The Baker's Wife (20 page)

“You make it sound like she's got something terminal.”

He nodded, glad not to be having this conversation face-to-face. “Has your mom tried to reach you at all?”

“Thank you for telling me, Ed.”

He coughed, embarrassed by his not-so-subtle hope that he could get his mother off this barbed hook of Jack's. “Sure.”

“I mean that. Thank you.”

He nodded again, not sure what to believe about her shape-shifting treatment of him. She hung up.

CHAPTER 18

The scent of sweet cinnamon rolls was filling Diane's apartment when she woke Tuesday morning after a few short hours of sleep. Throughout the course of the night, she had gradually arrived at this conclusion: Juliet's disappearance on the very day of Diane's return to her hometown was a sign from God, and not a bizarre coincidence.

Diane didn't understand what the sign meant. But this interpretation of Monday's revelation was the only one that allowed her finally to fall asleep and then get out of bed in the morning, to figure out what she must do next. Sometimes one had to be practical to avoid becoming paralyzed.

She pulled on her clothing, washed her face, and ran a comb through her hair. She went into the living room where she had tossed the blue apron Geoff asked her to wear while she worked, slipped it over her neck, and spent a moment untangling the strings. She could see the front window at the end of the narrow path she had cleared to the bench. A curtain of fog hung on the other side of the glass, giving the world its privacy.

Yesterday's rain—and the high-pressure system that followed it—was responsible for filling the valley with this thick soup. The blinding tule fog was radiational fog, rising from the ground rather than blowing in from a body of water. It was the specific result of climate and geography: Rain filled the atmosphere with humidity. Then the temperatures of the late-autumn air fell fast, and cool breezes slid down off the mountainsides and filled the valley basin. The day's warmth radiated away from the earth as the colder air displaced it and mixed with the moisture like cornstarch stirred into a broth. The warmer air above the mountains trapped it all in, a lid on the soup tureen that would not be lifted except by a strong wind, or some shift in the weather that allowed the air in the bowl to dry out.

When she was a child, her father had explained this more than once as he walked her and Donna to school before opening the drugstore for business. Diane understood the science but found it unable to explain the foreboding such fog created in her heart. The monochrome gray was oppressive, the air measurably more difficult for her to breathe, and she could be certain that the evening news would bring some word of a disaster or death. In the Great Central Valley, this oozing airborne monster was the top cause of weather-triggered casualties.

Donna had died on such a day, though not for that reason.

Diane pulled the apron strings taut behind her ample waist and headed down the dark staircase into the cinnamon scent.

There were only two customers in the dining area when she passed through it, a man in his early thirties and a woman, a girl really, who might have been in high school. Diane thought she had seen them both before, two of the many busybodies who had dropped in during the last week. They were sitting at different tables but talking to each other. He said something about a basketball tournament over the weekend. She said something about a science fair.

Ed was holding a dog-eared paper manual and standing in front of the coffeemaker, which looked to Diane like a Jules Verne time-travel machine, as if he'd never seen one before. Their eyes met as she came around the counter.

“You know how to work one of these?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Your mom always does it.”

“She's home with the flu this morning.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He was a smart boy. He'd figure it out. She went into the kitchen. Geoff was at the industrial-size mixer pouring water into a pile of flour. Estrella was weighing the yeast. The brick oven was radiating heat from the morning fire. A bucket of hot ashes cooled in the corner of the room, and the soaked wood door had been removed from the oven's mouth, which awaited the next batch of dough.

They all exchanged distracted good mornings, acknowledgments filled with the tension of being shorthanded and a little behind. Diane headed toward the storeroom to fetch plastic baskets and waxed-tissue liners. She'd prep and stack these behind the counter before the morning rush, which would hit in about an hour.

Over the sound of the whirring dough hook in the mixer, she heard the front door open and close. She peeked out to see if she could take an order. No need for Ed to be distracted from the time machine, especially if the customer wanted a latte.

The gray of a man's slacks and the shiny black polish of his shoes were slipping past the swinging door that led to the bathrooms.

Diane returned to the storeroom to collect what she wanted, then scowled at a pile of empty flour sacks that had been dumped on the floor, along with a tub of a creamy cinnamon-sugar mix that had been scraped out and set aside. She stopped to fold and stack the sacks so they'd take up less room in the trash can. She took the tub to the stainless-steel sink and ran hot water and soap in it to prevent the sugar from hardening. Murphy's Law said that because Audrey was absent, today would be the day the health inspector showed up.

For a fleeting moment Diane thought that might have been who had gone directly to the bathrooms upon entering.

She decided to wash the tub rather than let it soak.

That done, she returned to her baskets and liners and carried the supplies out of the kitchen, heading for the service counter. The gray slacks and shiny shoes were standing at the front door of the dining room now, their wearer's back to her. Ed had seen him too. The way Ed lowered the appliance manual to his side caused Diane to look at the guest a second time.

Now she recognized his black hair—his tidy, freshly cut, slicked-back hair—not one strand out of place, as if keeping his hairstyle under control might give him power over life itself. Jack Mansfield was doing something to the door.

She dropped her chin to her chest and spun to the counter. Her hands shook as she set down the baskets and lost her grip on the box, but it landed squarely on the surface. This was a lucky break; she'd have time to leave the room before he noticed her, before he announced that he had discovered her connection to his wife, and that he had deduced that Diane had lied to him about his wife's phone, and that he had looked into her criminal record, and that he was here to place her under arrest for abducting her best friend Juliet Steen and murdering her just as she had murdered her twin sister once upon a time.

Once a killer, always a killer.

Diane set the black baskets and box of tissues on the counter and made what she hoped was a discreet beeline for the door that led to the hallway past the bathrooms and to her apartment. Jack got there first.

“I'm going to need you to stay here, Ms. Hall,” he said.

The back door would be her next route out. It should have been her first choice, of course, because even though it wasn't the closest exit, there was nowhere to go after she got upstairs, which would have been really stupid. But she was really stupid after all, wasn't she? She turned and brushed past Ed, who was staring at the front door.

“The rear door is armed from the outside,” Jack said loudly. “Please don't open it.”

Diane spun. Jack was holding a gun. The man and girl in the dining room stopped talking. The male stood from his chair, his posture asking a question, and Jack turned and leveled his gun at the man's head. When his eyes alighted on Jack, his expression changed from shock to shocked recognition.

“Look here,” Jack said to the guest. “It's the barfly coach. You know my wife. That might be helpful, if you're sober today.”

Geoff and Estrella emerged from the kitchen.

Was Jack here for
this
man and not her? In either case, why was arming the rear door necessary?

She looked to the front. The
OPEN
sign had been flipped so that it faced her. There was a block of something gray and claylike stuck to the seam between door and frame, just above the lock.

Geoff said, “Jack, if you want something from me, I'll gladly give it to you. Put your gun down.”

“Let's work quickly,” Jack said. “This shouldn't take too long if everyone will cooperate. Ms. Hall, please lower the blinds and draw the curtains.” He gestured toward the various window coverings. Diane obeyed. “Young lady”—the girl was clutching a notebook and a fistful of pencils in one hand and a phone in the other—“place your call to the police. Did you know I'm an officer myself? Yes, twenty-one years. Then I'll take that cell phone off your hands.”

The girl didn't speak. Diane wondered if her call had gone through. The metallic scraping of curtain rings being dragged along the rods was the only sound in the restaurant. That and the Spanish murmuring of Estrella, praying or cursing, Diane wasn't sure. Jack didn't seem to care, his gun remained at Coach Henderson's temple.

“Jack, please,” Geoff said.

“Before we head into the back, a demonstration: everyone, please come over here.”

The girl at the table started to cry.

“No tears, girl. You remind me of my daughter, always crying about something. If you knew me, you'd know that I only want the best for you. As for each person here. Except maybe you, Coach. No room for drunkards in the kingdom of God. But that's for another day.
This
day has the potential to end very, very well, no harm done. It's up to you.”

The six people in the bakery looked at each other. Only Geoff moved toward Jack.

“Thank you, Geoff,” Jack said. “Your life experience has transformed you into a fine role model. It's about time. Everyone else, don't make me repeat myself.”

Diane, Estrella, Ed, and the girl shifted by inches.

“Come over here!” Jack yelled.

They went.

“Pick up that string, Coach,” Jack said.

The slender man bent and picked up the end of a string lying at Jack's feet. The white nylon cord ran under the closed door and, presumably, down the hall on the other side.

“Pull it.”

Coach pulled. Everyone watched through the porthole-style window in the swinging door.

The far end of the hallway exploded, and the group recoiled at the flash of light momentarily obscuring the bathrooms. The door that separated the group from the blast breathed on its hinges. Something like a piece of wood struck its small round window and bounced back into the hallway. Jack nodded, satisfied with the effect. Diane thought the smoke looked like the fog outside.

Except the smoke exited the hall much more quickly, rushing upward past the demolished door to Diane's apartment. It left behind a pile of splintered wood and powdery drywall that now blocked the stairs.

“That,” Jack said, nodding at the destruction and then spinning back to the bakery's main entrance, “is what's on
that
door. I suggest you leave it closed. Can't guarantee that it will kill you, but it will mess up your face. Geoff, for the benefit of those who don't live here, please explain that even if the rubble were cleared, there's no exit up those rear stairs.”

Geoff nodded, his arms crossed.

“Same thing goes for the kitchen door. Don't open it. Now, to the kitchen.”

Jack, keeping his gun on Coach, herded the small group behind the counter half filled with baked goods. They collected in the kitchen in front of the hot brick oven. The scent of something burning came from the electric one.

“Lights, please.”

Geoff turned off the switch, and the dining room became dark. Jack grabbed a tall, wheeled rack of warm loaves and dragged it behind him into the kitchen, blocking the entry.

“You”—Jack pointed at Estrella—“no need for a fire. Get whatever it is out of the stove.” She moved quickly, arming herself with mitts and grimacing when she opened the door and a puff of smoke escaped. “On the counter.” Estrella pulled out two heavy-duty pans of dry muffins. She quickly carried them to the counter Jack had indicated and set them on the shiny surface— then shoved them with all her body weight toward Jack.

He jumped out of the way. The pans crashed into the bread rack and knocked off several of the loaves, then hit the floor, steaming and dumping their contents. Jack found his center, placed both hands on the butt of his gun, and fired at Coach.

Diane flinched. The concrete floor and metal appliances turned the room into a megaphone. The girl screamed and pressed her notebook and pencils over her ears, double bent. Ed grabbed her and pushed her to the floor, shielding her. Geoff was jumping toward Coach. Estrella looked stricken.

The gunshot seemed to hum long after the bullet came to rest.

“That was a fool thing to do!” Jack screamed at Estrella. “I'll kill him next time! Believe me, I have a clear conscience when it comes to his kind!”