Flourless to Stop Him

by Nancy J. Parra

  “So you’ve decided not to help your brother.”

  “Wow, when you put it that way I sound like a horrible person.”

  “Don’t worry, we all know how busy you are.” Grandma kept up with the guilt.

  I rolled my eyes. “I called Brad, didn’t I? I’m letting Tim stay at the house, aren’t I? What more should I do?”

  “You could help me figure out who really did this.”

  “I love you, Grandma, but I’m up to my eyeballs in cookie orders.”

  “I can see that,” she said and licked her finger to pick up the crumbs left on her plate and shove them in her mouth. “Cookies are good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there any reason Meghan can’t bake some?”

  “Meghan has school finals this week. Her school has to come first.”

  “Is that why you’ve been sleeping in your office? Or is it because you think Tim is guilty and can’t bring yourself to sleep under the same roof as a killer?”

  “Grandma!”

  “What? Isn’t that a question the police might have for you? Have they interviewed you in depth yet?”

  “No and no,” I said, pulling baked cookies from the oven and putting in the new trays. I used parchment paper to cover the bottoms of the cookie sheets. It helps with slippage and cleaning the cookie sheets.

  “Well, my guess is that Officer Bright will be contacting you to talk about Tim,” Grandma said. “You are your brother’s alibi.”

  “Grandma, I’m not his alibi. I didn’t see him at all that night. He was at work and his apartment.”

  “Well, you certainly can tell them if Tim was home when any of these rooms were rented.” Grandma lifted a stack of papers.

  Curious, I went over and took the papers. She told the truth. She actually had printouts from several of the local hotels. “How did you get these?”

  “You know anyone with a computer and skills can get online and discover everything about you, from what color underwear you wear to when the last time you tithed to church was.” Grandma gave me the hairy eyeball.

  “I go to church,” I said. “Really, and if your sources are good enough they’ll know that I do give ten percent.”

  “They did.” Grandma sat up straight and sent me her oversized grin. “All my grands are good kids.”

  “Except Tim.” I pointed to the papers in my hand.

  “That’s not Tim,” Grandma said. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not Tim. I’m hoping you can help me figure out who this impersonator is.”

  I looked through the records. You could tell which hotels were favorite places for Oiltop’s relatives to stay. Some were filled with local names, while others—closer to the turnpike—had almost all strangers’ names.

  “It doesn’t make any sense. If you were trying to impersonate someone, why wouldn’t you make up a wide variety of names and stay at the trucker motels?”

  “What do you mean, ‘trucker motels’?”

  “The ones closest to the turnpike, where people generally don’t have reservations.”

  “Maybe because people would get suspicious if they recognized you coming in and writing different names down.”

  “I see. The smartest thing to do to hide in plain sight is to put down the name of a local.”

  “I’m going to find out who was on duty when this stranger rented the room. Maybe they can help me out.”

  “I’ve already been over this with Tasha,” I said and handed Grandma her papers back. “She wasn’t working the desk at the time the killer rented the room. And the Red Tile does not video its reception area.”

  “What about the outside areas?” Grandma asked.

  “There’s a camera on the corner of the outside. It basically covers the cars coming and going, not the people or which room they are staying in.”

  “But there is video. . . .”

  “Yes, Tasha gave it to Officer Strickland the day of the murder.” I tilted my head. “Wait, if they’ve looked at the video, then they know that Tim was never at the hotel.”

  “Rumor is that it’s still being processed.” Grandma waddled over to the coffeepot and poured herself another cup.

  “Please ask me and I’ll get it for you,” I said and plopped three more cookies on her plate as she clutched chairs until she was back to the table. The kitchen was not that large. I had asked her not to drive her scooter around inside. Grandma groused but did as I asked, all the while making a big production over how hard it was for her to get around without her scooter. Still, what worked for her endangered anyone else who could not get out of the way of the scooter fast enough. So you see why I waited on her hand and foot. It was purely to save myself from injury.

  “I will tell Brad about the video. He’ll ensure he gets to see it,” I said. “He gets to see all the evidence—right?”

  “Only if they arrest Tim.” Grandma bit into another cookie. She drew her eyebrows together and creased her forehead. “What’s in these?”

  “Why? Don’t you like them?” I asked. For Grandma to not like a cookie, there had to be something very wrong.

  “No, they’re good,” she said and studied the remaining part of the cookie. “Are they lemon bars?”

  “They’re lemon with a gluten-free sugar cookie crust.”

  “I wasn’t expecting lemon at all,” Grandma said. “Lemon bars are usually spring cookies.”

  “Really?” I tilted my head. “Mom made them every Christmas. She said they helped lighten the dessert tray filled with heavy cookie flavors.”

  “Talking about dessert trays”—Grandma popped the remainder of the cookie into her mouth then took a slurp of coffee—“I promised you’d cater the senior center’s Christmas lunch. There are a lot of older people who have special diets. Can you make any of these diabetic-friendly?”

  “I’ve been known to make cookies for people with diabetes as long as they watch the carbs in the rest of their meal. I won’t be responsible for sugar comas.”

  Grandma waved her big flat hand in the air. “We’re all grown-ups at the center,” she insisted. “If we eat ourselves into a coma, it’s because we choose to do so. You are free from all responsibility.”

  I put my hands on my hips and studied her. “I’ll call Grace Ledbetter and ask her how many cookies you’ll need. When’s the Christmas luncheon?”

  I grabbed a marker and went over to my working board, where I listed cookie orders and dates.

  “Next Thursday,” Grandma said. “We’ll need at least four dozen assorted on a couple of big trays.”

  “That’s a lot of cookies.” I raised both eyebrows.

  “Everyone comes out of the woodwork for the senior center party. Think of the exposure you’ll get.”

  “Right.” I bit my bottom lip and drew an arrow between two full days of baking and pointed it at the sideways words—Grandma senior center, diabetic cookies, 4 dozen assorted.

  I could do it if I made the Thursday cookies two days early and stored them in the freezer to have a baking marathon on Wednesday. I studied the overflowing schedule. What I really needed was an employee who was good with sugar work. It would be awesome to give the decorating work to someone else.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved to be creative in design, but at busy times like now, it would be nice to have help.

  “Grandma, do you know anyone with experience working with confection?”

  Grandma pursed her lips and moved them sideways in thought. “No, I don’t, but I can ask around. Are you wanting to hire someone?”

  There it was again: the problem of little to no cash flow. “I wish I could pay, but not yet. Instead I could offer them an internship and experience on their résumé.”

  “Then I’d go see Leslie Writ at the community college. She’s the head of the cooking school. I’m not so sure they
have anyone who can do more than flip burgers or make a mean milk shake, but it’s worth a try.” Grandma brushed the crumbs off her hands, hobbled over to her scooter, climbed aboard with a sigh, and backed around with a beep, beep, beep. “She might know someone from the culinary institute in KC.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” I said as I made a note on my scratch paper to make an appointment with Leslie.

  “My pleasure.” Grandma grabbed her overstuffed down coat from the coat tree near the door and put it on. “See ya, kiddo.” She stuffed her orange-red hair into her favorite fedora, pulled down the ear flaps she’d sewn into it, and tied them neatly under her chin.

  I walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It’s cold out there; do you want me to have Meghan get you a ride?”

  “No thanks,” Grandma said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m looking forward to doing donuts in the bank parking lot.”

  Grandma scootered out into the cold darkness of a winter morning. I watched as she hollered, “Yahoooo!” and did a couple donuts in the parking lot, barely missing the back of the van.

  I was this close to calling the cops on her, but her excitement for the season was fun to see. I closed the door, locked it, and went back to baking cookies.

  I rolled out gluten-free gingerbread to quarter-inch depth and cut out reindeer. Christmas carols played over the radio. As I slid another baking sheet into the top oven, the radio announcer came on. “Fourteen days until Christmas,” his deep voice said. “If you don’t have your gifts ready and wrapped, you’re going to be left with empty stores. So be sure and come to downtown Oiltop this week and shop Gray’s Hardware or Millie Green’s Antique Store. The big day is rapidly approaching. Don’t be left ordering things online. Trust me, a good wrench set the morning of Christmas far outweighs the best gift card under the tree.”

  Darn, I still hadn’t gotten any Christmas presents. I looked at the busy kitchen. It smelled of spice and molasses mixed with vanilla and chocolate. Meghan had put up a three-foot artificial tree in the corner of the counter nearest my office. Its fiber-optic lights glowed through the construction-paper ornaments she had placed on it.

  Christmas. I had only so much time to make cookies and fill orders. The regular fun of the season was lost in the sheer volume of work I was trying to get done.

  The good news was that my family didn’t mind the seconds that piled up haphazardly on plastic platters. Burnt sugar cookies always reminded me of Christmas. My mother tended to get distracted making cookies. Having six kids would do that.

  My poor mother would be a wreck if she were alive today to hear that the police thought Tim was a drug dealer and a possible murderer. In fact I could feel her ghost standing behind me with her arms crossed, tapping her foot, wondering why I wasn’t moving heaven and hell to see that Tim was proved innocent.

  CHAPTER 13

  “I saw Grandma Ruth trying to pop a wheelie on her scooter,” Meghan announced as she came into the kitchen. With a smooth move she took off her camo green coat and hung it on the coatrack. Her hat and gloves were stuffed inside.

  “I don’t think that’s possible on a Scootaround,” I said as I crumb-coated the three cakes that had to be out the door this afternoon. Cakes tend to have crumbs that get into the frosting. Bakers use buttercream to make a light first layer all over the cake to catch all the crumbs. We called that the crumb-coat. Once frosted, the cakes went back into the fridge to set.

  “All things are possible with Grandma Ruth.” Meghan grabbed an oversized bib apron from the hooks on the wall and wrapped it around her slender figure.

  Oh, to be nineteen and slim again. Not that I was curvy by any stretch of the imagination. When people described me they usually mentioned Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl. I guess that was better than being compared to Little Lotta. Still, it was hard to work with an attractive nineteen-year-old. Not that we would date the same guys or anything. For goodness’ sake, I could be her mom.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I was tired. That was all. I finished the crumb-coats and put the cakes in the freezer. Meghan started on the giant pile of dishes. Her black hair was casually twisted into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a white tee shirt and black slacks. When she’d come in, she’d traded her snow boots for a pair of comfortable athletic shoes. When you spent eight to ten hours on your feet each day, you were glad for sensible shoes.

  “Did you sleep here again?” Meghan asked.

  I grabbed a coffee mug and poured the dark brew. Then I sat at the table and put my tired feet up on the chair across from me. “I’m still five orders behind.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s good to be busy.”

  “Not if it kills you.” Meghan glanced at me. Her thick black eyeliner accented the sparkle in her eyes. “Please take care of you. I need this apprenticeship.”

  I smiled at her and took a swallow of my coffee. “You want me to take care of myself purely for your selfish reasons.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “And because you haven’t taught me how to make Danish yet.”

  “If I get these cookie orders done and delivered, I’ll make Danish for the Saturday-morning crowd.”

  “Oh, cream cheese or jelly?”

  “Both, plus lemon.”

  “You are my new favorite person.” She turned back to the dishes. The doorbells rang. I glanced at the clock. It was after nine and the morning rush had already happened. Whoever had come in would get the morning leftovers. I hadn’t had time to start on the tea and desserts for the late-afternoon crowd.

  “I’ll get it,” I said and waved at Meghan to finish the dishes. “I need those bowls to make more cookie dough. If I can get it in the freezer in the next hour I’ll finally be on track to catch up.”

  “If you don’t get caught up, it won’t be because of me.” She turned back to the sink.

  “Hello?”

  I pushed open the kitchen door to see Mindy standing in front of the counter. “Mindy, Grandma left some time ago.”

  “I wasn’t looking for Grandma,” Mindy said. She bared her teeth in an insincere smile. Pulling off her gloves one finger at a time, she looked around. “So this is your bakery.”

  “Yes.” I put my hands behind my back to hide the rough, dry skin and supershort nails that were more than a little ragged.

  Today Mindy wore a neat navy shift dress with black tights that showed off her long legs. Her coat was a knee-length wool overcoat in a classic beige with big black buttons. “The décor is . . . quaint.”

  “Thanks, it’s supposed to be,” I said and watched her circle the room taking in everything from the front windows to the yellow-painted walls to the wrought iron café tables and chairs.

  “With a name like Baker’s Treat—I would have thought you would have gone for a more English tearoom look.”

  “There are two cabbage-rose-print wingback chairs.” I pointed to the two chairs in the far corner grouped around a wrought iron side table. “In the summer we’ll put the wrought iron out on the sidewalk like a café. Then I’ll get a few more English teahouse pieces,” I said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? We have organic coffees as well as other gluten-free, organic, and allergy-free products.”

  “Sure,” she said and waved at me dismissively as she studied the paintings I had bought from students at the junior college.

  I grabbed a fat oversized white cup and matching saucer and set them on top of the glass counter. “The coffee is at the coffee bar.” I waved toward the three containers of coffee and the one hot water for teas. “There’s cream, half-and-half, skim milk, and soy or almond milk. There are also a wide variety of sugars. I recommend the agave. It tastes the most like sugar, but it’s healthier.”

  “Thanks.” Mindy put her gloves in her coat pockets, picked up the mug, and stepped over to the coffee bar. “Everything looks so . . .”

  “Good?” I ad
ded.

  “Hmm, I was going to say professional.” She pumped coffee into her cup, added a splash of cream, and turned back to me. She raised the cup to her red-painted lips.

  “What do you mean, ‘professional’?” I drew my brows together and tilted my head.

  “It looks like a real bakery,” Mindy said. “Smells like one, too.”

  “It is a real bakery,” I countered. “What did you think it was?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, some sort of hippie kitchen. You have this weird, granola-like diet.”

  “Gluten-free is not a granola, health-freak way of living. Lots of people live with food allergies. Just because they can’t eat fried Twinkies doesn’t mean they’re hippies. Because I bake allergy-free doesn’t mean I’m not a ‘real’ professional.”

  “Oh, did I sound insulting?” She batted her perfectly mascaraed false eyelashes. “I didn’t mean to insult. I’m simply surprised. That’s all. You’ve been busy since your mother died.”

  Mindy was my cousin and from New York, so I decided to believe her when she said she didn’t mean to sound insulting. “I like to stay busy. It helps me work out my issues.”

  “Your issues?” She raised the cup to her lips.

  I shrugged. “Between my divorce and mom passing on I’ve been reexamining my life.”

  Her head tilted and her shoulders dropped a bit. The mask of perfection slipped for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry about Auntie. I have no idea what I would do if my mom died.” In the next second she was back to her cool perfection. “Don’t you feel stifled in Oiltop? I mean, you lived in Chicago for years. It’s not New York, but it’s a long way from Oiltop.” She looked out the window to the windswept gray of Main Street in December. “There’s nothing here. It’s like being stuck in time.” She turned her attention back to me. “Even the radio stations are still playing music from when we were kids and would come visit Grandma. Have you noticed that?”

  I shook my head. “I listen for the weather and such. If I want music I’ll put on my MP3 player.”