by J. R. Ripley
Life had taken a turn for the better. I turned and faced the storeroom. Maybe I could even handle the thought of opening the rest of those boxes …
I stood there for a minute or two. Still, no rush. Aubrey seemed to have the chair-box opening under control. Plus, I’d already told her she could do it. I didn’t want the girl getting an inferiority complex by coming in tomorrow and finding that I’d finished the job for her. She might think I didn’t think she was capable of setting up something as simple as chairs.
Besides, there were plenty of other chores to do around here before we’d be ready to open in the morning.
That’s when I saw the rolling pin.
Tips on Buying a Basic Rolling Pin
The two most common types of rolling pins are the traditional and the French. The traditional rolling pin has handles on each end and provides more leverage when rolling out dough.
French rolling pins are generally much longer, up to approximately twenty inches, compared to a standard ten- or twelve-inch traditional roller. French rollers come in three general shapes: tapered from the middle, tapered only at the ends, and straight. The French pins are mostly made of wood and are easy to clean.
Traditional rolling pins are also commonly made of wood, like birch or maple, with or without handles. They are fairly inexpensive and durable. Be sure to thoroughly coat the roller with flour before use to prevent the dough from sticking.
Marble rolling pins, like my beech wood-handled beauty, are heavier than wood and will, by their very nature, help prevent the dough from sticking. With the extra weight, they can also make it easier to roll out the dough. You can also chill them before use.
There are also other types of rollers made from glass, stainless steel or even nylon and nonstick silicone. Metal and glass rollers can also be chilled before use. Some even have cavities that you can fill with water to keep them cold for longer.
Some things to consider when buying an all-around rolling pin might be:
Weight: A heavier rolling pin can make it easier to work the dough, especially when rolling thin sheets.
Length of the barrel: A standard barrel length for wooden rolling pins is twelve inches, and marble is ten inches. Like I said, French rolling pins are normally twenty inches long. These are perfect for making large sheets of pasta dough.
Diameter of the barrel: Traditional rolling pins average around two to four inches in diameter. French rollers generally average around one to three inches at their widest points. The thicker barrel, the less likely that your hands and fingernails will accidently gouge the dough while you are rolling. Of course, with the thinner French rolling pin, you are closer to the dough and some say it gives a better feel. I say it’s a matter of personal preference.
Comfort: A pair of contoured handles might feel more comfortable to you and be easier to grip. Again, it’s a question of personal preference. Pick up a few rolling pins and see how the handles feel in your hands, whether the weight feels comfortable as well as you lift and maneuver it. Which do you prefer?
Ease of cleaning: Not all rolling pins are dishwasher-safe. Avoid soaking rolling pins, especially those that are all wood or have wood grips, excessively. Contact with water can cause wooden rolling pins to warp or even crack.
Wipe your wooden roller with a clean damp cloth and allow to air dry. Some rolling pins made of nylon/silicone may be dishwasher-safe.
Lastly, always store your rolling pin safely out of the hands of potential killers. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
FOURTEEN
It looked exactly like the murder weapon. That is to say, my rolling pin. It was resting in the center of the small island in the middle of the storeroom. The stainless-steel island top served as prep space. Below were drawer and shelf space for the sundry things I needed to run this place. There was also a deep stainless-steel sink in the middle of the island.
I studied the rolling pin carefully.
From a distance. No way I was going anywhere near that thing. Still, there was no blood, and no guts that I could see. That was a good sign.
And it was a beautiful thing, really. Hand-finished gray and white Carrera marble. As smooth and shiny as ice on a frozen winter’s lake and just as cold to the touch, with hand-carved beech wooden handles, too. Yep, beautiful. If you didn’t stop to think how it could be used to bash someone’s brains in with.
What was it doing here? It couldn’t be mine. The police had confiscated it. It was surely locked up in an evidence locker somewhere waiting to be pulled out as evidence in my impending murder trial.
My eyes fell on a small square of paper beneath the roller, near the center. I bit down on my lower lip and edged closer, just close enough to reach out and extract the paper. The rolling pin rolled a quarter-turn as I looked at the words that someone had scrawled in pen: Maggie, this is for you. Take care.
I shivered and a short scream escaped my lips. Was this a warning? Was somebody threatening to bash my head in next?
What had I done? What should I do?
I thrust the square of paper in my pocket. I was definitely showing this to the police.
Suddenly, being alone in the empty beignet café didn’t seem like such a good idea. I grabbed the Schwinn, left the rolling pin where it was and walked the bike out the front door. I’d get some fresh air and come back later. Maybe I’d been a bit too hasty asking Aubrey to leave.
I banged tires with the postman in said haste. ‘Oops! Sorry!’ I cried. Our front spokes had somehow gotten entangled and I yanked on my handlebars to unstick them.
‘Whoa! Hold on there, missy.’ The postman scurried off his bike, a simple red cruiser, and reached down between our wheels. In a thrice, we were clear of each other.
‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘Guess I wasn’t watching where I was going.’ The postman that delivered in this area was a wiry rooster of a man with jet-black hair from what I could see of it under his red bike helmet. As he pulled his dark sunglasses down his nose, I saw that his eyes were medium brown. I put him as a child of the fifties or early sixties.
All that bike riding seemed to be keeping him in tiptop shape. From a distance, he could easily have passed for forty. Only the hard-etched lines around his face showed his age and demonstrated the power of the sun on skin that looked tough as shoe leather.
He brushed his hands. ‘No biggie. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve been bumped, banged, jostled and just plain knocked on my keister by people not quite looking where they are going during my years on the job.’ He was smiling, so I figured he meant his words.
‘That’s very forgiving of you,’ I replied. ‘And resilient.’ After all, he seemed to have all his parts in working order, both human and bicycle. I looked over the front wheel. Nothing appeared to be broken, bent or out of place, thank goodness. I didn’t want to haul it over to Laura again so soon. What would she think?
I leapt back on my bike and started to push off. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re OK.’
‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want your mail?’
‘Can you throw it through the slot? I’m sort of in a hurry.’
He pulled a water bottle attached to a clip on his bike frame and took a deep swig, then slowly wiped his lips with the back of his bare arm and returned the bottle to the metal holder. ‘No can do.’ He fished around in his sack. ‘One of them is special delivery.’
I planted my feet on either side of the bike. ‘Special delivery?’
He nodded and handed me a letter-sized white envelope with all kinds of official-looking papers stuck to it. ‘Yep. Requires your signature.’ He plucked a well-worn pen from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.
I turned the envelope over and over in my hand. The return address indicated the letter was from Wilbur Realty. ‘What on earth could they want?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the postal carrier. He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers, indicating that he wanted his pen back. ‘Here’s a couple more for you as w
ell.’ He handed me two more envelopes and three catalogs, all from food and restaurant supply concerns.
‘Thanks.’ As he pedaled off, I glanced at the remaining envelopes – nothing important, just bills – and shoved them and the catalogs through the front door mail slot. I stood on the street and ripped off the edge of the letter from Wilbur Realty, my curiosity piqued. Maybe Rick Wilbur had had a premonition about his murder and had written me a letter identifying his future killer. He’d sent me this registered letter because he wanted to be sure that someone got the truth got out and his true killer was caught.
I tapped the side of the envelope until the folded letter inside spilled out. I unfolded the linen paper and read the formally typed letter.
It was all very lawyer, real estate-type language, which is to say my brain fogged over and I didn’t really understand a word of it or where the letter was leading until I got to the part that said the check I had written for one month’s rent and the security deposit had bounced.
The letter fell from my fingers. How could this happen? I looked down at the paper fluttering lightly in the minimal breeze that scooted along the sidewalk, then stabbed my toe down on it before it got pulled into the street by a passing station wagon’s wake. The sign suction cupped to the rear window of the vehicle said Caution, I Brake for Aliens.
What was going on? How could my check bounce? What did they mean insufficient funds? Why hadn’t somebody told me earlier? I’d just been to their offices – why hadn’t Moonflower or somebody else at Wilbur Realty brought it up with me in person? Why hadn’t the bank contacted me?
I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my khakis and checked the time. The good news was that there was still time to get to the real estate office before they closed.
The bad news was they’d given me an ultimatum: pay up in twenty-four hours or they’d padlock my doors and shut me down.
FIFTEEN
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ I waved the official letter wildly in the air. ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’
Three realtors gazed at me with interest. A tall cowboy one row over and two desks back slowly rose from his chair. ‘I’m Jasper Parvik. Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, rushing toward him, waving the letter like a battle flag. ‘I want to know why I’m suddenly getting this letter in the mail telling me that my check’s bounced.’
He took the letter from my hand and motioned for me to sit. I sat, but it was all I could do to sit still. I twiddled my thumbs while he read it. I could tell he was reading, too, because his lips moved as he passed over each word. Slow as molasses poured on a marble slab in the Arctic, but they moved.
He pushed back his brown horn-rimmed reading glasses and looked down his hawk’s nose at me. A ring of inch-long peppery hair circled his pate. There was a small bony bump in the middle of his skull just above where I expect his hair used to be. The protrusion reminded me of a hawk’s promontory made to match the hawk’s nose.
‘It seems very clear,’ he said slowly, fixing me with his gaze.
‘No.’ I shook my head adamantly. ‘It’s not clear. I mean, it’s clear that somebody here has made a mistake. But my check did not bounce.’ I folded my arms tightly across my chest. ‘I promise you that.’ I looked around the office. ‘Where’s Moonflower? She might know what’s going on.’
He shot a look at her empty desk. ‘Miss Eagleheart? In the back. Let me fetch her.’ He rose slowly and, after seeming to struggle with his sense of direction for a moment, disappeared around a wall near Rick Wilbur’s office.
A sudden question came to mind – just who was in charge of Wilbur Realty now with Rick Wilbur gone? His wife, Patti? According to Moonflower, his wife had wanted nothing to do with the place.
Except I now noticed a light was on in Mr Wilbur’s office. I rose and circled around to get a look through the plate glass window and grabbed a paper cup of water from the cooler near the restrooms. Angling my eyes to the left, I saw that the light was coming from a Tiffany desk lamp on Mr Wilbur’s desk. At the desk sat Patti Wilbur, her nose buried in some document atop the open manila folder facing her.
She seemed oblivious to my presence. Was the reading that interesting? She was definitely one step up the evolutionary ladder from Jasper Parvik – her lips weren’t moving at all.
‘Miss Miller?’
I swung around. ‘Oh, hello, Moonflower.’
‘Jasper showed me the letter.’ She glanced toward Mrs Wilbur. Was that a disapproving look I saw? ‘Come,’ she said, gently guiding me by the shoulder. ‘Have a seat at my desk and let’s talk about this.’
I followed Moonflower and sat in my familiar rubber-band chair. Her hair was loose now and hung in wavy folds. I leaned forward on the edge of my seat. She held the letter in her hand and I watched her eyes flutter up and down the page. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’ I asked. ‘We could have talked about it. I mean, it’s obviously a mistake. But someone should have told me. Heck, why didn’t Mr Wilbur himself tell me the other day?’
She shook her head slightly and set the paper down on the desktop. Moonflower looked at me curiously when I said I’d seen her boss recently. ‘He probably was as unaware of this as I was.’
‘How is that possible?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m a realty assistant. I don’t handle things like billing and collections.’ She pushed the letter toward me. ‘Or legal issues such as these.’ The phone on her desk rang and she pressed a button sending it to voicemail.
‘I do know that the amount of paperwork around here is quite staggering. You’d be amazed, Maggie. We’re always behind with the paperwork. I know you submitted the check some time ago but it may have only recently been deposited. Or it could be that this fell through the cracks, so to speak. I’m not sure anybody here knows everything that’s going on.’
‘But it’s Wilbur Realty,’ I said, snatching a card from the carved wood business card holder on her desk and pointing to the name Wilbur Realty embossed in bold red letters. ‘Surely Mr Wilbur does.’ Did.
Moonflower smiled wanly. ‘I’m afraid not. Selling was his forte. And the big picture.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘No.’ She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. ‘This sounds like Natalie’s doing.’
I edged even closer to the end of my chair. Any second now I’d be landing on the hardwood floor. ‘Who’s Natalie?’
‘Natalie is in charge of bookkeeping.’ She held the letter up toward me and moved her finger to the signature line. Mr Wilbur’s name had been electronically typed. Below this were a couple of initials.
‘NH,’ Moonflower said. ‘Natalie Henson. Natalie’s a little …’ she paused, ‘… headstrong. Likes to scare folks – not that I approve. I’m not sure Mr Wilbur did either. But she’s harmless really.’
‘Harmless?’ I screeched. I’d almost had a heart attack when I read this letter. Not to mention she’d threatened to have the café padlocked!
I leaned back and blew out a breath.
‘Natalie handles all our bookkeeping and banking. She is – was – Mr Wilbur’s sister-in-law.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Did that mean she was related to that big bruiser I’d crossed paths with outside Patti’s house? ‘Has she got a brother?’
Moonflower nodded.
‘Big guy?’ I said, holding a hand over my head. ‘Drives a big white four-by-four?’
‘That’s right, Bill. You know him?’
‘I met Bill and his wife, Suki, earlier today when I stopped by to pay my respects. So, Tommy is their boy?’
Moonflower shook her head. ‘No, Natalie’s youngest.’
That explained the lack of family resemblance. I glanced meaningfully toward Mr Wilbur’s office in the corner. ‘I see Mrs Wilbur has decided to take some interest in her husband’s business after all.’
Moonflower’s lips formed a straight line as her gaze followed mine. ‘Yes, it would appear so.’
‘She’s not wasting mu
ch time, is she?’
‘That really isn’t something I can comment on. You understand. I wish there was some way I could help you, but I do not have that power.’ Moonflower pushed the letter closer to me.
I took it. ‘I understand. So how can I talk to this Natalie? I’d really like to get this straightened out. I can’t afford any more problems or delays.’
‘I’m sure. Unfortunately,’ Moonflower rose, ‘Natalie is in Reno visiting her oldest son and his family. I believe she’ll be back in a couple of days.’
‘I can’t wait a couple of days,’ I replied. ‘That could kill me and my business.’
‘Why don’t you go to the bank?’ suggested Moonflower. ‘It’s just next door. Perhaps they can get this cleared up.’
I beamed. ‘That’s a wonderful idea. I should have thought of that.’ I rose too. ‘That’s just what I’m going to do.’ They’d clear this mess up and I could get back to more important matters, like getting Maggie’s Beignet Café up and running.
I thanked Moonflower for her time and headed for the door. I saw Patti Wilbur eyeing me from behind her husband’s desk. I waved a hello. She returned my gesture with an icy glare.
Sheesh, try to be nice to some people. Maybe she’d heard about the bounced check – mistakenly bounced check – and had gotten the wrong impression about me. Well, I was about to get that little matter cleared up. Maggie Miller not only gets things done, she pays her bills.
Half out the door, I turned back. ‘Yes?’ Moonflower asked.
I explained how my air conditioner was on the fritz and how Rick Wilbur had promised me a fan in the meantime. Moonflower came toward me. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, laying a hand on my arm. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but with Ed in the hospital …’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’
‘Hey, I understand.’ I could hardly complain about a guy not doing his job when he was laid up in the hospital. ‘You do the best you can.’ I waved the letter in the space between us. ‘And I’ll get this whole insufficient funds thing cleared up! My check’s good. You’ll see.’
