Sweet Ginger Poison

“Here it is.” Navy threw it on the desk. “Now give me
my money.”

“I don’t have it right now.”

Navy’s headache began to pound. It was only 7:15 a.m.,
but his brain cells were already screaming for caffeine. His eyes grew
unnaturally large as his hands morphed into fists.

“Look, five thousand is a lot of money.”

“If you couldn’t pay it, you shouldn’t have promised
it. That was the deal. And I’m gonna get my money one way or another—even if I
have to beat it out of you.”

“No, no. Look, I didn’t know when you’d come. I don’t
keep that much cash on hand. I’ll have to go to the bank. Come back at ten.”

“You better not be lying to me,” he said, beginning to
grit his teeth.

“I’ll have the money for you at ten.”

Navy turned and stormed toward the door.

“Whoa. Settle down. How about a cup of coffee for the
road?”

Navy stopped at the door and looked back. It would
save him a trip to McDonalds. “Sure.” He took a deep breath. The money would not
solve all his problems. But at least he wouldn’t lose his car. And he could
take Kayla out for an expensive dinner tonight.

“Here you go. You need cream or sugar?”

“No.” Navy grabbed the Styrofoam cup. “See you at
ten.” He walked out.

The alley was pitch black. How fortunate that the
overhead light was burned out. He stood for a moment as his eyes adjusted to
the darkness. Gradually the black Corvette began to materialize in the faint
moonlight. He made his way around to the driver’s side and got in. Sunrise would
come at any moment. He started the engine and carefully eased up on the clutch.
The powerful automobile crept slowly through the alley.

Navy held his breath as he pulled onto the road. He
looked around. No witnesses. He turned on his headlights.

Coreyville Country Home was two miles north of town.
He hated the place. The name implied a peaceful setting with fresh air,
colorful butterflies and shady trees. And it did have all those things—much
like a cemetery. It was really just a place you go to die.

Navy Newcomb was born into money. Big money. Not that
his mother had ever shared much of it with him. She had paid him to do well in
high school. He’d never amount to anything, she always said, unless he got a
good education. After graduating near the top of his class, he had no problem
getting admission to The University of Texas.

But the summer after his freshman year he overheard
his mother talking to the family lawyer. There was a trust fund waiting for him
to turn twenty-one. His father had set it up before he was born. So, his
sophomore year was all about partying. What was the point of a college degree
anyway? Navy would never have to work.

After flunking out of college and goofing off for a
couple more years, he turned twenty-one and took possession of his two million
dollars. He had been disappointed that it wasn’t more.

That was nearly four years ago, before the sports
cars, boats, hookers, gambling, and drugs. All he had left was the Corvette.
And it was the only thing that made him feel cool. And even
that
wasn’t
really his. Not until he paid off the bank.

But things were looking up. Now he’d have the money to
pay off the loan. And sooner or later his mother would start to believe that he
had changed. This volunteer work would convince the crazy old woman to give him
more money so he could rebuild his life.

It was a little creepy though. Taking over the
delivery job. The old man had been doing it for a couple of years. Then one
morning as he was dropping off a tray of coffee cakes, he had a stroke. Right
there in the kitchen. They rushed him to the hospital. A week later he was back
at the nursing home—as a
resident
.

Navy took a sip of his coffee. Then he reached for one
of the small coffee cakes on the tray that was sitting in the passenger seat. It
was a Sweet Ginger Cake—his favorite. There was only one today. He unwrapped it
and wolfed it down in ten seconds. Delicious. He wished the cakes were normal
size rather than
personal sized
, as they called them. On the other hand,
somebody might notice if a regular size cake went missing.

When he arrived at the nursing home, he drove around
back to the kitchen entrance and got out with the tray.

He rang the bell, and one of the cooks let him in. She
took the tray from Navy and began to move the little cakes from the tray to the
counter. “You ate some of them didn’t you?”

“No, of course not. They’re for the residents.”

“Look, I understand. You’re a growing boy.”

“I’m not a boy.”

She eyed him as though he was still wealthy, and that
maybe he would be interested in an older woman like her. She was sort of
sexy—in a cafeteria-lady-with-a-hairnet kind of way.

She handed him the empty tray. “Before you go—you
wanna taste one of my cherry tarts?”

He wasn’t absolutely sure she was talking about food,
but he was still starving. “Sure. Why not.”

She went to get one and brought it back to him,
smiling. “Hope you like it.”

He set down the tray and took the tart.

“Be careful—it might be hot.”

He took a bite. “Good.”

She smiled.

He stuffed the rest of it in his mouth and mumbled,
“Very good.”

Her smile broadened. “Thanks.”

Navy began to choke.

“I’ll get you some water.” She ran to the sink.

His throat continued to tighten.

The cook returned with a glass of water, but Navy was
gone.

He ran to his car and opened the passenger door. Then
he popped the glove box.

It felt like there was a golf ball stuck in his
throat.

Navy fumbled through the contents of the glove box. He
yanked out the owner’s manual and flung it on the floorboard. Then a Dallas
map, a pile of receipts and other paperwork. Finally the glove box was empty.
Where is it?

Navy gasped for air. He would run back inside. They
had nurses. They could help him.

He stood up and staggered toward the building. The
cook ran out to help him. Everything began to swirl.

He passed out just before his face hit the pavement.

Ginger Lightley walked out her front door at precisely
7:30 a.m. The chilly January breeze was stronger than usual this morning. She
flipped up the collar of her wool coat and pulled the knit cap down over her
ears. She enjoyed the four-block stroll to her little bakery on town square.

The old city hall sat in the middle of the inner
square. The four-story red brick building and its east and west parking lots
covered two city blocks.

A variety of attractive old shops occupied the outer
square. The most popular destination was Coreyville Coffee Cakes. Ginger was
the proud owner and creator of recipes.

Sometimes she missed the old days, when she used to
fire up the ovens at 6:00 a.m., mix the ingredients, and bake dozens of cakes,
alongside her dear friend and hard worker, Addie Barneswaller. Nowadays Ginger
had several employees. Her only job was to create a new recipe each month.

Coreyville Coffee Cakes would not have been a success
without Addie. She was black, six-foot-two, and weighed around 190 pounds—every
ounce of it muscle. She looked more like a pro basketball player than a
61-year-old cake baker. Ginger had a hard time believing that they were the
same age.

One time Ginger demanded to see Addie’s birth
certificate. She just laughed it off as a nice compliment. Addie had eight
siblings. That was a lot of kids for her parents to keep up with. Ginger
wondered if the parents had lost track of some of their ages.

She would never forget the day they met. Addie had
just started working in the cafeteria at the elementary school where Ginger was
teaching second grade. That was twenty-nine years ago—right before the bakery opened.

The first week of school, Ginger was escorting her class
through the lunch line when one of the boys looked up at Addie and made an ugly
remark about the chicken fried steak. Some of the other children started
laughing. Addie slowly leaned over the counter and peered directly into the
boy’s eyes with such intensity that Ginger half expected the kid to burst into
flames.

Ginger considered intervening to save the boy, but the
little brat had been driving her up the wall all morning. So, she hesitated.
Then she saw the puddle which was beginning to form on the floor, between the
boy’s shoes.

Addie told Ginger later that she felt bad about what
happened. But from then on, the children knew better than to smart off to the
big scary cafeteria lady.

That afternoon Ginger overheard a boy warning his
friends. “Don’t say anything to her. Don’t even
look
at her. ‘Cause if
she gives you the evil eye, you’re gonna wet your pants.” His buddies began to
laugh. But the boy was insistent. “I’m not kidding. That’s what she did to
Billy Jones. He wet his pants and started crying—right in front of the whole
class.” The other boys suddenly quit laughing. The fear spread like a virus
throughout the school. And that’s how Addie became a legend.

Ginger opened the door, anticipating the glorious
aroma of freshly baked coffee cakes and perked coffee. There was nothing quite
like that first whiff in the morning.

And there it was. It seemed even more intoxicating
than usual.

All they had to do was get people into the shop. Once
inside, it was nearly impossible for them to walk away without making a
purchase. It wasn’t fair, really. Ginger almost felt like a drug dealer.

By the time the shop opened at 7:30, Addie and her new
assistant, Lacey Greendale, had already baked dozens of the little cakes.

Ginger’s husband, Lester, God rest his soul, had never
cared much for cakes. They were too sweet—especially the ones with icing. But
then, as his 30th birthday approached, she had made up her mind to create a
cake he’d love. She started with a basic coffee cake recipe and then tried to
improve on it.

After throwing away several nine-inch round failures,
she came up with the idea of mini-cakes. She ordered a special mini-loaf pan
that was actually a set of six 4½-inch by 2½-inch individual pans connected by
rods. It worked out great, allowing her to test six recipes at once.

Finally, after eighteen tries, Ginger had a
masterpiece. She named it Sweet Ginger Cake. How could Lester resist a cake
with
that
name? She wanted it to be a surprise. But what if he hated
it—in front of all their friends? She decided to let him sample it early. He
could still pretend that it was a surprise.

She held her breath as he took that first bite. To
her, the cake was perfect. But she was still nervous about what he’d think. She
couldn’t tell at first. He appeared to be trying to determine each and every
ingredient. “Well?”