Éclair and Present Danger (5 page)

“And we're calling ourselves the Emergency Dessert Squad.”

P
inching 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.

“Winnie is going to start the Emergency Dessert Squad with that ambulance she got from Gertie. And her menu is going to be created around the kind of emergency situations that might prompt a person to need dessert—like menopause, or a broken heart, or a horrible day at work. That
sort of thing. We've been working on cute dessert titles all morning. Like Hot Flash Fudge Sundae and—”

Bridget stopped all further explanation from Renee's mouth with a well-placed hand and turned her undivided attention toward Winnie. “Or like when your neighbor is afraid because an old friend has been murdered?”

More than anything, she wanted to smack Renee upside the head for sharing Winnie's plans with Silver Lake's premier (and only) gossip columnist, but news of employer/employee abuse would be bad for business. So, instead, she simply smiled. And nodded.

“Don't-Be-Blue Berry Pie will be on the menu, yes?” Bridget asked.

Winnie nodded again. “It will.”

“I love it, dear. Absolutely love it.”

The same relief she'd felt in the wake of Renee's reaction to her idea was back, tenfold, and she sunk into the closest kitchen chair with relief (and, yes, exhaustion). “Really? You don't think it's silly?”

“I think it's utterly brilliant, dear. And you can count on me to use my connections to get you coverage in the newspaper when you're ready. Provided, of course, I'm not lying in a hospital bed undergoing some sort of lifesaving procedure.”

Winnie nibbled back the smile she felt forming and, instead, gave the elderly woman the concern she was seeking. “Still dealing with those waves of warmth across your abdomen?”

“Yes. It even moved to my lower legs a few times while I was sleeping. And once, I even woke to find the same area vibrating as if I was having some sort of—of muscle attack!”

“Was Lovey at least a comfort?” She felt Renee's eyes on her but refused to meet them for fear any reaction might hurt Bridget's feelings.

“She was, dear. She was always right there—at the
source of the warmth or the tremor, doing her best to support me through the moment.” Bridget wandered over to the table, perused some of the notes Winnie had made throughout the night and with Renee's help that morning, and then handed a pen to Winnie along with instructions to start writing. “You and Renee will need uniforms. Perhaps with EDT written on the back.”

“EDT?” Renee repeated.

“Wait. I know this. Emergency Dessert Technician, right?” At Bridget's nod, Winnie wrote it down and then looked back at her elderly neighbor. “I love it. It's perfect.”

“The more authentic you make your mobile bakery, the better.” Bridget moved her index finger in a circular motion until Winnie was poised to write again. “Cute dessert names are a good first step. The way they come out of the ambulance is another . . .”

She paused the pen above her list of ideas and looked from Bridget to Renee and back again. “I don't know what you mean.”