Lefty Loosey

In the wee small hours of the morning, before much of the world sleepily muddles about looking for pancake syrup, Collin Tuttle can be found lacing up his walking shoes.

For the last twenty-odd years, he’s walked the same route; he’s strode down the network of hidden pathways, as coastal folk share a propensity to travel by, then, over ‘The Bump’ (unnecessary local slang for hill), to a soon to be waking downtown.

On Main Street, he’d wave to the baker through the window of Happy Glaze, often thinking about going in for a fritter or donut, but a morning constitutional was meant for getting the blood flowing, Collin thought, not slowing it down with excessive amounts of refined sugar.

“Morning!” Collin would shout.

“Good morning!” the baker would shout back.

Then Collin would swing back the other direction, briskly heading down a quaint cobbled ally aptly named Cozy Lane, where he was greeted by the pungent smells emanating from the Seaside Tea and Spice Shop, to Second Avenue, cutting back toward the ‘The Bump’, and then home again, home again, jiggity jig.

Once home, he would read the paper, drink a cup of coffee (black), and then patiently wait until 11 am for his next walk.

On this particular morning, after returning home and looking inside the newspaper, he was surprised to learn that his good friend, the baker, although they had never actually spoken more than a few words, was closing Happy Glaze for good.

He set the paper down on the table and removed his glasses.

“This is terrible. But what can be done?”

Outside on Collin’s deck, a black squirrel paced back and forth like a school bully at 3 pm.

“Ok, keep your tail on,” said Collin removing three peanuts from a bag on the kitchen table. The squirrel flicked its tail in anticipation.

Tomorrow I’ll pop in and say farewell. Maybe I’ll have a danish while I’m at it, thought Collin.

There was no denying it; Collin had a sweet tooth. He had spent the better part of the previous evening considering the type of pastry he would have at Happy Glaze, finally settling on a cruller. The cruller, thought Collin, originating from eastern Europe, and known as hirshhörner in Germany.

Collin’s late wife, Shirley Tuttle, enjoyed all of the facts swimming about in his brain, but unfortunately for Collin, she had been the only one ever to express appreciation for his vast knowledge of the world. It was an unfortunate side effect of being a retired librarian. Shirley used to quiz him over coffee in the morning, attempting to stump him.

“What are the origins of the sandwich?” she’d say. Quickly followed by, “How tall is the Empire State Building?” As if throwing multiple questions could rattle Collin, whose life’s work had been dedicated to the collection of ideas and information. 

“A British Statesman,” Collin would reply, “by the name of John Montagu. He invented what is commonly known now as the sandwich so that he wouldn’t have to leave his gambling table for supper.” Followed by, “You’d need to go 1,454 feet up to eat your sandwich at the tip top of the Empire State Building.” He missed those mornings.

And so, on this morning, with his laces double knotted, he felt a spring in his step as he made his way down the paved trails. The climb over ‘The Bump’ felt effortless; he used the momentum of the descent to carry him directly to the front door of the bakery.

The shop bell rang out. Collin set his face into a smile in anticipation of a warm greeting, but after standing on his own for several moments, he called out.

“Hello?”

The hum of the bakery case and the smell of the sugary delights brought Collin back to simpler times.

“Hello? You have a customer!” shouted Collin a little louder. Perhaps the baker was out running an errand, thought Collin, or on the toilet (an image Collin quickly put from his mind.)

He walked behind the counter and peeked his head into the back room.

“Hello?” said Collin. He considered leaving, but the wonderful smell made his mouth salivate. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and placed a five dollar bill on the register’s keypad, then he slid open the bakery case and pulled out a cruller with a pair of tongs that lay on a tray behind the counter. Dropping the treat into a pastry bag, he called out once more.

“I’ve left some money on the register! Good luck with whatever you decide to do next!”

Then with the ding-dong of the shop bell, he was back on track, gliding across Main Street and into the ally.

As he sailed past the Seaside Tea and Spice shop, Collin slowed to a stop and then smirked. Why not? he thought. After all, I’ve already interrupted my walk with one guilty pleasure. Why not pop in for a nice box of tea to go with this cruller? Maybe a nice chai tea. 

As he walked up the three steps leading to the shop door, he recited facts about chai tea as if it were a poem by Walt Whitman. 

“Masala chai, an Indian beverage popular throughout South Asia. Aromatic, complex—cinnamon bark, ginger, cardamom, cloves, nutmeg, and green tea. In English, this spiced tea is commonly referred to as chai tea.” Then he added with a chuckle, “Little known fact, it is excellent with a cruller.” 

Collin pulled on the doorknob, but the door did not open. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered into the darkened shop. He was moments from turning around when he caught a glimpse of movement reflected off of a brass teapot. There staring back was the face of the baker, gagged, his pleading eyes saying, help me!

Collin looked to his right and then to his left; the streets were empty. He reached for his phone, but he had forgotten to slip it into his jacket on the way out. He considered running home, and though he was by all accounts a quick walker, he wasn’t sure he would make it back home quickly enough. No, the situation warranted some consideration. He pushed and pulled the door by the knob with as much strength as he could muster, but it was no use; brute force would not be the solution. He looked at the door. It was a simple enough handle, a relic of another time, before every door had a deadbolt and every doorbell had a camera built into it. He recalled a book he had glanced at one night as he restocked the day’s returns at the library. It was mainly a historical account of break-ins and escapes throughout the 19^th and 20^th centuries, but there had been a paragraph that stuck with Collin. It covered a little-known lock-picking tool. He removed his wallet and fetched out a credit card. With a silent prayer to whatever God might be available, Collin slid the card down the length of the door and between the spring-loaded latch. The door opened without restraint, and Collin, surprised by the ease of breaking into a shop, gawked at his credit card as if it were Excalibur and he now the king of England.

Collin ran to the baker. “What on earth, are you Ok?”

The baker’s hands had been tied with twine. He pointed up to his mouth with an awkward twist of his wrist.

“Oh, yes, let me get that,” said Collin removing the gag from the baker’s mouth.

“They’ll be back soon,” whispered the baker frantically. “They are insane. All of this because of one variation— As if—”

The mid-afternoon sun blazed down upon Collin, where he lay face down in the Seaside Tea and Spice shop. He put his hand on the back of his head. It hurt, but there was, thankfully, no blood. He looked about him, unsure what had happened. The baker was gone, as was any evidence of him having ever been at the Tea and Spice shop. Collin stood and considered the situation. Had he been hit? And what was it that the baker had said right before everything went dark? 

Collin dialed 911 from the shop phone and informed the authorities of what had happened, but when they arrived, they found no evidence, besides Collin’s word, of a crime. 

“Go to the baker’s shop, Happy Glaze. You’ll find it empty,” said Collin. The detectives agreed to look in, but upon returning from Happy Glaze, one of the detectives handed Collin a piece of paper. 

“The baker’s not there,” said a one of the detectives forcing a smile. “The door was locked, and this note was taped to the window. It says that your baker friend went home to Paso Robles.” 

“Dearest patrons,” Collin read, “today your beloved Happy Glaze bakery has closed up shop for the last time. I am returning to my home in Paso Robles, where I will pursue my real passion, breeding pet rats.” 

“Seems like he just wanted to try something new. The medics say that it’s possible you just fell and hit your head,” said the detective. “You might want to go see your doctor.” 

“Breeding rats?” replied Collin. “He went back to Paso Robles to breed pet rats?” 

“I’ll admit, it’s a strange passion, but different strokes for different folks.” 

The detectives thanked Collin for all of his help, promising that they would call the baker in Paso Robles to ensure he was ok, and then left Collin standing outside the Seaside Tea and Spice shop, pastry bag in hand. 

It was evening by the time Collin was home and wearing his slippers. He sat at his kitchen table staring at the cruller. He saw what he saw at the Tea and Spice shop, even if nobody had believed him, he thought. He placed the cruller beneath his nose and inhaled. “No reason to let this go to waste,” he said to himself. 

It was just as good as he had hoped, perhaps better, and was that a hint of honey? Collin marveled at the pastry, such a beautiful twist, left to right, up and down. Lefty loosy, Collin mused. As he consumed the fatty treat, licking his fingers between bites, he thought about the baker. Here he was eating the baker’s art, this cruller could only be referred to as such, but he was also giving up on a man who was clearly in need of help. Collin, deciding he would not let the baker down, washed his hands, grabbed a flashlight, and then laced up his sneakers. 

Collin removed a credit card from his wallet and slid it down the seem, but when it hit the latch, it fell to the other side of the door. “Shoot!” he said. Then he circled to the back of the bakery and tried the rear door. Collin was relieved to find that the door had been left unlocked. 

The door swung open. The smell of sugar and dough wafted out of the building as if it had ambitions greater than the confines of a small coastal bakery. Collin peered into the kitchen, moving his flashlight to and fro like a cartoon watchman. He stepped in, then, feeling bold, flipped on the switch to the overhead lights.

The baker’s apron was on the floor, and beside it, a whisk with tendrils of batter hanging down, forming a pool of congealed pastry dough. Everything about the kitchen said haste to Collin. Sure, the machines were off, but they weren’t clean, and the fryer had donuts (now looking more like the tires of a toy car, nearly black, and tough) floating leisurely about in the fatty oil.

On a baking sheet, there sat a dozen crullers, twisted lefty loosey just like the one Collin had enjoyed at his kitchen table less than an hour before.

Off the side of the kitchen was a small office, just big enough for a half desk, monitor, and chair. On the desk, there was a postcard. Paso Robles. Collin turned it over and read the back. Homesick.

“Homesick, well then, maybe it really was all in my mind,” said Collin putting his hand to the back of his head. The lump on his scalp was real enough, he thought.

As he put the postcard back on the desk, his hand brushed up against the computer’s mouse. The screen came to life with small pop and whine. There on the screen was an assortment of restaurant-grade equipment.

Seems an odd thing to be researching if you’re planning on shuttering your doors for good, thought Collin.

At the corner of the screen, there bounced a virtual shopping cart. Collin clicked on it. “A new commercial fryer. I don’t think such things are used in the breeding of pet rats,” said Collin. As if in response to this comment, a pop-up appeared overlayed against the checkout page of the site: “20% off one item! Use promo code: Homesick.”

Homesick, Collin thought. It’s a promo code not a declaration. Collin felt first vindicated and then frightened. Why would anyone go to such lengths to kidnap a small-town baker? 

Collin opened the baker’s email and scanned for clues, but nothing obvious stood out among the mundane. 

Then he searched the kitchen, poking through the trash like a raccoon in the night. Nothing. He was exasperated and on the verge of retreat, then it hit him. 

“The trash, that’s it!”

Collin rushed back to the computer and opened the baker’s email again. He clicked on the trash folder, and there among the spam and discarded promotions was an email from a Mrs. Whitney, of Sweetie Cakes.

The email was brief: “The League has voted. If you don’t stop what you are doing, I won’t be able to protect you from them. They are watching you! Please delete this message.”

It looks like I’ll be eating another cruller tomorrow, thought Collin.

The next day, Collin drove one town over to Sweetie Cakes. The woman behind the counter seemed nice enough, and when Collin approached the pastry case, she said, “Welcome to Sweetie Cakes, this your first time here?”

“It is! Thank you for the warm welcome. These crullers look divine. Is there any special discount if I’m with the…with the League?” said Collin as casually as he could manage.

The woman smiled back at Collin, but her warmth had left the scene.

“The League, you say?”

“Yes, the League—you are Mrs. Whitney?”

“Nobody let me know that we had a new member.”

“Quite alright, I just moved to town,” said Collin bending over to look at the pastries. “I’ll take one of those delicious-looking crullers.” 

Mrs. Whitney’s smile faded from her face. “Are you a cop?” she said. 

Shirley Tuttle, God rest her soul, could always tell when Collin was lying because Collin wasn’t good at it. A man’s life is a stake, Collin thought. What would Sherlock Holmes do in this situation? 

“I’ll have that one there, back left. Shall we talk about our dear friend the baker of Happy Glaze?” said Collin, assuming the role of detective Collin Tuttle. 

“He had a choice—he’s a stubborn fool—and for what?” 

“Settle down, please. Let’s take it from the top. Where is he now?” 

“He’s in the hull of a ship called the Pearl Duck over in the harbor. The ship is set to leave this afternoon for Boston.” 

“Tell me about the Leauge and why they would want our baker,” said Collin taking a bite from his cruller. 

“There are rules. He knew that when he joined the Seaside Bakers League. The cinnamon roll was one thing—lemon in the frosting! But then the crullers!” said Mrs. Whitney. 

“Yes, I had one; it was good. In fact, it tasted the same as yours. Is that a hint of honey?” 

“It is, and you’ll find that same recipe in every bakery in the area. Because every bakery in the area has agreed upon that recipe for our crullers.”

“Why would you all want the same recipe?” asked Collin.

“Because that is how you establish a reputation as a community. See, we work for the greater good—not our own pride.” 

“Agree or not, this tastes the same to me. So if there is a difference in your—” Collin stopped short and looked down at his cruller. “It’s not lefty loosey.” 

“Ah, so now you see, this couldn’t stand,” said Mrs. Whitney with resolve. “It must be right over left, those are the rules!” 

“So you were going to kill the—”

“Kill?” interrupted Mrs. Whitney. “Who said anything about killing? No, he’s just being shipped off to Boston. He’ll be allowed back in one year.” 

“I have a confession, Mrs. Whitney. I’m not an detective, but I am a good friend of our friend the baker of Happy Glaze.” 

Collin took his phone from his pocket and began to dial. 

Mrs. Whitney’s face flushed, but after a few moments, the color faded, and when she spoke, Collin thought that he could hear relief in her voice. 

“Please tell them I have been cooperative?” pleaded Mrs. Whitney. 

As Collin waited for the detective to answer his phone, he asked Mrs. Whitney about the piece of the puzzle that made no sense to him. 

“Why the rats?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Whitney. 

“Paso Robles, I get that, you thought he was from there because of the word homesick written across the postcard. But having him going back home to pursue his passion of breeding rats?” 

“Oh, but that is his passion. He won’t shut up about it—I thought you two were good friends?”