by Terry Odell
SAVING SCOTT
by
Terry Odell
Copyright © 2012 by Terry Odell
Cover design by Dave Fymbo
(Jump to Recipes)
For Mark Carter, brother and pastry consultant extraordinaire.
SAVING SCOTT
Terry Odell
Chapter 1
“You’ll do well to get rid of that chip on your shoulder.”
Without removing his gaze from the lieutenant, Scott Whelan swiped the fingers of his left hand across both shoulders. “Yes, sir. Chip removed, sir. Is that all?”
Scowling, the lieutenant shook his head. “It’s obvious you don’t want my advice. But I’ll give you some anyway. Don’t be stupid, Whelan. Dismissed.”
Scott pivoted on his heel as smartly as any cadet and marched from his LT’s office. Not until he was in the elevator of the sheriff’s department—thankfully an empty elevator at the moment—did his jaw go from a tooth-breaking clench to a grimace. He leaned against the rear wall of the car, sucking air. He shifted, letting his right leg take most of his weight.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform slacks. Uniform. After eight years in plain clothes, despite several weeks in uniform on desk duty, he still considered his sheriff’s uniform something worn to ceremonies. Or funerals. Not so far off, really. A funeral for his career.
Well, if he wasn’t a detective for the sheriff’s department anymore, he might as well hold a wake. When the elevator dinged at the ground floor, he squared his shoulders and, ducking his head against the ever-present Oregon drizzle, made his way out of the building toward his car. At least the weather matched his mood.
He avoided the Thunderbird Grill, where he’d have to face too many colleagues, and drove across town to MacGinty’s. He succumbed to the pain in his leg and limped from his car to the pub. Brushing the raindrops from his hair, he found an empty stool near the end of the bar. When the bartender approached, he handed her his car key. “Macallan. Twelve year. Leave the bottle.”
She lifted an eyebrow, her gaze fixed on his chest. “You sure about that, Officer Whelan?”
He glanced down. Right. He should have gone home and changed. He should have gone home period. He gave the bartender a weak smile. “I’m off duty. But you’re right. Just give me the bottle. And my key.”
Back at his apartment, he stared at the bottle in his hand. With a resigned sigh, he put it in his liquor cabinet. So much for a wake. Head pounding, he stripped off his damp uniform, letting it puddle on the floor. Wearing nothing but his socks and briefs, he headed for the bathroom. After twenty minutes in a steamy shower, the aches in his muscles eased, and a semblance of feeling human returned.
He dried off, wrapped the towel around his hips, and padded out to the dining room. He stood in front of the closed door of his liquor cabinet for several minutes, then turned away.
Don’t be stupid.
He dragged a hand through his wet hair. He found a loaf of rye bread with some life left in it, and some cold cuts a mere two days beyond their expiration date. After eating two sandwiches, his headache retreated and his mood lifted. Meds and an empty stomach—not a good combination.
Don’t be stupid.
The LT had shown unusual restraint. Normally, he’d have said something closer to “Don’t be an asshole.” Everyone was coddling him since the incident.
Scott yawned. The sensible thing to do would be to hit the rack early, not show up for his first day in Pine Hills looking and feeling like something the cat wouldn’t bother dragging in.
Would it kill him to be sensible just once?
This new job at the podunk police department in Pine Hills was hardly a job at all. Not even a sworn officer. He’d almost turned it down. But deep down, he knew the LT had pulled strings, and damn it to hell, anything beat sitting around in his apartment, which was only a couple notches higher than lying in a hospital room.
He kicked his uniform halfway across the room, cursing as pain shot up his leg.
You’re still on the job. Just not the way you used to be.
***
Tempted to ignore the ringtone telling her the contractor was calling, Ashley Eagan clenched her teeth and fished the offending device from the depths of her purse. What now? Forcing a cheery note to her voice, she said, “Tell me it’s good news, Carl.” Phone to her ear, she pressed the elevator button. “I’m on my way.”
Carl called daily with his updates, most of which were reasons why the construction work on her bakery was even further behind schedule—so much that she feared she might have to postpone her grand opening. If only the bank would let her postpone her payments. No way that was going to happen. But no way was her grand opening not going to happen. She’d find a way. The elevator arrived, and as soon as the doors closed, she lost the cell signal.
When she reached the lobby, Ashley punched Carl’s number into her phone. Impatiently, she waited for him to pick up while she dug for her car keys. Distracted by her concern, she careened into someone as she rushed across the tile floor. Two someones, actually. The building manager, Mr. Spencer, and another man. She heard a hissed intake of breath.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled reflexively, her attention centered on finding out what today’s bakery disaster had been.
“No problem,” the man said.
Ashley glanced up long enough to notice his close-cropped sandy-red hair, a jacket and tie. Here on some sort of official business, she supposed, since hardly anyone wore ties in Pine Hills. The two men moved on, and she returned her attention to her own problems.
“Pick up, Carl,” she muttered under her breath. His voicemail kicked in, and she disconnected without leaving a message. The bakery was a fifteen minute ride away. Hearing about yet another snafu could wait that long.
She shouldn’t have trusted Carl when he’d said his projected completion date would be absolutely no later than the middle of May. What contractor ever gave a realistic finish time? But he’d come highly recommended, and everything had zipped along at the beginning. She hadn’t been totally stupid—she planned her grand opening for June 15th. Of course, as soon as she’d spent money on ads and promotion, delay piled on delay, bills piled on bills.
Moving to Pine Hills and opening her own bakery specializing in chocolate had taken all her savings, not to mention loans she’d be lucky to pay off in ten years. Everyone back in Pittsburgh thought she was crazy, and maybe she was, but it would be worth it, doing something she loved, something all on her own.
She tossed her purse on the passenger seat of her Chevy Sonic and tried to focus on the positive as she drove toward the Pine Hills business district. She passed the redbrick buildings of what passed for downtown, and headed for the old buildings converted into the charming retail space that had drawn her to Pine Hills. The sun peeked through breaks in the silver clouds, and the flowering plum trees danced in the breeze. Surprised to find a slot on the street, she grabbed it and headed down the sidewalk toward her store. She still got chills thinking of it that way. Her store.
As she approached, Maggie Cooper, who worked at That Special Something, the gift boutique next to the soon-to-be-bakery, intercepted her.
Ashley sighed. Maggie was sweet, but she did tend to ramble on. And on.
“Good morning, Maggie.” Ashley smiled, but didn’t stop walking.
“Did they find who did it?” Maggie asked.
Ashley’s heart thumped. “Who did what?”
“I thought you knew.”
Ashley half-ran the last few yards to her store. Shards of glass littered the sidewalk. Ignoring the crunch under her feet, she stood in front of what should have been the picture window affording everyone a look at her wares. Instead, she s
aw sheets of plywood.
Belinda Nesbitt, who ran The Happy Cook, a kitchen specialty shop on the other side of Ashley’s bakery, stepped outside and gave Ashley a sympathetic finger-wave. Ashley shrugged, and Belinda popped back inside her boutique. Carl came forward, carrying a push broom.
“What happened?” Ashley said. She sensed Maggie hovering behind her, obviously wanting all the down and dirty.
“Sorry about this, Ms. Eagan. I’ve already got the new window on order. Rush. No extra charge, of course.” Carl started sweeping the glass from the sidewalk.
“Vandals?” she asked.
Carl rubbed his chin. “No, I’m sure it was an accident. Haven’t had anyone ’fess up, but I’ll be talking to the crew, you can count on it.”
Ashley sighed. “When will the new window get here?”
“Day after tomorrow. And I’ve got the sign painter coming in that afternoon. You’ll be ready to go. No problem.”
No problem. Carl’s mantra.
“Why don’t you come have some tea with me before I have to open?” Maggie asked.
Have some tea. Maggie’s mantra. A different kind of tea for every problem. “In a bit, Maggie. Thanks.”
“I have some ideas for your grand opening.” Maggie bustled off, her “I Love Lucy” red curls bouncing.
While Carl dealt with cleaning the sidewalk, Ashley wandered through her half of the converted Victorian, what would soon—she hoped—become Confections by Ashley. Merely thinking about it calmed her. Trying to see beyond the workers painting the walls a shade of mocha and the pounding from the restroom area, she envisioned her completed shop.
The hardwood floor, under canvas drop cloths now, but soon to be polished to a gleam. The small, tile-topped tables scattered throughout the seating area. And, to encourage a break from the typical hectic pace so prevalent today, some small upholstered chairs and maybe even a loveseat or two. And end tables. Let her customers linger over coffee. And her chocolate confections.
Her gaze moved across the space, imagining her bakery case, soon to be filled with cookies, cupcakes, brownies, and her own specialty, Decadent and Deadly Chocolate Fudge Cake.
After Carl came back inside, he and Ashley went over what had been done, what was left to do, and they did their routine walk-through. A glimmer of optimism eased its way into her mind. Until a crash and an expletive she didn’t recognize, yet completely understood, burst forth from the restroom area.
Carl rushed off, Ashley at his heels.
What now?
Inside one of the restrooms, a worker, surrounded by chunks of porcelain, clutched his forearm. He and Carl exchanged some words in Spanish, then Carl turned to Ashley. “He was setting the toilet and lost his grip.”
“Is he hurt? Should I call an ambulance?”
More Spanish. Despite the worker’s olive complexion, there was a sickly pallor to his skin.
“It’ll probably be faster if I drive him,” Carl said. He helped the man to his feet. “I’ll drop him off and be right back. No problem. This is a standard fixture. I’ll stop on my way from the emergency room and pick up another one.”
Anxiety that she’d have to cancel her grand opening—or worse, that she’d have to admit defeat—twisted her insides. Maybe a cup of one of Maggie’s touted relaxing brews would help settle the anxiety. She left the remaining workers to their tasks and went next door.
Maggie greeted her with a smile and ushered her through the boutique to the small office in the back of the store. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the tea. Would you like a scone to go with it? Not as good as yours, I’m sure.”
There was something so normal about having tea with Maggie. Ashley allowed herself the break. “Don’t be silly. I’d love one.”
“How are things going?” Maggie asked.
So much for not thinking about her current crisis. “I don’t know. Carl says, ‘No problem’ no matter what. There are times I think he’s hired the Klutz Brigade for subs.”
Maggie’s face went slack, as if she were reading something in the space over Ashley’s shoulder. Seconds later, she blinked and shook her head.
“What?” Ashley said. “Do you know something?”
Maggie patted Ashley’s hand. “Oh, no, Sweetie. I was having a flashback to Sarah’s problems. But it’s impossible.”
“What problems?” Ashley had met Sarah, the owner of That Special Something, and Randy, her fiancé, but Sarah had been totally immersed in wedding plans at the time, and now she was off on her honeymoon. How could any problems Sarah might have had relate to Ashley’s bakery snafus?
Maggie thrust the plate of scones toward Ashley. “Like I said, there can’t be a connection. Sarah’s ex-boyfriend was sabotaging her shop. But that was personal, and he’s in prison now, so there’s no reason to think he could possibly be involved.” She smiled and patted Ashley’s hand. “Like you said, Carl probably hired too many klutzes. False economy, of course. They might work cheaper, but he’s paying the price.”
“This ex-boyfriend. You said he’s in prison?”
Maggie grinned. “In New Jersey. Randy put him away but good.”
“On the off chance there might actually be a connection, what’s his name?”
“Christopher Westmoreland. Do you know him?”
Ashley tried to think. Could he have been someone connected to her ex-fiancé? Nothing registered. “Never heard of him. I guess you’re right about the Klutz Brigade. I hope Carl gets everything together for the grand opening.”
Maggie leaned forward. “Well, maybe I can help. I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter 2
Scott Whelan bit back a curse as pain shot through his leg, sending black spots dancing through his field of vision. He sucked in a breath. The woman paying more attention to her cell phone than to where she was going hadn’t hit him hard, just enough to throw him off balance, and his injured leg protested when he’d tried to compensate.
“No problem,” Mr. Spencer had said to the woman.
Yeah, right. Not for you.
The manager continued his monologue as he led Scott to an apartment down the hall. Scott forced a polite smile and tried to focus on the man’s interminable chatter while he gave the place a quick once-over. The furnished unit was standard motel issue, but Scott didn’t expect to be doing any formal entertaining. And the complex boasted—actually, Spencer did all the boasting—a fitness complex with a Jacuzzi. Scott was already looking forward to a long, hot dip in the whirlpool. Plus, he could rent here month to month. No commitment.
Scott had planned to wait at least a week or two before deciding whether to pick up and move to Pine Hills, but this morning had convinced him sooner was better than later. Since his injuries, it took him a good hour to get moving in the morning. A painful hour. Add that to an hour commute—no way.
“Thanks, Mr. Spencer. How soon can I move in?”
It took the man a full two sentences of his pre-packaged spiel for Scott’s words to register. His eyes widened behind his glasses.
“I have to be at work soon,” Scott said. “I’d like to get this done.”
Spencer recovered quickly enough. “Sure thing. Come on to my office and we’ll take care of everything. This is the model, you understand. But I’ve got one ready to go on the third floor.”
“I’d prefer a ground floor unit, if you’ve got one.”
Spencer glanced at Scott’s leg. “Sorry, nothing down here. But there are two elevators. And there’s a laundry room on that floor. We can take a look if you’d like.”
“It’s the same as this one?” Scott said.
Spencer smiled. “Identical. Maybe a bit nicer. Only one tenant, and everything’s been repainted. New carpet, too.”
Scott gave the man his cop stare. The one that said if things didn’t live up to the description, there would be hell to pay. Spencer didn’t flinch.
Scott nodded. “Then let’s sign the papers.”
After dealing with the inevitab
le paperwork, Scott took his keys upstairs and entered his new, if temporary, home. Mr. Spencer hadn’t exaggerated. The fresh paint smell still lingered. Vacuum tracks patterned the neutral brownish-grayish-bluish carpet. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. The empty refrigerator.
His stomach rumbled. He needed to grab something to eat before his appointment with Chief Laughlin.
Inside the elevator, Scott leaned against the rear wall of the car—his new, normal posture—and cursed his weaknesses.
Suck it up. You’re alive.
Scott made a quick pass through town, getting the lay of the land. A bank, an insurance company, a hardware store. No fast food joints. So much for a quick lunch.
He turned down the next street, where redbrick was replaced by what appeared to be old, converted homes. Something like his grandmother had lived in. What the hell was Felicitea? He slowed. A tea shop. A bit frou-frou for his taste, judging from the delicate cups and flowery china teapots. Gold Needle. Sewing stuff. Another one he wouldn’t be frequenting. A bookstore held some promise. That Special Something? Some kind of gift shop, it looked like. Next to that one, he saw a construction project underway. No telling what that would be; the window was boarded up. Still, growth was good.
He found the one chain supermarket in town and hurried inside, trying to ignore his protesting leg. He ordered a roast beef sandwich from the deli counter and started eating as he went back to his car.
Scott found a slot in the public lot behind the redbrick Pine Hills Municipal Building. A cluster of marked patrol cars and a van marked “Criminal Investigations” sat at the west end of the building. He assumed that’s where the police department was. A department too small to have its own building. He sighed.
He pulled open the door and stepped inside. And back in time about thirty years. Memories smacked him like a blow from a patrolman’s baton.
Although he was due in Laughlin’s office in minutes, he paused long enough to take in the polished tile floors, the worn wooden benches, and the faint smell of disinfectant in the lobby. In the far corner, a man in blue coveralls wielded a string mop over a patch of floor, wrung the mop out in a bucket on wheels, then placed a yellow plastic sign warning the public to be careful. His father had worked in a building not unlike this one, scraping gum off the floors, waxing the benches, and scrubbing the bathrooms. Scott recalled too many Saturdays when he’d sat on one of those benches, waiting for his father to finish, wishing he could be at the playground with the other kids.
