Charleston with a Clever Cougar: A Dance with Danger Mystery #6

by Barton, Sara M.

  “That’s not necessary. I can do it.” Leaning over the mirror again, I could see the black line, but when I started to raise my right hand to wipe it away, the pain was excruciating.

  “Ready to say ‘uncle’ yet?” He stood three feet from me, tissue waving like a white flag. “I promise not to bite your head off.”

  “I always do my own makeup,” I tried to explain.

  “Well, if you want makeup done right, you’ll have to accept my help. Either that, or go without.”

  Without makeup? The thought was impalpable. But turning over my eyeliner to a stranger was equally daunting.

  “Pretend I’m a surgeon and I’m going to fix you up,” he told me. Reluctantly, I handed him the crayon. He gently drew the lines above and below my lids before handing it back and picking up the mirror to show me his handiwork. “How’s that? Okay? Now what?”

  “Mascara.” I pointed to the tube on the counter. “I usually just do the tips. And I hate clumps.”

  He carefully stroked the tips of the lashes, used a finger to blot a clump of black goo, and then used the brush to fluff them up, All said and done, he did a decent job on my eyes. I wouldn’t be a walking ad for a zombie when I got to the shop.

  “Lipstick?”

  “Lip gloss,” I corrected him. There was a tube of Maybelline Misty Pink in my makeup bag.

  “I’ve always wanted to know the difference between lipstick and lip gloss,” he told me. I could see the tiny hairs on his masculine hand as he swiped my lips with the wand.

  “I have no clue. I only know that my lips don’t get chapped when I use lip gloss. Shall we go?” I asked him, as he put the makeup back into its sack, put it in my pocketbook, and picked up the tablet and the keys. “Can you please put the tablet into the side pocket?”

  “Handy. What about a coat?”

  “Oh,” I groaned. Putting on the big shirt had been painful, and the thought of slipping my arms into a coat was almost more than I could bear.

  “Where’s your closet?” he demanded. Spying a door to the left of the entry, he quickly opened it and began digging through the hanging items. He examined a couple of choices before pulling out an old swing coat in raspberry wool.

  “How’s this? You can wear it as a cape, so you don’t have to put your arms through the sleeves.”

  “But it’s pink!” I made a face.

  “What’s more important, being color-coordinated or being comfortable?” When I hesitated to answer, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Suffer if you must.”

  Three coats later, I settled on my tan microfiber parka, which he draped around my shoulders. I started towards the front door when I heard him address me in that rough tone again.

  “You have your prescription?”

  “What?” Turning, I looked at those fierce eyes, unsettled by what I saw.

  “Your pills. Do you have them with you?”

  “Oh, no. They’re in the bedroom.”

  “I’ll get them.” Before I could protest, he had gone up the staircase, returning triumphantly a moment later, bottle in hand.

  “How did you know I had a prescription?” I wondered.

  “I was a medic, remember?” That rigid look came back to his face. “I used to have to give these to guys who were injured all the time. You don’t want to skip a dose. It’ll create problems for you. What are you supposed to take for the swelling?”

  “Advil.”

  “Where is that?” he asked.

  “Powder room, on the sink.”

  Once again he headed down the hall, reemerging a moment later with the bottle. Everything was tucked into my pocketbook, which he shouldered, and then he escorted me out of the condo, locking the door behind us.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I told him.

  “You can call me Doc.”

  “Doc?”

  “That’s my nickname.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “I stopped using that a long time ago,” he acknowledged.

  “Why?” That slipped out before I could stop myself. I heard him draw a breath before he answered.

  “Dermot Ayotte.”

  “Wow. That’s a mouthful,” I commiserated.

  “I left that life behind when I went into the Army. Now I’m Doc. Any more questions?” The tone warned me off, so I dropped it. But it made me wonder who Doc really was and what he was like before the Army claimed him.

  He led me across the parking lot of the Soundings to an old, beat-up green van. When he opened the door, I stuck my head in, wondering what I was getting myself into by accepting a ride from this stranger. There were two bucket seats up front and an empty cargo space in the back. I could see a couple of duffle bags, a sleeping bag, an inflatable twin mattress, and what looked like a tent sack. Doc was a camper. Even though the outside was showing wear and tear, the interior of the van was neat and tidy, the seats clean and uncluttered, the cup holders empty.

  “Let me give you a hand up,” he insisted, as I studied the step I would have to navigate to climb in. Without warning, his hands took hold of my waist and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Okay. Duck your head and step up. I’ve got you.”

  Once I was in the van, he reached across me and pulled my seat belt into place, clicking the metal fastener into its receptacle. Then he carefully closed my door and disappeared momentarily. I waited, somewhat nervously. I wasn’t used to letting strangers take over my life like this. I hoped he was as careful with his driving as he was with his van. It didn’t really matter how friendly he was. I just wanted to get to the shop in one piece.

  Chapter Five --

  “Cady, baby!” Darlene threw her arms around me, gently hugging me. “Oh, kid! You look like crapola!”

  “How sweet,” I replied wryly. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

  “You should have stayed home to rest,” she chastised me, her tone motherly. “You’ll be back on your feet sooner if you take care of yourself.”

  “Can’t afford it. We’ve got the Henslacker wedding on Saturday.”

  “But this is Tuesday. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Not really,” I told her. “I have to shop for the ingredients and then we have to make the cake and the cookies.”

  The lunch bunch was coming through for coffee, snacks, and our ready-to-go sandwiches. Normally, we did three daily choices on the bread of the day, threw in a pickle and a bag of chips into the biodegradable containers made from sugar pulp fiber. We also did a soup of the day and a soup/sandwich combo. Our turkey and Havarti was usually a big seller, as was our curried egg salad. On days when the soup choice was chili con carne, we were out of it by twelve-thirty, because folks started coming in for lunch at 11:30. Today’s choices were chicken salad, fresh mozzarella with basil and sliced tomatoes, and ham with Swiss for sandwiches, and minestrone for soup. I looked through the glass door of the refrigerator and saw very few pre-wrapped choices left.

  “We’re almost out of sandwiches,” I announced. “It’s not even quarter to one!”

  I shrugged myself out of my coat, prepared to hit the line to make some more, when Daisy came around the corner with a tray laden with a fresh supply.

  “Relax, Cady. I’ve got this,” she told me confidently.

  “Oh.”

  “Doc thought it might be less confusing if I prepped the sandwiches out back, so Mom and Darlene would have more room to move.”

  “Yes,” Darlene nodded. “That was a good idea.”

  “We’ve actually sold more than seventy-five sandwiches,” Carole announced gleefully. “Isn’t that great?”

  Normally, we were lucky if we sold fifty, but that’s because the sandwiches were really just a way to promote our breads.

  “Yeah,” Daisy said, busy putting the sandwiches into the containers and handing them to Carole to mark. “We went through the sourdough and had to switch over to the hearty multigrain.”

  “Looks like you folk
s did just fine without me,” I decided. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, especially considering they changed the usual routine, with great success. “I guess you’ve got all this covered for now, so I’ll just get started on the shopping list.”

  I headed into the back, where I had a proper kitchen with big ovens, a walk-in, and storage shelves, my pocketbook gripped tightly in my hands, so as to not jar my sore muscles. I passed the stainless steel prep table where Walter was punching down down dough in a big bowl and went into my little cubicle of an office. Sinking into my swivel desk chair, I pulled out my tablet and turned it on. I thought I could do a “click and pull” order for BJ’s Wholesale Club in Waterford, if I could get my list ready before five. I’d just have to find someone to pick it up tomorrow. I knew I needed flour for the cake and the cookies. Tara Henslacker and her husband-to-be, Todd Gump, wanted a very untraditional cake. They settled on the death-by-chocolate version, which was a rich, moist cake I make with Dutch-processed cocoa and strong, hot coffee. Each tier would be sliced into four thin layers, with chocolate mousse between, and once I covered it with fudge frosting, I would smother it in white chocolate ganache and then white fondant, before adding details in icing and decorations. Lucky for me, they had requested the simple stacked round version, which meant four graduated layers on a cake stand. Nothing fancy or complicated. I was bent over the tablet, typing notes, when I sensed a presence. Looking up, a figure stood in the doorway.

  “What do you need me to do?” Doc asked.

  “Do?”

  “You need help. What do you want me to do?” Those green eyes were on me. “And don’t insult my intelligence by suggesting you can do whatever you’re doing by yourself. I don’t take rejection well.”

  What did that mean? I was afraid to ask. I took a moment before answering. I realized I was actually considering his offer. What I really needed to do was to take inventory of what I had on hand, what I would need by Thursday, and then I would double it, just in case anything went wrong. In the warmer months, I didn’t use this strategy, but when there was a risk of a late winter storm, I learned it was best to be prepared. When I did the Rorchak wedding three years ago, Marnie wanted a winter wonderland theme and she got it, with a big-time, traffic-paralyzing blizzard. Unfortunately, it resulted in a power failure two days before the wedding, while the cake was baking in the oven. I had to scramble to buy the ingredients to make another, wait for the power to be turned back on, and then I was up all night putting it all together. Ever since, I made a point of making sure I had enough to redo any disasters. That way, if the weather was inclement, I could still be ready for Saturday, even if I had to walk in the snow to get to the shop.

  “If you’re sure you want to do this....”

  “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t prepared to see it through,” he replied gruffly. “Bring it on, sister.”

  “Okay. Let’s go into the kitchen. I have to check supplies.” I slipped past him, all too aware of how close he was. Only a few inches taller than me, it was hard to escape those eyes. They seemed to follow me everywhere I went. “Can you please give me an estimate of how much flour I have, third shelf up. Same with the sugar, the confectioner’s sugar, the baking powder, the baking....”

  “What kind of estimate?”

  “Half a bag, quarter of a bag....”

  A hour later, Doc and I were in his van, on our way to shop at BJ’s Club. He had offered after I’d consumed some soup, a muscle relaxant, some Advil, and coffee. While I was seated at one of the shop’s little tables, Daisy informed me that Doc made the coffee for the shop, that he even knew how to operate the bean grinder. She was very impressed. Carole sat with me for a few minutes while I finished my coffee, telling me he had arrived at the shop a little after seven to ask Walter how I was and he ended up staying to pitch in when the shop was flooded with customers. And now he was to be my chauffeur for the afternoon.

  “I should pay you for your time,” I told Doc as we crossed the bridge into Old Lyme, barreling along I-95.

  “Not necessary. Happy to do it,” was all he said, his eyes on the road.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to pay you in free coffee,” I smiled.

  “That depends,” he replied. “I only want to drink coffee I enjoy. None of that stale stuff.”

  “Oh,” I laughed lightly, “so that’s the way it’s going to be, is it?”

  “Throw in the blueberry muffins and you’ve got a deal.”

  “You should try my banana muffins. Those are pretty good, too. And my peach cobbler muffins....”

  “I’ll think about it.” For a moment, I almost thought I saw a smile forming on his face, but then it was gone and he changed the subject. “How are you going to do all this baking for the wedding? You can’t really do any heavy lifting.”

  “Well, I was going to ask Walter to help me mix the cake and bake it. And we have to bake the cookies, too. I thought I could ask Daisy to help me on that.”

  “When do you normally do your baking for weddings?” he asked. The question surprised me.

  “When do I normally do the baking? Why?”

  “Walter starts early, at four in the morning, right? He does all the bread, because the dough has to rise for a couple of hours before baking. From ten to two, you folks deal with the lunch bunch. Doesn’t that mean the cake and cookies get baked between two and six, when you close?” Doc glanced over at me, his heavy glasses obscuring his eyes.

  “True. Where are you going with this?”

  “Even if you keep Walter until two, that’s a long shift for him, isn’t it?”

  “And?” I had no idea what his point was.

  “Let me be your hands,” Doc said. “You can tell me everything you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” I asked, confused. “Don’t you have something better to do? Don’t you have a job?”

  “At the moment, no. I’m on leave.”

  “Leave? You’re still in the Army?”

  “No, I’m taking a break, sorting things out for myself before I start a new job.”

  For a moment, I wondered if there even was a job. Maybe Doc was one of those soldiers, back from the war, who have trouble re-adjusting to civilian life.

  “I start on the fifteenth at an insurance company just outside of Springfield, as a claims adjuster,” he explained. “I decided to just spend a couple of weeks wandering around until I have to report for work.”

  “And you want to waste your time helping me?”

  “Hey, forget I asked. You don’t want my help, you don’t want it.” That wall popped up between us yet again and a dark cloud seemed to hover above Doc’s head. The horizon looked like it was about to get stormy.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, Doc. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not used to people being so nice to me, and to be honest, I’m not really good at needing people.” That popped out unexpectedly. I had no intention of explaining myself to this stranger. After all, I wasn’t even sure I could trust him. What if he was lying to me? What if he was dangerous?

  “Used to being in control?” he shot back.

  “Actually, I guess I am. It seems like every time I give it up, I get screwed,” I admitted.

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Look, if you really want to help me, you’re going to have to let me pay you somehow, so I don’t feel obligated to you. And please don’t get mad at me. It’s just the way I am,” I confessed. “I like balance in my life. You want money? Free meals? What can I give you in exchange for your help, which I actually need?”

  There was a long silence from Doc’s side of the van. His eyes never strayed from the road. I knew he wasn’t ignoring me. He seemed to be thinking. At last, he cleared his throat.

  “Okay, here’s how you can repay me. Teach me to roast coffee.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I want from you. I want to learn how to roast my own coffee and I want to play around with the beans,
mix my own blends.”

  As I sat there, I was stunned, thinking that this was almost too good to be true. Here I was, in need of a helpful pair of hands, and the guy only wanted to learn how to roast coffee? And I just happened to need to roast some beans tomorrow. What was the catch? Was he planning to open his own coffee shop? Is that why he wandered into Cady’s Cakes? Was I about to get screwed by a devilish competitor? He seemed to read my mind.

  “I really do have a job with an insurance company,” he assured me. “And as to why I want to learn how to roast my own coffee, I was in a coffee house in Tanzania one time, a long time ago, and I had the best damned cup of coffee I ever had. I’ve been to a lot of coffee places since then, but I’ve never had anything quite like it. I keep thinking that if I have a chance to play around with the beans, I can make the same blend.”

  “Why not just ask the owner of the coffee house?” I wondered.

  “I tried that,” Doc admitted. “The guy told me it was a secret recipe.”

  “Did you try his competitors’ coffee?”

  “Totally different from his. I just know he did something different with his beans. I even went so far as to ask the guy if I could buy some of his beans, but he refused.” Doc sounded disgusted. “It’s just coffee! It’s not like it’s the formula for rocket fuel!”

  “And you don’t like anyone telling you you can’t have what you want, is that it?”

  Doc glared at me, looking through those thick lenses, before shaking his head. And then he growled.

  “Are you calling me stubborn, Cady?”

  “Are you?” I inquired.

  “Well, I might be,” he grumbled. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “I didn’t say it was, Doc. As for the coffeemaker, my best guess is he knew he had a winning formula. So, when you finally hit on your own version of it, you’ll probably want to keep it to yourself as well.”

  “Does that mean you’ll teach me?”

  “It does. I’ll even go one better for you. You pinpoint where you were in Tanzania and I’ll try to guess what the basic formula for the region is, using the local beans and what the roasters generally add. And I can order whatever green beans you think you might need from my supplier. If you’re any good at creating blends, maybe we’ll offer it up to customers at the shop.”