by Eve Calder
So how would someone know that Maxi—who popped in and out of her shop all the time—wouldn’t be there?
Kate poured two cups of chocolate chips into the first batch of dough and held the large stainless bowl snug to her waist as she mixed them in with a wooden spoon. A lot of bakers used an electric mixer, but that risked breaking up the chips and breaking down the oatmeal. Besides, mix enough cookie dough by hand and who needs a gym?
As the soothing smells of vanilla, oatmeal, and brown sugar wafted up from the bowl, something nagged at the back of Kate’s brain. The trench.
Kate had been in Coral Cay only a few months, but she was already learning the island’s little quirks. Like the trade winds that kept them cool while the rest of the state was sweltering. Or the lack of cell phone service in the downtown area. And the fact that, in a lot of places, the water table was just five or six feet below the surface.
And a four-foot hole was just about the right depth for someone who understood that. Someone who knew the terrain.
What if the killer was from Coral Cay? What if the killer was one of them?
Chapter 7
As Kate flipped the shop sign to OPEN, she heard a key in the bakery’s back door.
“I thought it was your day off?” she said, as Sam walked in and made straight for the coffeepot.
“Time enough for that later,” he said. “Got sourdough to proof. If Harper Duval’s fool enough to hold a wine tasting in the middle of the week and wants bread, who am I to argue with him?”
“I’m already proofing the dough. And I haven’t seen any sign of Maxi. Anyway, Peter was going to try and talk her into staying home today.”
“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. “Just called me. That lawyer could talk the birds out of the trees. But that gal is stubborn.”
Kate struggled not to smile at the irony of the baker calling anyone else “stubborn.”
“Maxi’s on her way in?”
“Be here any minute.”
“OK, well, we’ll keep an eye on her,” Kate said.
Hepplewhite nodded. “Those cheese Danish?”
Kate smiled. “A test batch. I used apricot jam as a glaze.”
“Might have to try one,” he said, pouring coffee into a clean white mug. “That your young man yesterday?” he asked, plucking a pastry from the cooling rack without looking up.
“Evan. And he’s not mine. I released him back into the wild months ago,” she added lightly. “Hopefully, he’ll be clearing out soon.”
Sam nodded, a small smile on his face.
When the phone rang, she grabbed it. “The Cookie House, this is Kate.
“It’s me,” Maxi said. “I’m next door at the shop. And have I got some news for you.”
Chapter 8
When Kate walked into the flower shop, Maxi was on the settee with a coffee service on the table in front of her. Exactly the same spot she had occupied the previous night. But her mood was upbeat, even bubbly.
Kate put the bakery box containing four cheese Danish on the table, just as Oliver galloped over to her. As she turned, the half-grown puppy put his paws on her knees, looking up into her face.
“You know I’ve missed you,” she said, scratching behind his ear. “Don’t you?”
“He missed you, too,” Maxi said, grinning. “He only ate three eggs for breakfast. With bacon. Hey, these look really good.”
“New recipe. They even earned Sam’s stamp of approval. But I thought you were taking today off,” Kate chided, as she settled on the sofa.
“An ugly rumor started by mi amor,” the florist replied. “Well-meaning, but totally wrong. Besides, I figure if I’m here, we can keep an eye on things. And those guys are coming today. The ones with the radar lawn mower.”
“I forgot about that,” Kate said, spooning coconut cream from a dish into her coffee cup. “So what’s your news?”
“The good part is I came up with a couple of ideas,” the florist said. “But the news part you’re not gonna like.”
“Go for it anyway,” Kate said, steeling herself. After last night, how bad could it be?
“I had two new orders waiting when I got in this morning. Big, expensive flower orders.”
“That’s wonderful. Weren’t you worried that business might fall off after the … uh … you know?” Kate said, pointing discreetly at the backyard.
“That’s not the bad part,” Maxi said. “These flower orders—they’re for you.”
“Both of them?”
Maxi nodded.
“Evan,” Kate said softly.
“He’s one of them. The other is Harper Duval.”
“Harp? No. Why? Wait, could this just be a ‘thank-you’ for doing a rush order on the bread?”
Maxi shook her head as she ladled more coconut cream into her own cup. “Nope. That’s why I wanted to give you a heads-up. Red roses from both. And, in the language of flowers…”
“In the language of flowers, that’s a statement even I understand.”
“So I’ll refuse the orders,” Maxi concluded. “Both of them.”
Kate swallowed. “No. Evan would just call someone else. And Harp is a neighbor and business owner. This is a small town. You don’t want to alienate him.”
“Evan’s put in a standing order,” Maxi explained. “A big arrangement to start. Then a single red rose every day for a week.”
“And Harp?”
“Two dozen long-stemmed roses and a card asking you to have dinner with him.”
“He’s married! I mean, I know Caroline’s talking about leaving him, but…”
“You’re also much too young for him, but that doesn’t seem to bother him either,” Maxi countered. “He’s got that disease middle-aged guys get. The one that makes them buy sports cars and join gyms and get spray tans. Except Harp has money, so he already has the car and a real tan and his own home gym. Corizon, I don’t think he’s that serious. Just a little lost right now. Apparently, Caroline’s already left him and jetted off to Europe—straight out of rehab. And filed for divorce. At least, that’s the latest rumor blowing around town.”
“I like Harp, but not that way.”
“Good,” the florist said. “Just tell him that. He’s a big boy. He’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, we threaten to plant him out back like the other one.”
Kate laughed. “Oh sure, that’ll be great for business.”
“Your boy Evan? Super different. He’s got it bad. And I don’t just mean because he’s spending so much money on my very beautiful flowers.”
Kate shook her head. “He’s just not used to hearing the word ‘no.’ It’s over. So over. I admit, seeing him yesterday rattled me. I wasn’t expecting it. But I love it here. I love my life. And I’m not going back to New York. Or a guy who cheated on me.”
“Good. ’Cause I need someone to help me find out what happened to Alvin.”
“Alvin?”
“Mi amor refers to our skeleton as Exhibit A. But Mr. Bones was a person. So I’m calling him Alvin.”
“I’ve been thinking about that one, too. Although I have to admit I didn’t get around to naming him.”
“It also means we can talk about him, and no one will know who we mean,” Maxi said.
“Like a code?” Kate said. “That’s brilliant.”
“But better than the pig Latin mi niños tried to use. Such gibberish. They were so bad I was thiiiss close to giving them lessons,” she said, holding her fingers two inches apart. “I did learn something interesting about Alvin this morning. Before he left, Peter got a phone call. From Ben. It looks like Alvin was a man. Between twenty-five and forty-five, Ben said. And he’d been out there for less than a year. Probably not even six months. They’re gonna do some tests to see if they can narrow it down more.”
“Wow, big change from thinking he’s four hundred years old,” Kate said. “I’m no expert. But I have been to a few museums. And from what we saw, I’d have sworn the burial was anc
ient. Especially that boot.”
“Ben thinks the bad guy might have done something to speed up the process. He’s working on finding out about that, too.”
Maxi fell silent.
“I want to know who did this,” she said finally. “I know I should just leave it to the police. But whoever it was…” She shook her head.
“They made you part of it,” Kate said softly. “You and the flower shop.”
Maxi nodded.
“I think our first clue to finding out who put Alvin out there is determining when they put him out there,” Kate said, relieved to have a puzzle to occupy her mind. “When we were in the backyard, it took the two of us quite a while to dig each of those trenches.”
“Ay, not easy work, even with mostly sand,” the florist said ruefully.
“And Alvin was at least a foot or a foot-and-a-half beneath that last one. So someone would need to be out there a good long time. Even with two people digging. And nobody saw anything? I mean, you’re here at all hours, and so is Sam.”
“I know,” Maxi agreed. “That bothered me, too. Some nights, I’m leaving at ten or eleven. And I know mi padrino is coming in to start baking at two or three.”
“That’s a pretty thin needle to thread.” Kate looked over at Oliver, who was sitting next to the sofa, listening to their conversation. She broke off a piece of crust from her Danish and offered it to him.
The poodle mix lifted it neatly from her palm, then sat back on his haunches. She could have sworn he smiled.
“I was wondering if maybe we were away,” Maxi said. “Peter and I, we take a weekend sometimes and go somewhere nice. Just us. Other times, we pack up everybody and drive over to Miami to see family.”
“If you were out of town, that would explain how someone knew you wouldn’t show up at the shop. That would give them plenty of time. And privacy.”
“But when it’s just the two of us, we never tell anybody. That’s the point. Peter doesn’t even let the bunch from his office know until we get back. I mean, for emergencies, they have his cell number. But they don’t know where he is. Of course, mi mami knows where we are, because she watches the kids. But trust me, if she did it, we wouldn’t have found Alvin ever.”
Kate smiled, slipping Oliver another morsel. “But this is a small town.”
Maxi nodded.
“So word gets around. Any of the times you got back, did you notice anything out of place in the yard?”
“You mean like a giant Alvin-shaped dip in the grass?” Maxi shook her glossy black hair. “Nope.”
“Was there ever a time in the past year when you were both out of town—you and Sam? Or away from the shops at the same time? A weekend gathering? A festival?”
“Not that I remember. And I know it wasn’t mi padrino.”
“No, I saw the look on Sam’s face. He was shocked that wasn’t Gentleman George.”
“Ay, Barb and Amos were pretty disappointed, too. So much for their dreams of a bigger, better Pirate Festival. Oh my gosh! Uncle Ernesto!”
“Uncle Ernesto? You don’t think he’s Alvin?”
“No, no, no,” Maxi said quickly. “Mi mami’s brother Ernesto. He runs a construction company in Miami. He was hurt in an accident. With one of those big cranes. Back in February. We didn’t think he was going to make it. But Ernesto’s tough. And lucky. When it first happened? It was bad. And mi mami was a mess. I didn’t want her driving across the Everglades by herself, so I was gonna take her. But Peter cashed in some of his overtime and we all went. We were gone for, oh, it must have been about a week. And mi mami stayed there a few more weeks to help out. Now Ernesto’s back at work, and there’s no stopping the guy. He’s something else.”
“But if someone knew you were out of town,” Kate started, reaching into the box for a second Danish.
“Everybody knew. I made arrangements with one of the floral networks to handle orders while I was gone. I talked with the events coordinators over at the resorts. Just to let them know. I even wanted to put a sign on the door, but Ben said that was a bad idea.”
Kate nodded. “That doesn’t tell us much. It could be someone who knows you or just someone who heard about it second or third hand through the resort. Or the local grapevine.”
“Uh-uh, one thing was different this time. Besides how long we were gone. And I didn’t think of it ’til just now. While we were in Miami, mi padrino was away from the bakery, too. Just for a couple of days.”
“Sam Hepplewhite took a day off?”
“Like a whole super-long weekend. Valentine’s Day. He does it every year. Since he lost Ginger. He leaves before the holiday and usually comes back on Sunday, to catch up on the baking so he can open the shop Monday morning. I don’t know what day he came back this year, though, ’cause we weren’t here.”
“Where does he go?”
Maxi shrugged. “No one knows. Not even Peter and me.”
“But anyone who knew about that and heard you were in Miami…”
“They would know they could have the whole backyard—my backyard—all to themselves. For as long as they wanted.”
“I hate to say it,” Kate said, setting down her cup and leaning back into the little sofa. “But that narrows it down to someone who lives in Coral Cay. Someone we know and trust.”
Chapter 9
“So what’s this about a cookie-of-the-day contest?” Barb Showalter’s voice boomed, as she planted her feet wide in front of the bakery case, hands on hips. Clad in a blue Hawaiian shirt and tan walking shorts, she eyed up several kinds of cookies.
Kate concentrated on the bookstore owner for a split second. Then she reached into the case, plucked out a peanut butter cookie still warm from the oven and handed it across the counter.
“An excuse to try out some different kinds of cookies and see what everyone likes,” Kate explained. “You write the name of the cookie you’d like us to make and put it in the jar,” she said, pointing to a yellow cookie jar on the counter.
“Enter as many times as you want, and as many kinds of cookies as you want. Every day, I’ll pull out one entry and bake up a big batch. Whoever suggested it gets a dozen free. We’ll keep track of how many we sell, too. Then, at the end of the month, whichever contest cookie sells the most, that person wins a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the Cookie House. And if their cookie suggestion is a big hit, we’ll keep making them.”
“That is ingenious,” Barb said, munching happily.
“And dangerous,” Kate said, smiling. “I’ve peeked at some of the suggestions. So far, there’s a lot of chocolate in that jar. And, of course, I have to do some tasting. I mean, it’s my job.”
“You poor thing,” Barb said. “So are these contest cookies things I’d like to try or old family recipes or what?”
“It can be anything. A name. A recipe. Or just something you’ve always wanted to sample. Or make yourself.”
“I may steal a version of that contest for the book store. Hmmm. Let me have a dozen of the oatmeal and a dozen of the oatmeal with chocolate chips. We’re having children’s story time this afternoon. Oh, and a half dozen of the peanut butter.” Barb grinned. “Those are for me.”
Kate carefully assembled three bakery boxes—two large and one small. She filled them, throwing in some extra oatmeal cookies for the kids attending story hour, and sealed each box with a small piece of cellophane tape. She handed them across the counter, as the bookstore owner passed her a credit card.
“I have a confession to make,” Barb said. “A favor, really. The other day, the thing with Sir George Bly? Or, what we thought was Sir George Bly?”
Kate nodded.
“I’ve been thinking. His story is a big part of Coral Cay. Directly or indirectly, he’s the reason a lot of people visit this island.”
“The Pirate Festival?” Kate asked.
Barb shook her head. “Not just that. Historians. Anthropologists. Sociologists. Even the amateur treasure hunters. That story brings in a st
eady stream of people. And not just during tourist season or for the festival.”
Kate slipped the credit card though a machine next to the cash register and returned it.
“That burial got me thinking,” Barb continued, slipping the card into her pocket. “What happened to Sir George—what really happened to him—it’s still a mystery. And I have to admit, when our bunch from the book club pulled together to figure out what happened to Stewart Lord? We were pretty good. Surprisingly good. And I realize that you and Maxi did all the heavy lifting on that one. But it wouldn’t have to be like that this time.”
“This time?” Kate asked, puzzled.
“I love history,” Barb said. “Always have. When I came here, I couldn’t get enough of the local stuff. Native peoples. Conquistadors. Homesteaders. Outlaws. South Florida lore and legends. Who settled this place, how they ended up here, and why. The funny thing is, the reasons people come here haven’t changed in four hundred years.”
“As someone who relocated to Coral Cay for a fresh start, I can believe it,” Kate said, sensing Barb was sharing something personal for the first time since they’d met.
Barb grinned. “You and me both. For some reason, though, George Bly’s story has always fascinated me. Even more than some of the others. Maybe it’s the old swashbuckling adventure yarn. Too much Robert Louis Stevenson as a child. Or maybe it’s because no one knows what happened to him. Yesterday, I thought we were going to be able to at least write an ending to his story.”
“You were disappointed it wasn’t him out there,” Kate said.
“Heartbroken. I know that sounds silly. I admit, some of that was because of the financial boost it would give this island. And our festival. But I also thought I was going to be one of the first people to discover what really happened to him. To find out if the legends were true.”
“A four-hundred-year-old cold case,” Kate summarized.
“Exactly. What we know—the actual history—stops with the records of the last Spanish galleon that attacked his ship. And you have to take that with a grain of salt. But the rest of it? Pure myth. Conjecture. Nothing concrete.”