Secrets and Sweet Rolls

by M E Harmon

  Who was I to talk? According to the brochure, today’s lowest minimum bid started at five thousand dollars. The minute I saw that, my bidding card was folded and tucked safely away into my purse. There it had no chance of accidentally bidding on anything.

  But I did want to watch the auction, so I had to hustle up. I snagged a platter dish from the caterers. It was too small, so I’d have to make a second trip with the cinna-minis.

  Loaded up with pastry, my mind was already outside as I headed for the patio doors. I’d just noticed Anna and the tall man weren’t by the bar anymore when I felt my right foot loose purchase with the floor. I was falling. Then a strong arm encircled my waist and held fast.

  “Whoa there. Can’t have all that good stuff on the floor.”

  Whoever caught me was warm. I could feel his body heat through my dress. I got my traitor of a foot under control and turned to spy my savior.

  It was Mr. Carter. I could smell vodka on his breath, but despite that, I could see why he had a reputation of making women swoon. I’d been wrong earlier. His vibe wasn’t quarterback. It was more like rebel surfer-boy. The kind of bad boy good girls skipped last period for so they could go to the beach and watch his tanned body skim the waves.

  His hands still held my waist. I straightened and took a step back. “Thanks. I would’ve been mortified if the good stuff had hit the floor.” I gestured at the cinnamon rolls.

  Mr. Carter’s lips quirked up in a naughty half-smile. “Yeah, those too, I guess.”

  Ok, I’m a little dense when it comes to men, but that was definitely the type of coquettish banter that sent off red alarms. Since his wife was the one writing my check, it was time to go. “Thanks, Mr. Carter.”

  “Call me Rick.”

  I fashioned my mouth in what I hope was a disarming yet amicable expression. “Sure, Rick it is.”

  “I usually tell people to use Dorrick, but there’s something I like about you.” He cocked his head to the side, looking me up and down.

  I glanced at the caterers. Their backs faced us but from their sudden uptick in studious cleaning, I knew they were listening intently.

  “Rick, I have to get these to the catering tent. Thanks again for the catch.” I turned to leave wishing the patio doors were two feet away instead of five.

  “Sure, Ali the baker,” Mr. Carter said after my retreating back. “Oh wait, is this yours?”

  Part of me thought it was a ploy to get me to interact with him more. But I heard the rustling of paper, and I glanced before really thinking about it.

  Mr. Carter, Rick, held out a yellowed, wrinkled envelope. I wanted to discourage any further conversation, because I suspected a man like this regularly took a mile from an inch. My fingers brushed the paper before I’d fully registered what I was doing. I nodded additional thanks and high-tailed it out of there.

  Never before had crossing the five feet to those patio doors felt like scaling a six foot-high wall. I could feel his gaze studying my backside the entire time. Ugh. It felt like ants crawling against my spine. As I crossed the lawn, my thoughts complained about trifling men instead of focusing on the envelope tucked under my arm.

  Maybe if I’d checked the contents of that envelope then, I could’ve prevented what was going to happen later.

  Picture Tells All

  4

  I didn’t know who the man was. But I had seen him throughout the morning. He’d been quite active at the bar and had tossed back more than a few of the complimentary Bloody Mary’s.

  Maybe the excessive alcohol was to blame for what was happening now. Maybe not. The man jerked at his tie, ripping it loose.

  “I want it. Now!”

  I had just walked in through the patio sliding glass doors to get the remainder of the cinnamon rolls. I froze in place just inside the threshold clutching a serving platter.

  He jabbed a finger at the collection of people standing in open-mouthed clusters about the kitchen.

  “The book disappeared from the next room. Somebody who was in this kitchen took it. I want it back this instant! This instant!”

  Jeez, what had I walked into?

  The man’s head jerked to the side like a cat catching the scratching of a mouse under the floorboards. He spun, and bloodshot brown eyes zeroed in on me.

  “You!” He roared, “Where have you been? I told all staff to get in this room ten minutes ago.” He lowered his head as if he was about to charge.

  Yeah, this wasn’t going to go well for anyone, I thought. I started to put the tray down, not wanting to look like a threat, but thought again. It could be a good weapon if necessary.

  I kept my voice low and even. “I wasn’t told about any meeting.”

  The man bared his teeth, and I prepared for another outburst. Instead, he inhaled and stood up straight. He eyed the woman I surmised was in charge of the catering company.

  “Is everyone in here now?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to me and then back to him. She gave a quick nod. I think she didn’t want to bother mentioning I wasn’t with her staff.

  The outer perimeter of the kitchen was full. All of the catering staff, including the chefs and waiters, lined up shoulder to shoulder. Other women and men were present as well. Some of the women had on pink maid uniforms.

  I put the pieces together. Something had gone missing and this little impromptu line-up’s purpose was to question the help.

  And I’d managed to walk into the middle of it. Fabulous. Just fabulous. I had dropped off the first load of cinna-minis at the catering tent, and nothing had been amiss, but then I got sidetracked when Aunt Bitsie called me over to chat about wedding cakes with one of her friends.

  The man held the middle of the room like a matador working a bull fighting ring.

  He undid the top button of his shirt.

  “That journal is worth more than any of you are going to get paid today. I understand the temptation. Give it back now and the consequences will be minimal.”

  Yeah, I wasn't going to stand here and listen to some drunk talk down to me. I turned to leave the way I'd come. Before I could take a full step, the man rounded on me and snarled.

  “Do you think you're going somewhere?”

  I could feel my mouth curling, “I'm—” but the patio door slid open with a bang, and Bitsie vaulted in like a mama bear.

  She put a finger right in the man's face. “Magnus Donovan, this is my niece, and if I catch you talking to her like that again, I'll rip out a body part you forgot you had.”

  The man jerked to attention. He blinked rapidly then squinted as if attempting to bring the speaker into focus. “Oh, Beatrice Potter. How was I supposed to know she was your family, the girl is bl—.”

  Aunt Bitsie made a sound of disgust. “You always were a barbarian, Magnus, and not in a sexy way. What gives you the right to speak to anyone like that?”

  Mr. Carter rushed in from front hallway. “Beatrice, Magnus. What’s going on?”

  “I was finding the missing journal, Rick. That's what I was doing.”

  “He was resorting to bullying as usual. That's what he was up to,” Aunt Bitsie snapped.

  Dorrick, held his hands up. “Ok, ok. Let's calm down. I could hear you two fighting all the way by the front door. Beatrice, why don't you and your niece head back on out to the party. I apologize for any misunderstandings.”

  Bitsie put a hand on her hip. “It's not fair to accuse the caterers, Dorrick.”

  “I'm not. I promise. I just need to ask a few questions,” he answered. “There’s probably a logical reason to explain all of this.”

  My aunt didn't look convinced, but she took me by the arm. We walked out together, me still holding the empty platter. Bitsie was broiling, however. “I could hear that man screaming through the glass door thirty feet away. I'm so glad I happened to look around when I did and saw you in there. Because if that man accused you, I would've torn him to shreds.”

  “It's ok, he didn't have a chance to do
or say anything, really.” I said.

  “I can't stand these people. Every time something goes missing they always blame the hired staff but never think to question their overindulged children.”

  We crossed the exceptionally green lawn heading for the tent. Most of the people chatted happily, oblivious to what transpired up at the house. Except for one person, who was now sitting alone at a table.

  Something scratched against my shoulder. And I remembered where I’d tucked the envelope Dorrick Carter handed me as I was trying to escape his lurid rubbernecking.

  “Hold this,” I said handing the still empty platter to Bitsie and pulled the wrinkled paper from under my brassiere strap. With a pocketless dress, and my purse at Mom’s table, it’d been the only place to tuck it. “I almost slipped on this when I was in the kitchen earlier. Dorrick caught me and then thought this was mine.”

  Bitsie glanced back at the house and rolled her eyes. “Hmm, did he help with a hand on your bottom?”

  I snorted. “No, but close. He managed to use his entire body to catch me. I’m not sure if it was necessary or accidental.”

  “Yeah, there’s more than one reason why I haven’t invested in his little special group.” She sidled up next to me. “So, what do you have there? It looks old.”

  The envelope was yellowing and missing a corner but not as antiquated as what it held. It was a thin picture frame, made out of cardstock. It too had yellowed, but stamped in black letters along the bottom was Montgomery County Fair 1901. Inside the frame was a picture of a man in a jacket and bowtie, holding a derby hat. Next to him, a woman in long skirt and a white blouse with poufy shoulders held a baby. A young boy, around five, stood next to the man. On the other side of the woman, two pre-adolescent girls held hands.

  In pictures from this era, people were usually grim faced. But in this photo, they all wore huge grins as if it was the best day ever. They stood against a backdrop featuring a Ferris wheel and artificial clouds. So maybe it had been a fun family outing.

  Though it was a black and white photograph, it was easy to see the man’s skin color was a deep, rich shade likely close to ebony in real life. The woman’s complexion was on the opposite side of the spectrum, much lighter. I’d wager she was no darker than barely browned sugar cookies. The children were a mix of hues between the mother and father. The youngest girl was so pale, the edges of her face were becoming indiscernible from the backdrop.

  Bitsie asked, “This was in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, near the garbage bin.”

  “Someone tossed it out?”

  I ran my finger along the edge the photograph. It was firm and warm from my body heat. The picture wasn’t printed on paper but a thin metal. “Maybe it was meant for the garbage, maybe not. I’m not sure. Mom has some like these in her shop. They’re called—”

  “—tintypes.” My mother finished for me as she stepped into our little circle of two. “They’re trendy right now. On another note, Anna and Dorrick have disappeared, and the natives are getting restless. You two know what’s going on?”

  I stared at the faces in the picture. Did any of them seem familiar? People were up and socializing again, biding time until dessert was rolled out. My eyes went from face to face, seeking a common link. I kept coming back to the same person.

  But how was this all connected? I’d have to ask some questions. Though a voice in the back of my mind said this was none of my business. I should just deliver the last of the cinnamon rolls and sit down.

  I told the little voice to shush and tucked the tintype away. “Ladies, I’ll catch up with you later,” I said already heading off across the lawn.

  Bitsie paused filling my mother in on the latest drama. “Hey, come get this platter. And where are you going?”

  “I’ll come get it in a minute. I have to do something first,” I called over my shoulder. “The staff didn't steal the journal. But I think I can find out who did.”

  Hiding in Plain Sight

  5

  It’s amazing how a little bit of kindness and a plate of food can get people to spill all the beans.

  The auction registration girl, who’d been stuck sitting at a portable stand near the driveway, had been more than willing to dish details for some half-cold frittata and cinnamon rolls.

  Now I was itching to question my main suspect and had to force myself to swing by the kitchen, (Magnus’ meeting was over thankfully) and deliver the remainder of the cinnamon rolls to the caterer’s tent. Once done, I crossed to the main seating area.

  Desserts being rolled out had settled most of the attendees back at their tables. But I didn’t have to search for long before I found the person I wanted.

  She stood just beyond the perimeter of the hardwood floor set up inside the tent. As I approached, Mrs. Plimpton fussed with the top button of her suit.

  Her eyes fixed on something off in the distance, much like a person who’s consumed in thought. I slowed and paused almost in front of her.

  Several seconds passed before her eyes came into focus. She saw me and jumped. “You! Of course it would be you.”

  I took a small step back. Maybe I was crowding her space. “Ma’am?”

  Mrs. Plimpton exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for a half-hour. She grabbed my hand and pulled me a few feet away from the tent. The woman’s hand was dry and cold. When she let go, I could feel a chill run up my arm.

  “Mrs. Plimpton,” I said, “What’s wrong?” Though if my hunch was right, I knew what she was upset about.

  She shook her head as if dismissing my question. “I prayed for help and here you are. Here you are. Of course it would be you. The lord has a sense of humor, doesn’t he?”

  My internal sensors started to wail. Before I could say another word, Mrs. Plimpton stepped close and shoved something into my hand. “Listen, I need you to take this into the house and just drop it anywhere.”

  The thing she shoved into my hand was thick, sort of like a... I started to glance down.

  “No, don’t look at it here. Just take it on into the house,” she whispered harshly with a hint of a Southern drawl.

  The woman had a vice-grip on my wrist. “Mrs. Plimpton, what have you done?”

  She leaned closer. “Just, please do this for me. You’re the only one who can do this.”

  Her eyes were wide. And through the pincer grip on my arm, I could feel her trembling.

  “Ok,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster, “Ok, let’s calm down for a second and let’s figure out how I can—”

  But I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. And a body slammed into us like a derailed subway car. Mrs. Plimpton’s death grip snapped free as the object ripped out of my grasp. Something struck my chin. The sudden jolt made my teeth ache, and a low voice uttered, “Mine!” as the person sprinted off.

  Mrs. Plimpton cried out, stumbling back. I grabbed my face, reeling from the shock.

  “No. No. No!” a voice trailed back to us. A man with a balding head and grey hair lumbered off across the lawn.

  Another body ran past me. Ethan called, “Uncle Max, stop!”

  With one hand cradling my throbbing jaw, I took off after him.

  Uncle Max made it half-way across the expanse of lawn before losing steam. The mad-dash simmered down to a labored, agonized shuffle. Just as Ethan reached his uncle, the older man stumbled. He rolled over clutching something to his chest.

  Ethan reached him a second before I did. He said, “Max, what is going on? What do you have there?”

  Max’s eyes were shut. He wheezed. He uttered, “No, no,” over and over again.

  Ethan reached down and with some effort, extracted his uncle’s prize. He looked at it, scoffed and shoved it at me. “Here, hold this while I help him up.”

  Defeated and robbed of his plunder, Max deflated like a junk yard tire.

  It was a book. A leather bound book. I opened it to the first page an
d saw a swirling handwriting on a page browned with age. The first word I saw was Captain. It was the journal. The missing journal from the auction.

  The leather was a dark brown that had gone mostly black with age. I flipped through it, watching pages of tiny script scroll by. Even the page adhered to the leather backing had writing on it. The lettering was even tinier here, as if the author had wanted to squeeze every bit of space out of the book. Teardrop-shaped dark brown stains decorated the paper like splotches of paint.

  Ink blots? I ran my forefinger over one and then looked at the pattern the blotches made. Not ink, blood. These were bloodstains. I jerked and almost dropped the thing.

  Jenna came over in a run. “What happened? Is he ok?”

  Ethan kneeled to help his uncle up into a sitting position. “Yes, honey. Max is just having another one of his episodes. ”

  I snapped the journal shut, forcing my mind’s eye not to picture how blood splattered on those final pages. But hold on, did I just see something?

  I flipped the book open to the back page. I had seen something. Gently, I spread the back cover open. The seam between the last two pages had split open, torn from either age or use. A piece of paper jutted out from the seam. I tugged it free. It was just a torn bit of paper, yellowed but clearly different from the rest of the journal.

  “Whatcha’ got there?”

  Fudge. I looked to the source of the voice, knowing who it was. Magnus Donovan peered down at me. There was a smile on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those dark pools said something entirely different that made my arms break out in goose bumps.

  Despite my limbs betraying me, I glared back at the flat brown eyes. “The missing journal.” He snatched it with an oversized mitt of a hand.

  The minute Magnus touched the journal, Max’s blue eyes narrowed, and he let loose a stream of gibberish. He swatted at Ethan’s hand refusing to be helped up.

  Rick, aka Mr. Carter, joined us in huff. “What happened? Is Max all right?”

  Magnus slapped the journal against a palm. “Look at him, Max is just fine. Just had a little episode, right Ethan?”