Gluten for Punishment (4 page)

“He agreed it was a simple prank,” I said impatiently.

“It won’t be a simple prank if you end up in the hospital.” Grandma Ruth nodded. She
went into a coughing fit and Bill thwacked her on the back a couple of times. She
recovered and choked out, “Thanks.”

“You’re most welcome.” Bill went back to scarfing dessert.

I tilted my head. “Grandma, why weren’t you at the ribbon cutting this morning?” I
raised an eyebrow. Not that anyone could tell. Unlike Grandma, my hair was light enough
you could barely see the red. Mostly it left a curly, frizzy mass of red-gold like
a halo around my head. And my eyebrows had to be drawn in when I put on makeup. Grandma
Ruth used to call me “the Golden Gollywog.”

“Grandma?”

She hung her head slightly and played with the paper. “I had a Scrabble match.”

“She’s in the state semifinals,” Bill said proudly.

“Grandma, it was my grand opening. You knew I needed all the help I could get. It’s
what a big family’s for. . . .”

Grandma put down her plate and coffee mug. She took a moment to scratch her chin.
Her nails against the five o’clock shadow sounded like sandpaper. For as long as I
could remember, Grandma Ruth shaved her chin with an electric razor and cackled the
whole time. With a happy glint in her eye, she would tell us kids that she bet we’d
never seen that before.

I sighed internally. “What?”

“You know I love you, kiddo, right?”

Okay, I’d Play along. “Yes, I know you love me.”

“And you know I’ll always be there for you . . .”

“Grandma—”

“She hates Lois Striker with a passion,” Bill interjected. He drained his coffee cup
and set the empty dishes on the now empty trays. “Everybody knows it.”

“The woman is a nosy busybody.” Grandma stood, brushing the crumbs off her and onto
the floor. “And worse, she spits.”

“Oh, Grandma, you should have brought Bill to run interference for you.”

“I had a rush job come in this morning.” Bill stood and got Grandma’s hat for her.
“Avery Stuart’s favorite cat died last night. He needed her stuffed for the memorial
at the senior center on Friday. Which reminds me, I gave him your number. There are
a lot of us old farts with special dietary needs.” Bill patted his wide stomach. “Your
gluten-free desserts would really help with the mourning process.”

“Sure.” I got up. Bill was a taxidermist. He and Grandma Ruth had met in art class
in the early 1980s. In her mind, he was a sculptor who used skin and bones to create
his vision. The thought made me shudder, but I suppressed it and plastered a wide
smile on my face. “I’ll make a note to send Avery a sympathy card.”

I walked them to the front door.

“Want to know the best part?” Bill’s eyes twinkled.

I kept my best poker face on. “Sure?”

“The cat was completely black with green eyes. It’ll be perfect for the center’s Halloween
party at the end of the month. Avery picked the high-backed hissing pose. He said
it most reminded him of her.”

I swallowed and tried to think of something to say, but my mind had gone blank.

“I tell you what, kiddo.” Grandma patted me on the arm as they stepped onto the porch.
“I’ll get a list of everyone who was at your coffee from Pete. He owes me. Then Bill
and I’ll see what we can find out. Seniors stick together. Maybe they’ll tell us something
they wouldn’t tell Chief Blaylock.”

“Hey, Ruthie, you can write a blog on this,” Bill said. “I’m sure it’ll get people
talking. You know how much they loved your column before Smith retired you.”

Grandma lit a cigarette, held it in one hand, and smacked Bill on the arm with the
other. “You are one smooth talker, my friend.”

“That’s what you like about me.” Bill held out his arm and Grandma put hers through
his.

“Take care, kiddo,” Grandma said, squinting through a haze of smoke. “Lock your door.”

“What about Tim?”

“He knows where the key is.” Grandma leaned heavily on Bill as they walked down the
ramp my responsible brother, Richard, had built on one side of the porch stairs.

I watched as they made their way slowly across the dying grass to Bill’s big Lincoln.
The giant elms in the small front yard were nearly bare, and the wind whipped the
branches about in a good imitation of a scary movie.

I waved as Grandma got in the car and rolled down the window to stick her cigarette
out.

“Lock the door!” she ordered before starting another coughing fit.

“Always,” I called back and rubbed my arms against the sudden drop in temperature.
I waited until they pulled away, then went inside and locked the door behind me. But
it didn’t matter much. Everyone in town either had a key or knew where we kept the
spare. That was the joy and the curse of living in a small town. Everyone knew everything.
So why didn’t anyone know who the flour bomber was?

“It was a prank,” I muttered and cleaned up the dishes. The clock chimed midnight
and echoed through the big house. For the first time since I moved in, I was glad
for the dead bolt I had put on my bedroom door.

CHAPTER
4

T
asha called me at ten the next morning. It was unusual for her to call during work
time. I grabbed my cell phone at the sound of her ring tone. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, sounding strangely breathless. “How are you?”

I glanced around at the small crowd in the bakery enjoying seconds on coffee and whispering
about yesterday. I turned my back on them and dropped my voice. “Minimal health effects,
nothing I can’t handle. What’s up?”

“I have a date.”

Was that glee or terror in her voice? “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes . . . I think so . . . yes.”

“Then that’s really great—”

“I’ve been lying to you,” she said quickly. I waited but she didn’t elaborate.

“About what?” The mirror on the kitchen door told me people stared. I turned to face
them and they all looked down. I reached over and turned up the peppy music, which
was supposed to make them all buy more pastries.

“Do you have time for lunch?” Tasha asked.

“Carrie doesn’t come in until 3:30
P.M.
,” I reminded her. Carrie Panken was a second cousin who was still in high school.
She was a cute little thing with curly blonde hair—the pretty kind—and baby-doll blue
eyes. She was also smart as a whip and more responsible than anyone else in the family.
She worked in the bakery, as cashier and server, four hours every day after school,
which gave me time to work on Internet orders.

“No problem. I’ll bring lunch.”

“Okay,” I caved.

“Super! See you then.” Tasha had gone out of her way yesterday to be helpful. Listening
to her explain why she’d lied to me was the least I could do.

My therapist in Chicago would have said something about slipping boundaries. Thankfully
she wasn’t here, and I wasn’t about to tell her.

Two hours later, most of the customers had decided nothing as exciting as yesterday’s
flour adventure was going to happen and had gone on to other things. The display counter
was now half empty, proving I’d done a steady business. Maybe there was an upside
to that awful picture.

“The only bad publicity is no publicity,” I reminded myself as I wiped down the tables
and refilled the remaining patrons’ coffee cups. Someone asked why I didn’t offer
Cokes. The main reason was that soda of most varieties had gluten in it. Anything
with artificial flavors usually meant malt or wheat or barley. Instead I offered coffees,
sparkling and plain waters, and juices. I couldn’t claim the bakery was gluten-free
if I didn’t really mean it.

By lunchtime, the shop was empty. The doorbells jingled, and I looked up from refilling
the display case to see Tasha standing there with two bags marked with the G
RANDMA’S
D
INER
logo and a sheepish look on her face. The grandma in question was my cousin Lucy,
who was only two years older than I was. In the family tradition, she had had her
first babies very young and they had had their babies young, and now my forty-two-year-old
cousin was a grandma. In between helping plan her children’s weddings and baby showers,
she’d opened the town’s favorite place to share gossip and French fries.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Tasha said back and looked around at the empty store. “Are you ready for lunch?”

“Sure. Do you want coffee, juice, or water?” I asked, breaking the slight tension.

Tasha’s shoulders relaxed and she moved to the last table near the back. “Coffee,
please. I think the weather is finally changing. It’s like fifty degrees out there.”
She put the bags on the table and took off her jacket.

I handed her a mug of her favorite mocha with a dash of soy milk then took the chair
across from her to keep my eye on the front door. I pulled out a heavy paper cup of
the best gluten-free chili this side of the Mississippi, along with a spoon and napkin.
Since celiac disease tends to run in families, Lucy knew enough not to thicken her
diner chili with flour or use beans canned in sauce.

“I’m going to dive right in. . . .” Tasha’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes sparkled.
“I’ve been dating Craig Kennedy for nearly a month now.”

I froze partway through taking the recyclable cover off my soup. “You’ve been dating—as
in seeing a man?”

“Yes.”

“For over a month . . .”

“Yep.” She nodded. Her mouth was in a straight line, but her eyes looked happy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I let go of the lid and leaned forward. Tasha might have
been nine hundred miles away when I lived in Chicago, but we’d talked and texted every
day. In fact, she had been my sole source of comfort during my divorce. “I mean look
at you, you look happy. How could I not have noticed?”

“You were busy with your big opening, and you’re doing all the online order fulfillment
work. . . .”

“But we’ve seen each other almost every day.” I cringed at the whine in my voice.
“How come you didn’t tell me? How could I not have known?”

Tasha leaned her elbows on the table and played with the noodle soup in front of her.
Her eyes barely met mine as her bottom lip stuck out. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Oh, boy. I sat back. My feelings were hurt. Seriously hurt. Best friends shared everything . . .
especially things like when they were worried or happy . . . or dating someone new.
At least we had. “Why not?” The words came out in a whisper as I tried hard to keep
the tears out of my throat.

“Oh, no, honey.” Tasha reached up and patted my hand. “Not just you, I didn’t want
anyone to know.”

I wrinkled my forehead and tilted my head. “Why? Is he an axe murderer? Oh my God”—my
eyes grew wide—“did you find him in jail?”

“Oh, oh, no.” Tasha giggled. “I found him at the bank.”

I shook my head. “So he’s a bank robber?”

“No silly, he’s an adjunct professor at the college. He was at the bank because he
works there part-time. It’s Craig Kennedy.”

Kennedy. Wait. “The younger or older Kennedy boy?” I had vaguely known both Kennedys
since grade school, but they were both ahead of me and looked like bookends. I knew
one of the dark, curly-haired guys was Ralph and the other was Craig, but I simply
had never taken the time to figure out which was which.

“Craig is younger by a year. He was a couple grades ahead of us. Ralph is the older
one who owns Walcott’s Drug Emporium.”

“I don’t get it. I mean, he’s a teacher at the college, right? He works part-time
at the bank? Why all the secrecy?”

She looked down and stirred her soup. “I was afraid it might not work out.”

I kind of understood her fear. Tasha didn’t have as big a family as I did. In fact,
it had only been her and her mom growing up. So, Tasha was a little naive when it
came to men. Which may be why she’d been married three times, each man more useless
than the last. Her first husband, Al Henly, was Kip’s father. He’d run out on her
the day Kip was diagnosed, leaving her to raise a four-year-old with special needs
all by herself. Not that Tasha wasn’t doing a bang-up job without him, but it was
tough when all she had was her mom to lean on. Then there was Buck Giest, who lasted
six months before he ran off with a female trucker out at the Trucker’s Stop next
to the turnpike exit. Last was Charlie Jones, who was currently serving time for bigamy.
At least Charlie had been sorry enough to give her the money she needed for the down
payment on the Welcome Inn
back when getting mortgage financing was easy.

“I know you might be nervous, but this is a Kennedy we’re talking about. . . .”

“Exactly.” Her eyes grew wide. “A nice guy, well educated, working two jobs, and a
stand-up member of the community. I didn’t think it would last.” Tasha studied the
wide, fat noodles on her spoon. Her pretty blue gaze zeroed in on me. “I didn’t want
to get anyone’s hopes up . . . in case.”

“In case he didn’t like Kip,” I finished.

“Exactly.” Tasha appeared relieved.

I guess I could understand her worry. I did tend to push when I thought something
was good for a friend of mine. I would have been all over this, telling her what she
should or should not do where Kip was concerned. The thought made me blush a bit.
“But you’re telling me now because it’s working out?” I picked up my spoon and tried
to appear casual.

“Yes.” Tasha waved her spoon, dropping the noodles back into her soup. If it had been
me, there would be noodles on the wall by now. Not only was she pretty, but my friend
had excellent hand-eye coordination. “He’s been stopping by a few nights and getting
to know Kip.” Tasha appeared to glow.

My friend had been afraid to tell me. Boy, did I feel like an idiot.

“Kip loves him. They’ve started this leaf collection. Craig’s a literature professor,
but he was in 4-H in junior high. He saw Kip was picking up leaves and showed him
how to press them. Then he brought over this big book and they’ve been identifying
each one.” She grew quiet. “You know how Kip obsesses with things.”

I did. It was part of Asperger’s. I patted her hand and didn’t say anything.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Craig doesn’t seem to mind at all.”

I handed her a napkin, and she wiped her eyes. “In fact, he said he has a nephew in
Louisiana with autism. Then he asked me how I felt about maybe going on a real date.
Maybe taking Kip.”

“Oh, sweetie, what did you say?”

“I said yes.” Tasha nodded. “I wanted you to be the first to really meet him . . .”
She turned and looked behind her and waved. The drugstore was across the street from
my bakery, and a man leaned against one of the brass sculptures out front. The city
had commissioned them from the college over the last two years, in preparation for
the tourism boom the new lake would bring.

“Is that him?” I asked as he separated himself from the life-size brass figure of
a cowboy. “Has he been standing there this whole time?”

“Gosh, no, he was in the drugstore talking to his brother. I asked him to give me
ten minutes before he came out.”

“Oh.” I supposed that made me feel better. I didn’t want to have been stared at this
entire time without being aware of it. The door opened, and Craig Kennedy stepped
inside. Tasha jumped up and took him by the arm, bringing him over to the table. I
felt awkward sitting there looking up at the two of them, so I stood.

Craig Kennedy looked the same as he did in high school: about six foot with wide shoulders,
a narrow waist, and nice jeans. He wore a blue dress shirt rolled up at the wrists
tucked into his jeans. He had a thirtysomething male jawline that was just this side
of soft from working a desk, but the mouth was the same; the nose, those eyes all
held the stamp of Ireland on them. His curly hair was thinning now and cut short.

“Hey, Toni.” He stuck out his hand. “Great to see you back in town.”

“Hi, Craig.” I shook his hand. “Have a seat.” I waved at the other two chairs at the
table. “Can I get you anything? Piece of pie? Coffee? Juice?”

“Tasha tells me you make a mean pecan pie.” He sat down, scooting his chair next to
hers. It kind of warmed my heart when he draped his arm across the back of her seat.

“Today’s version has chocolate in it.”

“Great.”

I busied myself slicing pie and pouring coffee, but my attention was on Tasha. Her
explanation for hiding her relationship sounded reasonable, so why did I feel slighted?
I guess because I thought we were best friends, who shared everything. “Cream or sugar?”
I asked as I brought the pie and coffee mug over.

“Black’s fine, thanks.” He waited for me to sit.

I did and stirred my now cold chili. I watched as he dug a fork into the pie and took
a bite. His blue eyes lit up. “This is really very good.”

“Thank you.”

“Every bit as tasty as Tasha claims.”

I smiled. “Tasha and Kip are my testers. Nothing goes on the menu that hasn’t been
approved by them.” I took a swig from my bottled water.

“We were wondering . . .” Tasha began. Oh, boy, I should have seen this coming a mile
off. First the guilt, now the payback. I tried not to sigh.

“We want to have a dinner party to get our friends together.” Craig took hold of Tasha’s
hand and kissed it.

“We’d love it if you could come.”

Wow . . . okay. I’d expected them to ask me to take Kip for a while. Not that I wouldn’t.
I love the little guy and I knew Tasha never gets away, therefore I assumed . . .
Darn it. I was not having a good day. Maybe I could blame the flour I’d snorted yesterday.

“I’d love to. When?”

“Friday night.” Tasha rubbed Craig’s arm. “I know it’s short notice, but I promise
not to set you up with anyone. Unless you want to be set up. . . .”

“Or already have a date, then feel free to bring him.”

I saw Tasha kick Craig under the table, and laughed. “I’ll come, and no, I won’t have
a date. Do you need me to bake anything?”

“We do plan on going gluten-free, but I’m cooking this time. This is my dinner party
and you deserve to come as a guest.”