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

by Mary Jane Forbes

  Burbank, California

  TYLER WAS WORKING under the gun. The first producer interested in his short-story film, The Little Baker Girl, had made some suggestions on how, in his opinion, the film could be improved. The producer liked the animation but asked for more emotion, more feeling from the baker girl.

  Tyler was amused. The man had no idea how hot Star’s feelings could run. Nonetheless, he embraced the suggestions and emailed the producer that he would have the changes back to him before Christmas. He added that he was going home for the holidays but was scheduled to return January first.

  Working at his apartment, Ty sat in his Superman pajamas hunched over his computer incorporating the modifications, adding more drama pinging around in his head. He was so engrossed that he knocked over his drink of fizzy water when a ping notified him he had an email. Catching the water, the heel of his bare foot began tapping the floor in anticipation, hoping the email was from Star.

  He clicked on the envelope and grinned. It wasn’t from Star but was from one of his favorite subjects—Elizabeth Stitchway, Private Eye. He pictured her with her red ringlets sparking as she fed coins into the bakery’s Wurlitzer, dancing to the music she selected.

  Ty drew a quick cartoon of the private eye sitting at her computer, concentrating as she searched for clues, then gleefully dancing when she found a saber, the blade cutting through the air. Leaning back in his chair he swiped at the lock of hair tickling his eyebrow.

  Rubbing his palms together, taking a swig of water, he read the message.

  “Hi, Tyler. Miss you, and I know a certain baker girl really misses you. Manny and I are doing a little background checking on the John Doe found the night of Star’s grand opening. I’m sure she mentioned it to you. Anyway, Manny and I were chatting. He thought it a good idea to send you a picture of Mr. Doe, who, by the way, has been identified as Mr. Dale Wainwright, Dallas oil man. Rich, rich, rich.

  Attached are three pics. One is his daughter Louise sent us. The second is a head shot … in the morgue (sorry, I couldn’t resist), and the third I snapped when Louise and her hubby were leaving the bakery. They had flown to Daytona Beach from Dallas to ID Mr. Doe. Benny is also in that picture.

  We’re looking forward to your Christmas visit. Liz Stitchway, PI”

  • • •

  “Hi, Liz. Christmas! No matter how often I look at the calendar, I can still only cross off one day at a time.

  Gross on the morgue pic, but yeah I did see the man in the pic you said his daughter sent. Nice looking. Very dapper. I noticed him because of his fancy duds. I saw him at the first bakeoff—you know Star’s competition. He was always standing in the back. I figured him to be one of the production big-wigs. I didn’t pay much attention to him—looking elsewhere as you might surmise. At the finale he sat in the back row of chairs but then moved to the back of the hall. I’ll check my drawings. I think I sketched him. He was very distinctive, but come to think of it never talked to anyone. Wait, maybe he talked to Benny. And I don’t remember that bozo Jim ever talking to him or standing next to him. Doe’s daughter and husband look sad, stressed—that order.

  Sorry, not much help. Looking forward to seeing you and that little Lizzie person. I just wish it was today. Tyler”

  Chapter 31

  Dallas, Texas

  THE PLANE LANDED at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, taxied to the gate. Passengers, ignoring the flight attendant’s instructions to remain buckled in their seats, began shuffling their personal items preparing to deplane.

  As Manny followed along with the crowd heading to Baggage Claim, he sent Liz a quick text that he was on his way to the funeral. Liz replied: “Have news. Ty saw Doe at bakeoff. Go figure!”

  Manny exited the terminal, hailing a cab to take him to the Wainwright service.

  The ceremony had started so no one noticed when Manny slipped in through the open doors. The greeter handed him the biography of the oil man and the order in which colleagues, friends, and family would give tribute to his memory.

  There was nothing small about Dale Wainwright’s funeral.

  Manny stood in the back, hands folded, head bowed in prayer. Looking up, he let his eyes rove over the three-hundred or so mourners sitting in the pews. As a whole, they looked dignified … respectful. Dale Wainwright had been cremated and the urn holding his remains was at the front, near the altar, on a small table draped with a cream-colored lace cloth. The oil-man’s picture wearing a beige Stetson was framed in gold, placed to the side of the urn. In front of the picture was a nicked, smudged, white hard hat. D. Wainwright printed across the front in bold black letters.

  The standing-room-only assemblage said much about the man. He was well liked, well respected, and in some cases probably feared as a relentless businessman and boss.

  Louise and her husband were seated in the first pew. A young Louise-look-alike was seated on the other side of Dr. Wainwright. Manny surmised she must be Louise’s daughter, Lou. And seated next to her was a man about her age, maybe the daughter’s husband.

  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious or noteworthy, Manny trained his eyes on the immediate family—mother and daughter and their husbands. The four knelt, prayed, sang the hymns in the order typed in the program.

  Then it was over.

  The internment was to be a private affair following the ceremony, following the exit of the mourners.

  Louise and her daughter were dressed in black—dresses, jackets, black wide-brimmed hats, dark sunglasses, no doubt hiding Louise’s red tear-stained eyes. They stood on the steps outside the church in the warm Dallas sunshine receiving hugs, blown kisses on their cheeks—everyone sorry for their loss. Manny exited the church, and along with the others was greeted by Louise who grasped hold of his arm.

  “Manny, thank you for the text that you were coming. This is my daughter Louise Weed. Her husband Thom is over … over there talking to Jude. Lou this is the investigator I told you about. Still not convinced it was suicide, Manny?” she whispered.

  Manny shrugged, cocked his head once to the side, said hello to Lou.

  “Manny, my father’s lawyer, Cliff Stanfield, asked us to come to his office tomorrow,” Louise said. “Seems he wants to read my father’s will as soon as possible. I’d like you to come. Here’s his card with the address.” Louise routed around in her shoulder bag, handed the card to Manny. “Eleven o’clock. You probably want to get back to Daytona Beach, but if—”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Manny nodded again to Lou and then sauntered off to a large tree, leaned back scrutinizing the family members.

  Louise and Lou remained on the church steps chatting quietly with each mourner. Jude Rattigan and Thom Weed stood in an animated conversation across the expanse of lawn. Jude, black suit, white shirt, loosened his tie. Thom, black suit, sunny yellow shirt, no tie, stood with hands on his hips. Manny took the opportunity to snap a picture with his cell of mother and daughter, and several of Jude and Thom—nose to nose.

  Manny was about to put his cell in his pocket when he received a text from Liz along with two attachments.

  “M. Ty sent a pic he had from bakeoff. Circled Doe. Pic 2 is a sketch. Note Doe’s face. Eyes on Star w fondness. Fondness? Luv U, me & little PI.”

  “Big PI, I will be back late tomorrow. L invited me to reading of will. Pics: Louise’s daughter & her husband, Thom Weed, & Jude. Please forward all to Star. More later. Kiss little PI for me. Luv, M.”

  Chapter 32

  CLIFF STANFIELD WASN’T looking forward to revealing to the family Dale Wainwright’s recent codicil to his will. Dale Wainwright, Cliff’s long-time friend and client, had executed the codicil two weeks prior to his death. Oh, it was legal—legally executed—but Cliff knew it would not sit well with Louise Wainwright and especially not with her husband.

  Louise had called to apprise him that besides the immediate family members, Manny Salinas would be attending. Mr. Salinas, she explained, was a
private investigator from Daytona Beach. Seemed there was still an unanswered question regarding arsenic in her father’s system.

  Cliff’s secretary pushed the intercom button to her boss’s office, informing him that the family had arrived along with a Mr. Salinas. Cliff told her to show them into the conference room, offer coffee, and he’d be with them in a few minutes. He released the intercom button, dragged his handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his brow. He dropped the damp cloth in his desk drawer, quickly replacing it with a fresh one from his jacket pocket.

  • • •

  STANFIELD’S OFFICE SUITE was sumptuous. Gleaming dark mahogany bookcases, filled with law books, lined the walls of several offices. Desks, tables, and chairs matched the rich mahogany, the cushions and backs of the chairs upholstered in a jacquard weave of maroon, navy, and slips of gold thread. Carpeting was a wine color with deep pile.

  The conference room was appointed the same as the rest of the suite with the exception that only one wall carried bookcases floor to ceiling, two others were adorned with oil paintings by local artists. The remaining side of the room featured a wide expanse of windows showcasing the city, breathtaking from the twentieth floor by day, covered with white silk by night. Indirect lighting throughout the suite provided a soft glow, table and desk lamps provided direct illumination for reading voluminous legal documents.

  The suite was a showcase of an established lawyer with wealthy clients.

  Louise helped herself to coffee, offered to pour a cup for her daughter. Lou declined. “Lou, did you know that your grandfather had cancer? That he only had a short time to live?”

  “No. Never said anything to me. Are you telling me you didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t. It came as a shock when Detective Watson told me.”

  “Well, I know two men who are probably not the least bit sad that grandfather is dead,” Lou whispered to her mother.

  “Lou, what an awful thing to say.”

  “Hey, it is what it is. Thom seemed relieved. He’s been pestering me for money of his own. I guess I could set something up with what Grandfather leaves to me. After all, Thom is the father of my baby.”

  “Lou, you’re pregnant? What wonderful news.” Louise wrapped her daughter in her arms.

  “Yup. You’re going to have a grandchild, mother.”

  “Finally, something happy, something to look forward to. That’s why you haven’t been yourself. When?”

  “The doctor confirmed it a few days ago. What with your flying to the east coast, grandfather’s dying, the funeral, I didn’t tell you. Then with all this will stuff … well as I said I probably should do more for Thom.”

  “Aside from what you said about Thom not being sad at your grandfather’s death, I don’t believe the same is true of Jude. As to money, I was considering doing something more for Jude. He’s been dropping hints lately that he’d like additional funds in his monthly deposit. We have a pre-nuptial agreement. It’s somewhat like what your grandfather urged you to execute before you and Thom were married. He didn’t want either of us to have a problem with the trusts he set up for you and me. Jude’s been good to me. I can’t complain. You’ve given me a nudge. I guess I’ll do something about upping his monthly sum … set up an account with stocks funds of his own. Excuse me, dear. I want to have a chat with Mr. Salinas, and, Lou, I’m thrilled you’re going to have a baby. We have to go shopping, fix up a nursery in that spare room of yours. A layette. Oh, sweetheart, it will be such fun.” Louise hugged her daughter again.

  A baby!

  Lou broke from her mother’s embrace, signaled she had to run to the bathroom.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Louise asked.

  “No. This squeamish feeling happens. I’ll be right back.” Lou turned, headed out of the conference room at a fast clip.

  Louise topped off her coffee, smiled at Manny gazing out at the spectacular view of the Dallas skyline. She walked across the room to speak to him.

  “Thank you for coming, Manny. Cliff was so insistent that we meet today, I thought as long as you were in town you might as well learn what my father was thinking before he died … first hand.”

  “The funeral was moving, Dr. Wainwright.”

  “Please, call me Louise.”

  “Your father had many friends … obviously well known, well respected.”

  “Yes on both counts. Even though we didn’t see much of each other … especially the last few years, I still miss him terribly. Wish he had confided, had let me help, but—”

  “It must have been quite a shock when you called the tip-line, saw his picture—”

  Louise shook her head. “Awful. I held out hope I was wrong … but when I saw him … in the morgue—”

  “He never reached out to you? Especially the days surrounding his death? His depression … you’d think he would have called you.”

  “I wish he had. But I was away. At a conference in Seattle.”

  “Ahh. Jude with you?”

  “No. He stayed in Texas. He’s very good about escorting me to social functions, but lectures, clinical stuff bores him.” Louise looked away to the door. “Finally, Cliff just came in. I’d like to get this over with. Excuse me, I have to find Lou. Let her know we’re ready to start.”

  Louise spoke to Cliff’s secretary who was laying folders at the head of the table. The secretary said a few words and Louise left the conference room.

  Jude, his leg not so bad today, sauntered up to Manny, stood beside him, both men staring out the window. Jude rocked on his toes, spoke under his breath. “Mr. Salinas, I don’t know why you felt you had to come to Dallas but I do know you’re upsetting my wife. Her father’s death, all the arrangements have been very trying. Mr. Salinas, please leave after this little conference, return to Florida, and stop badgering my wife.”

  Jude’s tone of voice surprised Manny. He turned to reply to his accusation that he was badgering Louise, but Jude had taken a seat next to his wife, as she and their daughter had returned and were seated facing each other across the table. Manny took a seat against the wall watching the two couples—Lou and Thom Weed sitting across from Louise and Jude. Clifford Stanfield sat at the end, separating the pairs. Later, Manny described the scene to Liz saying it looked like a fighter’s ring with the lawyer the referee, ready to separate the couples if needed. Except the lawyer was a small nervous man, and would probably have been trampled by the fighters.

  Turned out Stanfield knew something the rest didn’t and was anticipating trouble.

  Clifford shuffled the folders in front of him, removed a few sheets from one, setting the papers on top. “Thank you for coming, Louise, Jude, Lou, Thom, and Mr. Salinas … at Louise’s invitation.” Cliff nodded to each in turn as he said their names, again wiping his brow.

  “Dale Wainwright’s last will and testament is straight forward, his directives short, clearly stated. Other than Louise, there is a list of people he bequeathed various sums of money to—most in the range of five thousand to ten thousand dollars. The various charities are to be managed by Louise Wainwright, named as the executor of his estate. I am named as the manager of the estate and to carry out Louise’s wishes on an ongoing basis—sums of money to various charities, until the time she hires a manager or continues to retain my services.”

  Stanfield looked over his glasses at Louise, smiled, and sipped a glass of water his secretary had placed on the table beside the folders. “If any of you wish to see this list, my secretary will run off a copy. Louise, you will have a copy of everything we discuss at the end of the reading of the will. The original document will be retained in my office but you are welcome to examine it,” Stanfield added, again looking at Louise.

  “As I’ve already stated, Louise Wainwright, daughter of Dale Wainwright, has been named the executor of his will.” Stanfield took another sip of water. Paused. Swallowed.

  “Louise Wainwright is to receive twenty-five percent of the estate. Fifty percent of
the total estate is to be setup in trust and administered by Louse Wainwright for the sole purpose of continuing to fund various charities, all of the charities are at her discretion—funds added to or removed from the list of donations at Louse Wainwright’s sole discretion. The remaining twenty-five percent is to be used as venture capital, under Louise Wainwright’s direction. Venture capital for startup oil and gas exploration, especially those companies utilizing cutting edge technology, companies that find it difficult to attract funding for their projects.”

  “What about me?” Lou snapped. “Aren’t I mentioned?”

  “You have the Trust your grandfather set up for you, Lou.”

  Thom jumped up. “There must be some mistake. The old man didn’t even remember his granddaughter?”

  “The Trust is quite large, Mr. Weed.”

  Jude’s face tightened, fists balled in his lap. It was known to everyone, with the exception of his wife, that he despised Dale Wainwright. Blamed him for almost losing his life, almost losing his leg trying to placate her father so he would bless their marriage. As it was he ended up almost crippled refusing long operations that might have made him whole but still iffy at best. He opted instead for government disability insurance through the old man’s oil company.

  Thom left the table, strode to the windows. Everyone’s eyes followed him except Stanfield’s. Thom, breathing rapid, deep, calming himself in front of the others, returned to the table.

  Stanfield reordered the folders and continued.

  “Louise, your father left a personal letter for you,” Cliff said, fumbling in the top folder, retrieving a sealed envelope, handing it to Louise.

  Everyone sat silently as Louise slit the envelope open, her hands shaking as she spread the sheet of her father’s personal stationery on the table, her eyes drinking in his words penned in his familiar handwriting.

  • • •

  My dear Louise, my dear dear daughter,