All the buildings had been freshly painted and the landscaping was top-notch. Both the bakery sign and the lodge sign looked brand new and the parking lot had been repaved. The bakery had a new awning, French-style wrought-iron tables and chairs along the window, and apparently—I realized upon entering—had been completely remodeled on the inside.
As soon as I stepped into the bakery I was assaulted by the smell of heaven. This I recognized, because it had been the same aroma I’d encountered two Mondays ago when Jennifer let me into the back door of the kitchen. I approved of this smell.
I also approved of the concoctions in the display case, each more elaborate than the last. And of course, set to one side in a glass pedestal of honor, sat three whole banana cakes, and one half banana cake. Apparently, some people had a slice of banana cake for breakfast.
That sounded like an excellent idea to me.
As foretold by the plethora of cars in the lot, the bakery was busy. I leaned to one side and scanned the counter. Jennifer wasn’t at the register and she wasn’t taking orders, which made sense. She was probably elsewhere, baking.
I frowned, restlessness pulling my eyes to the hallway that led to the kitchen. I knew Jennifer baked fresh items every Saturday and Sunday. Billy had made it back to the homestead at 11:00 PM the previous night. Assuming he’d dropped her off fifteen minutes before coming home, this meant she’d slept less than four hours.
Concern had me leaving the bakery, walking around the building, and trying the back door to the kitchen. It was unlocked, so I walked in.
What I found shouldn’t have astonished me if I’d stopped to consider readily available evidence, but I was surprised.
There, in the calm center of a frantic activity storm, was Jennifer Sylvester. She wore her yellow dress costume and high heels; her blonde wavy hair was pulled back in a net, and thick, expertly applied makeup covered her features. She was wearing the Smash-Girl apron and she was baking, but she wasn’t the only one.
She had a staff of at least ten. Jennifer was directing traffic and her voice was not soft, or feeble, or anything resembling a woman with no backbone.
I stood stock still for at least three minutes and watched her work, correcting someone to her left, answering a question thrown from her right, all the while filling delicate puffy balls with crème. She was making crème puffs.
“Hey, Cletus.” I turned at the greeting and discovered one of the Tanner twins giving me a wide grin. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh . . .” I was going to say I was there to see Jennifer, but clearly she was busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.
Blithe Tanner—at least I thought it was Blithe, though it could have been Blair—lifted her eyebrows expectantly. “You need something?”
“Cletus?”
I turned at the sound of Jennifer’s voice. She was walking over to me, wiping her hands on a towel. At the last minute she sucked her thumb into her mouth, her pink tongue darting out to lick crème from the digit.
My throat was suddenly and curiously dry.
“Hey, Jenn. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She gave me a soft smile and shook her head. “You’re not interrupting. I was just finishing up an order for tonight. Banana crème puffs. Do you want to try one?”
Before I could make an excuse—because I was absolutely planning on making an excuse—she grabbed my hand and tugged me over to her workspace. Stopping short, she turned on me, plucked a crème puff from the counter and held it up to my mouth.
“Open up,” she said, her eyes on my mouth.
So I did.
She placed the puff on my tongue, her attention still fixed on my lips. “How is it?”
I didn’t moan, but I wanted to. Instead I finished chewing and said with forced composure, “That might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
She grinned, looking sublimely happy, and I suddenly wanted to pay her all the compliments, as long as she kept smiling.
But then her mother’s voice bellowed, “Jennifer! Are you finished with the— Oh.” She stopped short, her eyes jumping over me; she looked truly perplexed. “Cletus Winston. What are you doing here?”
I stood straighter and gave Diane Donner-Sylvester a deferential head nod, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her question.
“He’s here because of Billy,” Jennifer lied, untying her apron.
“Oh.” Diane frowned as she looked between the two of us.
“The puffs are all finished, as are the four banana cakes. Blair will arrange them into their boxes. I’ll be right back.” Jennifer tipped her head toward the Tanner twin I’d spoken to moments ago, then reached for my hand and led me out of the kitchen to the back door. She hung up her apron and darted outside.
I studied her momma as we left, the shrewd woman’s confused surprise morphing into confused suspicion.
Once again, Jennifer’s speed was impressive for a short woman in high heels. This time I walked beside her rather than at a distance behind. We were a good fifty feet away from the bakery when she stopped suddenly and spoke.
“It’s good to see you.”