Chapter 1: The Icing on the Corpse
The air in the Santa Barbara Bakery was a thick, sweet fog of vanilla and burnt sugar. Sunlight cut through the front windows, illuminating dancing motes of flour. It was the kind of place that made you want to buy a macaron just to look at it.
Shawn Spencer took a deep, dramatic sniff as he shouldered past the police tape. “Homicide. The plot thickens. And so, apparently, does the buttercream.”
“Shawn,” Gus hissed, following close behind. “Lassiter explicitly said to wait outside. He used words like ‘contamination’ and ‘obstruction’ and ‘tasing.’”
“Gus, my friend, when a man with a hairline that recedes with the solemn grace of a Victorian tide tells you to stay out, you know you’re exactly where you need to be.”
The back room was a different world. The pastel cheer was gone, replaced by the stark fluorescence of police lights and the low murmur of forensic techs. The centerpiece was a large, industrial stainless steel vat, currently three-quarters full of what appeared to be pink velvet frosting. A pair of legs, clad in checked baker’s pants, protruded from the top, perfectly still. A piping bag lay on the floor nearby, its tip oozing a single, sad rosette of the same pink goop.
Detective Carlton Lassiter stood with his arms crossed, his jaw so tight it looked carved from granite. “Spencer. Guster. This is a sealed crime scene. Your presence here is a violation of at least five departmental protocols and my personal sanctity.”
“Carlton!” Shawn spread his arms wide, beaming. “We come in peace. Also, the Chief called. Something about a ‘psychic insight’ being ‘instrumental’ in a ‘timely resolution.’ Her air quotes were practically audible over the phone.”
Lassiter’s eye twitched. “I don’t need a carnival act contaminating my evidence.”
“Contaminate? Please. We’re here to clarify.” Shawn began to circle the vat, his eyes darting around the room with the hyper-focused intensity of a hummingbird. He took in everything: the scuff marks on the linoleum, the precise alignment of mixing bowls on a stainless shelf, the faint, ghostly glow of a neon sign in the shape of a cupcake in the corner. Its wiring was frayed, and it flickered irregularly, casting a sputtering, sickly pink light.
Gus, meanwhile, had gone pale. “He’s in the frosting. He’s actually in the frosting. Do you think it’s non-dairy? That could affect the… viscosity.”
“Focus, Gus. We’re not here for recipe analysis.” Shawn squatted near the piping bag. “Our victim is Barry. Barry ‘The Icing Man’ Houseman. Forty-two. Divorced. Passionate about precision, struggling with cash flow, and recently, very paranoid.”
Lassiter scoffed. “Psychic vision, or did you read the employee file taped to the fridge?”
“The file told me his name and age. The rest?” Shawn pointed a finger at his own temple. “The call is coming from inside my head. Observe: his apron is professionally monogrammed, but frayed at the edges. He cares about presentation but can’t afford a new one. The cash register in the front is a newer digital model, but the safe in the corner here has a combo lock from the Reagan administration. Upgrade where customers can see, save money where they can’t. A man living in two financial realities.”
He stood and gestured to the floor. “See these scuffs? They’re fresh, but they’re circular, concentrated. Somebody was pacing. Anxious pacing. Not the frantic back-and-forth of a murderer, but the tight, worried circles of a man waiting for something bad to happen. Barry was scared.”
“He was a baker,” Lassiter said, his voice flat. “Maybe he was worried about his soufflé.”
“And the neon sign,” Shawn continued, ignoring him. He walked toward the flickering cupcake. “It’s unplugged from the main. But it’s been wired into this auxiliary outlet. Someone went to a lot of trouble to keep this specific, cheap sign running. Why?”
Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Sentimental value. Now, if your paranormal parlor show is concluded—”
A flash of metal under a rolling cart caught Shawn’s eye. He nonchalantly nudged it with his foot. A small, stainless steel cannister, the kind used for expensive baking extracts. It was rolled tight and tucked away. He didn’t pick it up. He just memorized the tiny logo: a single, stylized orchid.
“You’re right, Lassie. As usual.” Shawn clapped his hands together, making Gus jump. “We are but humble spectators to the master at work. Come, Gus. The scent of justice is in the air. And also almond extract. It’s very confusing.”
He steered a confused Gus back out through the bakery, past the glass cases of pristine, uneaten pastries.
Outside, the California sun was offensive in its cheerfulness.
“What was that?” Gus demanded. “You just folded. You never fold. You egg him on until he threatens to have you committed. Did you actually have a vision?”
“Better.” Shawn’s playful demeanor evaporated. His voice dropped. “The victim wasn’t just scared, Gus. He was hiding. That neon sign wasn’t sentimental. It was a signal. Flickering on and off in a pattern. A distress beacon in pink light.”
Gus blinked. “A distress… to who?”
“No idea. But that cannister I saw? Vanilla Orchid extract. Imported. Costs more per ounce than your cologne. Not something a struggling baker keeps in bulk. He was doing a side job. A very expensive, very secret one.” Shawn looked back at the bakery, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Barry wasn’t murdered over a bad Yelp review. This was a transaction gone wrong. And the killer might think whatever Barry was making is still in there.”
Gus followed his gaze, the color draining from his face again. “So we’re going to tell Lassiter about the secret signal and the fancy vanilla?”
Shawn’s grin returned, but it was razor-sharp. “And rob him of the joy of discovery? That’s cruel, Gus. No, we’re going to find out who Barry was signaling. And we’re going to do it before the person who iced the Icing Man decides to clean up the last loose end.”
He pulled out his phone, the picture of the rolled cannister already on the screen. “First stop: the world of artisan flavorings. It’s a small, snobby world. Someone will talk.”
The bakery door chimed as Lassiter stepped out, glaring at them. “You two are still loitering.”
“Just enjoying the ambiance, Detective!” Shawn called back, his voice bright again. “And the lingering notes of fear and fondant. It’s a complex bouquet.”
As they walked to the Blueberry, Shawn’s phone buzzed. An anonymous text. Just an address downtown and a time: 10 PM. Below it, a single pixelated image—a flickering, pink neon cupcake.
He showed it to Gus.
“Okay,” Gus whispered, his voice tight. “Now I’m pacing.”