Another One Bites the Crust (A Bakeshop Mystery) Read online

  Sleep deprivation had rattled my young apprentice. I was going to have to keep an eye on her. I returned to the other side of the workstation, sipped my coffee and studied the next order. It was for a two-layer chocolate marble sheet for a fourth-birthday party. The customer had requested a unicorn and rainbow theme. That should be fun, I thought as the door jingled again and Sterling and Bethany arrived.

  “Everyone’s coming in pairs this morning,” I said to Stephanie and waved hello to Sterling and Bethany.

  Andy offered them a cup of his spring blend on their way back to the kitchen. They both gladly accepted drinks and joined the activity.

  “Morning,” Sterling said to both of us, but I noticed his gaze linger on Stephanie for a moment. His eyes shifted ever so slightly. Was he worried about her, too?

  Sterling had become like a brother to me. We shared a common love for food, we had both experienced losses, and we had tender, romantic souls. He had been holding a torch for Stephanie for a while now, and I just hoped that she wouldn’t break his heart. Not that he would have any difficulty finding someone new. Ever since we’d hired Sterling a rotation of young girls came into the bakeshop every day to catch a glimpse of the handsome, dark-haired chef. His brilliant blue eyes and poetic nature often sent groups of teenage girls into giggling fits in the dining room. Sterling was oblivious to the attention. He only had eyes for Stephanie.

  “Are you up for a busy morning?” I asked Sterling and Bethany.

  “At your service, Jules,” Sterling said, heading straight for the sink. “Put me to work.”

  “Same here,” Bethany echoed. She savored her coffee. “Have you seen our social media accounts lately?” She wore her curly brown hair in two braids and had on a pale pink T-shirt with a silhouette of a cupcake and the words BAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Love your shirt, though.”

  She grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. Bethany had come on board initially to cover while Mom and I were on the cruise, but she’d been so helpful and blended in with our staff so well that we asked her to stay permanently. She had started a brownie-delivery service, the Unbeatable Brownie, so part of our contract had been a partnership where she retained a portion of the profits from those sales. She had also agreed to work with Stephanie to bring us into the twenty-first century and create a stronger online social media presence. They had been snapping pictures of cakes, pastries, customers, and life in the kitchen and posting them online. So far the response had been great. It was fun to have fresh ideas and energy in the kitchen.

  Bethany tied on an apron, hiding the sweet saying that could be Torte’s new mantra. “Well, Stephanie and I came up with this idea while you were gone and it’s been working really well. We’ve been posting a secret brownie flavor of the day. Anyone who comes in and mentions the flavor gets a free one. They have to take a picture and use the hashtag #SecretSweets. We’ve doubled our followers in less than a week.”

  “That’s amazing. I love the idea. A little touch of mystery in the bakeshop never hurts. How have you been deciding on flavors?”

  Stephanie patted the last round ball of bread dough into a bread pan and brushed flour from her hands. “We started with a crazy flavor just to see if anyone would bite.” She placed our experimental French bread in the ovens and unleashed the heavenly scent of my vanilla sponge cakes.

  “Ha, bite!” Andy clapped from the espresso bar. “Well played.”

  “Anyway,” Stephanie continued with an eye roll at Andy. “Bethany thought of adding sriracha to the brownie batter and we sold out in like an hour.”

  “Sriracha brownies? Wow. I’m impressed, you two.”

  “Thanks.” Bethany gave me a sheepish grin. “It sounded weird at first, but they were good. We went easy on the sriracha. And don’t they say that chocolate and spice go well together?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied over the humming sound of the espresso machine.

  “Well.” Bethany hesitated for a moment and fiddled with her hands. “You know my friend Carter? He’s working in Portland now and they are doing all kinds of unique things with macarons. Like Doritos and Fruity Pebbles. I’ve been wanting to learn how to make them, so I thought if you were up for it you could teach me and Steph, then we could mix it up and do macarons and brownies. I mean, only if you think it’s cool. No pressure or anything.”

  “I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it. Macarons are one of my all-time favorite desserts. We should definitely be offering them here.”

  “Awesome.” Bethany reached over to Stephanie and gave her a fist bump.

  We reviewed the task list and everyone started on their individual projects. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Our team at Torte was more than I could hope for. They were hard workers, self-starters, and innovators. How had I been so lucky? The morning was confirmation of my decision. Ashland and Torte were home, and nothing—not even the stress of a major renovation—could get me down.

  That was until we opened for business an hour later and Lance, my friend and the artistic director at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, pushed his way past the small line queuing at the coffee counter. He balanced a pie box with one hand and used the other to snap at me. “Juliet, I need you!” Pausing for dramatic effect, he glanced around the dining room to make sure that he had everyone’s attention. “Darling, it’s an emergency. If I don’t talk you—now—I simply might die.” He stopped, gave a half bow to his audience, and raised the pie box. “Or rather, I might pie!”

  Chapter Two

  “It looks like Lance is already on the warpath,” I mumbled under my breath to Sterling.

  “Ha!” Sterling didn’t bother to try to hide his amusement. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, revealing a hummingbird tattoo on his forearm, and rubbed his hands together. “Jules, this is all on you. We endured a week of Lance while you were away. It’s your turn.”

  Stephanie held up a rolling pin. “Yeah. Don’t let him back here. I’m in a show-tune nightmare and can’t be trusted. I might go postal if Lance says—anything.”

  I threw my hands up. “All right. All right. Don’t panic. I’ll handle Lance.”

  The team breathed a collective sigh of relief as I reached for a lemon raspberry tart and popped it on a plate. On my way to the dining room I stopped and poured a cup of Andy’s spring blend. The only way to deal with Lance this early was with pastry.

  “Darling, you look positively refreshed.” Lance greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. He tossed his cashmere scarf on the back of the booth and motioned for me to join him.

  “Thanks.” I set the tart and coffee in front of him and took a seat.

  “The tropics were good to you.” He narrowed his eyes behind his thick-framed black glasses and stared at me. “That porcelain skin of yours has a slight touch of sun. It works, darling. It really does. But honestly, how many times do I have to tell you to do something more than a boring ponytail with your hair?”

  My hand betrayed me as I instinctively touched the back of my head. Lance had been begging me since we first met to let his makeup artist and hair stylist “work their magic” on me. I’m not much of a makeup girl, mainly because it isn’t practical. The steam and heat of a commercial kitchen tend to make mascara run. The same was true for my hair. Wearing it up in a ponytail was quick and easy since I was usually awake long before the sun, and it allowed me to concentrate on piping designs and stencil work without getting hair in my eyes. Not to mention that it’s also the rule of the state health authority.

  “Well, don’t sit there staring; don’t you want to see what I’ve brought for you?” He pushed the white pie box stamped with a simple black silhouette of a hummingbird and the words “Grandma J’s Hummingbird Café” toward me. Then he loosened his gold and eggplant striped tie and opened the box to reveal a gorgeous toasted coconut cream pie. “Darling, wait to be amazed. I’ve brought you a little slice of heaven.”

  “Grandma J’s Hummingbird Caf
é, I’ve never heard of it.” I ignored his commentary on my appearance and studied the beautiful pie that had been finished with mounds of whipping cream and golden brown toasted coconut.

  “Of course you haven’t. It’s off the beaten path. Way off the beaten path.” He glanced around the bakeshop to see if anyone was listening and then whispered. “As in Medford—next to a truck stop of all places.”

  I couldn’t picture Lance trekking to a truck stop in Medford for pie, or anything for that matter. As if reading my mind, he swept his hand across the top of the box. “Don’t believe me? Take a bite. I’ll have you know that Grandma J and her pie-baking daughter, Donna Marie, make the lightest, fluffiest crusts you’ve ever tasted, filled with the most decadent custards and freshest of fruits. One bite and you’ll be swooning.”

  “Truck stop pie. You never cease to amaze me, Lance.”

  “Not truck stop pie. Don’t make it sound so uncivilized. Next to a truck stop. And really, Juliet, you of all people should know that the best things come in the most unexpected places.” He pointed to the pie. “Now, shall you do the honors, or shall I?”

  Lance drummed his long fingers on the table. Had he been chewing his fingernails? Lance had impeccable style. He tended to wear expensive three-piece suits and ascots. No one else in Ashland could get away with his regal look, but it worked on him. As artistic director of OSF he saw it as his personal duty and responsibility to give the people what they wanted. According to him they wanted a leader who embodied the theater vibe and could connect with the upper crust. Typically, every inch of Lance’s outfit was put together with thought and care. But today something was off. His nails had been gnawed and his silk tie was slightly askew.

  “Should I get some plates?” I asked. “And what were you doing in Medford?”

  “Nothing,” Lance snapped. A woman waiting for her latte turned her head in our direction. Lance recovered and offered her a noble wave. “It’s nothing. You might call it an exploratory trip.”

  An exploratory trip to Medford? I was about to ask for clarification when Lance thrust the lid on the pie box down and pushed it to the edge of the table. “Never mind about the pie,” he said. “We have bigger things to discuss.”

  “We do?”

  Giving me an exasperated sigh, he reached for his fork. “I feel like you’ve been gone for ages. Where to start?”

  “Lance, I was only gone for a week,” I said, trying to get a grasp on his erratic behavior. “How is everything coming along for the new season?”

  He stabbed the lemon tart with his fork. “Don’t get me started. It’s a disaster. An absolute disaster. One might even say we’re setting ourselves up for a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. There’s more drama in our tiny hamlet than can fit on any OSF stage.”

  “Why?” I wrinkled my brow. Lance was known to exaggerate and embellish as much as he was known for his tailored style and his award-winning productions. There was something unsettling about the way his hand shook slightly as he put a bite of tart to his lips. When Lance fell into character his mood was usually light and playful.

  “This is delicious,” he said, after swallowing the bite and dabbing a bead of sweat on his forehead with a napkin.

  I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “Lance, is everything okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

  His cheeks sunk in as he wiped even more sweat from his brow. “Juliet, you know I tease, but what would I do without you?”

  For a minute, I thought he was going to say more, but instead he placed the napkin over his uneaten tart, rested his elbows on the table, and massaged his temples.

  “Lance, what is it?” I repeated.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “They’re conspiring against me. They want me out, Juliet.”

  “Who?’

  “The board,” he whispered. Then he sat up and glanced around the dining room. A handful of early risers waited in line for coffee and breakfast to go, but otherwise things were relatively quiet. An hour from now, once most of Ashland was up and moving, the place would be packed. “It started with that young diva I hired. He’s out to get me. I know it.”

  “Wait, slow down.” I reached my hand across the table. “Is this the actor you were complaining about while I was on the cruise?”

  “One and the same. Antony.” Lance shuddered as he said the name. “I gave the kid a shot. As a matter of fact, I gave him the break of a lifetime. I’ll admit that he has talent, I won’t argue with that, but the ego on this one is out of control.”

  Lance and I had exchanged e-mails while I was away, and I remembered him mentioning an actor who was driving him crazy. At the time, I had figured it was because Lance didn’t like sharing the spotlight. Maybe there was more to it.

  “What has he done?”

  “The question is what hasn’t he done? He refuses to break character. He only answers to Antony—not his real name, FYI.”

  “Really? He’s that method?”

  Lance rolled his eyes. “I can’t even.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Good God, if I told you I’d risk upsetting the little prima donna.” Lance scowled. “It gets worse. He parades around in his toga and expects everyone to jump at his every command.” Lance’s voice hit a high octave. “He’s staging a coup. He’s plotting against me. Quite ironic if you think about it. When Shakespeare wrote Antony and Cleopatra he was making a statement on world politics. The battle for power. East versus West. A play written four hundred years ago resonates today, doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t pause long enough to let me respond. To be honest my Shakespeare knowledge was limited at best.

  “They’re both superstars—Antony and Cleopatra. Ancient Rome versus ancient Egypt. That’s exactly the battle raging on my stage and in my personal life.”

  “How?” I asked, waving to one of our regulars who left the bakeshop with a box of pastries for her office.

  Lance looked distracted. “What?”

  “Well, for starters, Antony. What is he doing to plot against you, and why don’t you just fire him?”

  “Please.” Lance gave me an exasperated stare. “You should see the OSF contracts. They’re iron-clad. Not to mention that he has the entire company and board wrapped around his little finger. That’s why they hosted that disgusting preseason dinner at Richard Lord’s. He and Richard teamed up against me. Richard offered the board a ridiculous price break. For what? Glorified pig slop? I doubt he made a dime on the dinner. He simply wanted to able to boast that the Merry Windsor was the restaurant of choice this year—blah!” Lance stuck out his tongue. “The board has been looking to cut every penny it can from the budget so when Antony suggested a gastronomic experience they jumped at the chance to save a buck. Is this what theater has come to in Ashland? I swear. I think it might be time for me to start packing my bags.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.” His eyes bulged. “Antony claimed that his previous company in L.A. always hosted a gastronomic dinner at the hottest eateries. What he failed to mention is that he was nothing more than an extra. He never had a lead, let alone a speaking part in L.A. I gave him his break and this is the thanks I get.” The disdain in Lance’s voice was thick.

  Richard Lord owned the Merry Windsor hotel on the opposite side of the plaza from Torte. He had appointed himself lord of Ashland and made it his business to know everyone’s business. Richard and I hadn’t seen eye to eye since he had attempted a hostile takeover of Torte. The Merry Windsor was rundown, in need of repair, and served prepackaged frozen and processed meals. As part of his attempt to pull customers away from Torte, Richard had added a coffee bar to the front of the hotel. His latest food escapade involved updating his menu to molecular gastronomy, a trend that first hit the food scene over a decade ago. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what his new menu might feature. Probably something like deconstructed grilled cheese. Gross.

  I shifted in my seat. “What are you go
ing to do?”

  Lance clapped his hands together as a slow, evil smile spread across his face. “Ah, that’s why I need you, darling.”

  “Okay.” I could hear the trepidation in my voice.

  “I’m going to throw my own preseason party. It’s going to be a fully immersive experience. Set designs, costumes, and of course show-stopping food.”

  “But I thought the dinner already happened.”

  “We will never speak of that again. The meal was an assault to my palate and a hideous blemish on OSF’s tasteful history. I intend to put on the most luxurious fete this town has ever seen, and you, dear Juliet, are going to help me.”

  “I am?”

  “Indeed.” Lance leaned across the table. “Now let’s get down to details. I want an authentic Shakespearean dessert buffet. I’m talking about a cornucopia of Renaissance delights. No expense shall be spared!”

  This was more like the Lance I knew and loved. “What sort of budget have they given you?”

  “There’s no budget. This is on my own dime. Funded completely by yours truly. And I want this to be the party that people talk about for years to come.”

  “How many people are you inviting? And when is the party?” I asked, wondering if we had the time or capacity to take on another project right now.

  “Next week. The night before we raise the curtain on the new season, and everyone is invited. The entire company.”

  “Lance, that isn’t a lot of time, and that’s a lot of people. I don’t know if we can do it. We have so much going on here with the expansion.”

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “Juliet, you have to.” I could see the desperation in his eyes as he continued. “This party is my chance to prove my worth and vision to the board and company. It has to be perfect. It might be my last and only opportunity to save my career. No one does dessert like you. I’ll absolutely die if you say no.”