Page 35 of A Very Daddy Christmas

Eva sighs deeply. “And I keep telling Miss Blanchard that it’s virtually impossible unless she has an allergy to one of our ingredients. I’ve gone through the entire list with her, but she claims it’s because our pastries were not up to food safety codes.”

“That is impossible,” I state firmly. “Everything we use for our products is safe and fresh. The labels are frequently checked and anything past its date is immediately tossed.”

“Our work surfaces are spotless, and our storage spaces, as well. We’ve passed every inspection with flying colors, Miss Blanchard, I assure you,” Eva adds.

But Miss Blanchard seems determined to stay angry and outraged. Her hand gestures strike me as a tad theatrical. There’s something about this whole scene that doesn’t quitemake sense. I’ve seen her before. Not as often as our other regulars, but she has always been pleased with our products. I remember putting together a large order for her a couple of months back.

“I’m going to call the authorities,” Miss Blanchard says. “I was sick for days, puking my guts out. I almost had to go to the hospital. That’s how sick your pastries made me!”

My instincts are flaring, and while I hate to doubt people—especially customers—I need to say something. “What pastries did you buy from us, specifically?” I ask, mindful of the others overhearing everything from their corner table.

“I don’t remember,” she says.

Eva and I exchange knowing glances. It quickly becomes obvious something fishy is going on here. “You should remember, if they made you as sick as you say they did,” my sister says.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Miss Blanchard croaks, red-faced and panting. The more she reacts, the less I believe her, and the more connections my brain rushes to make.

“No, ma’am, not at all. But if what you claim is true, we need to investigate and make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else,” I say. “What pastries did you buy?”

“I don’t remember. Danishes, maybe.”

“We don’t make Danishes in the fall. We only use seasonal fruits, and the only type of Danishes we make are apricot Danishes in early summer.”

“Then some other fruity thing, I don’t remember. I was craving something sweet, I came in, I bought about four of them. I only ate one, then vomited my heart out for days.”

Eva blinks once, slowly enough to make it clear to me that she’s not buying this either. “Miss Blanchard, when was this? What day? It must’ve been recent for you to come back today, so understandably aggravated. We’d like to get to the bottom of it.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll tank you in the online reviews anyway.”

Miss Blanchard is in her mid-thirties and a substitute schoolteacher. It’s all I know about her. She lives somewhere in the area, but I’ve never seen her in the company of friends or relatives, only in church with the other congregants.

Oh shit.

“Tell us the day you came and bought the so-called fruity stuff, and we’ll check our cameras. Trust me, everything here is on camera. We’ll check the footage so we can figure out what happened.”

“There’s no need, it’s done anyway. I will make sure people know this isn’t a good place anymore.”

“Do you have a receipt? Our receipts have the date on it.”

“No, I don’t have a receipt,” she scoffs.

“Did Mr. St. James put you up to this?”

The look on her face makes my skin crawl. She’s not as good a liar as she thinks she is, but it is becoming more and more obvious that this is not what Miss Blanchard is making it out to seem. It’s pure slander designed to hurt us and our business, and I’m willing to bet this whole building she’s doing this on Orson’s behalf.

“How dare you?” she snaps. “This is slanderous!”

“No, whatyou’redoing is slanderous,” I shoot back, getting angrier with every deep breath I’m trying to take in order to cool down. “I promise you, I will sift through every single second of camera footage until I find you. I will double-check every single ingredient and surface in this bakery, just as I do every time I bake our products. I always put our customers’ health and safety first. Meanwhile, here you are, making noise and accusations without any proof or even basic information to back it up. And given whom you’re known to associate with, I can’t help but wonder if maybe this is yet another ploy of Mr. St. James to get us to leave this building.”

“Which will never happen,” Eva adds. “So either give us proof that you did, in fact, suffer from food poisoning after eating our pastries, or we will contact a lawyer and file a slander suit against you.”

Miss Blanchard’s eyes are filled with rage and indignation, both fabricated. She mutters something under her breath and stomps out, leaving Eva and me genuinely befuddled. Adrenaline surges through my body, making my limbs quiver with raw anger.

“Are you okay, ladies?” one of the customers asks us from their corner table.

“Yes, thank you. Just a misunderstanding,” Eva replies with a friendly smile, then gives me a worried look and slowly leans over the counter. “What the hell was that about?”

I shrug, trying to pull myself back together. “I don’t know, but it was infuriating. I’ve never felt more insulted in my entire life.”

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