Promises: Star's Bakery (The Baker Girl Book 2)

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “I think so. Barely. I’ll monitor the expenses and run the daily receipts to the bank immediately after we close. So, ladies, let’s get cracking on those orders. Write up your lists for ingredients, supplies.”

  “The white boxes and bags for cakes and cookies—there should be enough for the orders,” Star said. “If we run out of the ones printed with Ty’s little baker girl and the name of the shop, we’ll have to make-do with plain white. Wait until after the holidays, check our finances before we order more.”

  “I disagree,” Wanda countered. “Hon, if you’re running low, let me know. Marketing is key, and a reminder to customers where the goodies came from when they carry out their purchases. Your logo and name is not a place to scrimp. The newspaper story, I’m sure they’ll run it … in fact, let’s take a look. I bought a copy when I picked up the coffee.” Wanda opened the newspaper, laying it on top of the binders.

  “Oh, my. Look, Gran. Superman’s bowing to a customer holding a bag of cookies.” Star looked up at Wanda, hope written across her face. The newspaper story should help bring in business. They had to be ready to fill the orders for Thanksgiving in four days.

  “Star dear, we can’t move yet.”

  “But, Gran, you can’t sleep any longer on that—”

  “I saw some bunk beds in the consignment shop down the street. That will get you off the futon and me off the mattress. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Gran. I think.”

  A shard of light bounced off the old Wurlitzer’s glass hitting Star in the eye. Grinning, she stepped quickly to the Wurly retrieving the coins from yesterday’s opening. “Would you look at this?” Grabbing a white cookie bag, she dumped in the coins. “Must be more than fifty.” Returning to the player she stuffed several coins in the slots punching selections. With Dolly Parton belting 9 to 5 from the movie soundtrack, filling the shop with the catchy tune, Star returned to the table. “Okay, Gran, we’ll buy the bunk beds. Now, let’s get going on our to-do lists for Wanda.”

  • • •

  “Hi, Ty. Money tight. U thoughts on selling Gran’s taffy online? S.”

  …

  “I’ll start bakery website. Fine tune it at Xmas. Miss you. T.”

  Chapter 7

  MANNY AND LIZ sat across the desk from the Daytona Beach Medical Examiner. Both PIs were dressed head to toe in black—their uniform. Liz thought her look quite stylish given her condition—black maternity trousers and a shirt with the dimensions of a pup tent.

  The ME and Manny were old friends. Liz was more of a casual acquaintance having met with him three times in her capacity as a private investigator.

  The Medical Examiner filled them in on what was known about John Doe, precious little, adding nothing more than what Detective Watson had told Manny over the phone. Time of death was determined to have been within an hour or two of when he was found by the patrolmen given the body’s state of rigor mortis.

  “Detective Watson asked us to try to identify the man,” Manny said leaning forward, right hand fingering his moustache.

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “Can we see the body?” Liz asked rubbing a muscle in her lower back.

  “And, we need to take a picture,” Manny added. “We also want to examine what he was wearing and anything else you found on him.”

  “Sure, come with me. The lab report on his blood, contents of his stomach, hasn’t shown up yet. There were several fatal accidents last night and a shooting at a bar. I guess that’s why Watson called you. An autopsy hasn’t been ordered. I’ll let you know when I get the lab report.”

  The private investigators followed the ME into the refrigerated vault—icy cold with a heavy odor of bleach. He pulled open the slot holding John Doe. Liz, her face scrunched in distaste, took a picture of the man, a close up of his head.

  Back in the examiner’s office they checked the container holding what John Doe last had on his person.

  “Wow! Very expensive clothes. Look at this, Manny,” Liz said showing him the label on the blazer. “Yohji Yamamoto. Have you heard of him?”

  “Can’t say as I have. Who is he? That jacket is something else.” Manny fingered the soft, silky fabric as Liz snapped several pictures of the clothing.

  “He, my dear husband, is a world-famous Japanese designer. Let me read you this label. ‘Khaki, navy and burgundy foulard-print cotton and linen blend.’ As you can see, it’s a classy single-breasted, three-button blazer.”

  “And you know all this because?”

  Liz sighed, shook her head in disbelief, then smiled. “I had a case, Japanese man. He wore a jacket similar to this. Foulard is a French word. A foulard fabric is usually a small printed design of various colors—handkerchiefs and neckties are made from this fabric. It’s a small-scale, tailored pattern with a basic block repeat.”

  “While it’s not my cup of tea, the small diamond pattern has, as you said, a tailored look. How much are you talking for a jacket like this? Do you have that in your pretty head?” Manny glanced at Liz grinning back at him.

  “Oh … about two grand.”

  Manny whistled. “Two-thousand dollars?”

  “Plus or minus a few hundred. Look, there’s a name sewn in the lining. Thomas Elliott.” Liz held the jacket open so Manny could see the name, and then snapped another picture. “We’re good, partner. We may have solved the case before we started.” Liz giggled along with a light smack on his cheek.

  The ME sat at his desk leafing through a few sheets of paper. “Heard you talking. Thomas Elliott? We missed that. As I said, it was a hectic night. With no wallet for a quick ID, they must have thrown his clothes in a bin and then went on to one of the accident fatalities. I did a search in the state’s telephone database while you took the pictures. There were several Elliotts. Here’s a printout of what I found. Phone numbers but no ages. You may have an easy one here … except for notifying his family, if he has a family.”

  “How old would you say John Doe was?” Manny asked.

  “It’s hard to tell. Weathered skin, but not overly so. Hair a light gray but not silver. Heck, Manny, I don’t know. Could be anywhere from mid-sixties to late seventies. You saw him. Where would you put him?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Okay, we’ll keep you posted. The officers who found him … I’ll give them a jingle. Talk to them. Visit where they found the body. Stitch, I’ll take you back to the office so you can start trying to find this Thomas Elliott.”

  “Ahh, offices. Big time private eyes,” the examiner said with a chuckle.

  “Two offices … adjoining,” Liz said, smiling sweetly as she glanced up at her lifetime partner. She got a kick when he used the nickname he gave her, calling her Stitch when they were working a case.

  “Home offices,” Manny said. “Come on, Stitch, we have work to do.”

  Chapter 8

  WALKING OUT OF the sterile morgue to the car, Liz shot a pensive look at her husband. “Not much at home for breakfast, or, I guess it’s lunchtime. I’m really hungry, Manny.”

  Manny held the car door for her. Satisfied that his wife was settled with her seatbelt, he slid in behind the wheel.

  “Luckily we have a loaf of sour dough bread from Star’s Bakery … that was fun yesterday wasn’t it?”

  “Sure was. Star and her grandmother looked so happy. They worked hard cleaning up the place, getting it ready for the opening. I saw it just after they signed the lease—great location on Atlantic Avenue, nice cozy size, but it needed some serious scouring. It was a bakery before. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. So the display cases were already there?”

  “Yup. Manny, I hope she can make a go of it. That hundred thousand won’t last long. Funny how things work out—Wanda working with them as office manager. I guess that’s what she’s doing. Having run the diner, she’ll be a huge help on the business end.”

  “When we get home, you take a little nap while I fix us some sandwiches.”

&nb
sp; “Okay, then we split up the list Fred gave us. What if John Doe, maybe Thomas Elliott from the name embroidered in the jacket, was just passing through? Not from Florida?” Liz asked glancing at her husband.

  “First things first. Nap, then the list. At least we have a place to start.”

  • • •

  REFRESHED FROM HER NAP, Liz joined Manny in the kitchen. Over a sandwich of ham and cheese on sour dough bread, dill pickles for Liz, mustard on both, they split up the list of names, one-hundred-seven in all.

  Sitting at their desks in adjoining offices, they both started punching in the numbers. Liz had fifty names, the balance were on the two sheets of paper in front of Manny.

  Thirty minutes passed. “Any luck, Stitch?”

  “No. Everyone present and accounted for so far. Glad it’s Sunday, I only had one call go to voicemail.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I think tea, thanks.”

  Standing, rubbing her back, Liz sat back down, and punched the next number.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, I’m a private investigator in Daytona Beach. I’m looking for a Thomas Elliott. I was given your number. By any chance is Mr. Elliott there?” Liz leaned back, laid her pen down, rubbed her lower back.

  “I’m sorry, he’s out. I’m Mrs. Elliott. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Mrs. Elliott, my name is Elizabeth Stitchway. I’m looking for a Thomas Elliott who owns a very distinctive blazer, a Yohji Yamamoto design.”

  Liz could hear Mrs. Elliott laugh. “Oh, my, for a minute I thought something had happened to my husband. He’s away on business. But to answer your question, my husband used to invest in Yamamoto menswear. He felt he had to play the part.”

  “Excuse me, play the part?”

  “Yes, Tom is a developer here in Miami. Actually up the west side of the state to Tampa, and up the east coast to Fort Lauderdale, and points in between.”

  “Could you describe your husband for me, Mrs. Elliott—you know height, weight, hair and eye color?”

  “Now, you’re scaring me again.”

  “No, no, I’m sure everything is okay. The description please?”

  “Well he’s fifty-two, tall—about six-one. Blue eyes, and sandy hair. Turning gray much to his chagrin.”

  “Mrs. Elliott, you said your husband used to wear Yamamoto clothing. Any chance he still has a blazer?”

  “Oh, no. All his Yamamoto went to Goodwill. I don’t know where. Our housekeeper lived in Orlando … maybe—”

  “Can you give me her name?”

  “Kathy Dalton.”

  “Does she still work for you?”

  “No. She moved to be near her children. Atlanta I think. Wait, she sent me a postcard. I have her address. Sorry, no telephone number.”

  Liz covered her phone’s mouthpiece. “Manny, Manny, come here.”

  “Ms. Stitchway, are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead.” Liz wrote the address on her legal-size pad of paper, read it back to Mrs. Elliott. “Thank you, Mrs. Elliott. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Ms. Stitchway, can you tell me why you’re looking for Tom?”

  “A body was found in Daytona Beach last night, near the Ferris wheel next to the boardwalk. We’re trying to identify the man. The only clue we have is that Thomas Elliott was embroidered in his jacket, a Yamamoto blazer. From the description you gave me of your husband, John Doe doesn’t match up. I’m sure John Doe is not your husband. If you have any information you think might be helpful, I’d appreciate your calling me.”

  “Well, it could have been Tom’s blazer. He liked to have his name somewhere on his clothes. Yamamoto is an expensive designer. Can you tell me the colors of the design?”

  “Yes—khaki, burgundy, and navy.”

  “Sure sounds like Tom’s blazer all right.”

  Liz gave Mrs. Elliott her cell number, said goodbye, and disconnected the call. Sipping her tea, she sat grinning up at Manny as she handed him her notes on the yellow pad.

  Taking back her notes, hitting Manny’s arm with the pad, Liz called information. The automated service gave her two numbers. One, a K. Dalton, the other a T. Dalton. Liz struck pay dirt with the first one. K. Dalton turned out to be a pleasant older lady who had worked for the Elliotts, and, yes, she remembered Mr. Elliott’s blazer. “Who could forget that jacket?” she quipped. Within a week after Mrs. Elliott had given her a bundle of clothes for Goodwill, K. Dalton dropped the lot off at Goodwill in Orlando, Curry Ford Road, around November of last year.

  Liz did a quick internet search for a Goodwill, Orlando, Curry Ford Road. With an eye on her monitor, she punched in the number, asked for the manager. At first the manager tried to brush her off, but when Liz said she was a private investigator the woman was more cooperative, scanning her records for November of the prior year.

  “Oh, yes. The Yamamoto blazer. Actually, I handled the sale. I remember because we were surprised—the other women and I. We were on duty together. The jacket was priced at fifty dollars. The man gave me five hundred. Very unusual. But things happen—donation to a charity.”

  A grin spread on Liz’s face as she glanced from Manny to her notepad, underlining fifty and five hundred.

  “Sorry, the customer’s name was not written in the journal.”

  The grin turned to a frown after she said goodbye to Goodwill Orlando.

  “Manny, darn it all, the jacket was a cash sale. But how could John Doe afford it? He didn’t look like he had that kind of money except his hands were smooth. He was not a laborer.”

  “You did good, Stitch. But it looks like we hit a dead end.”

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS MONDAY MORNING. Manny was in the kitchen trying not to wake Liz. Their pooches—Peaches, a black Lab mix, and Maggie, a Border collie mix, rescue dogs—were outside for their morning constitution and suddenly began barking. They had treed a cat. Inadvertently, they had also roused their mistress.

  Stretching, yawning, Liz padded into the kitchen, easing up on a stool at the island counter. Manny was ready with her coffee. Kissing her on the forehead under a wayward cluster of red curls, he retrieved his cell phone from his belt. Glancing at the display, he answered. “Detective Fred Watson, good morning to you.”

  “You’re in a chipper mood, Manny.”

  “Always, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  “The John Doe lab report just came in.”

  “And.”

  “And, we may have a murder on our hands. Remnants in his stomach showed what he had last ingested—steak, pumpkin of some kind, and arsenic.”

  “Oh, oh.”

  “Yeah, and his blood had a fairly high level of a barbiturate, like an antidepressant. He could have overdosed but with the arsenic … I don’t know. Being a John Doe we haven’t performed an autopsy. I’d like to hold off until he can be ID’d. Any luck on your end?”

  “Yes and no. Liz traced the jacket to the name sewn inside—Thomas Elliott. Mr. Elliott was out of town, but the misses said the jacket had been given to a housekeeper, who in turn dropped it off at an Orlando Goodwill. It was purchased in a period of days, last November, by a man who paid cash. Lots of cash. The jacket was priced at fifty dollars and the man paid five hundred telling the woman to keep the change. As I said … yes, we traced the jacket but then hit a dead end.”

  “The routine police report will show up in today’s paper—John Doe, date and time the body was found, and location. We’ll run it again and add a line asking the public for help, if anyone has information about John Doe to call the DBPD. I’ll include a description of him—approximate age, hair, and definitely the jacket.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you get any tips. Liz and I will follow up.”

  “Thanks, Manny. You wouldn’t believe how chaotic it is around here. Well, I guess you would know, retired captain that you are. Maybe I should try for early retirement.”

  Chapter 10

  BENNY LOVED HOW his life was
changing—a loner with no friends, then Charlie’s Diner where he started having his morning coffee, and now at Star’s Bakery. He missed the funny cartoon man, Tyler, but his favorite friend was Star. She never ceased to amaze him.

  Benny was orphaned as a baby, passed from one foster home to another. He never knew the details of his birth, never questioned or searched for answers. He was a good boy but withdrawn. The last three foster homes treated him kindly but when he completed high school he joined a traveling circus, said goodbye to his foster parents and never looked back.

  He performed whatever jobs the circus needed and, under the tutelage of the circus production manager, learned the tricks of the trade. A quick minded, strong lad, he soon became the production manager’s assistant. As years went by the circus became out of favor. However, the circus Benny was attached to was one of the few that survived, for awhile anyway.

  To attract an audience, high-wire acts became more and more daring. Benny, while strong, was slim of frame. Whenever the star of the show trained, whenever she performed, Benny could always be found watching the beautiful Mademoiselle Gigi through loving eyes. Gigi could feel his eyes on her, the eyes of a handsome man. He was different than the rest of the men in the circus who used trickery to get her alone in her trailer. One day Mademoiselle Gigi asked Benny if he would like to try the high wire. He asked his boss if he could train on the wire. He was granted permission so long as the time he spent with Gigi didn’t interfere with his duties.

  Benny was fearless, daring, pushing himself from simple tricks to more complex, from using a net to demanding it be removed. The boss liked the act. The audience held their breath as the young man dared ever riskier movements.

  His fate was sealed one night, a final performance on the fairgrounds in Jacksonville, Florida. It was a hot night, humidity soared, the crowd large looking for a diversion under the big tent where the trapeze acts performed. Benny fell that night rendering him partially paralyzed. He became wheelchair bound, only able to stand briefly to swing, pivot his body from a kitchen chair to his wheelchair, to move from the wheelchair to a chair in the shower.