Dying for a Cupcake by Denise Swanson

before the diners sat down to eat.
    Tonight’s dinner was limited to the cupcake competition participants and their guests, committee members and their plus ones, and the media. I wasn’t sure just how many to expect, but there would be at least fifty, maybe more. Dad had declined the offer to be my date for the St. Saggy’s event, saying that he wasn’t comfortable with attending community functions yet. Now I wondered if he’d had other plans all along. And if so, why he hadn’t just told me that.
    Realizing that my father’s social life was really none of my business, I hurried into my bedroom and stripped out of my work clothes. After a quick shower, I put on white cotton slacks, a navy striped top, and red strappy sandals. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I twisted my damp hair on top of my head, then applied concealer and ruby lipstick. I knew my outfit was a little on the “Hello, sailor” side, but tomorrow was theFourth of July, so when better to break out the red, white, and blue?
    Having justified my fashion choice, at least to myself, I hopped into my car and headed back into town. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the church parking lot. Most of the spaces were taken, but I noticed the ones near what had once been a six-foot-tall fiberglass figure of Jesus were vacant.
    The statue had stood in front of St. Saggy’s for as long as I could remember, but several months ago, it had been struck by lightning. Like a pile of charcoal briquettes squirted with too much starter fluid, the sculpture had burst into flames. After the fire died down, all that was left was a blackened steel skeleton, a pile of ashes, and a brass memorial plaque that read I N MEMORY OF MY BELOVED HUSBAND, B LAIS E F IAMMETTA . The irony of the dedication was not lost on me. I knew that in Italian, the word
fiamma
meant flame, so basically the stature had been erected to honor a man named Blaze Flame.
    Gran had told me that the burned effigy was affecting attendance at Sunday Mass and Father Flagg was frantically trying to raise money to replace Jesus. Unfortunately, the cost was prohibitive and few people were contributing to his pet project. He had been lobbying for the proceeds of tonight’s dinner to be deposited in the statue fund, but I didn’t know if the church’s finance committee had agreed.
    I had to admit, I understood why no one wanted to park near the twisted hunk of metal, but there were no other available spots. So averting my gaze from the disturbing image, I pulled the Z4 into an empty slot, got out of the car, and hurried past the unsettling steel carcass.
    The fellowship hall, a faded green aluminum pole building, was on the far side of the lot. It was dividedinto a trio of gathering rooms, with a long kitchen accessible to all three. The bare-bones structure was used for catechism classes, weddings, showers, and funeral luncheons, as well as the always-profitable bingo night.
    Pushing through the glass door, I noticed a poster pinned to the bulletin board on my right. It read L ADIES , DON’T FORGET THE RU MMAGE SALE. I T’S A CH ANCE TO GET RID OF A LL THOSE USELESS THI NGS IN YOUR LIFE. B RI NG YOUR HUSBANDS.
    I was still snickering over the flyer when Poppy met me a few steps down the hall. She had on a slinky black chiffon tank with a pink scallop-hemmed skirt that barely covered her hoo-ha. As always, she was ethereally beautiful, but I wondered at her skimpy clothing choice, considering that we were in a church hall. However, as soon as she spoke, I understood her decision.
    “My sources tell me that Dad is planning on making an announcement here tonight.” Poppy twisted her mouth. “Just because I’m involved in the Cupcake Weekend, he has to try to ruin it.”
    Her voice had risen to a level that would soon attract attention, so I took her arm and tugged her into the nearby restroom. Thankfully, it was empty, and I turned the lock on the outer door so we wouldn’t be disturbed. It was time for