She lived in New York City and had spent her twenties traveling Europe on scholarships. Last I heard she was in law school and had been hired by some quasi-famous law firm. Grandma was proudest of her grandkids who took up the family cause of higher education. Not that she wasn’t proud of me and my bakery. She simply liked to point out that I could be a lifetime Mensa member, too, if I only put my mind to it and took the test.
I had enough to do keeping my bakery going; the last thing I needed was to prove my intelligence level. Besides, baking gluten-free was a creative challenge that kept me busy. Let my cousins be Mensa members and college professors. There was nothing wrong with my keeping the homestead as a base for the family. Was there?
After I had baked the morning dough, I started in on the daily breads. Today I created tiny sub rolls and placed them on a greased cookie sheet, then placed them in the proofer to rise. Next I made four loaves of white sandwich bread and three loaves of potato bread. Once I completed the usual morning baked goods, I concentrated on cookies. Christmastime was the season for cookie exchanges at schools and churches and clubs. Most women worked full-time and didn’t have time to bake cookies—especially gluten-free cookies, so they relied on me to have a wide assortment available for their exchange offerings.
Today’s cookies were pistachio thumbprints with cream filling and chocolate drizzle. Then there were usual chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin along with spumoni cookies with layers of pistachio, cherry, and vanilla. Next were pinwheels—a favorite of my father’s father, a robust man with Popeye’s strong forearms and a wicked mutter. If you listened carefully, Grandpa would say the most hilarious things. Most people today didn’t take the time to listen.
Grandpa Henry had been kept alive decades past his shelf life by the pure stubbornness of Grandma Mary before they both passed away the same night. They had been married sixty-five years, and it seemed that Grandpa had stayed alive until Grandma died and then simply gone with her. I suppose that was a romantic view, but then I liked the romantic view.
Grandpa and Grandma had been gone five years now, but every Christmas I made pinwheel cookies and remembered the other side of my family. The side with slightly fewer members, who worked the oil fields and factories.
The pounding at the back door startled me out of my thoughts and the fast dance of baking, filling, and frosting. I looked out of the peephole I had drilled. There was a bright orange triangle flapping in the wind. The loud banging again. Wham, wham, wham. “Toni? Let me in—it’s cold out here.”
I unlocked the door and hadn’t quite opened it when Grandma pushed through on her Scootaround. “Grandma? It’s five thirty in the morning.”
“I know. I need coffee.” She pushed her scooter up to the table, displacing the chair that Tim had tucked back under. “I take it the coffee’s ready.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I said and dragged a third ceramic mug from the shelf. I poured thick hot brew into it and took it over to Grandma. She liked it as sweet as Tim did but instead of sugar, she used the pink packets. Not the blue ones; it had to be the pink ones. Grandma was also a lifelong member of Weight Watchers. It worked when she followed it—following it was the key. These days she didn’t care about her size, but the pink packets were a habit from those days that stuck.
“I’ve been awake for hours,” Grandma said. “Trying to figure out who the victim was and why the killer would frame your brother.”
Grandma took her brown fedora off. Today she wore a multicolored knit scarf that my cousin Desiree had knitted her. It was longer than Grandma was tall, but she wore it proudly wrapped around and around her neck. Under the scarf, she wore a thick puffy coat that had been blue at one point but now had coffee and cigarette stains on it until it was nearly brown. Under the coat I saw a white Peter Pan collar with a bright blue butterfly print on it.
Grandma Ruth’s sense of style always amazed me. Her legs were covered in brown corduroy men’s pants, her feet encased in thick boots. I handed her the coffee mug.
“No gloves, Grandma? It’s less than twenty degrees outside.” I frowned at her.
“Gloves are in my pockets,” she said and took the mug. Her fingertips were a telltale blue.
“You can’t type if you don’t have fingers.”
“I had them on, but I took them off when you didn’t answer my first knock. I figured they were muffling the sound.”
As if her gloveless hands were my fault.
She pulled five pink packets out of the holder and shook them deftly before tearing the tops off and dumping the contents into her cup. “Spoon?”
“Right here.” I handed her a spoon from the side drawer. “Tim is going to stay at the homestead for a while,” I said. “I told him Mindy was coming, so he’s crashing in the back bedroom.”
“Good.” Grandma nodded and stirred her coffee. She reached for the small pitcher of creamer that I kept on the table and poured a good dollop into her drink. “Do you have any leftover donuts?”
“No leftovers, I made cranberry walnut today,” I said. “They’re in the front counter but if you wait a few minutes there are some cinnamon spice donuts in the oven. You can get them super fresh.”
“I don’t see why you can’t fry your donuts like everyone else.” Grandma wrapped both hands around her mug and sipped her coffee. Her heavily freckled skin had a lovely tan hue to it that made her look nearly as orange as her hair. Her fingernails were strong and clipped short. A reporter needs to type more than she needs to have long nails, Grandma had always said.
I liked her plain nails. I kept mine plain. There was something clean and honest about hardworking hands. Besides, I always chipped my polish and with my hands in dough every day it really wasn’t the best to cover my fingers with polish. “Baked donuts are healthier,” I said. “Besides, I don’t have a fryer.”
“You should invest in one.” Grandma nodded. “You could fry everything from donuts to fruit to candy bars. I bet they would sell better, too.”
“Maybe,” I acknowledged. “But I think there’s enough sugar and fat in gluten-free food without frying. Besides, I read somewhere that a fried diet was responsible for an increase in stroke risk.”
“A person has to die sometime,” Grandma said. “At least I’d die happy.”
I raised my right eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “You don’t have to eat my pastries.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with your baked goods. They’re good . . . and they’re baked. Just saying you should get a fryer, too.”
“Grandma, why are you here?” I returned to mixing cookie dough.
“They identified the body,” Grandma declared. “It was Harold Petry.”
CHAPTER 5
“How do you know it was Harold Petry?” I asked. Harold was Tim’s best friend. I think I would have recognized him. Of course, I hadn’t seen him in four years, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t know him when I saw him. Did it?
Besides, Tim would have definitely known him. Hadn’t they shown Tim pictures of the dead guy?
“I can’t reveal my sources,” Grandma said and slurped her coffee. “Tim’s going to be a wreck when he finds out.”
I bit my bottom lip. “It can’t be Harold. Both Tim and I would have known it was him.”
“They showed Tim pictures of the body?” Grandma asked with a scowl. She shook her head. “It’s going to kill Tim. It was definitely Harold,” Grandma stated. “Dental records and fingerprints ID’d him.”
“But Harold was a heavy guy with dirty-blond hair. . . .”
“The kid lost a lot of weight lately. He claimed that he found a miracle weight-loss drug.” Grandma drummed her long square fingers on the red Formica top of the table. “The kid tried to sell me some, but I refused to fall for that a second time.”
“Fall for what?”
“The weight-loss thing,”
Grandma said. “Back in the day my doctor told me cigarettes would keep me slender. We all know how that turned out. Besides I think whatever he was selling made his hair fall out. He tried to cover it up with a bad comb-over but he wasn’t fooling anyone.”
“Do you think Harold was dealing drugs?” I finished making the pistachio cookies and put the dough in the fridge to chill. Then I grabbed a chilled bowl of oatmeal raisin dough and scooped the dough out of the bowl and onto oversized aluminum cookie sheets. Oatmeal raisin cookies were a staple in the bakery. I baked mine soft so that they were chewy and large enough that the little kids had to use two hands to hold them.
“I have no idea,” Grandma said. “Are those donuts done yet? Or do I have to go snitch a couple from the counter?”
I put the cookie sheet in the top oven and checked the donut pan in the bottom. “These look done.” As I pulled them out, the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the air. “They’re hot,” I said. “When they cool, I’ll throw a couple in frosting for you.”
The fastest way to frost donuts was to literally toss them into a tub of frosting, twist, and set them on a wire rack long enough for the frosting to set. I had made a batch of cream cheese frosting for the donuts and the carrot cake cupcakes I planned to make before noon.
“I’m just saying the kid lost something like eighty pounds and claimed it was a miracle pill he took.” Grandma watched as I popped the donuts out of the pan to cool. “You don’t have to frost the first one. I’ll sacrifice and eat it plain.”
“Well, he didn’t die of an overdose,” I said. “There was blood everywhere. I’m certain he was mortally wounded.”
“Knife wounds,” Grandma surmised as I plated her donut and handed it to her.
“Hard to tell,” I said. “The body was in the bathtub, wrapped in the shower curtain, and there was blood pretty much everywhere. Not that this is decent conversation for breakfast.”
“I lived through the Great Depression,” Grandma said and bit into her donut. “I can eat just about anything at any time.” She patted her stomach. “Got the weight to prove it.”
I popped a second pan of donuts into the oven. It was nearly six and my assistant would be here by six thirty, when I opened the front door. So far I had donuts and muffins and Danish already in the glass containers. Cookies would be next along with two cakes that I had baked last night and frosted this morning.
Variety is the spice of life, or so I’ve been told.
“Unless you know how was he killed,” I said as I scooped more cookie dough onto a cooled sheet.
“I do. My sources tell me he was stabbed.”
“Hmm.” I frowned. “I didn’t see any knives.”
“You didn’t really look for them, either,” Grandma said and picked up her plate. “I’ll try the frosting now. Let you know what I think.”
I dropped the small scoop into the dough bowl, wiped my hands on a towel, and took her plate. “True, I didn’t look for a weapon.” I plucked a donut off the wire rack, threw it into the vat of frosting, twisted, and pulled it off, letting the frosting ooze over the donut and onto her plate.
“Two would be nice.”
“I thought you needed to watch your sugar intake,” I scolded and put the plate with one donut down in front of her.
Grandma cackled her booming scratchy laugh until she coughed. “I’m always watching my sugar, kiddo. It doesn’t mean I don’t like an extra donut now and then. Especially if they’re good-for-you baked and not fried.” She wiggled her eyebrows and bit into the donut. “Mmmm, mmmm.”
I shook my head. “So what we have is a dead best friend in a hotel room rented in my brother’s name. The only thing saving Tim is the fact that he works at night.”
“That’s the thing,” Grandma said around a second bite. “The estimated time of death is from four until six in the evening.”
“Wow.” I pulled out the chair and sat down hard. “Whoever framed Tim knew his schedule.”
“Yes.” Grandma nodded sagely. “Tim usually sleeps until four or five. He’s not likely to have an alibi during that time.”
“Why kill Harold?” I wondered. “Clearly this is more than identity theft.”
“Identity theft?”
“Tim came by this morning to ask if he could stay with me. I said yes, then I told Tim that whoever rented the room could have simply stolen his identity.” I shrugged. “It’s plausible.”
“Not if they did it and then killed Tim’s best friend.” Grandma frowned and handed me her empty coffee mug.
I got up and refilled her mug, handed it to her, and went back to my cookie dough. “You’re right. There are too many coincidences.”
“I’m glad Tim is staying with you,” Grandma said. “With Mindy coming into town he’ll have an alibi from now on.”
“If it’s not too late.”
“We’ll have to see how it plays out,” Grandma said. “I’ll do a background check on Tim to make sure everything is okay there. I’ll head over to the courthouse to do some digging into Harold’s background later today. There has to be a motive for murder. Which means Harold was more than a victim at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Tim’s social security number is in the family Bible,” I said. Truthfully, everyone’s social security number was listed in the Bible. It was Mom’s way of keeping track of us. The social security number went down beside our name, birthdate, baptismal date, first communion, and confirmation. There was even a line for our wedding dates—although mine was crossed out.
“I’ve got it,” Grandma said and tapped her temple. Then she twisted the colored scarf around her neck six or eight times, grabbed her gloves out of her pockets, put them on, and moved her scooter to the back door. “First I’ve got a water aerobics class at the Y. After that the library will be open. I’ll get on the Internet and do some digging.”
“Is Bill driving you?” I asked as I opened the door for her.
“Not today.” Grandma drove her scooter out the door. The tip of the orange caution triangle bent as she went through the door then bounced back in a wild wave as she motored into the parking lot. “Bill’s got a taxidermy seminar in Great Bend.”
“It’s too cold to drive your scooter,” I said as I checked out the size and density of the flurry of snow that fell from the sky. “Why don’t you wait? Meghan will be here shortly. I’ll have her drive you.”
“Nonsense,” Grandma said and moved down the back parking lot. “It’s only a mile or so. Toodles, kiddo. Lock the door behind you.”
How come I had to lock a door in a perfectly strong building but Grandma could scooter away into the darkness? With that orange flag flying above her, I think she was a bigger target than I was.
CHAPTER 6
Being gluten-free is not a bed of roses. I am careful, seriously careful, and yet there are still days when I got “glutened.” How do I know? I get sick—and not itchy, rashy sick, but tummy-bug sick.
“Meghan, are you sure you’re okay with covering the bakery this morning?” I asked as my stomach rumbled.
My assistant was young and beautiful. Just nineteen, she looked more like a tattoo artist than a baker, but I loved her anyway. Today her hair was dyed jet-black with a hot pink streak in the front. Black cat-eye liner streaked along the edge of her lids. She had wide, dark brown eyes and pierced eyebrows dyed to match her hair. Her skin looked like porcelain and her mouth was painted in a bright red cupid’s bow.
She had been more Goth when I hired her two months ago, but had recently segued into vintage pinup-girl makeup. She wore a white tee shirt and black pants. On her feet were the proper shoes for standing all day. She had rings tattooed on her right fingers. She had told me the tattoo was better than real because she could bake with her bare hands and not worry about cleaning under the rings.
I insisted that she be meticulous i
n my kitchen, and she was.
“Hey, no worries.” Meghan tied the apron around her waist. “You have the morning rush ready. With the cookie dough prepped as well, all I have to do is bake.” She waved her hand elegantly from the square blocks of frozen cookie dough I had made and frozen the night before toward the double oven. “Go home. Get some rest.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely and grabbed my coat from the coatrack next to the door.
“Any idea how you got glutened?” Meghan asked. “People will want to know.”
“Not here,” I said and waved my hand around the kitchen. “I cheated last night and grabbed French fries from the fast-food place on the corner. I know better. . . .” I sighed.
“It just means you’re human.” Meghan smiled. “Who can resist the siren call of hot greasy potatoes? Besides, like you said, they should be gluten-free. They’re just sliced potatoes deep fried with salt. Right?”
“In theory,” I said. “In reality there are a million ways for the fries to come in contact with gluten. They probably fried something coated in flour in the same grease. It’s as crazy as putting the gluten-free mixes next to the flour on the grocery store shelves. At least I’m not so sensitive I can’t walk down the flour aisle without getting sick.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Meghan agreed.
“I’m going to go take some medicine and rest. I’ll be back in time to close up,” I promised. “Thanks!”
“Hey, no sweat. This is the kind of stuff I signed up for.” Meghan smiled, stretching out the bright red into a perfect pouty grin. Oh, to be nineteen again.
“Great.” I pulled on my hat and gloves. “You have my cell phone number if you need to get ahold of me.”
“I do and I won’t,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, your baby will be safe with me.”
“I’m counting on it,” I said and stepped out into the cold. Since the sun had come up, the temperature had actually dropped. The sunlight was weak against a gray overcast sky. It smelled of snow and I wrapped my scarf around my face as I trudged across the parking lot. The bakery van was white, utilitarian, and, with only 75,000 miles on it, a great bargain. Thank goodness my brothers were good with mechanical things. I depended on my delivery van. I had a sneaking suspicion that without Tim, the vehicle would have kicked the bucket last year.
Flourless to Stop Him Page 5
