Promptly at six o’clock, Sam walked to the front door, turned the “open” sign to “closed,” and flipped the dead bolt. “Done for today. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
Kate was ready for a break. Maybe a walk on the beach. For the last three hours, she’d waited on customers while Sam disappeared into the kitchen for long stretches.
At the now-defunct Soleil, she had been an accomplished—and appreciated—pastry chef. Today the closest she got to baking was running the bread slicer.
But the people were fun. It was an interesting, eclectic mix of tourists and locals. And she was amazed at how much they shared in just a few minutes of conversation. The tourists were on vacation with a relaxed attitude about everything, she reasoned. And the denizens of small-town Coral Cay seemed accustomed to everyone knowing their business.
Spritely octogenarian Sunny Eisenberg invited Kate to drop in for yoga classes at her studio, just off the square.
“The secret to youth is flexibility,” she confided to Kate. “And it all starts with your spine. Doesn’t matter how old you get. If your spine is supple, you’ll stay young.” With that, Sunny stretched over backward and just kept going, executing an impressive backbend.
“H-harrumph!” Kate heard from the direction of the kitchen.
Sunny straightened up, laughing, and brushed her short champagne-colored hair into place with one hand. “Don’t mind that old sourpuss. I’ve been trying to get him to sample a class for years. But he’s too set in his ways. He’s afraid if he ever loosened up, he’d fall apart.” She lowered her voice, stage-whispering to Kate, “And he just might, at that!”
Later a woman popped into the shop bearing a newspaper-wrapped bundle of sunshine-yellow blooms. Barely five-two with glossy black hair, she pulsed with energy, like a hummingbird mid-flight.
“These are for Sam,” she said, handing off the flowers to Kate. “Lemon lilies. From my garden. I’m Maxi Más-Buchanan. I run Flowers Maximus next door.”
“Your yard is incredible,” Kate said. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”
“It’s a work in progress,” Maxi replied in a voice Kate found musical. “Emphasis on work. You like plants?”
“I love them—especially flowers. But living in New York with no patio, I haven’t really had a chance to try my hand at growing anything.”
“Then you’re definitely in the right place,” Maxi said, smiling. “The flowers in this town—spectacular!” she said, punctuating the statement by spreading both hands wide.
Suddenly Hepplewhite bustled in from the kitchen. “Those kids of yours out of school?”
Kate was dumbfounded. It was the first time she’d seen the baker actually initiate a conversation.
“All three of the little terrors,” Maxi replied with a grin. “I told Peter if he’s not home for dinner by six, I’ll drive them to his office and drop them off. Then I’m checking into a hotel.”
As Maxi and Hepplewhite debated the relative merits of corn bread versus brioche rolls with roasted chicken, Kate headed to the kitchen with the flowers. She stripped off the newspaper, grabbed a clean pitcher off the counter, filled it, and settled them gently in the water.
Returning to the shop, she placed the pitcher carefully on top of the counter, admiring the vibrant yellow blossoms.
“Is there a secret to it?” Kate asked. “Growing such beautiful flowers?”
“If you love them, the plants can feel it,” Maxi said with a smile. “And when you have to be up early, treating yourself to a few cups of strong Cuban coffee doesn’t hurt, either. When Sam gives you a break, c’mon over and I’ll pour you a cup. And don’t let this old rascal work you too hard,” she said with a wink.
Kate had noticed that when Hepplewhite filled Maxi’s order “a dozen” brioche rolls actually numbered fourteen. And he slipped a loaf of challah into the bag without charging her. “Her husband likes it,” the baker had said later, with a shrug.
Now checking his watch as he motored for the back door, Hepplewhite called over his shoulder, “Not much left in the cases. But you can wrap it and bring it to the pantry in the back.”
I wanted this job, Kate reminded herself lightly. I begged for this job. And I am a total moron.
“Um, Mr. Hepplewhite, I’d like to go get some dinner and maybe take a walk before I settle in upstairs. Would it be possible to have a key, so I can get back in?”
He sighed. “Some tins of meat in the pantry. And apples in the icebox. Help yourself to the leftover bread. Time enough for keys tomorrow. If you’re still here. Gotta go now.”
Yeah, rum and metal detectors wait for no man, Kate thought.
Hepplewhite had been acting strangely all afternoon. Inexplicably, whenever the shop had been completely empty he commandeered the kitchen. Yet when customers appeared, he’d hover in the shop. Like he didn’t quite trust her with the till.
He wasn’t baking. As far as Kate could tell, everything in the kitchen remained untouched.
Watching her from secret security cameras? Hiding something? Or taking a nip?
Several times that afternoon, she’d checked the front porch. With a cheddar biscuit in her apron pocket. But Oliver was gone.
On the bright side, Ball Cap Guy had disappeared, too.
After Hepplewhite left, Kate set about scouting dinner. The upside of eating out of Sam Hepplewhite’s pantry: spending zero money. A definite plus, as far as she was concerned.
Besides, there were worse things than being locked in a bakery.
But what was with the “no pastry” edict? She’d tried to get a read on Hepplewhite’s cookie preferences a couple of times. She figured she could whip up a batch to break the ice. But she kept coming up blank. Nothing.
That isn’t possible. Is it?
Going through a serious case of withdrawal, Kate was craving chocolate chip cookies.
“Makes sense,” she reasoned. “The ultimate comfort food. Nicely browned, still warm, and slightly soft from the oven. With the chocolate all melted and gooey. Alongside a tall, cold glass of milk.”
Hepplewhite may have told her she couldn’t talk about cookies. Or sell them in the store. But he’d never said she couldn’t bake any for herself.
However, a quick check of the kitchen revealed not so much as a speck of chocolate. She’d have to wait until she could hit a market tomorrow.
Hepplewhite had sold out of the sourdough. But the focaccia looked wonderful. Covered with thyme, rosemary, and coarse salt, it smelled delicious.
“Tins of meat” turned out to be a couple cans of tuna, a few cans of deviled ham, and half a case of Spam.
Tuna it was.
Ironic, she thought. I skipped Fish-a-Palooza after I learned they served frozen fish. Now I’m eating the canned stuff and getting minimum wage. And not even real minimum wage.
She hit the fridge and grabbed an apple, a lemon, and the olive oil. Then she snagged basil and oregano from the pantry. A little chopping, a little mixing, and she had a pretty decent tuna salad. She cut off a healthy chunk of focaccia, sliced it down the middle, and slathered both halves with tuna salad.
With her luggage still MIA and not a magazine in sight, Kate was at a loss. She scoured the kitchen for something to read while she ate. Not so much as a cookbook or recipe file. But with a lot to do over the next few days, she could at least make a list and get organized. She grabbed a notebook from the counter near the phone and flipped it open.
What she found stunned her. A list of questions. Followed by names she recognized. In weird spidery handwriting. She flipped the page. More names. From her references.
That’s what he’d been doing in the kitchen all afternoon, she realized. He must have called them.
Fascinated, she read as she ate. Part of her felt guilty—like she was eavesdropping. The other part wanted to know exactly what they’d said.
Hepplewhite had outlined his questions on the first page. But they were somewhat limited in scope: “Honest? Trustworthy? Ever stolen anything? Ever been arrested? Ever suspected? Con artist?”
That was followed by page after page of names. And check marks by most of them.
Occasionally there were short notes, too: “Punctual.” “Conscientious.” “Honest.” “Works hard.” “Not thief.” “Not con artist.” “Not crook.”
Not much of a comment on my pastry skills, either, she thought dryly.
OK, so the guy wanted to make sure he could trust her alone in the shop. She just hoped he hadn’t told them he was paying her less than minimum wage. Or that she was living in his storeroom.
A half hour later, refueled, Kate peeled off her blue-and-white-striped bakery apron. “Time to survey the new digs,” she decided.
In the darkened upstairs hallway, she groped for a wall switch and flipped on the overhead light. Half-expecting it to be locked, she turned the handle and cautiously opened the door.
Definitely a storeroom.
Two industrial-sized stainless-steel bookcases flanked the left wall—stocked with buckets and bottles of cleaning supplies, paper towels, and toilet paper. Sam Hepplewhite hadn’t just cornered the market. He’d bought enough to last until Armageddon. And then some.
The two large windows at the back of the room were bare. No curtains or even blinds. But they were huge. During the day, this room would be bright and sunny. She might even be able to see the ocean. And she’d definitely be able to smell the salt air.
Take that, Manhattan!
A fair number of moving boxes were stacked haphazardly against the other wall. She walked over, pulled one down, and opened it. What she discovered floored her.