Saving Scott (Kobo) (6 page)

“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.

“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
trying 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.

Could he get
away with bringing a book? Not very professional, to be sure, but he’d noticed
the dispatcher had a paperback on her desk. That certainly spoke to the level
of crime in Pine Hills. County had an entire command center, not one desk in a
back office.

Of course,
first he had to have a book to bring. He’d gotten used to reading in the
hospital and hadn’t brought his television to his new place, so a few books
might fill the void. He added that to a new mental list.

Kovak
sauntered over with another designer coffee offering. “Favor, if you would.”

Scott took
the coffee. “If I can.”

“The big
guy—Detweiler—is due back day after tomorrow, and we want to welcome him home
in style. You think you can ask your neighbor to bake something? We’ll pay her,
of course. Everyone’s chipping in. If it’s not an imposition.”

“I can ask.
No promises.” He reached for his wallet.

“No charge
to you if you’ll entice your neighbor to provide some sweets. We’ll get stuff
from Sadie’s and Wagon Wheel, but for dessert, nothing in town can touch what
you brought in.”

“I’ll tell
her.” Somehow, he didn’t think it would take any arm-twisting to convince
Ashley to contribute something, especially if she’d be paid. As Kovak walked
away, Scott realized he was looking forward to asking. Enough to pull out his
cell phone. Before he could make the call, the office phone rang. Back to work.

***

After
washing her lunch dishes, Ashley gathered the printouts of the entry forms.
Fifteen official entries. She logged into her PayPal account to verify their
entry fees had been paid. That lowered the count to twelve. Rather than delete
the three who hadn’t paid, she sent them polite replies and included the line
from the flyer clearly stating that an entry wasn’t confirmed until payment was
received.

It wasn’t
really the money. She wasn’t looking to make a profit on the bakeoff, but she
did hope the fees would cover her expenses. No, it was all about getting some
good publicity and traffic into her shop. Once they came in, Ashley was sure
they’d be back.

She turned
her attention to logistics. The bakery kitchen couldn’t handle more than four
contestants at a time. Starting at seven a.m., for everything to be done in
time for judging, she’d have to cut off the entries at no more than twenty.

She clicked
to her word processing program and checked her contest rules once more before
sending it out to her entrants, along with their assigned times.

And, of
course, almost immediately, she had responses. Complaints that the times couldn’t
possibly work. Should she play hardball? Probably not a good idea. She had a
little wiggle room since she still had eight empty slots. She juggled the
requests, but tried to word her responses that it was a take-it-or-leave-it
deal.

An hour
later, she headed out to collect her promised donations, grovel for a few more,
and take another look at the progress at the bakery. Carl hadn’t called. Had to
be a good thing.

Her first
stop was The Happy Cook. Chimes tinkled when Ashley opened the door. Belinda,
wearing one of her trademark ruffled aprons, tucked an auburn curl behind her
ear, shoved her glasses up her nose, and smiled. “All ready for you, Ashley.”
She lifted a wicker basket filled with an assortment of cooking supplies,
shrink-wrapped in fuchsia cellophane and topped with a bright teal-blue bow.

“This is
fantastic.” Ashley turned the basket in her hands, noting cookie cutters, fancy
muffin cup liners, a coffee mug, tiny jars of gourmet jams, tea towels and
potholders among the prizes. “I don’t know what to say—it’s so much.” Ashley
knew Belinda’s business had to be suffering from all the construction going on
next door, but the young woman had never complained.

“Hey, we
foodies have to stick together. I’m only a little less of a newbie here than
you are, and I figure if people like what you’re serving, they might come into
my place to buy some supplies and try making it themselves.”

Ashley
laughed. “I hope not—I mean, I want them to shop here, but not be able to
reproduce what I’m selling.”

Belinda
returned Ashley’s laugh. “From what I’ve sampled, there’s not much chance of
that.”

Two
customers entered the store, and Ashley left Belinda to wait on them. After
stowing the basket in her car, she continued on her quest.

She entered
the Book Worm, inhaling what she thought was an aroma second only to chocolate.
Books.

“Be right
with you,” came from the back of the store.

Ashley
meandered around the display on the wooden table at the front of the store. The
display of books about Oregon and the sign offering a discount on the selection
gave her an idea. Would Mr. Farrabee agree?

She strode
to the counter, pleased to see her flyers prominently visible, and more pleased
that the stack seemed smaller than yesterday.

“Sorry to
keep you waiting, Miss Eagan.” Don Farrabee took his place behind the counter
and smiled. His brown eyes, enlarged by his wire-rimmed spectacles, blinked,
reminding her of an owl. His sparse gray hair, moustache, and bow tie gave him
a professorial look. She almost expected him to smoke a pipe and have a clipped
British accent.

“I’m flying
solo today,” he said. “Had to help a new customer.”

And with his
slow, southern drawl, all traces of that British professorial image vanished.
He reached under the counter and placed a plastic bag bearing his Book Worm
logo onto the glass. “Here’s the book I promised for your door prize.”

“Thanks so
much.” Ashley took a breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “I couldn’t help
but notice your display at the front. I wondered if it would be possible to do
one with cookbooks. Until my bakeoff. I wouldn’t expect you to discount them or
anything, but—”

He smiled. “That
sounds like a reasonable request, Miss Eagan. Haven’t seen a lot of action with
the history books. Why don’t you go back and pick out a dozen or so, and I’ll
swap them out on the table right after closing.”

“Really?”
she said. “That’s wonderful. Thanks so much.”

“We
specialty shop owners have to stick together. These days, indie bookstores are
having trouble staying afloat, but I can mark them down ten percent until your
contest.”

Her mind
moved into overdrive. “What if I get some discount coupons for my shop? You
could give one to everyone who buys one of the books.” Would Elaine come
through on such short notice? Or could she run home and print up a bunch of
simple coupons herself?

“If you’ve
got ‘em, I’m happy to hand ‘em out.”

“I’ll try to
have them here first thing in the morning.” Ashley left the book on the counter
and half-trotted to the cookbook section. What other merchants might be willing
to hand out coupons? Caught up with her new promotion idea, she didn’t see the
man moving toward the register. Unable to swerve in time, she bumped into him
sending his selection of books to the floor.

“I am
so
sorry,” she said, bending down to pick them up. “My mind was somewhere else.”

“Ashley?” a
familiar voice said. “We seem to keep meeting this way.”

She
straightened. “Scott? I’m
really
sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Barely
touched me. I should have had a better grip on my books. And I’m equally guilty
of not paying attention to where I was going.”

She glanced
at the books before handing them over. “I would have expected mysteries. You
know, cop books.”

He gave a
quiet snort. “I get enough of that during the day. Besides, most of what I’ve read
is almost as off base as the cop shows on television. I prefer to read
nonfiction. For fiction, I like books dealing with stuff I don’t know much
about. That way, I don’t get frustrated when they get it wrong.”

“Makes
sense.” When Scott stood there, not moving, she backed away. “I’ve got to pick
out some books for a display. For the bakeoff. I’ll see you around.”