have designs on the place—make them think they were going to be able to stop in for a midnight snack.
She decided that she better take the basket upstairs with her, after all. That didn’t mean she was accepting the bribe, though, she told herself, climbing the stairs. She was a big girl. She could certainly resist a couple of cinnamon buns.
When she put the basket on the small drop-leaf table in the kitchen, she noticed the note tucked inside. With two fingers she carefully pulled it out, trying not to disturb the napkin and have to actually look the bribe in the eye. Or in this case, in the frosting.
I thought you might feel funny about coming into Sweet Buns so sweet buns are coming to you. Sorry again for the mud pies. Molly.
“Mud pies. Huh—yeah, right,” Gillian muttered. The basket was an obvious attempt to sweeten her up and make her drop the suit. She wondered how many cinnamon buns Molly thought it would take to buy her.
Well, she could just keep wondering because there was no way she was lifting that napkin and looking underneath.
Stoically, she marched into the bedroom. There were several outfits laid out on the canopy bed Aunt Clemintine had gotten for her the summer she’d turned six. Gillian was still trying to decide what to wear to court the next day.
“Something feminine, yet strong,” she murmured.
That left out the pink polka-dot suit with the ruffled hems.
“Something strong, yet sympathetic.”
That left out the black shantung tuxedo with the sheer tailored shirt and her witty take on a men’s club tie (diagonal rows of pink poodles against an aqua background).
“Something—” Well, above all something that would go with her sling. Which, she supposed, would be the black sleeveless sheath with the little turquoise capelet. The only problem was that it was very, very formfitting. But she had just lost five pounds.
When she tried it on, it fit beautifully. She didn’t even have to hold her tummy in—much. And it barely hurt her arm to put it on.
“Perfect,” she pronounced as she looked in the mirror. Whoever invented those diet shakes should get the Nobel or something. She had missed chewing, though. The sensual feel of food actually in her mouth. Hmm. And that reminded her. She hadn’t had any dinner yet. She’d picked up a salad at the supermarket and it was waiting in the fridge. She peeled out of the dress, hung it up and headed for the kitchen.
Was it her imagination or had the basket from Sweet Buns gotten bigger? Gillian ignored it and went to the fridge. She grabbed the salad, wrestled off the plastic cover and dug in.
“Oh, yum,” she muttered with her mouth full. “Iceberg lettuce and hothouse tomatoes.”
She kept forking into the salad but her stomach kept right on growling. Or was it the siren song of the cinnamon buns she kept hearing over the crunch of a woody radish?
Gillian eyed the basket. It would be such a shame to waste those buns. And didn’t carbohydrates help induce sleep? She started to reach for the basket, then drew her hand back. But, if the buns really were a bribe, did that mean that if she ate one she’d be accepting the bribe?
She picked up the note and read it again.
There really was no mention of Lukas, or the court case, at all. And she was, after all, owed some sort of payment for the pants that adorable Chloe ruined. Just a little carbohydrate to soothe the nerves. It’d be the healthy thing to do, wouldn’t it?
She pulled back the napkin. Six large buns, slathered with thick frosting, were nestled oh-so-beautifully in another gingham napkin. It was more than Gillian could stand.
Just one, she thought. One wouldn’t hurt.
3
IT WAS NEARLY TIME to leave for court and Gillian was still struggling with the side zipper on the black sheath. It turned out that the cinnamon buns hadn’t been a bribe at all. Sabotage. That’s what they were. Sabotage to make her gain back those five pounds.
Of course, no one had made her eat all six of them.
“But Molly should have known I couldn’t resist!” she wailed at her bloated reflection. Following a half-dozen sweet buns from Sweet Buns, the dress had ceased being a sheath and had turned, overnight, into a sausage.
Gillian gave up on the zipper and started to rip the dress off.
“Ow!”
Drat her sprained arm. It made dressing, something Gillian ordinarily loved to do, nearly impossible and painful as the dentist.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t as bad as a root canal. But it was so frustrating to have to do everything not only one-handed but gingerly, as well. She couldn’t wait to face Lukas McCoy in court. If the judge didn’t throw the book at him, Gillian just might have to throw something at him herself.
One-handed, of course.
She yanked a sleeveless red shirtwaist with a retro full skirt out of the closet and struggled into it, managing to howl in pain only twice. It had a wide belt that was, thankfully, adjustable, and even though it was a little snug in the bodice the full skirt definitely hid any evidence of her carbo pig-out session the night before. She took a white cardigan sweater that she’d picked up in a vintage clothing shop in the Village out of Aunt Clemintine’s bureau. It had a darling little Peter Pan collar that was edged with tiny seed pearls. Perfect for throwing over her shoulders. She slipped red pumps on her bare feet—panty hose had proven impossible to maneuver with only one hand—transferred the necessary junk to a vintage red clutch purse, then checked herself in the mirror.
“Hmm, not bad,” she murmured. Maybe even better than the outfit she was going to wear in the first place. Feminine yet strong. Original, yet not too funky. The sling, however, nearly ruined the look. Gillian rummaged through a few hat boxes of accessories and came up with a long white scarf scattered with tiny red dots. Using her teeth and her good arm, she managed to tie it. She slipped it over her shoulder then ducked her head to get it around her neck.
“Better,” Gillian said to her reflection in the mirror. She was making some minor adjustments to the scarf when out on the street a horn honked. She ran to the window and looked out. An enormous old hulk of a car, the color of lemons, waited at the curb. Gillian smiled. Yes, Philo Hernshaw would own such a car.
She ran down the stairs, went out the front door and got into her lawyer’s car.
“You’re so sweet to pick me up,” she said. “It’s such a nuisance not being able to drive.”
“My pleasure, Miss Plane.”
“Um—that’s Caine, Mr. Hernshaw.”
“What? Oh, no. I don’t use a cane. Although I think they can sometimes add a touch of distinction to a gentleman.”
“No, Mr. Hernshaw. My name is—”
There was the blare of a horn and the squeal of tires as Philo Hernshaw edged the car into traffic and Gillian decided it was best not to bother him while he was driving.
Philo
