Éclair and Present Danger (9 page)

Bridget's head parted company with the back of the chair as she, too, struggled to her feet. “Part of me thinks yes, and part of me thinks no.”

“Why the no?” Winnie asked. “I mean, it seems pretty likely to me on account of what we know about the flyers and Bart's disinterest in leaving his home anytime soon.”

“I don't know. Call it a nagging feeling.”

Winnie meandered her way back to the couch but didn't sit, her thoughts far too jumbled not to keep walking, keep processing. On one hand, it seemed to make perfect sense to go to the Silver Lake Police Department and at least share their suspicion, but, on the other hand, what did she know? She baked desserts for a living—or did . . .

And will again!

She rounded the back of the couch and headed toward the kitchen, the timer on her oven beginning its final second-by-second countdown.

Concentrate on the Dessert Squad, dummy . . .

Leave the police work to the police . . .

“Besides, we can't forget what Parker said about Sissy and Ava,” Bridget reminded.

Winnie stilled her mitted hand on the oven door and waited for the official beep. “You mean about Sissy telling Ava to trample Bart's flower bed on the day I found his body?”

“It seems to me that woman had to be mighty confident Bart wasn't going to come tearing out of the house screaming at her precious angel again.”

When the cake pan was safely in the center of the cooling rack, Winnie removed the oven mitt from her hand and hung it on the magnetized hook on the side of the refrigerator. “The kid lost a tooth, Bridget. Do you really think that's worthy of murdering someone? I mean at least with Mark you can see how his actions might have been propelled by greed. A house like Bart's, on a street like Serenity Lane, could potentially go for some nice money. A lost tooth can't compete with that. Not even close.”

Bridget wandered back into the kitchen, stopped in front of the cooling cake, and sniffed. “I could take offense over the way you seem oblivious to my career, dear, but I won't. Simply see that I get a piece of this marvelous creation when it's ready, and I'll overlook it.”

“What are you talking about? I—I read your column.”

The woman's left eyebrow shot upward.

“What?” Winnie protested. “I
do
.”

The right eyebrow rose in solidarity with the left.

“M-most of the time,” she whispered.

Bridget crossed her arms, only to uncross them in favor of drumming the fingers of her right hand atop the counter. “What's the last column of mine you remember reading?”

She searched her memory bank but came up empty. Unless—

“You wrote about Greg Stevens. You called him Master Sergeant Hottie!”

Thank you, Renee . . .

Bridget's eyes narrowed on her face.

Uh-oh.

“Did I call him that in the
body
of my column, dear?”

She swallowed. Could she claim a sudden urge to use the restroom and call Renee for help?

“That's what I thought.” Bridget shuffled over to the top of the staircase that would take her past Mr. Nelson's door and out into the late afternoon sunshine. But when she reached the exit, she turned and made a beeline back to the window and the cat licking herself on its sill. Lovey retracted her tongue from her hind leg, looked up at Bridget, and began to purr. “This pageant Ava was supposed to be in this weekend wasn't just about winning a sash and wearing a cute little crown for photographers, Winnie. It was about much more than that.”

“Oh?”

“There were rumors that a talent scout was to be in attendance as a favor to a judge he'd known since college.”

She made a mental note to read Bridget's column on a weekly basis and then forced herself to focus on what the woman was saying.

“Sissy was absolutely convinced this talent scout was going to take one look at Ava and sign her for commercials, soap operas, prime-time television, movies, you name it.”

“I would imagine
most
of the moms associated with this pageant probably believed the same thing, Bridget.”

“True. But how many of those moms had the foresight to contact the man ahead of time to tell him about their daughter?” Bridget's hand moved around to Lovey's chin. “And how many of them were actually contacted by that same scout two weeks ago for additional pictures and a résumé?”

She started to lean against the refrigerator but stopped as the woman's words took hold. “Seriously? He really contacted Sissy for pictures and a résumé?”

Bridget stopped petting Lovey to nod. “He did. From what Sissy told me when it first happened, this guy thought Ava would be perfect for a commercial he was helping to cast for this coming week. In New York. He was to meet
Sissy and Ava after the pageant to sign the papers and, potentially, take them back to New York with him that very night.”

“So why couldn't that still happen?”

“It was a toothpaste commercial, dear. Teeth are rather essential, don't you think?”

“W
hat about a dessert for someone who's fit to be tied and needs a treat to calm them down?”

Winnie looked up from the notepad in front of her and smiled at Mr. Nelson across the porch table. “I'm listening . . .”

“You could call it Fit To Be Tied.” Mr. Nelson dug his knife into the margarine container, slathered the butter substitute onto his second of three croissants, and then pointed at Winnie's list. “Or maybe Hopping Mad.”

“Those are good, Mr. Nelson, but I'm trying to incorporate the problem my dessert will solve with the actual name of the dessert. Like, Don't-Be-Blue Berry Pie for someone who is feeling sad.” She set down her pen long enough to take a sip of coffee and then returned to her notes and the slowly growing list of items for the Dessert Squad's menu.

The man took a bite of his croissant and then popped a blueberry into his mouth from the bowl Winnie had placed in the center of the table. “People get mad, too, Winnie.”

“I know that, Mr. Nelson. And it's certainly a problem worthy of a dessert rescue, but I need to equate it with a specific—”

“Heck, we saw plenty of examples of that with Bart these last few weeks,” he said, helping himself to an entire handful of blueberries.

He tried to sound removed, as if it was just another morning on the porch, but Winnie knew her friend was still shaken by what had happened across the street. “The police will figure out what happened to him, Mr. Nelson.”

“If Bart were twenty-five, instead of eighty-five, I could believe that. But I don't think getting to the bottom of a crime against us old folks carries the same urgency as, say, that bad stretch of road on the north side of town where all those accidents keep happening.”

“Bart was
suffocated
,” she reminded him. “They can't ignore that.”

“Maybe they can't. But they can control where it falls on the priority list.” Mr. Nelson returned to his butter knife and the last of his croissants. “I suspect the person who did this is right under our noses.”

“Then we'll figure this out, Mr. Nelson. With or without the police.”

His hand trembled ever so slightly as he placed the knife back on the table and brought the croissant to his mouth. “And if we do,” he said, winking, “that lazy, good-for-nothing Chief Rankin will be seeing red.”

Seeing red . . .

Seeing red—

“That's it!” She tightened her grip on her pen and added another dessert to her menu. “Mr. Nelson, you did it!”

He stopped chewing and tapped his hearing aids. “I didn't hide anything.”

The momentary confusion born on his words quickly gave way to understanding. “You did it, Mr. Nelson.
Did
it.”

“Oh.” The man leaned across his now-empty plate. “Did what?”

“You just came up with my next dessert—Seeing Red Velvet Cake.”

Mr. Nelson smiled triumphantly. “My parents always used to tell me I was one smart cookie.”

Smart cookie . . .

One smart cookie . . .

“One Smart Cookie!” She returned to her list again as her mind raced ahead to the various choices that could be placed in parentheses on the menu—chocolate chip, double chocolate fudge, butterscotch, et cetera. “A perfect choice for a really good report card or some other school-related milestone . . . Mr. Nelson, these are awesome. Thank you!”

*   *   *

W
ith the help of her index finger, Winnie ticked off the boxes she'd opened in relation to the shipping order in her opposite hand.

Yup. She'd unpacked them all.

Then again, if she had, why was one of them moving?

Painfully aware of the lack of sleep she'd been getting, Winnie rubbed her eyes. When the box continued to move, she rubbed them again.

She was about to rub them a third time when her backside began to vibrate. Sliding her hand into her pocket, she pulled out her phone, checked the caller ID screen, and held the device to her ear. “Hey, Renee.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Right now? I'm staring at a box I could swear I unpacked, yet it's—it's—” She stopped, swallowed. “Moving.”

“Where's Lovey?”

“
Lovey
?”

She didn't need to see Renee's face to pick up the hint
of condescension in the woman's laugh. “You've forgotten Cat Lesson Number Two, haven't you?”

“No,” she protested. “I remember. Cats are curious. Period.”

“Well, that leads to Cat Lesson Number Three.”

The movement inside the box stopped, and she felt her shoulders relax. “You never told me there was a third lesson . . .”

“Cats like boxes.”

“Cats like—” She took a deep breath, walked over to the now-quiet box, and folded back the lid. Inside was Lovey, her ears lowering in preparation for (you guessed it) the hiss that invariably followed.

“Yup. It's Lovey . . .”

“I heard,” Renee said between sighs. “We've really got to find a way to make her like you, Winnie.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Have you tried tuna?”

“I gave her some for breakfast this morning.”

“And?”

“She hissed when I put it in her bowl, and she hissed when I asked her if it was good.”

“Have you tried petting her?”

Wedging the phone between her ear and her shoulder, Winnie looked down at the angry red line (about two inches in length, mind you) on her wrist and nodded.

“Winnie?”

“Oh. Sorry. Yes. I've tried petting her.”

“And she hissed?”

“Actually, no.” She reclaimed the phone, stuck her tongue out at the cat, and then returned to the last box she'd unpacked. “She just scratched me.”

“Oh.” Renee's yawn made her yawn, too. “I'm not sure if that's progress.”

“Yeah, me, neither.” She crouched down beside the box, glanced at the order sheet, and mentally compared it to
the items scattered across her living room floor. “The delivery guy came about an hour ago. I've got everything we need to get this Dessert Squad on the road come Monday morning.”

Renee squealed in her ear. “Really? Already? What about the menu?”

“It's coming along. I've got about a dozen desserts right now—not enough to sustain a business, but enough to get us moving. I suspect more and more will come to us as we go.” She stood, crossed to the table and the dessert list, and smiled at the last two entries. “Mr. Nelson helped me add two just this morning.”

“Okay, let me hear them.”

“Seeing Red Velvet Cake for someone who is feeling angry about something, and You Are One Smart—chocolate chip, double chocolate fudge, et cetera—Cookie for someone who just accomplished something really cool.”

“Winnie, I love them.” Renee's enthusiasm started strong but waned as she continued. “But, how are we going to get the word out? I mean, we can open for business on Monday, but if no one knows we exist, we'll spend the entire day staring at each other. Not that that's a problem, because it's not, but . . . well, I want this to work for you.”

“For
us
,” she corrected. “And it will. Bridget interviewed me yesterday for an article that is going to run in the
Silver Lake Herald
this weekend. I shared a few dessert titles with her, talked about the concept of wanting to turn someone's day around with a tasty dessert, and how the rescue theme will play out in both areas.”

“Oooh. Good . . .”

“So maybe we'll get a customer or two from that article. Then, people will see me out and about in the ambulance, and they'll call to order something, too.”

“Can I come up with a clever way to take the calls?” Renee asked. “Maybe answering them like an actual dispatcher?”

“Sure. Why not? I think that sounds like a great idea.” Movement from Lovey's box claimed her attention momentarily. Seconds later, two ears poked through the top of the box followed by two large golden eyes and a little pink tongue that unfurled along with a yawn. “I think our chat is interrupting Lovey's sleep.”

There was no sound in her ear except a very faint sniff. “Renee? You still there?”

A second sniff was followed by a third and a fourth.

“Renee? Are you okay?” she asked.

“Winnie?”

“Yes?”

“I know the concept behind the Emergency Dessert Squad is to rescue people with dessert, but it's kind of rescued me, too.”

Lovey jumped out of the box and into the next one with such force, the whole thing toppled over—Lovey and all.

Winnie laughed, brought her friend up to speed on what had just transpired, and then got back to the conversation at hand. “What do you mean the Dessert Squad has rescued you?”

“I always loved working with you at the bakery, as you know. But . . . this . . . it's different. No one has done this before. And I get to be there from the start—watching it go from an idea on paper to a reality. It's really . . .” Renee's voice petered off only to return wrapped in the kind of enthusiasm no phone line could damper. “It's really exciting.”

“For you and me, both, Renee. For you and me both.”