And Then There Were Crumbs--A Cookie House Mystery

by Eve Calder

  Kate pegged his Brooklyn accent and felt a stab of homesickness.

  “If they weren’t good, I wouldn’t bake ’em,” the proprietor said. “How many you want?”

  “Yes, but are they fresh?” asked his wife, who’d paired her Lilly Pulitzer sundress with sky-high pink espadrilles and a matching straw hat the size of a truck tire. “And are your ingredients locally sourced?”

  “Made ’em this morning,” the baker replied. “Ingredients came outta my storeroom. You want any or not?”

  “We’ll take a half dozen,” the husband said decisively.

  As the tourist couple exited, a middle-aged blonde stepped up to the counter. Clad in a white T-shirt and well-worn jeans, her hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail and topped off with a faded Marlins cap. “Hey, Sam,” she said with a smile. “Need a loaf of that sourdough and two of the whole wheat.”

  “You want ’em sliced, Sadie?”

  “Just the whole wheat. Kids are out of school for the summer. They’re eating me out of house and home.”

  “Yup, they’ll do that.”

  Kate scoped out the bakery case. Focaccia. Corn bread. Several kinds of biscuits—including one with sour cream and chives. And about five different kinds of bread, including whole-wheat pita and golden-brown naan.

  But no pastry. No cakes, cupcakes, or cookies. No pies or delicate tartlets. No bear claws topped with crunchy sugar. Or Danishes with sweet, moist filling. Not so much as a doughnut.

  What kind of bakery sold out of sweets? They must have more in the back, she reasoned.

  The front door burst open, and a pack of kids ran in shrieking. “Cool it, you little gremlins! Inside voices!” a woman behind them hissed over the din.

  As she waddled through the door, Kate saw that she was heavily pregnant. “Bobby! Don’t touch the glass! And stop jumping! Becky, quit poking your big brother!”

  Kate stepped aside to give her more room.

  The woman smiled sheepishly. “I had to get off the beach and out of the sun for a little while. I promised them cookies.”

  “Sounds like a smart move,” Kate said.

  “OK, you little ruffians, get over here and pipe down—or we’re leaving. Jennie! Get your hands off the glass! Becky, if you don’t stop poking Bobby, you’re going outside. Empty handed. Is that what you want?”

  Becky looked startled, shook her head, and dropped her hands to her sides. Next to her, the youngest sibling, who looked about two, pulled his thumb out of his mouth and assumed the same position—with a proud grin on his face.

  “The magic of cookies,” Kate whispered to the mom.

  “Amen to that,” the brunette replied, rubbing her back, as the four kids gathered around her.

  “Are you getting cookies, too?” Jennie asked Kate.

  “Not exactly. I make cookies. I’m here about a job.”

  “You make cookies?” Bobby asked. “For real?”

  “Cookies, cupcakes, all kinds of good stuff.” To their mom she explained, “I’m a pastry chef.”

  “Oh God, that would be so dangerous. Right now, I could eat my weight in eclairs. All two tons of it.”

  Suddenly all four kids clustered around Kate.

  “What kind of cookies are you gonna make?” Becky asked.

  Kate started to laugh. “I can’t make any now—I haven’t got the job yet. But how about if I tell you what kind of cookies you like best?”

  “Cookies!” the littlest boy said, throwing both hands up into the air like a referee signaling a touchdown.

  “Yes, Charlie, cookies,” his mom said, ruffling his sandy-blond hair. “Can you really do that?” she asked Kate. “Guess their favorite cookies?”

  “After four years as a Girl Scout and eight years as a pastry chef, you’d be surprised,” she said, her amber eyes twinkling.

  “OK, what kind do I like?” Bobby asked.

  Kate took a minute and sized him up. “Oatmeal. No raisins.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  She smiled mysteriously.

  “What’s mine? What’s mine?” squealed Becky, bouncing up and down. “What do I like?”

  “Peanut butter. Preferably with chocolate chips.”

  “Oh yeah!” Becky said, twirling toward the counter.

  “Betcha don’t know mine,” her older sister dared.

  “Ah, a challenge,” Kate said, refocusing. “Let me see. I’m thinking … lemon coolers!”

  “Whoa!” the little girl said. “Are you a witch?”

  Kate shrugged and squatted down to eye level with Charlie. “And I bet you like animal crackers.” She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “And the chocolate ones are your very favorites.”

  He beamed and nodded vigorously.

  “That is amazing,” their mom said. “You’re a cookie whisperer!”

  “Hey, tell me what kind of cookies I like,” implored a voice behind her. Kate turned to see a young guy in purple board shorts and blue flip-flops.

  “Shortbread,” Kate said without hesitating.

  “Damn! That’s awesome!”

  “I bet you can’t tell what kind of cookies I like,” said the blonde next to him. Dressed in a yellow beach romper, she crossed her arms and fixed Kate with a defiant squint.

  Kate took a deep breath and gave the woman a once-over.

  “Well, you tell people you don’t eat dessert,” Kate started. “But the truth is you’d sell your grandmother for a dozen of those chewy lace cookies with the chocolate drizzle. And you dunk them in milk.”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open, and she turned beet red.

  “For what it’s worth, I love those things, too,” Kate added.

  “Awwww, sis, she nailed you,” Board Shorts said, snapping his fingers. “Hey, Sam, you gotta see this. This woman is great! She’s a cookie whisperer.”

  “I don’t sell cookies, Justin,” the baker said matter-of-factly. “Bread and rolls. No fancy stuff.”

  “No cookies?” the three older kids repeated in unison as Charlie’s face crumbled.

  “You want sweets, we got an ice-cream shop at the other end of Main Street,” the baker said. “They sell a fair amount of candy, too.”

  “But this place is called the Cookie House,” the mom said, her voice stressing up half an octave. “How can you name it that and not sell cookies?”

  The baker shrugged.

  Kate leaned over, speaking quietly. “Those sour-cream biscuits just came out of the oven. I can tell by the way they’re radiating heat. And it looks like a good batch. See the way they’re all evenly golden brown? There’s an empty bench outside on the porch. You guys could sit in the shade for a while and have a picnic.”

  The mom clapped her hands. “OK, kids, first a snack. Then we get ice cream!”

  “Ice cream! Ice cream!” the kids sang, bouncing up and down.

  “I’ll take a dozen of the sour-cream biscuits. And you three wild things—outside! Find a place to sit on the porch. And look after your little brother.”

  “Yes, Mooommm,” Jennie said, grabbing one of Charlie’s hands as Bobby held the door open.

  “I wish I had half that energy,” the mom said, watching them dance, skip, and hop out to the porch. “Good luck with the job interview,” she said, dropping her voice. “Ichabod Scrooge over there could really use you.”

  “Man, that is some party trick—I would love to know how you do that,” Justin said, collecting two loaves of sourdough and heading for the door.

  His sister strode ahead, ignoring them both.

  “Can I help you?” the baker said to Kate.

  “I’m Kate McGuire—I’m actually here about the job.” She pointed to the “help wanted” sign in the window. This is it. Go big or go home. Literally.

  She took a deep breath and started her spiel. “I’m a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America with a degree in baking and pastry arts. I’ve been a professional pastry chef in Manhattan for the
last eight years, and I have an extensive list of excellent references.”

  With that, she proffered a slick black folder containing her résumé and two pages of references on creamy white vellum.

  “Not right for the job,” he said abruptly, slapping the folder onto the counter.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t sell pastry or any of that frilly stuff. Need someone to tend the counter. And pitch in hauling supplies to and from the storeroom. Fancy degree won’t help with that.”

  Kate walked over to the window, pulled down the “help wanted” sign, and examined it.

  She glanced outside. A guy was sitting on a bench across the street. The upper half of his body was totally obscured by the newspaper he was reading. But there was a familiar green shopping bag parked at his feet.

  “So how long have you been looking for help?” she said quietly, turning toward the baker.

  He shrugged.

  “This sign is faded, so I’m guessing it’s been a while. It’s the tail end of tourist season, and it’s also the start of summer break. But you haven’t gotten so much as a nibble. In spite of the fact that you bake a first-class sourdough. You’ve been blunt, so I’ll return the favor. I don’t want this job long-term. I’m moving to Coral Cay and looking for a permanent spot as a pastry chef. But I need something to tide me over in the meantime. As you know, baking is hard work. I’ve spent the last eight years on my feet all day every day, in a hot kitchen, pounding dough and hauling supplies.”

  Kate mentally crossed her fingers behind her back for that last part. At the restaurant, the busboys, dishwashers, and delivery guys did all the heavy lifting.

  Hepplewhite shrugged again. But she noticed he hadn’t said no. At least, not outright.

  “So how much does the job pay?” Kate asked.

  “Minimum wage. Seven twenty-five an hour.”

  “That’s the national minimum wage,” she said. “Florida minimum wage is eight ten an hour.”

  “Last time I checked, Florida was still part of the country. Pay is seven twenty-five an hour.”

  Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. This guy was tighter than Deacon Dave. She’d never worked so hard to land a job she didn’t want. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a narrow hallway. She remembered the second-story window boxes. And the dead bush.

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “Storeroom. Like I said, no work for a girl.”

  “Do you use all the upstairs rooms for the baking supplies?”

  “Just the one. On the back side of the house.”

  “What about the rooms on the front side?”

  “Just two rooms. One in the back for baking supplies. Other one’s for extra cleaning supplies and some old junk. Why?”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Kate said. “I’ll take your seven twenty-five an hour if you let me camp out in the front storeroom. Just for a couple of days. Until I can rent a place in town.”

  The baker shook his head. “Already said, this work isn’t for you. Besides, this area’s commercial. No one’s s’posed to live here. Probably a health code violation, too.”

  Suddenly Kate remembered something—something Gabe had mentioned. What could it hurt?

  “Here’s my offer: If you don’t like my work, you can fire me. And it won’t cost you a dime. I’ll walk away without a paycheck. But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to tend the shop, when you want to get away for a while?” With a metal detector and a bottle of rum?

  “And I’ve shown I’m very good with customers,” she added.

  Hands flat on the counter, the baker narrowed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his jaw. For the first time, he seemed to be genuinely considering the idea.

  “I do the baking,” he said finally. “You just mind the counter and fetch supplies now and then. And cut all that cookie-talk nonsense. I don’t sell that junk. And I’m not gonna start now.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have my stuff sent over from the hotel, and I can start this afternoon. Um, what should I call you?”

  “Name’s Sam Hepplewhite. Mr. Hepplewhite to you. And if anyone asks, tell ’em you’re still staying at that hotel. Don’t want the Board of Health getting their panties in a twist. Don’t expect you’ll last the week, anyway.”

  Chapter 3

  Promptly at six o’clock, Sam walked to the front door, turned the “open” sign to “closed,” and flipped the dead bolt. “Done for today. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  Kate was ready for a break. Maybe a walk on the beach. For the last three hours, she’d waited on customers while Sam disappeared into the kitchen for long stretches.

  At the now-defunct Soleil, she had been an accomplished—and appreciated—pastry chef. Today the closest she got to baking was running the bread slicer.

  But the people were fun. It was an interesting, eclectic mix of tourists and locals. And she was amazed at how much they shared in just a few minutes of conversation. The tourists were on vacation with a relaxed attitude about everything, she reasoned. And the denizens of small-town Coral Cay seemed accustomed to everyone knowing their business.

  Spritely octogenarian Sunny Eisenberg invited Kate to drop in for yoga classes at her studio, just off the square.

  “The secret to youth is flexibility,” she confided to Kate. “And it all starts with your spine. Doesn’t matter how old you get. If your spine is supple, you’ll stay young.” With that, Sunny stretched over backward and just kept going, executing an impressive backbend.

  “H-harrumph!” Kate heard from the direction of the kitchen.

  Sunny straightened up, laughing, and brushed her short champagne-colored hair into place with one hand. “Don’t mind that old sourpuss. I’ve been trying to get him to sample a class for years. But he’s too set in his ways. He’s afraid if he ever loosened up, he’d fall apart.” She lowered her voice, stage-whispering to Kate, “And he just might, at that!”

  Later a woman popped into the shop bearing a newspaper-wrapped bundle of sunshine-yellow blooms. Barely five-two with glossy black hair, she pulsed with energy, like a hummingbird mid-flight.

  “These are for Sam,” she said, handing off the flowers to Kate. “Lemon lilies. From my garden. I’m Maxi Más-Buchanan. I run Flowers Maximus next door.”

  “Your yard is incredible,” Kate said. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”

  “It’s a work in progress,” Maxi replied in a voice Kate found musical. “Emphasis on work. You like plants?”

  “I love them—especially flowers. But living in New York with no patio, I haven’t really had a chance to try my hand at growing anything.”

  “Then you’re definitely in the right place,” Maxi said, smiling. “The flowers in this town—spectacular!” she said, punctuating the statement by spreading both hands wide.

  Suddenly Hepplewhite bustled in from the kitchen. “Those kids of yours out of school?”

  Kate was dumbfounded. It was the first time she’d seen the baker actually initiate a conversation.

  “All three of the little terrors,” Maxi replied with a grin. “I told Peter if he’s not home for dinner by six, I’ll drive them to his office and drop them off. Then I’m checking into a hotel.”

  As Maxi and Hepplewhite debated the relative merits of corn bread versus brioche rolls with roasted chicken, Kate headed to the kitchen with the flowers. She stripped off the newspaper, grabbed a clean pitcher off the counter, filled it, and settled them gently in the water.

  Returning to the shop, she placed the pitcher carefully on top of the counter, admiring the vibrant yellow blossoms.

  “Is there a secret to it?” Kate asked. “Growing such beautiful flowers?”

  “If you love them, the plants can feel it,” Maxi said with a smile. “And when you have to be up early, treating yourself to a few cups of strong Cuban coffee doesn’t hurt, either. When Sam gives you a break, c’mon over and I’ll pour you a cup. And don’t let this old rascal work you too hard,” she
said with a wink.

  Kate had noticed that when Hepplewhite filled Maxi’s order “a dozen” brioche rolls actually numbered fourteen. And he slipped a loaf of challah into the bag without charging her. “Her husband likes it,” the baker had said later, with a shrug.

  Now checking his watch as he motored for the back door, Hepplewhite called over his shoulder, “Not much left in the cases. But you can wrap it and bring it to the pantry in the back.”

  I wanted this job, Kate reminded herself lightly. I begged for this job. And I am a total moron.

  “Um, Mr. Hepplewhite, I’d like to go get some dinner and maybe take a walk before I settle in upstairs. Would it be possible to have a key, so I can get back in?”

  He sighed. “Some tins of meat in the pantry. And apples in the icebox. Help yourself to the leftover bread. Time enough for keys tomorrow. If you’re still here. Gotta go now.”

  Yeah, rum and metal detectors wait for no man, Kate thought.

  Hepplewhite had been acting strangely all afternoon. Inexplicably, whenever the shop had been completely empty he commandeered the kitchen. Yet when customers appeared, he’d hover in the shop. Like he didn’t quite trust her with the till.

  He wasn’t baking. As far as Kate could tell, everything in the kitchen remained untouched.

  Watching her from secret security cameras? Hiding something? Or taking a nip?

  Several times that afternoon, she’d checked the front porch. With a cheddar biscuit in her apron pocket. But Oliver was gone.

  On the bright side, Ball Cap Guy had disappeared, too.

  After Hepplewhite left, Kate set about scouting dinner. The upside of eating out of Sam Hepplewhite’s pantry: spending zero money. A definite plus, as far as she was concerned.

  Besides, there were worse things than being locked in a bakery.

  But what was with the “no pastry” edict? She’d tried to get a read on Hepplewhite’s cookie preferences a couple of times. She figured she could whip up a batch to break the ice. But she kept coming up blank. Nothing.

  That isn’t possible. Is it?

  Going through a serious case of withdrawal, Kate was craving chocolate chip cookies.