Chapter 4: Breaking News
The sleek white news van with the Channel 7 eye logo looked profoundly out of place on the dusty, sun-bleached street. It was parked directly in front of Holloway Antiques, the antenna on its roof like a mechanical spine. From the window of her shop, Beatrice Holloway watched a young man in headphones wrestle a cable towards the pulsating pink glow across the way.
“They’re doing a story on her,” Bea said, her voice flat.
Margot joined her, wiping her hands on a dust cloth. “Maybe that’s good. Someone with a camera will see what we see.”
Bea’s laugh was a short, harsh sound. “They’ll see a human-interest piece. The plucky new baker revitalizing a sleepy street. They won’t see anything else.”
Over at Sweet Peppers, the activity was a frantic kind of serene. The usual stream of women had become a small crowd, buzzing quietly on the sidewalk, their eyes fixed on the bakery door. When it opened, the cloying scent of sugar and something sharper, like ozone, washed over the news crew.
Anya Sharma, the weekend anchor, smoothed her blazer and checked her reflection in a compact. She was all professional smiles and crisp energy. “Alright, people. Let’s get the establishing shot. Mike, make sure we get the—oh, wow, will you look at that place.”
Sweet Peppers did look like a confectionery dream under the harsh camera lights. The pink walls seemed to vibrate. The neon sign buzzed like a trapped insect. And in the center of it all, framed by the doorway, stood Pepper Sweeting.
She was a vision in frosty pink and platinum. Her apron was blindingly white, her hair a solid cascade of yellow. Her smile didn’t waver as the camera swung towards her; if anything, it widened, becoming a geometric marvel of lipstick and teeth.
“Welcome!” she sang, her voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd. “Oh, you’re here to make everything pretty! Come in, come in!”
Anya led her crew inside, her reporter’s smile firmly in place. “Ms. Sweeting, thank you for having us. The buzz about your bakery is incredible.”
“Oh, it’s just Pepper, darling. And it’s not buzz. It’s a hum.” Pepper leaned down, bringing her face uncomfortably close to Anya’s. Her eyes, Anya noted with a slight chill, were the pale blue of winter ice. “A happy hum. Can you hear it?”
The bakery was packed. Women sat at small tables, stood by the display case, clustered in corners. The camera operator, Dave, panned across the room. He focused on a woman in her fifties slowly bringing a massive cupcake directly to her face, her eyes closed in ecstasy, not using her hands but diving in mouth-first. Frosting and sprinkles coated her nose. Dave blinked and zoomed out.
In another shot, captured in the background of Pepper’s interview, two young women shared an éclair. One leaned back in her chair, a beatific smile on her face, while the other, with frantic, kittenish licks, cleaned the custard from her friend’s cheeks and chin. Neither laughed. It was a silent, efficient ritual.
Anya, following her producer’s signal, kept her attention on Pepper. “So, what’s the secret? Is it a family recipe?”
Pepper’s tinkling laugh was like shattering glass. “Family? Oh, no, dear. It’s a feeling. I listen to what the sweet tooth really wants. It doesn’t want just sugar. It wants quiet. It wants softness. It wants to be… full.” She gestured broadly with a hand that had a faint, glittery dust on the knuckles. “My girls leave here full.”
“Your… customers seem very dedicated,” Anya said, choosing her words carefully as a woman wandered past the camera with a complete, uncut cake cradled in her arms, taking bites from the side as she walked.
“They’re not customers,” Pepper corrected, her singsong voice dropping a register. “They’re friends. Sisters. We’re all just looking for a little beauty, aren’t we? The world is so dirty. I make it clean. I make it sweet.”
She turned abruptly and plucked a petit four from a tray. It glistened under the lights, its pink icing seeming to move slowly, like lava. “For you, pretty news lady. A taste of the quiet.”
Anya’s professionalism warred with a sudden, primal revulsion. The pastry looked… alive. “Oh, I shouldn’t, we’re on the clock—”
“Just a nibble,” Pepper insisted, pressing it forward. Her smile was immutable. “For the story.”
Politely, Anya took it, holding it between two fingers as if it were a strange insect. She pretended to take a small bite, barely letting it touch her lips, and made a show of nodding. “Mmm. Very… unique.”
Pepper’s eyes narrowed a fraction, catching the deception. The cold in them deepened. “You have to want the quiet,” she said softly. Then, brightening again, she clapped her hands. “You must talk to my friends! They’ll tell you!”
Anya, grateful for the out, turned to the crowd. “Sure! Let’s get some testimonials.”
The first woman they approached was Linda, the soccer mom from the day before. A delicate tracery of crystalline sugar, like a tiny starburst, was now visible on her left eyelid. She grinned at the camera, a wide, rigid expression.
“Pepper saved me,” Linda said, her voice a monotone hum. “I was so loud inside. Now I’m pretty. Now I do what she says. We all do what she says.” She nodded, emphatically. “It’s better.”
Dave the cameraman shifted uncomfortably. The audio tech adjusted a dial.
Anya kept her smile glued on. “And what would you say to women watching who are curious about Sweet Peppers?”
Linda leaned into the microphone. “Come. Eat. Be pretty. Be quiet. It’s so easy.”
The next testimonial was from Chloe, the college girl. The pearl-like blemish on her temple had grown to the size of a small pea, catching the light. She spoke in a whisper. “Before, I had thoughts. So many thoughts. Now I just have… this.” She held up a half-eaten macaron, its purple filling pulsating gently. “It’s enough. She’s enough. We don’t need anything else.”
Anya’s smile was becoming strained. “I see a lot of you have, ah, a little frosting on your faces. Part of the fun?”
Linda and Chloe turned to look at each other. Then, in perfect unison, they burst into giggles. It was the same rhythmic, hollow sound Bea had heard from the sidewalk—heh-heh-heh. It didn’t stop. They giggled and giggled, their shoulders shaking, tears of mirthless laughter streaming down their frosting-smeared cheeks.
Anya waited, but the laughter continued, a loop of eerie joy. She finally just nodded and made a wrapping signal to her crew. “Okay. Well. Thank you for that.”
Back outside, the late afternoon air felt surprisingly clean and sharp. Anya took a deep breath, trying to shake off the sticky, saturated atmosphere of the bakery.
“That was… something,” Dave muttered, hefting the camera onto his shoulder. “Did you see that one lady licking the other one’s face? Weird.”
“It’s a gimmick,” Anya said, mostly to convince herself. She pulled out her compact again, checking her makeup. “A bit creepy-cute, but it’s branding. The vacant stare thing is a bit much, but hey, if the product’s good…” Her voice trailed off. She could still taste a faint, metallic tang on her lips from where the pastry had touched.
She looked back at the bakery window. Pepper was there, waving, her giant smile a pink slash in the glass. Behind her, the women moved slowly in the pink light, like fish in a glowing aquarium.
“Let’s get back to the station,” Anya said, turning away. “We’ve got our quirky local business piece.”
Inside Holloway Antiques, the small television on a vintage roll-top desk was tuned to Channel 7. Bea and Margot watched the segment in silence. They saw the quick cuts of beaming women, Pepper’s chillingly cheerful interview, the disturbing testimonials edited to seem merely eccentric.
The news anchor in the studio chuckled after the package aired. “Well, that place certainly seems… unique! A new staple on the east side. Remember, you can find the full interview on our website.”
The screen cut to a commercial for a car dealership.
Margot reached out and turned the TV off. The silence in the shop was absolute.
“They didn’t see it,” Margot whispered. “They framed the face-licking as a fun best-friend moment.”
“They saw it,” Bea corrected, her voice low and furious. “They chose not to see it. It’s better for ratings if it’s just a cute story about cupcakes.”
She walked to the window. The news van was pulling away. The crowd outside Sweet Peppers was beginning to disperse in their synchronized, shambling groups. The pink neon buzzed, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty street.
“Lydia comes home tomorrow,” Bea said, not turning around. “We lock the door. We tell her the bakery is closed for health code violations. We lie.”
Margot joined her, their shoulders touching. She was no longer the soft, trusting partner from a week ago. Her jaw was set. “And then what?”
Bea watched a lone woman stagger from the bakery’s door, a whole cake box clutched to her chest, pink drips already leaking from the corners. The woman’s head was tilted back, and she was laughing silently at the darkening sky.
“Then,” Bea said, her hawk-like eyes missing nothing, “we find out what’s really in those cakes. And we make it stop.”