Gluten for Punishment

by Nancy J. Parra

  “Wait, do you think my catering is a good idea? I’m already a person of interest. What if the police think my profiting on George’s memorial is more motive on my part?”

  “That would be great!” Sherry’s enthusiasm nearly bowled me over. “People will really want to come out then.”

  Her words took me aback. “More people will come out if I’m moved up from person of interest to suspect?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ll want to be here if the police arrest you. Just the idea that they ate your food and were here for the arrest will get them talking.”

  My jaw dropped open. “What if I say no?” Seriously, it was bad enough people went to see a person hanged. I didn’t want to experience what it was like to be the hangee.

  Sherry merely shrugged and dismissed my threat with a wave of one perfectly groomed hand. “The memorial notice will be in tonight’s paper. People will come to see if the killer shows up. It doesn’t matter if you cater or not.” Her gaze grew hard. “As for the ghost and murder tour, the mockups for the tourism brochure are already being designed. It’s your loss if you don’t sign the waiver.” She pushed the paper toward me and eyed me over the top of her cup. “Haven’t you lost enough business because of George Meister?”

  I stared at the paper as Grandma Ruth’s voice went through my head. “Remember, in business, you can’t care what people say. What’s important is they talk about you.”

  Saying a small prayer that I wasn’t giving the chief more reason to hang me, I signed on the line. Sherry smiled her pageant smile and left with a baker’s dozen GF chocolate chip cookies for the office.

  I returned to scrubbing and hoped I hadn’t made the worst mistake of my life.

  CHAPTER 12

  "This is serious.” Grandma Ruth took a long drag on her cigarette and closed the newspaper. She turned it so that I could see a photo of me once again on the front page above the fold. This time I looked shocked and almost guilty. The headline screamed, “Dead man identified as George Meister, bakery protestor. Baker possible suspect.”

  I grabbed the paper from her. “I should have kept the front door locked like Officer Emry said.”

  Grandma puffed on her cigarette and gave me a stern look while her wild cap of carrot-colored hair rustled in the breeze. “Mike says sales of the Oiltop Times have tripled.”

  “I know. I heard.” I crumpled the paper so I couldn’t see the headline. It was nine P.M. and I was sitting with Grandma out on the wide front porch of Mom’s house.

  “The whole town thinks you did it.” Grandma Ruth had changed clothes from this morning and was now sporting a yellow blouse, a butterfly-patterned vest, and a paisley skirt with knee-high hose. The outfit was topped off with blue-and-white men’s running shoes.

  “You know I didn’t.” I wanted to throw the paper away but with my luck I’d get arrested for littering. “I don’t think the cops are looking at anyone else. The worst thing is, the longer they take to look at me, the farther away the real killer gets.”

  “Plus it’s killing your business.” Blue smoke rose up over Grandma’s head. “No pun intended.”

  “Especially since they took my computer away.” I sat back and closed my eyes at the weirdness of it all. “Now I can’t do any online fulfillment without going to Tasha’s.”

  “As far as I see it, there is only one thing to do.” Grandma paused for dramatic effect.

  I opened my eyes. “What’s that?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We have to solve this murder ourselves and clear your name—the sooner, the better.”

  Crap. Was that determination I saw on her face? “What do you mean, solve this murder?”

  “I mean, we should investigate this crime and find the real killer before he gets away.” It was determination. Her steely-eyed look always meant trouble for someone.

  “The last time I checked, neither you nor I had a private investigator license. I know neither one of us is on the police force. We are not equipped to solve crimes. Besides, my superhero cape is at the dry cleaners.”

  Grandma snorted. “I don’t need a cape. I was an investigative reporter for years. I know a thing or two. You’re as smart as me. Together we can figure this thing out faster than those bumbling idiots in the police station.”

  I stared out into the darkness. She had a point. Officer Emry was lavishing all his attention on me and I was innocent.

  “Listen, kiddo, police procedure is going to kill your business. How long do you think you’ll last with your store taped off and your computer gone?”

  “Not long,” I mumbled, my shoulders slumping at the reality.

  “Then you have no choice. Now, do you want my help or not?” Grandma’s eyes sparkled in the low light coming from the front parlor window. She could be fierce when she wanted, and from the look in her eyes I could tell she was going to do this thing with or without me. Like Sherry Williams and her ghost/murder tours.

  “Fine, I’m in,” I said weakly.

  “Good.” Grandma slapped me on the thigh. “Good.” She took a long drag on her cigarette.

  “Where do we start?” I hoped she had an idea because I hadn’t a clue. In truth, I’d been away from Oiltop too long. I didn’t know much of what went on in town. Least of all what George’s life was like and who would want to kill him.

  “We start by finding out who—besides you—wanted George Meister dead,” Grandma Ruth answered as she twisted the ash out of the butt of her cigarette then shoved it in her pocket.

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t want him dead. I barely knew who he was,” I protested.

  “That’s beside the point.” Grandma waved her square hand in the air, then slapped her hands together and rubbed them in delight. “Tomorrow I’m going to do some digging in the newsroom archives and public records. George was up to something. We simply have to figure out what.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You can interview witnesses, in between work and keeping up your orders.” Grandma reached inside her jacket pocket and pulled out her pack of cigarettes. She tapped it across the side of her hand then pulled out one long white stick. Putting it in her mouth, she slipped the pack back in her pocket and took out an old steel lighter.

  “Witnesses?” I asked, not sure what she meant. I mean there were no witnesses, right? Or the cops wouldn’t be looking at me as their main suspect.

  “Yes, kiddo, anyone and everyone with a business on Main and Central could have been on that street or driving by that morning and seen something.” She said the last bit between her teeth, as she lit her cigarette.

  “Got it.” I liked the way Grandma thought. Really, had the cops asked everyone on Main if they were in their shops? “I’ll take a bunch of business cards with me and introduce myself to all the business owners and offer a free pastry.”

  “There you go, that’s the spirit.” Grandma patted me on the thigh again. “With the introductions you can kill two birds with one stone. Drum up new business and help solve the case.”

  I scrunched up my nose and scratched my forehead. “Let’s not use the word kill at the moment, okay? Someone might take it wrong.”

  Grandma laughed real hard, and she started coughing. I pounded her on the back. “You really should stop smoking.”

  “I know . . . it’ll kill me.” She grinned and we both laughed.

  • • •

  The next morning, Tim rode to work with me. I thought it was a sweet gesture until he mentioned Grandma Ruth had put the fear of God in him. She said there was no way she was letting me go to work alone with a killer on the loose and told Tim if he didn’t act as my bodyguard she’d make sure he never got a good night’s sleep again. Grandma Ruth didn’t make idle threats, and Tim liked to sleep, which meant I now had an extra pair of eyes to help me start looking for clues on the streets of Oiltop.

  As we drove, I asked Tim to look out for cars and trucks on Main and Central. Whoev
er had killed George might have done so on his or her way to work. It was a couple of hours earlier than George’s time of death, but it was a place to start. We saw exactly one cop car, one pickup with a handyman graphic on the side, and an oil truck heading toward the Quickmart. Small towns don’t have a lot of traffic at 4 A.M.

  There wasn’t a single vehicle in the parking lot when I arrived behind the bakery. But then there rarely was. Next to me was a bookstore, an antique store, and a fabric store that boasted all the quilt-making supplies you could ever need.

  I parked and Tim jumped out of the van. He wore beat-up jeans and a heavy-duty denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He didn’t wear a jacket because forty degrees was nothing to the guy.

  I zipped up my jacket against the chill, got out, and unlocked the back of the van. “Thanks for riding in with me,” I said as he reached in and pulled out his bike. It was then I noticed the ink on his forearm.

  I grabbed his arm and pulled up his sleeve. “Is that a tattoo?”

  “Yeah, so?” His eyes twinkled in the lamplight.

  “When did you get that?”

  “Right after mom died,” he said. “It’s a daisy.”

  “Her favorite flower.”

  “Yeah,” he said and pulled away from me.

  I looked at him for the first time in months. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “No problem.” Tim shrugged and swiped a lock of his mop-like hair out of his eyes. The hair, combined with the lean muscle from his wide shoulders to the tips of his steel-toed boots, never failed to make women take notice. If he hadn’t spent his twenties and thirties “looking for himself,” he might have been married by now with at least one kid. He was a few inches taller than me, which made him about six foot. “I forgot to ask, did you hire Brad Ridgeway?”

  “I did.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. “He’s working to get my computer back and some other stuff Officer Emry confiscated.”

  Tim narrowed his eyes. “Emry needs a good, swift kick in the pants.”

  I had to agree with him there.

  “Give me your key.” Tim held out his hand.

  “What? Why?” I tightened my fist around the keys in my pocket. No way was I giving them up to my brother.

  “I promised Grandma I’d open up the place and check it out before I left you.”

  “I’m good, really. I’m a big girl.” I slammed the van door and pushed past him.

  “Yeah, a big girl who had a glass door between her and a murderer not three days ago,” he said, walking with me to the back door. Tim hit the kickstand and rested his bike along the side of the building. “Hand it over.”

  “Fine.” I gave him the key and watched him unlock the door and flick on the light. “I don’t know what you think you can do that I can’t.”

  Tim grinned and raised his arm, forming a bicep. “I can squash the measly killer.”

  “Riiiight. Maybe when you were twenty, old man, but not as much when you’re forty-two.” I grabbed my keys out of his hand and strode through the bakery, turning on all the lights in the place. My poor office looked lonely without a computer. They’d left the various cords dangling. The kitchen was sparkling clean, as was the front. Both were empty of any living being.

  “It’s clear.” I patted my brother on the shoulder. “You’re good to go. Thanks.” I buzzed a kiss on his five o’clock shadowed cheek and pushed him toward the door. “Good night and remember, take note of anyone you see driving around town on your way home.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to bunk here?” He studied me over his shoulder.

  I tried to disguise the horror I felt at the idea. “No, no. I’m good. I promise I’ll even lock the doors behind you.” I pushed him the last foot out the door and half closed it so he wouldn’t get any ideas. “Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.” I closed the door and threw back the bolt. Finally, I had the place all to myself. This was the part I loved the most.

  I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat hook. Then I grabbed a big apron, slung it over my head, and hit the button on the mp3 player letting Nickelback scream into the air.

  I took out dough to proof then put out a HELP WANTED sign. Hiring real help would be very hard on my budget, but there was no way I could investigate a murder if I was stuck in the store all day.

  While I baked up the goodies for the display case, I made a mental list of stores in the area I needed to visit. I figured I could do a block at a time on my lunch breaks. At that rate, it would take about two weeks to investigate the entire downtown.

  I blew out a breath and attacked the dough. Well, it couldn’t be any slower than the police department. Sad but true. I remember reading somewhere you needed to catch a killer in the first forty-eight hours or the evidence would grow cold. I glanced at the clock. They had two hours left and right now the only suspect they had was me.

  CHAPTER 13

  By the time I closed up for my lunch break at one P.M., I’d sold only a few baked goods to a handful of regulars. Thank God for John Emerson. My guess was he worked out at the oil refinery. I didn’t think to ask because it really wasn’t any of my business. But he was in every morning at 7 A.M. and bought apple turnovers for Sarah and coffee and pastries for himself. Then Tasha’d been kind enough to order two platters of assorted Danish, turnovers, muffins, and cake donuts for the Welcome Inn. She’d stopped by around eight to pick them up.

  Setting the clock sign to let everyone know we would reopen at two, I grabbed my jacket, locked the door, and headed across the street with business cards in hand. First stop was Walcott’s Drug Emporium. I stepped into the warmth and paused a moment to take in the scent of perfume, the canned shopper’s music, and the general layout. It looked the same as it had when I was a kid. I had a paper route and delivered on this part of Main. Every time I entered the pharmacy, I had a flashback to tromping through the ice and slush, a canvas bag full of rolled papers on my shoulder and the sound of Christmas music. For the Christmas season, Walcott’s always blared music out onto Main Street. It sounded tinny, but it gave the street a festive air.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  I came back to the here and now and saw Craig working behind the counter. “Hey, I didn’t know you worked here. I thought you were a part-time banker/part-time college adjunct.”

  “The college doesn’t offer insurance benefits, so I worked at the bank for a while, but in this economy the bank had to downsize. Now I’m here with my brother, making ends meet.” Craig was dressed in dark blue Dockers and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “The bank was a little too stuffy for my taste, anyhow.”

  “Huh.” Working at the bank would have probably driven me crazy, too, although the hours were better than the ones I kept.

  I wandered over to the glass counter with the most expensive items locked inside. The cash register sat on top of the glass. Behind Craig were stacks of goods such as cigarettes and aftershaves and colognes. “How come you don’t teach full-time at the college?” I realized it was probably too nosey a question and cringed, waiting for him to tell me it was none of my business.

  Instead he smiled. “This is my first teaching gig at the college level. You usually have to have a few years of adjunct under your belt before they hire you full-time.”

  “Oh.” The silence was awkward and I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to come up with something else to say.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to because Craig added, “I know, it’s crazy. You have to jump through a lot of hoops for forty grand a year. What brings you in today?”

  “Oh, I’m passing around my cards to businesses in the area.” I pulled out my stack of rubber-banded cards and tugged one free. “If you bring it in, it’s good for a free cookie with a purchase of coffee.” I handed him the card. “I have one for your brother, too, if he’s in.”

  “Hold on.” Craig got on the phone. “Hey, Ralph, come down here a minute. There’s someone I wan
t you to meet.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be right down.”

  Craig looked my card over. “It’s a nice place you have over there. Too bad about George, though.”

  I crinkled my face. “I agree.” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Did you know him?”

  “Not all that well.” Craig leaned his arm across the top of the register. “George pretty much kept to himself. I understand he was a hard worker, but wheat futures aren’t what they used to be. I think perhaps he’d fallen on hard times.”

  I tilted my head and moved in closer. “Really?”

  “Sure, happens a lot.” Craig tapped my card along the edge of the register. “Farming’s a gamble no matter what you grow or raise. I think it’s why George was all fired up about your business being wheat-free. He must have felt his livelihood was at stake.”

  “It wasn’t.” I crossed my arms. “You’d have to be pretty scared to think my little store would make or break your farm. Do you think he owed anyone money?”

  “I don’t know. Ed at the bank could tell you.” He tilted his head and gave a slight shrug. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  Another man walked down the aisle toward us. He looked a lot like Craig only he was older and had darker hair. His brown eyes were gentle.

  “Hello,” he said. “You’re the gal who opened the new bakery, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.” I pulled a second card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “I’m Toni Holmes.”

  “I’ve heard great things about your bakery,” Ralph said. He was a big man with brown hair, a soft jaw, and the hands of a man who worked in an office his whole life. “My son, Tommy, has autism. He’s sensitive to a lot of things. I’ve read gluten-free foods might help some of those kids.”

  That made me smile. I loved to talk to people who understood GF. “A lot of people dismiss it as a fad, but if you’re sensitive to your environment or have bad allergies, then sometimes GF can help. I have celiac disease, which makes me more than sensitive.”