Bran New Death(10)

“Binny, I know we’ve had this argument before,” the customer said, looking at the glass case and sighing, deeply. “But I simply don’t understand why you won’t make muffins and cookies. This is Autumn Vale, not New York City, you know.”

“Mrs. Grace, how are the folks around here ever going to refine their palate if I let them buy muffins and cookies instead of croissants and biscotti?” the baker said, wiping her hands on a wet cloth. “I didn’t study under Alfred Bannerman just to come home and make cookies, like some small-town housewife. I’m not forcing anyone to come in here, you know.”

I smiled, appreciating her tough-mindedness. She was prickly, but at least she knew what she wanted to do.

The woman sighed again and closed her eyes, briefly. “Binny, dear, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for Golden Acres—the day-old bread, all the freebies—but my oldsters want muffins. The other day I asked Doc English if he wanted focaccia, and he said he ought to wash my mouth out with soap.”

I snorted in surprised laughter, and the woman glanced back at me with a smile, but continued talking to Binny Turner.

“I want them to eat well. I’ve tried sourcing muffins and cookies out of town, but all I get are stale, cardboard imitations, and they won’t eat them. I want good, nutritious, fresh, homey food that eighty-and ninety-year-olds will enjoy, and I would like to buy local, if I can.”

The baker’s face was stony, and she replied, politely enough, but with finality, “I don’t have time or resources enough to do everything, Mrs. G.”

“I appreciate that, Binny. I’ll take a half dozen of the cannoli.”

While they finished their transaction, I examined the rows of teapots—I loved one cheeky teapot shaped like a roly-poly baker—then followed the woman out. “Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you in there.”

The woman turned to me with a frank expression of interest. “You’re Melvyn’s niece, aren’t you? The one who inherited the castle.”

“I am.”

“My son told me about you.”

“Your son?”

“Virgil Grace, the sheriff. I’m Gogi Grace.”

I shook her outthrust hand. “Of course! I had a feeling I recognized your last name. Well, anyway, I wanted to say, if you have a kitchen at the old folks’ home, muffins ought to be super easy to make. They’re so simple even I can’t foul them up. It’s pretty much the only pastry I can make—well, that and cookies—but with older folks, try something standard, like banana-bran, or apple spice.”

Mrs. Grace raised her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “Do I look like I cook?”

I looked her over, biting my lip, from the silver-tipped mane of perfectly coiffed curls to the toes of her bone-colored Ferragamo pumps. “No, you look like you just walked out of Saks.”

“So do you,” the woman said, eyeing me up and down. “We have a cook, but she’s got all she can handle with three squares a day.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not at all what I expected,” Mrs. Grace said, pointing to my top. “Anna Scholz, am I right? Fall 2013 show?” she asked, about the print tunic I wore.

My eyebrows rose. She was dead-on. I had changed into the Scholz print tunic and DKNY jeans for the trip back into town. My generous wages with Leatrice had allowed me to purchase designer clothes, discounted appropriately, of course. I am what Shilo calls “plush-size,” but plus-size does not mean unfashionable anymore. “Good eye. Do I pass muster? Despite what Sheriff Grace probably said?” Yes, I was fishing for information, and maybe a compliment.

“How do you know what he said? Besides, he only noticed . . . ah . . . one aspect of your figure,” the woman said, with a wicked twinkle in her brilliant blue eyes. “My son is a man.”

“I noticed.”

“Anyway, you were talking about muffins. I don’t cook and my hired cook doesn’t have time; can you make me some to try? Say . . . two dozen?”

“Two . . . what?” A few morning walkers, two women and three kids, bustled past, their beady eyes staring us down until they parted like a wave around us. One woman even looked back. I wondered what the conversation would be at the local watering hole. Did Autumn Vale even have a local watering hole? I shifted my gaze back to Mrs. Gogi Grace, who waited, a polite smile on her carefully made-up face. “So let me get this straight; you want me to make two dozen muffins for your seniors.”

“That would be wonderful!” she cried, touching my arm with a practiced club-lady grip. “Thanks, darling, for offering. The oldsters will love them, I’m sure! I’ll be in touch. I’ll come out to the castle tomorrow, shall I?’