From Scratch (5 page)

Hours later, Sean was elbow deep into filing reports with the County Sheriff and the City of Columbus concerning a string of petty thefts in the area, likely the explanation for Maggie's break-in, when Alvin returned to the office with the stealth of an elephant being attacked.

Lifting his head, Sean peered through the glass wall that separated his office from the rest of the station.

Alvin plopped into his chair before laying his forehead on his crossed arms.

Sean had to hear this story. He dropped his pen and closed the short distance. Leaning his hip on the edge of the desk, he casually laced his arms. “So, how was Sissy?”

Alvin raised his head. His eyes held the misery of a man who had been sentenced to life in prison or one who had spent two hours with Sissy Jenkins. For some, two hours with Sissy might be worse than life in prison.

“That bad, huh?

“She had pictures and a detailed log. Whoever the owner of the car is could probably file stalker charges against her. She wouldn't let me leave until I promised to do a full background check on it and the owner.”

“Pictures and a log?” Sean asked.

“Take a look for yourself.” Alvin slid a small drawstring satchel across his desk.

Lifting the bag, Sean unknotted the string, stretching the top to reveal the contents: a small spiral notebook, a packet of pictures sealed in a Ziploc bag, and a thumb drive. He drew each of the items out of the bag and laid them on the desk between him and Alvin. He flipped open the notebook to the first page.

‘Thursday, October 4
th
, 10:15 AM.'

Sissy's writing often slipped from straight English to the shorthand she'd used as her husband's secretary. He hoped that she'd written enough in the good old-fashioned alphabet for him to translate. The detailed record cataloging Sissy's suspect's day-one movements spanned the first four pages of the notebook. Mrs. Jenkins had been a busy lady.

Sean quickly scanned the remainder of the pages; noted times and dates for the movements of the questionable vehicle. Two solid weeks of detective worked logged with methodical precision.

Alvin was right.

Mrs. Jenkins was a stalker posed as a concerned citizen. Definitely a dangerous combination.
Maybe I should hire her
. A shudder ran through his body at the thought.

“So, what do you want me to do, Chief?” Alvin asked.

Sean stood up and unsealed the Ziploc bag with a rip, tossing a dozen pictures onto Alvin's desk. Casually fingering the photos, he lifted his gaze to the deputy. “Run the plates, and then give her the guy's clean report.”

“Do you want to talk to her about boundaries?”

“Naw. She's just lonely since Mickey died last year. Keeping tabs on everyone in the neighborhood makes her feel useful. We may want to omit her activities, when and if the owner of the car comes in to complain. She doesn't mean any harm.” Sean stacked the photos and laid them on top of the journal. He fingered a grainy photo on top of the pile of a man walking from the car wearing a hoodie, jeans, a ball cap and what he thought could be thick glasses—likely the owner of the car. He hoped he didn't have to meet him in person. He would be forced to explain Sissy. And explaining Sissy took finesse he didn't always possess.

“Whatever you say,” Alvin said and turned to his computer.

Sean walked back to his desk, hollering over his shoulder. “Don't forget to check out the license plate. It's probably nothing, but Sissy's bound to be right sometime, statistically speaking.”

4

The subtle sounds of soulful, New Orleans jazz filled the café bakery as Maggie rang up a coffee to-go and half a dozen cupcakes for Jenna Arnold. “Let me know what Tyler thinks of the strawberry shortcake cupcakes. I'm not sure I love the consistency, but I wanted the surprise of the strawberry to be inside.” She handed the kindergarten teacher her coffee and a square craft-paper, brown box filled with her newest cupcake variety.

“I'm sure he'll love them, Maggie. He loves everything you make. He wishes I could bake like you.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “This'll be a wonderful treat for him. He has the Bar coming up and he's been studying like crazy.”

“I'm sure he'll do great. Enjoy the cupcakes. When he passes the Bar, tell him I will make him any treat he wants. His choice…on the house.”

Jenna's face shone. “That's so nice.” She gave a quick wink. “And, it will be excellent motivation. He'll be sure to pass on the first try. See you later.”

Maggie waved as Jenna pushed open the door, balancing the coffee cup on her box of treats. She dragged her gaze back to the shop and noticed Mr. Hopper's empty coffee cup. She grabbed the coffee pot. “Mr. Hopper, can I top you off?”

He looked up from his copy of the
Dispatch
, shook his head, and smiled. He was near eighty and had a fondness for long, sweater cardigans, bow-ties, and newsboy hats.

Maggie's own grandfather had passed away when she was only six years old, but she liked to think he would have been just like Mr. Hopper. “You let me know if that cup gets cold. We'll get you some fresh. OK?”

“You're too kind to me,” he said with a pat on her hand.

“Anything interesting in the news, today?” She asked.

“Just the same crime and exploits. Makes me glad that my Annie and I moved to Gibson's Run fifty years ago.”

“No crime in Gibson's Run, Mr. Hopper?”

His head tilted to the side. His caterpillar-like eyebrows drew together. “Well, now that you mention it. I ran into Sissy Jenkins at the bank the other day and she couldn't stop chattering about a strange car parked up the street from her house, but I don't think it's anything for you to worry about, Miss Maggie. That woman could find a nefarious character in her bowl of oatmeal.”

Her stomach twisted at the mention of a strange car.

Sissy was irritating, but she was observant.

“Did Sissy happen to say why she thought the car was suspicious?” Maggie's body tightened with wariness.

He shook his head. “She might have, but when Sissy talks my ears tend to hear white noise.” He patted her hand. “Don't you worry. Gibson's Run is too small for anyone to get away with much of anything. If there are degenerates running around town, that Taylor boy will find them. Won't be too hard, neither. Why, they'll stick out like a corn stalk in the middle of a soy bean field.”

She nodded in affirmation as she turned from his table. Sucking in a deep breath, she lifted a silent prayer that his words were true. She cleared another table and placed the remnants in a gray bus tub with dishes and flatware accumulated over the last few hours. She was grateful for the frustrating task. It kept her hands busy and shoved her consuming worries blissfully to the back of her mind.

Business was steady. Only a few months into her little adventure, she felt good about where she was headed. She replaced the coffee pot on the warmer and hoisted the bus tub against her hip. Slamming through the swinging door with her shoulder, she called out to her intern. “Anna-Beth. Hey, do you mind running the dishwasher?”

“No problem,” Anna-Beth shouted from the back pantry.

Hitching the bin higher on her hip, Maggie continued. “Have you seen Steve? He's supposed to be working on the dough for the bagel order in the morning.” She dropped the tub into the sink and continued toward the back room, wiping her hands against her apron. “Anna-Beth, are you in the pantry?” She yanked open the door.

As if they'd been splashed with cold water, her two interns jumped apart so quickly they banged the metal shelves, crashing boxes of baking soda and cans of baking powder to the floor in a puff of white.

Anna-Beth tugged at her chef's coat.

Steve began wiping his mouth in rhythmic circles.

“What are you two doing?” Maggie was so stunned her voice barely raised an octave.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well…um…I came in here to get some dry yeast because, you know, we used up all of the cake yeast this morning. And then, Anna-Beth came in to get some flour and…”

Maggie closed her eyes and scrubbed her face with her hands. “I don't need a play-by-play, Steve. How long has this been going on?”

The two interns had only been working in her shop for a couple weeks. That couldn't be enough time to start a make-out-in-my-boss's-pantry relationship, could it? Of course it was.

She'd fallen that fast once.

Steve's eyes drew tight into a squint. “Umm…what do you mean by this?”

“This,” Maggie's hands started to wave in giant circles. “Faces-suctioned-together-in-the-pantry, that this. What other this did you think I meant?”

“Oh, well, I guess about two weeks or so?” Steve asked, with a shrug toward Anna-Beth, whose face was growing dangerously red.

“Two weeks?” Maggie spun back toward the sink. Slamming dishes from the bin into the industrial dishwasher, she mumbled. “Two weeks? Two weeks? I can't even tell the chief I think he's got a nice smile and I've known him for six months.” Two weeks? How did I not notice? She stopped, wiped her hand on a towel and twisted back toward the pantry. “You're fired. I am sorry. I hope you are happy together, but I won't—can't—have employees fraternizing during business hours. We discussed what acceptable behavior looked like when you both started. Between this and some of the kitchen mess ups, I just can't have you here anymore. Understand?”

Both interns' heads bobbed up and down as they shuffled out of the small room.

Maggie's shoulders sagged. What just happened? She'd just fired her only help; that's what happened. She sighed. No use whining over spilled baking powder. She needed to start the dishwasher and get busy with dough prep. The mess in the pantry would have to wait.

Several hours later, Maggie was wiping down the largest table in the café after the “cool-girl clique” left. During the week, the table was inhabited by nearly every teenage posse and senior ladies group in town, but not at the same time. They always seemed to time their visits so that when one group vacated another was waiting to pounce. Business was business, regardless of how annoying some of the clientele might be.

Not that she was complaining. One cup of coffee per group member was better than zero cups of coffee, even if they did split one piece of cake between eight forks.

She shifted her fifth bus-tub of the day to balance on her hip, wiping the spot where it had rested with her rag. Tossing the damp cloth in the bin, she glanced at the clock mounted above the entrance to the kitchen, ten till seven. She could survive.

What could possibly happen in ten minutes?

She carried the tub back to the dishwashing area and lowered it into the deep stainless steel sink. Separating the dishes, she tried not to think about the fact that she was officially intern-less. She was on her own for the bagel order of twenty-dozen in the morning. And, for the Fosters' anniversary cake that weekend. And, the Saturday doughnut rush. And, for every other day until a new class of students started in the winter.

The winter quarter started in January. January was nearly four months away. In four months she would likely be in the crazy house and out of business. She needed to get help. Cheap help. And, she needed it two hours ago.
Dear Father, what am I going to do?
She hauled down the top of the dishwasher and started the machine.

At least you don't have to wash the dishes by hand.

She felt a twinge at her lips. Leave it to Jesus to bring her crumbling life into perspective. He was good at gently whispering reminders of how blessed she was. Looking heavenward, she sighed. “Thanks. I just needed a little, friendly reminder.”

The bell announcing a customer chimed through the store and Maggie's aching shoulders dropped. “One more to go,” she muttered. She wiped her hands on the towel resting on the sink, plastered a smile on her face, and shoved the swinging door open into the café.

Standing barely inside the door, bathed in the setting sun, was Sean Taylor.

Maggie smiled with genuine warmth. “Well, Chief, twice in one day. How'd I get so lucky?”

His left dimple deepened as he spoke. “Well, Miss McKitrick, I was hoping you could help me with a couple things.” He closed the gap between the front door and the service counter in two long strides. The man was tall and all that height seemed to be in his legs. He rested his palms on the counter and locked his gaze with hers.

The café suddenly seemed to rise twenty degrees in temperature. Maybe the dishwasher was overheating?

“So the things I need help with…”

“Huh?” Maggie's head tilted to the side and she thought she could feel her brain oozing out of her ears.

“The reason I came in,” he reminded her.

She stood taller and straightened. Maybe if she stood super straight she would retain a small portion of her brain. “Right. The reason. What was the reason again?”

“I haven't told you yet.”

“Oh.” She turned her back to the display case as she felt heat burn at her cheeks. Could she not go a single conversation without blushing in front of this man? “So what can I do for you?”

“Well, first…you can turn around. We called a truce yesterday, remember?”

She pivoted toward him. Her eyes locked their focus on the top of the case. Maybe if she didn't look at him she wouldn't feel like a melting ice cream cone. “How's that?” she asked.

“Better…but do you mind if we sit?” He gestured toward the table where they'd eaten brownies the night before.

Her stomach's cadre of butterflies fluttered awake.
Get a hold of yourself. He's being polite. He's your landlord, remember? It's only business. Not cop related at all. I'm sure. Well, nearly sure. And, remember, you've sworn off men.
The man-fast must stay intact. No men, not even men who look like they walked off the cover of a magazine. She glanced at his back as she followed him to the table. Nope. Not even them.
Just say no to men. Stay strong, girl, stay strong.