Saving Scott (Kobo), Page 4

  He pressed the intercom button. “Ashley?”

  She jumped and one hand flew to her chest. She paused, looked around, then approached the glass. “Scott?”

  “Can I help you?”

  She backed away. “I … I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  He could barely hear her. “Come closer, please.”

  “No, that’s all right. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be bothering anyone.” And she was out the door.

  Damn.

  Her business. She was a grown woman. If she needed the cops, she’d be back. Simply because she was easy on the eyes didn’t mean he should get involved. He shifted in his chair, his aching leg a constant reminder of that mistake.

  He remembered the way she’d asked if he was a cop this morning. As if she wanted to talk to one. Had she come in to report harassment? Abuse? Was she thinking about filing a restraining order? Grounds for that were pretty stiff in Oregon.

  He recalled her on the treadmill. No bruises on her torso. Definitely nothing on her face. Not that jerks didn’t know how to make sure they left no visible marks. Wasn’t uncommon for it to take several tries before the woman got up the nerve to follow through.

  “Bored yet?” Kovak approached, sipping a designer coffee and offered him a second. “Latte? Thought you might want something better than the sludge we serve here. Especially with those cookies. Whatever you did to deserve them, keep doing it.”

  Scott took the cup. “Housewarming gift from my neighbor. She’s opening up a new bakery.” He wished the damn phone would ring. Doranna had taken all the files, leaving him with little to do. He stared at the computer. Kovak hovered.

  “Not like what you’re used to,” the detective said.

  Scott shrugged. “Not that much different.” Leave me be. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Once the silence reached an uncomfortable stage, Kovak said, “I’ll let you get back to work, then.” He took a few steps and turned. “If you want to grab a beer after work, the Wagon Wheel has happy hour from four to six.”

  Scott grunted. “Thanks, but I’m still moving in.”

  “Another time, then.” Kovak almost slunk away.

  Scott tried to feel guilty about his brusque manner, but couldn’t drum up the energy.

  The day continued at a snail’s pace, and during the too-frequent lulls, he let his mind rove to what might have brought Ashley into the station. He took advantage of his civilian status and left at the stroke of three to go to his old apartment and fill another carload of boxes.

  By the time he’d packed another batch of boxes, loaded them into his car, then unloaded them at his new place, Scott wanted nothing more than a pain pill and bed. But the chocolate aroma from next door sent hunger cramps to his belly. He shouldn’t have skipped lunch, but he’d used the time to stock up on some bare necessities rather than socialize with the people who’d invited him to join them.

  They’re being sociable. Why are you assuming it’s all about you?

  Was his ego that big? Or was he avoiding hanging with cops when he wasn’t a cop anymore?

  He slapped a few slices of cheese between two slices of bread, then nuked it long enough to melt the cheese. He scarfed it down standing by the microwave. Nothing like a faux grilled cheese sandwich. He recalled the ones his mother made, all buttery and toasty, usually accompanying a bowl of her homemade chicken soup. She’d be turning over in her grave if she saw this rubbery excuse for something she created with love.

  Damn, you are one pathetic individual.

  Maybe it was the meds. Making him anti-social. Bringing guilt for anything and everything to the surface. Making him maudlin.

  You got dealt a shit hand. Fold and move on.

  Ignoring any residual guilt, he heated a can of soup and nuked another faux grilled cheese sandwich. But he ate them sitting at the island counter.

  His appetite under control, he popped his meds and decided it was time to move on. He washed his few dishes, including the now-empty platter Ashley had brought over this morning. It was flimsy plastic, clearly meant to be disposable, but he washed it, dried it, and figured it was as good an excuse as any to try being sociable.

  Okay, maybe she’ll offer you some of whatever smells so good, too.

  Memories of home flooded through. Of his mother, busily cooking or baking something. You can’t return a plate empty.

  Damn. Did he have anything on hand that would be suitable? Or maybe that rule was out of date. Would Ashley even be aware of it?

  He limped across the kitchen and started opening the cupboards he’d barely begun to fill.

  ***

  Ashley eyed the cookies on the baking sheet with a critical eye. They’d puffed into nice plump balls of chocolate glistening with sugar crystals. She transferred the freshly baked cookies to the waiting cooling racks and slid the next batch into the oven. She wasn’t sure if she was baking to celebrate the positive support she’d had for her brownie bakeoff, or to get rid of the jitters it would be an abysmal flop. Or that her shop kitchen wouldn’t be ready in time. Today had brought mere mini-disasters.

  The crash she’d heard was the plywood covering the window hitting the floor when they took it down. Score one for the Klutz Brigade. But the window was in, the freshly painted lettering proudly proclaiming the existence of Confections by Ashley. She’d watched the painter form every letter, her heart pounding faster with each stroke of his brush.

  On the down side, Willie Duncan had discovered that the electrician had installed regular outlets instead of the required ground fault ones. Carl had sworn he’d make sure it was fixed first thing tomorrow. She sighed. Better now than to fail the final inspections. And then there was one box of baseboard trim that didn’t match the rest.

  On the up side, the local merchants had been receptive to handing out her flyers. Most of them, anyway. Felicity Markham, the owner of Felicitea, was the only one who’d objected, despite Ashley’s repeated assurances that her confection shop was hardly competition for a tea shop. Felicitea served finger sandwiches and a couple kinds of cookies. Even Sadie’s Café had put a stack of flyers by the register. Heck, the manager had asked about ordering some of Ashley’s goods for their place. Sadie’s desserts featured pies, something Ashley had no desire to offer.

  Focusing on the positive, she set a pot of coffee on to brew. She had notes to go over, lists to make, but before she tackled those chores, she definitely needed to bake one more batch of something. Anything. Didn’t take much to decide on the chocolate chip cookies she could do in her sleep, since her mind insisted on worrying about what could go wrong instead of what was going right.

  Merely thinking about assembling the ingredients calmed her. She immersed herself in the task. Butter. She took some from the fridge to the counter to soften before she could cream it. Nuts. She set a bag of chopped pecans beside the butter and went to her pantry for the chocolate chips.

  She lined her baking sheets with parchment paper and sifted her dry ingredients together. Hooking a clean side towel at her waist, she immersed herself in her private world of cooking.

  Her doorbell chimes startled her as she was tapping the eggs on the counter, resulting in a sticky mess as her hands crushed the shells instead of cracking them.

  Wiping her hands on the side towel, she went to the door and checked the peephole. Scott from next door. Her heart thudded a bit faster and she felt a tingling wave of heat rise up her neck. Was he here because she’d dropped by the police station, then rushed off like the cops were seconds away from coming after her? She twisted the knob.

  “Ashley? I’m returning your tray.”

  She pulled the door open. He waited in the hallway, still wearing what she’d seen him in this morning. Khakis and a green polo that intensified his hazel eyes. But there was a weariness about him, as if he’d be more comfortable dressed in his robe.

  “You really didn’t need to,” she said.

  “I also wanted to tell you the cookies we
re a big hit. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of customers.”

  “Thanks.” From the kitchen, her timer dinged. “Would you like to come in? I’m in the middle of baking, and have to get the cookies out of the oven.”

  “For a minute.”

  She hurried to her cookies, aware that he followed slowly behind her. She pulled the sheet out of the oven and set it on the stovetop while she cleared enough room on the island for another cooling rack. Soon, she told herself. Soon she’d be doing this for real, in her shop kitchen.

  Scott still stood there, holding the tray. She looked more closely. It held two bags of microwave popcorn.

  He extended it. “My mom would kill me for returning an empty tray, but I’m afraid I don’t have much in the house. And I’m certainly not competing with your baking skills. The closest I’ve ever come to homemade cookies are those blobs of dough from the refrigerated section of the grocery store.”

  She couldn’t help but smile as she took the tray. “That was very—” She caught herself before she said sweet. Somehow, sweet didn’t seem to fit Scott.

  “Thoughtful,” she finished. “We were raised the same way. But Mom wasn’t a very good cook, and she always dreaded getting anything on a real plate because she’d have to reciprocate. She’d leave the empty plate in the middle of the table, nagging her to create something. I loved it, though, and as soon as I was old enough, I took over that chore. Although for me it wasn’t a chore at all.”

  When she looked at him again, she noticed an aura of weariness. A slight slump to his shoulders, shadows under his eyes. “Would you like some coffee? It’s fresh.”

  His eyes brightened. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love some.”

  “Take a seat.” She got out two mugs and filled them, adding cream and sugar to hers. “How do you take it?”

  He pulled one of her stools away from the counter and sat. “Black is fine.”

  She handed him a mug, took a sip from hers, then grabbed a damp rag and swabbed the eggy mess. “If it’s all right, I need to get this batch of cookies going.” She gestured to the cooling rack where her earlier cookies waited. “Help yourself. Those are a new recipe, and I’d appreciate an outside opinion.”

  She scraped the softened butter into her mixer and began creaming it with the sugar, keeping an eye on Scott as he sampled one of her cookies. First, he broke the ball in two, studying the two halves. The chunk of bittersweet chocolate she’d placed inside the dough oozed enough to tempt, not enough to drip. He popped one half into his mouth.

  He chewed, then his eyes widened. He coughed. “Whoa. These have some kick.”

  “Too much? I call them my spicy Aztec chocolate drops, and I’ve been playing with the amounts of cayenne and black peppers.”

  Were his eyes watering? She grabbed one from the rack and sampled it. The bittersweet richness of the chocolate and the sugary topping were rapidly replaced by a strong burn on her tongue. She strode to the fridge and got a carton of milk. Pouring two glasses, she said, “Definitely a bit heavy on the cayenne. Drink some of this, and if you’re willing, try one of the others. It’s a milder batch.”

  He gulped some milk and gave her a narrow-eyed look that said, Can I trust you?

  She took one of the cookies and broke it in half. Eating one, rolling it around in her mouth, sampling the blend of flavors, she extended the other half to him. “These might be more to your liking. There’s still some heat, but it’s not quite so dominant.”

  He took another swig of milk, then some coffee before testing the cookie. He mimicked her tasting technique. “Actually, I think you could meet somewhere in the middle, as long as you advertised them as spicy. That way, there’s still a bit of adventure.”

  “Thanks.” She went back to her prep, mixing her wet and dry ingredients into a stiff dough and adding the chips and nuts. Scott sat, watching, but not speaking. The rhythm of placing scoops of dough onto the parchment seemed to give her the nerve she hadn’t been able to muster inside the police station.

  “Can I ask you something?” Not brilliant, but a start.

  “Sure.” Scott snagged another cookie. His voice was calm, reassuring.

  “Can you check to see if someone in prison is still there? Or if he’s there, but getting someone to do sneaky stuff for him?”

  “Sneaky stuff?”

  Ashley plunged forward. “It’s my bakery. It’s supposed to open soon, but there have been all sorts of construction glitches, and I was talking to Maggie—she works at That Special Something—and she said that there was this guy who had sabotaged the shop, trying to do something to Sarah.”

  “And you think he’s trying to sabotage your shop as well?”

  Ashley felt a flash of relief that Scott didn’t sound like he thought she was nuts. She put the cookies into the oven. “So, is there a way to find out?”

  Scott nodded. “Should be easy enough to confirm whether he’s in prison. If you want, I’ll ask one of the officers to check. As for the other part—whether he’s dealing from inside—I’m not sure that’ll be so easy. Not unless you can find a connection to justify digging around.”

  “I don’t know. I’m new here, and Sarah never mentioned it. She was busy with her wedding—she married a cop, though, so maybe when they get back from their honeymoon, they could look into it. I wouldn’t have said anything, but if these delays keep up, I won’t be able to open, and then the bakeoff will have to be cancelled, or postponed, and—”

  Scott picked up a bakeoff flyer Ashley had left on one of the chairs at the counter and studied it for a moment. “Worst case scenario. If you don’t want to postpone your bakeoff, do you have to hold it in your shop? Can’t everyone bake their stuff and bring it somewhere else for judging?”

  Ashley shook her head. “No, there wouldn’t be a way to verify that everyone actually baked their own entries.”

  He looked thoughtful for a heartbeat. “Okay, then what if they turned in their recipes, and you baked them all and picked a winner?”

  She shook her head again. “No, because everyone but the winner would say they lost because I screwed up their recipe.”

  “In that case, let me see what I can to do check on your sneaky stuff.” He flipped the flyer over. “Pen?”

  Ashley tilted her chin toward a mug on a shelf near the phone. She answered Scott’s questions while she cleaned up. “How long have you worked in police departments? You sound like a real cop.”

  He lowered his head and stared at his notes before answering. “How do you know what a real cop sounds like? You been questioned a lot? Maybe I watch a lot of cop shows.”

  Did he sound irritated? She smiled and lightened her tone. “I confess to that one. Which is probably why I thought you sounded like a cop.”

  He shrugged, still looking at his notes. “Guess it rubs off.” He folded the paper and, gripping the edge of the counter, hoisted himself off the stool. “Thanks for your hospitality. I’ll let you work.”

  Wondering about the shift in his mood, Ashley walked him to the door. “Wait,” she said. She hurried to the kitchen, grabbed one of her new business cards and wrote her cell number on the back. “If you find something out, you can call me.”

  Ashley watched Scott move down the hall to his apartment. He moved slowly, favoring one leg and rubbing his shoulder. She hadn’t noticed the limp before.

  So, he doesn’t want to look weak in front of you. Typical man. Big deal. None of your business.

  She closed the door and went to check her computer. The email icon said, “8 new messages.” Could she be getting bakeoff entries already? Holding her breath, she clicked into the program.

  Chapter 5

  “Thanks, Hannibal.” Scott hung up the phone before things with his former colleague at County moved into that awkward, “So, how’s everything going in your new job?” phase. Although Scott knew Kovak would have been happy to check on Christopher Westmoreland’s status, asking him felt like crossing the line Scott had been t
rying to create between his civilian status and the cops he was working with. Or for. He still didn’t have a handle on that one. He reported to Chief Laughlin, same as they did. But he was strictly support.

  No matter. Westmoreland was still securely locked up, and Hannibal’s questions hadn’t indicated anything—sneaky. He couldn’t suppress the smile. Maybe he should tell Ashley that the proper cop term was hinky.

  Should he wait until this evening to tell her? He thought about how concerned she’d been last night and took the card she’d given him from his wallet. He plugged her number into his contacts in his cell and hit the call button.

  “You’re sure?” Ashley said when he gave her the information. “So fast?”

  “Helps to have connections in the business.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you. It was a silly thought—that someone who couldn’t possibly know me would have been trying to sabotage my shop.”

  “Police work means eliminating data until you’re left with what counts.”

  A brief pause. “All those television shows, right?”

  “That, and I might have picked up a thing or two over the years of working in police stations.”

  Another brief pause. Before she asked any more questions, he said he had to get back to work and hung up.

  And why would she ask questions? He really had to get off this ego trip.

  He rubbed his neck and returned to the paperwork. What there was of it. The same went for background noise. He couldn’t remember three minutes between phone calls when he’d been strapped to the desk at County. Here—he checked the time—it had been seventeen. Chief Laughlin had been right about mountains of paperwork, most of it backlogged. Knowing the importance of being able to put your hands on a piece of information when you needed it, he willingly embarked upon the chore. But the phone offered welcome breaks, even if most of the calls were what he’d have called nuisance if they’d come in at County.