Free Gluten for Punishment by Nancy J. Parra

Chicago.
     People tag stuff all the time. It’s expensive to clean up, but you don’t kill people
     over it.
    “Then what did you do?”
    “I called 911 and reported the drunk guy with the spray can.” I took a deep breath
     and let it out slow. “Sarah kept me on the line until you showed up.”
    “Did you touch the DB?”
    I sat up straight. “What’s a DB?”
    Officer Emry frowned. “The dead body . . .” He waved his hand dismissing my ignorance.
     “Did you touch it or anything near it?”
    “No and no. I wasn’t about to confront a drunk all by myself. Like I said, as soon
     as I saw the spray can I took a step back and called 911.”
    “You’re telling me you didn’t know he was dead?” Officer Emry’s eyes gleamed. I bet
     he was having fun with this.
    “How could I know? This is Oiltop; people don’t die on Main Street.”
    “Did you identify the body?”
    A queasy feeling washed over me. There had been an actual dead person in front of
     my store—as in smelly, squishy, creepy dead. “No, I didn’t see his face. The hat covered
     his face. You saw that. In fact, I thought he had his head turned to the side, like
     someone who sleeps on his stomach. Seriously, I figured he was a drunk sleeping off
     his bender.”
    Officer Emry stood and hitched up his gun belt. “We’ll need you to come down to the
     station and let us take your fingerprints. It’s procedure.”
    I rested my elbow on my desk and the side of my face in my hand and closed my eyes.
     “Candy told me.”
    “When can we expect you?” His tone was pushy—real pushy and grating on my last nerve.
    “When my help gets here, after school.” His pause and narrow-eyed stare caused me
     to be more precise. “I’ll be there at 3:30 P.M. ” I stood, pushed in my chair, and glanced at my watch. It was nearly noon. “When
     will they take down the crime scene tape?”
    “In a day or two.”
    Really? They were going to block off the entrance to my bakery for a day or two? “Why
     so long?”
    Officer Emry stepped out into the kitchen. It smelled better here, like rising yeast
     dough and sugar. “Depending on what the county ME finds, we may need to come back
     and look for more evidence.”
    “Like what kind of evidence?” I went over to the sink and washed my hands.
    “Bullets and the like.”
    “Bullets?” I leaned back against the deep stainless steel and felt the blood rush
     from my head. “Are you telling me the guy was
shot
outside my bakery?” Thoughts of bullets flying through the windows and walls had
     me shaking. I’d heard of plenty of innocent people shot in the safety of their own
     living rooms. My gaze went to the front wall. The storefront was brick, but there
     was no way of telling if it was decorative or real.
    “I can’t say if the victim was shot or not.” Officer Emry shrugged. “But it’s a possibility.”
    “A possibility? There was a possibility I could have been killed by a stray bullet
     in my own shop in Nowhere, Kansas?” I grabbed a work stool and sat down, hoping the
     action of drying my hands on a clean white towel would distract from my distress.
     I guess it worked because Officer Emry didn’t seem to notice.
    “Is there anyone who can verify you were inside the bakery all morning?”
    My eyes widened. “Um, no. I told you, I work alone.” Just me and Bon Jovi. “Why does
     it matter if I work alone or not?”
    “The way I see it, Ms. Holmes, you’d better hope you don’t have a motive, because
     your alibi is a bit thin.”
    My right eye started to twitch as Officer Emry jangled his way toward the front door
     of the bakery.
    “You’d better lock this behind me,” he said. “If anyone comes through the taped off
     area and goes through this door we might have to charge you with aidin’ and abettin’
     the destruction of a crime scene.”
    I got up and locked the door behind him. I almost stuck out my tongue at the skinny
     runt of a man, but then I realized