Chapter 15

B ack home, Doreen unloaded the car and the rest of the wrapping paper that hadn’t been used, stowed away her wrapped gifts in a closet with the door securely shut, so that nobody could get into it, and brought out her recipe from Nan. It didn’t look to be any harder or any more difficult, but there was a word of warning about a gentle hand making all the difference. “ Fine ,” she muttered.

She quickly whipped up a batch, making sure that she was extremely gentle with it. It was darn hard to mix anything if you had to be gentle though. She was beyond frustrated by the time she got it into the oven, basically holding her breath the whole time to confirm it would not fall or do something silly. She knew shortbread cookies weren’t supposed to fall, but, in her case, where life happened for reasons completely unknown to her, things fell.

She stood by the stove, watching intently as they cooked. By the time she had read the instructions on how long to cook them and how long to keep them on a cooling rack, she realized that it was already time to pull out the first pan. She took them out ever-so-carefully, and she put in a second cookie sheet. By the time those were done and the third and final batch were in, she felt a little calmer.

As she took them off the cooling racks, she turned to see a stranger standing in her kitchen. She frowned at him. “Good Lord,” she said in shock. “How did you get in?”

She looked down at Mugs, but his attention was on the cookies. He turned, looked at the newcomer, woofed several times, then focused again on the cookies. “Seriously, Mugs, what kind of a watchdog are you?”

The stranger snorted. “Seriously? That’s a watchdog? Looks like one big cookie-eating monster to me.”

“I know.” She glared down at the dog. “How did you get in?” she asked the stranger again.

“What do you mean, how did I get in?” He frowned at her. “I opened the door.”

“Did you ring the doorbell?”

“Did you hear a doorbell?”

“No, I didn’t hear a doorbell,” she snapped, glaring at him.

“Then I guess I didn’t ring a doorbell, did I? Good Lord,” he muttered. “What kind of question is that?”

She laughed at him. “Good Lord, what a…”

He froze and glared at her.

She could see all sense of good humor falling away. “You’re the one who came into my house without permission,” she explained. “So you don’t get to be upset because I’m laughing at you.”

“ Sure ,” he snapped, his tone harsh, as he stared at her. “And you’re the one who has files that I’m looking for.”

She nodded. “Oh, so you’re Pengo.”

He continued to glare at her.

Doreen added, “If you’d just asked, we could have started this conversation more amicably.”

“I would have, if you’d answered the door.”

She frowned at that. “And I would have, if you would have knocked.”

He just rolled his eyes. “I really need to see what he had in the files.”

“Why?” she asked, her gaze on the clock.

Finally he got irritated at her and asked, “What are you doing staring at the clock all the time? If you’re looking for some rescue, it’s not happening.”

She turned and faced him, one eyebrow up. “Why do I need a rescue? And, for your information, I’m watching the cookies’ timer.”

“What cookies?” And then he sniffed the air and smiled. “Shortbread.”

“Yeah, apparently they’re an iconic Christmas thing.”

“Of course they are,” he declared. “Everybody has shortbreads at Christmas.”

“How can that be if I didn’t get shortbreads at Christmas?”

“Oh, sorry,” he quipped in a mocking tone. “My heart bleeds, and I feel so bad for you.”

“Yeah, bad is right,” she said. “This is now the third time making them, and I want them to turn out perfect.”

“It depends if you overkneaded them.”

“I did not overknead them,” she snapped, glaring at this person who’d just walked into her house and already appeared to know more about shortbreads than she did. “Is everybody a bloody expert on shortbreads?”

“Yeah, pretty well,” he stated, with a nod. “You would have to be if you want to make them right.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped, glaring at him. “And I don’t have any files.”

“You told me you had files from Brandon Phelps.”

“I have the box of stuff that I got from him, sure,” she clarified, “but, as it turns out, it’s a dud. It ended up being mostly garbage and then some information on that court case. Not much, just that he was trying to clear his name.”

“Interesting,” he muttered. “So where is it?”

“Why?” she asked, turning to look at him. “It’s not yours. It’s mine.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Except that you said my name was in there.”

“Yes, so what? That’s how I found you, so I could let you know that Brandon was gone. Now that he’s gone, it shouldn’t matter what name is in the file.”

“Maybe. But you never know when some crazy do-gooders around this place might decide something needs to be done to clear his name, even though he’s dead and gone. You know that this crazy animal lady is in town here, and she gets into all kinds of trouble with old cases and all.”

Doreen flushed, wondering if he would make the connection or not.

When he stopped and added, “She’s got all these animals, something about a dog—so I would almost think it was you—except there’s no bird.”

At that exact moment, Thaddeus poked his head out from under her long hair. “Thaddeus is here. Thaddeus is here.” As Pengo fell back in surprise, Thaddeus lifted his wings and squawked at him several times.

“Good God,” he muttered, “it is you.”

“I don’t think Thaddeus takes kindly to you, talking about me like that,” she replied in her primmest tone.

“Really? As if I care.” She glared at him, and he nodded. “I mean it, as if I care. Now, where’s that file?” She slammed her foot down, and he laughed. “Better not do that. The shortbreads will fall.” Immediately she opened the oven to check her baking cookies, and he burst out laughing. “Good God, you really don’t know the first things about cooking.”

“That’s not fair,” she protested. “I’ve been learning.”

“Seems you’ve got a long way to go.” He shook his head. “I pity any guy who hooks up with you. You couldn’t even put a decent meal on the table.”

And that, for some reason, stung. “I’m getting much better,” she declared, glaring at him. “And it’s none of your business if I can put a meal on the table or not.”

“No, it really isn’t because I really don’t care. Now where is that file?”

She walked past him, pulled out the envelope she had at the ready, and handed it to him. “There. That’s all that’s relevant. I chucked the rest of the box of stuff because it was nothing related. He had duplicates, but I don’t know what his intentions were. I guess he would mail it off to somebody or something.”

“Yeah, he would do something stupid like that,” Pengo noted in disgust.

She turned and immediately checked on the shortbread again.

“You can’t keep opening the oven door like that,” he shared in disgust. “You’re letting all the heat out.”

She closed the oven door, then turned back to him. “I can’t tell if you’re having fun at my expense or if you’re serious.”

He frowned at her, and then shook his head. “I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation with you.”

“Neither can I,” she snapped. “Now that you’ve got what you wanted, why don’t you just take a hike?”

“Yeah, I’m happy to,” he said, shaking his head. “Have fun with your shortbreads—or not.” And, with that, he was gone.

She groaned and looked down at Mugs. “I’m not sure you should have any more treats. You didn’t care even that he was in here or not.” Mugs just stared at her. She almost heard him thinking, Yeah, but he was harmless, so who cares? Then he jumped up on his back legs and sniffed the counter where the cookies were cooling. “Oh no you don’t,” she declared. “That is not happening.”

Mack walked in just then, sniffed the room, and asked, “Good God, what are you making?”

Her shoulders sank. “You didn’t say that in the tone of Oh my goodness, that smells absolutely wonderful .” She shook her head at him. “So that means it smells terrible.”

“No,” he said gently, as he walked over, wrapped her up in a hug, and added, “It means that I don’t recognize the smell.”

“Seriously? I thought these are supposed to be iconic.”

His gaze landed on the cookies on the counter, and his face lit up. “Shortbread. Again.”

“How come everybody knows what shortbread looks like?”

“Because we all grew up with them.” Still holding her, he walked her backward several steps, so he’d get close enough to snag one. When he popped it into his mouth, he closed his eyes, and a look of sheer delight filled his face.

She fidgeted nervously, watching him for a long moment. When he didn’t say anything, her shoulders sagged.

He looked down at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “What kind of reaction is that?”

“Maybe that’s a better question for you,” she muttered. “I was hoping for some a sign that it was decent.”

“Good Lord, of course they’re decent. They’re better than decent.” He took another bite and then another. “Oh my,” he muttered, “these are so addictive.” He reached behind her again and snagged two more.

She watched them each go down the hatch in what appeared to be a single swallow each. He looked back at the cookies, then at her. She shook her head. “Oh no you don’t. That’s my third batch. I’ve been trying so hard to make a decent shortbread, and now I don’t even know whether I did it or not.”

He stopped, stunned. “Who told you that you didn’t make a decent shortbread?”

“Nan and Richie.”

An odd look crossed his face. “Oh,” he said, with a smirk.

“Why? What does that mean?”

He chuckled and then his chuckles went into huge guffaws. “Because I was just down there, and the two of them were apparently selling… care to guess what?”

“ Shortbread .” Doreen gasped. “They wouldn’t?”

“Yep, they would. I told them that the cookies looked really good, but Nan said that I wasn’t allowed any. In fact, she told me that I would have to come to you and to get some myself.” He started to laugh at the look on her face.

She stared at him. “Are you serious? Are you telling me that my own grandmother did that to me?”

He couldn’t stop laughing, and he was now howling.

She snatched up her phone and called her grandmother. When Nan answered, Doreen asked, “Did you tell me that my cookies weren’t good and that I had to come home and make more so that you could sell them off?”

Silence came from the other end. Then Nan started to chuckle. “I was bloody serious, child. You could have made better ones.”

“I might have made better ones, but, if you think you’re getting any after you’ve pulled that stunt,” Doreen declared, “forget it.” She ended the call without another word, still staring down at the phone in ire. She looked over at Mack, who’d already pilfered another couple cookies, so she glared at him now. “If you eat all those cookies, you’re making the next batch.”

He nodded agreeably. “I can do that.”

“I spent all day making cookies, and Nan told me that they were too tough and that I worked the dough too much.”

He stopped. “Oh.”

“What do you mean, Oh ?”

“It is a problem,” he said. “No doubt about it. You can overdo the dough, and a light hand is definitely the best. Still, I highly suspect she was either making more out of it than you imagine or she just really wanted to tease you.”

“Tease me?” Doreen repeated. “I thought they were horrible cookies. I wanted to make you cookies for Christmas, and she seemed to think that they were terrible.”

Still trying to smother his laughter, he walked over, snagged her into his arms, twirled her around, and gave her a shortbread-tasting kiss. “Don’t ever change.” Just then Mugs gave a woof , and Mack bent down and gave him a piece of cookie.

“Oh no, he doesn’t get any more cookies,” she ordered. “He didn’t do his job today.”

Mack and Mugs shared a glance, then both turned to look at her. “What do you mean, he didn’t do his job?” Mack asked.

She winced. “Nothing. It was just a comment.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no.” Mack straightened up and glared at her. “What did you mean?”

“I didn’t mean anything,” she replied in exasperation. “I’m just upset at everybody having fun with my cookies.”

“Fun with your cookies, which they’re busy selling to raise money?”

“But what are they raising money for?”

“I have no clue,” he admitted, with a headshake. “I just know I wasn’t allowed to take part, and they wouldn’t accept my money for whatever it is they were hoarding the money for.”

“Oh, dear.” Doreen sighed. “That woman will be the death of me.”

He looked over at her and, with a chuckle, added, “I know the sentiment.”

She glared. “I haven’t done anything like that.”

“No, but you’re also trying very hard to avoid telling me what the heck is going on and why Mugs didn’t do his job.”

Mugs barked at that.

Doreen replied, patting Mugs now, “I know. I know. You thought he wasn’t dangerous, so you didn’t have to do anything. I get that, and maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just me.”

Mack stared at her. “Out with it now!” She remained silent, but Mack shook his head, planting his hands on his hips. “No, no, no. You’re not getting out of explaining this one.”

“It’s nothing,” she finally said.

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be sitting there, arguing with Mugs.”

“Yes, I would,” she stated. “He’s really easy to argue with.”

“Heaven help me,” he muttered.

“Yeah, you should be so lucky,” she muttered, as she sat down at the table where the cookies were cooling, checked them over. She saw one that might be soft and fluffy and picked it up and took a bite.

“Now,” Mack shared, “the test of shortbread is… will it melt in your mouth?”

And, in fact, all that buttery goodness was melting all over her taste buds, and she almost moaned in joy.

He nodded. “See? That’s the sign of a good cookie.” She stared at him around the mouthful, and it was gone in seconds. He chuckled. “You’ll become a shortbread nut just like the rest of us.”

She sighed. “How come I didn’t know there was such a thing as shortbreads?”

“Mathew really didn’t let you have any Christmas baking?”

“No. It would have made me fat, remember?”

His face darkened at that, and he pushed the whole platter of cookies in front of her, and said, “Eat to your heart’s content.”

She laughed. “The thing is, it’s different when you can have it. I’m not necessarily even hungry. But these are really good.” She finished the one in her hand and muttered, “I should have had it with coffee.”

“That’s okay. Now you can have coffee with a second one.” She rolled her eyes at that. “But you’re still not getting out of the issue at hand.” She glared at him, and he nodded. “Oh, I know. I’ve gotten wind of most of your tricks by now. Every once in a while, you still avoid answering my questions on something. I don’t get how I missed whatever it was that you were trying to hide from me, and you still do it a fair bit but not this time. So, what was Mugs supposed to do and yet didn’t?”

“I won’t get Mugs into trouble,” she said. “That would be tattling.”

He looked at her and grimaced. “You already tattled.”

“Oh.” She frowned and looked over at Mugs. “Sorry, buddy.”

He woofed, as if to say, That’s okay. A cookie would fix it .

She glared at him. “No, no more cookies.”

“Doreen,” Mack said in that urging tone of voice.

“Fine, fine, fine,” she muttered, with a wave of her hand. “It’s just that… somebody came by today. He didn’t knock, or, if he did, I didn’t hear it. I turned around, and he was in the kitchen already.”

He frowned at her. “Who was it?”

“Pengo, the guy Brandon Phelps was trying to say was responsible for that B&E case he wanted the Freedom Project to get written off his records.”

Mack sat down hard on the chair beside her. “He came here?”

“Yeah, not necessarily a good thing. Plus, I’m not exactly sure how he knew how to find me, outside of the fact that, according to Richard, it’s hard not to find me.”

“Good God.” Mack stared at her. “Did you have a conversation with him?”

“Sure. What else could I do? He started off by telling me that my shortbreads were probably too tough.” Mack’s lips twitched at that. “Don’t you start that again either.”

“Did he try one?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t let him try one. They were just coming out of the oven, but, when I banged my foot on the floor, he told me the cookies would fall.” At that, Mack started to laugh again. “And then I got really mad.”

“Yeah, of course you would. And why did you get mad?”

“Because I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or not,” she wailed in such a forlorn tone that Mack sighed, snagged her into his arms, and sat her on his lap.

“Did they look really high?” he asked.

“No.” She turned to face him. “Does that mean they fell?”

“No,” he replied, trying hard for calm and not an uproarious laughter. “It means that they wouldn’t fall in the first place.”

“Oh.” She settled against his shoulder. “I guess people really do think I’m an idiot, don’t they?”

“No, I think they find you incredibly endearing and lovely, and they aren’t sure what they’re supposed to do with you. Then, when they do find something, like the idea that you don’t know about falling cookies,” he clarified, his lips twitching once again, “I think it’s instinctive for them to make fun of you.”

“Maybe so,” she muttered, “but it’s not nice.”

“No, it’s not necessarily very nice,” he said gently, “but you are learning every day.”

“Sure, I might be learning, but that doesn’t mean it’s happening quick enough. I was thinking about taking cooking classes.”

He shrugged. “If you would find that fun, then do it.”

“I’m hoping that maybe it would be more than just fun, but it would also be useful.”

“It would be useful,” he said. “As long as you enjoy it, it would be useful. But you really don’t need to do something you don’t enjoy.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she replied, throwing back her head, “because even if I don’t enjoy it, that doesn’t mean that I don’t need to learn more basics. It is quite troubling that I can’t do some of the most basic things.”

“You just made shortbreads,” he pointed out. “You made fabulous shortbreads, so it’s not that you can’t do some of the basic things. It’s just like the shortbreads though, it might take you a time or two to learn it properly. And I’ve got to tell you how fabulous these are.”

“But I wonder”—she turned to him, frowning—“if you would say that if they weren’t mine.”

“Meaning that I only like them because you made them?” he asked. “I must admit that they’re extra special because I know you made them. Plus, I know how hard it has been for you to make a lot of these things, but you keep trying. So nothing nicer or better than seeing somebody who’s down but keeps picking themselves up again and again in order to learn something new. I am really proud of you.”