Gluten for Punishment Read online

  Next were GF sugar cookies cut out in the shapes of pumpkins and black cats. After all, it was October and it never hurt to offer seasonal cookies.

  The tarts were filled with either rich caramel custard or pumpkin custard. We stacked them on the serving trays, along with two dozen little quiches.

  I had spent two hours the day before talking with the local reporter, Candy Cole, about why the bakery was gluten-free. Tasha understood. Her son, Kip, had been diagnosed with Asperger’s when he was four. Special-needs children did better on allergy-free diets. It’s why I offered peanut butter baked goods but only as a special order, and those I cooked up at home, keeping them separate from the store. Cross contamination was a big concern, and I did my best to keep it from happening. Thankfully none of my nieces or nephews had special needs.

  Tasha arranged the cookies on big black platters. “Oatmeal raisin are Kip’s favorite.”

  “Take a half-dozen and set them aside,” I said and brought her a box. “I would hate to run out before he got any.”

  “Thanks.” She boxed the cookies, set them aside, then artfully stacked bottles of sparkling water. The sun sparkled through the big front windows, showing off the giant red ribbon blocking the door.

  “People are gathering outside,” Tasha warned me.

  I checked the English mantel clock, which sat on the shelf on the far wall. “They’re ten minutes early.”

  “I told you, when it comes to Chamber Coffees everyone shows up for the free food and drink. Remember not to stand too close to Lois Striker. She might be a chamber icon, but she has a tendency to spit when she talks.”

  I stuck my tongue out in an exaggerated gag reflex and Tasha laughed.

  If I were smart, I’d buddy up to Lois and try to find an in with the country club set, as they were the people in town who set the trends. Their kids were always the most popular in school, and even the senior citizens listened when a member of the country club spoke. Except my grandma Ruth, who never cared a lick about what anyone else thought, least of all the Oiltop society people.

  When I saw the photographer setting up outside, I whipped off the oversized apron and checked myself in the mirror that hung on the door to the kitchen. “And we’re on . . .” I muttered as I tried to keep my hands off my hair for fear if I touched it, it would spring free.

  “You look great.” Tasha patted me on the shoulder. “Everything looks picture-perfect and smells fabulous. You’ll blow them away.”

  “Here’s hoping.” I crossed my fingers and opened the front door. At least ten people milled about on the sidewalk. Most of them were elderly or other small-business owners looking to schmooze. To my left, Lois Striker talked to Pete Hamm, the chamber president and a personal injury lawyer. Pete smiled with relief when I waved for his attention. As he hurried away, he took a linen handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his round face. He wore an imported blue suit with pale blue shirt and striped tie. He was balding but obviously had a hairdresser who knew how to deal with it as the cut looked expensive.

  “Hi, Toni.” He held out his hand—the hand he’d just used to wipe spit off his brow. Great. I plastered on a big smile and shook it. Rocky Rhode, the chamber’s official photographer and owner of the local photo studio, Perfect Portraits, snapped a quick photo.

  “Hi, Pete.” I turned for a second shot. “Is everyone here?”

  “Still waiting on Alisa Thompson. She was promoted to community liaison for the chamber, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Of course you do. Alisa does great work, but she’s not known for being punctual.” Pete looked through the crowd. “Ah, there’s Sherry, let’s get her in on the ribbon cutting.” He waved over the fashionable brunette, who smiled like she’d just won the Miss Kansas Pageant—which she had when we were both in our early twenties. I wasn’t jealous. I simply couldn’t figure out how pageant girls did it: the pageant figure, the pageant smile, the right tone in their voice when they insisted on world peace.

  When I was in my early twenties, I wanted to be an astronaut or an architect or a paleontologist. My college counselor, on the other hand, thought my love of science made me a great candidate for weathergirl. After two semesters of learning things like the fact that humidity was actually measured by a machine mapping the amount of curl in a human hair, I dropped out and went to culinary school, where I learned that, even in the world of cooking, females still had to work twice as hard. Unless, of course, you looked like Sherry.

  “Pete, glad to see you.” She gave him a hug and a kiss on both cheeks as if she hadn’t seen him for years. Odd since they worked in the same office and, if I wasn’t mistaken, Pete was Sherry’s boss.

  “Toni!” She turned her sparkling blue eyes on me and her killer smile. “Don’t you look so cute in your outfit!” Before another thought could enter my head, she’d grabbed me and squeezed me tight with her toned arms. I awkwardly patted her shoulder. In high school, Sherry, then Waters (now Williams), ran with the popular crowd while I ran with the honors kids, the debate squad and, worse, the pep band. Good times.

  She ran her hands down my arms and took my hands in hers as she stepped back. “You look fabulous.”

  “Thank you.” I think.

  “You must be so proud of your little store. You know, gluten-free food is all the rage among the young and fit.” She nodded. “I can’t wait to pick up some more of those yummy crusty rolls I bought last week.”

  As if anything close to a crusty roll had ever passed through those lips. Really, the old saying is true: When you get to be fortysomething you must choose between your face and your figure. I chose my face. Sherry, it seemed on closer inspection, preferred a plastic surgeon.

  “Ah, there’s Alisa, the gang’s all here.” Pete puffed up as Alisa Thompson arrived. Alisa was in her mid-fifties and had been with the chamber her whole career. Her husband was a professor at the college, and while they didn’t live in my part of town, they weren’t exactly country club material either. She wore her bottle-blonde hair in a high pouf ending in an outward flip at the shoulder. Her dark glasses had rhinestones at the cat-eye tips. Her fall green suit was well-tailored and hit her hip at the right proportion to make her thick legs look slimmer as she tottered on four-inch stilettos with red bottoms. The flash of red was supposed to show off her good taste in designer shoes, but, having lived in Chicago for fifteen years, I knew a knockoff when I saw one.

  She clipped forth at snail speed, her hands full of several pairs of oversized gold scissors. “Good morning, pets.” She smiled to show off her capped teeth. “Perfect weather for a grand opening, isn’t it?”

  I glanced up at the puffy clouds in the bright blue sky. She was right. With the crowd gathered around blocking the wind, it was rather nice out.

  “Here you go, darlings.” Alisa handed the scissors to Pete, Sherry, and I, leaving one pair for herself. “Now, places, everyone.”

  We all ducked behind the ribbon in front of the open door and waited for Rocky to give us the thumbs-up from behind his camera.

  “Before we cut the ribbon,” Pete straightened, “let me thank you all for coming. It’s a wonderful thing to see Oiltop grow with new businesses. Niche bakeries like Baker’s Treat are exactly what we need to keep the downtown vibrant. With the addition of the new dam and lake, we at the chamber continue to bring new opportunities to Oiltop.”

  The crowd gave a polite round of applause. Pete smiled and waved like a politician. I wondered if he’d already started his campaign for mayor.

  “Ms. Holmes, why don’t you tell these wonderful citizens what makes your bakery special?”

  I blinked at Pete, who smiled encouragingly and waved a hand to the crowd. Darn it. I didn’t know I would have to talk. I swallowed my fear of public speaking and stumbled a step forward. “Um . . . well . . . Baker’s Treat is a gluten-free bakery.”

  “Isn’t this whole gluten-free thing a fad?” a man shouted from the crowd.

  I sq
uinted at the crowd, trying to figure out who I was addressing. “Far from it,” I said. “I mean, sure, some healthy people believe going gluten-free will help them live longer—”

  “That’s bullshit science. One barrel of good Kansas wheat feeds ten families.”

  I leaned toward Pete. “Who is that?” I whispered.

  “George Meister,” he said through his smiling teeth.

  The Meisters were longtime farmers in the area and grew primarily wheat. George was a few years older than me. Since I hadn’t lived in town for twenty years, I figured it was okay if I didn’t recognize him.

  “Hi, George.” I hoped to defuse his obvious anger by being gentle. “My bakery’s not trying to get rid of wheat or wheat products.”

  “You just said you were gluten-free.”

  “Well, right, some people—like myself—have wheat or gluten allergies. So what is good for the rest of the world could really harm us.”

  “So you’re saying wheat is bad and what, rice is good? That’s bull.”

  “No, I’m saying someone with allergies doesn’t normally get to enjoy comfort food like bread. Or . . .” My thoughts scrambled as I tried to explain. “Or even a birthday cake on her birthday. Baker’s Treat is here to change that.”

  “If you’re anti-wheat, you’re anti-Kansas. Why don’t you go back to your Yankee Chicago?”

  “George, Kansas was a free state, too,” I pointed out, thinking I was being rational. “It means we can be all-inclusive.”

  “And the Bible says, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ If you’re anti-wheat, you’re anti-Christian.”

  “Now, now.” Pete raised his hands. “Let’s give the bakery a chance, George. Like this little lady said, she ain’t trying to take away from real bread.”

  I cringed at the “real bread” statement. “My baked goods are real,” I stated. “They are made from all-natural ingredients.”

  “Like?” Lois asked, her eyes two sizes too big in her thick glasses.

  “For example, we use sweet rice flour,” I counted off on my fingers, “potato starch, tapioca, millet flour, flax, and cornstarch.”

  “Sounds nasty,” Lois said.

  My eyes grew wide. That wasn’t the slogan I wanted associated with my business. I glanced at Pete, who had turned a bit red around the collar. He was no help. I gave the crowd my biggest smile while my brain scrambled for a way to undo potential damage. “Why don’t you come in and give the pastries a try? After all, you can’t beat free tarts and pastries.”

  “I’m for the pastries,” Lois said.

  “So am I,” Pete added. “So, let’s get this ribbon cut, shall we?”

  The four of us with the big scissors slipped them over the ribbon.

  “On the count of three,” Pete said. “Smile for the camera. One . . . two . . .” Wham, something solid hit the top of the building and the sky was suddenly snowing white powder.

  I choked and coughed. Pete coughed. Sherry desperately tried to wipe off the stuff when another missile hit the bricks above us and dumped more white from the sky.

  “Damn it!” Pete shouted. “Somebody stop this nonsense. Where are the cops? Do we have a liaison officer present?”

  It was then I realized the taste in my mouth was flour . . . of the wheat variety. The powder tickled my nose and I sneezed.

  CHAPTER 2

  I wiped the flour off my face with a warm, wet towel while Tasha graciously passed around platters of cookies. Everyone outside during the flour attack was currently inside the shop whispering about it—and me—and hopefully the cookies and tarts.

  “And you didn’t see who threw the flour bombs?” Hank Blaylock was Oiltop’s chief of police and, as it turns out, happened to be attending the coffee. Too bad he’d arrived late. The Oiltop Police force was small, consisting of two patrols for day and one for night. There wasn’t a lot of crime in town, except for around the college and they had their own security force twice the size of Oiltop’s. Not that it mattered. Chief Blaylock liked to think he was in charge of anything police related in the city. His gruff demeanor let him get away with it.

  “I didn’t see a thing,” I admitted. “I was looking down to cut the ribbon when the first one hit. My eyes were full of flour when the second one hit.”

  “Any idea who did it?” he asked, writing in his small notebook.

  “George Meister made a fuss before the ribbon cutting, but I didn’t actually see him do anything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘made a fuss’?” Chief Blaylock frowned as if I spoke a foreign language.

  “He was protesting the bakery.” Tasha stepped in. “Cookie?” She passed a platter of the chocolate chip under his nose.

  “They any good?” The chief’s eyes narrowed.

  “Better than your momma makes.” Tasha winked.

  “Now, that’s saying something.” He looked the cookies over. “I’m working . . .”

  “Bag him up an assorted baker’s dozen,” I said. “And add a thermos of the good coffee.”

  “Will do.” Tasha trailed off to Play hostess with the rest of the cookies. The tarts were all gone. At least everyone was enjoying the food.

  “I don’t take bribes.” The chief wrote something on his pad.

  I sighed. “It’s not a bribe. It’s good business. No one will come in if they haven’t tasted the product first. Besides, it’s chamber-sponsored.”

  “In that case, I’ll take it.” He tapped his pencil against the notebook. “Okay, back to business. George Meister, in your words, ‘made a fuss.’”

  “Yes.” I flattened my mouth and rolled my eyes. “There is always someone willing to protest something new, especially if they feel threatened.”

  “So you think George felt threatened?”

  I took a deep breath. “He thought I said wheat was evil—I didn’t. Then he got upset and said gluten-free living was anti-Christian, which is simply nuts.”

  “So, he had his panties in a twist.” Chief Blaylock’s brown eyes twinkled at me. The guy was five-foot-ten and what one would politely call husky. Still he wore his chief’s uniform finely starched and with pride. His gray hair was thin. He was the same age as my father, which meant he’d pretty much seen it all over the years.

  “I’m sure people will understand once they read my interview in tonight’s paper. Gluten-free food is a specialty niche for people with allergies and special-needs diets. I’m not trying to take away from the importance of wheat farmers.”

  “You said that in your interview?”

  My mouth twitched slightly. “Not exactly. I hadn’t foreseen the need.”

  He scratched his head. “You’re telling me you didn’t think anything of setting up a wheat-free bakery in the heart of wheat country?”

  “Come on, Chief Blaylock, I grew up here. The bakery was already doing well online when Mom left me the house. Where else but in town would I set up my storefront?”

  “I see your point.” He blew out a breath. “Look, I’ve interviewed pretty much everyone, and as far as we can tell no one saw anything. It was probably only a prank.”

  “A prank that could make me sicker than a dog,” I muttered and realized that using the wet cloth to clean my face had had almost zero effect—on the cleaning, that is. Unless you counted the wet flour now hardening like papier-mâché paste on my nose. Which I didn’t.

  Hank narrowed his eyes. “Are you that allergic?”

  “I have celiac disease. The gluten protein in grains like wheat makes me very ill. That’s what I said when George got all defensive.”

  “Celiac disease? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’m sure you probably haven’t, but it’s not that rare. You should Google it.”

  “How many people know you have this disease?”

  “Anyone who knows me or anyone who reads today’s article. Why?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I was wondering if I should write this up as a prank or attempted murder.”

>   His words rang in the small space. Suddenly, the crowd in the bakery was very, very quiet.

  “I sincerely doubt it was attempted murder.” I tried to wipe more of the flour paste off of my hands, but the towel had hardened as well.

  “You said wheat makes you sick.”

  “It’s not like a peanut allergy. It’s more like food poisoning.”

  “Then we’ll call it a prank.” Chief Blaylock’s gaze held concern. “But you let me know if you have any more trouble.” He gave a quick nod.

  “Okay.” I gave up on the towel.

  “Good. Any more questions?”

  “No, I think that’s it.”

  The chief raised his voice. “Fine, then you good people can enjoy your coffee. If anyone remembers anything, you have my number. Give me a call.”

  Tasha gave the chief a tan-and-white-striped box of cookies and a thermos with our name splashed across it.

  “Thanks for your help.” I waved at Pete Hamm, who’d asked me earlier to let him know when the chief was leaving. Pete was probably scared to walk out without the chief next to him for fear of more flour in the face.

  The rest of the coffee klatch left soon after. I was happy to see that almost all the treats had been eaten. Some people bought rolls and breads and other pastries. Barring the fact that I looked like a grade-school art project gone wrong, it hadn’t been a bad day.

  “Hey, Tasha, thanks for your help.”

  Tasha finished washing the platters. “No sweat. You’ve always been there for me in a pinch.”

  I glanced at the mirror. My once perfectly styled and sprayed hair was now a sickly white. “Any suggestions for flour mixed with hairspray?”

  Tasha giggled. “You look like a limestone statue.”

  “Great. I bet Rocky was excited to post the pictures of the flour-covered ribbon cutting on the newspaper website. Not exactly the kind of publicity I was hoping for.”