was impressed and said as much. “This is a great setup,” he told her.
Seemingly pleased, she smiled and tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “It was a lot of trial and error in the beginning, but I think I’ve finally got everything organized in the most efficient manner.”
He took a bite of his cupcake and savored the spices against his tongue. It was moist and flavorful, and the icing was perfect—not too sweet, with just the right cream cheese to sugar ratio. Not everyone got that part right, but she’d mastered it.
“And you live upstairs?”
She nodded, swept an imaginary crumb from the table. “I do. I keep long hours and economically, it just made more sense.” A wry grin curled her lips. “I’ve got one mortgage as opposed to two.”
Definitely savvy. Sexy, smart and she could cook, too. He hoped to hell he discovered a flaw soon. A hairy mole or a snorting laugh. Anything to derail this horribly inconvenient attraction.
“And when did you notice that someone was stealing your butter? When did the Butter Bandit first strike?”
Looking adorably mortified, she blushed prettily, a wash of bright pink beneath creamy skin. “Three days ago,” she said. “At first I just thought one of the girls—possibly Livvie—had moved it from one part of the walk-in to the other. It’s a big space and I keep it well stocked. I only use organic products and everything has to be fresh, otherwise the quality isn’t up to par.”
He could certainly taste the difference. “But it hadn’t been moved?”
She shook her head. “No. And more than half of it had been taken.”
“And how much is half?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, speculating. “Roughly thirty pounds.”
Jack felt his eyes widen. “Thirty pounds?”
She laughed, the sound husky and melodic. Definitely not a snorter, then. Damn.
“I typically use between sixty and seventy pounds of butter a week.” She gestured to five-gallon lidded buckets beneath the main work station. “That’s flour and sugar. And that smaller fridge against the wall? That one holds nothing but eggs.”
Good Lord. He’d had no idea. Of course, since he’d never made any sort of dessert in his life that didn’t come out of a box and require that he add only water, why would he?
But thirty pounds of butter? Who in the hell would steal thirty pounds of butter? To what purpose? For what possible use?
And they’d come back for more and attacked her for it.
“Who supplies your butter?” Jack wanted to know. It seemed like the best place to start. Perhaps there was something special about Mariette’s butter. Maybe it was made from goat’s milk or only harvested during the full moon. Maybe it was intentional butter, much like that Intentional Chocolate he’d gotten in a care package from his mother last year. Supposedly, it had been infused with good intentions by experienced meditators. Enchanted butter, he thought, tamping down the absurdity of the situation. He’d be damned if he knew.
But it was his job to find out, he reminded himself.
“Jefferson’s Dairy just north of Marietta,” she told him. “They furnish my eggs and milk, as well.”
Jack nodded and pushed up from his chair, determined to get started. The sooner he figured this out the better. Besides, one of the ladies had fired up a mixer and the whine was wreaking hell with his hearing aid. For the most part, the little miracle piece could almost make him forget that he needed it at all, but then a certain sound would set it off and he’d be reminded all over again. For the most part, he’d learned to cope with the “disability”—and knew that he’d gotten off easy in comparison to most other war-sustained injuries—but it was still jarring, nonetheless. An instant reminder of what he’d lost, an automatic, haunting flashback to Johnson’s desperate face. He gave himself a mental shake, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
The bleeding, bedamned Butter Bandit.
The dairy sounded as good as any place to begin. “I’m sure that Payne has called them already, but I want to go out there and do a little poking around.”
She stood, as well. “Of course.”
“What time do you close?”
“Six.”
He nodded once. “Then I’ll be back at six.”
A fleeting look of irritation and panic raced across her fine features so fast he was almost inclined to believe he’d imagined it.
But he hadn’t. For whatever reason—insanity, probably—that gave him an irrational burst of pleasure. The whole misery-loved-company bit? he wondered. Or was it something else? Was the idea of rattling her cage the way she was rattling his the culprit? He inwardly smiled.
It was fair, if nothing else, Jack decided.
A thought struck. “Did you get any sort of look at the guy at all before he threw the dough roller?”
The mere thought of it—of her being hurt—brought on the instant urge to hit something. Preferably the asshole who threw the dough roller at her.
What the hell was wrong with people anyway? Jack thought.
She smiled sadly and shook her head. “He was tall and skinny,” she said. “He was wearing a hoodie and it was dark. I—”
“No worries,” he told her. “I’ll get him.”
And when he did he was going to think of new and unusual ways to use that damned dough roller on him.
3
BOBBY RAY BISHOP KEPT his head down and his ball cap pulled low as he made his way past Mariette Levine’s bakery, but darted a quick look through the shop window all the same. The little slow girl was there, as usual. She never failed to give him a hug when he came by with a delivery—he relished those hugs because they were the only ones he ever got. He hadn’t been given a pat on the head, much less a hug, since he was eight, so it had been a shock at first, but a pleasant one. No sign of Mariette, but another woman with shoulder-length dark hair whom he’d never seen before was behind the counter. His heart kicked into a faster rhythm.
A new person working in Mariette’s place?
Shit, shit, shit. His hands began to shake. He must have hurt her bad, Bobby Ray thought. Could have even killed her.
He hurried past and rounded the corner, then leaned against the wall of the next building and pulled long, deep breaths into his seizing lungs. Panic and nausea clawed their way up his throat and his nose poured snot, which he dashed away with the back of his hand. He felt tears burn the backs of his lids and blinked them away, determined not to cry. When had crying ever done him any good anyway? Just earned him a backhand against the face or a knock upside the head.
Or worse.
I
