As Kate pulled the standing rack out of the oven, a wave of heat rolled out and blanketed the kitchen with the smell of fresh sourdough.
For once, the phone had gone silent. And she was secretly glad. As long as she didn’t know anything for certain, there was hope.
Oddly, when she first hit town all she wanted was a job. Any job. A position at one of the resorts? That would have been a home run. Her dream. But if she’d gotten it right away, she might never have seen downtown Coral Cay. Or met the people she now counted as close friends. Now that she had, the stakes were higher. And she wanted more than just a gig with a steady paycheck.
Kate heard the familiar bell tinkle, followed by the muffled sound of Oliver’s paw pads scampering across the shop floor.
“OK, you seem to know where you’re going,” a man’s baritone pronounced, with more than a trace of humor. “So just lead the way.”
Kate walked into the shop to find Oliver sitting up at attention in front of the bakery case, a tall, good-looking man beside him. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn the pup had a mischievous smile on his face.
Clad in jeans and a white dress shirt, his gray eyes crinkled warmly when he glimpsed Kate.
“Hi, I know this little fella’s probably not supposed to be in here,” he said, smoothing an unruly lock of dark hair. “But I’m trying to find his home. And he just marched right in like he owned the place. You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, by any chance?”
“It’s kind of a long story. I’m Kate McGuire, by the way,” she said, extending her hand across the counter.
Simultaneously, the phrase chocolate chip cookies popped into her head. She could almost taste them.
“Jack Scanlon. Honestly, I don’t make a habit of following strange dogs. I’m a vet.”
“So you’re chasing after new clients?” she said lightly.
“Pretty much,” he said wryly. “In town looking for a house, actually. I’m moving here next month to open up a practice. On the island. Saw this little guy down the block, but he didn’t seem to be with anybody. And he obviously belongs to someone. So I trailed him and ended up here.” He shrugged.
“Jack, meet Oliver. He’s sort of the town dog, and he has free run of the place. But he’s current on all his shots, and this is his clubhouse. Just don’t tell the health department.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, raising a hand. “So, do you own this place? The Cookie House?”
“Running it temporarily for a friend. I just moved here myself from Manhattan. I’m a pastry chef.”
“Really? I’m here from Denver.”
“Sick of the snow?”
“Big-time. It’s great if you ski. Which I do. But the rest of the time winter’s a bear. Loved the idea of warm weather. And being near the beach. So when I heard this place needed a vet, it seemed like a good fit.”
“In that case, Dr. Scanlon, welcome to Coral Cay.”
Just as Jack Scanlon left—with a dozen chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven—the phone rang. Automatically, Kate reached for it without thinking. “The Cookie House, this is Kate.”
“It turns out it wasn’t a peculiar question so much as a very perceptive one,” Harp said.
“Really? What did you learn?” Kate asked, her heart hammering.
“Your friend Sam puts all his bottles on a credit card. The same card he uses for everything, by the way. Kind of a no-no. A business card would give him much more flexibility with better benefits, but I digress. He bought his last bottle of Isla Tropical at Causeway Liquors on the fourth of last month. And because this is a micro-batch product and they are insanely—and quite rightly—proud of it, there is a unique batch and bottle number. I have both.”
“That’s fantastic! I’m almost afraid to ask about the other guy, but…”
“Also a very astute query. Someone matching the description of your gentleman friend purchased a lone bottle of Isla Tropical on the same night as the break-in. Paid cash.”
“Cash,” Kate said dejectedly. “I should have known.”
“Ah, but all is not lost. This particular store owner is very security conscious. Has a bank of hidden cameras. Digital. And your friend is on them. From several angles. He’s really not terribly photogenic.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what took me so long, dear lady. I had to wait for the owner to tab through it, find the relevant sections, and email them to me. Along with the receipt. Which gives us the batch and bottle number for his bottle. I promised the gent a rather good vintage of champagne for his legwork. Would you like me to send you the email?”
“Harp, this is wonderful!” Kate said. “Thank you. Email it to Maxi. There’s no computer here, and I still haven’t charged my cell. But she has a computer at the flower shop.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Harp said. “I keep forgetting. Sam’s bakery is the technological black hole of Coral Cay. An avocado-green push-button phone? We really must drag that man into the modern age one of these days.”
“Wait, Sam bought his bottle early last month? That means he had it for nearly two months.”
“It does,” Harp said. “Seems our friend has slowed his drinking practically to a stop. He could have gone to some other establishment, of course. And the police could check his card records to be certain. But one thing about Sam, he is a creature of habit. Causeway is the closest liquor store to Coral Cay. And the proprietor, one Frank G. Cooke, knows him on sight. It seems that three years ago our baker friend was purchasing regularly and in rather alarming quantities. But that’s no longer the case. Picks up a bottle now and then, plus a couple of lottery tickets. Tells Frank he doesn’t know what he’d buy if he won—because he already lives in paradise.”