The Cottage on the Corner

by Shirlee McCoy

  “You’re going to kill yourself with that stuff, Zim.”

  “Sugar?” He eyed her over the rim of the coffee cup. “It’s better than that fake stuff that’s in your diet pops.”

  “I don’t drink soda anymore. I gave it up for the new year.” She glanced at Zuzu. She’d made quick work of the toast and banana and was tossing bits of egg across the room. “I don’t think Zuzu likes eggs,” she murmured.

  “What clued you in?”

  “The egg that’s spread from one end of my kitchen to the other,” she responded dryly.

  “She’s a kid. Kids make messes.” Zim shrugged, settling into a chair and stretching out his legs with a quiet groan. “There we go. This is better. You sit down, too. We’ll take a little break before we make your delivery.”

  “We?” She topped off her coffee but didn’t sit down. She had a long list of deliveries to make, and her customers weren’t going to be happy if she kept them waiting so that she could have coffee and an early-morning chat with her neighbor.

  “You can’t do it alone. Not with little Zuzu along.”

  “I—”She was going to tell him that she could manage just fine, but he had a point. Deliveries usually meant more than one trip from her station wagon. She couldn’t drag Zuzu along for every trip, and she couldn’t leave her in the car. “Maybe you could stay here with her or take her over to your place. That would probably be the easiest thing for everyone. I could pay you in baked goods. I’m making a lemon chiffon cake for a baby shower in Spokane tomorrow. I could do an extra for you.”

  “Hmmmm. That’s a temptation, Charlotte. I’ll admit it. I do love your lemon chiffon cake.”

  She knew he did, but then, Zim loved everything she baked. He couldn’t resist his early-morning visits, couldn’t say no to her offers of gingerbread or cobbler or cookies. According to the blue-haired ladies at the diner, there were plenty of other people who couldn’t resist. It seemed that men were particularly tempted by the stuff she made. Her double chocolate delight cupcakes were reported to make reluctant boyfriends and fiancés into husbands. One bite and they’d ask for the hand of the woman who’d delivered them.

  Or so the story went.

  The first time Charlotte heard it, she’d laughed. The second time wasn’t quite as funny. When Ellie Mae Anderson bought some for her boyfriend of seven years, Charlotte had told the poor misguided woman that there was no way the cupcakes could make her Jim propose. Fifty-year-old Ellie had smiled sagely and paid for a half dozen. Two weeks later, she and Jim eloped to Las Vegas.

  Next thing Charlotte knew, women were showing up on her doorstep at all hours of the day and night, begging for the cupcakes or the recipe. As if true love could be found in a chocolate confection.

  She snorted and poured more coffee into Zim’s mug. “I’ll throw in a half dozen cookies, too,” she offered, sweetening the pot just a little. “Fresh baked. I’m making them for the PTA meeting at the elementary school this afternoon.”

  “How about you just throw in a ride to the sheriff’s department? You’re making a delivery there, this morning, right?”

  “Just my weekly delivery.” She’d already filled a platter with leftovers from the previous day’s baking. She’d drop it off after she delivered to the historical society.

  “Perfect. I’ll come along. You just stay in the car with Zuzu,” he crowed, looking just a little too smug for Charlotte’s comfort.

  “Why do you need to go to the sheriff’s department?” she prodded.

  “A need to do my civic duty.”

  “What civic duty?”

  “Gertrude’s growing weed in the greenhouse behind This-N-That,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Charlotte nearly spewed coffee across the room. “What!?”

  “Pot. Cannabis. Marijuana.”

  “I know what weed is,” she cut in, glancing at Zuzu. She’d cleared off her plate and was walking around the kitchen, tracking bits of eggs across the tile floor. “I’m just not sure why you think Gertrude is growing it in the greenhouse.”

  “What else would she be growing?”

  “Vegetables? Herbs?”

  “Then why does she keep the door locked?”

  “I didn’t know she did, and I’m surprised that you do. I thought the two of you had a truce.” They’d been feuding bitterly when Charlotte moved in, but they’d been getting along better in recent months, going bowling and to the movies like a couple of old friends.

  “We do, but that doesn’t mean I’m not keeping an eye on her. The Rileys—”

  “Zim, don’t. Okay?” She rubbed the back of her neck, hoping he’d let the matter drop. The last thing Tessa needed was to come home to the news that her greenhouse had been raided. “Tessa grows strawberries and blueberries in the greenhouse. She has tomato plants and green beans and an entire row of rose bushes that she uses to decorate the shop.”

  “I’m not saying Tessa has anything to do with Gertrude’s crimes. She’s probably completely unaware what with how busy her life was before the wedding, but you mark my words, Gertrude is up to no good. I saw that Kenny Simpson hanging out there one day.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met him.” But she was sure she was about to hear every detail of his life.

  “Used to live outside of town in that little trailer park off of ninety.”

  “That doesn’t make him a bad person.”

  “He plays guitar in one of those seedy little bands. Goes to bars every weekend and exchanges music for drinks. He’s a loser. Pure and simple.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about him.”

  “I know his folks. They’re good people. It’s not their fault they birthed a bad apple.”

  “Zim . . .” She shook her head and didn’t bother continuing. Zim had already decided Gertrude and Kenny were in the pot-growing and selling business. No way would she be able to change his mind. “Fine. Come on the deliveries with me, but you can’t spend more than ten minutes at the sheriff’s department. I have to make a few dozen cookies for a PTA meeting, and I’ve got to bake those cakes this afternoon, too.”

  “Lemon chiffon. My wife used to make it,” he said as he put his plate and coffee cup into the sink. “Come on, Zuzu. Let’s clean you up a little before we go out. We wouldn’t want the town to think Charlotte doesn’t know how to take care of a child. You have extra clothes for her?” he asked as he lifted Zuzu.

  “Max didn’t bring any.”

  “The man is an idiot,” Zim muttered. “We’ll have to make do. Hopefully nobody will notice that she’s wearing pajamas. You know how people in town are. They catch a glimpse of a child wearing pajamas out in public, and they assume the parents are inept.”

  “We’re not her parents,” Charlotte pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s been entrusted to our care. You have a comb in your bathroom? I can at least do the child’s hair. Maybe if she looks cute enough, no one will notice what she’s wearing.”

  Charlotte didn’t know how they would not notice. The footy pajamas had smiling cars and trucks all over them. They were faded and old. Zuzu hadn’t been wearing a coat when Max dropped her off. Just the blanket. If she and Zim got her out of the vehicle there wasn’t one person in Apple Valley who wouldn’t notice that.

  “A brush. There’s probably a couple of ponytail holders on the counter,” she responded, but Zim was already walking out of the kitchen and she didn’t know if he heard.

  It didn’t matter. He could brush Zuzu’s hair. He could make cute little pigtails or curl the ends around her chubby cheeks. He could do a whole variety of things, but someone in town was going to see the poor kid. When that happened, there’d be all kinds of gossip and talk. More than likely there’d be a collection, too. Clothes and toys and all kinds of things that a little girl needed that Max might or might not have at his place. He wouldn’t be happy. She didn’t know him well, but she knew he wouldn’t want charity.

  Not Charlotte’s business.

/>   She’d agreed to babysit because Max had been desperate and because she was a pushover. Too nice for her own good. Brett had told her that dozens of times. He’d been more right than she’d known until after he’d died.

  She’d been trying to change. Toughen up, close herself off to other people’s demands, create a nice safe environment to grow and heal in. No was supposed to be her new favorite word. According to the author of Building Brick Boundaries That Can’t Be Busted, Charlotte needed to practice saying it every day until saying no became more comfortable than saying yes. At that point, she would finally be free of her need to make others happy at the expense of her own needs and desires.

  “No,” she muttered, glancing at the egg-stained afghan and floor.

  “No,” she said again as she washed Zim’s plate and mug. “No, no, no, no. NO!”

  Yeah. She was getting pretty good at saying it.

  When no one was around asking for anything.

  Throw in a good-looking cop with heavenly eyes and sinfully sensual lips, and she forgot the word even existed.

  “Loser,” she muttered as she grabbed the boxes of baked goods.

  “What’s that?” Zim asked as he carried Zuzu back into the kitchen. He’d scooped the child’s hair into a ponytail that listed heavily to the left. Obviously, his hair-brushing skills weren’t what they’d once been.

  “We have to get moving. I need to be at Ida’s in five minutes.”

  “Then let’s go. Where’s your coat, Zuzu?” Zim asked.

  “There,” Zuzu pointed to the egg-stained afghan.

  Zim met Charlotte’s eyes, and she shrugged. “Max must have forgotten she needed one.”

  “Humph!” Zim responded, yanking the blanket off the ground and tossing it around Zuzu’s shoulders. “Saw a car seat in the living room. I’ll grab it on the way out.”

  “Humph!” the little girl replied, smiling at Charlotte over Zim’s shoulder.

  Obviously, Zim wasn’t the best influence on an impressionable little girl. Oh, well. Max should have thought of that before he’d pawned her off on Charlotte.

  “No,” she muttered one more time for good measure as she grabbed the baked goods and followed them out to the station wagon.

  Chapter Four

  Max avoided the office for as long as he could.

  First he patrolled the rural routes just outside of town. Then he made a trip to the local elementary and middle school to check for vandals and loiterers. He didn’t find any. He stopped for a cup of coffee and a doughnut at the local coffee shop and carried them into Riley Park. The sun had crested the mountains and the town was waking up. A few people waved as he walked the path around Riley Pond and looked for trouble that he knew he wouldn’t find.

  Apple Valley was a quiet town filled with quiet people.

  Most of them got along. Those who didn’t pretended to.

  Sure there was crime. By and large, though, it was petty stuff. Missing livestock from the farms at the edge of town. Vandalism by kids with too much time on their hands and too little brain in their heads. There were a few thefts every year. One or two assault and battery charges. Nothing to write home about and nothing to keep him out on patrol for eight hours straight.

  Sixteen.

  He was working a double.

  Too bad he couldn’t find a few cases to pursue and didn’t have a few criminals to track down. He’d have been happy to spend the remainder of his shift on patrol and out of the office. In a town the size of Apple Valley, there was no reason for it, though. Besides, it was cold in eastern Washington, the late-November air sharp edged and bitter. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out the door, but he’d forgotten gloves.

  Had he put Zuzu’s coat on?

  Damn if he could remember doing it. She’d been fighting him tooth and nail by the time he’d carried her from the apartment. He’d grabbed her and a blanket, and . . .

  No coat.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, and an old lady walking her chubby mutt frowned.

  “Language,” she said as she and her dog waddled past.

  Yeah. Right. Language. He was on duty, wearing his uniform and badge, carrying a firearm, and representing the sheriff’s office.

  Otherwise, he might have let loose with a few other choice words.

  Charlotte probably thought he was an idiot, bringing a little girl outside in pajamas and a blanket.He thought he was an idiot. Nothing he could do about it now. He’d pick the coat up on the way back to Charlotte’s.

  He walked out of the park and crossed Main Street. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t avoid it any longer. There was paperwork to do, a few phone calls to make. He had to go into the office.

  The one-story brick building that housed the sheriff’s department loomed ahead. He braced himself for what he knew would come.

  Emma Bailey sat at the reception desk, her light brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her police uniform hugging slender curves. She had a sweet pretty face and a cutting tongue. People who’d known her while she was growing up said that the first was from her deceased mother and the second from her father, a mean drunk who’d spent more time in the bottle than he had in his home.

  Max had never had reason to question the gossip.

  As far as he could tell, Emma was tough as nails. She worked as dispatcher and planned to attend law school when she finished caring for her father. Rick had been diagnosed with dementia two years ago.

  Most days Emma looked worn-out.

  Today she looked amused.

  “Good morning, Stanford,” she said. “Finally decided to make your appearance, I see.”

  “I’ve been checking in all morning, Emma,” he grumbled, snagging one of the cookies that she kept on a plate at the corner of her desk. Charlotte’s doing. She delivered baked goods to the police department and convalescent center once or twice a week.

  “Long night?” Emma asked, not even trying to hide her smirk.

  “Not any longer than any other night,” he lied.

  “That’s not the way I hear it.” She smiled full out, her gray eyes sparkling with glee. “The way I hear it, you were up all night listening to your daughter scream.”

  “She’s not my daughter,” he argued, even though he knew it was useless.

  “That’s not what Ida said.”

  “When did you talk to Ida?”

  “When she and the historical society showed up with donations. One of the ladies saw poor little Zuzu sitting in Charlotte’s station wagon dressed in nothing more than faded footy pajamas, and it was obvious she was in desperate need. She decided then and there that they needed to take up a collection.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to hold on to his temper. This wasn’t Emma’s fault. It wasn’t Zuzu’s fault. It wasn’t the historical society’s fault or Ida’s or whichever one of her cronies had made the decision to take up a collection. It was Morgan’s. The lying, scheming—

  “I’m not. There’s a two-foot pile of clothes sitting on your desk. I would have told Charlotte about it when she dropped off the cookies, but she didn’t come in.”

  “She left cookies,” he pointed out as he snagged another one. Some fancy little thing with fruit jelly in the middle and white frosting on the top.

  “Zimmerman Beck left the cookies. He also left a message.”

  “I guess you’re going to tell me what it was?”

  “He says Gertrude McKenzie is growing pot in her greenhouse. He knows that the state just legalized the use of it, but he’s sure that she needs a license to grow and distribute it. Plus he doesn’t want the kind of riffraff in the neighborhood that he’s sure her little operation is going to attract. He wants you to cut off the greenhouse lock and check the situation out.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Zim had a habit of seeing trouble where there wasn’t any. He’d caused his own trouble the previous year, and that had kept him quiet for a while. Apparently he was back to hi
s old habits.

  “Are you going to check it out? Because if you don’t, he’ll be back. Again and again and again.”

  “Trust me, I know. And I’m not in the mood to deal with him. Give him a call and tell him I’ll be out there this evening, will you?”

  “No problem.”

  “And if any historical society ladies stop by with donations while I’m here, don’t send them back to my office. I have work to do, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Uh-huh,” she responded.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. He wasn’t in the mood for games, and he wasn’t in the mood for gossip.

  “Why does it have to mean anything?”

  “Because you’re looking at me like you know a juicy secret that you’re just dying to share.”

  “You’re the one with the mysterious kid that no one in town has ever seen or heard of. Not me. So I’d say you’re the one with the secrets. Can I help it if I want to know what they are?”

  “Zuzu is not mysterious. She’s my ex’s kid. Morgan dropped her off at my place last night. She needs someone to watch her for a few days.”

  “And she left her with you?” She raised a light brown brow and tapped her fingers on the desk.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, as far as everyone around here is aware of, you haven’t spoken to the woman in years. Not to mention the fact that you wouldn’t be most women’s first choice as a babysitter. You wouldn’t be mine, anyway. I don’t even think I’d leave you with Pops.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly.

  “Just a statement of fact, Max. You’re not a kid kind of person. You like adult companionship. Preferably the female kind, and you don’t have a lot of patience for fools. Pops is nothing else if not a fool.” She frowned, her gaze jumping to some point behind him.

  He glanced back. A small group of ladies was decorating the lobby Christmas tree. Very slowly decorating it. When they realized he was looking at them, they bent over the tree’s heavy boughs, pretending that they weren’t straining their hearing aids trying to listen in on the conversation.

  “This probably isn’t the best time to discuss any of this,” he murmured, and Emma nodded.