison in her silver stiletto Manolos. Harrison looked downright hypnotized by her.
    “Wow.”
    I glanced at Dillon. Like Harrison, he was staring trancelike at Monet. “Close your mouth, Hacker-Boy,” I said.
    Men.
    I wished I could hear what Monet was saying to the other two guests, but the noise of the crowd prevented any eavesdropping. She kept glancing around the room while she talked, and I wondered who she might be looking for. I checked the program to see what the Frenchwoman was offering for the contest. “Hmm. It looks like the girl from I Scream Cupcakes is entering something called Chocolate Scream Cakes, whatever that is. She probably doesn’t want to give away too much before tonight’s preview tasting.”
    Dillon still hadn’t broken his gaze. I waved a hand in front of his frozen face. “Earth to Dillon.”
    “Uh, what?”
    I sighed and checked the brochure. “Never mind. Any sign of Griffin Makeba, the Pie Guy, or Aunt Abby’s friend Wendy Spellman?”
    Dillon tore his eyes from the dessert called Monet, searched the room, then pointed to a young African American guy sitting alone at a table, seemingly reading the brochure. “That’s him.”
    Griffin appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was sipping what looked like a glass ofwater while glancing up occasionally to observe the other mingling guests. Much like the videographer, he had not dressed up. Instead he wore faded black jeans and a T-shirt with a graphic of a pie in the middle. Underneath were the words “Fill Your Piehole.” He, too, was frowning.
    I checked the program. “Griffin’s entry is called Chocolate Cherry Tarts.”
    I glanced back up to see an older woman with short gray hair, wearing a long Victorian-style dress, join him. They shook hands, said a few words, then sat sipping their drinks in silence and watching the crowd.
    “Oh boy. That’s Wendy Spellman, my mom’s friend,” Dillon said, indicating the older woman sitting with Griffin. “I hope she doesn’t see me. I don’t need another butt massage.”
    At that moment, Wendy spotted Dillon, gave him a big smile, and waved him over. Dillon smiled meekly and waved back, muttering to me through clenched teeth, “Great. If I’m not back in five minutes, come and rescue me.”
    I giggled and watched Dillon pick up a tray from the bar, set two waiting drinks on it, and head over to join his mom’s friend at the table, still posing as a waiter.
    I was about to take a sip of my wine when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    Recognizing the voice, I turned around.
    Jake Miller.
    Apparently my waiter disguise hadn’t fooled him.
    I sucked in my breath when I saw what he