I don’t know what that means.
Why are men so frustrating?
An hour later I’m still banging around pots and pans with more force than necessary. There’s no one around to hear my ruckus and it makes me feel better, so I don’t plan to end the practice anytime soon. The alarm on the back door pings and I tense waiting for it open, but Tabitha sticks her head around the edge.
“Can you believe that man?” she says stabbing in the numbers of the alarm to silence it.
I drop the bowl of frosting I was mixing. “No, isn’t it ridiculous?”
Tabitha takes off her light fleece jacket and throws it over the coat rack I keep in the back corner. Even in the middle of summer it gets chilly so early in the morning.
“I don’t know if I should find it cute or throttle him when he is sleeping.”
“I know.”
She stops walking halfway to the prep table, her eyes narrowed. “Who are you talking about?”
“Bennett, obviously. Wait, who are you talking about?” Picking back up my bowl I start mixing again.
She jerks her hands up in the air. “Ridge! Do you know he has cameras in The Loft?”
I stir harder. “Yeah, I figured it out.”
“The man needs help. I’m going to go flip the sign to Open.” She walks through the swinging kitchen door so hard it flies into the wall making me cringe. I can’t blame her, though, I’m upset too. It’s like whatever they put in the water made the men taller and hotter… and overbearing. There’s always a tradeoff.
I worked damn hard to get where I am. I picked up and left my hometown and moved literally all the way across the country to run my own bakery. To follow my dreams. And now, he thinks because we’ve had sex once or twice I’m supposed to be like all, “Oh Bennett, save me please.” I don’t think so.
I frost the last of the cream-filled chocolate éclairs and walk the tray out to Tabitha. She can’t cook for anything, but the woman has a knack for making them look pretty in the case.
I hand her individual éclairs while she stacks them up in the display. Sunday mornings are always a little slow at the bakery. Most of Pelican Bay spends their morning either in bed or at church. There isn’t anyone walking to work or security guys headed out to do whatever they do with the criminals. Even the bikers who have taken to stopping in once a day are sleeping it off at seven o’clock Sunday morning. It leaves us with a lot of quiet time, but enough random sales here and there to make it worthwhile to stay open.
Since we don’t sell as much, it makes getting ready for the day easier. I leave Tabitha up front and prep a few sandwiches for the lunch rush. Which again isn’t much. The two of us have set into a little routine of her working the front and me in the back cooking unless someone needs a special item or she gets backed up.
Except this morning she doesn’t follow the routine. Instead Tabitha walks with me right back into the kitchen. It’s not like she left anyone out there so it’s not important. Plus, we have men to complain about. They take precedence.
“Why are the cute ones always so frustrating?” she asks leaning on the prep table.
“I don’t know. I think the least they could do is put on their uniforms and walk around for us.” An annoying hot guy in a military uniform would be better than an annoying man in a T-shirt.
Tabitha sighs. “That would be nice.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask matching her stance.
“Of course. I only want to hear secrets.”
I lean in a little closer.
“I’ve always had a thing for marines. The dark jackets. Those snazzy bright buttons.”
“Did you describe a military uniform as snazzy?” she laughs around asking.
“You don’t think so? Those nice neat lines and colors that pop.”
She laughs outright. “Well don’t tell Bennett or Ridge you have an attachment to shiny buttons. They’re all sensitive about which is the best branch of the military.”
The security alarm on the back door beeps alive. I jump away from the table as the door swings open.
“I’m sorry!” Tabitha yells over the sound. She runs at the alarm and taps in the code. When it’s quiet again she says, “Ridge made a fuss about making sure the alarm is set all the time and the sound up just in case.”
Katy steps away from the door. “What the hell?”
She unloads all the packages in her arms, setting each item on the prep table I finished sanitizing only minutes ago. There’s an oversized bottle of white wine and a twelve-count box of the white sugar cookies with the super cute frosting that are sold in pretty much every grocery store in America.
“It’s a little early for wine, isn’t it?” I asked lifting each item, sanitizing under it, and then moving them to the corner.
“Pierce stopped by last night!” she answers and breaks the seal on the cookies, struggling with the plastic label.
I stop wiping off the table and watch her movements. “Did you bring store-bought sugar cookies into my bakery?”
Her movements skirt to a stop, one cookie halfway to her mouth as she looks around in the kitchen like she’s just now realizing where she is. “I wasn’t thinking straight, okay? Plus, they’re really good cookies.”
I shrug in agreement. She makes a good point. They’re mass produced. You can buy them everywhere, yet they’re delicious. Sold from some bakery based in Michigan, I swear they have to use magic or fairy dust or some other crazy ingredient to make them stay fresh and soft so long.
“You’re forgiven,” I say taking a cookie from the box.
“You didn’t listen. Pierce came over last night. He accused me of trying to sabotage his businesses.” She bites off half the cookie, a few crumbs falling on her pink long sleeve shirt and my table.
“His businesses?” Tabitha asks.
“Yeah,” Katy says around her bite of cookie. “He’s part owner in the bar! Can you believe it? I’m so sick of men.”
“Me too.” I take another bite of cookie, shaking my head.
“Me too.” Tabitha takes a third cookie from the box and leans up against the table with her hip. “I’m so tired of the pissing contest. Who has the most cameras? Who makes the most money? Who cares, right?”
To keep myself busy so I don’t eat the entire container of cookies, I dump all the dough I’ve been letting rise for the last hour and start kneading it. “And how they act like we can’t do anything on our own.” I slam my fist into the dough and flip it over.
“You move to Maine and they’re all a bunch of grunting lumberjacks. It’s like there’s testosterone flowing through the water.” Tabitha grabs a meat tenderizer — that is definitely not meant for use on dough, but I don’t have the heart to stop her. She pounds a small section of my ball leaving divots.
“You think you have it bad. I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s been going on since kindergarten,” Katy adds, taking another bite of cookie.
“We need to show them we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves,” I say, flipping the dough again. A little cloud of flour fluffs up around the edges.
The room grows silent as we ponder the suggestion.
Katy is the first to talk. “I have a plan.” Excitement bubbles up around her words.
“Shhhhh.” Tabitha waves her hands in front of her. “We need to make sure they can’t hear us. Turn the radio on.”
“The cameras are all at the exits. They can’t hear us,” I promise her.
She lifts an eyebrow in my direction. “After last night you’re sure about that?”
Maybe not.
I keep a small boom box in the kitchen for those early mornings and late nights when I’m here alone. I like to listen and bake. Twisting the volume button to the far right, I crank up the today’s top hits channel I prefer.
We stand around, looking at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move.
“Don’t look suspicious. If Ridge does have a camera we have to act supe
r busy.”
I rip off two oversized chunks of dough and toss one to each of them.
“Okay, it’s simple.” Katy leans over the table looking mighty conspiratorial. “This Frankie guy never got his money, right?”
“Damn it, the money.” I’d forgotten all about it.
Again.
How is that even possible? There’s something wrong with me.
After this is over I need therapy or something because at no point in time should a person’s life be so busy they routinely forget about the twenty thousand dollars they have stashed in their kitchen.
My prep table is made from three deep cupboards all around the bottom. Large stainless steel doors slide open and closed to hide the mess of crap I’ve stuck down there. It’s a great area to store stuff. Like pots and pans… not thousands of dollars.
The cupboards are deep and dark. My arms are barely long enough to reach, so I stick my upper body into the opening and feel around the roughly stacked items. At the very back of the cupboard, hidden behind all my Wilton holiday baking pans, I locate the two stacks of money that have caused all this trouble.
They’re two tightly wrapped bundles of cash, not heavy enough to make you think they were twenty thousand dollars. But when I pull them out into the light, they’re clearly wrapped with $10,000 bank papers around their middles.
I toss them on the table, not wanting to touch something that caused so many problems, and then I scowl at them for good measure. But before I’m able to really give them a good glaring at, Tabitha covers the money with an empty pink mixing bowl.
She shrugs. “Just being safe.”
“How did they forget you have this?” Katy points at the bowl and then promptly moves her hands to look like she was concerned about the freezer.
“Probably the gunfight at the O.K. Corral last night.” Tabitha flips her batch of dough over and sticks the base of her palm into the ball smashing it down. “Everyone kneed your dough. Act natural.”
“Yes, because on Sunday mornings we always get together and slap dough around at Anessa’s bakery. This is real natural.” Katy rolls her eyes, but eventually picks up her ball and drops it on the table.
“Back to my plan.” Katy claps her hands together twice making me think she’s way too excited over what we’re dealing with. “This is all because Frankie wants his money, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then the answer is simple. We give him the money.”
Three pairs of eyes lock point on the upside down mixing bowl. My lips press into a straight line with doubt to fill the room.
“What?” Katy asks. “It’s a great plan.”
“How do we find him? Last I checked there wasn’t a listing for mob in the Yellow Pages.” Tabitha flops her dough over, pieces of it sticking to the metal.
“Last I checked there wasn’t even a phone book anymore. Do they still print those?” I toss some flour across the table, covering her spot so she can stop making a mess while she mutilates what should have been dough for a batch of dinner rolls.
“Guys,” Katy says not at all perturbed. “It’s the modern world. We use the Internet.”
I suck in air and stand up straighter, excited by one particular memory from last night. “We don’t need the Internet.” Reaching in my back pocket I pull out the simple business card. It’s white with an embossed name on the front and a simple cell phone number below.
The business card for Frankie Zanetti.
I slap it on the table with a heavy palm. It’s wasted as the thump is lost in the loud music. Katy’s idea started out flat, but it’s fast becoming a little more possible.
Maybe we can do this after all.
Katy wastes no time reaching over and snatching the card off the table. “Frankie has business cards? Where did you get this, you sassy whore?”
“He gave it to me,” I say and then quickly reconsider my statement when I notice two sets of wide eyes staring in my direction. “Not Frankie. Someone who works for Frankie. Last night.”
“You didn’t say anything. Did you tell the cops?” Katy finally takes in the pile of flour I left at her spot on the table and spreads it around her area.
I shake my head and do a half shrug. “I forgot, and it’s a good thing because now we have his number.”
“So, we’re going to go along with this crazy idea?” Tabitha asks while shaking her head no slowly.
She has a small reason to be worried. There are some holes, but so far it’s the best one we have.
Katy waves her hand around excitedly not giving Tabitha any attention. “Okay, we need to be smart about this. Make a plan. You.” She points to me. “Call Frankie and tell him to meet you somewhere public. And make sure to tell him to come alone.”
“That never works in the movies.” Tabitha tosses her dough on the table, half the flour exploding into the air.
“This isn’t a movie, Tabitha. Of course it will work.” Katy rolls her eyes. “We need protection. Does anyone have a gun?”
Are all people from Maine crazy? “No!” Let’s hope Ridge really doesn’t have a camera trained on the kitchen area because my current look of shock would certainly give away that something is going down.
“I have a shotgun,” Katy answers.
“Yeah, that’s real inconspicuous.” Tabitha shakes her head like she’s losing faith in this whole plan. If she had any to begin with.
“Pepper spray! I have some in my purse.”
Amid my mother’s ongoing threats I’d never make it on my own in Maine and her continued reminder she and my father would bail me out if I lost it all, she did do one good thing. She made me promise to buy pepper spray. I imagine it’s mainly because she pictures people who live in Maine as a bunch of degenerates who wander around in old Civil War uniforms.
Don’t laugh. My theory is proven every time she calls and asks if I’ve attended any reenactments.
Actually, come to think of it, Pearl did promise they have a fairly large Civil War battle reenactment happening at the Fourth of July Festival in a few days. I definitely won’t be sending home pictures from that town gathering.
Pepper spray or not, I don’t think I can call a mob boss. “Why do I have to call Frankie? This is your plan, Katy. You should call him.”
“Me?” she asks, her hand on her chest. “He’s probably some slimy old guy and besides it’s you he’s after. He didn’t leave me his phone number.”
“So what are we going to do?” Maybe if she runs through it one more time I’ll feel better.
“See, Tabitha, Anessa is on board.”
I’m not sure I’d consider me on board with this whole plan of hers, but I haven’t come up with anything better, so I don’t object.
Katy eyes Tabitha. “Anessa will call the old scary guy now,” she says like it’s the most obvious answer.
Now? I guess there’s no time like the present.
My phone lays silently on the edge of the prep table. It’s one of the new sleek designs that hasn’t done me a ton of good since I moved to Pelican Bay with the spotty service. But it’s force of habit to keep it with me at all times. Sometimes I have a need to crush some candy during a slow period.
It’s a tiny little technological device, but when I pick it up, the thin rectangle feels substantial.
My tummy curls with nerves. Bennett would not like me doing this. Although with the thought of his name my lips pucker in anger. I should do it to spite Bennett.
Okay. Deep breath. I can do this.
“Oh my gosh, Anessa.” Katy stomps over to my side. She grabs the business card from the table and punches in the numbers. A quick “here” before she shoves the phone back in my hand.
The phone rings. “It’s ringing.”
Holy shit, it’s ringing! What was I thinking? This is my dumbest idea ever.
I’m about to hang up the call and throw the entire phone away when the ringing stops.
“Anessa Curtis, I’m so glad to hear from you. I’ve be
en waiting until the day we could talk.” His voice is smooth and steady. There’s no gun fire in the background or people screaming.
“Um… Hey. How do you know my name?”
He chuckles, a deep baritone sound. Not at all what I expected from the mobster—the kingpin mobster at that. It doesn’t sound like he’s a smoker at all and definitely under the age of seventy.
“I make it a priority to know the facts about people who interest me.”
“I interest you?”
He chuckles again. “Yes, my dear, you interest me greatly.”
That can’t be good.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A bird flies over my head. At least I hope it’s a bird and not a bat or some other crazy Maine creature. Don’t they have chupacabras here? Or is it Bigfoot?
Oh my God.
What if it’s both?
Or worse, some weird combination between the two. Like if Bigfoot fell in love with the chupacabra and had a baby.
Chupafoot.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but stop freaking yourself out!” Katy yells from her hiding spot inside the little church on the north side of Pelican Bay.
Sunday morning this place sounded like a great location for a public meeting with a mobster. It’s bright, sunny, there’s churchgoers. Tuesday night at eleven pm when the entire town is deserted, it doesn’t feel like such a great idea anymore.
Frankie insisted on meeting me himself and because he was out of town for two days, we had to push back our meeting until now. This was the first time he was available. Otherwise I never would have agreed to it.
I still shouldn’t have agreed to it.
The spotlight on the lighthouse circles, casting weird shadows against the trees and old crumbling gravestones next to the church.
Worst idea ever.
At least Katy and Tabatha are hiding out in the church in case anything goes wrong. I may have told Frankie to come alone, but that didn’t mean I planned to. He’s a pretty bad negotiator for a mob boss.
FUTURE RISK Page 13