by Eve Calder
“Makes sense,” she reasoned. “The ultimate comfort food. Nicely browned, still warm, and slightly soft from the oven. With the chocolate all melted and gooey. Alongside a tall, cold glass of milk.”
Hepplewhite may have told her she couldn’t talk about cookies. Or sell them in the store. But he’d never said she couldn’t bake any for herself.
However, a quick check of the kitchen revealed not so much as a speck of chocolate. She’d have to wait until she could hit a market tomorrow.
Hepplewhite had sold out of the sourdough. But the focaccia looked wonderful. Covered with thyme, rosemary, and coarse salt, it smelled delicious.
“Tins of meat” turned out to be a couple cans of tuna, a few cans of deviled ham, and half a case of Spam.
Tuna it was.
Ironic, she thought. I skipped Fish-a-Palooza after I learned they served frozen fish. Now I’m eating the canned stuff and getting minimum wage. And not even real minimum wage.
She hit the fridge and grabbed an apple, a lemon, and the olive oil. Then she snagged basil and oregano from the pantry. A little chopping, a little mixing, and she had a pretty decent tuna salad. She cut off a healthy chunk of focaccia, sliced it down the middle, and slathered both halves with tuna salad.
With her luggage still MIA and not a magazine in sight, Kate was at a loss. She scoured the kitchen for something to read while she ate. Not so much as a cookbook or recipe file. But with a lot to do over the next few days, she could at least make a list and get organized. She grabbed a notebook from the counter near the phone and flipped it open.
What she found stunned her. A list of questions. Followed by names she recognized. In weird spidery handwriting. She flipped the page. More names. From her references.
That’s what he’d been doing in the kitchen all afternoon, she realized. He must have called them.
Fascinated, she read as she ate. Part of her felt guilty—like she was eavesdropping. The other part wanted to know exactly what they’d said.
Hepplewhite had outlined his questions on the first page. But they were somewhat limited in scope: “Honest? Trustworthy? Ever stolen anything? Ever been arrested? Ever suspected? Con artist?”
That was followed by page after page of names. And check marks by most of them.
Occasionally there were short notes, too: “Punctual.” “Conscientious.” “Honest.” “Works hard.” “Not thief.” “Not con artist.” “Not crook.”
Not much of a comment on my pastry skills, either, she thought dryly.
OK, so the guy wanted to make sure he could trust her alone in the shop. She just hoped he hadn’t told them he was paying her less than minimum wage. Or that she was living in his storeroom.
A half hour later, refueled, Kate peeled off her blue-and-white-striped bakery apron. “Time to survey the new digs,” she decided.
In the darkened upstairs hallway, she groped for a wall switch and flipped on the overhead light. Half-expecting it to be locked, she turned the handle and cautiously opened the door.
Definitely a storeroom.
Two industrial-sized stainless-steel bookcases flanked the left wall—stocked with buckets and bottles of cleaning supplies, paper towels, and toilet paper. Sam Hepplewhite hadn’t just cornered the market. He’d bought enough to last until Armageddon. And then some.
The two large windows at the back of the room were bare. No curtains or even blinds. But they were huge. During the day, this room would be bright and sunny. She might even be able to see the ocean. And she’d definitely be able to smell the salt air.
Take that, Manhattan!
A fair number of moving boxes were stacked haphazardly against the other wall. She walked over, pulled one down, and opened it. What she discovered floored her.
Chapter 4
The carton was a virtual bakery supply store. Cookie sheets. Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. Whisks. Wooden spoons.
Flummoxed, she closed up the box, replaced it in the stack, and pulled down another. It contained more of the same. Plus a half-dozen cookbooks with titles she recognized—staples for any serious pastry chef. Her own copies were back at the hotel.
What was Hepplewhite hiding?
She heaved the box back into place and looked around the room. With wide-plank hardwood floors and a high ceiling, it definitely had possibilities. Almost a shame that it was only for a couple of nights.
Kate opened a door off to the right, expecting a closet. Instead, it was a tiny bathroom. Artfully arranged to fit a white pedestal sink under a small gilt-framed mirror, and a trim tub/shower combo. Over the tub: a high, round stained-glass window. Bearing the image of a single red flower.
Kate was amazed.
With a layer of dust on the sink, the bathroom clearly hadn’t been used in years. And the shower needed a curtain. She turned on the sink tap and flushed the toilet. Both worked.
In the city, Hepplewhite could have called this a studio and rented it out for a small fortune, she thought.
Wandering back into the main room, Kate spotted a large bundle of sticks wrapped in canvas propped against one of the stainless-steel shelves. Tagged with a yellow Post-it note, it was helpfully labeled “cot.” She recognized the scrawly script from the kitchen notebook.
Adjacent to that little gift was a door. Opening it, Kate found a walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch. Nothing. If there was a bulb, it had burned out.
She grabbed the cot bundle, unrolled the canvas, and tried to visualize how the wooden parts fit together. It looked less like actual furniture and more like a set of Lincoln Logs.
She took something that resembled a leg and tried to fit it into the main frame. No go. She shoved and it bounced off, clattering onto the floor.
I’ve assembled six-tiered wedding cakes that were easier, she thought.
Out of nowhere, her ex-fiancé’s handsome face popped into her head.
So what was Evan doing now?
Bam, bam, bam! Bam, bam, bam!
Kate jumped.
The pounding continued. “Paradise Cove Resort!” a male voice shouted.
Her bags! She could change her clothes. Brush her teeth. And pore over her cookbooks.
“Coming!” she shouted, galloping down the steep stairs. “Hang on, I’m coming!”
The back door didn’t have much of a lock on it, Kate noticed. No dead bolt. Just a twist button on the doorknob.
Hepplewhite had cleaned out the cash register before he left. And there probably wasn’t much of a market for stolen baked goods. So absent someone living on-site, the guy probably didn’t need much in the way of security.
Kate opened the door to find a teenager in a Paradise Cove bellhop’s uniform: black shorts, linen shirt, and a pith helmet. He was standing next to an eight-seater golf cart.
“Kate McGuire?”
“That’s me.”
He looked around conspiratorially. “I wasn’t sure I had the right address. Never delivered bags to the back of a bakery before. Or a bakery, period.”
“I, uh, work here.”
“Oh. Well, I can drop them off at your house, if you want. That way, they’ll be waiting for you when you get home.” He pointed to the golf cart.
“Uh, no, this is fine. Thanks, though.”
“OK, then just sign here, and you’re all paid up,” he said, producing an electronic tablet and a stylus. “The resort will apply the charges to the credit card on file. They’ll also email you a receipt.”
Signing the bill, she regretted not snagging the bittersweet Ghirardelli chocolate bar from her room’s minifridge. Or the chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
As the teenager hauled her possessions—two suitcases, a duffel bag, three book boxes, and three moving cartons full of Kate’s favorite bakeware and tools—off the golf cart, it suddenly hit her: She had to tip him. And day-old bread wasn’t going to cut it.
“Just drop everything in here!” she shouted, racing across the kitchen for her purse. She rifled through her wallet
and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Then she remembered the three heavy book boxes and grabbed another fiver.
When she turned, the kid was looking around the bakery kitchen like he’d just landed on Mars.
“It’s OK, I’m a pastry chef. I was just staying at the resort until I started my new job.”
“Here?” he asked dubiously.
“Yup. And here you go,” she said, slipping him the fifteen dollars. “Thanks for bringing my stuff all the way out here.”
“OK, but if you change your mind, we pick up and deliver,” he said. With that, he tipped his helmet, climbed into the cart, and sped off into the night.
Chapter 5
Kate sat straight up in bed, confused at first.
Absent curtains or bed linens, she’d opted to sleep in the clothes she was wearing: a white short-sleeved blouse and a slim black skirt.
Her throat was dry. Half-asleep, it took her a minute to realize she was thirsty.
There was a crash in the kitchen. Followed by a clang and the sound of something rolling across the kitchen floor. Then silence.
She looked at the watch on her arm: 12:42 a.m. She waited two full minutes. Nothing.
Her throat felt like sandpaper. The heck with it.
She climbed out of the cot and tiptoed carefully into the hall, straining to hear more noises. Deadly quiet.
She stepped carefully down the narrow stairs and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.
Empty.
But the paper grocery bag she’d used for a trash can earlier that evening had fallen over, spilling used paper towels, lemon peels, and discarded apple parts across the floor. That clanging? The tuna can from dinner, which had rolled into the center of the room like a discarded hubcap.
Some big, tough New Yorker I am, Kate thought, feeling both silly and relieved as she gathered up the trash, sealed it into a garbage bag, and set it by the back door.
After washing her hands, she grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it, and took a long drink.
She refilled the glass and carried it upstairs. Replenished and relaxed, Kate was already drowsy. Maybe now she could finally get a few hours’ sleep.
She was just dropping off when she heard it: scratching. Persistent scratching. Coming from downstairs.
Kate was instantly alert. But there was only silence.
Suddenly more scraping. Followed by a sound she recognized: a long, slow groan. Followed by a second one. Then a muffled click.
The back door opening. And closing.
It was way too early for Sam Hepplewhite. But maybe he was checking on her?
Footsteps. A man’s staccato steps. Hard shoes walking softly across the kitchen floor.
Not Hepplewhite’s sneakers.
Kate’s heart was pounding. She was shaking.
Another squeak she recognized. The swinging doors from the kitchen to the shop. Then a scuffling sound.
He was going for the cash register! Would he be angry when he discovered it was empty? What if he decided to try his luck upstairs? What if it was that guy with the baseball cap? What if he came looking for her?
She snatched her purse and fumbled inside for her phone. Clutching it, she hit 911, pressed “talk,” and prayed.
Nothing. No service.
The only working phones were the landlines—one on either side of the swinging kitchen doors. Each just an arm’s length from the intruder.
More scuffling, louder this time.
Kate quietly eased over to the storage shelves, trying not to make the ancient floors squeak. She felt around in the dark, and her hand latched onto one of the giant economy-sized bottles of Windex. She pulled it close to her body and twisted the nozzle to what she hoped was “open.”
Not much of a weapon, but maybe I can blind him long enough to escape, she thought.
Woof! Woof! Woof! a deep-throated bark cut the quiet night air.
A dog. Close by. The front porch?
Oliver!
Woof! Woof! Woof! Urgent. And louder.
The pup is sounding the alarm!
Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Woof-woof!
Kate heard hard footsteps running across the kitchen. Then the back door groaned twice again.
Open and closed?
Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Full throated and full volume. He wasn’t giving up.
Kate went tearing downstairs.
She tiptoed into the kitchen, window cleaner at the ready. All clear. But the back door was ajar.
She could still hear Oliver, at top volume, on the porch. He sounded big and angry. If she hadn’t been pretty sure it was him, she’d have pictured a much larger, more threatening dog.
Kate stepped lightly into the shop. Nothing. No one. Just a weird smell. The scent of cigarettes. And cologne? Plus something sweet. Familiar. But she couldn’t quite place it.
The cash register appeared untouched. Looking around, she couldn’t see any damage. Or anything missing.
She threw the bolt and opened the front door. Oliver stopped barking and trotted inside.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” she said, closing the door and locking it behind him.
Still shaking, she dropped the Windex on the floor and wrapped her arms around him. Warm and solid, he smelled like fresh air. And the beach.
“My hero. My sweet, fuzzy hero. C’mon, let’s go call the cops. Then we’ll get some biscuits.”
Oliver’s tail thumped happily.
* * *
Turns out, thanks to the actions of Oliver the Wonder Dog, the police were already “en route,” the dispatcher informed her. “To investigate a noise disturbance downtown.”
When the officer arrived a few minutes later, he seemed surprised that the dog causing all the ruckus was Oliver.
“Known this guy since he was a puppy,” said the ruddy blond twentysomething, who introduced himself as Kyle Hardy. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him bark before,” he said, giving the dog’s ear an affectionate scratch.
For his part, Oliver, who had just devoured three cheddar biscuits, sat up straight and looked very proud of himself.
“Well, maybe he was saving it up for the right moment,” Kate said. “He really rescued me. A man broke in. And I couldn’t get a cell signal to dial you guys. Oliver called the cavalry.”
“Yeah, cells are tricky in this part of town,” Hardy said. “That’s why most of the folks down here have landlines. So, you said ‘man.’ Did you actually see an intruder?”
“Nope. Just heard his footsteps across the kitchen floor. Hard shoes. And heavy. It sounded like a man.”
“The dispatcher put in a call to Sam Hepplewhite. He’s on his way down here. And what were you doing here at…” He glanced at his notebook, “One twelve a.m.?”
“I work at the bakery,” Kate said, sensing a shift in the conversation. “I’m moving to Coral Cay, and Mr. Hepplewhite is letting me stay upstairs for a few days until I can rent a place.”
“Good luck with that,” Hardy said, jotting something on the pad. “Still tourist season. Moving from where, exactly?”
“Manhattan. I’m a pastry chef.”
“Sam Hepplewhite hired a pastry chef? That doesn’t sound right. Sam doesn’t sell pastry. Great breads, though.”
“I’m helping out at the shop temporarily.”
He gave her a long look. Kate was beginning to wonder if she was a suspect.
“And Sam will back this up?”
“Yes.”
“OK, we’ll just check with him and we’re all set.” Hardy looked up from his notes and glanced around the kitchen. “See anything missing?”
“No, not that I’ve noticed. But you’ll have to ask Mr. Hepplewhite. There was a strange smell. Cigarettes. And some kind of cologne. And something else.” Kate paused, trying to place that scent, came up blank, and shrugged. “The back door was open a crack. I didn’t touch it, in case you wanted to dust for prints.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna be nec
essary.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is Coral Cay, not CSI. From what you described, it was most likely some kids up to mischief. Summer vacation.”
“Kids wearing cologne and hard shoes?”
Just then, Sam Hepplewhite pushed through the back door. In a blue windbreaker and baggy jeans, it looked like he hadn’t even paused to run a comb through his sparse gray hair.
He stopped when he spotted Kate. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw relief on his craggy face. Or maybe she was just sleep deprived.
“Hey, Sam,” Hardy said. “Looks like you might have had a visit from some young pranksters. Take a look around and tell me if you see anything missing. Nothing in the register, I take it?”
“Nup. Cleaned it out before I left for the night, Kyle. You know that.”
“Good man,” Hardy said, giving Hepplewhite a slap on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it. Ah, let’s you and I go speak in the shop for a minute.”
Kate looked down and realized that, in the confusion, Oliver had vanished.
So where does he live?
A few minutes later, the two men were back. Hardy stood in the middle of the kitchen while Hepplewhite did a quick inventory. “No, Kyle,” Hepplewhite said, shaking his head. “Nothing’s gone.”
“That wraps it up then,” Hardy said. “No sense even filling out the paperwork.”
“How about a hot cup of coffee?” the baker offered. “I’m gonna make some fresh.”
“Love to, but I’m headed off-shift. We’re shorthanded this week with Ben out. And I wanna grab some shut-eye.”
“How’s his foot?”
“Doc says he won’t even have a limp. He’ll be back on duty next week. Walking cast.”
Hepplewhite nodded.
Kate had no idea who “Ben” was (or what had happened to his foot), but she was a little freaked they weren’t taking the break-in more seriously.
What if it was Ball Cap Man?
The thought sent ice down her spine. But if she told Hepplewhite she might have a stalker, that would just give him one more reason to sack her. And judging by Officer Hardy’s initial suspicion of her—and his haste to blame teen high jinks—she doubted he’d even take her seriously.