Flourless to Stop Him

by Nancy J. Parra

  “I have gluten-free breadsticks in the freezer.”

  “Well, why didn’t you heat them up?”

  “I’m on a diet,” I said. “You want me to start dating, then I need to get into fighting shape.” Things had gone a little soft since I returned to Oiltop and started my bakery. I hadn’t had a lot of time to devote to my health. It didn’t help that I had been working on developing new recipes for the holidays.

  “You might be on a diet, but I’m not.” Grandma scooped up another forkful of lasagna.

  “I’m not heating the breadsticks, Grandma,” I stated. “Neither one of us needs them.”

  Grandma frowned at me. “Fine. I prefer real bread anyway.”

  It was my turn to give Grandma the evil eye. She was better at ignoring me than I was at ignoring her. “What are we going to do about this murder?”

  “That’s the question,” Grandma said. “You have to investigate. We can’t trust Officer Emry to investigate his way out of his squad car.”

  “Officer Bright is good at his job.”

  “Officer Bright was in Tim’s class in school. Those two were huge rivals, if you don’t remember.”

  Okay, so I didn’t remember. High school was a blur of angst and drama. The last thing I paid attention to were the boys in Tim’s class. “I don’t remember, but even so, they’re both adults now.”

  Grandma frowned at me. “Apparently you’re not a good observer of men.”

  I cringed. “Guilty as charged.” I raised my hands in the air. “It’s why I shouldn’t date.”

  “Dating is a whole different story.” Grandma shrugged. “A woman your age should be out having fun. Not stuck in an old house with an old woman, discussing old rivalries.”

  I got up and gathered up the empty dishes. “So you came to eat my food and give me a hard time about my life?”

  “I came to see you.” Grandma was not bothered in the least by my words. “You were involved in another murder. I wanted to ensure you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay, Grandma.” I picked up the tray of empty dishes. “I’m sorry Candy beat you to the scoop on the death of a man at the Red Tile.”

  “I’m not worried about a little competition from that young woman.” Grandma stood as well and waddled out to the hall with me. “I’ve got something better than the police radio.”

  “What’s that?” I narrowed my eyes.

  “I’ve got the senior grapevine. Nothing better than a gaggle of retirees to keep you up-to-date on the comings and goings in a small town.”

  “Then you don’t need me to investigate.” I walked into the kitchen. The floor of the kitchen was patterned with black and white tiles. The cabinets were original to the house. Mom had painted them white at some point. The countertops were recycled glass in a soft mixture of colors that ended up blending to mostly gray. The backsplash was made up of black and white subway tiles. The pattern mirrored the floor.

  My bright pink stand mixer stood in its place of honor on the counter by the window. I remember doing dishes as a kid and spending an hour looking out that window to our fenced-in backyard.

  “I don’t need you to get a decent story.” Grandma leaned her considerable girth against my cream-painted wall. “But that doesn’t mean your brother Tim doesn’t need your help.”

  “If Tim needs my help, he’ll ask for it.” I rinsed out the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “So far only Joan has called me.” I waved toward the phone and the currently blinking light letting me know I had voicemail.

  “Joan wants you to investigate?” Grandma frowned.

  “Joan wants me to bring cookies to Emma’s classroom for her birthday celebration at school.” I added soap to the dishwasher and started it.

  Aubrey trotted through the kitchen and scratched at the back door. I opened it and let him out into the cold, fenced yard.

  “She didn’t know about Tim being implicated in a murder. You need to call her and tell her.”

  “Why? So she can talk me into investigating? Or so she comes to Oiltop with her brood to ensure we’re all behaving ourselves here.”

  Grandma grinned. “She has always been like your father with that. Practical to a fault.”

  “What’s the fault?”

  “No imagination,” Grandma huffed. She turned on her heels and waddled over to the scooter, which she had purchased when the county took away her driver’s license. She drove the thing into any building with access ramps and some without. She also drove it down the middle of the street. My brother had put a tall orange triangle on the scooter so that people could see her coming and get out of the way. “Are you going to help your brother or not?”

  I ran my hand over my face. “I tell you what. I’ll help investigate if Tim asks me. That’s it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the sneaky look in her eye. “Good.”

  “Got to run, kiddo.” Grandma reversed her scooter until I had to yet again jump out of the way to keep from losing my toes. “Give an old woman a kiss.”

  I stepped up and kissed her on her grizzled cheek. “Love you, Grandma.”

  “Love you, too, kiddo,” she said and waved as she scooted out the door. She paused the scooter half in and half out of the front door. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Mindy is coming for a visit and I told her there was an open room in your house.”

  “Mindy?” I asked and winced inside. Mindy was not my favorite cousin. She acted as if she was too good for the family. “When is she coming?” I mentally did a quick inventory of bedrooms and clean sheets.

  “Soon,” Grandma said. “Don’t forget, you promised to investigate this terrible murder.”

  “If Tim asks, then I’ll investigate,” I said again. “In the meantime I have to get a room ready for Mindy, and I have peanut butter cookies to bake tonight for an online order.”

  “Love the peanut butter cookies. Save me some!” And just like that, Grandma Ruth was gone out the door and down the ramp before I could so much as thank her for thinking of me—even if it wasn’t for the best.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I need a place to hide,” Tim said as he stood in the lamplight behind the bakery.

  “It’s four in the morning,” I said as I unlocked the back door. “There’s no one to hide from.”

  “Come on, Toni, this isn’t funny.” Tim followed me inside. He’d never settled down. My oldest brother Richard’s responsible streak had sent Tim in the opposite direction. While Richard worked hard, Tim glided through life. His tall, lanky body and scruffy dirty-blond hair made him a favorite with the ladies. “The cops have someone cruising through my neighborhood once an hour.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said as I flipped on the lights. “It’s not that bad.” The kitchen of the bakery blazed into full view. The scent of natural cleaner filled the air. It was a delicate balance between the health inspector’s standards and the health of my customers. I tended to clean with all-natural products like vinegar, lemon juice, and baking soda. People with gluten allergies are often sensitive to the environment. Any kind of chemical, even cleaners, could cause a reaction.

  This meant that my kitchen usually smelled like salad dressing until I got the proofer warmed up. Then the scent of yeast rising and cinnamon filled the air.

  “I’m telling you, Toni. The cops are out to get me.” Tim pulled out one of the chairs at the table I had snugged up against the wall opposite the countertops. He flipped the chrome chair with red vinyl cushion around and swung his legs over it. He put his forearms on the back of the chair and rested his forehead on his arms.

  I put my purse on the counter by the coat tree next to the door. Hung my keys up on the hooks near the door and took off my puffy jacket. December meant I came to work in darkness and went home in darkness. It also meant th
at bitter windchills danced around the buildings downtown. Puffy down coats were my favorite thing to ward off freezing to death.

  “Are you talking about Officer Emry? Because everyone knows he’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box.” I hung my coat on the tree and pulled an apron off the hook.

  “It’s Bright.” Tim spoke to the floor. “He wants me to come back for more interrogation. Thank goodness you sent Ridgeway over. Brad kept me from hours of questions, and who knows what would have happened.”

  “Nothing,” I reassured him. “You’re innocent.” I pulled the large white apron over my head and wrapped the ties around my waist, pulling them tight.

  “Innocent guys go to jail all the time.” Tim blew out a long breath and ran his hand over his face. “Don’t you listen to the news? They just released some guy after twelve years in prison. DNA finally proved he didn’t do it.”

  I put my hands on my hips and frowned at my brother. “That’s not going to happen to you.”

  “Then there was the guy whose daughter was murdered and after twelve hours of interrogation and grief he confessed.” Tim’s blue eyes grew wide. “No one believed him when he withdrew his coerced confession. Six months later they found the actual guy who killed his kid.”

  “Seriously, stop it,” I said. He was worrying me. “You won’t confess unless you did it.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks.”

  “I’m making coffee. It’s too early for me to deal with all this negativity.”

  “We have to find the real killer,” Tim said. “Grandma Ruth says you can do it.”

  I put a filter in the hopper and opened the canister with the coffee inside. The sharp scent of roasted beans filled the air. “Grandma likes the idea that I can do it,” I said and measured the grounds. “I’m a baker, not an investigator.”

  “You solved the last two murders,” Tim pointed out.

  “I thought you didn’t pay attention to me.” I hit the BREW button and turned toward my brother.

  Unlike my puffy coat, Tim wore a denim coat with shearling interior. It hung open, exposing a black sweatshirt and the edge of a red tee sticking out underneath. His jeans were clean but well worn. His feet were encased in brown steel-toed work boots. Tim was ruggedly handsome and wore it well.

  “How can I not pay attention to you? You’re my sister,” he groused. “So are you going to help me or not?”

  “Well, of course I’ll help you,” I said. “You are my brother. Besides Oiltop is a small town. What happens to you affects the entire family.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll investigate, but only because it would save your business.” He straightened away from the back of the chair.

  “Okay, sure.” I shrugged then looked at him with the expression a sister gives a brother when she thinks he’s acting stupid.

  “Great.” Tim put his hands on his thighs. “What do we do first?”

  “We don’t do anything,” I said. “You go home and go to bed. You have to work.”

  “How am I supposed to sleep? Someone used my name to rent a room and kill a man.”

  “Did they tell you who the victim was?” I pulled big ceramic bowls of yeasty dough out of the refrigerator and put them on the countertop. “When I went to bed last night they were still saying it was an unidentified man.”

  “Yeah, you know people should die with ID on them.” Tim leaned forward onto the back of the chair.

  “So they still don’t know? How can they connect some random guy to you?”

  “That’s it,” Tim said. “They tried to get me to ID the dude.”

  “They showed you pictures?”

  “Yeah, nice, right?”

  I sprinkled sticky rice flour on the cold marble slab on my countertop. “Did you recognize him?” I dumped the large bowls of dough into piles to warm. The scent of yeast and dough wafted through the air.

  “Naw, his face was too messed up. I don’t think I know him.”

  “So then what? Did someone steal your identity?” I grabbed two thick white ceramic mugs off the shelf and poured us both cups of hot coffee. I handed Tim his cup. I grabbed half-and-half from the refrigerator and poured some into mine. I used to like my coffee black but had read that coffee could leach the calcium out of your bones. If you drink it with a splash of milk you slow down that process.

  Grandma Ruth had shrunk nearly four inches with osteoporosis. I hoped to not repeat her mistakes. I mean, what do we have grandparents for if not to learn from them? Of course, we were both divorced, so I suppose there are some things a girl has to learn for herself.

  I handed Tim the creamer. He poured some into his coffee and then dumped in half a cup of sugar. I shook my head and sipped my warm, rich, creamy, bitter brew. “How can you drink it so sweet?”

  “How can you drink it so bitter?” he countered with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think I had my identity stolen,” he said and tasted his coffee. “But that’s a good point.”

  “Don’t you check?” I asked. “They have these companies now that will keep an eye out for identity theft.”

  “Who has the time?” He leaned on the chair back, the warm mug held between his hands. “Besides, this is Oiltop. Who would steal my identity here?”

  “Someone did.” I lowered my chin and gave him the duh look. “Unless that was you at the Red Tile Inn.”

  “It was not me.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m getting myself together. Isn’t that what your forties are for?”

  “I thought that was what your thirties were for,” I teased. “Twenties are to figure out who you are. Thirties to get your stuff together and forties to be a grown-up.”

  “Being a grown-up stinks,” Tim said.

  “Sometimes.” I nodded my agreement. “I’ll have Grandma do a credit check on you and see if anything is out of the ordinary. If we can prove your identity was stolen, then they have to dismiss you as a person of interest.”

  “Fine.”

  “In the meantime you can crash back at the house if you think the cops will keep you from getting sleep.”

  “Thanks.” Tim rose and finished off his coffee in one single gulp. “Are Tasha and Kip still there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Also, Grandma said something about Mindy coming for a visit. So take the back bedroom. There are sheets and blankets in the cupboard.”

  “Mindy? I haven’t seen her in like five years.”

  “I know, right? Grandma tells me Mindy is serious about this new guy she’s seeing.”

  “Is she bringing him?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. Grandma didn’t say.” I shrugged. “She might want Grandma’s approval.”

  “Cool, now I have to stay at the house.” Tim grinned, stood, and kissed me on the cheek. “Consider me moved back for a bit, okay, sis?”

  “Okay.” I patted him on the arm. “Just pay attention to your credit, okay? I mean, if someone stole your identity, you could have bills you don’t even know about.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He buttoned up his coat. “Solve this thing for me, okay?”

  “I’m not making any promises. It’s Christmas and do-or-die time at the bakery. Plus I think I’m really bad at investigating. I don’t want to muck it up for you, either.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said. His tone sounded defeated.

  “Calvin’s a good guy, really. I think you can trust him.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He popped a NASCAR cap on his head. “Lock the door behind me.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, but did as he said and turned the dead bolt behind him. Oiltop might not be Chicago, but that didn’t mean we didn’t have our fair share of crime. I learned that after George Meister’s murder just outside the bakery’s front door a few months ago.

  Turning on the radio, I let the soft sounds of twenty-four hours of Chris
tmas music waft through the kitchen. I know listening to the radio is old-fashioned these days, but I like the homey feel of Christmas music and the sound of the local news.

  At least they weren’t giving the farm report on this station. While I didn’t need it, quite a few of my customers still got up and listened to the report. It was part of living in the country, surrounded by farms and ranches.

  I took out the dough that I prepped the night before and made donuts and rolled pastries. There was a nice rhythm to baking. It was almost like a dance. Most of the dough was made ahead so that all I had to do in the early morning hours was bake, cool, and frost to fill my counter. While those batches baked, I made a couple dozen big muffins. More batches came out of the oven and went on cooling racks while fresh batches went into the oven.

  I had three batches of gluten-free rolls and breads to make. A couple of customers came in for bread on Tuesday and I had a daily order of ten sub rolls for the deli down the street. That order had been a coup for me. With the help of handsome rancher Sam Greenbaum, I had managed to convince the deli owner to add gluten-free choices to his menu.

  So far he’d been happy with the rise in demand. I bit my bottom lip and kneaded the first bowl of dough. Sure, the demand might simply be from people’s curiosity and experimentation with eating gluten-free, but for those of us who had to eat gluten-free, it was nice to have options. Since he’d already had gluten-free versions of deli meats and cheeses, the bread was the only missing ingredient for fast lunches.

  My thoughts turned to the impending visit of my cousin Mindy McCree. I was one of fifty-two of Grandma Ruth’s grandkids and even more great-grandkids. The members of my family tended to identify themselves by their birth number. I’m number two of six. Mindy was number seven of twelve. My uncle Alfred had twelve children. Six with his first wife, Betty, who had died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. Then he had married my aunt Helen, who gave him six more children. Mindy was the oldest of Helen’s girls and about ten years younger than me.