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Deb closed, then washed the dishes and filled the mop bucket. Her regular cleaner, Jeff, was at Camp Eagle Mount, a camp for developmentally challenged adults, and his mother at a nearby spa. The physical labor helped Deb sleep better, but despite going to bed early, she was exhausted from the stress.
Her phone chimed with an alert from her alarm system, so she checked the back cameras. Michael’s truck pulled into the parking lot. Either he was early, or it was later than she thought. She glanced at the time; it was late. She needed more help, but finding anyone who wanted to work was so difficult and time consuming. And with the ongoing problems, potentially dangerous for the employee.
She mopped. The faster she got done, the faster she could get upstairs and avoid the grumpy handyman. As Michael entered, her alarm system chimed again. She couldn’t hear his footsteps over the sound of the mop and the cooling fans, but she knew he was there.
“Why are you still here?” His tone was snarly and aggressive.
She turned to face him, but kept mopping. “I have work to do. Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way.”
Michael left his bag on the floor and marched toward her, scowling. He reached for the mop. “Give me that. Go upstairs and get some rest. You look tired.”
Deb didn’t let go. “Gee, thanks. It’s my business and my responsibility. And I know you’ve been working hard all day too. If you’re insisting on staying, go set up your bed. I’ll finish mopping and leave you alone.”
He yanked the mop from her hands. “Go. I’ll finish. Don’t worry; I did a lot of mopping in the Army.” Turning away, he swept the mop back and forth, overlapping the strokes perfectly.
Deb threw her arms up, then stomped away. Objecting or trying to fight over the mop would be humiliating and useless. He was much stronger than she was, and she was too tired to fight about it. She spun on her toe and marched to the back. The man was so exasperating. She unlocked the stairway to her apartment, and grimaced when an alert on her phone reminded her to turn off the alarm before the cops showed up.
The constant stream of law enforcement stopping by was comforting, but eventually they’d quit. Already, the Marcus County sheriff’s deputies drove by, but rarely came inside; the Sheriff hated Wiz. Then Wiz had shot Deb’s attacker, protecting her before the police had a chance to arrive, and the Sheriff considered that an additional insult. Wiz had deliberately wounded the man rather than killing him, wanting to know who he was working for. Unfortunately, the police had shown up before they could question him, and the investigators weren’t sharing any information. Sam said the men had gotten out on bail already, too, no matter how stridently she’d objected.
All in all, Deb’s life was filled with uncomfortable drama and more threats than she could handle. She unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, stepped inside, and hung up her coat and purse. Her pretty curtains were closed, concealing the new metal security shutters. The scent of fresh paint overwhelmed the smell of the bread cooling below; between the damage from the attack and the security installs, Michael and Nic had to cut and patch a lot of drywall. They’d painted it the same sunflower yellow, but the reason for the fresh coating made it seem dull and dreary rather than cheery. She plugged in the inflatable mattress, her niece Sophia’s twin for backyard “camping” and breathed a sigh of relief when it began filling.
Her cell phone rang; a restricted number. She was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but some of her most lucrative orders came from celebrities and politicians vacationing in the area, and they often had restricted numbers. “Hello, Deb’s Bakery, how can I help you?”
“This is Warden Provost of the Montana State Prison. Is this the former Deborah Franks, now Boulanger?”
Dread sank her stomach to her toes. “Yes. Can I help you?” She plopped down on the edge of her folding chair.
“I regret to inform you that George Franks was attacked and fatally injured today. His attacker has been apprehended and charged, but Mr. Franks did not survive. I know you were divorced, but he kept you on his medical power of attorney and notification list. I’m sorry to notify you over the phone and for your loss.”
Deb bit back her initial reaction that her drug-dealer ex wasn’t much of a loss. “Thank you. I appreciate you telling me. Do you know the motive?”
“No, although the attacker has multiple murder convictions, including others in the prison. We’re trying to move him to the federal Supermax prison. I’m sorry we couldn’t do it sooner. I know you’ve returned all of Mr. Frank’s letters unopened. Do we have permission to open them to assist our investigation? We’ll send you copies, if you’d like.”
“You can open them and anything else he’s got. Please send the copies to my attorney, Samantha Kerr, and let her know of anything you find. You should have her name on file.”
“Ah, yes, I see it. Thank you. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll keep your attorney informed. Goodbye, Ms. Boulanger.”
“Goodbye.” She’d lost all love and respect for George, but despite her initial reaction to his betrayal, had never wished him harm. She’d hoped he’d take advantage of his incarceration and find a new calling, a way to succeed once he was released, but someone had made sure that would never happen. She was relieved she’d never get another letter or have to worry about him showing up on her doorstep, but she regretted his death. He’d never have a chance to redeem himself.
The hits just kept coming, one after the other. Her phone chimed; her bakery’s back door had opened with the correct security codes. She brought up the camera; Michael hauled his big bag in her back door, securing it behind him.
She violently swept the view away. He was the last man on Earth she wanted around when all she could think about was collapsing into a comforting embrace, because he’d be anything but consoling. Despite that, she couldn’t help wishing for strong arms to hold her, like George had during the early days of their relationship.
She fell flat on the bouncy bed and cried. Some for the man she’d sworn to never shed another tear for, but mostly for herself. After she stopped, she completed her nightly routine, and counted cupcakes until she fell asleep, but it took forever.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Deb rose and went to work, but every day seemed harder than the next. Even a girl’s night—held at Erin’s house rather than the Brewery—didn’t help, much. The threatening man hadn’t come to her bakery again, but he mailed her a contract with a very lucrative offer. She didn’t bother reading it before sending it to Sam. In three days, another letter came, and another three days after that. She sent all of them to Sam unopened.
On Friday, Sam entered right before closing, her smile turning upside down when she spotted Deb. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry you’re going through all this.” She held open her arms.
Deb gratefully accepted her hug. “It sucks.”
Sam squeezed her tight, then let go. “It does. And I’m not going to make it better.” She reached into her luxurious leather portfolio case and pulled out a sheaf of papers, placing it on one of Deb’s tables. “Can you talk?”
Deb locked the front door, turned the open sign off, poured Sam a glass of iced tea, and plopped into a chair across from Sam. “Yeah. Obviously, I need to.”
Sam nodded. “Yes. On the surface, this is a great contract. The compensation is extremely high, and you are in complete control of all the recipes.” One brow rose. “However, compensation is a percentage of the income, not the gross, and we both know that it’s easy to lower profits to zero with equipment purchases and marketing and all the expenses of a business. Also, the company, TriWestCo Holdings, would be in control of the baking and they could use whatever ingredients they want. There’s nothing in here that says they have to use your recipes at all. But they get complete ownership of the bakery and individual product names, and all associated intellectual property. Your name becomes theirs.”
