I bet he’d practiced his smile from birth. “What kind of dessert did you have in mind?”
“I’m not picky and neither are my grandma and her friends.”
“Your grandma?” The thought of this good-looking man bringing his grandma dessert had me melting.
“Yes, you see, my grandma fell on the steps of her porch today and twisted her ankle.”
“Oh, no. . . .”
“She’s fine. Doc says it was only a sprain, but her friends came over and a poker game broke out and they sent me to get party food.” He ran the rim of his hat through his fingers. “I was on my way to the Dillon’s Grocery when I saw your sign and I stopped.” He glanced at the nearly empty display case and winced. “I guess I’m too late. . . .”
“Oh, no, I have more in the back,” the salesman in me piped up. In the back of my mind I was processing senior ladies playing poker and trying to figure out what kind of dessert to recommend. “Are there any food allergies I need to be aware of?”
“I’m sorry?” He pulled his thick brows together and looked at me as if I spoke a foreign language.
“My specialty is allergy-safe foods.” I pointed to the gluten-free flours on the shelf.
“Oh.” His face fell a little.
“No, no,” I reassured him. “It’s all really good.” I reached down and grabbed a small cheesecake square out of the taster tray I kept filled. “Here, try.”
He looked skeptical but desperate enough to try anything. Until he popped the small square in his mouth; his eyes grew wide and a seductive-as-hell smile broke out on his face. “Wow! That’s good!”
“Thanks.” I beamed. I couldn’t help it. There was something heartwarming about having a hot guy taste your food and love it. “How many are at the party?”
“Let’s see, there are four tables of four plus the dealers . . .”
“Dealers?”
His mouth went flat. “Gram’s serious about her poker.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“We’re talking approximately twenty people?”
“Give or take.”
“Great, how about sample platters?”
“Will they have more of those cheesecake pieces?”
“Certainly, I have cheesecake, brownies, pumpkin tarts, and caramel apple tarts. How does that sound?”
“How fast can you put them together?” His eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth lifted.
“Less than five minutes.” I poured him a complimentary cup of coffee. “Here, drink this while you wait.” I scooted back into the kitchen and pulled together four platters, boxed them in thin pizza-shaped boxes, and brought them out to the front.
“You’ve saved the day.” He paid me. “Do you take tips?”
“Oh, no,” I said and handed him his change. “But it would really help me if you could put one of my cards by each platter.” I handed him my fancy business cards. “Then the ladies will know where to come to buy more.”
He picked up the cards. “Baker’s Treat . . . wait, weren’t you the one in the newspaper yesterday?”
I looked down and waited for the floor to swallow me whole. It didn’t. “Um . . .”
“Oh, Gram is gonna love this. Thank you. Like I said, you made my day.” He plopped his cowboy hat on his head, winked at me, and walked out into the darkness.
I crumpled against the back counter as I let my knees go weak at the memory of his wink. It was a fun and flirty little moment, and I enjoyed it. It didn’t hurt to enjoy it. It wasn’t like I was going to date him or anything. Still, he was pretty in a very rough-hewn way. I walked to the door to lock up, caught a whiff of his cologne, and tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d felt a little zing in my veins. No wonder Tasha glowed.
• • •
I was still thinking about the hot cowboy the next morning as I blasted Matchbox Twenty and Rob Thomas songs through the bakery and turned on the ovens in the back. At five-thirty A.M., I was filling the display cabinet when I thought I heard a noise outside. I went to the window and peered out, but Main Street was dead quiet. The sculpture of the cowboy across the street had his hand on his Stetson, his brass coat swirling around his boots. On the next block were a pair of Victorian ladies, their bronze heads tipped together, arms full of packages. On my side of the street was a horse sculpture, and in front of my store was a replica of a horse trough and a tying post. It gave Main Street a ghost-town feel at night. Every twenty feet were replica gaslights, the pools of light braving through the darkness, leaving too much in shadow.
Not seeing anything, I shrugged and went back to work. By seven, the sun had started to come up and I was ready for anyone wanting to stop by for breakfast or to grab a box of pastries for work. I opened the shades on the door, unlocked it, then stepped out to collect the bundle of Wichita newspapers I offered my early patrons.
It was then I noticed the horse trough had arms and legs dangling out of it. Weird. I glanced around, but only a single pickup rumbled down the street. Biting my bottom lip, I debated for a moment about getting out my cell phone. I mean, if the person snoozing in the horse trough were a drunk it might not be the smartest idea to approach him alone and unarmed . . . so to speak.
“Hello?” I called out. The sound of my voice echoed against the buildings. Nothing. I chewed on the inside of my mouth and glanced at my watch. Really, the last thing I needed was some liquored-up guy hanging out in front of my bakery door.
I got brave. After all, this was small-town Kansas, not downtown Chicago. I took a deep breath and marched over to the trough. The arms and legs belonged to a man, facedown in the trough. The trough wasn’t filled, but it tended to catch rainwater, which meant face-first was probably not a great idea.
“You can’t sleep here,” I said stopping close enough to see he wore a long rancher’s coat. His cowboy hat covered his face and there was a can of red spray paint on the ground next to his hand. “Hey!”
My gaze went from the can on the sidewalk to my front façade, where red spray paint scrawled across the bricks. It read, IN THE SWEAT OF THY FACE, THOU SHALT EAT BREAD . . .
“Damn it!”
I stormed inside the building, plopped the papers on the counter, and grabbed my cell phone.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Toni Holmes, down at Baker’s Treat on Main. I’ve got more vandalism and a drunk sleeping in the horse trough. Can you send out a patrol car?”
“One moment.” There was a pause and I went to the door and glared at the drunk. Whether he liked it or not, he had been caught red-handed. “A patrol car is on its way, Ms. Holmes.”
“Thank you.” My heart pounded in my chest loud enough I could barely hear a thing.
“Where are you, Ms. Holmes?”
“I’m currently standing in the doorway to the bakery.”
“Good, please stay there and stay on the phone until we get there,” dispatch said. “It’s for your own safety.”
“You mean the safety of the drunk,” I said. “Because this really pisses me off.”
“Yes, ma’am,” dispatch said.
A tan sedan parked in front of the bakery. My brother’s school friend, John Emerson, got out. “Hey, Toni, what’s going on?”
“I’m waiting for a patrol car.” It took a lot of work not to stomp my foot. “I’ve got a bit of a thing . . .” I waved toward the trough. “Oiltop Police are on their way. Come on in and pour yourself some coffee. As soon as they get here, I’ll come in and get you a pastry.”
John stopped next to me and assessed the situation. “Darn fool vandals. You want me to rouse him out from the trough?” He nodded at the sleeping man.
“No thanks, dispatch says not to touch anything.” I pointed at my cell phone.
John nodded his bald head and pulled the phone from my hand. “Hey, Sarah, how are you? Yep, that’s what it looks like.” His dark eyes twinkled at me. “Want me to bring you a couple of those apple turnovers? Will do. He
re you go.” He handed the cell back to me. “Sarah wants two of the apple turnovers to go.”
“Sarah?”
“Hey, Toni.” The dispatcher sounded less professional. “It’s Sarah Hogginboom. I was two grades down from you in school. John brought me some of your turnovers the other day. They were great.”
“Um, thanks.” I shook my head. Another car pulled up and two women dressed in nurse’s uniforms got out. “Listen, I have customers . . .”
“Keep them away from the vandal,” Sarah said. “You should be able to hear the sirens now.”
In fact, now that she mentioned it, police sirens were echoing down Main Street as the car turned off of Central and onto Main.
“What’s going on?” one of the two women asked.
“Nothing to worry about.” I opened the door wider. “Come on in and help yourself to coffee. It’s free this morning.” Hopefully free coffee would keep people coming through the door instead of hanging around watching the cops haul away a drunk.
Both women smiled and went inside as the patrol cruiser screeched to a halt in front of the bakery.
“You can hang up now,” Sarah said. “But don’t let John forget the turnovers.”
I pressed End on my phone and watched Barney Fife step out of the patrol car. I swear, the officer looked like the character on the old Andy Griffith show my mother used to love. He was a thin man in a blue uniform who sniffed and hitched up his heavy gun belt and walked over to me.
“What exactly is the problem here?” he asked, his voice cracking.
I tried to place him, to see if I knew him from school, but I couldn’t get the Barney Fife thoughts out of my head. “Hi, I’m Toni Holmes. This is my bakery and that”—I pointed toward the arms and legs sticking out of the brass trough—“seems to be a drunk guy who was attempting to vandalize my shop.”
I made an exaggerated motion toward the spray can on the ground and then the red paint on the brick front of my store.
“I see.” The officer hitched up his pants and stared at the drunk. Not that I blamed him. The guy appeared to be twice the size of the officer.
“Maybe you should call for backup?” I asked.
He shot me a look of disgust. “I’m a trained officer of the law. I can handle this.” Then he hitched his gun belt again and took three steps toward the drunk. “All right,” he said, “fun’s over. Get out of the trough.”
The wind blew and rustled the guy’s coat, but the drunk didn’t move.
Officer Fife, as I thought of him, had red creeping up his thin pale neck. His giant Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. “I said, show’s over, pal. Get out of the trough.” He took out his nightstick and poked the drunk on the back. The guy didn’t stir.
I pursed my lips. I could feel the customers behind me staring out the window. “Maybe if you removed his Stetson? Sun shining in his eyes might help.”
Barney gave me another evil look, but he did what I said. He reached down and took the hat and we both gasped. The drunk was facedown in about an inch of water and the back of his head was covered in blood.
“That can’t be good,” I muttered. I dialed 911 again because Officer Fife stood frozen and stared at the guy.
“Nine-one-one dispatch, how can I help you?”
“Hello, Sarah, this is Toni again, down at the bakery. I think you need to send a second squad car and possibly an ambulance. I think the drunk guy might be dead.”
CHAPTER 6
I stepped closer as the officer reached down and felt the drunk guy’s neck for a pulse. He was a lot braver than me because I wasn’t touching a possible dead body. I guess that’s why they paid this guy the big bucks.
“Is there a pulse?” I asked. “Should we turn him faceup and start CPR or something?”
“No.” The officer straightened. He was a couple inches shorter than me, and his face had gone white. His eyes were big and dark in his face. “There’s nothing to revive. The man’s colder than a witch’s tit.”
“Cold as in has been dead for a while?” The thought creeped me out. Had there been a dead body outside my bakery the whole time I was working this morning? I took an involuntary step back. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”
The officer ignored me and hit the two-way radio on his shoulder. “Dispatch this is Officer Emry. I want to confirm the DB here on Main Street. Send backup and call the county ME and CSU.”
I swallowed hard and stared at the dead man. Had he died while I was in the bakery working? Had I been a mere few feet away when the murder took place? Or had it been a tragic drunk accident? Could I have saved him if I had seen him tumble into the trough?
“You need to step back, miss.” Officer Emry put his arm in front of me. “As first responder, it’s my duty to preserve the crime scene.”
I took two steps back as a second cop car pulled up along with a small blue Toyota. Candy Cole stepped out of the Toyota and wormed her way around the cops to stand beside me.
“Hey, Toni,” Candy stage whispered. She pulled out her small digital camera and snuck in a couple of photos while the cops huddled together discussing what to do with the crime scene.
“Hey, Candy,” I whispered back. I’d known Candy since high school, when she’d worked on the Oiltop High Gazette. “Are you here for breakfast or the story?”
“I have a police scanner in my car. I heard the report as I was taking the kids to school.”
“All right.” Officer Emry strode toward us, hitching up his gun belt. He was thin enough that it probably would slip right off him if he didn’t constantly hitch. He sniffed. “Looks like I need to keep you, Ms. Holmes, and everyone in your bakery for questioning.”
“What? I have work to do.”
“And we’ll let you do it, ma’am, but first we have to tape off the crime scene and question the witnesses.”
I noted a rotund policeman unrolling crime scene tape from the corner of my building, around the lamppost, across the front of the trough, then back to the other side of my building, completely blocking off the bakery. “What’s he doing?” I asked, pointing at the giant “crime scene.”
“As I said, ma’am, we need to process the area before it gets contaminated.”
“But no one can get into my bakery.”
“Looks like there are plenty of people inside now,” Barney’s voice broke. “Let’s go inside, ladies. There’s nothing to see here.” He waved his thin arms and pushed us back into the bakery.
Inside, it was warm and smelled of coffee and sweets. The radio was on and, over the speakers, someone strummed a guitar and sang a lovely ballad about broken hearts. Meanwhile, Officer Emry closed the front door and threw the lock.
“Hey, you can’t lock us all in here,” John complained. “I’ve got to get to work, and I promised Sarah I’d bring her pastries.”
“We have to get to the hospital,” the nurses said in unison.
“I’m working in official press capacity.” Candy flashed her newspaper ID. “You need to help these people out, Officer Emry, or there might be a nice sidebar on police brutality in tonight’s paper.”
I did love Candy. She’d worked with Grandma Ruth for years and now was the lead reporter. She knew how to manipulate things in a small town.
“All right, all right, calm down.” Officer Emry took a notebook from his coat pocket. “I promise not to take too long. First off, I need a place to question each of you individually.” He looked at me expectantly.
The man had just touched a dead person and had yet to wash his hands. There was no way I was letting him into my kitchen. “You can take the small table in the corner.” I motioned toward the corner farthest from the windows.
“Good, I’ll start with the first customer you had this morning.”
“That’s me.” John’s mouth went flat and turned down at the corners. The men moved toward the table.
“Everyone, pour yourself some coffee and pick out a free roll.” I went behind the counter and grab
bed plates and tissue squares. After I got everyone settled with breakfast, I studied the full display, dismayed that it might remain full.
A glance out the window showed someone had placed a tarp over the trough and the dead guy; at least there were no longer arms and legs showing. The cops stood around waiting for the coroner.
Another car pulled up nearby and Rocky Rhode stepped out with his giant digital camera. He snapped a few pictures of the cops, the crime scene, and my storefront. Great, another less-than-flattering photo of my business. I stepped back from the window to ensure I wouldn’t show up in the shot.
“Did you get a look at the guy’s face?” Candy asked me, sipping her coffee and drawing my attention back into the room.
“What? No.” I shook my head. “His cowboy hat covered his head. I thought he was blocking out the sun.”
“Hey,” Officer Emry shouted. “No talking until you’re interviewed.”
I rolled my eyes at Candy. She grinned.
Outside, the crime lab guys showed up. They wore dark jackets with CSU on them in white letters. They took pictures and got out fingerprint dust and dusted the trough and the bakery windows. I could have told them they were wasting their time. I mean, it was pretty clear the guy had been spray painting. Why would he have touched anything?
“You know, you’ll have to go down to the station and get fingerprinted,” Candy said low, her eyes sparkling. Her golden-brown hair was the color of soft caramel. Her heart-shaped face held fine features and a smattering of freckles across the nose. A little shorter than me, Candy was thin but curvy and had married a doctor. They had the perfect marriage and the perfect family of two kids, a boy and a girl. I would have loved to hate her, but she was such a sweetheart she kind of deserved what she had.
“Why would I need to do that?”
“They’ll need your fingerprints to determine which ones are yours and which ones belong to the victim and the killer.”
“Fabulous,” I muttered. My prints would be on file for all the world to see. Now, I know I sound paranoid, but if they took your fingerprints, wouldn’t they run all future crimes against your prints? I mean, there’s something creepy about the idea that you could be innocently opening a door to a bank one day and suspected of being a robber the next. I shuddered and knew I had Grandma Ruth to thank for my morbid imagination.
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