The next morning, after making her delivery for Sunny’s yoga class, Kate found herself standing in the back of In Vino Veritas, sharing a cup of New Orleans–style coffee with Harper Duval.
“Well, that’s a very peculiar question,” he drawled.
“I know, right?” Kate said. “But it could be the key to freeing Sam. And proving who really killed Muriel Hopkins and Stewart Lord. So is it even possible? Either part?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know,” Harp admitted. “Maybe. But I do know who to ask. And he’ll take my calls. Do you have a time frame? When this might have happened?”
“I don’t,” Kate said. “My best guess is sometime between the first of the month and the day before Lord died. But for some reason, I think it’ll be during the last few days of that window. Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. He’s not exactly a delayed-gratification kind of guy.”
Harp topped off her coffee cup. “Would it be asking you to betray your tender secrets to tell me exactly how this figures into our friend Sam’s little situation?”
“Honestly, it probably doesn’t. It’s just a notion. And, for Sam’s sake, I want to explore every angle.”
“I get it, you don’t want to tell ol’ Harp,” he said lightly.
“If I find out I’m wrong, I’d just as soon go down in flames alone,” Kate said.
Harp smiled warmly. “That, my dear, will most assuredly never happen.”
Luckily, the bakery was crowded all morning. Tourists clamored for cookies by the dozen. Locals were relieved that their favorite breads—especially Sam’s prized sourdough—were back on the shelves.
Amos Tully even let it slip that a certain uptight patrol officer had purchased a half dozen of the bakery’s peanut butter cookies from his shop. Along with a pint of milk. Strictly for detection purposes, the policeman had hurriedly assured the shop owner.
But no matter how busy it was, Kate still found time to watch the clock. And today the hands were crawling around the dial.
Maxi came through the door with a big smile on her face.
“How was the delivery for the gender reveal?” Kate asked anxiously. “Did they like the cookies?”
“Loved them—total success,” the florist said. “Everybody really liked the color, too. The grandmother said she was afraid they’d look like that bright stomach goo—but your cookies were pretty and delicate, like something from a fine restaurant. I told her, ‘Hey, lady, we don’t live in the sticks. My best friend is a fancy New York pastry chef who graduated from the best cooking school in the whole country.’ No, really, I just said, ‘Thank you.’ One of the resort’s event planners was there. And I could tell she was super impressed. So I think you might get more business out of it, too. Oh, and here’s your check.”
“Won’t even cover the light bill,” Kate said, slipping it into the register. “But it sure feels good.”
“Any word from you-know-who yet?”
“Nada,” Kate said. “But I’ve got my fingers crossed.”
“I’ve got my whole body crossed. You know how hard it is to make deliveries like that?”
Kate jumped when the phone rang.
She and Maxi exchanged glances. Kate took a deep breath and reached for the avocado-green phone.
“The Cookie House, this is Kate.” She could feel her heart pounding.
“Yes, those were mine,” she said. “Kate McGuire.… Ah, nice to meet you, too! It was the CIA actually, how did you know? Pastry arts. All over Manhattan. High-end hotels and restaurants.”
Kate went silent, cradling the phone, as Maxi mouthed a one-word question: “Who?”
Kate shrugged.
“Well, that is interesting.… No, that’s very fair. I’ll definitely consider it. How about I get back to you later this week?… Wonderful—thank you!”
“So who was that—another cookie order?”
“Not exactly,” Kate said. “It was the events coordinator from the resort where you made the delivery this morning. They want to hire me.”