Saving Scott (Kobo)

“You’ll do
well to get rid of that chip on your shoulder.”

Without
removing his gaze from the lieutenant, Scott Whelan swiped the fingers of his
left hand across both shoulders. “Yes, sir. Chip removed, sir. Is that all?”

Scowling,
the lieutenant shook his head. “It’s obvious you don’t want my advice. But I’ll
give you some anyway. Don’t be stupid, Whelan. Dismissed.”

Scott
pivoted on his heel as smartly as any cadet and marched from his LT’s office.
Not until he was in the elevator of the sheriff’s department—thankfully an
empty elevator at the moment—did his jaw go from a tooth-breaking clench to a
grimace. He leaned against the rear wall of the car, sucking air. He shifted,
letting his right leg take most of his weight.

He shoved
his hands in the pockets of his uniform slacks. Uniform. After eight years in
plain clothes, despite several weeks in uniform on desk duty, he still
considered his sheriff’s uniform something worn to ceremonies. Or funerals. Not
so far off, really. A funeral for his career.

Well, if he
wasn’t a detective for the sheriff’s department anymore, he might as well hold
a wake. When the elevator dinged at the ground floor, he squared his shoulders
and, ducking his head against the ever-present Oregon drizzle, made his way out
of the building toward his car. At least the weather matched his mood.

He avoided
the Thunderbird Grill, where he’d have to face too many colleagues, and drove
across town to MacGinty’s. He succumbed to the pain in his leg and limped from
his car to the pub. Brushing the raindrops from his hair, he found an empty
stool near the end of the bar. When the bartender approached, he handed her his
car key. “Macallan. Twelve year. Leave the bottle.”

She lifted
an eyebrow, her gaze fixed on his chest. “You sure about that, Officer Whelan?”

He glanced
down. Right. He should have gone home and changed. He should have gone home
period. He gave the bartender a weak smile. “I’m off duty. But you’re right.
Just give me the bottle. And my key.”

Back at his apartment,
he stared at the bottle in his hand. With a resigned sigh, he put it in his
liquor cabinet. So much for a wake. Head pounding, he stripped off his damp uniform,
letting it puddle on the floor. Wearing nothing but his socks and briefs, he
headed for the bathroom. After twenty minutes in a steamy shower, the aches in
his muscles eased, and a semblance of feeling human returned.

He dried
off, wrapped the towel around his hips, and padded out to the dining room. He
stood in front of the closed door of his liquor cabinet for several minutes,
then turned away.

Don’t be
stupid.

He dragged a
hand through his wet hair. He found a loaf of rye bread with some life left in
it, and some cold cuts a mere two days beyond their expiration date. After
eating two sandwiches, his headache retreated and his mood lifted. Meds and an
empty stomach—not a good combination.

Don’t be
stupid.

The LT had
shown unusual restraint. Normally, he’d have said something closer to “Don’t be
an asshole.” Everyone was coddling him since the
incident
.

Scott
yawned. The sensible thing to do would be to hit the rack early, not show up
for his first day in Pine Hills looking and feeling like something the cat
wouldn’t bother dragging in.

Would it
kill him to be sensible just once?

This new job
at the podunk police department in Pine Hills was hardly a job at all. Not even
a sworn officer. He’d almost turned it down. But deep down, he knew the LT had
pulled strings, and damn it to hell, anything beat sitting around in his
apartment, which was only a couple notches higher than lying in a hospital
room.

He kicked
his uniform halfway across the room, cursing as pain shot up his leg.

You’re
still on the job. Just not the way you used to be.

***

Tempted to
ignore the ringtone telling her the contractor was calling, Ashley Eagan clenched
her teeth and fished the offending device from the depths of her purse.
What
now?
Forcing a cheery note to her voice, she said, “Tell me it’s good news,
Carl.” Phone to her ear, she pressed the elevator button. “I’m on my way.”

Carl called
daily with his updates, most of which were reasons why the construction work on
her bakery was even further behind schedule—so much that she feared she might
have to postpone her grand opening. If only the bank would let her postpone her
payments. No way that was going to happen. But no way was her grand opening not
going to happen. She’d find a way. The elevator arrived, and as soon as the
doors closed, she lost the cell signal.

When she
reached the lobby, Ashley punched Carl’s number into her phone. Impatiently,
she waited for him to pick up while she dug for her car keys. Distracted by her
concern, she careened into someone as she rushed across the tile floor. Two
someones, actually. The building manager, Mr. Spencer, and another man. She
heard a hissed intake of breath.

“I’m
so
sorry,” she mumbled reflexively, her attention centered on finding out what
today’s bakery disaster had been.

“No problem,”
the man said.

Ashley
glanced up long enough to notice his close-cropped sandy-red hair, a jacket and
tie. Here on some sort of official business, she supposed, since hardly anyone
wore ties in Pine Hills. The two men moved on, and she returned her attention
to her own problems.

“Pick up,
Carl,” she muttered under her breath. His voicemail kicked in, and she
disconnected without leaving a message. The bakery was a fifteen minute ride
away. Hearing about yet another snafu could wait that long.

She shouldn’t
have trusted Carl when he’d said his projected completion date would be
absolutely no later than the middle of May. What contractor ever gave a
realistic finish time? But he’d come highly recommended, and everything had
zipped along at the beginning. She hadn’t been totally stupid—she planned her
grand opening for June 15
^th
. Of course, as soon as she’d spent money
on ads and promotion, delay piled on delay, bills piled on bills.

Moving to
Pine Hills and opening her own bakery specializing in chocolate had taken all
her savings, not to mention loans she’d be lucky to pay off in ten years.
Everyone back in Pittsburgh thought she was crazy, and maybe she was, but it
would be worth it, doing something she loved, something all on her own.

She tossed
her purse on the passenger seat of her Chevy Sonic and tried to focus on the
positive as she drove toward the Pine Hills business district. She passed the
redbrick buildings of what passed for downtown, and headed for the old
buildings converted into the charming retail space that had drawn her to Pine
Hills. The sun peeked through breaks in the silver clouds, and the flowering
plum trees danced in the breeze. Surprised to find a slot on the street, she
grabbed it and headed down the sidewalk toward her store. She still got chills
thinking of it that way.
Her store.

As she
approached, Maggie Cooper, who worked at That Special Something, the gift
boutique next to the soon-to-be-bakery, intercepted her.

Ashley
sighed. Maggie was sweet, but she did tend to ramble on. And on.

“Good
morning, Maggie.” Ashley smiled, but didn’t stop walking.

“Did they
find who did it?” Maggie asked.

Ashley’s
heart thumped. “Who did what?”

“I thought
you knew.”

Ashley
half-ran the last few yards to her store. Shards of glass littered the
sidewalk. Ignoring the crunch under her feet, she stood in front of what should
have been the picture window affording everyone a look at her wares. Instead,
she saw sheets of plywood.

Belinda
Nesbitt, who ran The Happy Cook, a kitchen specialty shop on the other side of
Ashley’s bakery, stepped outside and gave Ashley a sympathetic finger-wave.
Ashley shrugged, and Belinda popped back inside her boutique. Carl came
forward, carrying a push broom.

“What
happened?” Ashley said. She sensed Maggie hovering behind her, obviously
wanting all the down and dirty.

“Sorry about
this, Ms. Eagan. I’ve already got the new window on order. Rush. No extra
charge, of course.” Carl started sweeping the glass from the sidewalk.

“Vandals?”
she asked.

Carl rubbed
his chin. “No, I’m sure it was an accident. Haven’t had anyone ’fess up, but I’ll
be talking to the crew, you can count on it.”

Ashley
sighed. “When will the new window get here?”

“Day after
tomorrow. And I’ve got the sign painter coming in that afternoon. You’ll be
ready to go. No problem.”

No
problem.
Carl’s mantra.

“Why don’t
you come have some tea with me before I have to open?” Maggie asked.

Have some
tea.
Maggie’s mantra. A different kind of tea for every problem. “In a bit,
Maggie. Thanks.”

“I have some
ideas for your grand opening.” Maggie bustled off, her “I Love Lucy” red curls
bouncing.

While Carl
dealt with cleaning the sidewalk, Ashley wandered through her half of the
converted Victorian, what would soon—she hoped—become Confections by Ashley. Merely
thinking about it calmed her. Trying to see beyond the workers painting the
walls a shade of mocha and the pounding from the restroom area, she envisioned
her completed shop.

The hardwood
floor, under canvas drop cloths now, but soon to be polished to a gleam. The
small, tile-topped tables scattered throughout the seating area. And, to
encourage a break from the typical hectic pace so prevalent today, some small
upholstered chairs and maybe even a loveseat or two. And end tables. Let her
customers linger over coffee. And her chocolate confections.

Her gaze
moved across the space, imagining her bakery case, soon to be filled with
cookies, cupcakes, brownies, and her own specialty, Decadent and Deadly
Chocolate Fudge Cake.

After Carl
came back inside, he and Ashley went over what had been done, what was left to
do, and they did their routine walk-through. A glimmer of optimism eased its
way into her mind. Until a crash and an expletive she didn’t recognize, yet
completely understood, burst forth from the restroom area.

Carl rushed
off, Ashley at his heels.

What now?

Inside one
of the restrooms, a worker, surrounded by chunks of porcelain, clutched his
forearm. He and Carl exchanged some words in Spanish, then Carl turned to
Ashley. “He was setting the toilet and lost his grip.”

“Is he hurt?
Should I call an ambulance?”

More
Spanish. Despite the worker’s olive complexion, there was a sickly pallor to
his skin.

“It’ll
probably be faster if I drive him,” Carl said. He helped the man to his feet. “I’ll
drop him off and be right back. No problem. This is a standard fixture. I’ll
stop on my way from the emergency room and pick up another one.”

Anxiety that
she’d have to cancel her grand opening—or worse, that she’d have to admit
defeat—twisted her insides. Maybe a cup of one of Maggie’s touted relaxing
brews would help settle the anxiety. She left the remaining workers to their
tasks and went next door.

Maggie
greeted her with a smile and ushered her through the boutique to the small
office in the back of the store. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the tea.
Would you like a scone to go with it? Not as good as yours, I’m sure.”

There was
something so
normal
about having tea with Maggie. Ashley allowed herself
the break. “Don’t be silly. I’d love one.”

“How are
things going?” Maggie asked.

So much for
not thinking about her current crisis. “I don’t know. Carl says, ‘No problem’
no matter what. There are times I think he’s hired the Klutz Brigade for subs.”

Maggie’s
face went slack, as if she were reading something in the space over Ashley’s
shoulder. Seconds later, she blinked and shook her head.

“What?”
Ashley said. “Do you know something?”

Maggie
patted Ashley’s hand. “Oh, no, Sweetie. I was having a flashback to Sarah’s
problems. But it’s impossible.”

“What
problems?” Ashley had met Sarah, the owner of That Special Something, and
Randy, her fiancé, but Sarah had been totally immersed in wedding plans at the
time, and now she was off on her honeymoon. How could any problems Sarah might
have had relate to Ashley’s bakery snafus?