A Batter of Life and Death (21 page)

“He is really nice.” I could feel my body loosen. It was true. Thomas was probably one of the nicest guys I’d ever met. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out with us.

A light mist drizzled from the sky. She blushed through the layer of foundation on her face. “I was sort of wondering if you knew if he’s seeing anyone.”

“I don’t.” I shook my head. When I returned home this summer Thomas told me he was dating someone, but I’d never heard any more about the woman and I’d never seen him around town with anyone. “I mean, I don’t think he is, but honestly, I don’t know.”

Nina looked disappointed. “Okay, don’t worry about it. It’s kind of embarrassing to ask you anyway. I just can’t get a read on him. We went to dinner last night and it was really fun. He was so sweet, but I couldn’t figure out if he thought it was a date or if he was just being nice.”

“Thomas is nice to everyone.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighed.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant he is
nice.
You should ask him.”

“No. No way. I’m not that forward. I am going to work on making him some vegan treats that he can’t refuse.”

She thanked me and said she’d forgotten something at the theater. I continued on to Torte, trying not to let Nina’s interest in Thomas make me feel weird. She had every right to pursue him. My claim on him had long expired.

Torte smelled like chilies and onions when I stepped inside. Most of the tables were taken by locals lunching together. The Professor was on his way out with a box of pastries tucked under his arm.

“You’re becoming a regular fixture around here,” I teased him.

His eyes twinkled. “You know what they say about officers of the law and doughnuts.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’re the type.” I laughed and held the door open for him.

“Ah, but you never know, dear Juliet, do you? As the bard said, ‘Don’t share your top secret with anyone.’” He looked me straight in the eye, nodded, and departed.

I wondered what he meant by that.

“How was the show, boss?” Andy asked, as he poured whole coffee beans from a ten-pound bag into the grinder.

“Not bad. Richard Lord got booted off, so that was a bonus.”

Sterling’s intense eyes studied my face. “That’s, uh, some serious makeup.”

I laughed and posed for them. “What? Don’t you think I should come to the shop every day looking like this?”

“No!” they both shouted in unison.

“Ouch. That hurts. That really hurts, you two.”

Sterling glanced behind him to where Stephanie was working in the kitchen. “Don’t end up letting those Hollywood types rub off on you, like someone else we know.”

“Like that would ever happen.” I reached out and squeezed Sterling’s hand. “These Hollywood types are heading home soon. Don’t worry about it.”

Sterling shrugged and shuffled back to the pastry case as a new customer entered.

Andy folded the bag of remaining beans and clamped it shut with a large clip. “You want a coffee, boss? I can fire something up for you.”

“That would be great.”

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.” I left Andy and went straight to the sink to wash my hands. “What smells so good in here?” I asked Mom and Stephanie, drying my hands with a paper towel.

“Chili. It’s your dad’s recipe,” Mom said. She lifted the lid off a cast-iron pot on the stove.

The smell of tomatoes, onions, and chilies infused the kitchen. I walked closer and leaned over for a better whiff. “That smells so good. I think I could eat the entire pot.” My stomach gurgled on cue. “I forgot to eat breakfast and then the morning got away from me with the show and everything.”

Mom reached for a bowl and ladled the hearty chili. “I’ve got an assortment of toppings on the counter.” She nodded to a tray with ramekins of sour cream, shredded Colby jack cheese, diced green onions, crushed tortilla chips, salsas, and black olives. “Help yourself. It felt like a chili kind of day with the rain this morning, and the changing leaves. When I think fall, I think chili.”

“Me too, Mrs. C.” Andy delivered my coffee. “Because fall is football season and nothing goes better together than football and chili.”

Mom gave him a half hug. “And you are our own football star, who needs some of this sustenance.”

Andy grinned. “Dude, I won’t ever turn down your chili, Mrs. C.”

Mom ladled another bowl for Andy while I brought the tray of toppings to the island. Andy added extra salsa and chips to his. I went for a dab of sour cream, a sprinkle of cheese, and olives and green onions. It would be interesting to study how our food choices pair with our personalities. I already knew Andy liked heat. This summer he created an espresso drink with dark chocolate and chili powder. It sold so well that it became a permanent fixture on our drink menu.

“How about you, Stephanie?” Mom asked. “Are you ready for a lunch break?”

Stephanie declined. “I’m fine. I’m having lunch with a friend after my shift.”

“Friend?” Sterling whipped his head around from the front counter. That’s the drawback of working in a small space. It’s hard to have a private conversation. “Or Mr. Hollywood?”

Stephanie glared at him, and concentrated on brushing olive oil on sliced baguettes in front of her.

I dug into my chili without letting it cool. It burned the tip of my tongue, but I was so famished I didn’t even mind. It had been years since I tasted my dad’s chili recipe. Everyone does chili a bit differently. My dad’s recipe revolves around using fresh tomatoes. We score them, steam them, and then sauté them with celery, onion, and tons of garlic. This veggie base makes the chili taste like it has been picked ripe from the garden.

With my mouth tingling, I scooped another taste. Mom used a combination of ground beef and stew meat and three kinds of beans. The spicy finish exploded with flavor.

Andy devoured his bowl of chili and went in for seconds. “This is like, seriously, the best chili I’ve ever had, Mrs. C.”

“I’m glad you like it, Andy. It’s been quite a while since I made a batch for the shop.”

“You should make more. Customers are into it.” Andy wiped his bowl clean with a hunk of bread.

My mouth burned from the heat of the chili. I wiped my chin with a napkin. “Andy’s right, Mom. I’ve been wondering about selling soups to go in the fall and winter. We could package them in family-sized containers so that customers could grab a loaf of bread, some soup, and be all set for dinner.”

Mom ladled more steaming chili into Andy’s bowl. He wisely blew on his spoon to let it cool. She held the ladle above the pot and turned to me. “Do you want more?”

I declined.

She rested the ladle on the counter and placed a heavy cast-iron lid on the pot. “I like that idea. I would want that for myself, especially on a busy night when I don’t feel like cooking. A homemade batch of soup and bread to go. See, Andy, that’s why I pay her the big bucks.”

“Ha!” I tried to launch my napkin at her, but it floated onto the floor.

A customer came into the shop. Andy left his cooling chili to go craft one of his semifamous espresso drinks.

“Should we try the soup-to-go idea, Mom?” I asked, rinsing my bowl in the sink. “I think it could bring in a little extra cash. If you’re game I’ll look into ordering some containers. Maybe we can test it for the next couple weeks and see how we do?”

Mom brushed her hands on her apron. “Of course. I think it’s a great idea.” She walked to the sink and gave me a playful hip bump. “Get out of here, would you?”

I flicked her with water. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her face turned serious. “I’m worried about you. You look tired, and I have the sense that even though you’re putting on a good front, this murder has you rattled.”

I didn’t meet her eyes as I reached for a clean dish towel to dry my hands.

“It’s understandable. I’m sure it’s bringing back all kinds of feelings about what happened this summer. That’s normal,” she continued.

“I’m okay, Mom.” I looped the towel on a hook next to the sink.

“I know you’re okay, but I want you to go get some rest. Take a little time for yourself.” She pointed to the front of the shop. One table was occupied and two customers stood at the front counter trying to decide what afternoon sweet to partake in. “It’s slow. You’re working too hard. Go home. Take a nap. We’ve got it covered here.”

“Yeah, but Linda and Nina are going to be here to work on their pies.”

“Do I bite?” Mom winked.

“No, but.”

“Stop with the ‘buts.’ Go home. Get some rest. We’ve ‘got this’ as the kids like to say.”

I had to admit that I was dragging a little. The last couple days were catching up with me. A nap sounded divine. If I could sleep, and that was a big
if,
then I could come back to the shop in the evening when it would be quiet to work on my pie.

Mom swatted me on the derriere. “Stop worrying about the kitchen. We’re fine. Go take care of yourself.”

I covered my rear with my hands and ducked away from her. “Okay. I’m going. Call me if it picks up, though.”

“Sure,” she lied.

I gave the shop one final glance before scooting out the door. A nap. Maybe that would help erase some of the craziness from the last two days.

Chapter Twenty-six

I don’t even remember walking home or falling asleep. The next thing I knew I woke up on my couch to a numb right arm. Somehow I’d twisted myself onto one side, cutting off the circulation.

What time was it? Had I slept all afternoon?

I checked the clock. It was just after four. Not bad, Jules, I thought as I shook my arm to get blood flowing again. Mom was right. I must have needed sleep.

Was she also right about reliving last summer’s memories? And was she talking about the murder, or was she also hinting about Carlos? I’d never really thought about it, but I guess I did associate him with returning home and my first murder investigation.

I wondered what he was doing right now. I knew he was back on the ship, but short of that I hadn’t let myself think about him. Wondering where he might be—on a smooth stretch of sea, swaying his sultry hips to the sound of Latin rhythms in the ship’s kitchen—made my throat tighten.

Carlos took leave for a week after I left and returned home to Barcelona to see his son—the son he somehow managed to never tell me about. The lump in my throat grew as I allowed the painful memories to resurface.

Maybe trying to shove thoughts of Carlos to the back of my mind hadn’t been the best idea after all. I could picture his olive skin, slightly tanned like a perfect piece of toast. I could hear his thick accent and the way he’d roll his
r
when he called me “
mi querida.
”

My hand absently went to the back of my neck. I could almost feel his breath, his tender kiss on pale skin. Being around Carlos made me feel warmer, sexier, stronger.

Our friends on the ship used to call us beautiful opposites. Carlos, with his Latin charm and dangerously attractive dark eyes, and the fair Juliet, with ash-blond hair and skin that glows pinkish with the slightest touch of the sun. I knew we made a striking couple. I guess I just never saw myself striking out in love.

Mom had encouraged me to let things sit for a while. She reminded me that I didn’t have to figure out what was next for Carlos and me right away, but pretending he didn’t exist wasn’t working for me either.

I hugged my knees to my chest as I pictured him in his kitchen whites, chopping onions and infusing his food with his playful and sensual spirit. A tear rolled down my cheek. I let it fall. It felt welcome. I needed to cry.

One tear turned into a steady flow of salty liquid streaming from my eyes. I read somewhere once that tears shed for different reasons have different chemistries. That the tears that form when dicing an onion or laughing hysterically contain different compounds than those spilled from grief. My tears felt like my body was tapping into the ocean. It was fitting to associate their salty grittiness to my time on the sea.

My breath slowed, and I inhaled through my nose. I guess I needed that. I knew my emotional purge was triggered by my memory of Carlos, but I’m sure the events of the past few days had something to do with it too.

I cleansed my face with a washcloth and grabbed a sweatshirt from my dresser. The evening would most likely be cool, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d be at Torte working on my pie. Hopefully Linda and Nina had finished their pies by now, and hopefully they hadn’t left a giant mess for me.

Drat. That reminded me. I’d forgotten to ask Philip about contestants cleaning up after themselves. Before I headed to the bakeshop, I made sure to leave the light on in the front room and lock the door. My run-in with Sebastian last night had me a tiny bit rattled, and I didn’t want to take any chances.

On my way to Torte I stopped in for a quick chat with Mark, the owner of Elevation. He was a serious rock climber in his mid to late forties.

“Jules, how’s everything upstairs?” He was stacking boxes of hiking boots at the front of the outdoor store when I stuck my head in.

“It’s great. I’m starting to make it feel a little like home. I actually hung a picture on the wall.”

“Whoa, you’re really living on the edge, aren’t you?” He laughed.

“That’s how I roll.” I tried to wink. I don’t know why it never works for me. My face just ends up looking like I’m contorting it in some weird way.

Mark put down the boxes and strolled to the front of the store. His brow furrowed, revealing the beginning of age lines in the center of his forehead. “I’m glad you stopped by actually. There was a guy in here this afternoon asking about you. He wanted to know where you lived. Said he heard you lived by the store. I don’t know. It was weird. I didn’t tell him.”

“Who was it? Do you know?”

“Didn’t recognize him. He’s not from town, but he had a French accent.”

I gasped. “Sebastian.”

“You know him?”

“He’s a contestant on the Pastry Channel show.”

“Okay, well, don’t worry about it then. I’m probably being an overprotective landlord.”