Whether it was my plea to the cake god or just having spent far too much time getting familiar with board games, the themed cake actually turns out looking better than I thought it would. We're getting ready to head out of the house when Sam tells me to wait and rushes into the kitchen. When he comes back, he's carrying a bucket with a lid and tongs.
"An ice bucket?" I frown. "I'm pretty sure they have an ice maker. They always have an ample supply when we're over there playing games."
"Yes," he says with that mischievous smile I've learned means he's up to something. He opens the lid and pokes the tongs into the bucket, coming up with a piece of ice. "But it isn't shaped like game pieces."
I lean closer and notice the piece of ice he has clutched in the tongs looks like a token from Sorry.
"You made game-themed ice?" I ask.
"Yep," he says, dropping it back into the bucket. "There are also Monopoly houses, all the Clue weapons, and Trivial Pursuit pie pieces, which I'm fairly certain are just triangles."
"You didn't remind me until four hours before the party that I needed to make a cake, but you sourced, purchased, and filled ice cube trays that look like board game pieces," I say.
"The cake was on you," he says. "I don't bake."
"Fair enough," I say. "But I'm taking partial credit."
Sam laughs and gives me a sharp smack on the butt as we walk out the door and head across the street.
Chapter Eleven
Paul and Janet's house is bursting at the seams for the first couple of hours of the party, but gradually people filter out, stuffed with party food and cake. A few carry plates with extra slices, and most even snapped pictures of my masterpiece before Janet took a chunk right out of the conservatory, complete with tiny revolver drawn with melted chocolate.
Sam is still pretending he's only eaten one piece by periodically cutting off slivers, believing they don't count. By my estimate, his slivers have not counted for about three slices.
"You really pulled this off," he smiles, taking down a portion of the ballroom. "It looked amazing."
"Thank you," I say. "It's good to know my art skills are translatable into pastry."
"Maybe that's a backup career you can have in your pocket," Paul suggests as he gathers up paper plates and napkins to throw away
"Bite your tongue," Janet says. "Emma can't be spending her time making people cakes. She has murderers to take down."
"I bet that was an argument you never thought you'd hear," I murmur to Sam.
“Besides,” Dean says. “If Emma is starting a new career, it's as a private investigator.”
“I think for now I'm just going to stick with the FBI,” I fan my hands out to quash the argument. “But if I ever want to reach for the stars and tack on a couple more jobs, at least I know I have options.”
Janet pours herself another glass of wine and takes her second piece of cake over into the living room. Her son and granddaughter were the last of the other guests, and they just left. It's great to see him on his feet, able to take care of his little girl on his own now after she spent the first few years of her life being raised by her grandparents. Now it's just us at the house, and it feels good to be out of party mode. When Paul first suggested the idea of throwing a surprise party for Janet for her fiftieth birthday, it seemed like a great idea. I hadn't thought about just how stressful doing something like that could be.
Planning such a surprise when you live across the street from somebody and see them on a near-daily basis, including several hours once a week, took some concentration and fancy footwork. We had a good time, and the party was a success, but it’s such a relief to just be able to sit down and relax for a little while.
“Speaking of the FBI,” Janet says. “Has the Bureau gotten involved with this missing girl?”
So much for relaxing.
“Unfortunately, you're going to have to narrow that down a bit,” I tell her.
“The one on the news. Pretty thing, long dark hair,” she explains.
“Lakyn Monroe,” I say.
"That's her," Janet says. "Are you doing anything about her?"
"Not at the moment. Right now, she's missing, but there isn't really anything to indicate there's something wrong," I shrug.
"The girl hasn't been seen in months. She's had no social media presence, no contact with anyone she supposedly cares about and hasn't used any of her money," Dean points out.
"Except for those transactions that came after she was supposedly seen for the last time," I say. "And with all the money she brings in, there's no telling how much she could have squirreled away to use if she just wanted to dip out of the spotlight."
"Which sounds completely logical to you, but you immediately jump to Mason being dead?"
"Who's Mason?" Paul asks.
"A case I'm working on," Dean says. "I can't go into the details because of confidentiality, but there is a man missing under somewhat suspicious circumstances."
"Somewhat suspicious?' I ask incredulously. "He actually hasn't been seen or heard from since January. He married someone who apparently didn't exist before that, but then she randomly showed up at the bank? And didn't mention her missing husband?"
"Emma," Dean says, a hint of warning in his voice.
I know I'm drifting a bit too close to the disclosure threshold. As a private investigator, Dean has to maintain a certain level of confidentiality with his cases. His clients have the expectation that he's not going to run around spouting off their business to everyone or telling people sensitive details about their lives.
Technically, I'm
