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right. Wait, what about my ouzo?”
    He didn’t answer as he helped her from the chair and hurried her out of the restaurant, leaving Angie to wonder what in the world had come over him.

Chapter 4
    The next morning, Angie was sipping her morning coffee and reading the newspaper about the murder of Shelly Farms, who she was shocked to learn had really been named Sherlock, when the phone rang. As she reached for it, she couldn’t help but think anyone named Sherlock probably would grow up with either great compassion for those who had misfortunes from birth, or would become a serial killer.
    â€œHello, this is Diamond Pastry,” said a very slow-talking woman with a high, nasal voice. Angie was about to laugh—it had to be her friend Connie imitating Ernestine the Operator: One ringy-dingy. Before she could say anything, the woman continued, “Is this the Amalfi residence that ordered the purple cake?”
    Angie’s throat closed so tightly she could barely squeak out the words. “Purple cake?”
    â€œUh…sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re here at Diamond Pastry—”
    â€œI know, I know. Tell me about the cake. Is it abig cake? Like…an engagement-party-size cake?” Please, God, don’t let Serefina have ordered a purple cake for me.
    â€œYou see, ma’am, the lady who ordered, the phone number got wiped out when a big blob of chocolate frosting dropped on the order form. Not that we usually toss around chocolate frosting…well, sometimes. But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of our bak—”
    â€œDon’t worry about it!” Angie jumped to her feet, clutching the phone tight. “Is the cake for a party on May fifth?”
    â€œUh…oh. You won’t believe it, but the other baker just found what we need. Everything’s okay now. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, ma’am.”
    â€œWait!” Angie shrieked. But the connection had already been broken.
    It couldn’t have been Serefina, Angie told herself as she paced back and forth across the living room. There were lots of Amalfis in the city. Oodles of them. Some weren’t even relatives.
    Any one of them could have ordered a purple cake for a variety of reasons…couldn’t they?
    She pressed a hand to her forehead. What if her engagement cake was purple? What if the entire décor for the party was purple? Her beautiful Dior dress was yellow.
    Yellow and purple together would remind people of Easter—and she’d end up looking like a baby chick!
    She collapsed onto a chair, stricken. The only solution was either to find out what color her cake was, or to change the dress to be on the safe side.
    Using the caller ID feature on her phone, shesaw that the pastry shop was listed as “PRIVATE.” Odd. Nevertheless, she hit the redial button and got the same slow-talking woman. “Diamond Past—”
    â€œThis is Angie Amalfi. Can you tell me—did my mother, Serefina Amalfi, order the purple cake? Is she your customer?”
    â€œUh…I don’t know. I don’t think I can tell you, anyway.”
    Angie really hated this privacy mania. “Can you tell me if it was for a cake on May fifth?”
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am, but I just don’t remember the date. I can tell you that it was a big cake. Real big. And it has big yellow flowers on it. They take time with all the petals—”
    Angie hung up. Yellow flowers? Her worst fears were coming true. The good news was that the flowers would match her dress.
    The bad news was that her party was going to look like a giant Easter egg hunt.
    Â 
    Paavo walked into Moose’s Restaurant. Slightly upscale and with Italian cuisine, it was on Washington Square in North Beach, catty-corner to St. Peter and Paul’s Church where Angie went to mass.
    The maître d’ asked if he was there to see Mr. Amalfi, and when Paavo