Mrs. Ortecho shrugged. "It's for Benji Sanderson's birthday. He loves cowboys, and this is Roswell."
"At least you didn't have to do another spaceship," Mr. Ortecho said.
Liz's mama loved coming up with new designs for her cakes and wanted challenges from her customers. But she kept getting orders for spaceships and aliens, aliens and spaceships.
Mrs. Ortecho had to settle for creating her own masterpieces for the birthdays of each of Liz's billion relatives. She'd made an amazing 3-D cake portrait of Abuelita's favorite dog, and everyone had been blown away by the Dracula cake she came up with for cousin Nina's eighth birthday. She molded a coffin out of chocolate and put a strawberry-jam-filled vampire cake inside.
Stan popped his head into the office. "Liz, you're not going to believe who is out front to see you-Elsevan DuPris."
Liz's heart jumped to her throat, but she tried to keep calm in front of her parents.
This was not good. Elsevan DuPris published the Astral Projector, Roswell's answer to the National Enquirer. Every story in the Projector had something to do with aliens. It was a pretty big coincidence that DuPris wanted to talk to Liz two days after she got absolute proof that aliens exist. A big, scary coincidence.
"You coming?" Stan asked.
"Yeah. I'm interviewing DuPris for a paper I'm writing," she lied to her parents. Then she slipped past Stan and headed for the front of the cafe.
"Get me some costs on those new uniforms," Mr. Ortecho called after her.
It was easy to spot DuPris lounging against the counter. If he's not here to ask me to be his personal shopper, he should be, Liz thought. He was wearing a rumpled white suit with a lime green shirt, a white Panama hat, and white lace-up shoes, and he carried a walking stick with an ivory handle. His blond hair was slicked back with a little too much gel, and his smile was a little too oily.
Liz felt herself relax as she strolled over to him. Anyone who went out of the house looking like that had to be a total buffoon. She could handle DuPris, no problemo. "You wanted to see me?" she asked.
"Yes, if you would be so kind as to spare me a moment. Could we sit?" DuPris started toward a booth in the back without waiting for an answer.
Liz followed him. "What can I do for you?" she asked as she slid into the booth across from him. She figured a friendly, I've-got-nothing-to-hide-here approach was the way to go, at least until she found out what he knew.
"I've been hearing some interesting things about you, young lady," DuPris drawled. He sounded like a Scarlett O'Hara wanna-be.
I could do a better accent, Liz thought. And I'm about as far from a Southern belle as you can get.
"What kind of interesting things?" she asked. She made sure to look DuPris straight in the eye. She wondered if he wore colored contacts. His eyes were almost as green as his shirt.
"I heard that you almost died a couple of nights ago. I heard you got shot-and that a young man healed the wound simply by touching it," DuPris said.
He got the straight dope, Liz thought. Those two tourists must have blabbed. She decided she needed to get a little creative.
"It probably looked like that guy healed me. But that's not what happened." Liz leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "See, the uniforms we wear here are made of RosWool. That's wool made from sheep that have grazed on the crash site. People say it has powers, and after what happened to me, I believe it. I'd be dead if I had been wearing polyester when I was shot."
DuPris raised his eyebrows. "RosWool?"
"Yeah. There's a company that will make anything you want out of the stuff. I'm thinking of ordering a ski mask-in case I get shot in the head next time."
DuPris was silent for a moment.
"I like you, Ms. Ortecho," he finally said. "I'm a great admirer of a lively sense of humor. Now would you like to tell me what really happened?"
"I just told you," Liz answered. "I think you should definitely write a story about RosWool for your paper. It's something people should know about. Maybe you could even get them to run an ad or something."
"I'm still intrigued by the young man my sources mentioned." DuPris leaned toward her, and Liz caught a whiff of his pine-scented aftershave. It made the inside of her nose itch.
"There was a guy who ran up to me," Liz admitted. "He might have put his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. But the wool was already working. That's what healed me."
She widened her eyes and tried to look innocent and stupid. DuPris stared at her for a few seconds, then sighed.
"Well, I thank you for setting the record straight." He stood up. "I must say I'm relieved that the young man wasn't responsible for saving your life."
"What? Why?" Liz knew she shouldn't ask. It would have been smarter to let DuPris walk away. But the questions just popped out of her mouth.
DuPris grinned down at her. "You seem like such an intelligent person," he said. "So tell me, if there were a young man who could heal with a touch, isn't it logical to assume he could also kill with a touch?" DuPris asked.
Liz shook her head. "I'm not sure what you mean."
DuPris eased back down into the seat across from her, his green eyes intense. "Let's say a young man could manipulate the muscles and skin and even the internal organs to close a bullet wound with a single touch of his hand."
Liz nodded, afraid to speak.
"Well, if the young man could do that, couldn't he also do it in reverse? Couldn't he open a hole in a person's heart or cause a rip to appear in one of their lungs-all with the same touch of his hand?"
Liz could almost see the blood pumping through the hole in the heart and the delicate lung tissue tearing open. She grimaced as the gruesome images filled her mind.
"I wouldn't like to think there was someone wandering around our town who could kill so easily and with so little chance of being stopped," DuPris finished.
Standing up again, he tipped his hat at Liz and sauntered toward the door.
Liz rubbed her finger back and forth over the shiny silver tabletop after he left. What DuPris said did make sense. Could Max kill someone just by touching them?
"We should all go shopping together for the homecoming dance." Stacey Scheinin gave a little bounce on her toes.
Stacey was always bouncing, or squealing, or giggling. She was like a cheerleader out of some thirteen-year-old boy's fantasies. She made Isabel want to puke.
"I thought all of you could get dresses in the same color-maybe lavender," Stacey went on. "That way when I get elected homecoming queen, all my attendants will be color coordinated. We are going to look totally killer up on the stage together."
"Is there some reason you think we are going to be your attendants?" Isabel asked.
"Oh, Izzy, don't worry," Stacey cooed. "You can come over tonight and I'll do a makeover on you. I know I can pretty you up enough to be chosen as part of my homecoming court."
"No thanks." Isabel ran her eyes up and down Stacey. "I've seen your work."
"Go, girl," Tish Okabe murmured.
The cheerleading squad was split between girls who wanted to be just like Stacey and girls who thought Stacey was the love child of Jerry Springer and Lassie. Isabel and Tish were definitely in the second group.
"Let's get back to work." Stacey clapped. "We're going to do Alien Attack until we get it perfect. Izzy, you were behind last time."
"Yeah, me and everyone else but you," Isabel muttered as she moved into place on the gym floor.
"Ready, okay!" Stacey called.
"Roswell aliens, causing a sensation," Isabel began. She caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Alex Manes slipped through the gym door. He leaned against the back wall, watching her. Just her.
Isabel did a walkover and slid into a split as the cheer ended. She gave Alex a wink, and a grin stretched across his face. That dream did it, she thought. Alex's vote is in the bag. If anyone needs to buy a lavender attendant's dress, it's Stacey. She pushed herself to her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the polished wood floor.