Eclair and present dange.., p.4
Éclair and Present Danger, page 4
“So you really did find a real live dead body?”
“I think that’s a contradictory sentence, Renee, but in the spirit of moving things along—yes.” Winnie leaned back against the closest stretch of wall she could find and rubbed at the headache she felt building behind her temples. “It appears he was murdered. Which explains the crime scene tape you referenced on the phone.”
“It’s a dangerous world out there, Miss Ballentine,” Mr. Nelson mused. Then, cocking his head toward his open doorway, he offered a ready-made solution to Winnie’s internal how-to-get-upstairs-alone-without-hurting-his-feelings dilemma. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave you two gals to your own devices for a little while. That cute little weather anchor on Channel Five is about to smile out at me from my TV, and I don’t want to miss that.”
In a flash, Mr. Nelson was gone, a stunned and somewhat dejected-looking Renee staring at the spot where he’d once stood. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been cast aside for a female who studies clouds all day?”
“There could be far worse fates, I’m sure.” Winnie removed her fingertips from her temple and motioned Renee to follow her up the steps and into her apartment. “Besides, you already have a man—one that’s six plus decades younger, worships the ground you walk on, and doesn’t need batteries in order to hear you.”
“Semantics.” Renee stopped halfway into the living room and stared. “Whoa. What happened here?”
Plucking one of the semi-warm to-go cups from Renee’s hand, Winnie took a sip. “I told you. I’ve been up all night.”
“Most people, in the throes of depression, merely sit on their bed and cry . . . or take up residency in front of the television watching infomercials until the wee hours of the morning. But you? You trash the joint.”
Slowly, Winnie looked around, her gaze falling on the crumpled balls of paper that fell shy of the wastebasket, as well as the intact sheets covered with lists and doodles that covered just about every available surface in sight. “I was thinking.”
“Thinking?” Renee parroted. “Why couldn’t you think like this at the bakery when my shift was over and your incessant neatness made it so I couldn’t use cleaning as an excuse to stay?”
“Sorry.”
She watched her friend veer into the kitchen, lift a piece of loose leaf off the table, and turn it so Winnie could see the series of rectangular shapes she’d drawn at some point during the night. “What are these?”
“Pillows.”
Renee looked back at the paper. “Pillows? Why? Are you thinking about getting into the bedding business now?”
Snapping off the lid of her drink, Winnie stared inside at the liquid that was no longer steaming. If it was, she would have added a touch more milk. And maybe a little sugar . . .
“Winnie?”
She shook herself back into the conversation and the question she was expected to answer. “Bart was suffocated to death with a pillow. I guess it went through my mind at some point during the night.”
Renee shot her right index finger into the air in a request for silence. “Wait. Where’s the cat?”
“Cat?”
“Yes. Lovey. The one you inherited from Gertie yesterday, remember?” Renee’s hand drifted back to her side. “Oh God. Please tell me you haven’t gone all saltshaker on the poor thing already . . .”
“Of course not! She’s next door with my neighbor! I left her there last night after Bridget said . . .” Her sentence fell away as, once again, Winnie found herself transported back to the exact moment inspiration hit.
Now, six sleepless hours later, that same inspiration was mixing it up with equal parts self-doubt.
She, of all people, knew just how hard it was to get a new business off the ground. Did she really want to try and do it again? Especially now that—
“‘It’s Okay, Don’t Scream Puffs’?”
The sound of Renee’s voice, coupled with its background accompaniment of shifting papers, broke through her pity party and brought her back into the present.
“‘Down in the Dumps Cake’? What is this, Winnie?”
Setting her coffee cup down on the closest surface she could find, Winnie rescued the paper from Renee’s hand and studied the half dozen or so cockamamie thoughts that had come to her at various points throughout the night. “It’s . . . it’s just an idea I’m working on, that’s all.”
“Oh?”
To tell or not to tell, that was the question . . .
Fortunately for Winnie and her dilemma, Renee had the attention span of a flea and was already on to a slightly smaller sheet of lined paper and another, far different question. “So? Are you going to call him or what?”
“Him?”
“Master Sergeant Hottie,” Renee said, waving the hastily scrawled phone number in the air. “I mean, c’mon, Winnie. The guy is gorgeous. Though, if you do call, you have to let me do something with your hair . . . and your makeup . . . and—wait! Isn’t that the same shirt you were wearing yesterday?”
She took in the powder blue top she’d donned the previous morning in the hope it would bring good luck at the attorney’s office and shrugged. “I told you. I was up all night.”
“Okay, get some sleep first and then call. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Again, she returned her focus to the list still clutched in her hand and lowered herself down to the same chair she’d inhabited up until Renee’s call. So much of her night had been spent jotting down ideas, yet now that she had some, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was grasping at straws.
“Winnie?”
She lowered the paper to her lap and peered up at her friend. “I don’t think I’m going to call him. I mean, if I give this”—she gestured toward the various notes—“more thought and it isn’t feasible, I can always sell, but if it is feasible, it could put me back in the driver’s seat. Literally and figuratively.”
“You lost me,” Renee said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Being in the driver’s seat with a guy is a good idea. Provided, of course, he doesn’t realize you’re steering. Ignorance is bliss, if you get my drift.”
Her mouth gaped, closed, and then gaped again as Renee continued to go off on a tangent far different than the one firing away in Winnie’s head. “But, either way, I don’t get why you’re saying you won’t call him. It’s not like you travel in the same circles and can just assume you’ll bump into him. Then again, if one of your neighbors happens to fall and you have to call 911 for ambulatory assistance, maybe you could see him then . . .”
The headache was back, and this time, instead of trying to knead the pain away, she vacated her chair in favor of the cabinet above the sink where she housed her over-the-counter pain medicine. Two pills and a glass of water later, she was ready to set Renee straight.
“I’m not going to call Master Sergeant Hottie—I mean, Greg—because I’m not going to sell the ambulance. I’m going to keep it.”
“Keep it?” Renee echoed. “What? Why? Are you nuts?”
“No . . . Maybe . . . Okay, yeah. But I think this is worth a shot—for me, and for you. If we can make it work, that is.”
“Sleep deprivation really messes you up, you know that?”
She laughed. “It does. But if it keeps me baking, and you from climbing the walls while Ty is otherwise occupied at school, then I think it’s worth a shot, don’t you?”
“Keeps you baking? And me . . .” Renee fairly ran around the kitchen table to meet Winnie next to the sink. “Did you figure something out about the bakery?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? What does that mean?”
She took a deep breath and slowly released it along with the idea that had made it impossible to sleep. “We’re taking the bakery on the road, Renee. With Gertie’s ambulance.”
If a mirror were nearby, she might have actually checked to see if she had grown the second head Renee’s expression indicated, but since there wasn’t, she jumped into the deep end of the pool and hoped for the best.
“And we’re calling ourselves the Emergency Dessert Squad.”
Chapter 5
Pinching her fingers together, Winnie tonged the sixth and final piece of bacon from the sizzling grease and transferred it to the serving plate.
“Don’t forget women in the throes of menopause! They like dessert!”
She turned off the oven, grabbed hold of the plate, and carried it across the tiny kitchen to the still paper-strewn table. “Okay . . .”
“You know, something to tame the mood or soothe the hot flash—that sorta thing.” Renee stopped nibbling on the end of her pen and, instead, helped herself to a slice of sustenance. “Mmmm. Yes! Bacon.”
“It’s the least I could do after making you listen to my sleep-deprived ramblings for the past hour.” Shoving a haphazard pile of papers to the side, Winnie set the plate down between them and reached for the crispiest piece, her mind already at work on Renee’s suggestion. “Moods. We could change the word mood to moon . . . as in a moon pie of some sort. Or—” She stopped, mid-bite, and shook the remaining half piece of bacon at her friend. “I got it! Hot Flash Fudge Sundae! And we’ll top the homemade sauce with a variety of chocolate bits—dark, milk, white. Whatever the customer prefers.”
Renee’s wide mouth flapped open. “Wow. You’re really good at this name thing.”
“You wouldn’t have said that if you’d heard the things I was coming up with between the hours of four and five A.M.,” she joked. “You Deserve Batter Cake was the one that finally convinced me it was time to darken up the coffee.”
“Maybe, but You’re a Peach Pie is adorable! I love that one. And Down in the Dumps Cake is a pretty creative way to get one of our customers’ favorites back on the menu.” Renee stood, took another piece of bacon, and wandered over to the window that looked down on Serenity Lane. “So, uhhh . . . how awful was it?”
Winnie looked up from her notes and studied the back of her friend’s pixie-style haircut, its wash-and-go ease lost on a woman who believed preening was akin to breathing. “I’m not a huge fan of black coffee, but it was necessary.”
“I mean about finding a dead body.” Renee leaned her forehead against the glass. “That’s like one of my worst nightmares in the event I’ve never mentioned it before.”
Suddenly, the lightness she’d managed to capture over the past few hours was gone, in its place a sense of foreboding she simply wasn’t ready to give in to quite yet. “I thought your worst nightmares tended to be about at-home birthday parties with twenty of Ty’s closest friends.”
“When his friends are ten years old? Yes. When they’re twenty-five and all muscled out? Not so much.”
“When they’re twenty-five, you’ll be fifty,” Winnie reminded.
“And your point?”
She pushed back her own chair and came to stand beside her friend. Draping her arm around Renee’s back, she pulled the woman in for a side hug. “Cut the act, Renee. I hear your jaw flapping, and I see the way you eye everyone from Sergeant Hottie to Mr. Nelson, but it’s me, remember? I know you’re not ready to move on from Bob yet. Just remember, when the time is right, Bob’s loss will be someone else’s gain. Of that, I have absolutely no doubt.”
Seconds turned to minutes as the silence between them continued. Then, finally, “Did he suffer?”
Oh, how she wanted to protest the obvious subject change, but, in the end, she opted to let it go. After all, the topic of Renee’s reticence to date in the aftermath of her divorce had been born on the back of another blatant change in subject.
Hers . . .
“I don’t know much about suffocation, but I’m hoping it happened pretty fast,” Winnie finally said in lieu of waving a white flag she didn’t have. “Bart was always a really nice man.”
“I thought you said he had a trigger temper.”
Had she really said that? She couldn’t remember. But, even if she had, it didn’t justify someone waltzing into the man’s home and holding a pillow over his face. She said as much to Renee as they watched an officer from the Silver Lake Police Department removing the crime scene tape from around the house on the other side of the street. “Bart had certain things he wanted a certain way. He spent hours on his flower beds and didn’t take kindly to those who let their dog or cat undo his work. He took pride in his house and in knowing that he’d paid it off with the blood, sweat, and tears of a forty-year career as a corrections officer. He didn’t want anyone telling him it was time to give it up. Especially when he saw it as one of the last remaining connections to Ethel.”
“How long were they married again?” Renee asked, her voice surprisingly quiet.
“Almost fifty years. And these past six weeks without her have been awful for him. Just awful. It’s no wonder he couldn’t control his emotions very well.”
Renee pulled her forehead off the window and rested the side of her head on Winnie’s shoulder. “Maybe this is better, then. He doesn’t have to miss her anymore.”
“I’d agree if it happened naturally. But Bart was murdered, Renee. Someone has to pay for that.”
“Indeed they do!”
As if powered by one body, Winnie and Renee whirled around to find Bridget standing at the top of the stairs with Lovey in one hand and the empty cat carrier in the other.
“Bridget,” Winnie scolded as she closed the gap between the window and her next-door neighbor, “let me take those from you. You shouldn’t be carrying that kind of weight up those stairs by yourself.”
She reached out for the carrier, only to pull her hand back as Lovey hissed. “Good morning to you, too, Lovey.”
Bridget relinquished the carrier to Winnie but held tight to the clearly perturbed feline. Nodding a greeting at Renee, the elderly woman peered down at Lovey and then back up at Winnie. “I can’t thank you enough for the pie, your concern, and allowing Lovey to stay with me last night. It made all the difference in the world, dear.”
Lovey hissed again, prompting Winnie to retreat in surrender.
“Put the cage away, Winnie,” Renee suggested. “Maybe she’s protesting that rather than you.”
“She didn’t hiss at me when I was holding the cage.”
“Thank you, Bridget.” Still, in the hope that Renee was right, Winnie carried the cage into her bedroom, deposited it in the closet, and then returned to the main room.
Lovey hissed again.
“So much for that theory,” Renee mumbled. “Maybe she’s hungry.”
“Hungry . . . Yeah, maybe that’s it.” She opened her pantry closet, searched the shelves for tuna or anything else a cat might like, and came up empty-handed. Then, on a hunch, she returned to the table and the last remaining piece of bacon on the plate. “Do cats like bacon?”
At Renee and Bridget’s matching shrugs, she broke off a small piece and held it in Lovey’s direction. The cat hissed back at her from the safety of Bridget’s arms.
“I guess that would be a no . . .”
Renee stepped around Winnie and helped herself to a piece of bacon. “Here. Let me try.” Flipping her freshly manicured (yet still nibbled) hand palm side up, the single mom held the bacon within smelling distance of the cat.
Lovey ate the bacon.
Winnie snorted.
“Maybe it was just your technique,” Renee said, following an exchange of raised eyebrows with Bridget. “Like maybe your hand shook or something.”
“Maybe Lovey just hates me.”
“I’m beginning to suspect you’re right, dear.” Bridget stroked the top of the cat’s head with her wrinkled hand and then set the animal free to roam around her legs. “I noticed, on my way in just now, that the police have concluded their investigation. I stopped and talked to Adelaide’s grandson—you do remember Adelaide, don’t you, Winnie? She’s that nasty little thing I’ve told you about that gets inside everyone’s head at bingo on the second Tuesday of the month . . .”
Renee laughed, earning her—and Winnie (guilt by association, apparently)—an irritated look from Bridget in return. Renee stopped laughing.
“Anyway, her grandson, Roger, is on the police force, and he was outside just now, removing the crime scene tape. I asked him if they’ve solved Bart’s murder, and he said no. I asked him if an arrest would be imminent and, again, he said no. He said there are no leads at this point. Nothing to indicate who or why. All they know is how.”
“As in the pillow?” Winnie asked for clarification purposes.
“Of course, the pillow. And that’s something a mere bakery owner was able to figure out.” Bridget’s eyes widened the second her mouth stopped moving, and she reached out for Winnie’s hand. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the loss of your bakery. Forgive me? Please?”
“I under—”
“I’m just so distraught by what happened on the other side of our peaceful little street. It’s—it’s frightening.” Bridget took a deep breath and released it slowly through her nose. “Regardless, it wasn’t right to drag up your failure the way I did just now. Especially after you were so kind to me last night.”
Failure?
Ouch.
“I wouldn’t count her out just yet, Ms. O’Keefe.” Renee circled back and stood in solidarity beside Winnie. “In fact, I think she’s about to be a million times more successful with her new plan than she ever was or could have been downtown.”
Bridget dipped her chin and peered at first Renee and then Winnie atop the rim of her glasses. “Please tell me you’re not moving, dear.”
“She’s not moving,” Renee supplied. “The bakery will be.”
“You’re going to commute?”
Again, Renee answered for Winnie. “Nope. The bakery will move . . . literally.”
“I don’t understand—”
Winnie turned to Renee and gave her what she hoped was the universal nonverbal sign to shut her mouth. It didn’t work.
