Sugar Plums for Dry Creek & At Home in Dry Creek (21 page)

She was so excited. She really was going to make a home for herself and the children here in Dry Creek. And, maybe while she campaigned for the sheriff, she'd mention to people that the town needed a street-light. That showed even more civic spirit. Eventually, she'd have a normal life with a house of her own.

And, just so she'd know the real house was coming, she'd work on getting herself that kitchen table for her and the children. It was time she learned to cook something besides sandwiches, and time they started having Sunday dinners at their own table. Fried chicken would be good. Or maybe a pot roast. Having Sunday dinners together was something Dry Creek families did, just like they hung their sheets on the clothes lines in the summer to dry.

Barbara had noticed a clothes line behind Mr. Gossett's old house. It had fallen down, of course, just like most of the things around the house. The good thing about the Gossett house, though, was that it had a picket fence around it. The boards weren't white
any longer and they weren't all standing straight, but a coat of paint and a few well-placed nails would change that. She didn't know what she'd do if Mr. Gossett wrote and said his nephew wanted the house so he couldn't rent it out.

No, that wasn't true. She did know what she'd do. She'd just keep looking. She was going to make a home here or, at least have the satisfaction of knowing she'd done everything possible to make it happen.

M
eanwhile, in the pickup truck parked in the night shadows outside the barn, Floyd Spencer had been watching Barbara and the sheriff and muttering to himself. His timing had been lousy ever since he'd robbed that bank with Neal and Harlow.

It'd been his first robbery and he'd since decided that he just didn't have the stomach for crime. Everything had turned out badly. His two partners were behind bars and they were likely to turn informant on him next week if he couldn't get a message to them and let them know that he needed more time to get their money into those off-shore accounts.

He had buried his own money in his backyard so deep that even his dog couldn't find it. He was too nervous to move it inside under his bed. He didn't know when he'd ever have the courage to dig it up.

But it was the other men's money he had to worry about first.

Floyd had been watching Neal's wife off and on over the past two weeks to see if she ever went to the prison to see Neal. If she did, Floyd would try to get her to take a message to her ex-husband about the additional time he needed to open those off-shore accounts. The message couldn't be anything obvious, of course, or the people at the jail would stop it from getting to Neal.

Floyd couldn't spend too much time watching the ex-wife, however, because he didn't dare call in sick to his job at the bank. He hadn't planned on the whole thing taking so much time.

It had all sounded so simple when Harlow had planned it. But, these days, Floyd couldn't even take a long lunch at the bank. It hadn't been
his
bank that had been robbed; Floyd wasn't that stupid. But it had been the bank in a nearby town, and the jittery nerves had spilled over to his bank. He hadn't thought about that happening.

Everyone was watching everyone these days, and Floyd sure didn't want to make anyone suspicious enough to remember that he'd called in sick on the day the other bank had been robbed. He had thought it would be easy to do everything Harlow had asked. But it wasn't as easy as Floyd had thought it would be to transfer money into those accounts without anyone
knowing about it. He'd found the instructions to make the transfer, but he didn't see how it could be done secretly. Harlow and Neal had each set the accounts up in partnership with another person so, even in jail, they said they would be alerted when the money was in the accounts.

Floyd didn't know how all of that was to happen. He was a bank cashier, not a thief—well, until now, that is. All he knew was that Harlow was clever enough to do whatever he said he was going to do and Neal followed the other man's directions. Harlow had been the one who'd talked Floyd into helping them rob the bank. He would never forgive Harlow for that. Robbing that bank had been the worst mistake of Floyd's life.

But there was nothing to do about it now except to go forward and try to find some time alone with Neal's wife. If she wouldn't help him, Floyd thought he'd take a day off work and try to impersonate a clergyman going to visit Neal. It was a long shot, but who else would care about Neal except someone who was paid to care, like a minister?

Floyd didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't take time off work. Maybe he should leave some money for Barbara Stone at the bakery just in case he needed to go to his back-up plan.

Floyd vowed that if he got out of this mess, he'd never break any laws ever again. He wouldn't even
cross the street against the light. He'd come to the conclusion that his nerves just weren't good enough for a life of crime. He couldn't sleep. He'd barely eaten since he'd helped rob that bank. Once he got the money into those offshore accounts, he planned to go to a hypnotist and try to get the memory of what he'd done wiped out of his mind.

B
arbara's alarm clock went off at five o'clock in the morning and she groaned as she reached over to turn it off. It was dark and her children were still asleep. Fortunately, it wasn't cold inside the room she now called home. Not that it was warm either. She sat up on her cot and pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

Her alarm clock gave off a green hazy light so Barbara could see the two lumps in the bed next to her cot. Both Amanda and Bobby were curled in on them selves as they slept. They'd been tired enough last night that they would sleep another few hours.

Barbara yawned as she remembered last night.

The wedding reception had become more enjoy-able after she had asked to work on the sheriff's re-election campaign and she'd spent more time talking with Mrs. Hargrove about local politics. Mrs.
Hargrove had gotten so involved in the conversation, she hadn't seemed to notice that Barbara was helping clean up the refreshment table.

The two of them had cleared off the cake crumbs and picked up empty punch cups while they talked. Barbara had learned enough about local politics to know that she probably didn't need to campaign for the sheriff to win the election.

Of course, Mrs. Hargrove encouraged her to work on the sheriff's campaign anyway.

“Campaigning is more like fun than work, isn't it?” Mrs. Hargrove had anxiously asked her for the second time as she looked over to where the sheriff stood.

Barbara had nodded.

“Well, then I guess it's okay—it's a great way for you to meet people. Besides, it never hurts to remind people to vote,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she turned her attention back to the table and scraped some white frosting off the cake knife before wrapping the knife in a wet paper towel.

“I'd enjoy it,” Barbara said. “Really I would. I want to do something for the community.”

Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “We've become a little lazy around here when it comes to voting for the sheriff. And it's an important job—we can't have just anyone as our sheriff. I've known Carl Wall since he was a teenager, and he's a good man.”

Mrs. Hargrove finished her wrapping and stood to face Barbara. “You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not sure we give the man enough recognition for the job he does. And here he is risking his life day after day to see that we're all safe. Why, he could take a bullet any time and here we sit, not even having the courtesy to go vote for the man.”

Barbara had lain awake last night trying to wrap those words of Mrs. Hargrove's into a snappy campaign slogan—so me thing like “Vote for Carl Wall. He'd take a Bullet for Us All.” Last night she'd thought that slogan had possibilities. This morning she wasn't so sure.

Oh, well, she thought as she stood up. Even if it was Saturday morning and Amanda and Bobby wouldn't be getting up quite yet, she certainly needed to get moving. The first thing she needed to do was to make three dozen donuts for the display case at the Dry Creek café. Then she needed to make six dozen maple donuts for the Martin ranch, six assorted fruit pies for the café in Miles City, and—well, she'd need to check her list for the other two orders. She knew one of them was a dozen corn muffins for someone and the other was a sour cream raisin coffee cake.

The bakery business was booming in Dry Creek.

Lizette was starting out small. She was only taking direct orders and she advertised that they'd fill any
order as long as it met the minimum order amount of fifteen dollars. Delivery was an extra charge, but it was small enough to encourage business.

All of the items were made fresh every day. The only things a person could buy without a pre-order were the donuts that Linda stocked in the café. Every morning, the bakery sent three dozen donuts over to the café. Lately, if they had time, they'd added a pie or two as well.

The bakery was building up a steady stream of regular customers, and Barbara was pleased that Lizette had felt comfort able leaving the business in Barbara's hands during Lizette's honeymoon. When she returned from her honeymoon, she had said she planned to devote most of her time to her small dance studio and turn most of the bakery duties over to Barbara.

As Barbara wrapped herself in her robe and walked to the bathroom, she planned her day. If she started now, she should have the bakery orders done by nine-thirty this morning. Mrs. Hargrove had volunteered to go with her as she delivered the orders since Barbara didn't know her way around some of the back roads yet and didn't have a car to drive anyway. Neal had seen to that.

Barbara told herself she wasn't going to think about Neal today. She'd enjoy the drive with Mrs. Hargrove.
Amanda and Bobby would both enjoy a ride out to some of the ranches as much as Barbara would.

If she got a minute, Barbara decided she'd even take a few of the flowers from that bouquet she'd caught and press them between two boxes of sugar. It wasn't a book, but the boxes should give enough weight so the roses would press down good.

 

The sheriff always checked Mrs. Hargrove's house as he drove into Dry Creek in the early morning. He didn't have to go out of his way, because Dry Creek only had the one main gravel road that went through the little town and he went straight down it. Mrs. Hargrove's house was on the left, a few houses down from the café. The sheriff checked to see that her kitchen light was on when he looked at her house.

The sheriff knew the older woman would be indignant if she knew about his daily checks, but he'd started to worry a few years ago about her living alone. Seeing a light on in the kitchen eased his worries. He figured that if Mrs. Hargrove could get down stairs to the kitchen, she was doing all right. If the light wasn't on when he drove by at seven o'clock, he'd make a swing back around nine o'clock. If it wasn't on then, he'd call her on the telephone with some question or another.

It wasn't often that Mrs. Hargrove's light didn't come on before nine. This morning, though, there wasn't a light on anywhere in her house when he
drove by at nine. The sheriff figured she was just tired from the wedding reception last night, so he decided to wait another half hour before he called her. This time he even had a good excuse. He needed to ask her what chore he could do in exchange for a Saturday-night babysitter.

In the meantime, he should call and check in with the FBI.

Not that there was ever anything new with the FBI. He'd report that there'd been no suspicious activity from Barbara Strong and they'd report that Neal and Harlow were still in jail and looking more hopeful than they had any right to be. Neal had even asked for a calendar yesterday. There'd been some debate about whether or not having access to the correct date was a constitutional right, but, in the end, it had seemed harmless to give him a calendar.

The sheriff shook his head. He knew about people's rights and he was all in favor of respecting them, but he wasn't inclined to do any favors for a man like Neal Strong. A man that would hurt a good woman like Barbara and the two little ones…well, a man like that didn't need to know what day of the month it was.

 

Barbara had the maple bars all boxed up and the pies cooling on the table next to the triple batch of choc o late chip cookies the Elkton Ranch had ordered. It was nine-thirty in the morning and she was ready
to start her deliveries. She'd thought Mrs. Hargrove had said she would drive by the bakery and pick her up at nine o'clock. Barbara took another look at the street in front of the bakery. There was still no sign of the older woman.

“Can I take my bear with me?” Amanda asked as she came out of the back room.

Amanda had already asked to take her Raggedy Ann doll and her princess doll.

“You can only take one toy with you, but it can be any one you want,” Barbara said.

“Bobby's taking a book to read,” Amanda offered. “A big one. One he can read all by himself.”

Barbara recognized the hint of jealousy in her daughter's voice. “You'll be able to read those big books right along side him pretty soon.”

One of the reasons Barbara wanted to make a home for the children here was that they needed more stability in their lives. She wished Dry Creek was large enough to have its own school, but the one in Miles City was good and the children were happy there. Since today was Saturday, they had the whole weekend to be with her. They would enjoy their weekend, but they wouldn't fuss on Monday when they got ready for the school bus.

Barbara heard the phone ring and thought it must be Mrs. Hargrove calling. Maybe her car wouldn't start or something.

“Hello, Dry Creek Bakery,” Barbara answered the phone. The phone was for bakery business, so she always answered it that way even if it was after hours and she knew it was a personal call. “Can I help you?”

“I'd like to order a cake,” a man's voice said.

The voice sounded muffled, as though the man didn't want anyone to overhear him. Calls like that had come to the bakery before, for surprise birthday parties, so the voice did not alarm Barbara.

“We can do a special design for you—or a special cake. What kind of cake would you like?”

“A patience cake.”

Barbara frowned. “I don't think I've heard of that.”

Barbara could hear what sounded like office noise in the back ground.

The man's voice got even smaller. “I looked on the Internet. It's got coconut filling inside and yellow cake outside.”

“Well, I can certainly make a yellow cake with coconut filling for you.”

The man's voice was down to a whisper. “It needs to say it's a patience cake.”

“We could put a card with the cake that says it's a patience cake.” Barbara figured the cake was to remind some usually cranky boss some where to be patient on his birthday. It occurred to her that there
weren't many offices within their delivery area. She should probably check. “Our usual delivery only goes into Miles City.”

“I'll pay extra if you take it to Billings.”

Barbara hesitated. “We'd have to charge an extra forty dollars to cover the gas. I'm not sure it's worth that to you. I can give you the name of a bakery in Billings if you want.”

“Last night I left two hundred dollars for you under that wooden planter on your porch.”

“Here?” Barbara was starting to get that tingling feeling on her neck again. Why would anyone be leaving things on her porch at night?

Barbara took the phone with her as she walked over to the door and opened it. There was only one planter on the porch and it was empty. The geranium had died during the winter. Barbara lifted up the planter.

“There's three one-hundred-dollar bills here.”

“Yeah, that's like I said. I must have given you an extra big one without thinking. Is that enough?”

Barbara was silent. No one around here paid three hundred dollars for a cake even if it was very special. Or very big.

“How many people does this cake need to feed?”

“Just one.”

Barbara was silent. People around here also
didn't mistakenly leave an extra hundred-dollar bill anywhere. Most of them didn't even carry hundred dollar bills. “You've paid too much money. Even with delivery to Billings, the whole thing won't be more than eighty dollars.”

“You can keep the change.”

“Oh, that wouldn't be fair—”

“I want to send a message, too, so it's not just the cake,” the voice continued. “Do you have a pen to write it down? It's important that the words go just the way I say them.”

Barbara walked over to the counter where the phone message pad was. “Do you want a singing telegram or someone to deliver your message in a costume or something?”

She was still trying to figure out why so much money had been left on her doorstep.

The man cleared his throat. “No, it's just the message. Here it is. ‘Be patient. God's preparing riches in glory for you next week. This cake comes from your spiritual brother—who, but for the grace of God, would be where you are now.'”

Barbara wrote down the man's message with a frown. “You don't want to say ‘Happy Birth day' or any thing?”

“Should I?” the man whispered.

If Barbara hadn't been holding three hundred
dollars in her hand, she would think this was a joke. Not a funny joke, but a joke of some kind.

“Where do you want the cake delivered?”

“I don't know the exact address,” the man hesitated. “But I know who. He's in jail in Billings. Name of Neal Strong.”

“What?” Barbara held her breath. This had gone beyond weird. The only sensible explanation was that someone was playing one of those cruel jokes on her. It had to be one of her Dry Creek neighbors. No one else knew who she was. “Who are you?”

“Please, just take him the cake.” The man hung up the phone.

A minute went by before Barbara heard the sound of a car outside. She looked out the window, expecting to see Mrs. Hargrove's old car.

Instead, she saw the sheriff's car. He drove a white sedan with the county insignia on the door and a siren on top.

She'd never been so glad to see the man, and that included the time when she was in the hospital and he was the one to remind the nurses that she was due another shot for her pain.

“Look at this,” Barbara said, holding out the pad of paper. The sheriff was standing in the open door to the bakery. She'd been so rattled she hadn't even closed the door when she'd come in from the porch earlier.

 

Sheriff Wall looked at the words Barbara had scrawled on the notepad. The first thing he saw was
Neal Strong
at the bottom.

“Someone said they wanted to send Neal a—a cake,” Barbara stuttered. Her face was white. “A patience cake with coconut filling.”

“I see.” The sheriff didn't know how much to tell Barbara. She might be better off not knowing that this was probably the contact the FBI had been expecting.