Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  “You’ll go tomorrow.”

  My heart gave a sudden leap in anticipation, and then promptly deflated with dread. Closing my eyes, I nodded. I would go. I would see Roscoe. I’d figure out how to convince him to help Darrell, even if it made me sick to my stomach, because catching bad guys was my job.

  I would . . . think of something.

  * * *

  There were a few places I avoided whenever I was home in Green Valley. The library was number one on that list, ever since Ms. Julianne MacIntyre—the head librarian—accused me of using one of the library’s desktops to look at porn.

  I wasn’t looking at porn, okay? It was a crime scene photo. A guy had gotten his junk trapped in the muffler of a car, a car I suspected he’d stolen, and I was squinting at the screen in an attempt to verify the license plate. But all she saw was his muscular back, bottom, and thighs. It was like I’d set loose Satan himself in the library.

  Anyway, for the record, I suspect she’d been looking for a reason to toss me out ever since we’d entered into a yelling match about whether or not an op-ed was considered news and therefore belonged with the periodicals.

  I maintained not. Obviously.

  The second place I avoided in my hometown was the Donner Lodge and Bakery, because I loved cake. I could control myself around my mother’s doughnuts and pie, but Lord help the poor soul who tried to get between me and a Donner Bakery cake. This was because Jennifer Winston—previously Jennifer Sylvester—made the world’s best cakes.

  Unfortunately for my strict workout program, I was presently on my way to the Donner Lodge and Bakery.

  After a night of internal debate, I decided Jennifer Winston was the best person to enlist in my pursuit of tracking down Roscoe in Nashville. With congress in session, Billy wasn’t in town. Jethro wasn’t in town either, he and Sienna were off somewhere with their kids while she filmed her latest blockbuster. Also, I didn’t know Billy or Jethro all that well, so they were out in any case. Beau and Ashley would ask too many questions, whereas Shelly and Cletus had an uncanny ability to see through a ruse without asking any questions at all.

  Therefore, Jennifer Winston was the only choice for what I required and that meant I’d be doing cardio daily for the next two weeks. As much as I hated cardio, and as much as I needed to pass the bureau’s PFT, I loved Jennifer’s cakes more.

  The Donner Lodge and Bakery sat on a gorgeous piece of property overlooking the main valley and the gently sloping mountains beyond. Spring had finally sprung, which meant the rolling greens were a vibrant emerald and the blue haze—which had earned the national park its “smoky” designation—hung over the distant landscape like a delicate, gauzy veil, especially now in the early morning hours.

  The chilly morning air smelled like spring rain, pine needles, and freshly cut grass as I stepped out of my car, twisting at my waist to stretch and take in the surroundings. Slashes of sunlight filtered through the trees, abrupt beams dotting the well-maintained parking lot and surrounding flower-lined footpaths. Early birds sang their song overhead, a cacophony of sweet trills and noisy squawks that reminded me of an orchestra warming up before a performance.

  Years ago, when I was a kid, the lodge had languished, falling into disrepair. But then Jennifer had been crowned the Banana Cake Queen after winning the state fair blue ribbon for her confectionary concoction at the tender age of fifteen.

  Overnight, the Donner Bakery had become a novelty, with Mrs. Diane Donner-Sylvester, Jennifer’s mother, capitalizing on her young daughter’s success. Soon, the novelty became a sensation and word spread throughout the valley when it was discovered Jenn was by no means a one-cake wonder.

  Over the years, she’d won the state fair baking blue ribbon again and again and again, until a few years ago when she’d stopped entering the contest. There was no need. Jennifer’s cakes were now infamous, having been featured in national and international magazines and TV shows.

  The Donner Lodge was now run by a distant relative of Jennifer’s. I’d heard through the grapevine that she had no interest in the day-to-day management. But still, she owned the property outright. And because the bakery was now a destination hot spot in the area, so was the lodge. It had been updated to modern standards some time ago, and the line for the bakery typically ran out the door and around the building.

  Which was why I’d arrived so early in the morning.

  Word on the street was, Jennifer still made all the cakes—every single one—herself. Locals knew, if you wanted something from the Donner Bakery, you emailed a minimum of two days prior and arrived before posted hours to pick it up. What I’d said I wanted was one of Jennifer’s compassion cakes—dark chocolate with dark chocolate coconut meringue frosting—but what I really wanted was a few minutes of Jennifer’s time and one of Jennifer’s compassion cakes.

  As I approached the bakery, I hesitated. No lights were on and I perceived no movement. Gingerly, I tested the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. I opened it.

  A bell jingled overhead, the only sound in the dim space. It was a Monday, which meant the bakery was only open a half day, and I began to worry that I was too early.

  “Simone.”

  The sound of my name made me jump and I searched the far-left corner of the bakery. A light flipped on, a little one, but enough to illuminate my companion. Jennifer stood at a curved entryway that presumably led to the bakery kitchen. She wore a black baseball hat over her hair, a Smash-Girl superhero apron, and what looked like a T-shirt and jeans beneath. The front of the apron was covered with patches of flour. She also had a little flour dust along her jaw and just under her right eye.

  I couldn’t see her shoes from where I stood, but my guess was that they were Converse.

  “Hey, Jennifer.” I gave her a smile. “Am I too early?”

  “Not at all. I’m just toasting the coconut for your cake. Come on in here and keep me company.” She waved me forward, and I followed her.

  The curved entryway did lead to the kitchen. When I closed the door behind me, I took a moment to study the space. A large stainless-steel counter ran along the wall with three industrial sinks. Set in the center of the space were two large butcher block islands. On one of the islands sat a six-quart KitchenAid mixer, a smattering of ingredients, and a chocolate frosted cake, three layers high. The room smelled like cocoa powder, vanilla, and faintly of coconut.

  My mouth watered.

  “How’s your momma? I haven’t seen her in an age.” Jennifer slipped on an oven mitt as she spoke and turned from me toward one of four large ovens along the side wall. Reaching inside, she pulled out a cookie sheet and jostled it a little, nodding. “Just right,” she murmured to herself.

  I took a stool on the other side of the island from where most of the mess was spread out, not wanting to get in her way as she set down the cookie sheet, the tasty aroma of toasted coconut now smacking me in the face. She was right, the tray of shaved coconut was a gorgeous golden brown. Just right.

  “Mom’s fine.” I faltered a minute as I watched her, because the proper thing to do here would be to ask after Jennifer’s mother in return. Jennifer’s mother, Diane Donner-Sylvester (who many folks had nicknamed The Dragon Lady) had been missing for years, on the run from the law for the murder of Jennifer’s father (profligate and cheating jackass, Kip Sylvester).

  Therefore, I didn’t ask after her mother.

  Instead, I asked, “How are things with you?”

  “Oh, right as rain, I suspect,” she said distractedly, poking just the tip of her tongue out as she concentrated on pressing the toasted coconut to the chocolate frosted cake.

  I watched her, mesmerized by the procedure, knowing I was watching a true master at work. My mouth continued to water, necessitating a quick glance at the front of my shirt to ensure I hadn’t drooled.

  If that cake lasted the drive to Nashville, it would be a miracle. Of course, I’d need to wait until the grocery store opened so I could buy some milk. Ca
ke without milk is like drunk without disorderly. Where’s the fun in that?

  “So, why’re you here?” she asked, yanking me out of my musings.

  “Pardon?”

  She lifted her eyes from her work. “Why’re you here?”

  I sat straighter in my stool, confused by her question. “For cake.” Obviously.

  Jennifer gave me a small smile, one of her sculpted eyebrows lifting just slightly higher than the other as she turned her attention back to the coconut. “I’ve never received a cake order from you—not once—my entire life. Your daddy? Sometimes. Your momma? Twice a year. Judge Payton, one a month. Even your brother orders when he’s in town. So, what’re you really doing here?”

  “I guess I was in the mood for—”

  “Nope.” Jennifer peeked at me again, her gaze pointed, sharper than I’d expected as she said flatly, “This is about Roscoe.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.”

  Ally Condie, Matched

  *Simone*

  I flinched. “Oh,no. No, not at all. I- uh- I mean—”

  “You want to know why he hasn’t been home.”

  “What?” I croaked.

  She smirked. Then, she laughed lightly, shaking her head at me, and sighed. “You want to know what y’alls problem is?”

  “Problem?”

  “You’re trying to bake a cake without preheating the oven.”

  I glanced at her askance. “I- I don’t follow.”

  She considered me for a moment, still looking amused. “You’re a chemist, right? You work in a lab?”

  My eyes shifted from side to side. “Yes . . .”

  “You’re running your electrophoresis backward.”

  My lips parted in surprise and I blinked at Jennifer, dumbfounded.

  I mean, you think you know someone, and then one day out of the blue, they accuse you of running your electrophoresis backward. How the heck did she even know what that meant?

  Jennifer, Roscoe, and I were the same age, but she’d lived an extremely sheltered life. Homeschooled from kindergarten to twelfth grade, never allowed playdates or friends, the only time I caught sight of her was during Roscoe’s church choir performances in middle school.

  My mother had fretted to Bethany Winston—Roscoe’s mom—on more than one occasion that she worried for Jennifer. Diane Donner-Sylvester had forced her daughter into child beauty pageants at a very young age, but had stopped once Jenn had shown promise as a baker.

  “Huh.” I crossed my arms as I studied Jenn, feeling as though I was seeing her for the first time. And here I’d come to her because I thought she was the least likely to figure out my ulterior motives.

  As a teenager and young adult, Jennifer used to prance about town in stilettos and those 1950s housedresses. Her clothes were always yellow with her hair dyed to match. However, since getting tangled up with Cletus Winston about five or so years ago, she now dyed her hair all kinds of colors (most recently red) but typically wore jeans and T-shirts.

  I assumed her mother had been to blame for her previous fancy outfits, but I’d never questioned Jenn to confirm nor deny this suspicion. This was because I never spoke to her except polite chitchat in passing. I’d just always assumed she and I had very little in common. Truthfully, when I’d heard Cletus and Jennifer were getting married, the union had confused me. The two couldn’t be more different.

  But something I’d once eavesdropped Cletus saying about his wife, years ago on a Sunday morning at my mother’s diner, came back to me.

  He’d said, “Astute woman is astute.” Which was Cletus Winston speak for saying a person is brilliant.

  Presently, the side of her mouth curved higher. “Roscoe told Cletus three weeks ago that he’d be staying in Nashville for the remainder of the spring, only coming back the first weekend in June.”

  I couldn’t stop the small sound that emerged from my throat, half alarm, half protest. “First weekend in June? But that’s another five weeks from now.”

  “He appeared to be in a state of severe agitation,” she added, turning back to the cake.

  My heart hurt.

  Another five weeks without seeing Roscoe? Unacceptable!

  Not to mention, the first weekend in June would be too late, lest I forget the—you know—minor issue of a serial killer on the loose who only claimed victims beginning in June.

  She pressed more coconut to the frosted cake, sighing. “And he’s only coming back in June because we’re all going to Italy once Jess and Duane have their baby. Roscoe’ll be coming home so we can all fly out together from Knoxville.”

  “Roscoe is leaving? In June?” I didn’t even try to disguise the crack in my voice. What was the point of hiding anything from her? Clearly, astute woman was astute.

  I stared at a spot beyond Jennifer unseeingly and realized my mouth had stopped watering. In fact, I was no longer hungry for anything, not even this decadent, singularity of a cake.

  He’s avoiding me again.

  The realization made my heart hurt anew. Here I was, missing him, longing for that asshole, daydreaming about him, and there he was in Nashville, avoiding me.

  AGAIN!

  “But, if you happen to know anyone going to Nashville . . .” she started, recapturing my attention as she tilted her head to the side, her gaze focused on the coconut. “Our dog, Pavlov, needs his yearly vaccines and a checkup.”

  Staring at Jennifer Winston, I huffed a small laugh of disbelief, uncertain what to say. I’d come here, looking for information on Roscoe, with a big master plan on how to pry it out of Jennifer without her realizing I was prying, and then she volunteers everything I need to know plus offers me her dog as an excuse to see him.

  Stepping back from her cake, she dusted her hands off on a towel. “There,” she said, turning to a shelf and pulling out a white cardstock rectangle. In less than five seconds, she’d turned it into a cake box. In another five, she’d placed the cake inside and sealed it up.

  Then and only then, she lifted her gaze to mine. “I used caramel, coconut, chocolate walnut icing—like the stuff used for German chocolate cake—instead of the meringue because it’s Roscoe’s favorite. I asked your daddy yesterday if you’d mind and he said you liked walnuts.”

  “You asked my father about whether I liked walnuts,” I stated, shaking my head, deciding I’d never be surprised by anything Jennifer Winston did or said ever again.

  Clearly, she was exactly like Cletus Winston, just with less facial hair and a sweeter—appearing—disposition.

  “That’s right.” She passed me the box as I stood from the stool, turned and walked to the back door. She opened it. “Come out this way. If there’s anyone in the lot out front, I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

  I stumbled after her reluctantly, frowning at her back, because she was confusing me. “But won’t they see me carrying the box? And what about the cake? Don’t I need to pay you?”

  “No charge for the cake,” she said, standing in the doorway after I walked past her to the back lot. “You’re taking my dog to the vet, right? So I’d say we’re even. I’ll text Cletus and say you’re coming by to pick up Pavlov. Oh! And you know your momma sometimes stocks my tarts in the spring. I’m hoping folks will just assume you came by for a box. In any case, I’d be real obliged if that’s the story you told should anyone see you leaving and ask.”

  I gaped at her. “You want me to lie?”

  She blinked at me, her eyes wide and innocent (appearing). “I could pack you some tarts, if you like.”

  I laughed again. “Oh good Lord.”

  She grinned, stepping forward hurriedly to give me a one-armed hug. “Be gentle with yourself, Simone. These Winston boys can try a saint’s patience.” Stepping back, her hand lingered on my arm and she tightened her fingers. “Don’t give him any more chances than you’d expect him to give you, whether that number is two or ten
or a hundred.”

  Sighing, I glanced at the box in my hands, and then back to her. “Then I guess I’m giving him a hundred and one chances.”

  Jennifer gave me a look of amused commiseration. “And after he uses all those, it’ll be another hundred and one. I feel ya there.”

  Laughing at that, I shook my head. My goodness, Jennifer Winston was the bomb dot com (to borrow my Aunt Dolly’s phrase). Anyone who knew this woman would be crazy to—

  Poor Isaac.

  A mild pang of sadness seized me and I swallowed it, glancing at the ground to hide the sudden melancholy. I mean, how badly must it suck for him? To have his awesome sister in the same town, to be alienated from her so completely without her ever knowing or understanding why.

  And how awful must it be for her? He was her only family, so close and yet so far. It must’ve been terrible, especially with people like me in town, misunderstanding from a distance and never caring to look closer.

  Thank goodness she has the Winstons.

  I was just going to have to seek her out more often, perhaps even thrust my friendship upon her, if she’d have me.

  Heck, maybe I’d request that she teach me how to bake cakes.

  No, no. That’s a bad idea. Remember your fitness test.

  “Seriously, though. Roscoe is so sweet. Solemn, serious, but a real sweetheart. You’re the only girl I’ve ever seen him with where he wasn’t putting on his flirty-face act, so you’ll have to forgive us for staring at y’all last month at Genie’s. It was such a shock. I hope things work out with you two.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Me too. “Thanks for the cake.”

  “Thanks for taking Pavlov to the vet.” She winked, waved, and shut the door.

  Blowing out a breath, I turned, a ball of lead in my stomach. Actually, it was more like searing hot lead, and I swallowed stiffly as I debated what to do next.

  I had cake.

  Now, presumably, Cletus would be waiting for me at his and Jenn’s house so I could pick up their dog and drive to Nashville. And then . . . what?