were two large convection ovens and the small, white kitchen stove against a far wall. On the opposite wall was a third, newer-looking double-decker oven, and a large, burly man was bent over and was peering inside the bottom oven.
“Damn this thing.” Wiping his hands on a rag, he leaned back on his knees and looked up at the older woman. “I told Sophie I didn’t trust that salesman. This thing is a piece of junk.”
Behind him the teenage boy reappeared. “Wayne, I’m four boxes short!”
“I’m trying to—” The man at the oven turned to the boy and caught his first glimpse of Eliot standing in the middle of their kitchen. His dark eyes ran over Eliot’s long length in one swoop, and then narrowed in suspicion. “Can I help you?”
The older woman turned to him, as well, surprised to see him in the kitchen. They were a study in contrast—the unsuspecting curiosity in her eyes and the wary distrust in his.
For reasons he would never understand, instead of simply announcing who he was and why he was there, he began to pull off his jacket. “I think I may be able to fix it—temporarily at least.”
“Wayne,” the teenager called to him again, “We are four—”
“I heard you the first time, Dante! But until I can get an oven going, you’ll just have to wait. Now get the rest of the order loaded up.”
“Why don’t you fire up one of the other ovens while I try to get this one going,” Eliot offered, as he kneeled beside him.
Without a response, Wayne jumped up and rushed across the room to start one of the newer ovens.
Just then a phone rang loudly, somewhere in the back. “I’ll get it,” Mae said, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried off.
In his peripheral vision, Eliot saw the teenagers rushing back and forth, loading their arms with the full boxes and carrying them outside to the van. Obviously, they were on a tight schedule to get out an order and he had a pretty good idea which order it was. Tuesday was Centerfield’s delivery day.
As he rolled up his sleeves, he considered how easy it would be to sabotage the oven and make the delivery incomplete and late. That alone might be enough to make the school cancel the new contract.
Reaching back in the oven, he found the coil he was looking for. Just as he’d suspected, it had dropped down and was causing the food to cook unevenly. He pushed it back up, a trick he’d learned in his first year working in Uncle Carl’s factory.
Once he pushed the coil back into place he sat back on his heels. “There, that should hold long enough to finish your last batch. But you’ll have to have a repairman come in and fix it permanently.” He glanced over to find Wayne watching him carefully. Despite his offer to help, he could tell the man did not trust him. “With that oven, if you turn up the heat about two degrees per square inch for every fifteen minutes of cooking time left, it will finish in half the time.”
Movement caught his eye, and he realized the chubby girl had come in and was standing in the doorway, watching him with her blank doe eyes.
Seeing the black grease smeared on his hands, Wayne offered his rag. Eliot took it gladly and wiped his hands, grateful for the knowledge his experience had given him. Despite the fact that he was Carl Fulton’s nephew, he had worked his way up from the kitchen like every other executive in the company.
“Who are you?” Wayne asked.
“I think he may be our new baker.” Just then, Mae slowly walked in. Her head tilted at an angle as she gave Eliot a curious look.
So the new baker was supposed to start today, Eliot thought.
Wayne turned to her in surprise. “What new baker?!” Behind him the teenage girl was folding a box together, and the boy was holding a piping hot tray of bread loaves between oven mitts. Both froze in their tracks, and all wide eyes were turned to him.
“Apparently, Sophie hired a new baker,” Mae continued. “That was the agency on the phone asking to have him call them when he arrived.” Then Mae glanced at Eliot, her eyes showing the first sign of suspicion. “They say they haven’t spoken to you since last week.”
Eliot shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, his mind working furiously, thinking how to use this situation to his advantage. The new baker would probably show up soon, but until then—whether he had a few minutes or a few hours—he could use the opportunity to learn as much as he could about the inner workings of Mayfield Bakery.
“Sophie didn’t say anything to me about any new baker,” Wayne insisted.
Eliot did not miss the slightly hurt tone of his voice. Who is Sophie? He wondered.
Mae looked up at Eliot in bemusement, then turned and hurried into the back office again. “I’m going to call Sophie and see what she has to say about all this.”
Thinking fast, Eliot called out to her, “Could you give me the phone number to the agency, so I can give them a call? I don’t have it with me.”
She motioned over her shoulder for him to follow her.
As he passed through the doorway, he heard Wayne mutter to himself, “He doesn’t look like any baker I know.”
Eliot pretended not to hear the remark, although he was pretty sure Mae Anne Mayfield was the only baker Wayne knew.
As they entered the office, Eliot noticed a large, heavy-looking book in the middle of the desk. It looked like an ancient relic with its worn cover, which was pieced and taped together in places. He saw the word recipes scribbled across the top in black marker, and suddenly realized he was looking at Mae’s recipe book.
There it was! Right there in plain sight for anyone to see…or grab. What professional chef in this day and age still used a recipe book? Most of the bakers he knew kept their recipes in custom-made software programs with two or more passwords protecting them.
For a baker or chef, their recipes were their lifeblood. For the very best, recipes were what separated them from the crowd. You did not leave your most precious treasure lying around in fat, album-styled books, Eliot thought.
Mae shoved a piece of a paper at him, and Eliot realized she’d been trying to give it to him for some moments. He accepted it with thanks, deliberately turning his back on the recipe book.
He started to leave the office, but she grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “I’m sure Sophie is going to want to talk to you.”
Damn. Who the hell is this Sophie anyway?
Nowhere in his research had he come across that name. Eliot stood nervously by her side as Mae dialed the number. The mysterious Sophie could ruin everything with one word. Particularly if she was the person who had actually hired the real baker. His eyes strayed back to the recipe book. This was crazy. Why was he even playing this game? Because you want her recipes—that’s why.
“So, the bakery business must pay pretty well outside Selmer, huh?” Wayne was leaning against the doorjamb with Eliot’s suit jacket in his hand. “Here’s your jacket. What’s that? A three-four-hundred-dollar suit you’re wearing?”
“I wanted to make a good impression,” Eliot said with
