And Then There Were Crumbs--A Cookie House Mystery

by Eve Calder

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  To BLD, for everything.

  Chapter 1

  As Kate McGuire turned onto Coral Cay’s main drag, named—ironically—Main Street, she checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. Her interview was in half an hour. And her creaky old Toyota was making some brand-new noises she didn’t like.

  Never taking her eyes off the road, she groped for the bakery box on the passenger’s seat with her right hand and flipped it open.

  A tiny, perfect sand dollar cookie. She’d bought a dozen before she left the hotel that morning. After two back-to-back job interviews—and no job—there was only one lone survivor left in the box. She popped it into her mouth.

  She tasted butter, sugar, and cinnamon. Bliss.

  As Kate slowed, the red SUV behind her hit the horn.

  The next interview was a long shot. Prep cook. A trained pastry chef, the position was definitely not her first choice. But she’d been in town for over a week. Countless interviews, phone calls, and drop-in visits had yielded not so much as a nibble. So when a CIA classmate called back and told her about a fish place on the mainland looking for a prep chef, Kate booked an interview pronto.

  Luckily, with island breezes and the windows cranked down she could give the engine a break and skip the AC.

  Kate checked the rearview mirror. That’s when she saw it. Or what could have been it. Three cars back. The silver car.

  She’d glimpsed it a couple of times over the last few days. Always with a lone guy driving. Sometimes he wore a ball cap, other times a Panama hat. Or a fishing hat. And sunglasses. Always sunglasses.

  Don’t be an idiot, she chided herself. It’s probably not even the same guy. This is South Florida. Everyone wears hats and sunglasses. And odds are, some local rental place has a fleet of cookie-cutter cars.

  Suddenly the Toyota gave an ugly shudder, shimmied, and lurched to a stop. Steam poured out from under the hood. Or was it smoke?

  “No!” Kate groaned, popping the hood release and scrambling out of the car. She flicked the hood up with two fingers and jumped back. Steam and acrid black smoke poured out. Along with the stench of burning rubber.

  Dead. Definitely dead. Just like her career prospects.

  The SUV leaned on the horn again. Three long, loud blasts.

  “Damn!” she swore under her breath. One slim chance at a paycheck, and it was gone. Along with her wheels. What was she thinking, coming here from New York without a job? Or even a lead on a job?

  Kate knew she should move her car off the road. But there weren’t any empty parking spots nearby. And how exactly should she approach something that was spewing smoke like a volcano? What if it exploded?

  Too bad her little nephew Billy wasn’t here. He lived for explosions.

  “Wow, I haven’t seen one like this in a while.”

  Kate looked up and saw a big, burly man in a yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt, tan board shorts, and gray suede work gloves ambling up to the car. A lime-green tow truck was double-parked behind her.

  “It’s my latest creation—auto flambé,” Kate said grimly.

  “Not flambé yet. More of a fumée, really.”

  She gave the guy a second glance. She hadn’t met many auto mechanics well versed in French culinary speak. But then, after eight years in the city with no car, she hadn’t met many auto mechanics.

  Hawaiian Shirt had already turned his attention to the engine.

  “Hey, before you get started, I don’t have any cash to pay you just now,” Kate said, addressing the back of his close-cropped brown head as he sidestepped the smoke plume. “I’m out of work and low on funds. I was on my way to a job interview when this happened.”

  “So you want to just leave her here?” the mountain said, turning to give her a half smile. She could see her own stressed face glaring back in the reflection of his wraparound sunglasses.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a blue rag and used it to twist and turn a few things in the engine. The noxious cloud slowed to a stop. He stepped back and carefully dropped the hood.

  The SUV laid on the horn. Joined by an off-key chorus of backed-up traffic.

  Hawaiian Shirt stepped into the middle of the street, pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his forehead, and made eye contact with the SUV driver. “Around,” he said, flicking his wrist.

  The cacophony stopped.

  “Look, free diagnosis,” he said, walking over to Kate. “This car is suffering from an acute case of neglect. Not fatal, but it’s going to need some serious TLC before you can drive it again. It’s been in storage for a long time.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He stared at her.

  “I live in Manhattan,” Kate offered. “I was storing it at my sister’s place in New Jersey. She promised that Deacon Dave was starting it at least once a week. And I was paying her for car washes and oil changes a couple of times a year.”

  “Deacon Dave?”

  “Her husband.”

  “Far be it from me to impugn the word of a church elder, but no one’s touched this engine since the London Olympics. Aside from a couple cans of oil someone dumped in recently.”

  “I took it to their garage before I hit the turnpike. The guy gassed it up and added some oil.”

  Hawaiian Shirt shook his head sadly.

  A line of cars slowly and carefully snaked around her hobbled sedan. But nary a beep or a honk. Kate was amazed.

  As the silver car passed, the driver turned away. Kate noted his tan ball cap. And a sticker in the back window with a neon-orange palm tree—Sunshine Rental Car.

  “So what’s the job interview?” the mountain asked, hands on hips.

  “Chef. Prep chef. At a place called Fish-a-Palooza. On the mainland.”

  “Yeah, I went there once,” he said.

  “So you know it?”

  “Enough to know that nobody ever goes there twice. They cater mainly to the tourists. Anybody else knows better. Frozen fish. You’re a chef?”

  “Pastry chef. Trained at the CIA. Not the spy agency, the other one.”

  “Yeah, Culinary Institute of America. Got it. So what’s a New York pastry chef doing down here trying to get a job with a second-rate seafood joint?”

  “Long story,” Kate said, exhaling deeply. “The short version is the restaurant I worked for closed. My apartment building went condo. And I called off my wedding.”

  “Perfect storm,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Pretty much. I’m Kate McGuire, by the way,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Gabriel Louden—Gabe,” he said, shaking it cordially. “Why Coral Cay?”

  “We were going to spend our honeymoon here. I figured I could get a job and start over. I sold pretty much everything I owned. Liquidated my savings and my retirement account, and … well,
here I am.”

  “Yeah, we get a lot of that. People want to get a fresh start, they either roll west or south. This is as far south as you can go without hitting water.”

  “Well, that’s kind of reassuring. I’ll be in good company.”

  “Between the heat and the mosquitos, most of ’em don’t make it through the first summer,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Turns out Dante was right.”

  “About Coral Cay?”

  “About hell. Dante claims the better zip codes in the netherworld are bathed in flaming heat. Which pretty accurately describes late summer. Locals contend it’s hotter than hell and twice as humid.”

  “There’s the slogan for the next travel poster,” Kate said.

  “Then there’s hurricane season. Officially it starts in June. But between you and me, August and September are the worst of it.”

  “Did Hurricane Irma do much damage here?”

  “Oh, we were lucky with that one. Barely a glancing blow. A few loose roofing tiles and some of us lost power for a day or two. But that was it. Really lucky. So what’s your backup?”

  “My what?” she asked.

  “Your backup plan. In case this doesn’t work out. Back to Manhattan? Miami? Disney World? Everybody’s got a Plan B.”

  “After today? Plane ticket to New Jersey. To live with my sister, Deacon Dave, and the twins.”

  “The twins?”

  “One plays the violin twelve hours a day. Badly. The other likes to make things explode. And right now, he’s my favorite.”

  He smiled. “So, no Plan B.”

  “Ten days in a hotel, I’ve had a great vacation but no job offer. I’ve still got some savings. But without an income, I can’t get a place to live. And my stuff, what’s left of it, is stashed in a storage unit on the mainland, outside Hibiscus Springs. I even toyed with the idea of living there temporarily, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have plumbing. Besides, at this point, I’d have to hitchhike,” Kate said, nodding at her car.

  “Well, in my humble opinion, you dodged a bullet with Fish-a-Palooza. And don’t let me scare you—Coral Cay really is a great place to settle. Hey, I know one job opening right here in town,” he said, suddenly snapping his fingers. “Should be right up your alley. A bakery. The pay’s probably crap. The boss is a cranky old goat. And a real tightwad. But he’s good at what he does—great breads. Oh man, his sourdough melts in your mouth. Upside is he spends a fair amount of time on the beach with a bottle of rum and a metal detector, so he probably won’t micro-manage. I think you’d be a shoo-in.”

  “Because of my credentials?”

  “Because you’re the only person I’ve met desperate enough to apply. But you never know. ‘The path to paradise begins in hell.’”

  “Wow, you should write his help-wanted ad.”

  “Dante truly understood life. Word is Sam Hepplewhite—that’s the baker—old Sam’s getting ready to sell the place. The Cookie House. And you didn’t hear that from me. So the job’s temporary, at best. But it would give you time to get something better. And anything beats Fish-a-Palooza. Besides, underneath it all, Sam really is a good guy. And he needs the help. If you can find a local room for rent, you’re good to go.”

  “If I say yes, will you help me push this thing off a cliff? Preferably a really steep one?”

  He lowered his sunglasses into place and patted the hood. “She’s not so bad. Just acting out after years of neglect. Go talk to Sam. The bakery’s just up the street. See what happens. In the meantime, I’ll tow Gwendolyn here to the shop. We can park her out back until you decide what you want to do. Sound fair?”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t have enough cash on me to pay for towing. Or for storage. And my credit card’s maxed out at the moment. I don’t suppose you’d take an out-of-state check?”

  “Don’t worry about it now. Got a vacant lot behind the garage. Plenty of space.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet, which he peeled open to produce a business card. Embossed with “Gabe’s Garage,” plus a business address and phone number, it featured a smiling cartoon car.

  “I’ll pay you back,” Kate vowed. “Every cent.”

  “Never doubted it. Besides, ‘He who sees a need and waits to be asked for help is as unkind as if he had refused it.’”

  “Dante?”

  “Yup. And if a loaf or two of that sourdough dropped from the sky, I definitely wouldn’t refuse it.”

  Chapter 2

  Walking down Main Street, Kate sensed she was experiencing the real Coral Cay for the first time. In the week she’d been here, she’d spent every minute at the beach and resort areas. That, she had thought, was where they were going to need a professionally trained pastry chef. And where her skills would bring top dollar.

  Now she was seeing downtown. On foot. But the atmosphere was somehow comfortable and comforting. A cool breeze off the ocean carried the scent of salt water, mingled with something tropical.

  The Old Florida–style town center could have been built in the late 1800s or yesterday. Immaculately maintained shops were a rainbow of pastel colors. Bright flowers tumbled out of window boxes and stone planters up and down the street. And the wide sidewalks were spotless—like they’d been regularly scrubbed.

  The odd note: dog bowls, filled with water, outside many of the shop doors. Each bowl was different. Some were china or stoneware. Others stainless steel or brightly colored plastic. And one, outside Seize the Clay pottery studio, looked handmade.

  Kate was surprised at the number of tourists she saw here, too. Sporting deep tans, new cruise wear, and top-of-the-line sunglasses, they were easy to spot. But with a post office, grocer, bookstore, and shops for other necessities, Coral Cay was clearly a working small town. She got the impression that if the tourists disappeared tomorrow—or later in the season, when the worst of the summer heat hit, according to Gabe—the locals would carry on just fine.

  Looking into a shop window, Kate glimpsed a figure in the reflected glass that wasn’t her own. One with a ball cap and sunglasses.

  She turned and saw him. Across the street. Studying a store window, with a mint-green shopping bag dangling off one hand. Same guy from the car? She couldn’t tell.

  This is nuts, she thought. I’m not carrying a wad of cash or credit cards. And I don’t know a soul in town. Who’d be following me?

  When she looked down, a large oatmeal-colored dog blocked her path.

  It looked sort of like a poodle. A big poodle. But instead of the fussy pompoms, it had a smooth, natural clip.

  The dog stared up at her, almost expectantly. Like it recognized her.

  A blue collar but no leash, Kate noticed. A boy? She looked around for an owner. No one seemed to be missing him. Or paying any attention to him at all.

  Sitting back on his haunches, his black button eyes studied her face. Worried?

  “Uh, hello?” she said.

  He politely offered up a paw—the way a new acquaintance would proffer a hand.

  Hesitating, she reached out and gave it a gentle shake. His fur was impossibly soft. Like a child’s plush toy. She patted the back of his head. Silky. Clean.

  He eagerly sniffed her hand. And her knees.

  That’s when she noticed two silver tags on his collar and reached for them. The one on top read: “Oliver, Coral Cay, FL”

  “Well, hello, Oliver,” she said, slipping her hand around to give his ear a scratch.

  No street address. But in a small town, that probably wasn’t necessary.

  Was he the reason for the water bowls?

  She stood and glanced over her shoulder. The stranger had vanished. But as she strolled down the street, Oliver stayed with her, matching her steps.

  That’s when she spotted it at the end of the block—the Cookie House. A delicate sunset pink bearing a large sign that affirmed its name. The building looked like an old Victorian home—complete with scuffed white gingerbread trim—that had
seen better days.

  The pink paint was worn in places, exposing a muddy green underneath. The plantation shutters were peeling. And the bakery’s second-floor window boxes were empty, save for one dead bush.

  The old worry knot hardened again in her gut. Kate pulled out her cell phone. If she was lucky, she could reschedule Fish-a-Palooza. Maybe there was a bus service she could use. Or, worse to worst, she’d grab a Lyft. If she landed the job, it would be worth it.

  Nothing. She checked the screen. No bars.

  “Can’t go back, have to go forward,” she sighed.

  Oliver looked up at her, puzzled.

  OK, so the Cookie House wasn’t a tony French restaurant, like her last gig. But it wasn’t a dark storage unit or Jeanine’s rec room, either.

  She turned. Ball Cap Man was back, standing in front of another shop, chatting with someone she pegged as a local.

  The poor guy is probably killing time waiting for his wife.

  Just off the porch, Kate stretched her phone skyward trying to catch a signal. Nada.

  As she climbed the steps, the poodle raced ahead. He hopped onto one of the two white benches flanking the bakery’s front door, turned around a few times, and stretched out.

  Relaxed, with one paw crossed casually over the other, he cocked his head and looked at her.

  “OK, Oliver, wish me luck,” Kate said.

  She could have sworn he smiled.

  While the outside of the bakery was neglected, the inside was just the opposite. Every surface—from the glass cases to the wide-plank floors to the stainless-steel counters—gleamed. It looked like most of the first floor was devoted to the kitchen, hidden behind a pair of swinging doors. The shop smelled of freshly baked bread, butter, and yeast.

  Kate stood at the back and waited her turn. With a one-man operation, customers would take precedence over job interviews, she reasoned. Besides, this would give her time to scope out the place. Not that she was procrastinating.

  A well-bronzed man with a beer gut encased in a lemon-yellow golf shirt stood in front of the bakery counter. “How are the cheddar biscuits today?”