On Thin Icing (11 page)

“You found him!” she shouted into the phone.

“Don’t freak out, Mom. I’m okay, but the roads are pretty bad. They’re not sure if anyone is going to be able to get up here today, so I just want to touch base with Thomas and see if there’s anything else I should do. That’s all.”

“That’s all? I’m not supposed to
freak out
when you casually mention that you found a dead body?”

“Mom, really, I’m fine.”

“I need to call Doug right away. Hang on. I’ll get Thomas’s number for you. Then I’ll call Doug, too.”

Doug, aka the Professor, as everyone in town calls him, is Mom’s boyfriend and Ashland’s lead detective. He also serves as the town’s authority on Shakespeare. If the Bard, as the Professor likes to call Shakespeare, were alive he’d probably have a hard time keeping up with the Professor’s knowledge of his work. Once a month the Professor hosts a reading group where members dissect sonnets and translate passages. He’s been known to dress in Old English attire and quote soliloquies on the bricks before performances in the summer season.

Talking to Mom helped me feel calmer. I knew that the second we hung up the phone, she would get in touch with the Professor. Between him and Thomas they’d know what—if anything—I should do.

Mom returned with Thomas’s number. “I’ll give the Professor the lodge’s number and have him call you.”

“That would be great. Thanks, Mom.”

“Juliet, you take care of yourself. Carlos is there, right?”

“He’s here.”

“Good. I know he won’t let anything happen to you.”

I had to agree with her on that. Whatever the problems between us, Carlos would defend me with his life.

“Call me back when you can,” Mom said.

We hung up and I dialed Thomas’s number. He answered on the third ring. His voice sounded groggy. I had woken him. Thomas usually worked the late shift, and he wasn’t a morning person.

“It’s Jules,” I said. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” Thomas lied. “What’s going on?” His words ran together in a mumbled just-woke-up kind of way.

“Sorry to bug you, but there’s a bit of a situation up here.”

“Situation?” Thomas sounded clearer.

“Well—uh—there’s been a murder.”

“A murder? Wait. Aren’t you up at Lake of the Woods? When I stopped by Torte for my morning coffee yesterday your mom said you were catering an event for OSF.”

“I am, and I found a body this morning.”

“Whoa. Slow down, Jules. A murder? Why are you calling me? Hang up and call the police.”

“You are the police, Thomas.”

“Jules, you know what I mean. Lake of the Woods isn’t my jurisdiction.”

“I know. I called the local police, but they can’t get here. The roads are blocked.”

“What?”

“It’s snowing like crazy.”

“It is?”

“It’s snowing in Ashland, too. Look out your window.”

“Hold on.” Thomas must have gotten up. I heard him whistle. “You’re right, it is. Okay so walk me through this. What happened?”

I filled him in on everything that had happened from Tony’s dramatic exit last night to finding the body and how Sterling was roping off the crime scene and the timeline we’d put together.

“Slow down, Jules. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Let me call dispatch and see what I can find out. Can I reach you at this number?”

“Yeah, I’m on the lodge’s landline. Cell phones don’t work up here.”

“Okay. Sit tight. I’ll call you back in a few.”

The Professor and Thomas were on it. I had no doubt that not only would they get back to me, but that they would give me a clear direction on what to do next. Until then, I knew exactly what I needed to do: bake.

Chapter Twelve

I wanted to be able to hear the phone ring when the Professor and Thomas called back, so I propped the kitchen door open with a chair. In the blur of discovering Tony’s body, breakfast had been put on hold. We’d have to scrap the sausage casserole. There was no way I was going to retrieve them from the chest freezer now. Unfortunately the sausage is what gives it a nice spicy kick. Without it the potatoes and eggs would be bland.

Sterling, I love you, I thought as I stepped into the warm kitchen. He had started a fire in the pizza oven, peeled and sliced potatoes, and had them resting in a water-and-vinegar bath so they didn’t turn brown.

I dumped my cold coffee in the sink and washed my hands. The fire needed tending. After I added another log and stoked the flames, I checked my yeast. It had risen so high that it spilled over the sides of the glass measuring cup. If I could make it work, it would save me time.

Speaking of time, breakfast was due on the table in just over two hours. I needed a new plan. Instead of the sausage casserole we could toss the potatoes in olive oil, rosemary, and sea salt and wood-fire them. I knew we had peppers and sundried tomatoes. When Sterling returned, he could make an egg scramble with cotija cheese.

The question was what to do with the yeast? There wasn’t time to make an assortment of pastries. We could do that tomorrow. I decided to make a simple sweet bread instead. We had plenty of oranges. I could pair them with cardamom. The sweet spice should balance nicely with a citrus glaze, and I could add chopped pecans and walnuts to a couple of the pans. I’ve learned over the years to make sure to have nut-free options for people with allergies and for the rare guest who just doesn’t like nuts.

I sifted flour, salt, and sugar together, and began incorporating my monster yeast. Fingers crossed that it would rise again. Yeast can be fickle. If it failed, I didn’t have time to make another round. Fortunately, this recipe was nearly foolproof.

The dough is extremely versatile. We use it every day at Torte. I like to experiment with flavor combinations. Customers come back for our standard cinnamon rolls that ooze cinnamon and are packed with walnuts and raisins. We serve them warm with a healthy dose of cream cheese frosting. Mom and I have perfected the dough recipe over the years. It always produces rolls that are slightly crisp on the outside and soft and gooey in the center. Swapping cinnamon for cardamom and orange should give Lance’s guests the comfort of a warm roll with a unique zest.

I sprinkled flour on my hands and the island, and started kneading the dough. It stuck to my fingers. I shook more flour onto the counter. Working with sticky dough was like working on my relationship with Carlos. Too much flour and the dough would be tough and chewy. Not enough flour and the dough would be a clingy glutinous mess. Finding the point of harmony in kneading a dough that stretches and springs back together had taken me years of practice.

That should give me hope. I just need years of practice in my relationships and eventually they’d turn out perfect.

Once the dough had been kneaded, I divided it into two equal portions and put them in bowls to rise. While they rose, I started on the filling. I rinsed my hands in the sink and gathered a pile of oranges on the island. Using the rind of citrus fruit is one of my favorite ways to add texture and a hint of bitterness to sweet dishes. I grated the oranges into a bowl. The fragrant rind was a beautiful color and added an aroma of spring to the kitchen.

I kept one ear toward the dining room, but there was no sound of the phone yet. I wondered if Thomas or the Professor had been able to find out if the local police were on their way. The overhead lights flickered as I squeezed the juice of the oranges into another bowl.

Uh-oh. That wasn’t a good sign. Losing power was the last thing we needed.

My hands were wet with orange juice. I tasted my pinky. Delicious and so fresh. Lance was going to swoon over these rolls. I knew it.

I melted butter in the microwave and forked it together with some brown sugar and the orange juice. Then I opened a cardamom pod and scraped the aromatic black seeds into the mixture. A little goes a long way when it comes to the ancient spice. That’s true of most spices, but especially with cardamom. It’s always better to start slow, taste, and add as needed. I’ve tried to impart that advice to Stephanie, Sterling, and Andy. “Taste, taste, taste,” that’s our motto at Torte.

The fragrant blend of citrus and spice made my mouth water. I removed the towels covering the dough. It had risen nicely. Time to roll it. I sprinkled the countertop with flour and plopped a ball of the elastic dough in the middle. There’s an art to rolling dough. One mistake that home bakers often make is applying too much pressure. This will make the dough too flat. I pressed lightly on the rolling pin and watched as the dough began to stretch.

Once I’d rolled it into a long oval shape, I brushed it with melted butter and then sprinkled the cardamom mixture across the top. I creased the edges and rolled it into a log. Grabbing my pastry cutter, I sliced half-inch portions, placed them in a greased baking pan, and then poured more melted butter over the rolls. I finished them off with a dash of grated orange rind.

They needed to rise for another fifteen minutes before I baked them, so I set them aside. Sterling returned as I washed my hands. The sound of his voice made me jump. I splashed soapy water in my eye.

“You startled me,” I said, blinking. My eye began to tear. I wiped the corner of it with my pinky.

Sterling’s face was flushed. “It’s nuts out there. Two trees came down by the lake while we were at the marina. It sounded like an earthquake or something.”

“You’re okay?”

He stood by the brick oven and placed his hands in front of it. “Yeah. It freaked me out, you know. It was really loud.”

I drained the potatoes. “Was everything okay at the marina?”

“It looked like you described it. I only saw one set of footprints, and even those had almost disappeared by the time Mercury and I roped the area off.” He rubbed his hands together and stepped away from the stove. “Mercury is freaking out about the marina manager. He didn’t answer when we knocked on his cabin. She’s convinced there’s some kind of serial killer up here and that he’s dead, too.”

“That’s an unsettling thought.” I spread the potatoes evenly on baking sheets.

“Come on, Jules, a serial killer—doubtful.” Sterling shook his head and walked to the sink. “What do you want me to do?”

“Can you start on the eggs? I had to ditch the sausage casserole.” A little shudder ran down my spine.

“Why?”

“The sausage is in the freezer with…” I swallowed. “Tony. We can’t use it.”

Sterling threw his head back and laughed.

“What?”

“Can you imagine? We could probably come up with a great name. Dead guy sausage has a nice ring to it. It’s like that beer that Rogue makes—Dead Guy Ale. Maybe that’s their secret ingredient.”

“I don’t think this is a good time to joke.” I drizzled olive oil on the potatoes.

“Jules, you have to laugh, otherwise you’re going to make yourself crazy.” Sterling removed a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

He was probably right. I have a tendency to take myself too seriously sometimes. It’s something I’ve been trying to work on—to lighten up.

“Anyway,” Sterling continued, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. “The sausages aren’t sleeping with Tony. It’s so cold outside, I stuck our coolers on the back deck.” He pointed toward the lake. “I figured it would be easier to walk outside and grab stuff versus having to trek down to the marina.”

“I could kiss you, Sterling.”

“Please don’t.” He made a face, then smiled. “That would be weird.”

“Whatever.” I laughed and rubbed the potatoes with sea salt. Sterling had broken my dark mood. “I called Thomas. He should be calling back soon.” I glanced toward the dining room. It had been at least thirty minutes and still no call.

“I don’t know if the phone lines are working.” Sterling whisked the eggs. “Mercury is out looking at them now. One of the trees took down a line. She wasn’t sure if it was the phone or cable.”

Great.

Sterling turned on some music and we concentrated on our own tasks. The rolls had risen over the top of the baking pan. I slid them into the oven and finished the potatoes with a handful of chopped rosemary.

A little after eight, Carlos showed up. He looked like he could model for a ski magazine. He wore another turtleneck sweater. This time in a creamy cashmere that made his olive skin radiate. His jeans looked casually worn in, yet were tailored to his lean muscular build. There was only one thing holding back his modeling career, and that was the gnarly green and purplish bruise blemishing his otherwise perfect face.

He strolled toward me and kissed me on both cheeks. “Good morning, Julieta.”

“Morning,” I replied. “How’s your cheek? It looks terrible. You better ice it again.”

“It is nothing,” he said, but he followed my advice and grabbed a package of frozen peas from the freezer.

Sterling waved his whisk in a greeting. Carlos inspected his silky mixture. “This is good work, no?” He looked to me for confirmation.

“Yeah. He’s a quick study.”

“Sí.”
Carlos noticed the coffee carafe on the counter. “Is this still good?”

Carlos and I are both coffee snobs. I admit it. I’m not usually snobbish when it comes to good food. Of course, I prefer to use fresh and locally sourced ingredients in my baking and cooking, but I’m just as happy chowing down on a hearty bowl of homemade mac and cheese as I am noshing on a deconstructed five-course dinner. But when it comes to coffee, I am very particular.

“That’s been sitting for at least an hour,” I said to Carlos.

He frowned. “No. No good.” He dumped the coffee in the sink. “I will make you a Spanish coffee,
sí
?”

“How do you make Spanish coffee?” Sterling asked.

Carlos put an arm around his shoulder. “Come watch.”

“It’s too early for that,” I said, checking the rolls in the oven.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll show him how to brew.” Carlos pulsed beans in the grinder. He winked at Sterling. “Later tonight I’ll show you how to make a real Spanish coffee.”

“I don’t drink,” Sterling said. I was impressed that he took responsibility for his past and was so open and honest about it.

Carlos understood his meaning. “That is okay. I make you one with no alcohol. Still very delicious. You will love it.”