Promises_Star's Bakery

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “I counted them, too,” Manny chimed in. “Star, I doubt there is anything you can do about those two scoundrels. Text me their names and I’ll see if I can find them, if any luck, at least I can ask them a few questions. Scare them a little. But probably not enough to cough up the money.”

  “Thanks, and there’s no hurry. As the Butterworth sisters said today—zero plus zero is still zero.”

  “Butterworth sisters?” Liz asked.

  “I’ll fill you in later. We love you both, make that we love the three of you.”

  Liz spoke up. “You’ll be little Lizzie’s first case.”

  “Yeah, learning at her papa’s knee.”

  “I beg your pardon, my dear husband.”

  “Make that her mama’s and her papa’s knees.”

  Chapter 17

  THE NEXT DAY no one mentioned the words prize money in front of Star. Privately, however, they whispered that if the reality-TV pair ever dared to enter the bakery they would tie them up and call the police, or something worse.

  Wanda made up a work schedule for the burgeoning staff. Drawing lines, setting hourly timeslots then penciled in Benny, the sisters, as well as herself, Gran, and Star. Not happy with the result, basically tearing her hair out, she tried again to come up with a plan only to wad up the sheet and start again … and again.

  In order to get the fresh baked goods from oven, to slotted trolley, to the display cases in the front of the store, they had to start baking at 5:00 a.m. The bakery would close at 6:00 p.m. Star told Wanda the bakery would be closed on Monday and Tuesday. They would also close on all major holidays. With days closed established everyone could make their personal plans for the week, the holidays.

  Wanda sighed. Triumphant. She finally came up with a schedule so that only two sisters would come in at 5:00 with Star. Gran and Wanda and a sister would show up at 8:45 a.m. to open at 9:00. However, before declaring the schedule was final, she was going to keep a tally, make that ask Benny to keep a tally of customer traffic. Did traffic really begin to build at ten o’clock not nine? If so, she would skew the whole schedule up an hour.

  If the weather was prohibitive in the morning, which she positively swore rarely happened on Florida’s central east coast, Benny would catch a ride with whatever sister came in at 8:45.

  At any rate, that was the timetable. Gran liked the schedule but she knew that her granddaughter would put in twelve hour days, make that thirteen, but with the car she could scoot home on slow days to rest. Star and Gran stayed out of the schedule negotiations knowing they would take care of each other’s comings and goings. The whole schedule thing ended with giggling fits when they laid their heads on their pillows—upper and lower bunk.

  The first day they tried the new schedule everyone, except Mattie and Benny, showed up at 5:00. Mattie left the house at 8:00, drove the sister’s SUV to pick up Benny. But Benny was already motoring down Atlantic Avenue in his wheelchair, a new ball cap pulled low over his bushy salt and pepper hair missing a lock or two, thinking he wouldn’t be recognized. But he didn’t fool Mattie for a minute. She pulled a U-turn, rolled up to the curb beside Benny.

  Irritated that she had seen through his disguise, Benny waved her on as he whizzed by.

  Stepping on the gas, Mattie passed him, leaving him to travel on his own up the sidewalk.

  Benny’s routine, sitting in the window of the bakery with his coffee and newspaper, meant he had to be at the bakery no later than 8:30 because the schedule showed he was to be at the cash register at nine sharp. He certainly didn’t need help after being on his own since leaving his foster home at seventeen to join the circus. He muttered that a fifty-nine year old man did not need three mothers. It was humiliating. His lips turned down under the tufts of gray hair on his chin. Humiliating!

  The second day ran smoother except that Anne didn’t want to leave her sisters alone for the morning baking. When Hattie and Mattie threatened Anne with mutiny, the day went according to schedule, with one of the sisters swapping with the other. After all, Wanda said anytime they wanted, they should make their own schedule as long as the bakery was staffed according to the timetable. Anne, huddling with her sisters, gave an edict that the three would bake together. Relieved, the three went back to sifting, stirring, cracking eggs.

  Benny stated he was fine under his own steam, so to speak, unless he called for a pick up.

  With order returning, Anne bustled out to the car retrieving six bags, a name pinned on the front of each. Striding back she joined her two sisters, all three looking like feral cats that caught a gecko. Anne handed the bags out according to the name on the front. Benny opened his first. A toothy grin spreading across his face, he pulled out a white T-shirt, Star’s Bakery imprinted in black across the front. Dropping the red suspenders from his shoulders, he pulled the shirt over the yellow one he was wearing.

  Star opened her bag next, withdrawing a black T-shirt with Star’s Bakery imprinted in white. The sisters and Wanda opened their bags—black short-sleeved T-shirts with white lettering. Anne explained that Benny was special, so his was white. Besides, black would show up better when the women tied on their frilly white aprons out in the shop helping customers.

  • • •

  TYLER SMILED, his pencil moving furiously over the pad of paper after reading Star’s text describing the chaos that ensued with Wanda’s work schedule. Cartoons danced across the page—Benny, his salt and pepper hair bouncing from under his cap as he raced the Butterworth sister down the street; the little blond baker girl grinning out at him wearing her new shirt; then another with the sisters, Gran, and Wanda nudging each other, giggling, as the Wurlitzer sprouted stick arms and legs performing a wild tango with each baker—dips, and twirls.

  Chapter 18

  THE MERRY BAND of bakers settled into Wanda’s routine—everyone doing their own thing. Of course, all choosing to be at the bakery at the same time for fear they’d miss a drop of gossip.

  Holding the phone under her chin, Star answered as she continued to frost cutouts of a Christmas Tree. “Star’s Bakery. How may I help you?”

  “Star Bloom, please.”

  “This is Star. Who’s calling?”

  “Where have you been, young lady? I’ve been trying to find you.”

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “My name is Vincent Roth. I’m a producer for CBS affiliates—always on the lookout for something new. I thought I found a new production but then Mr. Jim Whisk vanished, or isn’t interested, or … anyway—”

  “Mr. Roth, I doubt we have anything to say to each other. I met with Mr. Whisk, or rather, I was supposed to meet with Mr. Whisk when he promised he would give me the fifty thousand dollars prize money he owes me for winning the Amateur Bakeoff Competition last August.”

  “I don’t understand. I wired Mr. Whisk the money. Are you telling me he didn’t give it to you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Roth. That is exactly what I’m telling you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some Christmas trees in the oven, and—”

  “Wait, Miss. Bloom. It seems we both have been swindled, but I should have known better. I’m going to call my bank, and the police, and … and a detective to find Mr. Whisk. Oh, how stupid can I be? When I talked with Mr. Whisk, I told him I was interested in the show, and that I wanted to meet with you … he said you would not meet unless you were paid the prize money. He said he didn’t have the money because of production costs for the series, and that investors did not come through. I’m sorry, I was very excited with the potential of … thank heavens I insisted he send me the files of the Amateur Bakeoff … so, I guess I did get something for my fifty grand.”

  “Mr. Roth, I don’t know why you’re calling, but I can tell you positively that I want nothing more to do with Mr. Whisk, or the reality show.”

  “Look, Miss Bloom, I understand your misgivings, but I assure you that I’m sincere when I say I am interested in syndicating the series. And, depending on how the series is recei
ved, I’m also very interested in you. Can you come to Los Angeles so we can talk face to face? I want to give you my thoughts on how we might work together, go forward together. I definitely want you to take a screen test.”

  “A screen test? Mr. Roth, I don’t doubt your sincerity, but I can’t pay for a trip to LA with your sincerity. I think—”

  “Miss Bloom, I will make a reservation, round trip, pay for the flight and hotel as well as give you an expense account which I will cover from the moment you leave your home until you step back into your home. Please, Miss Bloom. From what I’ve seen, the camera loves you. We must talk in person and, unfortunately, I can’t get away until the first of the year. I don’t want to wait that long. What do you say?”

  The camera loves you. My God, those were Ty’s words. I could see Ty … all expenses paid. “You are very persuasive, Mr. Roth. One question. Should you decide the camera doesn’t love me, will you still pay for my trip? Door to door?”

  “Yes, yes, Miss Bloom. Door to door.”

  “It’s a long distance to Los Angeles, Mr. Roth. I can only manage to be away from my bakery for two days—I’ll have to take the red eye.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Bloom. If you want to fly all night, then that’s what you’ll do. Please pick your airline, email me the dates, flight numbers, and I’ll make your reservations. You just have to arrive at the airport. Your ticket will be prepaid. I’m emailing you as we speak, so you have my address. Also, the email will have my direct line. Do you have a PayPal account?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. I’ll send the advance to your account to cover your initial expenses as soon as your flight plans are settled, plus information on how to submit your expense account. Thank you, Miss Bloom. When do you think I can expect you?”

  “In two days. The holidays are coming up and I have to tend to my business. The final date and times will be in my return email to you.”

  • • •

  TAPPING HER TOES, waiting, waiting for Ty to pick up his phone, Star glanced at the clock, glanced again … where is he?

  “Star, Star hold on, I’m here. Heard your ring tone from down the hall.”

  “Oh … I was afraid you were … never mind. Guess what just happened?”

  “I can’t. Tell me,” Tyler said gasping for breath.

  “A Mr. Roth, a producer, just called. He wants to meet with me, wants me to take a screen test, he’s sending money to PayPal for heaven sake and—”

  “Slower. Meet where?”

  “L A!” Star practically screamed, jumping up from her chair.

  “Los Angeles?” Tyler gasped.

  “Yes.” Star gasped back at him.

  “Wow! When”

  “I … I think I’ll fly day after tomorrow.”

  “O my God. I’ll meet your flight. How long can you stay? Please say a week.”

  “No, silly. Two days.”

  Chapter 19

  Dallas, Texas

  LOUISE WAINWRIGHT SIPPED her morning coffee, glancing between the morning newspaper on her iPad and the sun breaching the horizon, the rays spreading over Dallas lying out below her penthouse. A new email pinged her inbox. It was from Lou, her daughter, married ten months to Thom Weed. Lou still considered herself a newlywed, still breathless over her dreamy husband. Louise wondered how long the marriage was going to last. Although she was fond of her new son-in-law, the thought remained—did Thom marry her daughter for her potential inheritance? Louise often wondered the same about Jude, her husband.

  Ah, yes, Jude. She heard him shuffling down the hall for his morning cup of coffee. Will he find a job today? At the urging of her father, when she married Jude Rattigan, she didn’t take his name, opting to keep her maiden name—Wainwright. Louise didn’t see the warning signs her father spotted before she married Jude. After their daughter was born and his lack of interest in the baby, Louise saw what her father saw. But Jude was attentive, and handsome with thick, wiry black hair. He was an attentive escort to the various charity functions in which she was deeply involved. Oh, she knew he had dalliances, but preferred to look the other way as long as he kept them undercover, so to speak.

  Sighing, Louise turned back to the newspaper, flicking the pages with her finger on the touch screen, always looking for a chance article about her father. She and her father had been estranged because of his weird lifestyle, some called strange, and his lengthy disappearances. However, he was in the habit of sending postcards at random intervals, from random places, never giving a return address. For all she knew, he could be somewhere in the city, sending a card to a faraway colleague, anywhere in the world, and asking the colleague to post the card. A postcard could land in her mailbox two weeks in a row, or months apart. Louise was a psychiatrist and she long ago had labeled her father very eccentric but with a mind sharp as a tack. Because it had been eight months since she had heard from him she had hired an investigator to begin a missing-person search.

  Later, when she thought back to this moment, she didn’t know why her eye caught a word on the screen. She had already flicked past the page but returned. The word was buried in two short paragraphs—Yamamoto. She smiled thinking of her father. Yohji Yamamoto was her father’s favorite designer, used to be anyway. Louise remembered a delightful dinner, actually two dinners—one in Paris, the other in Tokyo.

  Louise scanned the article. The police were looking for someone who could identify a John Doe. They guessed his age to be sixty-five to seventy-five, with light gray hair, wearing a jacket by designer Yohji Yamamoto. His body was found on the waterfront in Daytona Beach. It was believed he might be from Texas.

  Louise gasped, her hand clutching her chest. His body was found … his dead body was found? The thought had occurred to her that her father’s long absence could mean he was sick. This time his absence could mean he met with foul play. Should she get in touch with her investigator?

  She read the article again. There was a number to call if anyone had information that might lead to John Doe’s identity … no matter how insignificant—call! Daytona Beach?

  Florida! When she was ten, her mother and father had taken her to Orlando, to Disney World. It was one of her fondest memories of her mother. She died four years later of cancer. As a doctor of psychiatry, looking back, Louise wondered if her mother’s death, which might have brought father and daughter closer, had served instead to push them apart.

  Well, it couldn’t hurt to call. With a complete description of this John Doe, it would no doubt eliminate her father.

  Louise made a note of the telephone number.

  Jude massaged her neck as he gazed over her shoulder at her computer screen. “You’re going to call? Why?”

  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen Dad. I’ve been wondering if something happened. I’m sure this John Doe isn’t him, but I might as well call. Eliminate the possibility.”

  “That’s silly, Louise. The old codger is probably on some Hawaiian beach with a woman.”

  “Why would you say that, Jude?”

  Jude walked to the window, looked down at the city. “No reason. You say he’s eccentric, call his lifestyle strange.”

  Louise glanced at her watch. She was going to be late for her first appointment if she didn’t hurry.

  • • •

  LOUISE FINISHED WRITING her observations on the session with her last patient. Pulling the note she had jotted down that morning from the police article, she tapped in the numbers.

  “Daytona Beach Police Department. Can I help you?”

  “I’m calling about an article I saw in the Dallas Morning News, about a John Doe.”

  “Your name please?”

  “Dr. Louise Wainwright, but I—”

  “One moment, I’ll connect you to Detective Watson.”

  “But—”

  “Detective Watson here. Dr. Wainwright do you believe you have some information on my John Doe?”

  “Detective, I doubt it. It’s just that the ma
n’s jacket, the Yohji Yamamoto jacket. He was my father’s favorite designer.”

  “You live in Dallas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your father missing?”

  “Well, not exactly. That is … we are rather estranged. He sends me postcards from time to time, but I haven’t heard from him for about eight months.”

  “Dr. Wainwright is this a good number to call you on?”

  “Yes, it’s my cell phone, but—”

  “I’d like a private investigator, assigned to this case, to give you a call. His name is Manny Salinas. You’re probably right … not your father … but we haven’t been able to turn up any clues as to John Doe’s identity.” Fred chuckled. “At least I can report to my captain that someone inquired.”

  Chapter 20

  Los Angeles, California

  HER HEART TICKED UP a beat as she jockeyed in line with the other passengers waiting for the plane’s door to open, allowing them to escape the stifling air. Finally, there was movement.

  Star walked out of the jetway with the rest of the crowd, her heart thumping. In a few minutes she would see Tyler. They had exchanged several text messages since her call.

  He said he’d meet her with open arms.

  Nerves gripped her senses remembering his passionate kiss only two weeks ago when they said goodbye at the Orlando airport. He was returning to California after his surprise visit as Superman at the grand opening of her bakery. She could feel her face flushing just thinking about how she responded, how her whole body responded to his embrace. She knew he was coming home for Christmas, but now here she was, unexpectedly in California.

  Wanda had dropped her off at the airport. With the sun following her, she was now in Los Angeles a little after 9:00 a.m. Her appointment with Mr. Roth was at noon. She asked to meet early as she would be her freshest at the beginning of her journey. But, the real reason was because that would give her the rest of the day with Tyler, and most of the following day. She was scheduled on the red-eye back to Florida the following night.