Emery thought that the avocado was real. But, come to think of it, the Doritos bag was also possible but, then again, something about it told her that it was cake.
“Eden,” Emily Noel said, looking at the can of Coca Cola, “that better not be soda.”
“Now, Mom,” Eden said, “don’t be shocked.” She picked up the knife and sliced through the can. “See? It’s an illusion!”
Emily smiled. “That is so clever! Slicing through those devils to get those blessings!”
“What about the Doritos?” Emery asked.
Eden brought the knife down on the Dorito bag. It gave way easily. The interior looked like red velvet cake. “The avocado,” Eden said, taping the top with the blade,”is real.”
Eden was trying to pick up business for her company, Ape for Cake. “I’ve got to deliver three cakes today,” Eden said. “Emery, can you help me? I can drop you off at the hospital afterwards.”
Emery shrugged, “Sure. Let me get my bag.”
“So, Mom,” Eden said, “do you think you can mention my illusion cake to your customers?”
“Don’t you think you should focus on wedding cakes?” Emily said, frowning.
“I have six wedding cakes on my agenda in the coming months. So don’t worry, I am tapping into that market. BUT,” Eden sighed, “I will need to buffer with something else. And illusion cake is really hot right now.”
Sitting beside Eden in the Ape for Cake minivan, Emery took note of the route. “Where are we going, Eden?”
“Aunt Candace ordered a Christmas cake for her group,” Eden said. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“Exactly what did Aunt Candace order?” Emery asked.
“A Christmas Coffee Cake.”
“The kind with coffee?
“No. There’s no coffee in it.”
“So,” Emery said, “it’s the kind of cake that is served with coffee.”
“Probably,” Eden said, “and that’s not my business.” Eden was ten years older than Emery. She was married and living outside of Longmont where the real estate was cheaper.
Aunt Candace lived in the Countryside Village of Longmont Manufactured Homes and was the leader of the Kindred Spirit Community which investigated paranormal happenings.
“It’s the box with the green ribbon,” Eden said, as she pulled up to Aunt Candace’s trailer.
Emery climbed out of the van and opened the side door. She picked up the box and glared at her sister. It figured that Eden didn’t want to face Aunt Candace even if Aunt Candace ordered a cake from Ape for Cake.
“Emery!” Aunt Candace exclaimed when she opened the door, “My word! You’ve grown!” She waved Emery in.
Emery set the box down on the kitchen counter. “Are you having a meeting?” she asked.
“You won’t believe it,” the ghost enthusiast exclaimed, “but we have seen paranormal activities at McCarthy’s with our very own eyes!”
“You went to McCarthy’s Pub?” Emery asked, shocked. Aunt Candace wasn’t practicing Mormonism anymore but it was pretty far-fetched that she would go so far as to enter into a seedy bar.
“We were following that band to see what they were up to.” Aunt Candace beamed.
“What band?”
“The Spiritual Predators.They should be outlawed,” Aunt Candace said firmly. Aunt Candace took it upon herself to protect ghosts from ostracisation and obliteration.
They heard a car honk outside.
“That’s your sister,” Aunt Candace said. “Here, this is for the cake. And this,” she flourished a twenty dollar bill, “is for you, sweetie.”
El-Don Mast was standing in A2Z Auto Care. His sedan had broken down just shy of 1st Avenue and El-Don had lost sight of Candace and her friend. He had sat in the empty street for a moment, trying to start the car again, and then got out of the driver’s seat to push the car to the curb.
“New coils,” Lorenzo said.
“How much?” El-Don asked.
“Mila!” Lorenzo turned to the back office, “can you take care of this gentleman?”
Mila appeared. She smiled at El-Don. “I thought I recognized your car,” she said. El-Don looked startled. “The night of the ghost. You had a Grape Ape.”
“Oh,” El-Don said. He looked down.
“That will be four-hundred-and fifty dollars before tax. Cash or card?’ Mila asked.
“Card.”
Mila took his card. “It’s not like you were doing anything bad, you know.”
Gertrude Stein cleared her throat. “I will now call this meeting to order,” she said. “We have received many applications beseeching our help.” She looked sternly at F. Scott Fitzgerard. “But we cannot assist all those in need. We must choose.”
“Fish,” Ernest Hemingway said. “I like the one about fish.”
“I don’t feel that that one was specifically about trout.” Sherwood Anderson said.
“It was succinct,” Gertrude said. “Unlike the others.”
They were sitting at Enrico’s in San Francisco on rue de la Paix.
“Nestor Marzipan,” F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “he knows the fellow.”
“Who doesn’t Nestor Marzipan know?” Ernie asked.
“The point is,” Gertrude said, “this Abbott knows Nestor Marzipan.”
“Point taken, Gertrude,” Sherwood said, “not everyone knows Nestor Marzipan.”
“It’s a pity,” F. Scott Fitzgerald said, gazing into his glass of absinthe, “‘Lie Down Oakland, I think I Love You’ is a poetic masterpiece as title in itself.”
“What about Abbott? Is he any good?” Sherwood asked.
“We’ll have to find his manuscripts to answer that question.” Ernie said.
“Then it is settled,” Gertrude said.
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