The Masked Man

But from the first day, Zoe had seemed fascinated by the workings of the bakery, so Jill had weakened and given her the job.

Zoe had proved to be a good worker, prompt and dependable. And Jill had felt guilty for judging the girl by her appearance.

Also of late, Zoe had fallen in love. Which wasn’t rare. But this one had lasted for more than a week. Which was.

“Breads. That would be great,” Jill said. “If you want to get started, I’ll be right down.”

“Rough night?” Zoe asked, eyeing her.

Had she heard about Trevor’s murder? Jill knew from her glance in the mirror that she looked bad.

“Just a late night,” she said. “That stupid costume I was wearing.” She raised her hand to the knot on her head. It was tender. So was the spot beneath her left eye. “I kept running into things.” So true.

Zoe nodded knowingly. “One of those hoop-skirt things, right? Man, can you imagine dressing like that all the time? Too weird. And in your case, too dangerous!”

Jill laughed. Yes, Zoe was exactly what she needed.

“I’ll get some coffee going first,” Zoe said. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“Thanks, I really could.” She was grateful that she wouldn’t have to discuss last night—or Trevor. If Zoe knew about Trevor’s murder she’d be asking a dozen questions. “I’ll be down in just a few minutes to get going on the cinnamon buns.”

“Cool,” Zoe said, and headed for the bakery’s kitchen. Beyond it, Jill could see the dark shapes of the tables and chairs of the small coffee shop. And beyond that the dark street. What caught her eye was a car parked across the intersection. A shiny black sports car. Was there someone sitting in it behind the tinted windows? Someone watching the bakery?

“Jill? Are you sure you’re all right?”

She blinked and focused on Zoe, who’d turned to look back at her in concern.

Jill nodded. “Just tired.” She hurried back upstairs to her apartment, ran a brush through her long brown hair and plaited it into one long braid down her back. After she brushed her teeth, she put on makeup, something she seldom wore, to cover the worst of the scrapes and bruises. Not great, but definitely better.

She tidied the apartment a little and returned to the kitchen to find Zoe hard at work getting the bread doughs started.

“How was your night?” she asked the girl, who was sifting flour into a large metal bowl. It was the way they started their days. With Zoe’s stories about her dates, her parents, her friends and the latest love of her life, a guy known only as Spider. “Did you see Spider?”

“Finally.” Zoe measured flour into the large floor mixer and sighed. “He promised to take me to a party, but he didn’t show up in time.”

Jill knew the feeling. “I’m sorry.”

“He came around later, said he’d been working.”

Working. Jill had heard that one before, too.

“But we went out on the beach, parked and talked.” Zoe shrugged shyly. “He’s the coolest guy I know. Older, you know. And he likes me.” She grinned. “A lot. But I’m taking it slow. You know, kinda playing hard to get.”

“Good idea,” Jill agreed, curious about this Spider. Older. That was the first time Zoe had revealed that. “How much older?”

Zoe shrugged. “He drives a great car.”

“Really?” Jill glanced out the front window thinking it might be a black sports car. But the car was gone.

“It doesn’t happen to be black, something sleek and sporty, does it?” Jill asked.

Zoe laughed. “Not likely. It’s old. You know, one of those cars from, like, the sixties that’s been made cool again.”

“Cool.” Jill felt relieved Spider’s cool car wasn’t a black sports car. She knew she was just being paranoid, but then, she had a right to be, all things considered. She lost herself in making the cinnamon-roll dough.

It was hard not to worry about Zoe. The girl was too trusting, especially in light of the disappearances there’d been in the area over the years. Most were girls about Zoe’s age who’d come to the lake for summer jobs. As far as Jill knew, none of them had ever been found.

Jill felt sick remembering the year she was sixteen and the close call she’d had. It had been the only time she’d hitchhiked. Her first and last time.

Carefully, she dumped the flour and yeast into the large mixer and turned it on low as she added the warm water. Work was exactly what she needed. Work that she’d loved since those early days in her grandmother’s kitchen. Jill had always turned to work to help her get through the rough times, like four years ago when her mother died, or like the past few weeks when she’d known something was wrong between her and Trevor. This morning was no different.

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