Gluten for Punishment (11 page)

CHAPTER
13

B
y the time I closed up for my lunch break at one
P.M.
, I’d sold only a few baked goods to a handful of regulars. Thank God for John Emerson.
My guess was he worked out at the oil refinery. I didn’t think to ask because it really
wasn’t any of my business. But he was in every morning at 7
A.M.
and bought apple turnovers for Sarah and coffee and pastries for himself. Then Tasha’d
been kind enough to order two platters of assorted Danish, turnovers, muffins, and
cake donuts for the Welcome Inn. She’d stopped by around eight to pick them up.

Setting the clock sign to let everyone know we would reopen at two, I grabbed my jacket,
locked the door, and headed across the street with business cards in hand. First stop
was Walcott’s Drug Emporium. I stepped into the warmth and paused a moment to take
in the scent of perfume, the canned shopper’s music, and the general layout. It looked
the same as it had when I was a kid. I had a paper route and delivered on this part
of Main. Every time I entered the pharmacy, I had a flashback to tromping through
the ice and slush, a canvas bag full of rolled papers on my shoulder and the sound
of Christmas music. For the Christmas season, Walcott’s always blared music out onto
Main Street. It sounded tinny, but it gave the street a festive air.

“Hi, can I help you?”

I came back to the here and now and saw Craig working behind the counter. “Hey, I
didn’t know you worked here. I thought you were a part-time banker/part-time college
adjunct.”

“The college doesn’t offer insurance benefits, so I worked at the bank for a while,
but in this economy the bank had to downsize. Now I’m here with my brother, making
ends meet.” Craig was dressed in dark blue Dockers and a light blue dress shirt with
the sleeves rolled up. “The bank was a little too stuffy for my taste, anyhow.”

“Huh.” Working at the bank would have probably driven me crazy, too, although the
hours were better than the ones I kept.

I wandered over to the glass counter with the most expensive items locked inside.
The cash register sat on top of the glass. Behind Craig were stacks of goods such
as cigarettes and aftershaves and colognes. “How come you don’t teach full-time at
the college?” I realized it was probably too nosey a question and cringed, waiting
for him to tell me it was none of my business.

Instead he smiled. “This is my first teaching gig at the college level. You usually
have to have a few years of adjunct under your belt before they hire you full-time.”

“Oh.” The silence was awkward and I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to come
up with something else to say.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to because Craig added, “I know, it’s crazy. You have to
jump through a lot of hoops for forty grand a year. What brings you in today?”

“Oh, I’m passing around my cards to businesses in the area.” I pulled out my stack
of rubber-banded cards and tugged one free. “If you bring it in, it’s good for a free
cookie with a purchase of coffee.” I handed him the card. “I have one for your brother,
too, if he’s in.”

“Hold on.” Craig got on the phone. “Hey, Ralph, come down here a minute. There’s someone
I want you to meet.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be right down.”

Craig looked my card over. “It’s a nice place you have over there. Too bad about George,
though.”

I crinkled my face. “I agree.” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Did you know him?”

“Not all that well.” Craig leaned his arm across the top of the register. “George
pretty much kept to himself. I understand he was a hard worker, but wheat futures
aren’t what they used to be. I think perhaps he’d fallen on hard times.”

I tilted my head and moved in closer. “Really?”

“Sure, happens a lot.” Craig tapped my card along the edge of the register. “Farming’s
a gamble no matter what you grow or raise. I think it’s why George was all fired up
about your business being wheat-free. He must have felt his livelihood was at stake.”

“It wasn’t.” I crossed my arms. “You’d have to be pretty scared to think my little
store would make or break your farm. Do you think he owed anyone money?”

“I don’t know. Ed at the bank could tell you.” He tilted his head and gave a slight
shrug. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

Another man walked down the aisle toward us. He looked a lot like Craig only he was
older and had darker hair. His brown eyes were gentle.

“Hello,” he said. “You’re the gal who opened the new bakery, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.” I pulled a second card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “I’m Toni
Holmes.”

“I’ve heard great things about your bakery,” Ralph said. He was a big man with brown
hair, a soft jaw, and the hands of a man who worked in an office his whole life. “My
son, Tommy, has autism. He’s sensitive to a lot of things. I’ve read gluten-free foods
might help some of those kids.”

That made me smile. I loved to talk to people who understood GF. “A lot of people
dismiss it as a fad, but if you’re sensitive to your environment or have bad allergies,
then sometimes GF can help. I have celiac disease, which makes me more than sensitive.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop in and buy a few things to send to my son, but things have
been a bit crazy here at the pharmacy.”

“It didn’t help that the police had the front of my store roped off.” I tilted my
head. “Did you know George Meister?”

“Yes, we went to school together.” Ralph’s mouth twitched. “His family patronized
the pharmacy since it first went into business.”

“I was surprised I haven’t heard anything about his family.”

“His mom died a few years ago.” Ralph shrugged. “And George was real mean. He pushed
everyone away.”

“Sounds like you knew him well.”

“Only a bit,” Ralph said. “Like I said, we went to school together and I’d run into
him here sometimes or at the Grey Goose. He was even meaner drunk, if you can believe
that. Man’s brain was all in his seat.”

“He hated the idea of my bakery,” I mentioned. “The police believe he was in the process
of spray painting the front of my building with graffiti when he died.”

“Idiot. No wonder there aren’t too many people missing him. I bet there are even a
few who are happy he’s gone.”

“I didn’t know him well enough to be one of them,” I said for the record.

“What’s it like being a person of interest?” Craig leaned in closer. “Did they stick
you in an interrogation room and question you for hours?”

My eyes widened in horror. I grabbed on to the cool glass top of the counter to balance
myself. “Not yet. God, I hope never.” I tried not to shiver.

“Tasha tells me they took your computer.”

“Yes, but she’s letting me use hers until I get mine back.”

“Tasha is a great woman, isn’t she?” His eyes glistened. The guy had it bad.

“One of the best. Um, listen, one more thing.” I straightened.

“Sure. . . .”

“Did either of you guys happen to be in the store around 5:30
A.M.
the other morning?”

“Are you asking if we saw the murder?” Craig rested his elbow on the counter and placed
his chin on his fist. “No. We were here, though.”

“Yes,” Ralph said. “I came in early to work on the quarterly taxes.”

“And I came with him to set up the store for the Halloween season.” Craig waved his
free hand and I noted the two aisles of costumes and decorations. “Need anything?”

“Um, no, but thanks for the info. And it was so nice to meet you.” I shook Ralph’s
hand.

“I’ll make it a priority to come by your shop sometime soon.”

“Great,” I said. “Don’t forget, you get a free cookie with coffee purchase. Oh, and
I do ship if you think there’s anything your son might like.”

“Thanks,” Ralph said, his eyes shining. “That’s good to know.”

I headed to the door when Craig stopped me.

“We’ll see you Friday, right?”

I froze, my hand on the door, and made a face. Crap. “I forgot. I was asked to cater
George’s memorial service on Friday.”

“What time?” Craig straightened. His dark eyebrows went up.

“I think it’s at seven.”

He visibly relaxed. “Then we’ll have dinner after the service. Dinner was at eight,
we’ll push it to nine in case anyone else wants to attend the memorial.”

“That’s awesome. Thanks.” I left the pharmacy thinking how nice the two brothers were.
Plus they liked my business. It was also good to know other people were on Main Street
early in case I felt threatened. I had their number. I just might give them a call.

• • •

T
he men’s clothing store was next door to the pharmacy. The manager’s eyes narrowed
as I walked in the door. “May I help you?”

He was a slight man of about five-foot-eight. It was difficult for him to look down
at me but he managed. He was also dressed in a suit that cost more than my entire
wardrobe. I tried not to think about it as I handed him my card. “Hi, I’m Toni Holmes.
I opened up the gluten-free bakery across the street.”

He took the card and carefully read it. I was suddenly thankful for the high-quality
paper and embossed gold lettering. “Baker’s Treat . . .” he muttered.

“It’s a Play on words.”

“Oh, I understand the reference, Ms. Holmes.” He held the card between two fingers
as if it were contaminated or something. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m going around introducing myself to my neighbors. Sort of a hi, I’m here, maybe
we can share customers kind of thing.” I gave him my best hello-neighbor smile.

His right cheek twitched and he crossed his arms. “I don’t see a lot of donut-eaters
in my shop.”

“Right.” I looked around. He had some really nice stuff. I mean, if I were a guy I’d
shop there. “If you bring the card in, it’s good for a free cookie with coffee purchase.”

He held the card out. “I don’t eat cookies.”

I had to admit, he looked like he didn’t eat cookies or much of anything at all. “I
have a wide variety of free trade gourmet coffees and espresso. Come on over and your
first cup is on me.”

His thin lips went thinner. “I don’t know . . .”

“Is it because of the murder? Because I really had nothing to do with George ending
up in the horse trough.” I was getting desperate.

His dark eyes narrowed. “George Meister was an egotistical bastard. The last thing
I care about is his murder.”

“Wow, sounds to me like George was not your favorite person.” Maybe I still had a
chance to connect with this guy.

“The man had the gall to complain that I rented tuxedos for too much money. He called
them cheap monkey suits. I’ll have you know they are Armani and Hugo Boss.” He sniffed
and tugged on his jacket.

“Clearly all of George’s taste was in his mouth,” I said. “Seriously, you’ll love
the coffee. You won’t get coffee this good anywhere else in town. Come over sometime
and enjoy a cup on me.”

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps I will.”

I did a mental “Yes!” and fist pump when he slid the card into his jacket pocket.
“Thank you very much. I look forward to seeing you, Mister . . .”

“Todd, Todd Woles.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Woles.” I headed toward the door and then paused. “You wouldn’t
have been here at work when George was killed, would you?”

“Oh, God no, my store opens at ten. I usually get here at nine-thirty. I’m not a morning
person.”

Not being a morning person was one thing I understood. “I don’t think of it as morning.”
I gave him a half shrug. “I think of it as very late at night. See you soon.” I waved.
It appeared as if George wasn’t well liked, which was interesting considering Sherry
had set up a memorial.

The last business on this side of the street was an office supply store. The manager
wasn’t in so I left my card with the clerk. The young guy had no clue who George was
and, like the men’s clothing store, the office supply store didn’t open until ten.

I crossed the street and stopped at the antique store. It was dark and stuffed with
all kinds of things, very few of which might be considered real antiques. But I’d
learned from my mom a long time ago that antiquing was an art. It wasn’t about buying
real antiques in an antique store; it was about finding a treasure in a pile of junk.

The bells on the door jangled and I heard a muffled, “Hello, be right with you,” from
somewhere in the back. The place smelled of dust and old people, and the floor creaked
under my feet as I navigated the tiny isle between “displays.”

“Hey,” I called.

“Oh, hi!” A little old woman with white hair, which was teased and sprayed within
an inch of its life, popped out from behind a chest of drawers. When I said little,
I meant little. She might have come up to my shoulder. She wore a simple sweater set
and pair of synthetic slacks with the crease sewn down the front.

“Hi, are you the manager?” I asked.

“Owner slash manager, Celia Warren.” She held out her hand. “That’s me.”