A Slice of Disaster

by Jessica Lancaster

  “We’re opening in ten minutes, Bree,” Sarah said. “Are you going out to open?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Make sure you’re not all sweaty,” she said. “Lucy’s already been through and put the bread out.”

  “Excellent,” she called back, scrubbing at the wooden floor panels.

  Half the floor was wooden flooring, the other half tiled; wood around the outside in a square formation and the rest of it in white tiles. It was much easier to clean tiles than it was wood, especially the batter and all types of flours.

  The floor sunk as Bree pushed her hand, lifting from its position. Her hand went deep inside. She yelped, pulling away quickly as the fright of the unknown darkness struck her.

  “What? Did you electrocute yourself?” Sarah called out.

  Sarah, Jack, and Lucy formed a circle around Bree as she cradled her hand. She shook her head. “Just a loose floorboard,” she said, watching their expressions fade from concern. “It gave me a fright.”

  They left her, going back to their positions around the kitchen.

  Bree stuck a finger into the wood flooring once again, this time lifting it out from where it was placed. The immediate worry was spiders, but that was replaced when a glint caught Bree’s eye from beneath the floorboard.

  A box of light and dark wood stained marbling. She reached inside and pulled it out, her fingers pressing across the many grooves and curves in the formation of the box. It was covered in dust.

  She placed the floor back into the groove and pulled herself from her knees, moving into a space under the kitchen lights.

  “What is it?” Sarah asked.

  Bree had never seen anything quite like it. “I don’t know.”

  “Open it then.”

  There was a small hole in the front of the box for a key. “I need the key.”

  “Here’s give me it,” Sarah said, taking the box, and with one tug from the top, it opened.

  The interior was a velvet red. A jewellery box filled with jewels.

  Bree’s mouth chomped shut.

  “Oh—oh—my—” Sarah stuttered.

  Bree took the box back. “Why would he leave them under the fridge?” Her hand caressed the velvet, seconds before she touched at the cold metal necklaces and rings with their fancy red, blue, and white jewels attached to them.

  “Rainy day fund?” Sarah said.

  Lucy gasped, glancing inside the box at them. “They’re gorgeous,” she said.

  Bree snapped the box together with a clamp. “Maybe they were my grandmother’s,” she said. “Probably kept them hidden for safekeeping.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Well, he would’ve kept them for you,” she said. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Nothing.” Bree shook her head, creasing her brow. “Probably ask my mother why they were in the floorboards, but I know why,” she said.

  “He hated banks,” Sarah chuckled back. “He always made me go and do the deposits.”

  “Glad someone was doing that,” Bree said back. She sucked in. “I’m going to open the shop, so, everyone get back to it. And let’s all be glad we’re not expecting any deliveries.”

  They nodded back. Thursday’s were supply delivery days, and with one fridge out of service, a delivery could’ve been catastrophic.

  THREE

  There was a method to how the shop was organised. Bree would put out discounted items which didn’t sell yesterday, alongside fresh bread; baguettes, loaves, and bread rolls. This was the first thing done in the ovens.

  After bread, they worked on the sweet stuff; cakes, muffins, brownies, and croissants, which is quickly followed with the savoury foods for the afternoon rush. Those were the pasties, pies, and quiches. It was a nice cycle which worked.

  Bree busied herself behind the counter, glancing back and forth at the jewellery box beside the cash register. Her vision was transfixed on it, she wanted to open and wear the contents, her fingers had to be plied away from it by sheer force of willpower.

  First in through the door, as always, was Elijah Porter. A friend of Sarah and Bree from their childhood. His hair was combed neatly, parted at the side with a slight quiff. He wore a deep red sweater over a plaid beige and red shirt. He walked in with a messenger bag swinging on his shoulder.

  “Morning,” he said, flashing a smile. “How are things?”

  “Good morning,” she replied, fishing for a cardboard box beneath the counter. “Your usual?”

  “Whatever is going out of date,” he said. “Fill her up.” He chuckled.

  Elijah worked at the local library inside the city. He managed a small team of people, and each morning he stopped by to grab something sweet for the workers. Usually cakes and muffins.

  Bree quickly built the white box on the counter. “What do you have planned for today?”

  He sighed, dropping his bag on the ground as his shoulders relaxed. “Sorting, organising, meetings, funding requests, organising, sorting, you know,” he said with a smile.

  “So much sorting and organising,” she said back.

  He chuckled at the comment. “That’s my life,” he said. “Then I finish around five, have to make sure everything is cleaned, make sure nobody has vandalised the toilets, you know, and by the time I finish, you’re usually shut.”

  “We’re open at lunchtime,” she replied.

  “I can’t well drive all the way back home for lunch, and then hope to get back to work within an hour,” he said. “It takes twenty minutes into the city, if the traffic isn’t heavy.”

  “Twenty, twenty, leaving you twenty minutes for lunch,” Bree responded with a raised brow. “We make really nice pies, meat and potato, minced beef in gravy, vegetable, you know, all the greats.”

  “Do you do this with all the customers?” he asked. “I mean, maybe you could save me a pie.”

  “Most of them sell out as soon as they’re put on,” she said. Bree pressed her chin back as she mimicked a voice she’d heard once before. “Afternoon grub before the pub.”

  Elijah chuckled, shaking his head as he tried not to.

  “Thought I heard you,” Sarah said, barging in from the kitchen with a large silver tray filled with deliciously golden-brown bread loaves.

  “Of course,” he said. “Bree was just telling me about the pies.”

  Sarah scoffed. “Pies which you’ve never had,” she said. “But you’re always first in here for the day-old cakes.”

  He raised his shoulders at her. “I’m a busy man,” he said. “And you’re always closed before I can get them fresh.”

  Sarah and Bree glanced to each other. It wasn’t going to stop them from closing when they did, especially when they were in the shop from 6 A.M.

  Sarah left and Bree filled the white box with cake slices, cupcakes, and muffins.

  “Any you want in particular?” she asked, nodding to the glass case.

  “Brownies were a hit last time,” he said. “But one of them complained I was fattening them up.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “It’s for morale,” he said. “Keep them on my side, you know.”

  “Like a bribe?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Bree folded the box over, sealing it shut with a small circular sticker with the bakery logo printed over it in italics. “Anything else?”

  “Coffee,” he said.

  As Bree turned to work the coffee machine, Elijah noticed the box on the counter. He tapped the top of it, the wood made a small tap.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “One sec,” she said, expressing coffee from the machine. “Black?”

  “It’s only been a couple weeks, you should know!” he laughed. “With a couple sugars.”

  As Bree approached him, she noticed his finger on the box. He tapped it once again.

  “Oh, this is—this is—it was my father’s,” she said.

  “Fancy.”

  Bree opene
d the box, revealing the jewellery inside. Elijah gasped; it wasn’t what he’d imagined. He attempted to reach inside, but Bree snapped the box shut.

  “I’m not going to steal it,” he chuckled. “But you probably shouldn’t leave it out, or someone might try and nab it.”

  She smiled, resting her hand atop the wood. “I never even knew my dad was into this type of stuff. I knew he made investments, but this is crazy, I can’t imagine how much it’s worth.”

  “I have the number of someone you could probably see, a specialist.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “I’ll have to message you when I’m in work, it’s in the library records, and I used them once before,” his voice petered off, “but that’s neither here nor there, I can get you a number.”

  “Excellent,” she replied. “I hope it’s not prop jewellery, but knowing my father, it’s hard to say.”

  Elijah laughed once again, picking his bag up from the floor. “He was an odd man,” he said. “And he did give me a discount as well.”

  Sarah approached from the kitchen, carrying another silver tray out. “I heard that,” she said. “John didn’t give you any discount at all, I don’t think discount was even in his vocabulary.”

  Bree pointed to Sarah. “I know that,” she said. “Unless he was the one asking for it.”

  The phone rang out from the office.

  “Go get it,” Sarah said. “I’ll put these out.”

  “And don’t forget to charge him.”

  Elijah dug into his pocket. “I’m paying, I’m paying,” he laughed.

  Bree grabbed the box and hurried off into the office, closing the door shut behind herself. The phone rang out once again.

  “Good morning, Dalton’s Baked Goods, Cranwell’s finest bakery,” she answered. “This is—”

  “Sweetie, it’s your mother,” the voice spoke loudly. “Cleo can’t make it over this morning, and my back is acting up.”

  “What do you need?” Bree asked.

  “Well, I figured, it would save Cleo a journey, and we own a bakery, so could you bring over a fresh loaf and possibly some milk?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  A relieved sigh groaned through the phone. “Oh, thank you dear, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said. “Once that flat of yours is sold is London, I don’t want you moving far from me.”

  As it was, Bree currently lived at home with her mother, back in her childhood bedroom, filled with the same wallpaper she had from when she was eighteen, right before moving out—that was almost fifteen years ago.

  “Sure,” she replied. “And the flat won’t sell for another month or two, and that’s only if the escrow doesn’t take months to clear.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Ok, mother,” she said. “I need to get back out there.”

  “But—but how long will you be?”

  Bree glanced at the box on the desk. “An hour, maybe,” she said. “Mother, do you know anything about a jewellery box?”

  “What kind?”

  Holding it in a hand, she glanced it over again, for the hundredth time. “It’s light and dark wood, has patterns and grooves in it.”

  “The only ones I have are those white ones your father got me with the wardrobe and dresser set,” she said.

  “Ok,” she replied. “Well, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Ta-rah, love.”

  She hung up.

  Bree placed the phone down. Her father must have really kept this hidden from everyone, if even her mother didn’t know about it. Bree stewed on the thought about her father. A plump man from years of eating his own product, besides Bree and her mother, baking was his one true love, but Bree couldn’t shake the thought her father might have been having an affair.

  The thought was sour and settled heavy in her stomach.

  Sarah knocked on the door. “I need to get back into the kitchen,” she said. “Are you finished on the phone?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she called back. “Just a minute, I’m—I’m—I’m writing a note.” Bree pulled at a tissue and blotted at the skin beneath her eyes, absorbing all the moisture they collected.

  Sarah was back in the kitchen when Bree emerged from the office, leaving the box behind on the desk. She puffed out her chest and smiled for the world.

  But there was nobody in the bakery, and it wasn’t long before she didn’t want to keep smiling at the crushing thought those jewels were for another woman.7

  Bree took a seat, her shoulders slinking back as she slouched over in place, trying not to distort every memory she ever had with her father.

  FOUR

  After an hour, Bree put Sarah in charge as she left with some milk and bread for her mother. She placed the wooden jewellery box inside a plastic bag as well. Bree’s mother lived on Chapel Street, a short residential road where a chapel stood at the end of it.

  They were very creative when they named the streets and roads. It was a five-minute walk from the bakery to her mother’s house, and it would only be a short drop-in.

  The houses on Chapel Street were all terraced houses, each built from the same dark brick with the same interior layout. Each of them with a living room, a kitchen with a smaller adjoining dining area, one master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms, an upstairs bathroom, and a downstairs toilet.

  As Bree arrived, she called out to her mother.

  “In here, love,” she called back.

  Bree’s mother wore a leopard print kaftan, and her hair was recently dyed black. She relaxed back on the recliner chair with her feet up. Turning the corner into the living room, and there was a guest.

  “I thought she couldn’t make it,” Bree said at the sight of Cleo.

  Cleo Sanderson was Helen’s best friend. She wore a similar kaftan with her feet up on an ottoman. She, on the other hand, embraced the natural grey hair and had it all held in place up on her head with curlers.

  “Yes, yes,” Cleo said. “I had a doctor’s appointment early this morning. I told your mother I’d be there for hours, but they said given my age,” she wobbled her head and scoffed, “that I was a priority case.”

  “Can you believe the gall on that?” Bree’s mother huffed. “Must be those greys.”

  “Or, maybe because you’re over sixty now,” Bree added, walking through into the kitchen. “I brought a loaf and some milk. I hope you weren’t expecting anything else.”

  “That’s plenty dear,” her mother replied.

  “And just because we’re over sixty, it doesn’t mean we’re old,” Cleo called back. “We are ripe and seasoned.”

  Bree chuckled to herself as the grabbed the electric kettle. Bree had grown up with Cleo as her non-blood related auntie. “Want a tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, two sugars,” Cleo said.

  “Coffee, one,” her mother called back.

  As Bree prepared the hot drinks, she looked at the box on the counter. A wave of thoughts came over her, asking her if she wanted to bring this upon her mother. A can of worms to open, and maybe she’d find out something she never wanted to know. She busied herself, putting the bread in the wooden bread bin beside the toaster, and the two-pint of milk in the refrigerator.

  “The fridge at the bakery broke today,” Bree called out.

  “Blimey,” her mother said. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’ve got an electrician coming to see it.”

  “Be careful,” Cleo said, “they’ll charge you an arm and a leg.”

  “It’s from a number I found in the office.”

  A sigh came from her mother. “Well, if your father used them, then it won’t be too bad.”

  That had been the idea, and the initial thinking of using them. Plus, with the recent death, Bree was hoping to get a discount, it was just as her father would have done, and she was her father’s daughter.

  Making herself a coffee, Bree carried in a small tray and placed it on the coffee table in the centre of the living
room. The television was on, but on mute, a morning talk show.

  “Thanks,” they said.

  Bree went back into the kitchen to collect the box. She carried it in, took a seat beside Cleo, and placed the box on her lap.

  “Oo what you get there?” Cleo asked.

  “Very fancy,” her mother chimed in.

  “This is the box I was telling you about,” Bree said. “I found it today.”

  Her mother puffed out her cheeks as she flapped her arms in her kaftan sleeves. “Should probably give it back to the owner then.”

  “It was in the shop,” Bree revealed, “underneath the floorboards.”

  “Well, I don’t recognise it.”

  “Neither do I,” Cleo added.

  They all stared at the box for a moment.

  “You could probably flog it down at the Saturday markets,” her mother said. “Maybe get twenty—thirty—forty quid for it.”

  Bree opened the box. “There’s more,” she said. “Jewellery.”

  “Blimey, Helen,” Cleo gasped.

  “What is it?” she grumbled. “Lemme put my glasses on.”

  It was a surprise to both the older women in the room. They pulled at the jewellery, something Bree had yet to do, really touch it or get a feel for what they really were.

  “Heavy,” her mother said.

  The box had certainly been weighted, but only when all the jewellery was out did she notice. “Why would he have these?” Bree asked.

  Cleo draped a jewel-studded bracelet around her wrist. “These are gorgeous.”

  “Your father was a collector,” she said, rubbing at the cool metal against her cheek. “He always liked to invest in odd things.”

  “Like business investments,” Bree said.

  “No, no,” her mother said. “He would change his money into euros when it was cheap, then change it back to sterling when he could make a profit.”

  “Yeah, that’s something our Paul used to do as well,” Cleo said. “Have no idea why, because I never saw any of the money.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Because he knew you’d spend it all.”

  “I would,” she laughed back. “But that’s not the point. In marriage, you share everything.”