Gluten for Punishment (2 page)

“You look great.” Tasha patted me on the shoulder. “Everything looks picture-perfect
and smells fabulous. You’ll blow them away.”

“Here’s hoping.” I crossed my fingers and opened the front door. At least ten people
milled about on the sidewalk. Most of them were elderly or other small-business owners
looking to schmooze. To my left, Lois Striker talked to Pete Hamm, the chamber president
and a personal injury lawyer. Pete smiled with relief when I waved for his attention.
As he hurried away, he took a linen handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped
his round face. He wore an imported blue suit with pale blue shirt and striped tie.
He was balding but obviously had a hairdresser who knew how to deal with it as the
cut looked expensive.

“Hi, Toni.” He held out his hand—the hand he’d just used to wipe spit off his brow.
Great. I plastered on a big smile and shook it. Rocky Rhode, the chamber’s official
photographer and owner of the local photo studio, Perfect Portraits, snapped a quick
photo.

“Hi, Pete.” I turned for a second shot. “Is everyone here?”

“Still waiting on Alisa Thompson. She was promoted to community liaison for the chamber,
you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Of course you do. Alisa does great work, but she’s not known for being punctual.”
Pete looked through the crowd. “Ah, there’s Sherry, let’s get her in on the ribbon
cutting.” He waved over the fashionable brunette, who smiled like she’d just won the
Miss Kansas Pageant—which she had when we were both in our early twenties. I wasn’t
jealous. I simply couldn’t figure out how pageant girls did it: the pageant figure,
the pageant smile, the right tone in their voice when they insisted on world peace.

When I was in my early twenties, I wanted to be an astronaut or an architect or a
paleontologist. My college counselor, on the other hand, thought my love of science
made me a great candidate for weathergirl. After two semesters of learning things
like the fact that humidity was actually measured by a machine mapping the amount
of curl in a human hair, I dropped out and went to culinary school, where I learned
that, even in the world of cooking, females still had to work twice as hard. Unless,
of course, you looked like Sherry.

“Pete, glad to see you.” She gave him a hug and a kiss on both cheeks as if she hadn’t
seen him for years. Odd since they worked in the same office and, if I wasn’t mistaken,
Pete was Sherry’s boss.

“Toni!” She turned her sparkling blue eyes on me and her killer smile. “Don’t you
look so cute in your outfit!” Before another thought could enter my head, she’d grabbed
me and squeezed me tight with her toned arms. I awkwardly patted her shoulder. In
high school, Sherry, then Waters (now Williams), ran with the popular crowd while
I ran with the honors kids, the debate squad and, worse, the pep band. Good times.

She ran her hands down my arms and took my hands in hers as she stepped back. “You
look fabulous.”

“Thank you.” I think.

“You must be so proud of your little store. You know, gluten-free food is all the
rage among the young and fit.” She nodded. “I can’t wait to pick up some more of those
yummy crusty rolls I bought last week.”

As if anything close to a crusty roll had ever passed through those lips. Really,
the old saying is true: When you get to be fortysomething you must choose between
your face and your figure. I chose my face. Sherry, it seemed on closer inspection,
preferred a plastic surgeon.

“Ah, there’s Alisa, the gang’s all here.” Pete puffed up as Alisa Thompson arrived.
Alisa was in her mid-fifties and had been with the chamber her whole career. Her husband
was a professor at the college, and while they didn’t live in my part of town, they
weren’t exactly country club material either. She wore her bottle-blonde hair in a
high pouf ending in an outward flip at the shoulder. Her dark glasses had rhinestones
at the cat-eye tips. Her fall green suit was well-tailored and hit her hip at the
right proportion to make her thick legs look slimmer as she tottered on four-inch
stilettos with red bottoms. The flash of red was supposed to show off her good taste
in designer shoes, but, having lived in Chicago for fifteen years, I knew a knockoff
when I saw one.

She clipped forth at snail speed, her hands full of several pairs of oversized gold
scissors. “Good morning, pets.” She smiled to show off her capped teeth. “Perfect
weather for a grand opening, isn’t it?”

I glanced up at the puffy clouds in the bright blue sky. She was right. With the crowd
gathered around blocking the wind, it was rather nice out.

“Here you go, darlings.” Alisa handed the scissors to Pete, Sherry, and I, leaving
one pair for herself. “Now, places, everyone.”

We all ducked behind the ribbon in front of the open door and waited for Rocky to
give us the thumbs-up from behind his camera.

“Before we cut the ribbon,” Pete straightened, “let me thank you all for coming. It’s
a wonderful thing to see Oiltop grow with new businesses. Niche bakeries like Baker’s
Treat are exactly what we need to keep the downtown vibrant. With the addition of
the new dam and lake, we at the chamber continue to bring new opportunities to Oiltop.”

The crowd gave a polite round of applause. Pete smiled and waved like a politician.
I wondered if he’d already started his campaign for mayor.

“Ms. Holmes, why don’t you tell these wonderful citizens what makes your bakery special?”

I blinked at Pete, who smiled encouragingly and waved a hand to the crowd. Darn it.
I didn’t know I would have to talk. I swallowed my fear of public speaking and stumbled
a step forward. “Um . . . well . . . Baker’s Treat is a gluten-free bakery.”

“Isn’t this whole gluten-free thing a fad?” a man shouted from the crowd.

I squinted at the crowd, trying to figure out who I was addressing. “Far from it,”
I said. “I mean, sure, some healthy people believe going gluten-free will help them
live longer—”

“That’s bullshit science. One barrel of good Kansas wheat feeds ten families.”

I leaned toward Pete. “Who is that?” I whispered.

“George Meister,” he said through his smiling teeth.

The Meisters were longtime farmers in the area and grew primarily wheat. George was
a few years older than me. Since I hadn’t lived in town for twenty years, I figured
it was okay if I didn’t recognize him.

“Hi, George.” I hoped to defuse his obvious anger by being gentle. “My bakery’s not
trying to get rid of wheat or wheat products.”

“You just said you were gluten-free.”

“Well, right, some people—like myself—have wheat or gluten allergies. So what is good
for the rest of the world could really harm us.”

“So you’re saying wheat is bad and what, rice is good? That’s bull.”

“No, I’m saying someone with allergies doesn’t normally get to enjoy comfort food
like bread. Or . . .” My thoughts scrambled as I tried to explain. “Or even a birthday
cake on her birthday. Baker’s Treat is here to change that.”

“If you’re anti-wheat, you’re anti-Kansas. Why don’t you go back to your Yankee Chicago?”

“George, Kansas was a free state, too,” I pointed out, thinking I was being rational.
“It means we can be all-inclusive.”

“And the Bible says, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ If you’re anti-wheat, you’re
anti-Christian.”

“Now, now.” Pete raised his hands. “Let’s give the bakery a chance, George. Like this
little lady said, she ain’t trying to take away from real bread.”

I cringed at the “real bread” statement. “My baked goods
are
real,” I stated. “They are made from all-natural ingredients.”

“Like?” Lois asked, her eyes two sizes too big in her thick glasses.

“For example, we use sweet rice flour,” I counted off on my fingers, “potato starch,
tapioca, millet flour, flax, and cornstarch.”

“Sounds nasty,” Lois said.

My eyes grew wide. That wasn’t the slogan I wanted associated with my business. I
glanced at Pete, who had turned a bit red around the collar. He was no help. I gave
the crowd my biggest smile while my brain scrambled for a way to undo potential damage.
“Why don’t you come in and give the pastries a try? After all, you can’t beat free
tarts and pastries.”

“I’m for the pastries,” Lois said.

“So am I,” Pete added. “So, let’s get this ribbon cut, shall we?”

The four of us with the big scissors slipped them over the ribbon.

“On the count of three,” Pete said. “Smile for the camera. One . . . two . . .” Wham,
something solid hit the top of the building and the sky was suddenly snowing white
powder.

I choked and coughed. Pete coughed. Sherry desperately tried to wipe off the stuff
when another missile hit the bricks above us and dumped more white from the sky.

“Damn it!” Pete shouted. “Somebody stop this nonsense. Where are the cops? Do we have
a liaison officer present?”

It was then I realized the taste in my mouth was flour . . . of the wheat variety.
The powder tickled my nose and I sneezed.

CHAPTER
2

I
wiped the flour off my face with a warm, wet towel while Tasha graciously passed around
platters of cookies. Everyone outside during the flour attack was currently inside
the shop whispering about it—and me—and hopefully the cookies and tarts.

“And you didn’t see who threw the flour bombs?” Hank Blaylock was Oiltop’s chief of
police and, as it turns out, happened to be attending the coffee. Too bad he’d arrived
late. The Oiltop Police force was small, consisting of two patrols for day and one
for night. There wasn’t a lot of crime in town, except for around the college and
they had their own security force twice the size of Oiltop’s. Not that it mattered.
Chief Blaylock liked to think he was in charge of anything police related in the city.
His gruff demeanor let him get away with it.

“I didn’t see a thing,” I admitted. “I was looking down to cut the ribbon when the
first one hit. My eyes were full of flour when the second one hit.”

“Any idea who did it?” he asked, writing in his small notebook.

“George Meister made a fuss before the ribbon cutting, but I didn’t actually see him
do anything.”

“What do you mean by ‘made a fuss’?” Chief Blaylock frowned as if I spoke a foreign
language.

“He was protesting the bakery.” Tasha stepped in. “Cookie?” She passed a platter of
the chocolate chip under his nose.

“They any good?” The chief’s eyes narrowed.

“Better than your momma makes.” Tasha winked.

“Now, that’s saying something.” He looked the cookies over. “I’m working . . .”

“Bag him up an assorted baker’s dozen,” I said. “And add a thermos of the good coffee.”

“Will do.” Tasha trailed off to Play hostess with the rest of the cookies. The tarts
were all gone. At least everyone was enjoying the food.

“I don’t take bribes.” The chief wrote something on his pad.

I sighed. “It’s not a bribe. It’s good business. No one will come in if they haven’t
tasted the product first. Besides, it’s chamber-sponsored.”

“In that case, I’ll take it.” He tapped his pencil against the notebook. “Okay, back
to business. George Meister, in your words, ‘made a fuss.’”

“Yes.” I flattened my mouth and rolled my eyes. “There is always someone willing to
protest something new, especially if they feel threatened.”

“So you think George felt threatened?”

I took a deep breath. “He thought I said wheat was evil—I didn’t. Then he got upset
and said gluten-free living was anti-Christian, which is simply nuts.”

“So, he had his panties in a twist.” Chief Blaylock’s brown eyes twinkled at me. The
guy was five-foot-ten and what one would politely call husky. Still he wore his chief’s
uniform finely starched and with pride. His gray hair was thin. He was the same age
as my father, which meant he’d pretty much seen it all over the years.

“I’m sure people will understand once they read my interview in tonight’s paper. Gluten-free
food is a specialty niche for people with allergies and special-needs diets. I’m not
trying to take away from the importance of wheat farmers.”

“You said that in your interview?”

My mouth twitched slightly. “Not exactly. I hadn’t foreseen the need.”

He scratched his head. “You’re telling me you didn’t think anything of setting up
a wheat-free bakery in the heart of wheat country?”

“Come on, Chief Blaylock, I grew up here. The bakery was already doing well online
when Mom left me the house. Where else but in town would I set up my storefront?”

“I see your point.” He blew out a breath. “Look, I’ve interviewed pretty much everyone,
and as far as we can tell no one saw anything. It was probably only a prank.”

“A prank that could make me sicker than a dog,” I muttered and realized that using
the wet cloth to clean my face had had almost zero effect—on the cleaning, that is.
Unless you counted the wet flour now hardening like papier-mâché paste on my nose.
Which I didn’t.

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Are you that allergic?”

“I have celiac disease. The gluten protein in grains like wheat makes me very ill.
That’s what I said when George got all defensive.”

“Celiac disease? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m sure you probably haven’t, but it’s not that rare. You should Google it.”

“How many people know you have this disease?”

“Anyone who knows me or anyone who reads today’s article. Why?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I was wondering if I should write this up as a prank
or attempted murder.”

His words rang in the small space. Suddenly, the crowd in the bakery was very, very
quiet.

“I sincerely doubt it was attempted murder.” I tried to wipe more of the flour paste
off of my hands, but the towel had hardened as well.

“You said wheat makes you sick.”

“It’s not like a peanut allergy. It’s more like food poisoning.”

“Then we’ll call it a prank.” Chief Blaylock’s gaze held concern. “But you let me
know if you have any more trouble.” He gave a quick nod.

“Okay.” I gave up on the towel.

“Good. Any more questions?”

“No, I think that’s it.”

The chief raised his voice. “Fine, then you good people can enjoy your coffee. If
anyone remembers anything, you have my number. Give me a call.”

Tasha gave the chief a tan-and-white-striped box of cookies and a thermos with our
name splashed across it.

“Thanks for your help.” I waved at Pete Hamm, who’d asked me earlier to let him know
when the chief was leaving. Pete was probably scared to walk out without the chief
next to him for fear of more flour in the face.

The rest of the coffee klatch left soon after. I was happy to see that almost all
the treats had been eaten. Some people bought rolls and breads and other pastries.
Barring the fact that I looked like a grade-school art project gone wrong, it hadn’t
been a bad day.

“Hey, Tasha, thanks for your help.”

Tasha finished washing the platters. “No sweat. You’ve always been there for me in
a pinch.”

I glanced at the mirror. My once perfectly styled and sprayed hair was now a sickly
white. “Any suggestions for flour mixed with hairspray?”

Tasha giggled. “You look like a limestone statue.”

“Great. I bet Rocky was excited to post the pictures of the flour-covered ribbon cutting
on the newspaper website. Not exactly the kind of publicity I was hoping for.”

Tasha rubbed my arm. “You’ll be the talk of the town.”

“I can’t believe George Meister said I was anti-Christian for not cooking with wheat.”

“He was upset. He thought you were robbing him of his family business.”

“How?” I rested my elbow on the counter and my cheek on my fist. “Wheat is everywhere.”
I waved my hand.

“Including on your front stoop.” Tasha grabbed the broom with a laugh.

I looked at the clock and sighed. “Get out of here. I can clean up on my own.” It
was nearly lunchtime and Tasha had her own cleaning and straightening to do at her
B&B before she got Kip from school. She handed me the broom and headed for the door
as I asked, “Do you need a ride?”

“Nope, I’m good. The walk will clear my head and make up for the cookies I ate.”

“Hey, don’t forget to take the box of cookies I fixed for Kip.”

“Oh, right.” She went back and rummaged around in the kitchen before pulling out the
box. “Got it. Thanks! He loves your cookies.”

We hugged and, as Tasha took off, I went out and sighed at the mess in front of my
store. The brick building had round spots of white where the bags or balloons or whatever
had first hit. The windows were coated in a fine dust. I frowned. There was nothing
for it but to get an allergy mask and get to work.