Meet Your Baker (14 page)
“Okay, let’s think this through.” I felt my heartbeat rising. “Do you know what time Nancy was killed?”
“Yep. The coroner gave us a window between twelve-thirty
A.M.
and four
A.M.
”
“But we know that Nancy was alive at twelve-thirty. She was at Midnight Club—a bunch of people saw her.”
“I know. It’s not like what you see in the movies, Jules. The coroner provides an estimated time of death. It’s imprecise and often includes periods of time when the victims are known to be alive.”
My mind spun through this information. “Wait,” I said quickly. Without taking a breath I jumbled my sentences together. “That means any of the Midnight Club members could have killed her. One of them could have waited until everyone left and hung out. Andy told me everyone left before two o’clock and he left not long after, but maybe someone didn’t.”
“Slow down there, turbo.” Thomas laughed. “Yes, these are all possibilities.”
I rushed on. “Or, maybe Andy’s lying? What if he told me that to cover for Mia? But that doesn’t make sense. I believe him. I don’t think they’re dating. I just can’t picture Andy with mousy Mia. Do we know if she even left? Did she stay at Torte until she ran into me? What about the other Midnight Club members? Have you talked to them? When did they say they left?”
“You want to borrow my badge?” Thomas pretended to unclasp his gold star badge. “Yes, we’ve taken statements from all the Midnight Club members. Today, I’m interviewing everyone again. It’s a trick I learned from the Professor. He likes to make sure no one slips up—changes their story a couple days later. You wouldn’t believe how often that happens. Someone tells you they left at twelve-thirty. A couple days later it becomes twelve forty-five. Fifteen minutes can make a huge difference.”
“Right,” I agreed, letting all the information sink in.
Thomas waited. I wondered if he could see my brain cells trying to make connections.
“Where does that leave Mia?” I asked.
“In trouble.”
I left Thomas in the park and made my way back to Torte. The heat felt oppressive and inescapable. As I crossed the triangular plaza to the other side of Main Street, a group of tourists, who had likely just finished lunch and were headed for the matinée, walked four across.
There was no way to pass them, so I followed behind as they sauntered, completely oblivious they were blocking the entire sidewalk.
One of them, a woman with expertly coiffed hair and an expensive handbag, stopped and screeched. “Oh my God! Gum. I’ve stepped in gum. I didn’t think they allowed it here.”
As her friends assisted in the removal of gum from the bottom of her Jimmy Choo pumps, I scooted around them and chuckled internally. Do they think we’re some kind of theme park?
That sums up the Ashland experience. Tourists become so captivated with the Shakespearean atmosphere that they forget this is a real town where people live.
We’re Disneyland for grown-up theater lovers. Only our little city can’t control who litters where.
Arriving at Torte, I went straight to the bathroom and doused my flaming cheeks, the back of my neck, and my wrists with cold water.
After I’d lowered my core body temperature by a couple degrees I returned to the kitchen to relieve Mom.
“Your turn,” I said, tying a clean apron around my waist.
“For what?”
“Lunch break.” I dragged a stool around the island. “Sit,” I commanded.
She started to protest, but I gave her my firmest look and she threw her hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I’m sitting.”
I brought her a turkey and fig sandwich and a large glass of ice water. She ate while I helped Andy and Stephanie bus tables and deliver meals. Once the lunch rush cleared out, Andy stood at the sink, rinsing plates and coffee mugs before putting them in the dishwasher. Stephanie rested one arm on the counter and stared at her phone.
Note to self—I must remind staff that phones are not allowed during working hours.
“Eat this.” I forced the sandwich into her hands. “It’s the last one. Let me know what you think. If you like it maybe we can order some more figs and I’ll make another round.”
Mom bit into the sandwich and a look of approval washed over her face. “You inherited your dad’s creativity. This is amazing.” She took another bite. Her face changed. It looked wistful. “I wish I had your ability.”
I didn’t think the faraway look had anything to do with her talent in the kitchen. I knew she missed Dad. I missed him too.
What made their relationship special was that it was built on a quiet, fierce mutual respect, plenty of laughter, and a collection of magically common, ordinary days spent baking side by side.
I thought I had found the same thing with Carlos.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” I said to Mom. “Your pastries are famous. People come to Ashland for two things: the theater and to sample whatever Torte has on the menu.”
“Aren’t you a kidder?” She poked an ice cube floating on the top of her water glass. “I’m not selling myself short. I can follow a recipe, but creating something like this.” She popped the last bite of the sandwich in her mouth. “This takes real skill. You’ve really matured as a chef. Your dad would be so proud of you.”
She submerged the ice cube as if trying to plunge the memory. We both stared as the ice bobbed up to the top, refusing to follow her command.
A timer on the oven buzzed, shaking her from her memories. She jumped to her feet. “Better grab that.”
“I got it.” I tugged on a pot holder and pulled a batch of dark chocolate macaroons from the oven. The smell of chocolate invaded my nostrils and made me have to hold my finger back from diving in for a taste. They were way too hot.
Setting the macaroons on a cooling rack, I turned to Mom. “Okay, so what needs to be done this afternoon?”
She reviewed the spiral-bound notebook with the list of items for the day. It was coated in flour, splattered with oil, and had recipes scribbled in pencil on the margins.
“Oh, I almost forgot. We have a cake to make. Lance ordered it yesterday. In his words he wants ‘a showstopper.’”
“Shocker.” I cut a tiny square of macaroon as a taste test. The second it hit my tongue I knew I should have waited longer. It burned, but the dense chocolate flavor made a little burn worth it. “These are great.”
Mom nodded her thanks. “Any ideas?”
I thought for a moment, mentally reviewing recipes in my head. Some people dream of white sandy beaches or snowcapped mountains. Not me. I dream of pastry. I lie awake at night and think about baking. It’s relaxing to dream about new ways to blend and combine ingredients.
“I know just the thing!” I announced. “A mocha, hazelnut, and apricot torte. We served it on the ship for the late-night buffet and it was always gone in a matter of minutes. Of course, most of that crowd was drunk and in search of any food to absorb all the alcohol in their system.”
“Not much different than the theater crowd, then?” Mom closed the recipe book.
“Exactly. Want me to get started on it?”
Mom checked the clock. “How long does it take? Lance said he’d pick it up before we close. That only gives you a couple hours.”
“No problem. I’m on it.”
“I’ll make some space for you.” Mom moved a rolling pin, mixing bowl, and containers of flour and sugar from the island. “Let me wipe this down and then I’ll go see if the kids need any help up front.”
“Yeah, keep an eye on them, would you?”
Mom looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“We can talk later.” I threw her a look. “Just keep an eye open.”
She looked unsure, but agreed.
I creamed butter and sugar together for the torte. Next, I pulsed hazelnuts in the grinder. I’d add these to the batter and adorn the top of the torte with whole nuts for effect. I slowly beat eggs into my sugar and butter.
Then I alternated adding the fine hazelnut powder and flour. As I worked, I went through the list of possible suspects. I couldn’t forget about Lance. He’d had strong words about Nancy too. He’d definitely been at the Midnight Club. When he came to pick up his cake, I’d have to see if I could pull any more information out of him.
Piecing together a murder was much more difficult than piecing together a cake. With my batter complete, I poured it into two eight-inch round pans and tucked them into the oven to bake while I worked on the frosting.
The thing that makes this particular confection stand out is the creamy mocha frosting and tart apricot jam spread between thin layers of the hazelnut cake. Cutting the cake takes a steady hand, but since I planned to frost and pipe a decorative design around the edges it would hopefully be a little forgiving. It would give me a chance to brush up on my knife work for the design embellishments. I like the challenge of the technical side of the pastry business, like sugar art and aesthetically pleasing piping.
As the afternoon came to a close Mom sent Andy and Stephanie home and boxed up the few remaining pastries.
“The torte’s ready,” I announced, spinning it on the decorating rack. I was pleased with the way it turned out. The frosting came out the color of Belgian chocolates. I piped delicate swirls of extra chocolate along the bottom rim, and along the top, and finished it off with a ring of hazelnuts, each secured with a bright orange dab of apricot jam.
“That’s gorgeous!” Mom inspected the torte. “I think you’ve delivered a showstopper for sure.”
“Good, because I see Lance coming our way.” I pointed to the window behind her. “I better box this up.”
“Hellloooo, darlings,” Lance called, as he stepped inside. “What treats have you lovely culinary ladies crafted for me?”
He wore a suit the color of a robin’s egg with a navy ascot around his neck. Not many men could pull off the look, but he wore it with confidence.
There was one blemish in his otherwise immaculate grooming—his left hand was wrapped in a gauze bandage.
“Did you hurt your hand?” I asked as he kissed Mom on both cheeks.
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he grabbed my hand with his uninjured one. “Really, these graceful bones should be on the stage. You’re sure you won’t reconsider?”
I rolled my eyes as he kissed my hand and released it.
“What happened to your hand?” I repeated.
Lance had mastered the art of keeping his face relaxed. I knew from my early experience on the stage that actors spent hours contorting their faces to keep them passive.
He employed this trick and responded casually, “It’s nothing. A little run-in on stage. It’s all in the name of art, darling.”
I didn’t buy his flippant response. It was too calculated, and I noticed he tucked his arm behind his back as he spoke.
He had just moved to the top of my list of suspects.
“Want to see the torte?” I asked, carefully opening the cardboard lid to reveal the contents inside.
“Oooooh,” Lance gushed. “It’s lovely. I might have to keep this one for myself.” He stretched his neck to see behind the counter. “Have any dry day-olds I can take to my actors?”
Mom tsked. “You know we never sell any such thing.”
“Kidding.” He adjusted his ascot. “I’m throwing a fete for my cast tonight. Call it bribery, but we must keep them happy. They’re doing their one hundred and thirty-second production of
Hamlet
tonight. You can only keep it fresh for so long. That’s what I keep trying to remind the board.”
“What do you mean?” I wondered if this hint at tension with OSF’s board could have anything to do with Nancy. And, why was he throwing a party when one of his board members had just been killed?
“I thought you weren’t interested in the
theater
.” He laid on an English accent.
“Correction, I’m not interested in
participating
in the
theater
,” I said mimicking his accent. “I am interested in the festival. It’s the biggest thing in this town, after all.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “You are a crafty one, aren’t you?”
“What?” I played dumb. “I’m curious, that’s all. It’s not every day a board member drops dead. If you have any dirt on Nancy, I want to hear it.”
“Honey, if you want dirt, you’ve come to the right person. The question is, how much do you want?” He pushed the sleeve of his suit jacket up and checked the quartz watch on his wrist. “I have time. Pour me a cup of that liquid gold, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Lance seemed too eager to dish and a bit too chipper.
The fact that he was throwing a party for the cast of
Hamlet
didn’t seem like the appropriate response to learning that a board member had been murdered. I knew what Lance was up against in terms of keeping the cast engaged. Keeping a production like
Hamlet
fresh after one hundred and thirty-two performances can be a challenge.
Really, how many times can you say “To be, or not to be; that is the question” without sounding stale?
Mom handed Lance a cup of coffee and excused herself. “You two go ahead and talk, I need to close out the register.”
Damn. In the frenzy of customers, baking, and my uncomfortable conversation with Thomas, I hadn’t kept an eye on Andy or Stephanie. I wanted to do the books, but I also really wanted to hear what Lance had to say.
As soon as he left, Mom and I could have our heart-to-heart, so I agreed and stepped forward as Lance bowed and said, “After you.”
Once seated, Lance rested his injured hand on his lap and held his coffee with the other.
It was way too hot for anything other than a cold brew in my opinion, but I didn’t share this with Lance.
“What is it about the theater that I can enlighten you on? Rumor has it you were part of the company for many years. I can’t imagine there isn’t much you don’t know.”
“I’m wondering about Nancy.”
“Oh yes, Nancy Hudson, or as I like to call her, Lady Macbeth.” He shuddered for effect. “What can I tell you about the villain? Shakespeare couldn’t have penned a better one.”
“I’m curious about a few things. First, what happened the other night during Midnight Club? I heard she showed up drunk and tried to cause a fight?”