Flourless to Stop Him (8 page)

T
hey say that numbers don’t lie. But they certainly kept me from sleeping. I’d sat down earlier in the evening and done my weekly accounting for Baker’s Treat. The only way I would make it through the next six months was if I delivered on all the potential business over the holidays.

It never failed that orders fell off dramatically in January when everyone made resolutions to eat less. I had to be prepared for the expected slump in sales.

Getting through diet season without losing money meant that baking and shipping would become my life until New Year’s Day. I would have no spare time for anything but sleep.

Grandma’s insistence that I take days off every week was fine in theory. But if I didn’t work all day in the bakery and all evening at home filling orders, I would not have enough cash stashed to keep Baker’s Treat open until tourist season in the spring. Luckily I’d had the foresight to run a special on a social living network to buy two dozen, get one dozen
gluten-free cookies free. It had increased my orders to the point that I would reach my goal of funding the bakery through diet season if I stayed on task, focusing solely on baking.

I barely had time to get enough sleep, which was why it was so frustrating to toss and turn during the precious few hours I had allotted.

Forget about time for Christmas. I swore that next year I was going to start Christmas shopping in February like Tasha. For now I had to accept that this year was a wash. At least the family’s traditional great reveal—where we uncovered Christmas decorations from the 1970s that hung in the basement year-round—meant that decorating was done. The fact that they were up year-round was suddenly a good thing. I had no time to even do my own tree in the parlor like I had hoped.

Grandma Ruth had volunteered my house for the family Christmas Eve dinner before church. At least that was potluck.

My assistant, Meghan, was a dream stepping up and handling the counter business while I took orders and kept the mixer busy with cookie dough.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to bake. But I hated to be so dependent on income that I had to say yes to every order. Times like this I wished I had stayed a mail-order business. Or turned the house into a bed-and-breakfast like Tasha had suggested a few months ago. But knowing that someone had been hiding drugs in my garage for the police to find showed me that opening my property to the public might not be a good idea.

Thank goodness Tim and Mindy entertained each other, because I was a terrible hostess. I’d come home at nine and baked another ten dozen peanut butter cookies before I’d climbed into bed.

Knowing how sensitive some people were to allergens, I always made my peanut butter treats at the house and not
the shop. It was difficult because Kip was sensitive to peanuts. I had to ensure he was safely upstairs when I baked.

I liked to use almond flour in my recipes, so I wasn’t tree nut free, but peanuts are a legume and so I reasoned that they were best baked separately so that there was no cross-contamination for those with allergies.

The Baker’s Treat website spoke of my attention to detail for allergies. Having experienced the bad effects of eating even the tiniest bit of gluten, I was diligent in my work.

Faced with financial ruin or heroic baking, I chose heroic baking. I was relatively young and could get by with a minimum amount of sleep for thirty days if it meant keeping Baker’s Treat alive. Or so I thought.

It would help, though, if I actually slept in the five hours I had. I glanced at the clock. It was 2:50
A.M.
I had to get up to go to work in ten minutes. Sleep had been fitful for me as Tasha’s words about leaving my brother’s fate in the hands of Officer Emry kept running through my brain.

I decided to take pastries to the police department when Meghan got in in the morning. A talk with Officer Bright might really help ease my mind. I might be able to choose hard work to keep Baker’s Treat afloat, but I couldn’t choose my bakery over my brother’s life. I simply had to squeeze in time to keep ensuring that Calvin was doing his job or I wouldn’t sleep at all, and lack of sleep made for bad baking.

I got out of bed, turned off my alarm before it could sound, and hit the shower. Dressing in my uniform of black slacks and white Baker’s Treat tee shirt with a big pink cupcake logo, I contemplated the combined fates of my bakery, my brother, and the odd jealousy I felt when Mindy batted her eyelashes at Brad. What was wrong with me? I had promised myself not to date for a full twelve months after my divorce. When I made the promise I was considering my divorced friends and how quickly they jumped from
one bad relationship to another. The last thing I wanted or needed was to make the same mistakes I had with Eric.

My ex-husband was gorgeous and had made me feel like a goddess. That was until I realized he was making a lot of women feel that way. It seemed marriage vows only worked for me. Eric had kept on playing the entire span of our three-year marriage. But, you see, I have this thing where I believe in my vows. When I said “I do” it meant that all others were forsaken. It was part of the deal that he forsake all others for me, too.

Eric hadn’t seen the problem with his transgression. He couldn’t understand only sleeping with one person the rest of his life. I shook my head at my own naïveté. I picked up the brush from my dresser and brushed my fine yet crazy curly red-blonde hair into a low ponytail.

The lack of sleep had me looking even more washed-out than usual. I put on some BB cream, pinched my cheeks, and dabbed mascara on my nonexistent eyelashes. A glance at my reflection caused me to sigh. There was no way I could compete with Mindy. Brad might have thought he was interested last month, but now that tiredness put deep shades of purple under my eyes, I wouldn’t blame anyone who backed away slowly.

I had a bakery to save from financial ruin. Why, oh, why was I fixating on my visiting cousin’s flirtations? Disgusted with myself, I turned from the mirror and nearly tripped over Kip’s puppy. “Whoa, hello, Aubrey, try not to sneak up on me like that. Someone’s bound to get hurt.” I patted him on the head. The vet said he was nine months old and already he was so big I didn’t need to bend down to pet him.

Aubrey just looked at me with playful eyes. I went downstairs to the kitchen and the dog followed behind me. Usually Kip had the puppy sleep with him. So either Kip was up at 3:00
A.M
. or the puppy had begged to be let out. It
sounded as if someone was in the kitchen. I stepped into the light from the stovetop fan. “Kip?”

“It’s me,” Grandma Ruth said from the dark recesses where the kitchen table sat.

“Grandma, what are you doing here? Did Bill bring you?”

“Naw, Bill’s out of town for his aunt’s funeral,” Grandma said with a wave of her large square hand. “Are you going to make coffee or simply waste time staring at me?” Grandma wore a quilted plaid men’s shirt and a long red butterfly skirt. Her black socks came up to her knees and stood out against the white of her athletic shoes. A brown fedora sat on top of the table. Her puffy down coat hung from the back of her chair.

“I’m making coffee,” I replied and headed toward the machine. I suppose I should purchase one I could set with a timer so that the coffee turns itself on a few minutes before I get up. But really, how hard is it to push one button in the morning?

I let Aubrey out into the dark fenced yard to do his business and grabbed two pale blue thick ceramic mugs from the cupboard beside the sink. “You need cream with your sugar?”

“A splash will do just fine,” Grandma said. I pulled out the tiny container of half-and-half from the fridge. By this time the coffee was finished, filling the air with its sharp fresh scent. I poured us each a cup and took them to the table, where I set one in front of Grandma and the other in front of the empty chair.

Grandma added an incredible amount of artificial sweetener to her coffee and then a splash of half-and-half until her glass was practically overflowing.

“Bill still had an aunt who was alive?” I had to ask. I assumed the man was close to Grandma’s age.

“She was born after him.” Grandma bent down and slurped the coffee from her cup until it was low enough for
her to pick up without spilling. “Bill’s grandmother had two families. She had two kids when she was in her teens and then two more when she was in her late thirties. Bill was ten when his aunt was born.”

“Wow, then she died young.”

Grandma grinned. “It’s all relative, isn’t it? You were surprised she was alive until you learned she was seventy-nine. Now she’s young.”

“I guess you’re right.” I ran my fingers along my coffee cup. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

“Oh, the usual.” Grandma slurped more coffee.

“What’s the usual? You’re here early. That’s not usual. Did you find out anything yesterday about Harold or the possibility Tim’s identity was stolen?”

“I’m checking on Tim. It’s not usual that he’s moved back in with you. As far as I can tell, Tim’s identity is safe. Have you discovered anything more about the murdered kid and who might have put Tim’s name on the registration?”

“I know I said I’d investigate if he asked me—and he asked me. But I can’t this time, Grandma.” I picked up my coffee cup and warmed my fingers. “I’m loaded down with orders for Baker’s Treat. That’s the business I want. I’m not a private investigator.”

Grandma pouted. Her freckles ran together in the folds of her pout. “But you’re so good at it.”

“I nearly got killed both times,” I said and shook my head. “I don’t see how that translates to ‘good at it.’”

“You saved me.” Grandma put her hands on the table. “Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t investigated.”

“I’m not good at investigating. I trust that Brad and Officer Bright and Chief Blaylock can do their jobs. Tim is clearly innocent. It will all work out.”

“What about the drugs that they found in the garage?”

I winced. “Those had to be planted. Whoever is framing
Tim is doing a bad job at it. The garage was unlocked. The police have no evidence that those drugs belonged to me or Tim or anyone in the neighborhood.”

“Your mother would have died of embarrassment if drugs had been found in the garage while she was alive.”

“I know,” I said wryly and sipped my beverage. “I was horrified until I saw Tim’s face. It doesn’t help that his best friend growing up was murdered, but then to be framed for it. It’s awful. Whoever is doing this is really screwing with Tim. It makes me so angry.” I hardened my expression. “When they discover who is behind this, I’m going to have a word or two to say to them.”

“Tim riled someone, that’s for sure. He tells me he hasn’t gotten into trouble in years.”

“Yes, he swore the same thing to me,” I said. “It makes me wonder if someone didn’t wait to frame him. Take my friend Todd. He waited years to get back at a bully. Not that Tim would ever bully anyone. But people carry resentment for a long time.”

Grandma pursed her mouth. “That could be. But that takes a lot of patience. Men don’t usually have that kind of self-discipline.”

“That’s true,” I agreed, raised my eyebrows, and nodded. “In my experience patience is not a male virtue.”

“Not much of a female virtue, either, if you ask me.”

That made me smile. I pushed my chair away from the table and stood. “I’ve got cookies to make. Do you need a ride home?”

“No, I have my scooter,” Grandma said.

“It’s dark and”—I glanced out the window as I put my cup in the sink—“snowing.” I opened the door and let Aubrey in. The puppy shook the snow off, flinging it all over the small mudroom. I grabbed a towel near the door and dried him off. “Really, Grandma, you can’t drive your scooter down the street in the dark and snow. It is December.”

The puppy got free and snagged the towel out of my hands, shook it hard, and ran off, towel dragging on the ground beside him. I straightened and washed my hands.

“When I was young, people walked in the dark and the cold all the time. Besides, I’m meeting Mindy for breakfast,” Grandma said. “She’s going to take me out. So she can take me home if the scooter can’t. By the way, she’s afraid to cook in your kitchen. She said you were weird about her using your toaster.”

“She brought real bread and made toast.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You know that any exposure to gluten can make me sick. I can’t afford another attack. I’ve got to meet my orders this month to stay in business for another year.”

“Are things that tight?” Grandma’s blue eyes filled with concern.

“They’ll be fine, if I work,” I reassured her.

“You don’t have to work alone.” Grandma crossed her arms to match me. “You have family who can help.”

“I know,” I said and shook my head. “But Baker’s Treat is my dream, Grandma, not Lucy’s or Tim’s or Richard’s or Rosa’s or Joan’s or Eleanor’s.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Grandma insisted with a wave of her hand. “We have family to help us out in a pinch. Don’t get all proud and stuck-up, thinking you don’t need our help.”

“I’m not stuck-up or proud.” I straightened and dropped my hands, taken aback by her comment.