My Kingdom For A Sticky Bun

My Kingdom For A Sticky Bun—George Davis

  The break-in at Stover’s Bakery on Main Street has the police baffled. The only thing missing, according to the owner, Fred Stover is a secret, family formula for making Stover’s Strawberry-Pecan Oven Rolls.

  When Police Chief, Dexter Wyndham arrived at the shop early Monday morning after being roused from sleep by his sergeant, he discovered the front door had been jimmied. There were scratches on the lock. He stated, “someone used burglar tools for sure.”

  Wyndham asked Stover, “When did you discover the lock was jimmied, Fred?”

  “At three-thirty when I came in to bake off some bread.”

  “I hope you didn’t touch anything, Fred.” 

  “I know better than that, Dexter. I watch enough of those CSI shows. The only thing I checked was my safe, and I was careful not to get any prints on the door.” 

  “You say, nothing is missing except a secret formula? I thought they were called recipes.” 

  “To the home bakers, it is a recipe, but to professional bakers, it is a formula.” 

Dexter sent for a forensics team. There were so many prints in the bakery it was impossible to narrow a print down to one person. 

  The small backroom where Fred Stover made his office was not much bigger than a clothes closet. There was a small board laid over two barrels. An escapee from the town dump acted as a two-drawer filing cabinet. 

  The entire town of Bickford, Maine enjoys Fred Stover’s fine pastries, and coffee made from hand-ground beans. 

  The large plate-glass window at Stover’Bakery absorbed the sun’s rays as they reflected off the yellow plastic shades. 

  Dexter told Fred he could open his shop, but the room with the safe was off-limits. “It is a crime scene.”  

  Fred was behind due to the robbery. He usually had all his pastry baked by five-thirty when he opened. 

  His two large glass counters were nearly empty; a few plain donuts, crescents, and whoopee pies sitting on stainless steel pans looked deserted, pardon the pun. 

  “Fred,” Jake Thurlow, town Road Commissioner hollered. “Hey Fred, where are all those filled donuts?” Fred came out of the backroom, flour covering his apron, pants, shirt, hands, and face. “I’m making them now, Jake.” He told him of the robbery. 

  “I’ll come back later. When will you have them done, Fred?” 

  “As soon as I can get them into the fat…twenty minutes.” 

  Fred hurried to get the pastries done and into the showcases. By nine-thirty, he filled one side of the first showcase.  

  Eight o’clock the door opened, and Clara Goodwin came in. Clara worked in the bakery. She’d been with Fred for twenty years.

  “Morning, Clara. Am I glad to see you?” Before he had a chance to tell her about the early-morning theft, she said, “I can’t work this morning, Fred. My daughter was called into work this morning at the hospital. Her babysitter is home sick with the flu. I’ve got to watch my grandchildren today.”  

  “You couldn’t have picked a worse day, Clara. I’m still in the back baking pies and crescent rolls.” 

  “I’m sorry, Fred.” 

  “Can’t you bring your grandchildren in here while you work?” 

  “Are you kidding me? My grandson is four, and my granddaughter is two. They are a two-man wrecking ball.” 

  “Clara, I’ve got baking to do, and I need your help.” 

  “Sorry, Fred.” Clara turned and left the bakery. Fred stood slack-jawed in disbelief his once faithful assistant has let him down on a day he needs her most. 

  The door opened and Mel Moody; Bickford's Mr. Fixit came in. “This is all I need,” Fred said beneath his breath. “Morning, Mel.” 

  “Mornin’ Fred. Miss Bassett sent me her toaster to fix today. I told her months ago she needed to buy a new toaster. The one she has is forty years old, older’n me, Fred.” Mel is a little slow, but don’t let that get in your way. What he lacks in mental acuity he makes up for in mechanical prowess. Some say, there isn’t a man-made mechanism Mel can’t repair. 

  “You spend an awful lot of time over at Miss Bassett’s house, Mel. People are going to talk.”  

  “Okay, Fred. All I want is two of your apple fritters.” 

  “The fritters aren’t made yet, Mel. Pick something you see in the glass case.” 

  “I wanted apple fritters, Fred. How long before you can make ‘em?” 

  “About an hour, but I am working alone so it may take a lot more time.” 

  “That’s okay, Fred. I’ll wait.” Mel sat down on the window seat to wait for the apple fritters. 

  A thought came to Fred. I wonder if Mel would watch the front while I bake outback.  

  “Hey, Mel, want to earn a few dollars this morning?” 

  “Sure, Fred. You want a dump run or somethin’?” 

  “No, I wonder if you would watch the store while I catch up on my baking.” 

  “Sure, Fred. I can do that. You want me to wear an apron like yours?” 

  “Sure, take one off that pile over there. The linen man came yesterday. They are all clean and pressed.” 

  “I heard someone broke into the bakery last night, Fred. Is that true?” 

  “Yes, Mel, it is true. They stole a very old family formula.” 

  “You mean, recipe, Fred?” 

  “Yeah, recipe, Mel.” 

  “Did they take any pastries, food, or money?” 

  “No, just the—recipe, Mel.”  

  Mel bought one chocolate donut. “Put it on my bill, Fred.” Stover let Mel charge, though he knew he’d never pay the bill. To Mel, money was just something you bought gadgets with and sweets. 

  “Where’s Clara, Mel?” Dwane Seymour, a regular customer of the bakery asked. 

  “As you can see, she ain’t here, Dwane.” 

  “I asked where she was. I can see she isn’t here, Mel.” 

  “She’s home, babysittin’ her grandchildren. Now, what do you want?” 

  “Don’t rush me.” 

  “You’re worser than a kid in a candy store; can’t make up your mind.” 

Dwane bought half-dozen bear claws. “How much, Mel?” 

  “Let me see. Six times two-thirty-nine are…er, wait. I gotta ask Fred.” He went out back and soon returned. “$14.34, Dwane.” Dwane gave Mel a twenty-dollar bill, and asked, “Do you know how to make change, Mel?” 

  “Of course I do, 'sides the register tells me how much to give you back, Dwane.” Mel returned the change, and Seymour left. 

  “I want a cinnamon roll, Mel,” little Henry Strout said. “I’m gonna eat it on the way to school.” 

  “You shouldn’t eat no sweets before school. They’ll make ya sleepy, and you won’t get no good grades.” 

  “I eat a cinnamon roll every week. My father gives me three dollars for an allowance every week.”  

  The day passed quickly. Fred got his baking done. Mel took off his apron, folded it, and laid it on the counter. “Is that all you want, Fred?” 

  “Yes, Mel, and thank you for helping me out today. I really appreciate it.” 

  “How much did I earn, Fred?” 

  “I’ll give you eighty dollars, Mel. Is that okay with you?” 

  “Yep.” Mel took the four twenties and left the bakery, counting his money. Fred doubted he’d ever seen so much money in one day. Oh, Fred could have given him twenty dollars, and Mel wouldn’t have known the difference. However, that wasn’t Fred Stover. 

  Somewhere across town, a man and a woman were reading the formula for strawberry, pecan oven rolls. The female asked her accomplice. “How’d you get into the bakery without setting off the alarm?” 

  “T’was easy. I installed it, remember?”  

  “Oh yeah; clever.” 

  She asked, “Now what do you intend to do with the recipe?” 

  “I’m waiting, as you know, for the bank to okay my loan, and then I’m gonna open the Bickford Pastry Shop on Main Street, in the next block to Stover’s.” 

  “Won’t people know you stole the recipe when you make those rolls?” 

  “Nope, I’m gonna put nutmeg in mine to make a difference in the recipe. They will never know I stole that formula.” 

  The next morning Dexter came by the bakery. “Morning, Fred,” he said. “I think I know what happened to your secret formula.”  

  “Really, Dexter? What?”

  “Do you remember if Jack Thurlow was in the day of the robbery?”

  “Yes, around closing time. Why?”

  “His mother, you will remember, was a baker at the Bickford Inn for thirty years.” 

  “Sure, Ethel Thurlow. She was a great baker. Nevertheless, what’s that got to do with my secret formula, Dexter?” 

  “Everything. Jack has a record you know. When he was twenty years old, he broke into the Star Theater and stole popcorn and candy; didn’t take any money, there wasn’t any cash in the theater. Ruth Pratt had taken it to the bank earlier that day.” 

  “So, you think Jack stole my formula?” 

  “My techs found traces of sand near the safe. This morning, they discovered it was sand from the public works's garage.” 

  “A lot of people go there to get sand for winter, Dexter.” 

  “Yeah, but do all people have an excuse to steal a secret formula from your safe?” 

  “I guess not.” 

  “Well, Jack has no alibi for the night of the robbery.” 

  “What are you going to do, Dexter?” 

  “Set a trap for him. If, of course, you are willing to help.” 

  “What can I do?”    

  “Give me permission to post one of my men in your bakery Friday night.” 

  “Sure, but are you positive about this? I mean are you sure Jack is guilty?” 

  “We’ll soon find out.” Dexter’s sergeant came into the bakery at closing time on Friday. 

  “Help yourself to a pastry, Sergeant. It’s going to be a long night for you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Stover. I brought a thermos of hot coffee.” 

  “If your thermos runs out you can brew a pot in the coffee maker.” 

  It was one a.m.. The sergeant heard the noise. It was a rattling of the doorknob. He ducked under the counter, drew his pistol and waited. The door creaked open, and he heard footsteps on the old wooden floor. 

  The intruder was talking to himself; ‘Wyndham said Stover had a new secret formula in his safe. He said it was better than anything he’d ever baked before.’ 

  The Sergeant stood up, waited for the shadowy figure to open the door to the backroom. A broad beam of the shadow’s flashlight lit up the backroom. 

  The Sergeant reached around the corner and flipped the light switch on. “What the…” 

  “Hello, Jack. What are you doing here?” 

  “Hello, Sergeant. I was doing my community service, checking the bakery. I found the front door ajar.”  

  “No use, Jack. I caught you red-handed. You fell for the chief’s plan. It’s all over for you Jack. I’m taking you in.” 

  “Come on, Sergeant. We can make a deal. You can pretend I was never here. I have five one-hundred-dollar bills in my pocket. They can be yours.” 

  “Bribing a police officer is a felony, Jack. I’ll give you a break. I won’t tell the chief you tried to bribe me. But, you are under arrest for breaking and entering.” 

  Jack Thurlow was found guilty and sentenced to two years suspended with three-month years of community service. 

  Fred Stover’s business thrived because of the publicity over the recent break-in.  

  Think about this quote: “There is no robbery so terrible as the robbery committed by those who think they are doing right.” Mary Catherwood