ignore him.”
“Is that it?” Aunt Abby asked.
Dillon looked at his phone. “There’s one more. Some old lady named Wendy Spellman. She supposedly has a little shop at Pier 39 called Candyland.”
“Wendy Spellman?” Aunt Abby exclaimed. “Oh my goodness! Wendy’s an old friend! I didn’t know she was competing.”
“Was she from culinary school too?” I asked, remembering her friendship with George Brown, now deceased.
“No. We met in high school. We used to be in the Cooking Club together at Balboa High. I lost track of her when I went to culinary school and she went to community college. After all these years, we reconnected again on Facebook.”
Dillon rolled his eyes. Facebook was so yesterday for the younger generation, but the older folks had embraced it. I had closed all of my social networking accounts after I found out about Trevor cheating on me because I’d found out about it on
his
Facebook page.
“Have you talked to her in person? Do you know anything more about her?” I asked.
Aunt Abby shook her head. “All I know is from her Facebook postings. She posts about her candy shop a lot—the pictures of her candy creations are incredible—but she never mentioned she was entering the contest. I keep meaning to get over there and say hi, but I’ve been so busy.”
“Didn’t she stop by when Dad died last year?” Dillon asked.
“As a matter of fact, you’re right,” Aunt Abby said, looking off into the distance. “I forgot about that. She brought that lovely wreath made out of candy. How could I have forgotten?” She looked at Dillon. “And how did you happen to remember her with all those people who came to the memorial?”
Dillon made a face. “She seemed kinda crazy.”
Aunt Abby huffed. “No crazier than I am. Besides, sane people are boring.”
“What did she do that makes you say that, Dillon?” I asked, curious about Aunt Abby’s old friend and now competitor.
“Well, first, she wore that bright-colored dress and big hat full of flowers, as if she were going to the Easter parade or something.”
Aunt Abby nodded. “She always did have a flair for fashion.”
I kept my snort to myself.
“Then she went around tasting all the food without taking any on a plate, like she couldn’t commit to any one thing and had to have it all. It was weird.”
“She’s a culinary artist, like me,” Aunt Abby said. “We taste things. It’s the way we roll.”
I had to stuff another snort at her choice of hipster lingo. My aunt, the gangsta/thug wannabe.
“That’s not all,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “She was, like, flirting with everyone there.” He suddenly turned bright red.
“Oh my God!” I said, grinning. “You think Wendy Spellman came on to you!”
Aunt Abby blinked. “Are you sure, Dillon? I mean, she’s my age. I hardly think she’d be interested in a college boy.”
“Oh yeah? Well, when she hugged me, she put her hand on my butt.”
I didn’t think Aunt Abby would have a comeback for that bombshell, but she surprised me and said, “Well, you’re a very handsome young man, Dillon.”
I could no longer hold back my laughter.
Dillon glared at me and slammed the laptop closed. “That’s it. You want my help? Forget it.”
“Oh, don’t be that way, dear,” Aunt Abby said. “We’re very grateful for all that you do. I don’t suppose you found out what the other contestants are making for the competition.”
Dillon’s frown softened. “Not yet. It’s apparently top secret. But I will.” The gleam was back in his eye.
At least I knew what Jake was making—those killer mocha cream puffs. But I hadn’t had the chance to tell him that Aunt Abby was in the competition too. I wondered what he’d think of that.
Not that I cared.
Aunt Abby brought the caprese pizza to the table, along with a fresh green salad filled with cherry tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and mozzarella cheese. Everything looked and smelled delicious. No one