“I have, but it mentions on your website that you can also customize to the customer. Is that true?”
Winnie opened the notebook to the first blank page and readied the pen. “Of course. I’ll just need a little information about each customer, as well as specifics on their ailment or problem. If you know a little bit about their taste in f lavors, that’s always helpful. Oh, and I’ll need to know if there are any allergies I should work around.”
“No allergies. As for the recipients, there is a poet, a magician, a mime, a comedian, and a puppeteer.”
“And each of their issues?” she asked, even as the creative side of her brain began to mull over a slew of possible flavor combinations and the forms each could take. “I mean, the reason they need to be rescued?”
“The potential end to their careers, for starters.”
Winnie stopped writing. “So you want these to be motivational in nature?”
“I’m hoping the prospect of being penniless and publicly mortified is all the motivation they really need. But a clever little rescue dessert for their respective craft certainly can’t hurt. Especially if it’s timed just right.”
Chapter 2
Leaning back against the center island, Winnie took in the faces assembled around her kitchen table. Bridget, who’d claimed the head chair, was detailing, to no one in particular, the reason behind her most recent wince. Lovey was half licking, half watching from her nearby windowsill hammock. Mr. Nelson kept shifting in his seat in the hopes of securing the best view of Renee. And Renee, in turn, was sending a not-so-occasional glance in the direction of the dark-haired thirty-eight-year-old seated at the far end of the table, seemingly oblivious to all but the last piece of apple pie on his plate.
“I tell you, Winnie, you should have a show on television.” Greg Stevens forked up the pie’s remains and lifted it to his lips, stopping just shy of inhaling it the way he had every other bite to that point. “There’s no way the stuff on that dessert channel is as good as your stuff. No way, no how.”
Winnie savored the momentary surge of pleasure that always accompanied such praise and then shrugged it away as her more modest side dictated. “Thanks, Greg.”
“No. Thank you.” Greg, aka Master Sergeant Hottie, as he was known throughout Silver Lake, swallowed the last bite and pushed the plate into the center of the table, eliciting what sounded like a moan of pleasure from Renee as he did. “So what’s up? Why did you call us here on a Sunday afternoon?”
“So you can brainstorm a few dessert names with me.”
Renee took one last longing look at Greg’s toned upper arms and slowly brought her focus onto Winnie. “Is this about that call you took out on the porch yesterday? The one from the artists’ retreat?”
“It is.”
“You have quite an extensive menu as it is, dear,” Bridget reminded.
“For now, I suppose. But Sally Dearfield, the woman I spoke to, wasn’t terribly specific about what she wanted beyond, perhaps, a motivational twist.” Winnie plucked the printout from the center of the island and gave it a little wave. “However, she did e-mail me some information about each of the recipients along with the name of the respective cottage he or she is staying in for delivery purposes.”
Pulling the page close, she began to read aloud. “First, there’s Colin Norton. He’s a poet.” She looked over at the table and the four pairs of eyes trained on hers. “So I’m thinking something with a deadline. Or maybe a nod to writer’s block.”
“You could do something with a block of fudge, perhaps,” Bridget suggested.
“That’s certainly something we can play with.” Winnie returned her attention to the paper and the next name on the list. “Then there’s Todd Ritter. He’s a magician.”
Renee clapped her hands. “Tricks! Rabbits! Poof!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . Let me tell you about everyone else before we start throwing around ideas, okay?” Winnie moved on to the third line. “And then we’ve got George Watkins.”
“George Hawkins? I know a George Hawkins.” Mr. Nelson ran his crooked fingers along his stubbled jawline before bringing his hand down to the table with a thump. “But George ain’t got any teeth on account of pickin’ one too many fights at the VFW hall over the years.”
Winnie stifled the urge to laugh, and instead tapped her finger to her ear and waited. Then, when Mr. Nelson had adjusted the volume on his hearing aid, she repeated the name. “This man’s name is George Watkins, Mr. Nelson. He’s a mime.”
“A mime?” Greg echoed. “Seriously?”
“That’s what it says in Sally’s e-mail.”
“I think it would be mighty difficult to be involved with a mime,” Bridget mused.
Mr. Nelson practically choked on his laugh. “See, now I think a mime would be a perfect mate for you, Bridget. After all, it’s not like anyone can ever get a word in edgewise around you, anyway.”
“Oh snap!”
Bridget shifted her glare from Mr. Nelson to Renee and back.
Uh-oh.
“Moving right along . . .” Winnie dropped her gaze back down to the paper and the final two names on the e-mailed list. “There’s Abby Thompson, a puppeteer, and Ned Masterson, a comedian.”
Greg pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and wandered over to Lovey’s windowsill hammock. “Can you do something with a funny bone for the comedian, maybe?” He scratched Lovey behind the ears and then moved on to the area on both sides of the cat’s spine. “You know, maybe tie it in to a break somehow?”
“Hmmmm . . .” Winnie carried the paper over to the table and swapped it for her idea book and its accompanying pen. “Maybe what we should do is brainstorm words for each artist. Perhaps one of those words will lead us to the right dessert.”
Opening the notebook to the first clean page she could find, she brought the focus back to Colin Norton, the poet. “So what words come to mind when you think of a poet?”
“Rhyming!” Renee offered.
Bridget nodded. “Short!”
“How about haiku?” Greg gave Lovey one last scratch between the ears and then stretched his arms above his head. “Man, I was so bad at those in school. I spent way too much time clapping out syllables rather than actually trying to write anything coherent.”
“Wait. What about meter?” Bridget suggested.
“And the writer’s block idea you mentioned earlier—don’t forget that.” Renee reached across the table, plucked the pen and notebook from Winnie’s hand, and took over writing duties. “Anyone have any dessert ideas we can springboard off short, rhyming, haiku, meter, or writer’s block?”
“We could do Go Away, Writer’s Block of Fudge or . . .” Winnie stood, walked two feet, and spun around. “I know! I could make a s’more-flavored fudge and we could call it—”
“No s’More Writer’s Block of Fudge!” Greg and Bridget said in unison.
Winnie laughed and then pointed at Renee and the notebook. “Put that one down for now. It’s certainly a strong contender for our resident poet, Colin Norton.”
“Who’s next?” Bridget asked.
Winnie consulted the e-mail and then made her way back to the table. “Todd Ritter. Our magician. So go ahead, start shouting out words . . .”
“Tricks!” Renee shouted. “Rabbits!”
“Top hat!”
Winnie nodded at Greg and then smiled at her housemate. “Mr. Nelson? Any thoughts from you?”
“Now you see ’em, now you don’t.”
Bridget exhaled her frustration loud enough for everyone to hear. “And how on earth is Winnie supposed to work that into a dessert, Parker?”
“If she can work a rabbit into a dessert, she can work a sleight of hand into a dessert, too.” Mr. Nelson stuck his finger in his ear and looked up at Winnie. “You think, with the way technology is explodin’, that
maybe these hearing-aid folks could finally come up with a way to let people like me block out specific voices?”
Winnie started to laugh but stopped as the man’s words hit their mark. “Wait—sleight of hand! That’s it!”
Resting the pen atop the notebook, Renee cocked her head in such a way as to afford a quick view of Mr. Nelson, Bridget, and Greg all at the same time. “Brace yourselves, everyone. Winnie is about to blow.”
“No. No. This is great. I can make Sleight of Hand Pies! And I can fill them with all sorts of different things—apples, cherries, blueberry, lemon, whatever. The possibilities are endless, quite frankly.”
“I called it, didn’t I?” Renee mused as she retrieved her pen and began to write.
Greg joined Winnie over by the island. “You could also do something with hand pies for the mime, you know.”
“Yes, let’s move on to the mime.” A quick check of the printout refreshed her memory on the name—George Watkins. “Mime . . . mime . . . Anyone?”
“Waves hands!” Renee suggested.
Bridget wrapped her fingers around her empty coffee mug and pulled it against her chest. “Quiet. Silent.”
“Hold on a minute, Winnie Girl. Greg makes a good point. If you’re making hand pies for the magician fella, why can’t you make some extras and give them to the mime?” Mr. Nelson pulled his ball cap off and scratched the top of his head. “And if you decided to make some of them snickerdoodle pies like you made me for my birthday last year, I’d be willing to take any leftovers off your hands.”
“Ever the philanthropist,” Bridget mumbled.
Greg pointed at the refrigerator and, at Winnie’s nod, helped himself to a can of soda. “I think you should save anything snickerdoodle-related for the comedian. It fits better.”
“The comedian?” Renee looked up from the notebook and blinked (doelike) in Greg’s general direction. “Why?”
“You know . . . the snickers part.”
Winnie did a little jig where she stood. “Yes! Yes! When in Doubt, Go for Snicker-Doodles! Or . . . maybe . . . It’s All About the Giggles and the Snicker-Doodles . . . or—”
“Your Jokes Make Me Snicker-Doodle,” Greg said as he lifted the soda can to his lips and took another sip.
“That’s it! Perfect!” Winnie pointed to Renee. “Write that one down exactly the way Greg said it.”
Renee started to write but looked up at Winnie instead. “So you want me to put that under the comedian instead of the mime?”
“Yup.” Winnie stopped jigging long enough to consult her printout and the last name on the list. “The snickerdoodles are for Ned Masterson.”
“Ned Masterson?”
“That’s the comedian’s name.”
“Oh. Okay.” Renee jotted the dessert name down and then shifted back in her seat, robbing Mr. Nelson of his carefully arranged cleavage view. “But now we still don’t have anything for the mime.”
“Let’s put him on hold for a little while and move on to the puppeteer.” Again, Winnie checked the printout. “Abby Thompson.”
“Marionettes!”
Renee pointed her pen at Bridget and added, “Strings! Paper bags! Socks!”
Strings . . .
Running her finger down the list, Winnie paused next to Abby’s name.
No allergies . . .
Prefers low sugar . . .
“I know. I’ll go with string cheese—quartered and rolled in a variety of things like hazelnut, peanut butter, jimmies, nuts, or whatever, and we can call it, World on a String-Cheese Treats or Never Let ’Em See the String-Cheese Treats.”
Greg lowered his soda can in favor of a hearty laugh that echoed around the kitchen. “I like Never Let ’Em See the String-Cheese Treats. Too funny.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
Mr. Nelson snapped his fingers and gestured toward the notebook in front of Renee. “Might want to lean forward again and write that one down, pretty lady.”
It was Winnie’s turn to laugh as Renee folded herself back over the notebook and into Mr. Nelson’s preferred sight range. A glance at Greg netted a visual match to her own amusement.
“So are you done with us, Winnie?”
She turned her focus toward the not-so-amused Bridget. “I am. But you guys were all amazing. I couldn’t have come up with these names without you.”
Renee dropped her pen onto the notebook and rose to her feet. “That’s not true and we all know it. But this was still fun. Gave me something to do while Ty is with Bob for the day.”
“Trust me, everyone’s input was invaluable. Always is.”
Pulling his cane out from its holding spot beneath the table, Mr. Nelson mirrored Renee’s movement toward the door and then paused to glance back at Winnie. “When you’re deciding on your fillings for those hand pies, remember to stay away from blackberries. You don’t need any more dead bodies on your hands, Winnie Girl. It’s not good for business.”
Chapter 3
Winnie slowed the Dessert Squad to a stop at the traffic light and shifted her focus from the road to the passenger seat. “I have to say, it’s a little weird having someone other than just Lovey sitting up here in the cab with me.”
“Trust me, it’s weird for me, too.” Renee pulled her hand off Lovey’s back and gave her fingernails a thorough once-over. “Usually when you head out on a call, I clean up the kitchen and then man the phones while either watching television or the goings-on out on the street.”
Winnie’s answering laugh yielded a sleepy hiss from Lovey. “You say that like Serenity Lane is a hot bevy of entertainment.”
“Because it is!” Renee stopping fawning over her latest choice in nail color and widened her eyes on Winnie. “I used to think your neighbor Cornelia Wright was so focused on walking that little sheltie of hers that she simply wasn’t aware of Harold Jenkins following along behind her on his electric scooter thingy. But not only is she aware he’s back there, I think she’s actually throwing out the bread crumbs for him to follow.”
The light changed from red to green and Winnie moved her foot to the gas pedal. “I’m pretty sure Cornelia isn’t the bread-baking type.”
“Ha. Ha.” Renee brought her hand back down to Lovey and ran it along the feline’s back. “Seriously though. What woman wears a pencil skirt and heels to walk her dog? And who stops to check their lipstick while walking said dog?”
“You would,” Winnie pointed out, grinning. “If you had a dog, of course.”
“If I knew Master Sergeant Hottie was following me—yes. And therein lies my point.”
It made sense. It really did. Still, though, Winnie wasn’t entirely convinced Renee’s summation was correct. Cornelia Wright seemed perfectly content with her beloved little dog, Con-Man. And really, Harold Jenkins? The man wore f lannel twenty-four/seven . . .
Shaking her head, she made herself focus on the task at hand. Or, rather, tasks. “Okay, so what’s the next direction? I know we head around the lake, but beyond that, I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“Take the road that skirts the northern edge of the lake to the first gravel lane after the public-access parking lot. It should be on our left.” Renee lowered the passenger side window halfway and lifted her chin to its answering summer breeze. “So did you talk to Mr. Wonderful at all this weekend? Has he seen her yet?”
More than anything, Winnie wanted to pretend she didn’t know who or what Renee was talking about. But she couldn’t. Besides, maybe Renee could offer a fresh take she, herself, had been unable to see thus far.
“Jay called briefly last night as I was getting ready for bed,” said Winnie.
“And?”
“He and Caroline arrived at the hotel around five o’clock our time.”
“And?”
“The flight went okay from what I
could tell. Caroline was in the room with him so I’m not sure if I was getting the whole story or a watered-down version.”
Renee sighed. “Of course it wouldn’t even enter the little diva’s brain to give you two a few minutes alone, right? Or perhaps it did and that’s why she stayed put.”
“Anyway, not more than five minutes into our conversation, Didi texted Jay to tell him she was in a limo outside the hotel’s front door. So he had to get off and, you know, deal with all of that.”
“It still bothers me that eleven years have gone by since that sorry excuse for a mother walked out on Caroline and now, suddenly, Caroline feels this urgent need to reconnect with her? I mean, c’mon.” Renee scrunched her perfectly proportioned nose at the brown and white tabby purring peacefully in her lap. “Something smells pretty bad in all of this, doesn’t it, Lovey?”
Winnie passed the lake on her side of the car and then turned left. Renee’s words were not much different from the ones that had been playing in her own head as Jay had ended the call the previous night. Still, she needed to step back. To entertain all aspects. “I—I think it makes sense. High school isn’t for sissies—we both know this. And while Jay is an amazing dad, I’m sure there are things Caroline would rather bounce off her mom.”
“Didi Evans stopped being that kid’s mom the day she walked out of her life,” Renee argued. “Why Caroline can’t see that blows my mind. Then again, why she’d want to mess with her dad’s happiness blows my mind even more.”
Renee was right. Caroline’s timing was most definitely suspect. Especially when it came on the heels of Jay really stepping up his game where his and Winnie’s relationship was concerned.
“Maybe you’re right,” Winnie conceded. “Maybe there is something less than innocent behind Caroline’s sudden longing to see her mother. But even if there is, it shouldn’t have any bearing on my relationship with Jay.”
At Renee’s prolonged silence, she checked the rearview mirror and then slowed the Dessert Squad to a near crawl. “What aren’t you saying, Renee?”
Dial M for Mousse Page 2
