by Darci Hannah
“Ms. Bakewell?” The young officer nodded a greeting while pulling a notepad from his top pocket. In fact, in broad daylight he looked fresh-out-of-the-academy young, which did nothing for my nerves. “We met earlier. Officer Tuck McAllister. There was a report of a disturbance at your bakeshop. I had no idea I’d be helping Mr. Campbell here perform CPR on one of your customers.”
“Believe me, none of us had any plans of performing CPR this morning. However, I thank you for your quick action. I’m sure Rory thanks you as well.” I looked at Rory, suddenly grateful he’d taken matters into his own hands and had known what to do. I doubted that Mark, the young barista I’d hired, would have been so quick to act had he been here this morning and not Rory. I didn’t even want to think about that now. Instead, I told the officer, “There was a disturbance here. As you can see, it ended badly.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. You gave me a free donut earlier. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Haven’t tasted anything that good since my granny died.”
I cringed. “Thank you, I think?”
He smiled shyly. “It’s a compliment. Would you mind walking me through the events of the morning?”
“Not at all,” I said, and began describing as best as I could the chaos that had erupted when Fiona Dickel, Betty Vanhoosen, and Mia Long had descended on the bakeshop counter at once. Rory, standing beside me, helped flesh out the picture for the young officer.
Scribbling notes as fast as he could, Officer McAllister suddenly looked up from his notepad. “So, when did Ms. Long collapse?”
“The moment I brought her to the lawn,” Rory answered. “She was dragging her feet. I thought it was all part of her refusal to leave the bakeshop.”
“You mentioned that everyone was making choking noises. Was Ms. Long, in fact, choking?”
Rory shook his head. “I left her on the lawn and was heading back up the steps when I heard her friends scream. That’s when I noticed Ms. Long was unconscious. At first, due to her earlier performance, I thought she was just acting, you know, to make her point. Two of her friends were on the ground beside her, shaking her. However, there was something about her face. She looked flushed, her body limp. She was rolling like a rag doll as her friends shook her. When I realized she had no pulse, I told Lindsey to call an ambulance, then started CPR.”
“Any sign of a donut in her mouth?”
Rory flashed me a sideways look and nodded. “Yeah, she had a whole wad of donut in her mouth. I cleared her airway before starting CPR.”
“So, she hadn’t choked on the donut?”
Rory shrugged. “She was pretending to choke on the donut, I think. I don’t know why she stopped breathing.”
Officer McAllister nodded. He was just about to close his notebook when he thought to ask, “Do you recall what kind of donut it was?”
“Is that relevant?” I asked a little defensively. “I mean, does it really matter? The woman was causing a scene, grabbing donuts off paying customers’ plates and shoving them in her mouth only to spit them back out again. She came here to ruin me. I’m sure in a few hours you’ll be able to ask her yourself what kind of donut she was ‘fake’ choking on.”
Without flinching or a single blink of an eye, McAllister shifted his wide blue gaze to Rory. “It may be important, sir.”
While the older officers were taking statements, and Fiona Dickel was pointing her finger at me, yelling, “She did it! She murdered the lighthouse and that woman!” I watched as young McAllister opened a ziplock baggie and scooped a glob of masticated donut off the lawn. I suddenly went cold.
My donut was now evidence. Dear heavens, why did that thought terrify me so?
CHAPTER 14
The crowds on the patio and front lawn were beginning to disperse as Rory, Kennedy, and I walked back inside the bakeshop. To my surprise, I found that the floor had already been mopped, the counters wiped down, the coffee bar straightened, and the outsides of the bakery cases cleaned. The place sparkled once again. Dylan, I silently mused and shook my head. I had told her to hang out in the kitchen and take a break. She must have continued to clean after making the girls a hearty meal. She was not only a great baker but a model employee. I felt an instant welling of gratitude that I had found her and that she had come to work for me.
“Dylan,” I said aloud. “She’s worked a miracle here. Only now the place looks so empty. I’m not sure what the proper protocol is when a customer’s collapsed. Do I keep baking? Yes,” I answered my own question, thinking it was still my grand opening. “I probably should.”
“What?” Rory looked unnerved. “I just got done trying to breathe life into a woman who, for the most part, was dead after fake-choking on one of your donuts.”
“But she . . . wasn’t really dead, was she?”
Rory’s vibrant eyes were reduced to mere slivers of glassy blue as he looked at me. “Look, I’m not a doctor, but I have seen my share of trauma. The woman collapsed. Her heart had stopped, and she wasn’t breathing. That doesn’t happen from a donut.”
His intense look frightened me.
“Not a donut, Rory dear, probably something much stronger.” Kennedy, in her breezy manner and patronizing English accent, swooped in. “I have no doubt you brawny army men have seen some pretty terrifying things on the battlefield, but you have absolutely no idea what the New York City food scene is all about. It’s fast-paced and competitive, not to mention the ungodly pressure in those hot kitchens. The poor thing was probably chock-full of stimulants. One sip of Lindsey’s rich coffee and Ka-bloowie! The old ticker goes out and she goes down. Happens all the time. You valiantly kept her heart pumping. The professionals will do the rest.”
“I hope you’re right.” Rory glared at her, unable to hide his skepticism.
“I do too.”
“Linds.” Kennedy’s voice softened as she looked at me. “I think you should keep things going. Aside from a crazy woman protesting the bakeshop and a spiteful diva collapsing—none of which was your fault—the morning’s been a huge success. The bakery cases are all empty, and now the whole town’s buzzing about the Beacon Bakeshop. Screaming sirens? Police and an ambulance? This is a small town. It’s also Memorial Day weekend. There’s been a whole lot of action here, and everyone’s going to want to stop in for a nibble and the latest gossip. I’m not saying it’s ideal PR, but it’s happening. You should put on a brave face and capitalize on this tragedy while you can.”
Rory, all six foot, four inches of him, glared down at Kennedy and uttered, “Who are you?”
“Only the best PR money can buy, darling.” Kennedy winked and headed toward the door to my private living quarters. “I’m going to get Welly. Had to lock the poor thing up, he was so upset by that woman.” She pointed down Main Street, in the general direction the ambulance had taken. “It’s gorgeous outside, and the beach is teeming with potential customers. Welly and I are going to take a little stroll on the sand and chat up the Beacon Bakeshop. My advice? Fill those gorgeous cases as fast as you can, darlings.”
“Is she serious?” Rory asked the moment Kennedy was out of view. When Rory first met Kennedy, he genuinely liked her. Kennedy was not only exotically beautiful, smart, and exquisitely dressed, her English accent had the power to draw men in like hipsters to a coffee bar. Now, however, he was looking at my friend as if she was patient zero for a new, more virulent form of plague.
“She’s just nervous,” I told him. “And so am I. We both need to keep busy and focus our attention elsewhere. Kennedy is a PR machine. She can’t turn it off. I’m a number-cruncher but have rolled all my energy, nervous or otherwise, into baking. Regardless of whether we open or not, I need to work. And you look like you could use a cold drink and something to eat. Come on,” I said, pulling him to the kitchen with me. As much as I wanted to jump right in and start loading the cases with cakes, cookies, pies, brownies, and premade sandwiches, I refrained. We had all worked hard this morning and deserved a little reprieve before
we reopened for business.
“What’s the news, Lindsey?” Dylan, looking worried, stood up from her stool. She had made the girls delicious-looking omelets and buttered toast. Amazingly, she had read my mind and was already working on our prebaked loaves of bread. Half a dozen loaves of white bread were already cooling on the butcher-block counter; others were in the oven browning. Although the café had been the scene of utter chaos, thanks to Dylan the kitchen had remained orderly and kept its wonderful smell. The entire bakeshop was filled with the heavenly scent of baking bread. To a foodie the smell was as intoxicating as a bouquet of fragrant roses to a romantic. Part of me wanted to stay in the safety of the kitchen all day, whipping up batches of cookies, delicate pastries, and more loaves of bread. Instead I turned to Rory.
“Fancy an omelet? I can make you a sandwich if you’d rather.”
“It’s still before noon,” he noted. “I’m a breakfast man. An omelet sounds perfect.” He took a seat at the long stainless-steel counter beside Wendy. The girls looked much better after having eaten a fortifying meal.
It felt good to all be in the kitchen together after the hectic morning. Rory chatted with Dylan and the girls as I turned on a gas burner and placed a small sauté pan over the flames. As the pan heated, I chopped up an Italian sausage and added it to the pan. While the sausage cooked, I cracked three eggs into a bowl, added a dash of milk, a dash of salt and pepper, and a pinch of freshly chopped basil. I liked putting fresh spices directly into the egg mixture. A light basil flavor would infuse the eggs for my Italian-inspired omelet, while the salt and pepper would be evenly dispersed. It also saved time from having to add spices later.
I whisked the egg mixture until everything was nicely blended together. When the sausage was done, I removed it from the pan, wiped out the grease, and placed the pan back over the burner. The first thing that went into the pan was a dash of butter. Butter was the key to flaky baked goods. It was also the key to making fabulous eggs.
I kept the conversation going as I continued to cook. The moment the butter melted, I added the egg mixture. While the eggs cooked, I chopped up a fresh tomato and grated both provolone and Parmesan cheeses. I then flipped the eggs and topped it with the cooked sausage, the two cheeses, and diced fresh tomato. As the omelet cooked, the entire kitchen smelled divine. I gave it a minute before folding half the eggs on top of the savory filling. Then I turned off the burner and covered the pan to let the cheese melt. While my omelet was resting, I toasted two slices of fresh-baked white bread. It came out lightly browned on the outside and warm and soft in the middle. I slathered on more butter and plated it next to the Italian omelet.
“Here you go,” I said, placing a fork in Rory’s hand.
“Heavenly,” he said, breathing in the warm essence of the omelet. “Which is appropriate after the little slice of hell we’ve been through. Thanks, Lindsey. This looks delicious.” He dug right in, cutting a man-sized chunk. Strings of molten cheese and bits of tomato oozed out the sides. “I’ve never had an Italian omelet before, but I have to warn you, this little beauty has ruined all other omelets for me.”
As Rory ate his omelet, I proceeded to make a second one for me, while toasting up more bread for Elizabeth and Wendy. Our conversation in the kitchen had helped the girls. The angry protesters had set them on edge, but the thought of death had really spooked them. They were both bright, hardworking kids. It would be horrible if both girls quit on opening day. Rory, in his deep voice and calming tone, had done wonders explaining to the girls how he had performed CPR, and how Mia was going to be just fine now that she was in the hands of doctors.
Dylan had been worried as well. Like me, however, she had channeled her nervous energy. She not only had cleaned the café, but she had taken command of the kitchen. While I made omelets, Dylan pulled loaves of bread from the oven and scooped generous mounds of chocolate-chip cookie dough onto parchment-lined baking sheets. The cookies were ready to go into the oven.
I had just taken my omelet out of the pan and was carrying my plate to the counter when a loud thump directed my attention to the swinging door. The moment I looked, the door flew back and Welly came bounding in, his leash dragging behind him like a rubber snake.
Wellington wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, and he knew it. Something must have spooked him. His wild eyes locked on me just before he leapt. Wellington was not a lapdog. But in that moment he had channeled his inner terrier and, no doubt, hoped for the best.
“WELLINGTON!” I cried. The giant paws struck my chest with the force of a micro-car. I half-expected airbags to deploy as I hit the floor. They didn’t, of course. It was up to my own padding, which, for a baker, wasn’t very impressive. “Ouch!” I cried, watching my omelet crash to the floor beside me.
“Whoa, boy,” Rory commanded, jumping to my rescue. He grabbed hold of Wellington’s collar and pulled the dog off me before helping me to my feet. “You okay, Lindsey?”
“Yes,” I said, rubbing my rear while giving Welly a stern look. “Naughty dog!” Wellington dropped to the floor and buried his fluffy head between his paws.
“Where’s Kennedy?” Rory asked.
That question was answered a moment later when Kennedy burst through the door with a look in her deep brown eyes to match Wellington’s.
“Linds! My God, I’m so sorry! I need to tell you something. I think . . . I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
I was stunned. “Not your fault,” I said, picking up Wellington’s leash. “He knows he’s not supposed to be in the kitchen.” Wellington, like all opportunistic creatures, was gobbling up my omelet with the speed of one who knows he’s about to be dragged out the door.
Kennedy’s eyes flashed wide. “No, not that. I mean, yeah. Sorry he got away from me.” She fake-smiled at Rory, then asked, “Can we talk?”
“I’ll take him, Ms. Bakewell.” Wendy, ready to get back to work, took Wellington’s leash. Elizabeth got up as well. Both girls adored my dog. They were just about to take him through the door when it swung open again, this time revealing Officer McAllister.
The girls stopped. Wellington let out a mournful whine. Kennedy inhaled sharply. The troubled look on McAllister’s face made him seem far older than his twenty-something years.
“Ms. Bakewell, sorry to barge in, but I have some bad news. Mia Long has been pronounced dead on arrival. The medical examiner has asked for an investigation into the matter of her death. I’m afraid, ma’am, that your bakeshop is now a crime scene.”
“Dead?” Wendy uttered. Her eyes rolled back in her head as her knees buckled beneath her. Wellington, having finished my omelet, was there to break her fall.
CHAPTER 15
The words Mia’s dead rang through my head as I jumped to Wendy’s aid. Wellington, confused and unhappy, was nervously licking the poor girl’s face. I pulled him away and saw that his gooey licks had worked. Wendy was starting to move.
“Wendy! What happened?” I was on my knees beside her. “Are you okay?”
Elizabeth, who was also by her side, answered for her friend. “She’ll be okay. She has a fainting condition. Too much empathy, or something. When she sees something gross or hears something really disturbing, she passes out. Once, when we were in health class, we had to watch a video about childbirth. It was one of those tame instructional videos, but it really triggered Wendy. When the woman was about to give birth, Wendy turned white and toppled off her stool.”
My hand flew to my mouth. Rory, Kennedy, and Officer McAllister looked troubled. Dylan, however, was on the verge of giggles.
“It’s true,” Wendy said, struggling to sit up. She was still a little wobbly and was holding on to Welly for support. My giant dog was happy to be of service. He was in the forbidden kitchen playing the hero. I wasn’t about to throw him out, and he knew it. As Rory handed Wendy a glass of water, she continued, “It’s called vasovagal syncope, and it’s a total bummer. I’ve been to the emergency room so many times.” She rolled her e
yes as she said this. “Please don’t send me there now. I’m fine. I probably should have told you about it, but really, who’d have thought a bakery would have so much drama?”
She was right. A bakery shouldn’t have this much drama. What the heck had happened? A woman had died on the lawn outside my bakery. The knowledge had not only triggered Wendy’s bizarre fainting illness, but I was feeling ill as well. Fighting to maintain my composure, I asked Officer McAllister to wait a moment while I sent the girls home. There was no need for them to stay and listen to the gory details of Mia’s death.
Elizabeth agreed to drive Wendy to her house, but not before I sent each girl home with a loaf of fresh-baked bread and a dozen chocolate-chip cookies. I told them I’d call tomorrow and give them an update on the state of the bakeshop.
As the girls left, I wondered how the day could possibly get any worse. My bakery had been set upon by angry divas, a young woman had died, and my eighteen-year-old employee had just collapsed on the kitchen floor because she had some disease that caused her to pass out when confronted with emotionally distressing situations, namely death. If that wasn’t the mark of an ill-fated grand opening, the look on my best friend’s face was enough to hammer the message home.
I recalled how Kennedy had rushed into the kitchen in a panic. Yet the moment McAllister appeared, all her previous urgency and excitement had melted away, replaced by professional composure and mild surprise. It dawned on me then what Kennedy had come to tell me. The very thought of her involvement in Mia’s death sent my heart tripping away like the misguided beak of a woodpecker on a tin roof. I felt faint.
“Ms. Bakewell?”
“Yes?” I snapped. It was a moment before I realized Officer McAllister was speaking to me.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I shook my head and stared at him.
“Mia Long died under suspicious circumstances. You told me that you knew the victim. Sergeant Murdock and the county crime scene unit will be arriving shortly. They’re going to cordon off the bakeshop and conduct a thorough investigation of the premises, gathering any evidence that might be pertinent to this case. In the meantime, I’m going to ask you to come down to the station with me for further questioning.”
