Saving Scott (Kobo) (5 page)

“Fine.”
Scott checked the time. Ten-thirty. This was going to be a long day. So far, he’d
channeled phone calls, answered basic questions, and dealt with the, “I want to
talk to a real cop” attitude. His biggest challenge had been calming one woman
down long enough to figure out what she wanted, which was to report someone
dumping trash on her property. When he’d called a uniform to take her
statement, his mind was already processing the myriad possibilities. He’d
caught a case once where a body had been dismembered and dumped in trash bags
all over town.

What
difference did it make? Even if it turned out to be more than some bags of
garbage, it wasn’t his job to investigate anymore.

At least
Doranna wasn’t the chatty sort. He pegged her at late forties, early fifties.
Hair going gray, bifocals, a no-nonsense attitude, and he detected an invisible
wall between her and the sworn officers. She had her job to do, and she took a
straightforward approach to doing it.

A buzz
indicated someone had entered the lobby. He looked up, surprised to see his
next-door neighbor. She entered with the same look of confusion everyone seemed
to have when they first walked in—scanning the room, trying to figure out what
to do.

He pressed
the intercom button. “Ashley?”

She jumped
and one hand flew to her chest. She paused, looked around, then approached the
glass. “Scott?”

“Can I help
you?”

She backed
away. “I … I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He could
barely hear her. “Come closer, please.”

“No, that’s
all right. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be bothering anyone.” And she was out the
door.

Damn.

Her
business. She was a grown woman. If she needed the cops, she’d be back. Simply
because she was easy on the eyes didn’t mean he should get involved. He shifted
in his chair, his aching leg a constant reminder of that mistake.

He
remembered the way she’d asked if he was a cop this morning. As if she wanted
to talk to one. Had she come in to report harassment? Abuse? Was she thinking
about filing a restraining order? Grounds for that were pretty stiff in Oregon.

He recalled
her on the treadmill. No bruises on her torso. Definitely nothing on her face.
Not that jerks didn’t know how to make sure they left no visible marks. Wasn’t
uncommon for it to take several tries before the woman got up the nerve to
follow through.

“Bored yet?”
Kovak approached, sipping a designer coffee and offered him a second. “Latte?
Thought you might want something better than the sludge we serve here.
Especially with those cookies. Whatever you did to deserve them, keep doing it.”

Scott took
the cup. “Housewarming gift from my neighbor. She’s opening up a new bakery.”
He wished the damn phone would ring. Doranna had taken all the files, leaving
him with little to do. He stared at the computer. Kovak hovered.

“Not like
what you’re used to,” the detective said.

Scott
shrugged. “Not that much different.”
Leave me be.
“Thanks for the
coffee.”

Once the
silence reached an uncomfortable stage, Kovak said, “I’ll let you get back to
work, then.” He took a few steps and turned. “If you want to grab a beer after
work, the Wagon Wheel has happy hour from four to six.”

Scott
grunted. “Thanks, but I’m still moving in.”

“Another
time, then.” Kovak almost slunk away.

Scott tried
to feel guilty about his brusque manner, but couldn’t drum up the energy.

The day
continued at a snail’s pace, and during the too-frequent lulls, he let his mind
rove to what might have brought Ashley into the station. He took advantage of
his civilian status and left at the stroke of three to go to his old apartment
and fill another carload of boxes.

By the time
he’d packed another batch of boxes, loaded them into his car, then unloaded
them at his new place, Scott wanted nothing more than a pain pill and bed. But
the chocolate aroma from next door sent hunger cramps to his belly. He shouldn’t
have skipped lunch, but he’d used the time to stock up on some bare necessities
rather than socialize with the people who’d invited him to join them.

They’re
being sociable. Why are you assuming it’s all about you?

Was his ego
that big? Or was he avoiding hanging with cops when he wasn’t a cop anymore?

He slapped a
few slices of cheese between two slices of bread, then nuked it long enough to
melt the cheese. He scarfed it down standing by the microwave. Nothing like a
faux
grilled cheese sandwich. He recalled the ones his mother made, all buttery and
toasty, usually accompanying a bowl of her homemade chicken soup. She’d be
turning over in her grave if she saw this rubbery excuse for something she
created with love.

Damn, you
are one pathetic individual.

Maybe it was
the meds. Making him anti-social. Bringing guilt for anything and everything to
the surface. Making him maudlin.

You got
dealt a shit hand. Fold and move on.

Ignoring any
residual guilt, he heated a can of soup and nuked another
faux
grilled
cheese sandwich. But he ate them sitting at the island counter.

His appetite
under control, he popped his meds and decided it
was
time to move on. He
washed his few dishes, including the now-empty platter Ashley had brought over
this morning. It was flimsy plastic, clearly meant to be disposable, but he
washed it, dried it, and figured it was as good an excuse as any to try being
sociable.

Okay,
maybe she’ll offer you some of whatever smells so good, too.

Memories of
home flooded through. Of his mother, busily cooking or baking something.
You
can’t return a plate empty
.

Damn. Did he
have
anything
on hand that would be suitable? Or maybe that rule was out
of date. Would Ashley even be aware of it?

He limped
across the kitchen and started opening the cupboards he’d barely begun to fill.

***

Ashley eyed
the cookies on the baking sheet with a critical eye. They’d puffed into nice
plump balls of chocolate glistening with sugar crystals. She transferred the
freshly baked cookies to the waiting cooling racks and slid the next batch into
the oven. She wasn’t sure if she was baking to celebrate the positive support
she’d had for her brownie bakeoff, or to get rid of the jitters it would be an
abysmal flop. Or that her shop kitchen wouldn’t be ready in time. Today had
brought mere mini-disasters.

The crash
she’d heard was the plywood covering the window hitting the floor when they
took it down. Score one for the Klutz Brigade. But the window was in, the
freshly painted lettering proudly proclaiming the existence of Confections by
Ashley. She’d watched the painter form every letter, her heart pounding faster
with each stroke of his brush.

On the down
side, Willie Duncan had discovered that the electrician had installed regular
outlets instead of the required ground fault ones. Carl had sworn he’d make
sure it was fixed first thing tomorrow. She sighed. Better now than to fail the
final inspections. And then there was one box of baseboard trim that didn’t
match the rest.

On the up
side, the local merchants had been receptive to handing out her flyers. Most of
them, anyway. Felicity Markham, the owner of Felicitea, was the only one who’d
objected, despite Ashley’s repeated assurances that her confection shop was
hardly competition for a tea shop. Felicitea served finger sandwiches and a
couple kinds of cookies. Even Sadie’s Café had put a stack of flyers by the
register. Heck, the manager had asked about ordering some of Ashley’s goods for
their place. Sadie’s desserts featured pies, something Ashley had no desire to
offer.

Focusing on
the positive, she set a pot of coffee on to brew. She had notes to go over,
lists to make, but before she tackled those chores, she definitely needed to
bake one more batch of something. Anything. Didn’t take much to decide on the
chocolate chip cookies she could do in her sleep, since her mind insisted on
worrying about what could go wrong instead of what was going right.

Merely
thinking about assembling the ingredients calmed her. She immersed herself in
the task. Butter. She took some from the fridge to the counter to soften before
she could cream it. Nuts. She set a bag of chopped pecans beside the butter and
went to her pantry for the chocolate chips.

She lined
her baking sheets with parchment paper and sifted her dry ingredients together.
Hooking a clean side towel at her waist, she immersed herself in her private
world of cooking.

Her doorbell
chimes startled her as she was tapping the eggs on the counter, resulting in a
sticky mess as her hands crushed the shells instead of cracking them.

Wiping her
hands on the side towel, she went to the door and checked the peephole. Scott
from next door. Her heart thudded a bit faster and she felt a tingling wave of
heat rise up her neck. Was he here because she’d dropped by the police station,
then rushed off like the cops were seconds away from coming after
her
?
She twisted the knob.

“Ashley? I’m
returning your tray.”

She pulled
the door open. He waited in the hallway, still wearing what she’d seen him in this
morning. Khakis and a green polo that intensified his hazel eyes. But there was
a weariness about him, as if he’d be more comfortable dressed in his robe.

“You really
didn’t need to,” she said.

“I also
wanted to tell you the cookies were a big hit. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of
customers.”

“Thanks.”
From the kitchen, her timer dinged. “Would you like to come in? I’m in the
middle of baking, and have to get the cookies out of the oven.”

“For a
minute.”

She hurried
to her cookies, aware that he followed slowly behind her. She pulled the sheet
out of the oven and set it on the stovetop while she cleared enough room on the
island for another cooling rack. Soon, she told herself. Soon she’d be doing
this for real, in her shop kitchen.

Scott still
stood there, holding the tray. She looked more closely. It held two bags of
microwave popcorn.

He extended
it. “My mom would kill me for returning an empty tray, but I’m afraid I don’t
have much in the house. And I’m certainly not competing with your baking
skills. The closest I’ve ever come to homemade cookies are those blobs of dough
from the refrigerated section of the grocery store.”

She couldn’t
help but smile as she took the tray. “That was very—” She caught herself before
she said sweet. Somehow,
sweet
didn’t seem to fit Scott.

“Thoughtful,”
she finished. “We were raised the same way. But Mom wasn’t a very good cook,
and she always dreaded getting anything on a
real
plate because she’d
have to reciprocate. She’d leave the empty plate in the middle of the table, nagging
her to create something. I loved it, though, and as soon as I was old enough, I
took over that chore. Although for me it wasn’t a chore at all.”

When she
looked at him again, she noticed an aura of weariness. A slight slump to his
shoulders, shadows under his eyes. “Would you like some coffee? It’s fresh.”

His eyes
brightened. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love some.”

“Take a
seat.” She got out two mugs and filled them, adding cream and sugar to hers. “How
do you take it?”

He pulled
one of her stools away from the counter and sat. “Black is fine.”

She handed
him a mug, took a sip from hers, then grabbed a damp rag and swabbed the eggy
mess. “If it’s all right, I need to get this batch of cookies going.” She
gestured to the cooling rack where her earlier cookies waited. “Help yourself.
Those are a new recipe, and I’d appreciate an outside opinion.”

She scraped
the softened butter into her mixer and began creaming it with the sugar,
keeping an eye on Scott as he sampled one of her cookies. First, he broke the
ball in two, studying the two halves. The chunk of bittersweet chocolate she’d
placed inside the dough oozed enough to tempt, not enough to drip. He popped
one half into his mouth.

He chewed,
then his eyes widened. He coughed. “Whoa. These have some kick.”

“Too much? I
call them my spicy Aztec chocolate drops, and I’ve been playing with the
amounts of cayenne and black peppers.”

Were his
eyes watering? She grabbed one from the rack and sampled it. The bittersweet
richness of the chocolate and the sugary topping were rapidly replaced by a
strong burn on her tongue. She strode to the fridge and got a carton of milk.
Pouring two glasses, she said, “Definitely a bit heavy on the cayenne. Drink
some of this, and if you’re willing, try one of the others. It’s a milder
batch.”

He gulped
some milk and gave her a narrow-eyed look that said,
Can I trust you?

She took one
of the cookies and broke it in half. Eating one, rolling it around in her
mouth, sampling the blend of flavors, she extended the other half to him. “These
might be more to your liking. There’s still some heat, but it’s not quite so
dominant.”

He took
another swig of milk, then some coffee before testing the cookie. He mimicked
her tasting technique. “Actually, I think you could meet somewhere in the
middle, as long as you advertised them as spicy. That way, there’s still a bit
of adventure.”

“Thanks.”
She went back to her prep, mixing her wet and dry ingredients into a stiff
dough and adding the chips and nuts. Scott sat, watching, but not speaking. The
rhythm of placing scoops of dough onto the parchment seemed to give her the
nerve she hadn’t been able to muster inside the police station.

“Can I ask
you something?” Not brilliant, but a start.

“Sure.”
Scott snagged another cookie. His voice was calm, reassuring.