“I don’t know. I think someone has been here.”
Feeling embarrassed that she might be overreacting, Erin took him into the kitchen and showed him the broken mug and where it had been sitting on the counter. Piper nodded and looked around, his brows drawn down.
“Anyone else have a key?” he asked.
K9 sniffed at the broken mug with interest, but didn’t lead his master along a scent trail. He just sat back on his haunches and panted.
“No. I haven’t given anyone else a key.”
Piper looked into the small office. “Anything been touched in here? Anything missing?”
Erin hadn’t yet had a chance to look. She gave a little laugh and slipped by him to see. The room looked untouched. Erin checked her file drawers.
“There was one other time… when I thought things had been moved in here. I put everything away in my drawers, this time…”
“Do you have petty cash in here? A safe?”
“No. Nothing like that. And no cash in the register yet, either. I haven’t opened for business yet.” She knew she didn’t really need to add that part. Terry Piper was undoubtedly aware that she hadn’t yet opened to the public. If there had been any doubt, the fact that there were no baked goods in the display case or in the oven would pretty much be a giveaway.
“When are you opening?” he asked. “Assuming you still are?”
“Yes, of course. I’m just putting together my plans for a small opening celebration right now. A few days…”
He raised an eyebrow. “That quickly? I thought it would take longer to get things up and running.”
“Everything is already in place. I’ve bought supplies. I am still waiting on signage and a few little things like that, but for the time being, I’ll just put a handmade sign in the window.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. He and K9 went to the back door and examined it to confirm it was still locked and had not been tampered with. He looked at the steep stairs to the basement.
“What have you got downstairs?”
“Storage and the commode. I haven’t been down there yet this morning…”
K9’s ears pointed down the stairs curiously.
“Does he hear something?” Erin asked.
“No… not yet. Come on, K9. Let’s go investigate.”
The dog eagerly led the way down the stairs. Erin realized she was holding herself tense and she tried to relax. There wasn’t anything downstairs. She already knew it. There had been no sign of forced entry at either door. No open windows somebody might have crawled in through. She was going to have to accept that there had been a tremor or something else that had made the counter shake and caused her coffee mug to go crashing to the floor. The shops were all connected; perhaps someone had dropped a pallet of books with enough force in the bookstore next door that it had shaken the shared wall and sent her mug on its kamikaze journey.
There were no sounds of conflict downstairs. No sign that the officer had found anyone lurking below them. He was back up the stairs in a minute.
“All clear.”
They went back out to the front, where Melissa was anxiously waiting. Piper examined the front door and frame.
“There aren’t any signs of forced entry,” he said with a shrug. “Is it possible you left it unlocked last night?”
“No, I’m sure I…” Erin remembered colliding with the woman on the sidewalk as she left. Had she locked the door afterward? Erin knew she had unlocked the door in the morning. And it could only be locked from the outside. If she’d had to unlock it in the morning, then she had locked it the night before. “Yes. I’m sure I locked it. It was locked when I came in this morning.”
“Maybe you knocked the mug down without realizing it, last night or this morning. Or maybe a crosswind or the building shaking for some reason?” Piper shrugged.
“It’s a mystery!” Melissa said in dramatic tones.
Piper gave her a tolerant smile. “Yes, Mrs. Lee. It surely is.”
“Maybe it’s a ghost! The tea shop is haunted.”
“Bakery,” Erin corrected, aware she was nitpicking, but irritated about the community’s opposition to a second bakery opening.
“We haven’t had a ghost here before,” Melissa enthused. “I wonder who it could be. There are a lot of civil war ghosts in the area. We have a rich civil war history, you know. Why, the library is practically famous in these parts. There are so many legends of lost and buried treasure in the hills around here, a person can hardly go for a hike without tripping over one!” She laughed.
“If there hasn’t been a ghost here before,” Piper said gravely, “then the ghost must be of a more recent vintage, wouldn’t you say?”
Melissa stopped and considered. “Well, yes, I suppose. Unless you’ve somehow awoken a restless spirit. You haven’t been digging down there in your basement? Or in the back?”
“No,” Erin assured her. “The basement floor is concrete and so is the parking lot in back.”
“Then we need to think of who might have died recently that would have a reason to haunt the store.” Melissa pondered the problem.
Erin exchanged looks with Piper. He appeared to be suppressing a smile.
“Maybe… the owner?” he suggested.
“Erin?” Melissa said blankly.
“The… previous owner…?” Piper prompted.
“Oh, Clementine! Why, of course it would be Clementine! Silly old me!” She put her hand on Erin’s arm. Her dark curls quivered with her movement. “You are being haunted by your Aunt Clementine. Did you have any unfinished business with her? Something that she would be expecting from you?”
“Just opening the bakery. And why, if there was such a thing as ghosts, would my aunt’s restless spirit want to break my coffee mug?”
“She’s trying to reach you, dear. Ghosts are very limited in what they can do. Move things, appear to you, maybe make noises. It’s not like on TV, where they can just walk up and talk to you and explain themselves in words. All she can do to reach you is to move things around.”
Erin nodded. “I see. Well, I don’t believe in ghosts, so I’m going to look for more earthly explanations. You can… believe what you like.”
“Oh, I do,” Melissa agreed. “I am going to talk to the others and we’ll see if we can sort this out. After all, we all knew Clementine. I knew her my whole life. We’ll figure out what it is that she wants to reach you for. Mary Lou’s sister-in-law, she’s very good with spirits. We’ll see if she can come here and make contact with your poor dead auntie.”
Erin glanced over at Piper, widening her eyes, sure she was being played. But Piper gave no sign that Melissa was joking. And Melissa continued to look earnest and excited about the whole ghost business.
“Isn’t contacting ghosts considered sorcery in Christian circles?” Erin suggested.
“No, no! Mary Lou’s sister-in-law won’t be using a Ouija board or any other devil’s tool. She just uses prayer. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Ah.” Erin nodded. She looked at her watch as obviously as possible. Time was trickling by and she had work to do. “Did you want to leave me a flyer about your fundraiser, Melissa?” At Melissa’s blank look, she indicated the woman’s clipboard. “That was why you came in here, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes!” Melissa pulled a fuchsia-colored page from her clipboard and handed it to Erin. “Of course, no one is required to donate or put time into it, but every little bit is appreciated! I’d better get on my way! If I stop to yap at every store, it’s going to take me all day! I’m already busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”
Erin nodded and gave a little wave, and Melissa went on her way. Erin sighed and looked at Officer Piper. He had a gorgeous smile, when he let it show.
“Miss Price, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance. You feel free to call on me if you have any more troubles. Hopefully, your ghost won’t cause any more trouble.”
“Thanks,” Erin said dryly
. “Just tell me… everyone in town doesn’t believe that, do they? In the existence of ghosts, I mean? And that they can just… be contacted?”
“Not everyone is quite as literal as Mrs. Lee, but… I do imagine most of them will agree that your shop might be haunted. They might not be willing to say that it is, but they won’t say that it isn’t…”
Erin shook her head. “I suppose it’s harmless, as long as they aren’t demanding to hold 17éances in here.”
Chapter Three
ERIN HAD DONE EVERYTHING she could to prepare for opening. She had taken out an ad in the Pennysaver, had delivered flyers to all the surrounding businesses, had put her handlettered ‘Auntie Clem’s Bakery’ sign up in the window. She was up at three in the morning to start baking. Some of her batters and breads had been prepared and chilled or frozen ahead of time, but it still took time to bake a wide enough variety of treats to interest a new clientele.
The kitchen smells were heavenly and she was looking forward to propping open the front door to get some cross-ventilation, which would also help to spread the delicious scents and bring in walk-by traffic.
Wiping her forehead with the back of her forearm, Erin paused for a moment before taking out a batch of blueberry muffins. Her stomach was growling and it was time to sample some of her own goods. Blueberries were always a favorite of hers. Even better than chocolate chips.
After putting a variety of goods in the display case, Erin went to the front door. She was ten minutes early, but there were people hovering around the door. She took a calming breath and arranged a smile on her face. Then she opened the door.
She had been afraid that no one would come after all the remonstrations that the town didn’t need another bakery. How many people with special diets were there in the population? Would people who didn’t have any special needs still come by to check it out? But there were a couple of businessmen with tall cups of coffee, and a mother with four children of varying sizes, both sophisticated Mary Lou and sturdy, gray-haired Gema Reed, and a few faces Erin didn’t know. She let the fresh air breeze in, displacing the warm, fragrant air.
“Ooooh,” the children sighed as they smelled all the baked goods.
One little boy of six or seven tugged on Erin’s apron. “We get a free cookie?”
“Yes! A free cookie or a muffin. A special opening-day treat!”
He darted over to the display case and pressed his hands and face against the glass, peering in at the cookies.
“Which ones don’t have wheat?” he demanded. “My tummy can’t have wheat.”
“None of them have wheat,” Erin told him.
The boy’s mouth dropped open. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I made them myself.”
He studied her seriously, his brows drawing down. “Do they have white flour? White flour is still wheat.”
“No, they have superfine rice flour and cornstarch. Or other flours. And some of them have oats. I know oats still bother some people, so those ones are all marked.”
“Certified gluten-free oats? Or oats from the grocery store?” he interrogated.
“Certified gluten-free.”
The boy looked at his mother. Erin looked at her as well. “He knows his stuff, doesn’t he?”
“We’ve had plenty of experience. He’s learned how to advocate for himself.” She beamed with pride, jiggling a pink-cheeked baby tied to her in a sling.
The boy went back to peering at the cookies, considering his options. He had probably never had a choice of bakery-fresh cookies before.
Erin went back behind the counter and started to serve up the complimentary cookies and muffins. The mother of the little boy bought a couple of loaves of bread and some muffins for breakfast the next day. The little boy, whose name was Peter Foster, settled on a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie, the chips still warm and gooey. At Peter’s suggestion, his sisters chose a gingersnap and a macaroon, so that each could have a taste of three different kinds of cookies and decide which kind they liked best.
Erin was waving goodbye to Peter and his family when the angry redhead came in through the door. Erin froze there with her hand up like an idiot, wondering what the woman was doing coming into the store. The other ladies greeted her, but she didn’t smile and make nice. She seemed to have a permanent scowl. She made her way to the display case and looked down at the baked goods.
“Everything here is gluten-free?”
“Yes. It’s all gluten-free.”
“So, you don’t even have any wheat or other gluten flour in the kitchen?”
“No. Completely clean. All gluten-free.”
She scowled down at the cookies.
“There is a free cookie or muffin for every customer today,” Erin offered, forcing a smile. It felt plastic and unnatural. Like it belonged on someone else’s face.
“I am highly allergic to wheat. If you use any in the kitchen, I will know it.”
“I don’t. And none of the pans or implements have been used for anything but gluten-free cooking. There is no chance of cross-contamination.”
The other ladies were watching the redhead, no longer pretending to have their own conversations. It was just Mary Lou, Melissa, and Gema. Everyone else had eaten their free treat, placed their orders, and gone.
The redhead turned around and looked at the women, giving them a glare that made them huddle around their treats and giggle nervously, hiding their mouths behind their hands.
“I’ll have a chocolate muffin,” the woman announced, turning back to Erin so suddenly that she just about dropped her tongs.
“Oh. Okay,” Erin agreed. She selected one of the chocolate muffins and passed it across the counter. “My name is Erin Price.”
“I know who you are.” The redhead took a bite of the chocolate muffin and chewed slowly. “Not bad,” she admitted. “I’m Angela Plaint.”
“You’re Angela Plaint?” Erin was floored. This was the owner of The Bake Shoppe? Highly allergic to wheat and running a traditional bakery? No wonder the woman was bitter.
“Yes.”
“Oh…” Erin spluttered, looking for something to say. “Well… I’m glad you came to my opening. Would you like anything to take home?”
“Six of these.”
Erin packed up six chocolate muffins and took Angela’s money, feeling unaccountably guilty. Why should she feel bad about selling to the competition? It wasn’t like Angela was going to resell them in her own bakery for a profit. She just wanted something for later. If she were the only one in her family who was allergic, she would probably freeze the muffins individually to keep them fresh, thawing out one at a time as she needed them.
Erin couldn’t think of anything else to say to Angela. She realized belatedly that Angela was talking to her. Asking a question.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Is this the commode?” Angela pointed to the door to the stairs. She could see the ladies’/men’s placard, so Erin wasn’t sure why she was asking.
“Yes. Down the stairs. I’m sorry about that, it’s not very accessible.”
“No,” Angela sneered. “It’s not.”
She opened the door and headed down the stairs. There was no one else at the counter, so Erin went over to talk to Mary Lou, Melissa, and Gema.
“That’s my competition?” she asked in a whisper. “Why didn’t anyone tell me she was allergic to wheat? Doesn’t she sell any gluten-free products?”
“No, no,” Melissa shook her head, eyes wide, curls bouncing wildly. “She doesn’t do the baking anymore, because the flour in the air would make her sick. She just owns the place. And if they made gluten-free goods, they would be contaminated with the flour in the air and on the same equipment. She wouldn’t be able to eat them.”
“I guess not,” Erin admitted. “Why on earth does she own a bakery?”
“She used to be a wonderful baker,” Gema said, eyes distant. “She loved to bake and she was at it sun-up to sun-down. And then one day�
� she just started to get sick. She couldn’t eat wheat, or breathe it, or touch it. There was no way she could keep it up. She had to hire bakers and can’t even go into the bakery while they are cooking. If no one is baking, she can go in for a few minutes, as long as she doesn’t touch anything.”
“I can’t imagine. Why didn’t she just sell the business and start something else?”
Mary Lou smoothed her pastel pant suit and gave a wide shrug. “Angela Plaint is as stubborn as a mule. She doesn’t want to give up what she loves, even if she can’t literally have her hands in the business anymore. Nothing is going to keep her from the baking business.”
Erin shook her head slowly. She looked toward the door to the stairs and retreated to the serving counter, not wanting Angela to find Erin gossiping about her when she returned.
An older couple came in the front door, moving slowly, the husband with a walker and the wife with a cane. Both had to talk over all the options in the display case, going over them several times, asking Erin for her advice, and bouncing ideas back and forth.
“Where is your rice flour from?” wondered the elderly woman, who had introduced herself as Betty. “Is it from California rice or Chinese rice?”
Erin blinked. “I honestly have no idea.”
“Maybe you could go and look? See what is says on the package? I worry about all the arsenic, you know.”
“Uh, right,” Erin agreed. “If you can wait just a minute… I’ll go check.”
She took a glance toward the door to make sure no one else was getting impatient with the elderly couple dithering about and then ducked into the kitchen. She scrutinized the various labels on the rice flour, then returned to the front of the store.
“It looks like it’s domestic,” she said. “Not from China.”
“Hmm… maybe we should go with something with oats in it, so it’s not all rice flour,” Betty suggested, looking at her husband.
“They are actually all blends of flours,” Erin explained. Not just rice, but sorghum, corn, millet, buckwheat… and some of them have oats, like you said…”
More discussion and interrogation ensued, and two more trips to the kitchen to scrutinize labels.
Gluten-Free Murder Page 3
