Free Meet Your Baker by Ellie Alexander

Professor went to find a bowl. “Do you really think that Mia could have killed Nancy?”
    Mom wiped a fleck of dust from the countertop. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
    I told her about my early morning run-in.
    She rubbed her fingers together. “Did you know this stuff is sticky? I’ve never felt fingerprinting powder before.” Then she sighed. “There’s not much we can do at the moment.”
    She scanned the kitchen where the Professor was digging through drawers in search of a fork. “I sure hope he figures this out soon. If not…” She trailed off.
    “If not, what?”
    “Nothing. I don’t want to lose customers, that’s all.”
    “I know we want to reopen, but a day or two of lost profit shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right?”
    Mom laughed halfheartedly. “Of course. You know me, I always worry.”
    No she didn’t.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    The Professor returned with a bowl and fork. Mom scooped a heaping bowl of pasta for him and ushered him to the table where Andy waited to recap what he told us.
    “You want an americano?” I asked, walking to the end of the counter and revving up the espresso machine. “I could use another shot.” Fortunately, the bulk of the crime scene was behind me in the kitchen and as long as I kept my focus forward I could pretend it was business as usual at Torte. Growing up, I took ballet and acting classes, both of which left a lasting influence on my posture. Carlos used to tease that I moved through the kitchen like a ballerina. Today, my posture felt rigid.
    Mom folded napkins at the counter. “That’d be great,” she said halfheartedly. Her attention was focused outside.
    I turned to see what she was looking at.
    Richard Lord, dressed in wild red and orange plaid golf pants, a yellow collared T-shirt, and his clubs slung over his shoulder, was moving in our direction, a furious expression on his face.
    “What do you think he wants?” Mom mumbled. I noticed her twist the napkin she was folding in a knot.
    “Not sure, but it looks like we’re about to find out.” I pointed as Richard stormed across the street, angrily waving off a car that nearly ran into him. He pounded on the car’s hood and hurled his large body in our direction.
    I flipped off the machine. Coffee could wait.
    Richard burst through the door. He bellowed, “Someone better tell me what the hell is going on here!”
    The Professor gave me a look, as if to say, “I’ve got this covered.” He slowly rose from the table and walked over to Richard.
    He reached out his hand to help Richard with the golf clubs.
    Richard threw his hand off. “Curtis, don’t touch me and keep your hands off my clubs.” He lunged toward Mom.
    The Professor stepped in front of Richard. He commanded the space between them, instantly transforming from the introspective, thoughtful Professor into a serious, forceful presence. He didn’t put his hand to his hip holster as it seemed Thomas had a tendency to do. Did he even carry a gun? His commanding vibe drove Richard Lord to take a step back.
    “Richard. Why don’t you come have a seat?” He motioned to the closest booth.
    Richard clutched the strap on his golf bag. “I’m not moving until someone tells me what the hell is going on. I was out hitting a few balls this morning when I got a call from my front desk manager telling me my presence was needed over here .” The word “here” was laced with disdain.
    I’m not a golfer, but I could tell his clubs were expensive. Not just because of their graphite shafts and custom leather covers, but because he held them to his body the way a new mother holds an infant.
    The Professor held his stance and pointed to the booth. “Have a seat. Then we’ll talk. Or, if you prefer, I can take you over to my office.”
    Richard made an irritated sound, cinched his golf bag tighter, and stalked to the booth. He placed his clubs on the floor, and held on to them with one hand.
    Before attending to Richard, the