Free Gluten for Punishment by Nancy J. Parra Page A

my mama was probably looking down at me from heaven
     and would disapprove. I leaned my back against the glass door and stared at my empty
     bakery. I wasn’t going to ask if the day could get any worse. That would be asking
     for trouble, now wouldn’t it?

CHAPTER 8

    "O h, my God, are you all right?” Tasha’s eyes were wide as she rushed into the back
     of the store. It was close to six P.M. and I hadn’t had a new customer since I came back from the police station. “I got
     here as soon as I could. Kip had two doctor’s appointments today.”
    I kneaded dough. It was great to have something to slap around. It had taken me fifteen
     minutes of hard scrubbing to get the ink off my fingertips. “You know, I don’t know.”
     I rolled the yeasty dough and pushed in with all my strength, turned, rolled, pushed.
     “A man died outside my door.” I waved toward the front of the store. “The front door
     is locked because it’s taped off with crime scene tape and I have exactly no customers
     coming in through the back. Even though I posted a big sign in the window announcing
     I was open.”
    Tasha hugged me tight. I couldn’t hug her back because my hands were covered in sweet
     rice flour. “You must have been very scared.”
    My shoulder muscles relaxed. Here was someone who cared about me and what I had gone
     through. Tears sprang to my eyes and I fought them back. “It’s silly to feel sorry
     for myself.” I sniffed. “I mean, the poor man died. His family will be devastated.
     What if he left little kids behind?”
    Tasha stepped back, straightened her arms while keeping her hands on my upper arms
     and studied me. “Of course you get to feel sorry for yourself. First the flour vandalism
     the other day and now this.” She shook her head. Today she wore a long sleeved tee
     shirt, stylish jeans, and a smart tweed jacket. Her hair was pulled back but looked
     like a movie star’s hair, not tumbled about in a messy ponytail like mine. “I saw
     the paint on the front of the building. The sight of it scared the tar out of me.
     He vandalized you while you were alone in the building.”
    I slumped down onto a nearby kitchen stool. “You make it sound as if he might have
     hurt me.”
    Her generous mouth thinned. “He could have. Then I would have had to kill him myself.”
    I blinked back the tears. I guess I was more emotional than I thought. Or maybe I
     was tired. I’d used today’s free time to tear apart and clean my kitchen. I was currently
     on my fourth batch of backup dough. “Officer Emry told me my alibi was weak and I’d
     better hope the ME declared this an accident.”
    “What?” Tasha was aghast. “What an idiot. Don’t let him get to you. He’s a bumbling
     fool. Reminds me of Barney Fife from the old
Andy Griffith Show
. Don’t you think?” She pulled another stool around and sat down, then reached out
     to rub my arm. “Now, really, how are you doing?”
    “The kitchen is clean.” I waved my hand at the spotless, sparkling tiles and countertops.
     Even the sink shone to within an inch of its life. Tasha knew me long enough to know
     I worked when I was upset.
    “Darn it, I tried to get here sooner.” She frowned at me. “How many extra batches
     of cookies have you made?”
    “Not too many.” I shrugged. “I had to go down to the police station and get my fingerprints
     taken.” It had been a bit humiliating. Half the guys at the station had gone to school
     with me. I had no idea what they were thinking, but I’d felt their gaze on my back
     when I walked through the building.
    “Why on Earth . . .” Tasha’s blue eyes flashed.
    “They said it was to rule me out.” I stared at my fingers.
    “That’s it. Come on.” She grabbed my arm and stood.
    “What?”
    “I’m going to buy you dinner and a drink. A really big drink.” She tugged me toward
     the door.
    “But I’ve got work to do—”
    “There isn’t anything you can’t do later.” Her