Book 4: Valentine's Victim

“Come on, Emma, it’ll be fun.”

My sister Mirabelle poked me in the ribs with her bony fingers.

“Ow, stop!” I cried.

I was lying on the couch still wearing my pyjamas in the middle of the day. Mom and Dad were at work, but I was taking an extended hiatus from my career as a singer…and celebrity. I was on strike. Eating ice cream, cupcakes and Doritos had been my full-time job for the past week.

“I don’t even think you’re in that much pain anymore,” Mirabelle said. “I bet you’re just using this as an excuse to eat more junk food.”

“No,” I said dramatically. “I’m really heartbroken. My life is this couch. Is there any more ice cream in the freezer?”

“I think there’s only lemon sorbet.”

“Boo. Sorbet sucks.”

Mirabelle crossed her arms. “I just don’t understand. This is a great opportunity for you to stuff your face with more sugary junk. And you get to be a judge. What’s not to like?”

“People,” I said. “I don’t want to see people. Especially one particular person.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get on the premises.”

We were referring to Detective Sterling Matthews. The bastard. I caught him making out with his partner Sandra at work a week ago. In his office too.

And to think I’d helped him solve a kidnapping case recently.

I covered my head with a blanket. Mirabelle yanked it down. Sometimes she was more like my mother than my older sister. She’d certainly been bossy growing up.

“The last time Sterling broke your heart, you went to New York and became famous. This time you’re just going to sit around and do nothing while your phone rings off the hook?”

Everyone’s been trying to get a hold of me, but I couldn’t even bear the thought of checking who the messages were from or what they wanted. My manager Rod had been one of the more persistent callers, trying to pin me down for promotional duties for my third album. Representatives from my record company were probably peeved as well. And don’t get me started on my PR team. I also knew that Sterling was trying to get in touch and I didn’t want to hear from him.

A week ago, I had caught Sandra on top of him when I visited him at his office. When I pounded on the door, he opened up and was completely speechless.

“I see that you’ve really moved on,” I had said coldly.

Sandra had smirked in the background while buttoning her shirt back up. I’d noticed that her bra was hot pink. With her hair down, she’d looked even sexier.

“Is this what you’ve been doing while we were apart?” I asked.

Sterling shook his head. “Emma, we were just…”

“I saw what you were doing. And it looked like you were enjoying it too.”

“No!”

“No?” Sandra raised her ever-arching eyebrow. “It didn’t seem that way to me.”

“We were just, uh...”

I’d never heard Sterling stutter before. Completely silent and brooding, yes, but guilty and stuttering, no.

“There’s lipstick all over your face,” I pointed out.

Sterling just blinked at me, looking stupid with all that pink gunk smeared all around his lips. Some sounds came out of his mouth, but they weren’t coherent words. I looked back at him with what was probably a hurt expression.

“I came here to tell you that I chose you,” I snapped, “but you obviously chose someone else.”

Sandra was smoothing her hair back into a neat bun and she smiled at me in her usual patronizing way. I’d never seen Sandra with makeup on before. She must’ve gotten gussied up once in a while to seduce Sterling. I wanted to smack both of them, but I resisted.

Instead, I turned on my heel and stormed out.

Sterling didn’t even run out after me, so I figured there was nothing more he could say.

I guess I didn’t know Sterling as well as I thought I did after all. We had been high school sweethearts until we graduated. Then he broke up with me, and I was crushed.

Long story short, I moved to New York, became a singer, dated a few famous and not-so-famous men, and then finally fell in love for the second time in my life with Nick Doyle, the movie star. We even lived together for four years, but we broke up because we were both working and traveling too much. I had wanted to get married, settle down and have children, and at the time Nick didn’t.

This past Christmas, I had decided to take a break from recording and touring to spend time with my family. Here in Hartfield, my hometown in Ontario, I reconnected with Sterling again and we started seeing each other. I thought that we were returning to the passionate romance we used to have as teenagers.

But now I was starting to think that Sterling could have passionate romances with anyone. At least Nick only faked it with his leading ladies. Sure, he had dated his share of beauties before we were together, but he was always the monogamous type, despite how the press tried to portray him to be.

Sterling tried to get in touch with me the day after I caught him, but I was too sick to my stomach to see him and listen to his lame excuses. He even came around once, but I told my parents to tell him to scram.

While I avoided Sterling, I also managed to ignore my manager Rod and everybody else trying to book me for promotional appearances, interviews and performances for my third album release on Valentine’s Day. I had responsibilities, and this was the first time in my life that I actively avoided them.

All I wanted to do was to hide. I’d spent most of my twenties in the music industry. I was only supposed to be taking a short break over the holidays, but I had extended it to February. Would this still be considered a quarter-life crisis if I was almost thirty?

Mirabelle poked me in the ribs again.

“You’ve got to go outside,” she said. “Get some fresh air for God’s sake.”

“It’s freezing outside,” I said.

I knew I was being whiney, but I couldn’t help it. I thought I was over being the vulnerable girl so sensitive to failed romances. My songs were all about heartbreak and I was sick of singing those songs. For my fourth album, I would record happier songs, reinvent myself. Right now, I just didn’t feel up to it. I didn’t feel up for anything.

Being a celebrity didn’t make you immune to heartbreak. The industry was tough, love was tough, the whole world was tough and the safest I felt was inside my parents’ home in Hartfield.

“Really, Emma.” Mirabelle rolled her eyes. “It drives me crazy looking at you in that robe and those lame bunny slippers. Just get off your ass. Be one of the judges for the baking contest, get involved in something. It’ll get you out of yourself, then you can go back to writing those happy songs that you were so excited about last week.”

I grunted, then turned away from her on the couch.

“Also, do you want to throw me a baby shower?”

“A baby shower?” That got my attention. “You’re due next month and we haven’t had a shower yet, that’s right.”

“So can you plan it?”

Gingerly, I sat upright. I’d been watching trashy reality TV shows all day and my brain and body both felt like mush.

“Of course I’ll do it,” I said with some excitement. “You’re right. I have been dwelling on this whole Sterling thing too much. I definitely need to get out of this slump.”

“I thought it would be good for you,” Mirabelle said. “Since you don’t want to go back to work yet and you don’t even want to go outside, you need something to keep you busy.”

“There are loads of cheesy baby shower games we can do,” I said, the gears in my head turning. “It won’t be one of those lame baby showers. It’ll be fun and it’ll have plenty of alcohol!”

“Great,” said Mirabelle. “Except that I can’t drink.”

“It’ll have plenty of apple juice!” I said.

“Now are you going to be a judge for this contest or what?” Mirabelle asked.

Hartfield was holding its third annual baking contest this weekend. Mirabelle, the owner the Chocoholic Cafe, which was the most popular cafe in town, was a sponsor of the event. The contest was open to all Hartfield residents except for professional bakers. The other two judges were one of the bakers who worked for Mirabelle, and another who worked in the supermarket’s bakery section.

The contest lasted all weekend. The first round on Saturday required all the entrants to bring in cupcakes for a blind taste test. The best four entrants would move on to the next round, which required them to bake a cake on site on Sunday. The cakes were judged for taste, originality and presentation.

I did want to participate. My sister knew me well. It was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to do. I would’ve been more excited about it if I hadn’t been in such a strange, hermetic mood lately. But Mirabelle was right—I had to take action to snap myself out of this depression. I couldn’t let one guy get me down. Wasn’t that what I sang about in one of my songs? I had to walk the walk.

“Right,” I said, stretching my arms out. “I will be a judge for this baking contest. Count me in. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking a long, hot shower.”

“Atta girl,” Mirabelle said. “Good idea. You were starting to develop some serious B.O.”

Before I could make it up the stairs, the doorbell rang. I froze, afraid that it was Sterling.