Game of Tarts

by Wendy Meadows

  He points to the alley between his own building and the Coffee Canteen. “Right over there. He dumped his discarded coffee grounds right there on the pavement and left them to rot. I’m warning you. Don’t go down there. The stench is unbearable. You can even smell it inside my shop. It makes the dogs wretch.”

  Zack and I exchange glances. “Wow. That’s bad. Did you complain to the authorities?”

  “You know me,” he chides. “I tried to do the gentlemanly thing by reasoning him first, but he wouldn’t listen. He just kept repeating that he knew his rights and he didn’t have to accommodate himself to anybody if he didn’t see any profit in it.”

  I shake my head, but in my mind, I’m replaying the scene I imagined yesterday morning. I can just picture Mr. Stewart going over to the Coffee Canteen first thing in the morning to “reason” with Scott. “That’s not very neighborly. Did he ever acknowledge the inconvenience all those trucks caused you by blocking your entrance?”

  “Oh, that! He acknowledged it, all right. He just kept placating me by saying they wouldn’t be here forever, and that once he got the place up and running, they would stop.”

  “I suppose that’s reasonable.”

  “Reasonable!” he bellows. “Is it reasonable that he should put a man out of business for his own selfish gain?”

  I don’t bother to remind him that Scott hardly put him out of business. I saw dogs in Mr. Stewart’s shop the very morning he came into the candy store to bellyache about that crane in front of his premises. The trucks might have caused a momentary disruption, but they never cost Mr. Stewart any real money.

  Zack and I skedaddle as fast as we can, but when we face the bakery, Zack cringes. “Do we really have to go over there? I don’t want to hear anybody bad-mouthing a dead man.”

  “I don’t, either,” I murmur. “Let’s go see Stacy first. She’ll buck up our spirits to face Alan Harris.”

  We turn our steps toward the Happy-Go-Lucky Café. It’s the perfect name for the place. Stacy is always so cheery and easily made more so. We waltz right in and find her at the front counter.

  Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees us. “Word is spreading like wildfire that you’re going around giving out free samples.” She rubs her hands over the tray. “I think I’ll preorder seven of these bad boys right now.”

  I hold up my hand, but she’s already pounced on a chocolate chicken and gnawed the feet off. “Slow down, girl. You’ll burst your buttons.” Stacy howls with delight and I hold out my flyers. “Would you mind putting some of these on your counter? We’re having a Sweet Sale.”

  “You’re darned tootin’ I will.” She seizes a stack of flyers and lays them out next to her register.

  Now that we’ve fulfilled our purpose in coming here, I take a moment to scan the café. “You’re certainly doing a roaring trade.”

  “Yepper,” she chirps. “Things have picked up again since the Coffee Canteen shut down. I saw a real dip in sales when that lout opened his doors, but now that he’s gone, it’s business as usual.”

  I spin around to stare at her. “Really? I thought you were welcoming of the new businesses.”

  “I am.” Stacy falters for an instant. “Okay, I’ll admit it annoyed me when he opened up. At first, I thought we should all live and let live, but then I noticed a real slump in my profits. I won’t say I was happy about the competition.”

  “What about the bakery?” I ask. “They must have given you some competition, too.”

  She nods. “You’re right. They did, but then I noticed Scott Freeman pulling some dirty tricks on me. Do you know he had the nerve to stand right out there in front of my café and try to steal my customers as they entered my door? He blocked their paths and told them his coffee tasted better and that they could get sandwiches and cake from his place.”

  “He didn’t!” I gasp.

  “He even changed the prices on my chalkboard out front. I watched him add a 1 in front of a special. I was offering a bread bowl of soup for $6, and he changed it to a 16. Can you believe anybody would be so underhanded?”

  “I can’t believe it, actually,” I remark. “Everybody thinks Scott was a decent businessman, but that’s sinking low.”

  “I’m telling you that guy was dirty,” Stacy fires back. “I don’t care how long he’d been in business or how much he made with his other franchises. Anybody who would stoop to pulling stunts like that would do anything. I bet he cooked the books on the side, too. He was crooked. You mark my words. It’s only a matter of time before the cops uncover what he was really up to.”

  “I agree with you, Stacy,” I tell her.

  She’s on a roll and not about to stop. “I could handle a little honest competition. Believe me, I wholeheartedly believe the customer should have a wide variety of choice and let the best business win. That’s what free enterprise is all about, you know. That’s why I had no beef with the bakery. I’ll be the first to admit their baked goods are better than mine. You want a donut or a chocolate eclair? You better go to them because I’m no good at that sort of thing. If you want a roast beef sandwich or a chicken-fried steak, though, I’m your girl.”

  I smile in relief. “I definitely will do that. We gotta go, Stacy. Thanks for the help.”

  Zack glances right and left outside. “Are you ready to face the firing squad?”

  I groan. “We can’t start thinking of Alan Harris like that. We don’t even know him. It could be all a misunderstanding.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” he remarks. “If Scott Freeman pulled half the stuff Stacy claims he did, the business owners in this town had a right to hate him. He could end up in prison for that.”

  “He won’t end up in prison for it because he’s dead,” I point out. “Whatever he did, didn’t earn him a dose of poison in his coffee. Come on. We’ll go visit Simone at the antique store before we see what Alan Harris has to say for himself.”

  We find Simone in her mausoleum of antiques. She sits behind a titanic roll-top desk polished to a gleaming finish. She has her store set up in quaint little vignettes of bygone charm. A fancy metal bedframe bedecked with a floral quilt and a thousand pillows, all ready for someone to lie down, stands near the desk. A cast-iron wood-burning stove perches not far away with the flue rising through the ceiling. The whole thing presents a picture out of a storybook.

  Not one crumb of dust mars the establishment. I pull my hands closer to my sides to avoid touching anything. I hold out the tray to Simone. “We’re having a Sweet Sale at the candy store. Would you like a free sample of chocolate?”

  She takes one without looking at the tray to see what she’s taking. She holds it between her bony forefinger and thumb and nibbles off a speck with her long, withered teeth. “Thank you, Margaret. I shall be sure to stop by and see what you have on offer.”

  Zack hands her a flyer. We now have no further reason to remain here. My instincts tell me to leave, but I stand rooted to the spot. “Have you heard that Scott Freeman was murdered?”

  “I did hear something to that effect.”

  “Not many people in town liked him,” I venture.

  Simone gives the most hideous chuckle. It rasps deep in her chest. It sounds more like a rusty motor trying to start than a human being laughing at something. “I’m sure the only people in this town who did not like him were those who stood to lose something in business.”

  “You’re right, Simone,” I reply, “and you’re not one of them, are you?”

  “Not at all,” she rumbles. “The more the merrier, I say. What difference does it make to me if there is one café on Main Street or three? They can squabble over the table scraps all they like.”

  “Someone said you were unhappy about the trucks and the construction noise over at the Coffee Canteen,” I remind her. “Is that true?”

  “Of course it’s true. Who would be happy about that? It doesn’t mean I wished the man dead.” Simone’s languid eyes drift toward the front window. “I will miss
the Coffee Canteen. They served my favorite type of coffee. No one else in town carries it. That’s a shame.”

  I scan the antiques. Who buys this stuff? I never see any customers going into or out of Simone’s shop. How does she stay in business? Rockshield doesn’t attract enough tourist traffic to support one antique shop, let alone more. There’s no one to compete with Simone, and there never will be.

  I cast a significant look at Zack and nod toward the door. We make good our departure and leave the antiques parlor behind us with its cadaverous owner still ensconced behind her desk. She’ll probably be found mummified there one day.

  Zack breathes a broken sigh on the pavement outside. “If I ever get to be like her, please shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

  I have to laugh. “You have my word so long as you do the same for me.”

  He passes a hand across his eyes. “I swear, Mom, you give me hope for getting older, but when I see someone like her, I just don’t think I can face it.”

  “You and me both, but at least she’s not the murderer. She’s the one person so far who has some reason to grieve over Scott’s death.”

  “One person in a town of hundreds isn’t a very good score,” he points out. “I pray to God I make a better impression on people in my lifetime.”

  I nod in agreement. It’s a sad legacy for a man to leave behind him. “Come on. Let’s go see Alan and get it over with.”

  9

  Long before we get near the entrance to the Baker’s Dozen, we hear voices shouting inside. I slow my steps the closer we get. I catch Zack glancing at me with wide eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t go in there.”

  I stop outside and peer through the windows, but I see nothing. I distinctly make out a man and a woman shouting back and forth. All the horrible things I’ve heard about Alan Harris come rushing back.

  Who is he yelling at—his employees, his suppliers? Whoever it is, I don’t want to deal with him. I want to run home to my candy store and hide.

  Just then, the female voice breaks off in laughter. Zack and I hold our breaths. Then the yelling starts up again. I brace myself and grab the door handle. “Come on. Let’s sort this out.”

  The minute we walk into the bakery, I realize the mistake we made. A man with a crewcut and bulging muscles under his camouflaged t-shirt stands behind the counter. A white apron covers his burly frame. He shouts over his shoulder, and a female voice answers him from the farthest rear reaches of the bakery.

  “Don’t forget the Foster wedding cake and hors d’oeuvres for Wednesday,” he bellows.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” the disembodied voice calls back. “She called again yesterday to change the recipe for the crab cakes.”

  “If she calls again,” the man thunders, “tell her we’re canceling the whole order.”

  “You can’t do that,” the woman replies. “We need the money.”

  “No amount of money is worth that hassle,” he yells. “Life is too short.”

  The woman laughs. “How many lemon meringue pies do you want this afternoon?”

  “You made seven yesterday, and they sold out by three o’clock,” the man calls. “You better make ten today.”

  “You got it, Sweetcheeks,” the woman replies.

  The man chuckles and nods to me and Zack. “Good morning. What can I get you today?”

  I extend my hand. “I’m Margaret Nichols. I own the candy store. You must be Alan Harris. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  He crushes my hand in a powerful grip. “Nothing good, I’m sure.” He points to the tray. “Are those for me?”

  I have to laugh at his sense of humor. “We’re handing out free samples to promote our Sweet Sale. Take one. Maybe your employee would like one, too.”

  He plucks a chocolate out of the tray. “She’s not my employee. She’s my wife, and she would love one.” He turns his head and roars at the top of his lungs. “The lady from the candy store is here handing out free samples of chocolate. You better come quick before I eat them all.” He cracks a wicked grin and lowers his voice to normal. “She’s a chocoholic. That will bring her running.”

  The next minute, a slight, bony woman with spiky, peroxide-bleached hair strides out of the back. She wipes her hands on a flour-dusted apron that covers Gothic black clothes. A bouquet of chains clusters around her throat and rattles from her wrists. Twenty earrings line each of her ears, and heavy dark eyeliner pencil gives her pale face a deathly appearance.

  She marches up to me. “How much for the whole tray?”

  I stutter in surprise. “Well, I…. you see, I wasn’t expecting…. I got these for the promotion, but I could order you some. I have another three trays back at the shop. If there are any left, I could sell you one of those after I do the costing out.”

  She grins and takes one of the chocolates. “Good deal. Let me know how much it costs.”

  “This is my wife, Sabrina,” Alan tells us. “She does all the baking for the business, and I run the admin stuff. It’s a match made in Heaven.”

  He drapes his arm around her shoulders, and they beam at us with matched grins. I can believe these two are joined at the hip, the way they yell back and forth to each other. They couldn’t be more different, but I sense a bond between them. They look happily married, considering.

  I think fast to come up with something to say. “I’m sorry I haven’t come over to introduce myself before. Welcome to Rockshield. I hope you do very well here.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” Sabrina replies. “I know not everyone in town feels the same way.”

  “I haven’t heard anything against you guys,” I point out. “No one can say a nice thing about Scott Freeman, though. I suppose you heard he was murdered the other day.”

  They exchange a significant glance and Sabrina turns away. Alan glowers at me under his heavy brows. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention that man to me.”

  “I know you had some issues with him,” I reply. “Just about every other proprietor on Main Street hated him for his hard-selling tactics and his cutthroat competitive style.”

  Alan grits his teeth and pulls his head down between his shoulders. “We opened three weeks before him. Then he has the audacity to open up right across the street. He could have built that place of his anywhere, but he had to throw it up right across the street from us. What do you think it did to my sales? Go on. Guess what it did to my sales. Guess how much my sales tanked when he set up shop.”

  I shrink before his hostility. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Seventy percent!” he thunders. “Can you believe that? A seventy percent dive in one week!”

  “I understand you’re angry about it….” I begin.

  “Angry about it!” he booms. “Angry about it is what I’m not. I’m furious about it. I’m fuming about it.”

  His wife Sabrina speaks up behind him. “Well, you don’t need to be anymore. He’s dead. The place is closed and it will probably never reopen.”

  He rounds on her with his hackles raised. “I can still be flaming mad at him even when he’s dead. That guy was a lout. He was the worst crust of slime on the dirty end of a hog’s intestine. That’s what he was.”

  My eyes widen at this display of vitriol against a dead man. Most people let their resentments drop when someone dies, but not Alan Harris. I find it hard to believe he could hate someone that much.

  Even so, he doesn’t strike me as the murderer, either. Somehow I just can’t imagine him sitting still in the same room with Scott and hiding his rage while Scott drank poisoned coffee.

  Sabrina shifts from one foot to the other, listening to her husband spout off. She keeps stealing peeks at me and Zack to gauge our reactions to Alan’s tirade. When Alan finishes blaring, I address my questions to her. “What about you, Sabrina? Were you mad at Scott for cutting in on your sales, too?”

  “Well, you know,” she stammers, “I don’t really get into the business side of things. I’m a baker,
not a financier. I know he cut into our profits, but I didn’t know him personally to form an opinion about him. I never laid eyes on the guy.”

  “You didn’t?” I ask. “You never saw him out in front of the Coffee Canteen handing out vouchers for free coffee? He was out there every day when he first opened up.”

  She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “That explains why I didn’t see him. I’m always in the back.”

  Alan interrupts. “Can I get you guys anything, or did you just come in here to wind me up?”

  I get the hint. “We’re handing out these flyers for our Sweet Sale. Would you mind putting some on your counter? It would really help us out.”

  “Fine. Why not?” He takes the flyers and stacks them on the counter next to the register. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  That’s our cue to disappear. “No, thank you. Have a good day. We’ll be seeing you around.”

  Zack and I beat it out the door. We don’t stop until we get back to the candy store.

  “What do you think of that?” Zack asks. “Who knew anybody could be so mad at another human being?”

  I look back over my shoulder toward the bakery. What is Alan and Sabrina doing in there right now? Are they going back to their shouted conversations across the bakery? I doubt it somehow.

  “I would bet,” I tell Zack, “that a seventy percent drop in sales revenue isn’t enough to make anybody THAT mad. There had to be something else that turned him against Scott.”

  “Like what?” Zack asks. “They can’t have known each other well enough in the time between when they moved to town and when Scott died.”

  “You’d be surprised. People can develop intense relationships quickly, and they can sour just as fast. You know the old saying. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  He frowns at me. “What does that have to do with Scott Freeman’s death? There is no woman scorned anywhere in this case.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d say the same is true for a man scorned. Something major went down between Scott and Alan Harris. I’d bet you any amount of money it had nothing to do with business.”