This conversation grew stranger by the minute. “Leah did magic tricks?” I asked.
“Not tricks,” Theo answered. “It was old magic. Bird magic. She knew how to call birds so they came to her.”
Holt and I exchanged confused glances. “What was Leah’s last name?” he said.
“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. But I remember the other students called Sienna ‘the bane of their existence. ’ They laughed when they said it, but I could see they were serious. And it wasn’t a silly nickname like the others. I looked up bane and it was not a nice thing to say about anyone. They were jealous. All of them.”
“But not you.” Holt didn’t phrase this as a question.
“I loved her. I could never be jealous.” Theo closed his eyes. “I’m tired, Marlee. I want to go home.”
From the moment I sat down with Theo Foster to interview him for the baker position, I’d felt protective of him. He was the same height as me, and I was only five feet seven. He also had a slight, wiry frame, with not the slightest hint of a paunch as he approached forty. And his boyish expression was matched by an equally youthful haircut and an often childlike view of things. Every time I was with him, I couldn’t keep my maternal instincts from surfacing. At the moment, my feelings approached mother lioness proportions.
“This may be too much for Theo to take in,” I said. “If the bracelet belongs to someone he once cared about, we should give him time to absorb what all this means.”
“A young woman was possibly murdered and buried in those woods,” Holt said. “And Mr. Foster has given us a name. If the body we found checks out to be someone called Sienna Katsaros, we’re going to need a lot more information from him.”
“Understood. But not right at this moment.” I patted Theo on the shoulder. The poor man was trembling. “Could we speak outside, Captain Holt?”
Holt surprised me with a smile. “Why do I have a feeling you won’t take no for an answer?”
I led Captain Holt outside to the rear parking lot reserved for employees and deliveries. The sound of horns from the nearby Oriole River greeted us as a steady stream of boats made their way out onto the lake. Despite the delicious aroma of my pastry kitchen, I felt relieved to be standing in the warm July sun with the sounds of normal village activity all around me.
“I probably should have told you about Theo before you questioned him,” I began. “As you can see, he doesn’t react as most people would. I suspect he may be autistic, Asperger’s syndrome perhaps. Or he could suffer from some other developmental disability. All I know is you can’t press him too much. Three months ago, there was a grease fire in the kitchen. He was quick enough to put it out as soon as it began, but it upset him for weeks afterward. Much more than it should have.”
“Ms. Jacob—”
“Marlee, please.”
He frowned, but his expression remained kind. “Marlee, we have a murder investigation on our hands. So far, your baker has the only pertinent information. And he claims he made the crayon bracelet found with the body.”
“Maybe he did. Or maybe there’s some other story connected with it. I don’t know how Theo views the world. Not that I think he’s crazy or dangerous. He seems a gentle soul, and a phenomenal baker. I couldn’t ask for a more reliable employee. But in the seven months he’s worked for me, I’ve learned next to nothing about his personal life.”
“You must have interviewed him for the job.”
“Of course I did. I can give you a copy of his resume. He lived in Champaign, Illinois, before moving here. No wife or children. He worked in an industrial bakery in Champaign for eight years. I called his references there and they all agreed he was responsible and trustworthy.”
“Nothing seemed off about him during the interview? Even you have to admit he’s odd.”
“It’s clear you don’t live in Oriole Point.”
Holt seemed puzzled. “No. I live in New Bethel.”
“I know New Bethel. A small town settled by farmers and Christmas tree growers. Oriole Point is a little different. We’ve been a lakeshore resort for rich Chicagoans since the nineteenth century, and a magnet for artists, Bohemians, and freethinkers. I could introduce you to at least five people who own stores on Lyall Street you might think are certifiable. And wait until you run into Wendall Bowman, also known as Old Man Bowman. He’s the uncle of the fellow who was murdered last month. Wendall’s our resident Bigfoot hunter. Also I’d advise you to stay clear of Leticia the Lake Lady.”
He raised an amused eyebrow. “Why?”
“You don’t want to know. What I’m trying to say is that Theo Foster is not even at the extreme end of the Oriole Point oddball spectrum. Yes, he has quirks, and his personal communication skills need work. But he’s also a quiet man who’s never bothered anyone since moving here.”
“Quiet loners can end up causing a lot of harm.” Holt took off his cap and wiped an arm across his damp brow.
I had a sudden urge to ruffle his tight brown curls and immediately felt guilty. There was enough on my plate just now; I didn’t need to entertain fantasies about Captain Holt, especially with an engagement ring on my finger.
“If Theo does have a social life, I’m not aware of it.”
I didn’t add that all of us at The Berry Basket had dubbed Theo the “Phantom” since he was rarely seen out and about in the village. If I didn’t arrive early at the store several days a week to consult with him, I wouldn’t even know he existed . . . except for the fresh-baked pastries stacked on the rolling trays. Theo had the shop key and always came before dawn to do his baking. I’d invited Theo out to dinner with other staff members, but he’d always refused. With time, I hoped Theo might grow more comfortable with the residents of Oriole Point and come out of his self-imposed shell. But I also knew I’d make things worse by forcing the issue.
“Who was your baker before Mr. Foster?”
“Ed Orsini. A wonderful older guy with a genius for Italian desserts, especially cannoli. And I should know—my mom’s side of the family is from Naples.”
“What happened to him?”
“Last fall, he fell in love with a tourist from Kentucky. After she returned home, Ed couldn’t bear to be without her, so he visited her at Thanksgiving and proposed. They married two weeks later. Within days of the marriage, Ed packed up and moved to Louisville.” I sighed. “Leaving me high and dry without a baker right before Christmas. I was thrilled when Theo answered my ad. His lack of social skills was unimportant. I would have hired the Grinch if he knew how to make Christmas berry trifle and cranberry cobbler.”
“Which I assume Mr. Foster knew how to do?”
“Yes. And far better than Ed.” I lifted my hands up. “I was in a bind. I needed a baker immediately and not just for Christmas Week. There’s the January ice-carving contest and the winter carnival in February. Both bring in lots of visitors, for which all of us must thank Piper. And I mean that literally.”
“I take it you don’t bake yourself?”
“Boxed cake. The occasional scone. But I wouldn’t foist any of it on paying customers. Although I do have a talent for creating berry-flavored syrups.” In fact, Vogue had recently featured my homemade blueberry syrup flavored with lavender, and strawberry syrup infused with rosemary and basil. And while it helped that an assistant editor at the magazine had gone to NYU with me, my syrups were also delicious, organic, and unique. This autumn I planned to introduce a raspberry and ginger syrup to both my online and shop customers.
“When I was in your kitchen, I noticed the Zellar pies.” His face took on a mischievous expression. “I hope you’re not passing the pies off as the work of Theo Foster. I’d hate to have to arrest you for pastry fraud.”
“No pretense there. Everyone knows the pies are delivered every morning from Zellar Orchards.” As someone from New Bethel, Holt wouldn’t know the town gossip I took for granted. “I’m engaged to Ryan Zellar. That means I get a nice price break on the pies.”
>
Holt seemed surprised by this news, but I had no idea why. After all, a diamond solitaire glittered on my left hand. When I glanced down to confirm it, I realized my ring was gone. I suddenly remembered I’d taken it off while cleaning up the smashed cupcakes from the floor. At the moment, the ring was lying on the kitchen washboard, still covered in buttercream frosting. I wondered why he hadn’t noticed my ring yesterday at the farm. Then again, he’d been focused on the skeletal remains, not the dubious allure of Marlee Jacob. More important, why did I care whether Atticus Holt was attracted to me? I certainly wasn’t attracted to him, even if he did have kind eyes and a curly head of hair I longed to touch.
Holt put his cap back on, officially reverting to sheriff mode. Not a moment too soon. “Did you recognize the name he gave us? Sienna Katsaros.”
“No. But that was two decades ago and I was only ten. And my family went to Yellowstone that summer. We were gone an entire month. Does the name sound familiar to you?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t even live in Michigan back then. But I’ll run a check on Sienna Katsaros. And the department is still waiting for the ME’s report. That should tell us a lot more about the person buried in Sanderling’s woods.”
“Come back inside and I’ll give you a copy of Theo’s resume. Like I said, I don’t think it’s wise to question him further at the moment. He’s had more than he can handle for one day. I want him to go home and rest.”
“Where does he live?” His tone and attitude were now purely professional.
“He rents a small house on the river. I helped find it for him.”
“You seem like an especially caring employer.” This time I heard a faint note of suspicion. No matter how much I liked his curly hair, I needed to remind myself that Atticus Holt was an officer of the law. And I knew enough to keep my guard up.
“It’s hard to find year-round rentals in the village. Most owners only agree to lease their properties from September through May. This lets them charge high rental fees for summer visitors. Because I knew Theo would have a hard time, I worked out a deal for him at Crow Cottage.” I shot him a shrewd glance. “This wasn’t charity. I was in desperate need of a baker, and Theo was in need of a roof over his head. To quote The Godfather, ‘It was business, it wasn’t personal.’ Speaking of business, I need to return to the shop and focus on mine.”
Holt smiled. “I do appreciate a woman who can quote The Godfather.”
“I told you I was part Italian.”
The back door to my store banged open. “Please come inside,” Gillian cried. She looked far too frazzled for this early in the day. “Natasha’s dog got loose.”
I broke into a run. Gillian and Captain Holt were right behind me.
“Where’s Natasha?” I asked as we hurried through the kitchen. Theo still sat on the stool, head lowered.
“She realized she’d left her phone at the nail salon and ran off to get it,” Gillian said. “You know how Natasha is about her cell phone. Anyway, the dog jumped out of the purse and took after her. But she was already gone and children were in the store and they started to chase the dog all over the shop. I was in the middle of making smoothies and a customer wanted to buy four bottles of berry wine and—”
“I get the picture,” I told her as I ran into the shop.
It hadn’t taken much time for things to get out of control. At least fifteen customers milled about; some with smoothies, others holding items they wanted to pay for at the abandoned cash register. The air rang with the laughter and excited screams of children. Two adults seemed to be chasing several children about the crowded shop. The contents of a spilled bag of strawberry cake batter lay on the floor, tiny dog footprints evident in the debris. The Yorkie had to be somewhere. Her high-pitched yapping echoed off the walls.
“Has anyone seen the dog?” I asked my startled customers.
A tall fellow in surfer shorts and flip-flops pointed at my front display window. “She jumped in there. But don’t blame the dog. The kids were chasing it.”
“Don’t blame my children,” a woman snapped back. She was one of the adults chasing the kids. “That dog has no business in this store. Especially without a leash.” She grabbed one of the shouting boys by the collar of his T-shirt. “And where’s the owner? I want to lodge a complaint. That dog might have hurt one of my children.”
I had no time for manufactured outrage, especially since the children seemed to be having the time of their lives. More important, the dog was the size of my foot and no possible threat to anyone. Although Dasha did need to be on a leash—or zippered up in that purse.
As I hurried past the children racing around the bistro tables, I spotted Dasha. The youthful high spirits in the shop were clearly contagious; the Yorkie ran about the window display like a wind-up toy cranked much too tight. I suspected she had climbed into the window via the tiered shelf of bagged raspberry chocolates. When I reached in and grabbed her, she fought to squirm free. In only a few moments, Dasha had managed to rip the cellophane wrapping off the gift baskets on display, along with leaving an unwelcome surprise on a pile of Berry Basket sweatshirts. This dog needed to be house trained as soon as possible.
Clutching Dasha to my chest, I tried to calm her down. But she had worked herself into a frenzy. Her tiny tongue licked my face faster than the wings of a hummingbird.
With a laugh, Holt handed me a napkin from a nearby bistro table.
While I wiped the doggy saliva from my cheeks, the intrepid Dasha wriggled out of my hands and jumped once more into my display window. Just then, Max Riordan, owner of Riordan Outfitters on the harbor, walked by my store window. He did a double take as I struggled to grab the Yorkie. This time I caught her only because she slowed down long enough to pounce on a bag of blueberry pancake mix.
The door to my shop swung open, and Max peeked in. He wore a wide grin. “Hey, Marlee, I was wondering: How much is that doggy in the window?”
I felt pleased when the bag of pancake mix I threw landed right on his head.
Chapter 6
Five minutes after the parade began, I tripped George Washington. Actually, it was Dean dressed up as our first president, and he had only himself to blame. Against all advice, he planned to walk the entire length of the parade route on stilts. And while his white periwig, breeches, and waistcoat were historically accurate, the addition of eighteen-inch stilts seemed more suited to the circus than the Oriole Point Independence Day parade.
At least I didn’t fear injury for Dean’s brother. Andrew was decked out as Captain America, replete with helmet, mask, and a snug-fitting blue costume emblazoned with the American flag. I was also glad his boots were firmly planted on the pavement. But since the temperature was eighty-five and sunny, I feared our Marvel superhero might collapse of heatstroke by the time we reached Lyall Street. The costume must have been inflexible, too. He was no help getting his brother back onto those stilts. Instead, Gillian and I dusted George Washington off, straightened his wig, and sent him tottering once more along the parade route.
“And stop trying to strut,” I called after him. Dean had tripped after strutting right onto my left ankle, and I resolved to keep the stilted Father of Our Country in front of me for the rest of the parade.
Gillian and I exchanged amused glances before picking up our wicker baskets filled with candy. Except for Theo, the entire staff of The Berry Basket would be participating in the parade. We had even closed the shop for an hour.
As expected, the village was jammed with tourists, the vast majority lining up to watch the parade. If past years were anything to go by, they wouldn’t be disappointed. Oriole Point held a bewildering number of parades throughout the year, but Fourth of July held preeminence. At least half the store owners in the village took part, the entire city council, and the high school marching band. We had few restrictions on participation; organizations from the volunteer fire department to the Sandy Shoals Saloon Euchre Club were represented. And the floats ranged from
the sublime to the ridiculous.
My personal favorite were the Betsy Ross Babes from Miss Lana’s Dance School. Miss Lana herself led a chorus of teenage dance students in a high-kicking number that threatened to topple the red, white, and blue float they rode on. For three years in a row, complaints had been lodged against the provocative costumes of the Betsy Ross Babes. These complaints fell on deaf ears. A guaranteed crowd pleaser, Miss Lana’s sexy American flag outfits were again eliciting their usual whistles and cheers, most of it from teenage boys.
I was feeling pretty patriotic myself. Both Gillian and I wore white shorts, red T-shirts, and shiny blue top hats crowned with a pinwheel. Unable to resist a little self-promotion, I had stenciled “The Berry Basket” on the back of the shirts. We also carried baskets filled with wrapped berry-flavored candy to hand out to the crowds lining the streets. Since the lengthy parade route stretched from the public library to River Park, our candy baskets—large though they were—would wind up empty halfway through. To prevent this, Gillian and I took turns pulling a red wagon that not only held piles of extra candy, but her adorable five-year-old nephew, Skye. I hoped this plan kept us supplied with sweets, but I had my doubts. Every time I looked back at the child, he was unwrapping another piece of candy for himself.
The ring of a bell sounded behind me. I looked over in time to see Max Riordan pedal past in his vintage black tricycle. Unlike Dean and his stilts, Max had ridden the four-foot-tall trike for years, and had yet to be knocked off its high perch.
“Happy Fourth, Marlee!” he cried, looking as gleeful as five-year-old Skye.
I waved back. “Watch out for George Washington.”
If those two collided, I hoped someone took a video of it.
Max and I had been friends since kindergarten, and there were few people I felt more comfortable around. Things did get awkward back in our senior year of high school when we briefly dated and Max proposed marriage right before prom night. The proposal was such a shock I refused to go to the prom or to even date him again. Luckily, I moved away to college soon after. By the time I returned, enough time had passed and we resumed our old, easy friendship. I hoped his romantic feelings for me were a thing of the past as well. However, Ryan had never bothered to hide his jealousy of Max. The way I looked at it, the two of them would have to work it out, not me.
Blackberry Burial Page 7
