Live and Let Pie Page 11

  I had heard that the homeless council had negotiated using the space through the end of the summer, on the condition that it would only operate as a space for homeless families to access support services, without any overnight stays. The homeless council had been granted permission to open the hall daily to offer people in need wellness kits and prepackaged bags of snacks, nonperishable food, water, and drinks with electrolytes. Dehydration was a huge issue in the warm summer months for the street population. Additionally, homeless council staff were on hand to provide assistance with job searches and connections to medical and mental health services. The shelter served a free community dinner to anyone in need every night of the week. The dinner was staffed by volunteers. We tried to donate breads and pastries at least a few times a week.

  I wasn’t sure whether Gretchen would be there now, but I knew the building would be open for me to deliver the pastries and I could leave a message for her. Fortunately, we had made ample treats for the reopening party. I packaged tubs of basil-and-sundried-tomato butter, lavender scones, banana cakes, and savory ham and swiss hand pies. Then I locked the bakeshop for the evening and headed outside to the plaza. Warm evening air greeted me, along with the sound of happy diners eating at al fresco tables on the creekside Calle Guanajuato pathway. I strolled along the cobblestone sidewalks lit by antique street lamps and the glow of candlelight from the outdoor tables. The path ended across the street from Lithia Park.

  A group of travelers had gathered in the open grassy area near the entrance to the park. They were lit up with glow sticks and performing an interpretive dance to the beat of a drum and the whistle of a flute. I smiled to myself as I passed by. A typical summer evening in Ashland.

  Above the park I could make out the top of the Elizabethan theater and hear the sound of audience laughter. The outdoor show ran every night, except for Mondays, during the summer. I could time my evenings by the sound of the thunderous applause at the end of every show.

  I stopped to smell a climbing rose that snaked along a wooden arbor. The homeless council building was farther down Winburn Way. I took the long route through Lithia Park, past the duck pond and across a bridge that ran over Ashland Creek. Even though the sun had begun to sink behind the mountains, dozens of families and children scampered through the park. Ashland summers were idyllic, with hot sun-soaked afternoons that transitioned into warm star-filled evenings. It was no wonder that so many people had opted to take advantage of the lingering twilight hours.

  I crossed the bridge and headed across Winburn where the door to the homeless council building sat propped open. I had a feeling it was due to the heat. The cabin had been constructed in the 1880s long before the invention of central air-conditioning.

  “Good evening,” a woman seated behind a welcome desk called as I entered. “It looks like you have a delivery for us.”

  “Yes, I’m here with sweets.” I held up the boxes.

  “How wonderful. That will be such a treat.” She turned her desk fan to low and stood.

  “Is Gretchen around by any chance?” The converted cabin was humid.

  “I think she’s in her office doing paperwork. Do you want me to check?”

  “That would be great.” I handed her the boxes. “I think we’ve met before. I’m Jules from Torte.”

  “Yes, of course. Nice to see you again. I’ll drop these off in our kitchen and let her know that you’re here. Thanks again for the donation.”

  Gretchen appeared a few minutes later. Her thick dark curls bounced with each step. She dabbed her forehead with a hand towel. “Jules, what a nice surprise. I guess I always thought bakers kept early hours.”

  “Unfortunately, I rarely sleep.”

  “Ah, a no-sleeper? Welcome to my world.” Gretchen motioned toward the back. “Do you want to come to my office?”

  “Sure.” I followed her.

  Gretchen greeted a young family who had come into the community room seeking medical care for their daughter, who had cut her leg playing in the park. A staff member bandaged up the wound. Gretchen paused, reached into her shorts pocket and handed the girl a sticker.

  “Would you like a sticker? I think you need a sticker. I have butterflies, flowers, and stars. Take two. Or maybe three. What do you think?”

  The little girl gave Gretchen a shy smile and took a flower sticker.

  We continued into her office. There were stacks and stacks of donations—clothes, food, bedding, pet supplies, and toiletries piled on the floor. Her desk was strewn with paperwork and used tea mugs. She cleared a comforter and sheet set from a folding chair for me to sit.

  “Sorry. As you can see we are in dire need of space.” She wiped her brow with the towel and tossed it on her desk. “Sorry it’s so hot in here. We’ve tried to add as many fans as we can, but they just seem to move the hot air around.” She nodded to a large, freestanding fan in the corner that was turned off.

  “No problem.” I sat across from her.

  She pushed a bunch of papers to the side of her desk. “I’m not usually this disorganized but we’ve been swimming in donations. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic problem to have, but there’s nowhere to put anything. When we build the homeless village on Edgar’s lot we’re going to construct a shopping market and wellness center on-site. That way when our unhoused or transient families—as we like to refer to them—are there temporarily they can easily access medical care, community support services, and ‘shop’ at the market for donated clothes.”

  “That’s a great concept.” It sounded as if Gretchen thought it was a foregone conclusion that they had the lot.

  “One of my first initiatives since coming onboard has been to change the language and culture of how we treat the unhoused. These are simply people—often families—who’ve hit a run of bad luck. A job loss, an illness, increasing rents, a lack of a support system, and suddenly they find themselves without a place to go. Our center is going to be warm, inviting, and a space that enables them to reenter the workforce or find permanent housing. Did you know that many homeless families are working, but can’t afford the exorbitant costs of moving into a rental property?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s true. Many of our families have jobs, but for whatever reason they were displaced from a previous house or apartment, and even though they can afford the rent they don’t have the funds to put down huge deposits and first and last months’ rent.”

  “Right.”

  She reached for the towel and mopped sweat from her brow. “What really tugs at my heartstrings is the kids. You and I might joke about not sleeping but the stats on sleep deprivation in homeless children are staggering. Did you know that children in transition only get four hours of sleep on average?”

  “No. That’s terrible.”

  Her curls stuck to her forehead. “It is. It impacts everything—their ability to learn and thrive at school. And that’s just sleep. We haven’t even touched on nutrition and lack of medical care.”

  She took off her glasses and cleaned them on the edge of her T-shirt. “One of the things that I’m most excited about is the village. It’s going to change so many lives. We’re creating grant programs dedicated to helping our families with move-in costs. The market at the new village will have clothes, shoes, bedding—all the essentials. The shop will be run by our volunteers, but it will be set up like a boutique. Part of the stigma of being unhoused is taking charity. Our families are proud—they don’t want handouts. They want a hand up. Instead of giving our families one of these bags with predetermined clothing and stuff, we’ll give them a shopping pass. They can try on clothes and choose things that flatter and make them feel good. It’s life-changing. Helps build confidence to go out on a job interview or tour a rental property.”

  “That’s wonderful. Ashland is lucky to have someone as dedicated as you at the helm of this program. Especially for the children.” Gretchen’s passion was evident. Her hands moved as rapidly as her lips as she spoke about
her vision.

  “Don’t even get me started on the kids. Aw, the kids.” She paused and put her hand to her heart. “They are so resilient and thankful. I’m constantly amazed and humbled by how grateful they are and how their energy perks up with the slightest little thing—like those stickers.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “Well, I have even bigger plans. The market for kids will include clothes and shoes, but also backpacks, books, stuffed animals, and toys. We want them to feel like they have tangible items that are solely theirs.”

  “It sounds like you have a very clear direction.”

  She brushed me off. “I don’t deserve any credit. I’m borrowing ideas from other places I’ve worked. I just want to know that we have the lot once and for all so that we can break ground and start building. I’ve been trying to get the city to realize it’s their responsibility to care for the unhoused. We can build the village, but they have to relax the building codes for us. It’s been an absolute nightmare trying to get any traction with them on the issue.”

  Sweat began to pool on my back. How could Gretchen and her staff work in conditions like this? I couldn’t even imagine how hot the building must get during the peak heat of the day.

  “I was at Edgar’s a little while ago and I’m about ready to kill that man. He’s making me pull my hair out—literally.” To demonstrate she yanked a strand of long dark hair from her head.

  It sounded as if Gretchen didn’t know that Edgar was dead. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Heard what?”

  I hated to be the person to break the news. “Edgar is dead.”

  Her jaw fell open. “What? How? I was over there less than an hour ago and he was fine.”

  “I don’t know the details. My friend who is a police officer just broke the news before I came to drop off our donations. They’re investigating as we speak.”

  Gretchen stood up. She walked over to a stack of prepackaged food and began sorting canned beans and boxes of macaroni and cheese. “Edgar’s dead. He’s dead?”

  “I know. It’s terrible news.” I hated having to be the person to share it with her. This must be how Thomas and the Professor felt every time they had to inform family and friends of loss.

  “This can’t be happening. Who killed him?”

  Had I said anything about murder? I replayed my words. I was sure I had said that Edgar was dead—not killed. “I don’t think they know that at this point,” I lied.

  “He was killed. I know it.” She thrust canned goods into a plastic tub with such force I thought she might dent them. “Look, I need to go. Sorry to cut this short. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “Yes…” I started to say, but she was already halfway out the door.

  I left feeling completely perplexed. Gretchen obviously had a tender heart and was doing tremendous things for Ashland’s transient families, but could her passion have led her to a crime? She had admitted to being at Edgar’s and knew that he had been murdered. I didn’t want to think the worst. But Gretchen left me no choice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, I went through the motions at Torte. I couldn’t stop thinking about Edgar. Who’d killed him? And why?

  “Jules, you cool?” Sterling asked midway through the breakfast rush. He and I were alone in the kitchen, which was a rare occurrence. Bethany had taken Marty to show him the bread delivery route, and Stephanie was hand-piping a lace pattern on a custom cake. She had her headphones in to drown out any distractions. Piping work was tedious and required concentrated focus.

  “Is it that obvious?” I massaged my temples. Sterling had a rare gift. He was completely in tune with emotions. Since we had first met I knew instantly that he was a kindred spirit and an old soul. It was likely one of the reasons that he had struggled with addiction in the past. He had used alcohol and drugs as an escape from the grief over losing his mom, but thankfully he had tapped into his inner strength to overcome his addictive behaviors. I hadn’t known him during those darker years, but he was open and honest about his commitment to sobriety as well as his intention to live a fully realized life. He had become one of my most valued friends and was like a brother.

  “You seem distracted.” He motioned to a half-decorated four-layer dark chocolate cake. “Your layers are uneven. Something must be up.”

  “Uneven layers.” I gasped. “Unacceptable. I should fire myself.”

  He set a wooden spoon on a trivet. “What’s going on? Are you worried about Andy?”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Nothing.” I didn’t want to break Andy’s confidence.

  Sterling must have sensed this. He didn’t press me. “I’ve told him he has to chill with Sequoia. I’m sure he’s going to figure it out. It’s just an ego hit, you know?”

  “Exactly.” I brushed chocolate cake crumbs from my apron. “It’s not Andy. Although you’re right, I have been worried about him and intend to keep an eye on him. It’s another murder.”

  “What?”

  “Edgar Hannagan, the owner of a vacant lot that Mom and I went to look at, was killed last night.”

  “Geez.” Sterling ran his fingers through his dark hair. It was no wonder that the twenty-somethings swooned over him. He had a distinctive look—dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and enough tattoos to give him a bad-boy appearance, even though he was one of the kindest people on the planet. “Did you find the body?”

  “No. Thank goodness. Thomas and Detective Kerry stopped by last night. They were looking for the Professor. I feel totally wrapped up in the case, though, because I’ve come across a number of people who are all vying for the property. What if one of them is the killer?”

  “You should probably share what you know with Thomas or the Professor,” Sterling replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I will. Trust me.” I rested a flat spatula coated in dark chocolate ganache on the counter. “I just can’t believe that someone in this community could be a killer. I hate the fact that I’m staring suspiciously at everyone who comes into Torte and adding people I’ve known for years, like Pam, to the list of potential suspects.” I thought back to Pam’s reference to a letter yesterday. Had she written an official complaint to the city? Was she working with Malcolm or were they adversaries in their quest for the lot? When I saw her next I would have to see if she would tell me more.

  “Jules, come on.” Sterling gave me a look as if to say I was acting insane. “It’s normal. I’d be worried if you weren’t thinking about it. If it was just business as normal at Torte in light of a murder in town, I would be reevaluating my employment options.”

  My hands were dotted with spots of ganache. I had to resist the urge to lick it off. “Thanks.” I smiled at him. “It’s hard though. Ashland has been a sanctuary for me. I hate seeing crime touch this community. I guess I live in a bubble sometimes. I want to believe that the world is a kind place, like Torte, where people genuinely care about each other.”

  “The world is what we make it.” Sterling ladled vats of soup into plastic containers.

  Like always his words resonated. “You’re right. I have to shake out of this slump and help right this wrong.”

  “That’s the Jules I know.” Sterling twisted a lid on a soup container. “Seriously, don’t let it get to you.”

  “I’ll try not to.” I paused and stared at the lopsided cake. “Now the question is, what am I going to do with this mess?”

  Bethany appeared with empty bread delivery boxes. She studied the lopsided cake for a minute. “Ooooh, I have the best idea.” She set the boxes down and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m totally hashtagging this #bakingfail.”

  “Great.” I put my hand to my forehead.

  “No. No. It’s awesome, Jules. It will get tons of shares and comments. People love to see flubs and mistakes just as much as they love to see our beautifully styled products. You’re the one who always talks about kitchen mistakes
making us better bakers.”

  “She has you there,” Sterling agreed.

  “It makes Torte more real.” Bethany clicked another shot. “Can we cut it up into tasting bites? We might as well use it, right? I was thinking it would be fun to take a tray out to the plaza and shoot some quick little videos for our social media. Something clever like tasting bites. Give our followers a glimpse outside Torte’s walls, you know?”

  “Sure. Go for it. But aren’t all of our followers here in Ashland?”

  She scrunched her face. “Are you for real?”

  I looked to Sterling for help.

  Bethany proceeded to scroll through dozens upon dozens of bakeries from all over the country that were following our social media profiles. “Jules, we have a huge following on Instagram. Torte has become one of its most popular baking feeds.”

  “That’s amazing. I had no idea.”

  “It’s nothing.” Bethany’s cheeks blotched with color. “But it is super fun to connect with bakers in Miami and Chicago from here in Ashland.”

  “We should do something with this. You and Steph have completely exceeded my expectations.” I started slicing the cake fail into small slices.

  “What do you mean? What would we do with it?” Bethany tugged at her gray T-shirt. It had an outline of a whisk and the words: WHIP IT GOOD.

  “I don’t know.” I thought for a minute. “What if we did a big giveaway?”

  Bethany perked up. “Like what?”

  “Like a trip to Ashland? Spend a day here at Torte? I’m sure I could talk to some other business owners in the plaza. Maybe we could partner to give away a stay at Ashland Springs, wine tasting at Uva, tickets to a show at OSF. There are so many possibilities.”