with the cake, they’d have taken it with them.”
“We’re not the police,” Laurel said. He shut off the flashlight and began putting my things back in the cabinet. “This one’s clear.” He looked up at me. “I’m sorry this is upsetting you. We’ll be through in a few minutes. You might want to wait in the living room or—”
“I’ll wait right here.”
“Fine,” Hardy said, holding up a sample bag. “Can you give us some sugar?” He gave me a leering grin that nearly brought my breakfast back to the surface. “Get it?”
“Confectioner’s or pure cane?”
His grin faded. “Both.”
After giving Hardy samples of all my baking supplies, I sat down at the table and watched Laurel go through all my cabinets. He was pretty quick at emptying and refilling them. Where’d he been when I was moving?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hardy going for the cake box that held tomorrow’s cake. I sprang out of my chair. “Don’t mess with that! It’s for my family’s Thanksgiving dinner!”
Hardy looked at Laurel. I refused to take my eyes off Hardy and was willing to do him bodily harm if he touched my cake.
“You have samples of my supplies,” I said. “You have some of every ingredient in that cake.”
Laurel must’ve given Hardy some sort of high sign because he backed away from the cake.
When they finally left, I cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. Logically, I knew they hadn’t gotten anything dirty. They’d worn gloves and had been careful to leave everything as they’d found it. Still, it felt dirty somehow. These men had violated my home . . . my business . . . my privacy . . . my life.
After I’d cleaned the kitchen, I poured my mop water outside and sat down on the step. I saw the cat staring at me from beneath a tree, and I wished she’d come to me. I’d never felt so alone . . . well, at least, not lately. I was ever so pitiful sitting on my porch feeling sorry for myself.
I heard a vehicle in the driveway and raised my head, afraid the men from the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services had returned. I was squinting to try to recognize the man in the white Jeep when he got out. It was Ben. He was carrying a deli bag.
“Hungry?” he asked.
That simple gesture poked a needle into my balloon of self-pity, and I began to sob. Lucy Ricardo would’ve been proud.
Ten minutes later, I had stopped crying and Ben and I were at the kitchen table eating ham and Swiss on rye.
“Why in the world was the Department of Agriculture here?” Ben asked.
“Because the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services oversees bakeries.” It was the answer I was given the first time the department had shown up to inspect my home . . . when I’d opened my business.
“But you aren’t running a bakery.”
“Not exactly, but I do sell baked goods to the public. That brings me under the department’s jurisdiction.”
“And they simply showed up out of the blue?”
I nodded. “They said it was routine, but one of them did mention Mrs. Watson’s death.”
“How could they think your cake was responsible for that?”
“I don’t know. I tried to tell them the cake wasn’t even cut. I said it was in the police report, but they arrogantly informed me that they are not with the police department.”
“Even so, I’d expect the agencies to work together, especially if they feel your cake was somehow responsible for someone’s death.”
“How did they even know I took a cake to Mrs. Watson?”
Ben dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. “You said it yourself. It’s a matter of public record since it’s in the police report. But I’ll see if I can find out if someone tipped them off.”
“Tipped them off? You sound as if somebody has it in for me.”
“I don’t mean that exactly,” Ben said. “I mean, I know these visits are routine, but I’m curious to know why they came back so soon after you opened your business.” He
“We’re not the police,” Laurel said. He shut off the flashlight and began putting my things back in the cabinet. “This one’s clear.” He looked up at me. “I’m sorry this is upsetting you. We’ll be through in a few minutes. You might want to wait in the living room or—”
“I’ll wait right here.”
“Fine,” Hardy said, holding up a sample bag. “Can you give us some sugar?” He gave me a leering grin that nearly brought my breakfast back to the surface. “Get it?”
“Confectioner’s or pure cane?”
His grin faded. “Both.”
After giving Hardy samples of all my baking supplies, I sat down at the table and watched Laurel go through all my cabinets. He was pretty quick at emptying and refilling them. Where’d he been when I was moving?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hardy going for the cake box that held tomorrow’s cake. I sprang out of my chair. “Don’t mess with that! It’s for my family’s Thanksgiving dinner!”
Hardy looked at Laurel. I refused to take my eyes off Hardy and was willing to do him bodily harm if he touched my cake.
“You have samples of my supplies,” I said. “You have some of every ingredient in that cake.”
Laurel must’ve given Hardy some sort of high sign because he backed away from the cake.
When they finally left, I cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. Logically, I knew they hadn’t gotten anything dirty. They’d worn gloves and had been careful to leave everything as they’d found it. Still, it felt dirty somehow. These men had violated my home . . . my business . . . my privacy . . . my life.
After I’d cleaned the kitchen, I poured my mop water outside and sat down on the step. I saw the cat staring at me from beneath a tree, and I wished she’d come to me. I’d never felt so alone . . . well, at least, not lately. I was ever so pitiful sitting on my porch feeling sorry for myself.
I heard a vehicle in the driveway and raised my head, afraid the men from the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services had returned. I was squinting to try to recognize the man in the white Jeep when he got out. It was Ben. He was carrying a deli bag.
“Hungry?” he asked.
That simple gesture poked a needle into my balloon of self-pity, and I began to sob. Lucy Ricardo would’ve been proud.
Ten minutes later, I had stopped crying and Ben and I were at the kitchen table eating ham and Swiss on rye.
“Why in the world was the Department of Agriculture here?” Ben asked.
“Because the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services oversees bakeries.” It was the answer I was given the first time the department had shown up to inspect my home . . . when I’d opened my business.
“But you aren’t running a bakery.”
“Not exactly, but I do sell baked goods to the public. That brings me under the department’s jurisdiction.”
“And they simply showed up out of the blue?”
I nodded. “They said it was routine, but one of them did mention Mrs. Watson’s death.”
“How could they think your cake was responsible for that?”
“I don’t know. I tried to tell them the cake wasn’t even cut. I said it was in the police report, but they arrogantly informed me that they are not with the police department.”
“Even so, I’d expect the agencies to work together, especially if they feel your cake was somehow responsible for someone’s death.”
“How did they even know I took a cake to Mrs. Watson?”
Ben dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. “You said it yourself. It’s a matter of public record since it’s in the police report. But I’ll see if I can find out if someone tipped them off.”
“Tipped them off? You sound as if somebody has it in for me.”
“I don’t mean that exactly,” Ben said. “I mean, I know these visits are routine, but I’m curious to know why they came back so soon after you opened your business.” He
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