by CJ Love
And wedding cakes.
Delia planned to close the bakery on Sundays, so tomorrow she’d make time to practice again on Juliet & Paris’ cannoli wedding cake. Until business picked up, she’d keep the hours of operation between seven a.m. and two p.m.
But, to the matter at hand: tea biscuits. On today’s menu were carrot cake shortbreads and peanut butter jammie dodgers.
Becca arrived at six and started the tea and coffee. Before going any farther, she leaned her elbow onto the floured worktable and told Delia, “I had my parents over last night and forced them to watch Army of the Dead with me. They hated it.” She picked up one of the biscuit cutters and pushed it into the dough nearest her while still leaning on the table. “So, I’m currently accepting applications for new parents.”
Delia laughed. “Let me know if you find any good ones.”
Becca was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, Delia couldn’t remember which, and she was freckled and had full pink lips. She’d tucked the side strands of her straight brown hair up into her paper hat. She asked Delia, “What did you do?”
“I watched the entire fifth season of British Bake-Off,” Delia answered, using a fluted biscuit cutter on her end of the dough. “One of the hosts kept saying croissants,” she said, pausing to gaze out the window. “But the deliciousness was lost on me because I kept mishearing it as quacksonks.”
Someone caught her eye…
Jeanette Loring came around the side of the building, dressed in her gingham uniform blouse and black pants.
Oh yay.
Suddenly though, the blonde whipped around and waved her hands at someone.
Becca caught sight of her too and leaned farther on the table to see outside the window.
Delia needed to step around the corner edge of the worktable to become a peeping Tom. “Who’s she talking to?”
“Some old guy,” Becca said, lifting a slender shoulder.
Delia leaned in until her bangs touched the glass.
It was true. Jeanette was waving her arms at a man who looked to be in his middle fifties, which wasn’t so old, but he had long gray hair, and the way he was frowning caused a lot of wrinkles around his mouth.
“You think that’s her husband?”
Delia nodded. “Jeanette and I worked together at Ganozza’s Bakery in Mayville, and I think he used to drop her off there. I’ve never seen the bottom half of him, though.”
“Looks like the usual bottom half of a man,” Becca said. “Are they arguing?”
It did appear to be the case because now the man waved his hands about and jammed his index finger at Jeanette.
“Nice of them to bring that drama to Bloomfield Hatch.”
Delia nodded. “Wish I could hear what that’s all about.”
“You want me to open the Dutch door early?”
“Too late,” she told Becca. “Here she comes.”
Indeed, here came Jeanette like a freight train through the back door, all steamy and chuggy. She threw her Coach bag onto one of the stainless steel counters, turned around to the still-opened door, and yelled, “I’ll see you in divorce court.”
Delia’s mouth had fallen open, and she turned around, eyes on Becca.
Becca wore the same expression.
Jeanette slammed the door.
Delia and Becca jumped.
“She is so scary,” Becca whispered.
Delia nodded.
A curved archway was the only thing separating the baking area and the kitchen. By the time Jeanette came around the wall, Delia and Becca were busy punching out biscuits again.
“You ought to know I’m getting divorced.”
Delia slipped a look at Becca before turning around. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Jeanette.”
She grabbed a half-apron from the wall hook and tied it vigorously, really vigorously, until it looked like it might split her in half. She seemed to speak to herself, then: “I’ll need more hours.” She stabbed Delia with her dark eyes. There was a quart of mascara on her lashes. Each end was spikey and separated, like a porcupine fish. “I need to work more hours.”
“We’ve just opened, Jeanette. I don’t know when I’ll be able to do that…”
“You shouldn’t have hired more people than you needed,” she interrupted, her eyes flicking toward Becca and then to Delia. “Never mind. I’ll call the Da Vincis.” Then, marching toward the swinging doors, she pushed them open and went to stand behind the first cash register.
“Wow,” Becca said under her breath. “You’re not going to fire me, are you?”
Delia frowned. “You need to know something about me,” she said, patting the other woman’s arm. “I can’t fire anyone.”
“Do you want me to do it, fire her, I mean?”
“Would you be a love?”
Becca laughed and picked up the cookie-cutter again.
Oh, that’s sweet. Becca thinks I’m joking.
* * *
It was another busy morning, much to Delia’s satisfaction. Against the brick wall were baskets and baskets of bread, crumpets, cottage loaves, and ale bread. By the time noon came around, the wall was looking a bit empty. On the northern side of the room were brightly lit cases filled with teacakes, mincemeat shortbread, bread pudding, marmalade cakes, and fern cakes. They were beginning to look a bit empty, too.
Perhaps tomorrow I won’t do a practice run on Juliet’s cake after all.
Bogart began to clean up at one-thirty and went into the backroom to put pots and pans into the dishwasher.
Becca followed Delia into the walk-in refrigerator. “Can we do Chelsea Buns next week? I know I’d love them. They look so gooey.” She set a bowl of cleaned blueberries on a wire shelf.
“Sure,” Delia told her. “Would you like to come in tomorrow for a little while with me? The bread is low, and there are…”
“I’ll come in,” Jeanette said from behind them.
Delia’s stomach tightened. Turning, she stared at the woman. “Um, I need a baker, actually.”
“So teach me.”
Becca raised her brow. Gazing at Delia, she nodded toward the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said and moved around Jeanette. “Excuse me.”
I am the shop manager. I am the shop manager.
Delia tried hard to remember a bit of positive self-talk to help her through the situation. Run away and hide?
No, that’s not it…
She tried again: This can be a meaningful conversation. I might learn a lot from this conversation. Delia placed her hand on one of the shelves and lifted her chin. “Jeanette, I’m sorry. You won’t be able to work tomorrow. I need someone here who already knows how to bake.” She nodded toward the door. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how empty the cases are.”
Jeanette took a long breath through her nose. And then, in a very sharp tone, she spoke in staccato, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Wait… what are we talking about?
“Do you mean about your hours? I know you say you need more, but I don’t know when I can offer that to you.”
The woman’s nostrils flared. “I’m talking about Sam, my husband.”
“Oh, of course,” Delia said. “Maybe you can work things out.”
“With him?” She crimped the bridge of her nose. “No, it’s over. I love someone else.”
“Really?”
“Our marriage has been dead for years.”
Without knowing what else to say, she offered, “I’m sorry.”
Jeanette shrugged and stared at the cartons of eggs on another shelf.
Though she had never been a friend, Delia felt a wave of sympathy for Jeanette. Yes, the woman was a miserable human being, but the end of marriage must hurt.
Except she admits she loves someone else.
Jeanette said, “Money is tight. Sam has nothing to give me in alimony. The house isn’t paid for, and neither is the car.”
“Can you stay with Sanya for a while?”
An
d drink wine with her, so she doesn’t ask me again?
Jeanette let out a laugh, and her dark eyes glittered. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well, you are sisters, and yesterday Sanya seemed lonely. She was missing Reg.”
She leaned away from Delia with her mouth half-open. “Oh really? What a laugh.”
“She said that she loved him and missed him. Actually, she seemed quite sincere.”
Jeanette crinkled her eyes and shook her head. Her blonde ponytail swung hard back and forth. “She loves Eddie.”
I knew it!
“Eddie Chester?” she asked, feigning surprise. “But, isn’t Eddie her —and your —cousin?”
“So?” she asked, losing some of her sarcasm. “He’s more of a step-cousin anyway.”
“Oh,” Delia said, nodding as though that made it okay —when it was no-kay! “Why don’t you stay with Eddie then?”
Jeanette stared hard. Her micro-bladed brows didn’t move.
“Is that not a good idea?” she asked, leaning away a bit. If Jeanette jumped her, she’d need a weapon. Delia glanced to the left, ever so subtly, for something to defend herself. All she saw was the bowl of blueberries.
“He owes me,” Jeanette said, without any emotion in her voice. It was as though she’d remembered something. And then she turned and hurried out of the refrigerator.
“Um,” Delia said to the empty space. She leaned toward the walk-in door. “Wait, do you need a ride home, Jeanette?”
She turned her head, making her ponytail swing dramatically. The thing could star in its own commercial. “No, I’ll call someone.” Grabbing her purse from the metal table, she flounced out the back door.
Okay.
So, Eddie owes Jeanette? What did he owe her, money? Unless she said: he ‘chose’ me.
I have got to get my hearing checked.
And what was that bit about Sanya loving Eddie? Delia guessed that a couple of months ago Sanya and Eddie were tight, once Reg was out of the way. Too close, like lover-tight. Eddie had lived with Sanya up until the time he’d met Thomi.
Kissing cousins?
Stepping out of the walk-in, she shut the door and latched it.
Becca came out of the work area with her purse on her shoulder.
“Did Jeanette leave?”
“She did.” Becca pulled the paper hat from her head and then pulled the hair tie off her ponytail. Her brown hair wasn’t long. It fell to her shoulders, just like Delia’s did. “I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”
“How about ten?”
“That works. See you then,” she said and went out the back door.
Delia shut off the lights, double-checked that Bogart locked the Dutch doors, and then went out the back door.
This side of the shopping area was as pretty as the front. King Lears back door had been painted bright red, and hanging baskets fell on either side of it. Orange and yellow mums overflowed the coconut liners.
Delia turned, ready to walk to her SUV, when she noticed a woman crossing the road from the customer parking lot. It was an Asian woman in a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting red sweater. She had a beautiful set of legs…
I know those legs!
Chapter 4
“Old fools are babes again.”
She watched the woman for a moment longer and recognized her face, too. It was Knee-Sock Lady. It was the only thing Delia knew to call the woman since she didn’t know her real name. But, she was Mate Oswald’s girlfriend. Yes, killer Mate. The woman was his murder associate.
Mate had admitted it to Delia as he held her at knifepoint. He’d said he’d known the woman and that there was so much going on that Delia didn’t understand.
Why is she here?
The woman certainly didn’t look like a shopper. She looked like an assassin. Was she packing a weapon underneath that oversized red sweater of hers? And where was she heading, to the Stove and Keg across from King Lears?
Delia stepped carefully toward the edge of the building and peeked around the corner.
Oh! The woman was much nearer than Delia had expected. She was in front of the bakery and pulling on the Dutch door. When it didn’t budge, she cupped her hand and peered into the darkened shop.
Oh geez, oh geez, oh geez! Who is she looking for, me? Did Mate send her?
The woman turned her head left, and then …
Delia’s heart rocketed, and she pressed her back against the brick.
Don’t just stand here waiting for death! I don’t want to sleep with the fishies!
Delia shoved off the wall and ran down the alley. There wasn’t enough time to jam her key into the lock and jump back inside the bakery, so she scurried toward the first alley intersection and sprinted through it.
The store on her right was Alice’s Umbrella Shop. To her left was Top Shoppe Hats. Delia yanked on the hat shop’s door and bolted inside.
There was a gentleman behind the counter near the back of the store. He was with a customer, but poked his head around the fellow and called, “I’ll be with you momentarily.”
Momentarily, yes. That’s how I expected hat shop people to talk.
Delia moved toward the far end of the shop and stopped next to a display wall.
Wooden shelves went as high as the ceiling. Cubicles displayed bowlers, pork pies, and panamas. She stepped along until she reached a round table with stacked boater hats on it.
No one passed by the window on the alley side.
Where’d you go, Knee Sock?
After another few seconds ticked by, Delia stepped around the table and slipped toward the front window. She stood behind an excellent hat display of fedoras and trilbies made of tweed and colorful wools.
Movement on her right side caused Delia to spin around.
A red sweater caught her eye … Knee-Sock Lady!
Delia grabbed a hat and stuffed it on her head. Then she crouched low behind another round table and waddled toward the center of the shop.
“May … I help you?” a male voice asked close by.
“No, I’m fine.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you?”
Delia glanced at the shop owner standing next to her. He reminded her of one of the hosts on the British Bake-Off show. The beige-haired lady named Sandi. Except this was a man with thick big beige hair that lay like roof tiles.
Peering out the alley window again, Delia slowly rose to her height.
Knee-Sock Lady was gone.
“I wanted to see how this looked on me,” she told the shop owner.
“Well, it’s a bit large,” he said, turning his face to the side, but keeping his brown eyes on her. “Because it’s a man’s hat.” His nametag read Felix.
“Is it?” she asked, pulling the hat off her head and gazing at it. “Well then, never mind.” Delia handed the man the fedora and strolled out the door.
She peeked through the window of the umbrella shop. There were customers there but no one in a red sweater.
Which way to go?
Delia eyed the back alley but then moved into the plaza and the water fountain that spurted colored water. Today it was purple-hued.
Plenty of shoppers milled about. Delia stayed close to two women who moved toward Lucky Cat Yarns. When they stepped into the shop, Delia made for the holly trees and the employee car park.
Wait, will she be in the parking lot? Is she waiting for me?
Delia stopped near the bushiest tree and watched the lot. There were six lanes of parking spaces and most of them were filled these days. There was Sweaty Freddy in the front row. She longed to be inside him and whiff that old nacho smell.
Clopping noises came from Delia’s left side. She turned.
A man walked toward the car park.
I know him.
It was the owner of the Stove and Keg British pub across the courtyard from King Lears. Delia had met him a couple of times.
Daniel Curran.
He had curly brown hair and lovely pale
brown eyes. His smile was the absolute best; it could melt glass.
“Hey,” he called, waving to someone.
Something red moved across the parking lot … Knee Sock Lady!
The pair embraced. Warmly. For over ten seconds. Fifteen … Finally, Daniel pulled away and draped his arm around the woman’s shoulders. They walked toward the last row of cars.
Delia stood on her tiptoes and moved a holly branch out of the way so she might see where they went. Already the berries were deep red, and one flipped up and nearly took her eye out. She pushed the branch away again.
Where…?
A car engine started.
Delia ducked and stuck her head farther into the leaves.
A vehicle moved. Delia heard the gears shifting. There … a car-top with ski rails began to move slowly in the back of the lot. It made it to the end of the marked spots and then turned, just as slowly, toward the road.
Red!
It was Knee-Sock Lady, all right, and Daniel Curran.
Delia’s heart slowed, and she let go of the holly leaf. Rolling her shoulders, she tried to relax.
I have strength of heart and clarity of mind.
Heck yeah I do!
Pulling her purse in front of her, Delia pulled out her keys, and walked toward Freddy.
I have strength of heart and clarity of mind.
Clarity, clarity…
Knee Sock Lady obviously hadn’t been shopping. She never went anywhere but the bakery and had a look inside the windows. If she were waiting for Daniel, wouldn’t she have met him in the pub? Or maybe the woman was killing two birds, yadda yadda. She’d always planned to meet Daniel, but on a whim —or Mate’s request —visited the bakery before he left his job.
Clarity… clarity…
Was Mate’s heart set on a revenge killing? Nothing was out of the question, really, was it? She’d known Mate for nine months before she found out he was a murderer; had actually thought of him in a romantic way.
