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off this wedding first. But the questions kept surfacing. Was the black cloak I’d been hunting for merely a dark green one? Was my brave-hearted Robin Hood truly a cold-blooded killer? Date rape, Aaron had said. Could Mercedes’ death have been a simple flirtation that turned deadly? Hard to imagine… horrible to imagine…

“Stop right there,” I said aloud to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “It’s Scarlett O’Hara time. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was also the time to think about poor Vanna White, with her new fender all accordioned and her new engine traumatized. Graham had arranged to have her towed to Pete’s, and beyond that, I’d have to worry about insurance and temporary transport and maybe even a car loan. But not now, not now.

For now, I washed that mocha mousse right out of my hair and pulled on some nice soft sweats. Then I pulled myself up to the office, clutching the stairway railing and groaning as I went. Scarlett was going to be slow off the mark for a while.

“What the hell happened to you?” Eddie had the phone in his hand, but clapped it down at the sight of me. “I told Aaron you were getting the cake, and then he called back and asked me where Todd’s place was, and that’s the last I heard. Except from Todd, and he’s practically hysterical, says you went speeding off in the van. I’ve been calling your cell phone every two minutes!”

Then he looked more closely as I levered myself into my desk chair. “Jesus H. Christ, Carnegie, you look like something the cat dragged in.”

“You should have seen the other guy. Listen, Eddie, it’s a long story, but the punch line is that we need a new wedding cake for the EMP tonight.”

I filled him in, as economically as I could, and headed off his exclamations of anger at Zack and dismay over Vanna by asking him to call Aaron.

“Just tell him I’m OK, and I’ll talk to him later. I have to get on this cake thing right away.”

I began by breaking the bad news to Todd. That went better than expected: after a single gargling groan, the Scotsman had the grace to pretend that my personal survival was some consolation for his ruined masterpiece, and rang off to do his grieving in private.

Then I started calling bakers. We needed something that would look good and taste decent and be ready in one afternoon. How hard could it be?

Hard. I made call after call, but many of my usual cake purveyors were closed, and the others reminded me huffily that they booked months in advance and could hardly fit in another project at such short notice. It was understandable, but disheartening. Joe Solveto was out on another job, and he didn’t do baked goods anyway, though he could probably come up with some truffles and chocolate-dipped fruit for the buffet.

But a wedding cake isn’t just dessert, it’s an icon of the celebration, with centuries of tradition behind it, and plenty of modern hype as well. It just had to be there. I was mulling the possibility of a frosted cardboard box when Juice Nugent called. I hadn’t tried her because she didn’t work Saturdays, and I figured she couldn’t commandeer the ovens at By Bread Alone except by prior arrangement.

“Hey, Kincaid, I’ve got some questions about the Buckmeister deal.”

“They’ll have to wait, Juice. I’ve got an emergency here. Do you know any other bakers who could take a quick job, as in right this minute?”

“I’m not sure. What’s up?”

Quickly, I explained the sad demise of Todd’s master-work. “I need a substitute, just something big and pretty. It’s too late to play out the rock-and-roll theme—”

“Maybe not,” she said thoughtfully. “Thin layers would bake and cool pretty fast…. I’ll call you back in ten.”

The door swung open as I set down the phone. It was Aaron, his hair wet with rain and his black eye only slightly less ghastly for a night’s rest. Before I could stop him, he rushed across the good room to the office and embraced me fervently.

“Oh, God, Carnegie, I was afraid—”

But I was not feeling embraceable.

“Don’t do that!” I yelped. “It hurts.”

Aaron backed off, startled, and perhaps a bit embarrassed about exposing his feelings like that. “Sorry, Stretch. Shouldn’t you go to a hospital or something?”

“The medics said I don’t have to. Didn’t Eddie tell you?”

“Yeah, he did. Hello, Eddie.”

“Hello, yourself.” My partner stood up, with a conspiratorial gleam in his