Flourless to Stop Him by Nancy J. Parra Page B

twisted the colored scarf around her neck six or eight times, grabbed her gloves out of her pockets, put them on, and moved her scooter to the back door. “First I’ve got a water aerobics class at the Y. After that the library will be open. I’ll get on the Internet and do some digging.”
    “Is Bill driving you?” I asked as I opened the door for her.
    “Not today.” Grandma drove her scooter out the door. The tip of the orange caution triangle bent as she went through the door then bounced back in a wild wave as she motored into the parking lot. “Bill’s got a taxidermy seminar in Great Bend.”
    “It’s too cold to drive your scooter,” I said as I checked out the size and density of the flurry of snow that fell from the sky. “Why don’t you wait? Meghan will be here shortly. I’ll have her drive you.”
    “Nonsense,” Grandma said and moved down the back parking lot. “It’s only a mile or so. Toodles, kiddo. Lock the door behind you.”
    How come I had to lock a door in a perfectly strong building but Grandma could scooter away into the darkness? With that orange flag flying above her, I think she was a bigger target than I was.

CHAPTER 6

    B eing gluten-free is not a bed of roses. I am careful, seriously careful, and yet there are still days when I got “glutened.” How do I know? I get sick—and not itchy, rashy sick, but tummy-bug sick.
    “Meghan, are you sure you’re okay with covering the bakery this morning?” I asked as my stomach rumbled.
    My assistant was young and beautiful. Just nineteen, she looked more like a tattoo artist than a baker, but I loved her anyway. Today her hair was dyed jet-black with a hot pink streak in the front. Black cat-eye liner streaked along the edge of her lids. She had wide, dark brown eyes and pierced eyebrows dyed to match her hair. Her skin looked like porcelain and her mouth was painted in a bright red cupid’s bow.
    She had been more Goth when I hired her two months ago, but had recently segued into vintage pinup-girl makeup. She wore a white tee shirt and black pants. On her feet were the proper shoes for standing all day. She had rings tattooed on her right fingers. She had told me the tattoo was betterthan real because she could bake with her bare hands and not worry about cleaning under the rings.
    I insisted that she be meticulous in my kitchen, and she was.
    “Hey, no worries.” Meghan tied the apron around her waist. “You have the morning rush ready. With the cookie dough prepped as well, all I have to do is bake.” She waved her hand elegantly from the square blocks of frozen cookie dough I had made and frozen the night before toward the double oven. “Go home. Get some rest.”
    “Thank you,” I said sincerely and grabbed my coat from the coatrack next to the door.
    “Any idea how you got glutened?” Meghan asked. “People will want to know.”
    “Not here,” I said and waved my hand around the kitchen. “I cheated last night and grabbed French fries from the fast-food place on the corner. I know better. . . .” I sighed.
    “It just means you’re human.” Meghan smiled. “Who can resist the siren call of hot greasy potatoes? Besides, like you said, they should be gluten-free. They’re just sliced potatoes deep fried with salt. Right?”
    “In theory,” I said. “In reality there are a million ways for the fries to come in contact with gluten. They probably fried something coated in flour in the same grease. It’s as crazy as putting the gluten-free mixes next to the flour on the grocery store shelves. At least I’m not so sensitive I can’t walk down the flour aisle without getting sick.”
    “Thank goodness for that,” Meghan agreed.
    “I’m going to go take some medicine and rest. I’ll be back in time to close up,” I promised. “Thanks!”
    “Hey, no sweat. This is the kind of stuff I signed up for.” Meghan smiled, stretching out the bright red into a perfect pouty grin. Oh, to be nineteen