Kate sat straight up in bed, confused at first.
Absent curtains or bed linens, she’d opted to sleep in the clothes she was wearing: a white short-sleeved blouse and a slim black skirt.
Her throat was dry. Half-asleep, it took her a minute to realize she was thirsty.
There was a crash in the kitchen. Followed by a clang and the sound of something rolling across the kitchen floor. Then silence.
She looked at the watch on her arm: 12:42 a.m. She waited two full minutes. Nothing.
Her throat felt like sandpaper. The heck with it.
She climbed out of the cot and tiptoed carefully into the hall, straining to hear more noises. Deadly quiet.
She stepped carefully down the narrow stairs and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.
Empty.
But the paper grocery bag she’d used for a trash can earlier that evening had fallen over, spilling used paper towels, lemon peels, and discarded apple parts across the floor. That clanging? The tuna can from dinner, which had rolled into the center of the room like a discarded hubcap.
Some big, tough New Yorker I am, Kate thought, feeling both silly and relieved as she gathered up the trash, sealed it into a garbage bag, and set it by the back door.
After washing her hands, she grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it, and took a long drink.
She refilled the glass and carried it upstairs. Replenished and relaxed, Kate was already drowsy. Maybe now she could finally get a few hours’ sleep.
She was just dropping off when she heard it: scratching. Persistent scratching. Coming from downstairs.
Kate was instantly alert. But there was only silence.
Suddenly more scraping. Followed by a sound she recognized: a long, slow groan. Followed by a second one. Then a muffled click.
The back door opening. And closing.
It was way too early for Sam Hepplewhite. But maybe he was checking on her?
Footsteps. A man’s staccato steps. Hard shoes walking softly across the kitchen floor.
Not Hepplewhite’s sneakers.
Kate’s heart was pounding. She was shaking.
Another squeak she recognized. The swinging doors from the kitchen to the shop. Then a scuffling sound.
He was going for the cash register! Would he be angry when he discovered it was empty? What if he decided to try his luck upstairs? What if it was that guy with the baseball cap? What if he came looking for her?
She snatched her purse and fumbled inside for her phone. Clutching it, she hit 911, pressed “talk,” and prayed.
Nothing. No service.
The only working phones were the landlines—one on either side of the swinging kitchen doors. Each just an arm’s length from the intruder.
More scuffling, louder this time.
Kate quietly eased over to the storage shelves, trying not to make the ancient floors squeak. She felt around in the dark, and her hand latched onto one of the giant economy-sized bottles of Windex. She pulled it close to her body and twisted the nozzle to what she hoped was “open.”
Not much of a weapon, but maybe I can blind him long enough to escape, she thought.
Woof! Woof! Woof! a deep-throated bark cut the quiet night air.
A dog. Close by. The front porch?
Oliver!
Woof! Woof! Woof! Urgent. And louder.
The pup is sounding the alarm!
Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Woof-woof!
Kate heard hard footsteps running across the kitchen. Then the back door groaned twice again.
Open and closed?
Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Woof-woof! Full throated and full volume. He wasn’t giving up.
Kate went tearing downstairs.
She tiptoed into the kitchen, window cleaner at the ready. All clear. But the back door was ajar.
She could still hear Oliver, at top volume, on the porch. He sounded big and angry. If she hadn’t been pretty sure it was him, she’d have pictured a much larger, more threatening dog.
Kate stepped lightly into the shop. Nothing. No one. Just a weird smell. The scent of cigarettes. And cologne? Plus something sweet. Familiar. But she couldn’t quite place it.
The cash register appeared untouched. Looking around, she couldn’t see any damage. Or anything missing.
She threw the bolt and opened the front door. Oliver stopped barking and trotted inside.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” she said, closing the door and locking it behind him.
Still shaking, she dropped the Windex on the floor and wrapped her arms around him. Warm and solid, he smelled like fresh air. And the beach.
“My hero. My sweet, fuzzy hero. C’mon, let’s go call the cops. Then we’ll get some biscuits.”
Oliver’s tail thumped happily.
Turns out, thanks to the actions of Oliver the Wonder Dog, the police were already “en route,” the dispatcher informed her. “To investigate a noise disturbance downtown.”
When the officer arrived a few minutes later, he seemed surprised that the dog causing all the ruckus was Oliver.
“Known this guy since he was a puppy,” said the ruddy blond twentysomething, who introduced himself as Kyle Hardy. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him bark before,” he said, giving the dog’s ear an affectionate scratch.
For his part, Oliver, who had just devoured three cheddar biscuits, sat up straight and looked very proud of himself.
“Well, maybe he was saving it up for the right moment,” Kate said. “He really rescued me. A man broke in. And I couldn’t get a cell signal to dial you guys. Oliver called the cavalry.”
“Yeah, cells are tricky in this part of town,” Hardy said. “That’s why most of the folks down here have landlines. So, you said ‘man.’ Did you actually see an intruder?”
“Nope. Just heard his footsteps across the kitchen floor. Hard shoes. And heavy. It sounded like a man.”
“The dispatcher put in a call to Sam Hepplewhite. He’s on his way down here. And what were you doing here at…” He glanced at his notebook, “One twelve a.m.?”
“I work at the bakery,” Kate said, sensing a shift in the conversation. “I’m moving to Coral Cay, and Mr. Hepplewhite is letting me stay upstairs for a few days until I can rent a place.”
“Good luck with that,” Hardy said, jotting something on the pad. “Still tourist season. Moving from where, exactly?”
“Manhattan. I’m a pastry chef.”
“Sam Hepplewhite hired a pastry chef? That doesn’t sound right. Sam doesn’t sell pastry. Great breads, though.”
“I’m helping out at the shop temporarily.”
He gave her a long look. Kate was beginning to wonder if she was a suspect.
“And Sam will back this up?”
“Yes.”
“OK, we’ll just check with him and we’re all set.” Hardy looked up from his notes and glanced around the kitchen. “See anything missing?”
“No, not that I’ve noticed. But you’ll have to ask Mr. Hepplewhite. There was a strange smell. Cigarettes. And some kind of cologne. And something else.” Kate paused, trying to place that scent, came up blank, and shrugged. “The back door was open a crack. I didn’t touch it, in case you wanted to dust for prints.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is Coral Cay, not CSI. From what you described, it was most likely some kids up to mischief. Summer vacation.”
“Kids wearing cologne and hard shoes?”
Just then, Sam Hepplewhite pushed through the back door. In a blue windbreaker and baggy jeans, it looked like he hadn’t even paused to run a comb through his sparse gray hair.
He stopped when he spotted Kate. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw relief on his craggy face. Or maybe she was just sleep deprived.
“Hey, Sam,” Hardy said. “Looks like you might have had a visit from some young pranksters. Take a look around and tell me if you see anything missing. Nothing in the register, I take it?”
“Nup. Cleaned it out before I left for the night, Kyle. You know that.”
“Good man,” Hardy said, giving Hepplewhite a slap on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it. Ah, let’s you and I go speak in the shop for a minute.”
Kate looked down and realized that, in the confusion, Oliver had vanished.
So where does he live?
A few minutes later, the two men were back. Hardy stood in the middle of the kitchen while Hepplewhite did a quick inventory. “No, Kyle,” Hepplewhite said, shaking his head. “Nothing’s gone.”
“That wraps it up then,” Hardy said. “No sense even filling out the paperwork.”
“How about a hot cup of coffee?” the baker offered. “I’m gonna make some fresh.”
“Love to, but I’m headed off-shift. We’re shorthanded this week with Ben out. And I wanna grab some shut-eye.”
“How’s his foot?”
“Doc says he won’t even have a limp. He’ll be back on duty next week. Walking cast.”
Hepplewhite nodded.
Kate had no idea who “Ben” was (or what had happened to his foot), but she was a little freaked they weren’t taking the break-in more seriously.
What if it was Ball Cap Man?
The thought sent ice down her spine. But if she told Hepplewhite she might have a stalker, that would just give him one more reason to sack her. And judging by Officer Hardy’s initial suspicion of her—and his haste to blame teen high jinks—she doubted he’d even take her seriously.
As far as they were concerned, she’d probably fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing. And poor Oliver was just barking to be let into the bakery.
Hepplewhite walked Officer Hardy to the curb. She also noticed that he’d sent the policeman off with a box of sour cream and chive biscuits.
“Too late to bother with sleep now,” he said when he reappeared in the kitchen. “Might as well start the morning’s baking. Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest?”
No one had to ask her twice. Suddenly Kate was exhausted. And with Hepplewhite ensconced in the kitchen, she felt safe.
Upstairs, Kate opened the storeroom door and found Oliver.
Stretched out on the floor, with his head on her duffel bag, he looked at her through half-closed eyes and wagged his tail.
“Oh, you are a good boy,” she said, patting his soft flank. “Such a good boy.”
She noticed that his paws were too big for his body. “You’re still growing, aren’t you? You’re just a puppy. A very big, very good puppy.”
Ginger snaps.
Kate blinked. Oliver sighed deeply.
“If I had any ginger snaps, I would give them all to you,” she said softly, stroking his downy head.
“Tell you what,” Kate said after a few minutes. “There may not be any cookies here now, but I’m gonna fix that—soon. For now, there’s some deviled ham in the pantry. I know it’s not sirloin steak—or ginger snaps. But I bet it would taste pretty good.”
Oliver’s cream-colored tail stroked the floor rhythmically.
Kate hustled down the stairs and hit the pantry for one of the tins. Then she snagged a paper plate and a small glass bowl. The pup was bound to be thirsty.
She nearly collided with Hepplewhite coming through the kitchen.
“I’m grabbing a few things—for a snack,” Kate said, feeling instantly guilty.
“Just keep the dog out of the kitchen. Don’t need the health department causing a fuss,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Hepplewhite. I appreciate it. But you need to know. There really was someone in here tonight. Not kids. A man. He picked the lock on the back door, came through the kitchen, and then went into the shop.”
Hepplewhite glanced over at Kate as he floured the counter with a practiced hand. “Yup. Figured as much. Kyle Hardy’s a nice kid. I know his folks. Good people.”
The baker shook his head. “But that boy’s not gonna make detective anytime soon.”