Gluten for Punishment

by Nancy J. Parra

  I swallowed hard. It seemed very wrong. My feelings must have shown on my face.

  “I know.” She gave a soft smile. “It’s kind of old school. Anyway, I need a job. Right now I’m working three nights a week at the Quickmart and bunking with my girlfriend. When Uncle Sam told me about your sign I thought, cool. I thought I could maybe learn a thing or two while I save up to go to school.”

  “Well, Meghan, let me scrounge up an application. Do you want to fill it out now or bring it back in?”

  “I can fill it out now, if that’s okay.” She pulled a pen out of her purse. “I’m prepared.”

  “Great.” I reached under the cash register counter and pulled out one of the five applications I’d downloaded from the Internet. “Here you go.” I handed her the form. “Take a table.”

  “Thanks.” I watched her walk to a small table and place the form and her pen on top. She took off her dark gray wool coat and draped it on the chair behind her. She wore a clean tee shirt, which was a size too small, and a pair of jeans finished off by thick-soled black boots.

  She looked hungry. I decided to bring her a small coffee and a piece of cherry pie. “Here.” I placed them on the table beside her. “You need to know what the food tastes like before you decide to work here. I need employees with a passion for gluten-free foods.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She picked the fork up off the plate and took a bite of the pie. “Oh.” Her eyes grew wide. “This is fab.”

  “Thanks.” It warmed my heart to see her enjoy the pie. “I’m working in the back. Bring me the form when you’re done and, if you have time, we’ll do a little interview.”

  “Thank you,” she said and took a sip of coffee.

  “There are creamers and natural sugars at the counter.” I pointed out the coffee bar.

  “I like it black. Thanks.”

  I’d done what I could and went back to the kitchen. My opinion of Sam had lowered when she said her parents tossed her out and she was now living with a friend. If he were her uncle, why hadn’t he done something to help her out? I was pouring fondant over the last of the petit fours when Meghan knocked on the doorjamb to the kitchen. “I’ll be right with you,” I said. She walked in and watched intently.

  “Is that glaze?” Meghan asked.

  “Pourable fondant,” I answered as I tipped the pan, then took a knife and smoothed out the tops. “It hardens and creates the petit four shell.”

  “Huh, I didn’t know they had a pourable kind. I thought you had to knead and roll it.”

  “It’s hard to cover inch-size cakes by rolling,” I said and finished the smoothing with a flourish. “Therefore we pour.”

  “Makes sense.” She waited for me to wash and dry my hands and then handed me the application. “I’ve listed three references. One is Uncle Sam; well, he’s not my real uncle. He’s my uncle Steve’s best friend. That was, until Uncle Steve died. Then Uncle Sam stepped in and sort of took his place. There’s also my home ec teacher. I put her down because she’s seen me cook. Last is my current boss, Harold Mooney. He manages the Quickmart.”

  “Will he be okay with me hiring you?” I kept my gaze on her face. Most bosses didn’t like it when you stole their employees. The last thing I needed was to piss off another guy in town.

  She shrugged. “I think he’ll be fine. His son dropped out of college last week and he’s been talking like Joe’ll need my job, anyway.”

  I studied the application. Meghan had very neat handwriting. Everything was properly filled out. She was willing to work whatever hours I needed. “I’ll need to call your references before I can hire you.”

  “That’s fine.” She stuck her hands in her coat pockets. “I listed my roommate’s phone number. I don’t have a phone yet. If you want, I can come by another time.”

  I rubbed my chin. “If I hire you, you’ll need black slacks, a white shirt, and good black tennis shoes. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You’ll also have to wear your hair back all the time. We have food safety rules.”

  “Great.”

  “And I may need you to clean bathrooms before you leave at night.”

  Her mouth turned up. Her blue eyes twinkled. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to learn the bakery business. If that means cleaning floors with a toothbrush, I’m there.”

  “Great. There’s a memorial service for George Meister at seven tomorrow. Come in a couple hours before and I’ll let you know what I’ve decided.”

  “Thank you.” She held out her hand and I shook it. “I hope you’ll consider my enthusiasm. I really mean it when I say I want to be a chef.”

  “I believe you do.” I watched her walk out. She was eighteen and willing. To top it off, I was desperate. I glanced at the neatly printed form and picked up the phone.

  I left Sam for last. Harold Mooney gave Meghan a glowing review. He mentioned he was sorry to have to let her go but his kid needed the work and family came first, right? I thought about the girl forced out on her own and then I thought of my own huge family that came and went at will, crashing in my big house. It was pretty clear Meghan’s family had a different idea of what family meant. Even if I did sometimes wish I didn’t have to see so many of them quite so often.

  I rang Sam’s number. Why was I nervous? It was his voice, I decided. His voice was mellow enough to melt a woman’s knees.

  “Hello?”

  Oh, boy. “Is this Sam Greenbaum?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, this is Toni Holmes from the Baker’s Treat. I’m calling about a reference for Meghan Moore.”

  “Oh, hello, Toni.”

  I smiled involuntarily at the way he said my name and the warmth that blossomed in my chest.

  “I’m glad you called,” Sam said. “I sent Meghan over when I saw your help wanted sign.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.” I pretended to be professional. “Do you think her family would be upset about her working for me?”

  “No, why would they?”

  It was like we were cocooned together and he was talking into my ear and my ear only. I turned away from the front and faced the wall. “My last helper’s parents feared for her safety, what with George being murdered in front of the store and my being the police’s number one person of interest.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “If you’re asking if I did it, no, I didn’t. If you’re wondering if the cops are closing in on me, gosh, I hope not.”

  He chuckled. It was a deep rumble that made me smile again. “I know you didn’t do it. I was wondering how your own investigation was going.”

  “Oh.” I blew out a long breath. “How did you know I was looking into the murder?”

  “Word gets around.” I swear I heard him shrug. “It’s a small town, and my grandma’s pretty tuned in. She thinks you’re innocent, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” I muttered.

  “And speaking for Meghan’s parents, they’ll be happy she has a good job.”

  “Are you saying they wouldn’t care if I were a killer as long as I paid well?”

  “They want to see their child succeed on her own. It’s a family tradition. One that’d been practiced for over one hundred years.”

  “Well, it’s a bad tradition if you ask me.” I took a deep breath. Meghan had told me Sam was not her real uncle. Still . . . “What about you? Do you think it’s right to abandon a child as soon as they turn eighteen years old?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not going to argue one way or the other whether their choice is right. Meghan is a great kid and a hard worker. She wants to be a chef. You need help and I think she’ll work hard for you.”

  “Okay.” I supposed that was fair. It was a good reference and all I could realistically expect from him. I barely knew him and he had so far been nice to me.

  “Are you going to hire her?”

  I leaned on the doorjamb and sne
ered at myself in the mirror. “I think so, yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Thanks for sending her my way.” Professional. Keep it professional, Holmes, no matter how badly you wanted to pry. It is none of your business.

  “You’re welcome, but I did it for selfish reasons.”

  That caught my attention. I scrunched my forehead. “Why?”

  “I thought that maybe if you had help, you would have time to get a coffee with me and we could get to know each other better.”

  My stomach did a little jig. “Oh.”

  “You sound funny. Is coffee a bad idea?”

  His voice was low again. I rubbed my arms and turned away from my reflection. “Coffee isn’t bad. But I have the best coffee in town right here.”

  “Then how about a cocktail? Beer? Wine?”

  I scratched the back of my neck. I should not be this excited. “I’ve sworn off dating and men.” Oh, wait, crap did I say that part out loud?

  “Are you saying it’s not personal?”

  “Oh, God, no. . . .” I tended to talk with my hands; the one not holding the phone flailed about. As if he could see it from the phone.

  “Let me guess, bad relationship?”

  I winced mentally. “Divorce.”

  “Oh.” There was a slight pause. “Then how about lunch. You do eat lunch, right? I’ll even let you buy your own lunch. That way it won’t be a date.”

  “It won’t be a date?” I chewed on my lip.

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’ll be two people buying lunch and eating it at the same table.”

  I stared out the window into the evening darkness. “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Good, how about tomorrow at one P.M.?”

  I cringed inside. He was a nice guy but I was still having serious rebound issues from my divorce. Nice guy or not, did I want to go out?

  “Toni?”

  “Hold on, let me check my calendar.” Maybe there would be a good reason why I could put off this whole lunch thing without ruining my chances if I changed my mind. I popped into the kitchen and consulted the big calendar next to the baking schedule. “I don’t know. I’m catering George Meister’s memorial tomorrow and Saturday I have two events.”

  “I promise it won’t take more than an hour and it’s mostly business.”

  “Fine.” I didn’t want to be a poor sport after he’d been so kind as to send an employee my way. “Tomorrow it is.”

  “Good, I’ll come by the store around 12:30. We’ll walk down to the deli.”

  “Oh.” I felt my chest fall. “I can’t eat bread. I have celiac disease.”

  “Right, well, then we’ll walk down to the deli and convince them to let you supply them with gluten-free bread.”

  “Huh, now why hadn’t I thought of that?”

  “You would have, but you’ve been a bit busy lately.”

  I laughed. “Busy isn’t the half of it. Taking gluten-free sub rolls to the deli sounds great, but then it really would be a business lunch.”

  “Great.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “We’ll do the thank-you lunch another day.”

  “Oh, you are sneaky.”

  “Only when it comes to getting something I want.”

  Smooth. He was smooth, but I wasn’t falling for that line. “Thanks for the reference, Sam.”

  “See you later, Toni.”

  I hung up thinking I was a crazy woman, but what the heck. If Meghan worked out, I would owe the guy big. Besides, his deli idea was a good one. I could take a few twelve-inch sub rolls for them to try. If everything worked out I could have a new customer and Tasha would have another place she could take Kip for lunch. What could be wrong with that?

  CHAPTER 17

  "George Meister died of blunt-force trauma and drowning.” Grandma Ruth had driven her scooter down to the bakery in the dark to let me know.

  “Blunt-force trauma, as in someone hit him in the head with something heavy and he fell into the trough and drowned?”

  “Precisely.” Grandma smelled of cigarette smoke. There was a burn mark on her coat sleeve. She wore a corduroy coat, a shearling-lined plaid trapper hat, and overalls.

  “Did they say what they thought he was hit with?”

  This had been the longest day ever. It was 9:15 P.M. and I was closing up. All the prep work for the morning was complete. Most everything was done for the memorial. I locked the door behind Grandma’s scooter and turned the sign to CLOSED. Then I went to the register and pulled out the bank deposit bag for my second trip to the bank’s drop slot. I needed to go twice in one day if I was going to get back on track.

  “They aren’t sure. His skull was smashed in, but there wasn’t a definitive wound mark.”

  I juggled the bag and pursed my lips. “You mean they can’t tell if it was a pipe or a shovel or something?”

  “Can’t tell, but whatever it was, was heavy enough to kill. It’s why they are calling it murder and not accidental drowning.” Grandma followed me through the kitchen, her scooter wheels soft on the tile floor.

  “I didn’t see anything left behind.” I held the back door for Grandma and turned on the security system, hit the lights, and locked the door.

  “Maybe they took it with them.”

  “Maybe.” I hit the Unlock button on my car key and the van’s door locks popped open. I went to the back, opened the door, stuffed the bank bag under my arm, and lowered the ramp. “Maybe they threw the weapon in the gutter.”

  “Oh, yes!” Grandma was so excited she almost drove off the ramp. Thankfully, she turned her scooter at the last minute and got safely into the back of the van. “Bill and I could check the sewers tomorrow.”

  “Grandma, you and Bill should not be looking in the gutters.” I made a face.

  “No worries,” she said as I climbed into the driver’s seat. She had settled herself into the passenger seat and opened the window to light up. “I know someone in the city sewer department. He’ll help us.”

  “No smoking in the van,” I reminded her. “I transport food in here.”

  Grandma rolled her eyes and closed the window. “Fine.”

  “How will the sewer guy help you?” I asked as I backed out.

  “He can stop traffic and put out those orange caution signs.”

  I blew out a deep breath. There was no point in arguing with Grandma Ruth. She could always out-argue.

  “What do you think you’ll find in the gutter?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Grandma rubbed her chin. “It was probably a weapon of convenience. I mean, there’s very little chance a killer premeditated smacking George in the head and letting him drown in the trough. It’s too complicated.”

  “Any idea what would be a weapon of convenience?” I turned onto Main.

  Grandma shrugged. “I don’t know, perhaps a rock or a brick?”

  “And if you find a rock or a brick down in the sewer, how will you know it’s a murder weapon?” I raised an eyebrow at her. She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my reasoning.

  “We’ll have it tested, of course. You know, they can test for blood very easily these days. I see it on TV all the time.”

  I pulled into the bank parking lot and parked. “I’ll be right back.”

  I grabbed the bank bag and jumped out. It was a short walk to the deposit drawer. The bag was not as heavy as this morning, but it was close. I tossed it in my hand and a thought occurred to me. What if the killer had used a full bank bag?

  I swung the bag in the air simulating hitting someone upside the head. It didn’t seem to be enough force to kill someone . . .

  “What are you doing?” Grandma leaned against the van, cigarette in hand. She had gotten out to sneak a quick drag.

  “I was wondering if a bank bag could have been the murder weapon.” I frowned and pretended to hit someone with a downward stroke. That felt like it held more force. Was it enough to kill a guy? I didn’t have one of those cool
CSI dummies to check it on.

  “Oh, you mean like in The Postman Always Rings Twice?” Grandma took a drag and squinted through the smoke.

  “I’m sorry?” My attention was on Grandma Ruth.

  Grandma shook her head. “You need to read more. I keep saying you could be in Mensa like me if you read more. I swear you could pass the test.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Grandma.” I’d heard this line most of my life. I’d never considered myself a brainiac, but it was nice Grandma thought I was. She usually called it how she saw it. At least in her mind I had a high IQ. My cousin Emma on the other hand, well Grandma Ruth had told her to make a good marriage while she was young because looks were all she had.

  I would have been horrified. Emma took it all in stride and was happily married to a doctor and had two kids. Meanwhile I was up to my eyeballs in debt while under suspicion for murder. I think it might be a toss-up as to who had the higher IQ.

  “But you have no idea what the murder weapon in the Postman was because you never read the book.”

  I winced. “I think I saw the movie once . . . a long time ago . . .”

  Grandma wagged a finger at me. “Read, kiddo. It’s how you learn.”

  I waited but she merely stood there taking more puffs off her smoke. “Fine.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “I’ll check the book out tomorrow. Now, what was the murder weapon?”

  “Ingenious, really. They put rocks in a sock, struck the guy over the head, and left him to drown in the bathtub.”

  “Rocks in a sock?”

  “Yes. Afterward they dumped the rocks and washed the sock. Evidence was all gone.”

  I studied the soft money bag. “Sort of like this, only filled with coins. Smash George upside the head, then deposit the bag and voilà. No murder weapon.”

  “It could work.” Grandma squinted through the smoke. “How many bags do you have?”

  “I get a new set of six every Saturday. A delivery guy brings them by. I use a new bag a day, fill it up, put in a deposit slip, and stick it in the night depository chute.”

  “Do they clean the bags?”

  “I have no idea.” I pursed my lips and studied the bag, narrowing my eyes. “I guess if the murder weapon was a bag, it would still be inside the bank. New bags aren’t delivered for another two days.”