LITMIR.BIZ

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industrial machine that happened to produce baked goods, but it was not what Eliot considered a bakery. This was a bakery.

      A breeze blew by him as the boy came back through the door. “Someone will be right with you,” he called over his shoulder, as he disappeared into the back.

      Eliot stood in the middle of the vinyl floor, studying his surroundings and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Could this possibly be the same Mayfield Bakery that had stolen three of his top contracts? Was this the Mayfield Bakery that was giving his uncle indigestion? Was this the newest threat to Fulton Foods? He almost laughed out loud as he shook his head in relief. Getting rid of this little shop was going to be a piece of cake—no pun intended.

      The teenage boy came charging back through the store, his arms once again laden with boxes. This time he was followed by a short, chubby girl, also carrying a stack of boxes. She smiled at Eliot as they went by. She had a girlishly cute, light-brown face, but there was a blankness to her brown eyes that Eliot noticed right away.

      The commotion and clatter of the back kitchen was easily heard from where he stood. He wondered if all that industrious noise was the result of their newfound business.

      “Can I help you?” An older woman appeared in the entrance leading to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. A slight smudge of flour smeared one cheek, and her gray hair was twisted and pinned on top of her head.

      There was something instantly familiar about her untidy appearance. She looked like just what she was, someone’s grandmother baking goodies. Or…someone’s mother.

      It suddenly hit Eliot why she seemed so familiar. He could remember many days coming home from school and being greeted by his mother looking just this way, right down to the flour-smudged cheeks.

      He felt a rock drop to the pit of his stomach, because deep inside of him he knew without a doubt that this was Mae Anne Mayfield. Uncle Carl had sent him to destroy his mother’s reincarnation. His lips twisted in frustration, like he didn’t already have enough reasons to burn in hell.

      “Are you Mae Anne Mayfield?” he asked, dreading the answer.

      “I am.” She’d started walking toward him when someone called to her from the back to the store.

      “Mama Mae! I need your help now!”

      Putting up a finger meant to hold him in place, she turned and scuttled back into the kitchen. Eliot waited a few seconds before following.

      Slowly he entered the kitchen, not sure what to expect. He was shocked to find a small space crammed with new equipment. Everything from shiny, new reversible dough sheeters and dough rounders to bread slicers and stainless-steel preparation tables. The only things that looked worn and well used were two large convection ovens and the small, white kitchen stove against a far wall. On the opposite wall was a third, newer-looking double-decker oven, and a large, burly man was bent over and was peering inside the bottom oven.

      “Damn this thing.” Wiping his hands on a rag, he leaned back on his knees and looked up at the older woman. “I told Sophie I didn’t trust that salesman. This thing is a piece of junk.”

      Behind him the teenage boy reappeared. “Wayne, I’m four boxes short!”

      “I’m trying to—” The man at the oven turned to the boy and caught his first glimpse of Eliot standing in the middle of their kitchen. His dark eyes ran over Eliot’s long length in one swoop, and then narrowed in suspicion. “Can I help you?”

      The older woman turned to him, as well, surprised to see him in the kitchen. They were a study in contrast—the unsuspecting curiosity in her eyes and the wary distrust in his.

      For reasons he would never understand, instead of simply announcing who he was and why he was there, he began to pull off his jacket. “I think I may be able to fix it—temporarily at least.”

      “Wayne,” the teenager called to him again, “We are four—”

      “I heard you the first time, Dante! But until I can get an oven going, you’ll just have to wait. Now get the rest of the order loaded up.”

      “Why don’t you fire up one of the other ovens while I try to get this one going,” Eliot offered, as he kneeled beside him.

      Without a response, Wayne jumped up and rushed across the room to start one of the newer ovens.

      Just then a phone rang loudly, somewhere in the back. “I’ll get it,” Mae said, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried off.

      In his peripheral vision, Eliot saw the teenagers rushing back and forth, loading their arms with the full boxes and carrying them outside to the van. Obviously, they were on a tight schedule to get out an order and he had a pretty good idea which order it was. Tuesday was Centerfield’s delivery day.

      As he rolled up his sleeves, he considered how easy it would be to sabotage the oven and make the delivery incomplete and late. That alone might be enough to make the school cancel the new contract.

      Reaching back in the oven, he found the coil he was looking for. Just as he’d suspected, it had dropped down and was causing the food to cook unevenly. He pushed it back up, a trick he’d learned in his first year working in Uncle Carl’s factory.

      Once he pushed the coil back into place he sat back on his heels. “There, that should hold long enough to finish your last batch. But you’ll have to have a repairman come in and fix it permanently.” He glanced over to find Wayne watching him carefully. Despite his offer to help, he could tell the man did not trust him. “With that oven, if you turn up the heat about two degrees per square inch for every fifteen minutes of cooking time left, it will finish in half the time.”

      Movement caught his eye, and he realized the chubby girl had come in and was standing in the doorway, watching him with her blank doe eyes.

      Seeing the black grease smeared on his hands, Wayne offered his rag. Eliot took it gladly and wiped his hands, grateful for the knowledge his experience had given him. Despite the fact that he was Carl Fulton’s nephew, he had worked his way up from the kitchen like every other executive in the company.

      “Who are you?” Wayne asked.

      “I think he may be our new baker.” Just then, Mae slowly walked in. Her head tilted at an angle as she gave Eliot a curious look.

      So the new baker was supposed to start today, Eliot thought.

      Wayne turned to her in surprise. “What new baker?!” Behind him the teenage girl was folding a box together, and the boy was holding a piping hot tray of bread loaves between oven mitts. Both froze in their tracks, and all wide eyes were turned to him.

      “Apparently, Sophie hired a new baker,” Mae continued. “That was the agency on the phone asking to have him call them when he arrived.” Then Mae glanced at Eliot, her eyes showing the first sign of suspicion. “They say they haven’t spoken to you since last week.”

      Eliot shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, his mind working furiously, thinking how to use this situation to his advantage. The new baker would probably show up soon, but until then—whether he had a few minutes or a few hours—he could use the opportunity to learn as much as he could about the inner workings of Mayfield Bakery.

      “Sophie didn’t say anything to me about any new baker,” Wayne insisted.

      Eliot did not miss the slightly hurt tone of his voice. Who is Sophie? He wondered.

      Mae looked up at Eliot in bemusement, then turned and hurried into the back office again. “I’m going to call Sophie and see what she has to say about all this.”

      Thinking fast, Eliot called out to her, “Could you give me the phone number to the agency, so I can give them a call? I don’t have it with me.”

      She motioned over her shoulder for him to follow her.

      As he passed through the doorway, he heard Wayne mutter to himself, “He doesn’t look like any baker

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